S-Class

by PixelD0T

Summary:

On his 21st birthday, Jisung reports dutifully for the annual blood screening. A formality, really. Like most commoners, he expects to be ranked D-class: unremarkable, unmatchable, and free to live his life far from the reach of the vampiric elite.

But when his results come back, everything changes. Summoned to the palace and bound by law into a formal donor match with the Crown Prince himself, Jisung is thrust into a world of velvet, fangs, and ceremony. What should be a distant, transactional arrangement quickly spirals into something tangled and consuming, and the more he gives, the more Minho seems unwilling to let go. As desire, power, and ritual blur, Jisung is forced to confront the truth beneath it all: how much of what he’s feeling is real… And how much of it is just the bite.

Chapter 1: The Blood Screening

The classroom always smelled like metal and lemon.

The floors were polished concrete, scuffed with old marks from chairs dragging and shoes squeaking. The walls were pale gray, except for one section near the front where a peeling mural showed happy cartoon children holding up red droplets like prizes. Beneath it hung a massive banner with gold-stamped letters:

Your Blood, Your Duty.

Jisung didn't know what "duty" meant yet, not really. But he knew he had to sit still when Miss Hara said so, and he knew to fold his hands flat on the desk when the bell chimed.

It chimed now, three short tones, too loud for the small room. All twenty children froze in their plastic chairs.

Miss Hara stood at the front, spine straight, hands clasped tight behind her back like the Royal Monitors on the posters. She wore the government blue, her shoulder pin shaped like a drop of blood, rimmed in silver.

"Begin," she said.

The music came next, soft and strange, crackling from the wall speaker like it was underwater. The kids started to sing. Some louder than others. Jisung's mouth moved, but his voice stayed small.

D is for Duty, given in need.
Low of the low, but still you bleed.
C is for Common, sturdy and plain,
Keep your head down, don't complain.
B is for Better, not quite elite,
But clean and loyal, strong and sweet.
A is for Acclaimed, the chosen few,
Steady of pulse, tried and true.
S is for Sacred, rarest of all,
One drop enough to make Kings fall.

They clapped once between each line. The sound was hollow in the room, like someone knocking on a coffin lid.

Jisung tried not to look confused. He always messed up the clapping part. Last time, Miss Hara had tapped his desk with the pointer stick.

"Louder, Jisung," she had said. "D-Class doesn't mean dumb."

He didn't like the way she smiled when she said it.

Now, as the song faded and the clapping stopped, Miss Hara walked slowly across the room, heels clicking like teeth on the tile. She stopped near the front wall, pointing to the colour-coded chart of blood tiers. Black, red, blue, silver, and at the very top, gold.

"S-Class," she said, tapping the golden droplet. "What do we remember about this tier?"

Hands shot up. Jisung kept his down. He never got picked anyway.

A girl named Jiwoo answered, voice high and practiced. "S-Class is sacred. They're the rarest blood. Sought after by the Royal Line."

Miss Hara nodded. "Correct. What happens if someone's blood screens as S-Class?"

"They can live at the palace," a boy said. "Forever."

"Is that a good thing?"

Silence. A few uncertain nods. Miss Hara smiled like she'd asked a trick question. Jisung glanced at the big red list near the door, the Donor Wall. It had names carved into it from over 250 years ago, back when the school was newer. Some names had stars. Some were crossed out.

He wondered why.

Miss Hara continued. "Most of you will test D or C, like your families. And that's just fine. We all serve. We all contribute. That's what makes our society strong."

She pointed again to the banner above her.
Your Blood, Your Duty.

The class recited it in unison.

Jisung whispered it last.

He didn't understand what any of it really meant. Only that blood was important, and his wasn't.

 

________________

 

Jisung blinked hard.

The echo of the rhyme faded from his mind like dust shaken off a curtain. That song still haunted the corners of his memory, too sweet, too sharp. Like sugar laced with iron.

He blinked again, slower this time, eyes adjusting to the cold, pale lights of the clinic's lobby.

Everything smelled like antiseptic.

He rubbed his thumb against the side of his palm, grounding himself in the present. Twenty-one years old today. Legal. Accountable. Classifiable.

Screening time.

He glanced around the waiting room. It was crowded, silent. Rows of metal chairs bolted to the ground, each filled with someone staring straight ahead or down at their knees. No one spoke. The air buzzed with quiet, clinical tension, the kind that always lingered when the government was involved.

Overhead, a monitor ticked forward a single number every few minutes. Jisung's ticket read: #1137. The screen displayed #1131. Almost there.

He exhaled and let his mind drift.

Hundreds of years ago, vampires were myth. Stories whispered by candlelight, monsters lurking just out of reach. Then came the rumours, strange deaths, bloodless corpses, men in government buildings with no reflections.

But they didn't stay rumors for long.

Over centuries, the vampires moved like smoke through the cracks of society. First in shadows, then in plain sight. They amassed power, acquired land, rewrote laws. When the humans realised what had happened, it was too late.

Now, they ruled everything.

They couldn't be voted out. Couldn't be assassinated. Couldn't be stopped.

They were almost entirely unkillable, save for one weakness. A broken heart. An archaic, poetic flaw. But they mated for life, so the risk of death by heart break was essentially impossible. Most vampires lived with precise detachment, emotional control. Power didn't require affection, just loyalty, blood, and order.

So the system was built. And everyone played their part.

Jisung shifted in his seat as the monitor ticked to #1135. Almost.

At twenty-one, every citizen, rich or poor, underwent their mandatory Blood Classification Screening. It was the one ritual the government hadn't made optional.

You were tested. Your blood was ranked.
D, C, B, A... Or, in the rarest of cases, S.

And that result defined the rest of your life.

He already knew what his result would be. D-Class. Just like his parents. Just like their parents before them, and their parents before them. His entire block was built on D-Class labour, mining, building, hauling, cleaning, lifting, burning. The blood wasn't bad. Just... Low. Thin. Like watered down wine.

Sure, mutations happened. That's what the pamphlets said. "Blood doesn't define you." But everyone knew it did.

Only 0.1% of the population had B-Class or above.
Only 0.001% had S-Class blood.
That number was basically zero.

Jisung's future was already written. The screening was a formality, a box to check, a stamp on a file.

He thought of the rhyme again.

D is for Duty.

The monitor beeped, signifying the next person to be screened.

The queue shuffled forward like dominoes falling one by one.

The man ahead of him turned, offering a crooked smile. He was tall and lanky, with dyed blond hair peeking out beneath the hood of his jacket.

"You too?" the man asked.

Jisung blinked, startled slightly. "Yeah. Birthday today."

"Happy birthday," the man said with a grin. "Mine was earlier this year, so here we are."

"Right," Jisung said. "Lucky me. Born on screening day."

The legislation had been signed into law decades ago. And every September 14th since, all citizens who had turned 21 in the previous 12 months were required to attend.

The other man snorted. "Well, here's to being living, breathing data points."

They stood together for a moment in the silence of fluorescent lights and shuffling feet.

"I'm Hyunjin," the man said, offering a hand.

"Jisung."

Hyunjin grinned. "Fair enough. Any guesses on your class?"

"Oh, I already know what I'll get," Jisung said. "D-Class. Like my parents, and their parents. Honestly, I might just tell them to skip the scan and go ahead and stamp it on the file. Save everyone a bit of time."

Hyunjin laughed. "At least you're honest. My mum's B-Class, my dad's D, so... Could go either way."

Jisung raised an eyebrow. "That's a rare mix, isn't it?"

"Don't remind me," Hyunjin said. "Still not sure how my dad managed to convince her. Must've been ridiculously charming."

Jisung shrugged. "Well, it's love, isn't it?"

Hyunjin looked thoughtful for a second. "I suppose," he said. "But you don't really see it happen much. Not anymore. People stick to their own. Makes everything... Easier."

Jisung knew he was right. Blood determined more than your class. It dictated where you lived, who you could marry, what schools your children would go to, and whether or not you were allowed to "donate" blood to the vampire elite.

It wasn't written into law, not officially, but the division was clear. People generally didn't even date below their blood class, let alone marry. The risk of dilution, of shame, of disapproval... It wasn't worth it.

Of course, for someone like Jisung, that kind of thing wasn't even on the radar. His family had long accepted their place in the world. They worked, they ate, they kept their heads down. Love didn't need to rebel to be real, sometimes it just needed to survive.

A chime sounded, and Hyunjin's number flashed on the wall.

"That's me," he said. "Good luck, Jisung."

"You too."

Hyunjin disappeared through the sliding door of Room Three, and Jisung was left alone again. The queue moved up behind him, but he barely noticed. His thoughts wandered, drifting through the same worn dream he'd had a dozen times before.

What if, just what if, he wasn't D-Class?

A ridiculous thought. Absurd, really. But still, he let himself imagine.

C-Class would be enough. That alone would mean a government stipend for blood draws when called on through the lottery. Nothing extravagant, but enough to ease the constant stretch of trying to make ends meet.

B-Class, though, that would be something. More regular payments, steady work. no more mending worn jackets, no more skipping dinners just to make it to payday. They could even afford meat. Real meat. Not the reconstituted vegetable protein from the discount freezer.

And A-Class? That was where life could change completely. New clothes, new housing assignments, education opportunities for his younger brother...
His breath caught a little at the thought.

But S-Class...

He shook his head. It wasn't even worth imagining. People like him didn't become legends. They became background.

The thought hadn't even faded before a tap on his shoulder brought him back to earth.

He turned.

The clinic attendant gestured. "You're up."

He blinked, startled. His name was glowing red on the monitor. #1137 - Han, Jisung.

A technician met him at the threshold. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, dressed in slate-grey scrubs and a lanyard that read CIVIC HEALTH AUTHORITY - BLOOD REGISTRY DIVISION. She didn't smile.

"Name?" she asked.

"Han Jisung."

She checked her clipboard, nodded once, and gestured for him to follow.

Inside, the room was surprisingly small. Just a white recliner, a table stacked with syringes, tubing, and a portable scanner that pulsed with a soft blue light. Everything gleamed with the kind of sanitised order that made Jisung's skin itch.

"Have a seat."

He obeyed, sinking into the recliner. The vinyl squeaked under his weight.

"You'll feel a small prick," the technician said, already prepping the needle.

D-Class, he thought.
That's me. That's all I am.
No point wasting time on ridiculous fantasies.

He sucked in a sharp breath as the needle pierced his skin, a sudden, efficient sting that bloomed into a dull ache.

The technician didn't flinch. She kept her eyes on the tubing as a few millilitres of deep red blood flowed down into the glass vial.

"Keep your arm still," she said, already sliding the vial into the synthesiser unit beside the recliner.

Nowadays, the screening process was fairly simple. They only needed a small sample, no more than a teaspoon. The machine would synthesise the blood's molecular structure and simulate a full feed, analysing nutrient concentration, blood cell ratios, and genetic compatibility markers, all within a matter of minutes.

But Jisung remembered the stories. Everyone did.

Back when the screenings were first introduced, it had been brutal. Crude, even. Litres of blood drawn by hand, analysed manually, rerun multiple times to confirm the results. Some people hadn't made it through. Too much blood loss. Too slow a system. Too little care.

It had been deemed a necessary sacrifice. A step forward. An "adjustment period."

He stared at the scanner as it hummed to life, the light inside deepening from blue to violet.

His arm throbbed where the needle had pierced the skin.

D-Class, he told himself again. Stamp it and go.

The technician tapped her screen, entering something. A bar began to fill. The machine clicked quietly as it started to process the sample.

Jisung stared at the vial. His blood looked no different from anyone else's, thick, red, swirling under artificial light.

Just blood.

The technician checked her watch. "Processing takes about ninety seconds," she said. "You'll be given a printout. If your results meet donor registry standards, you'll be contacted directly. Otherwise, you're free to go."

He nodded absently.

The scanner gave a low whine, mechanical, soft. Jisung didn't even glance at it.

But the technician did.

She frowned, eyes narrowing, and leaned forward slightly to read the screen.

Jisung watched her face shift, a small crease forming between her brows, her lips pressing together. She reached for the scanner, tapped something on the touchpad, then looked again.

The machine let out a chirp.

Another vial popped into place. The blue light inside now glowed a strange, pulsating red.

Jisung sat up straighter. "Is something wrong?"

She didn't answer. Her eyes darted to the wall panel, and she pressed a hidden button beneath the counter.

The door behind her slid shut with a soft hiss.

That didn't seem normal.

"Wait," Jisung said slowly. "What's going on?"

The technician turned to face him, voice suddenly clipped and formal.

"Please remain in the chair, Mr Han."

She didn't meet his eyes.

The scanner gave another beep, louder this time, and the screen flashed CODE: GOLD – PRIORITY SEVEN across the top.

S-Class.

Jisung stared at it, not understanding. Not fully.

The red light from the machine pulsed faster now, reflecting off the sterile walls, off the chrome tubing, off the surface of his own skin.

"No..." he whispered. "No, that can't be right."

The technician didn't respond. She was already typing something into her terminal, her hands moving fast and tight.

Jisung's heart slammed against his ribs. His breath caught.

S-Class.

His blood.

It wasn't possible. It wasn't him.

The door unlocked again, this time with the heavy thunk of security. Not a hiss. Not soft. Heavy boots echoed down the corridor outside.

And then the voice came through the speaker above the door.

"Remain where you are. Do not move. Registry officials are en-route."

Jisung's throat went dry.

"No," he said again, louder this time. "There's... There's been a mistake. Run it again."

The technician didn't look up from her terminal. Her hands were still moving, inputting protocols he couldn't see. The scanner continued to pulse, the red light now steady, almost like it was watching him.

"I'll give more blood," Jisung insisted, half-rising from the chair, heart pounding. "Just... Just do it again. There's no way that's right."

"You need to remain seated, Mr Han," she said, still not meeting his eyes.

"I'm D-Class," he snapped, trying to get some kind of reaction. "My parents are D-Class. My whole family, we don't have money, we don't have special genes, we-"

"There is no mistake," she interrupted, and this time, her voice wavered. Barely. Just enough for him to hear it.

Jisung shook his head hard, willing the scanner to reverse itself, to take it back, to correct the number on the screen. But it stayed. Blazing.

S-CLASS BLOOD TYPE DETECTED.
IMMEDIATE INTERVENTION REQUIRED.

"This doesn't make any sense," he said, almost to himself. "It's just blood. It's just-"

The door slid open with a pressurised hiss, and two figures entered the room.

They weren't dressed like health officials. No scrubs. No gloves. Instead, they wore matte-black uniforms with the silver insignia of the Royal Blood Authority on their chests, a set of intimidating silver teeth with sharp fangs.

The taller of the two, a woman with severe features and pale eyes, stepped forward. She held a datapad in one hand, and a black case in the other.

"Han Jisung," she said, voice like glass. "You are to come with us."

He didn't move.

"There's-this is wrong," he said, forcing the words through a tightening chest. "You have to test it again. It's not right. It's not right!."

"We don't rerun screenings," the second officer said. "They are always accurate. You've been flagged and confirmed. The result is final."

"I didn't ask to be flagged," he said, too quickly. "I didn't ask for any of this. I just want to go home."

They both looked at him like he was already gone.

"You'll be briefed en-route," the woman said. "Packaged blood from your sample will be forwarded to the Royal Donor Registry. You will be placed under immediate protective transfer."

Jisung's heart thundered in his chest. His fingers were cold.

"I don't want to go," he said. "I didn't agree to anything-"

"You don't need to," she replied simply.

The technician unplugged the vial from the machine with a soft click, sealed it in a container, and stepped back.

The male officer approached, pulling a sleek black band from the case and holding it out.

"Left wrist."

"What is that?"

"A compliance band. Temporary."

"No-"

"If you don't put it on, we will."

Jisung stared at the thing, cold, magnetic, unmarked. His mind raced, still trying to find some crack in the process, some explanation. Maybe they'd switched vials. Maybe someone else's blood had gotten into the machine. Maybe it was a mutation, some anomaly, and not enough to...

But deep down, he knew. His life as he knew it, was over.
He'd never stood out in his life. Never been seen. Not really.

Now, the world was staring.

Slowly, he extended his arm.

The officer snapped the band into place.

It locked with a final click.

 

______________

 

The van ride was short.

Two officials sat on either side of Jisung, silent and still, like statues. No one spoke. The windows were tinted, but he recognised the turns, the rhythm of the roads. They were heading home.

The compliance band on his wrist pulsed gently. Not painful, just present. Reminding him of what had happened. What was happening.

By the time the van slowed outside the familiar grey-brick building, his stomach had curled into itself. The world outside continued like nothing had changed. A neighbour sweeping the front step, a child dragging a broken trike down the street.

And then he saw the balloons.

A few sagged, half-inflated. One had already deflated entirely, dragging against the pavement. A hand-painted banner hung from the stair railing above their front door:

"Happy Birthday, Jisung!"

He stared at it. The handwriting was unmistakably his mother's.

When the door opened, the sound of laughter and clinking dishes reached his ears , muffled, warm, familiar. His brother's voice. A pan clattering. His mother humming off-key.

But then the boots stepped onto the walkway. Black-clad. Out of place.

The laughter stopped.

The front door swung open and his mother appeared in the doorway, apron dusted with flour, her expression bright, until she saw the uniformed figures beside him.

Her smile died on her lips.

"Jisung?" she said, stepping forward. "What's... What is this?"

His father appeared behind her, face drawn with confusion. Jun peeked out from around his leg, eyes wide.

The officer beside him spoke. "He tested S-Class."

A long silence fell.

"No," his mother said. It wasn't disbelief, it was fear. "That can't be right. That... We're D-Class. We've always been D-Class."

Jisung couldn't bring himself to speak. His tongue felt like paper in his mouth.

"We'd like to enter, if that's permitted," the officer said smoothly. "There are options to discuss."

His father stepped aside without a word, hand on his wife's shoulder. She didn't move at first. Her eyes were locked on Jisung's wrist, on the black compliance band. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

Inside, the house smelled like rice and stewed greens. Something had been baking. The "good plates" were out on the table. A makeshift paper crown sat at the centre, folded from a supermarket flyer.

Jisung's chair was empty.

He lowered himself into it slowly, hands folded in his lap.

The officials remained standing.

"There are two pathways available to you now," the taller one said. "Due to your classification, the Royal Registry has automatically flagged your results for priority use."

Jisung nodded numbly.

"Option one: You may register under the Standard Rotation Donor System. This will place you in the national pool. When a lower-tier vampire, most often C- or B-rank, requests blood, you may be called upon at random. You will receive modest compensation per draw, and remain here with your family in the meantime."

He already knew where this was going.

"Option two," the other officer continued, "is to accept permanent placement at the Royal Palace. This role is exclusive. You would become the dedicated blood donor for a matched member of the upper nobility. Your living arrangements would be relocated to palace grounds. Compensation is significantly higher."

Jisung glanced at his family.

His mother stood at the back of the room, one hand pressed tightly over her mouth, her shoulders rigid with unshed panic. The apron around her waist was stained and threadbare, the same one she'd worn for years. Her hair, once thick and black, had thinned at the crown, streaked heavily with grey far beyond her age. Her eyes, usually soft, tired, now looked hollowed out by fear.

His father leaned against the wall, as if the weight of everything had finally bent his spine. The creases in his face were deep, not just from age, but from long days under sun and metal and smoke. His hands, calloused and cracked, hung limp at his sides, fingers that had lifted too much for too long, without ever lifting the burden that really mattered.

And Jun. Only ten years old, standing beside them in a shirt that had once been Jisung's, still too big at the shoulders and fraying at the sleeves. He still wore the same patched trousers he'd had the year before, knees sagging, one hem uneven from where it had been hand-stitched too hastily. Jun had even started missing school already to work and help bring money in. The slow, inevitable slide. Another year or two, and he'd be sent to one of the factory co-ops just like the rest of them. Childhood, traded for coin.

He stood there, wide-eyed and quiet, still too young to understand what this moment really meant, but old enough to feel the shift in the air.

Jisung spoke at last, voice rough. "If I go to the palace... They'll be taken care of?"

The officer nodded. "Your salary will be transferred directly to your listed family account. It will be enough for your brother's school fees. Luxury rations. Relocation, if desired."

His mother finally found her voice. "You don't have to do this," she said, stepping forward. "It's not necessary. We manage, Jisung. We always have. Just take the lottery option. You can stay home."

Jisung shook his head. "Managing isn't living, Mum."

She started to speak again, but his father raised a hand gently and placed it on her shoulder. "Let him choose."

"I am choosing," Jisung said, looking between them. "I'm doing this for you. For Jun."

His little brother stepped forward then, eyes glossy but dry. "Are you gonna be a prince now?" he asked softly.

Jisung smiled, a strange, aching thing. "Not exactly."

Jun's brow furrowed. "Will you come back?"

"I don't know," Jisung admitted. "But I'll write. And I'll make sure Mum and Dad can finally rest. And you..." he knelt, placing his hands on Jun's shoulders "you'll go to school. Every day. No more work. Promise me."

Jun nodded. "Promise."

Jisung pulled him into a hug and held on a moment longer than he meant to. The warmth of his brother's small frame, the smell of smoke and rice and home. He buried it in his chest.

When he stood, the officer was already holding out the case.

"Sign here."

Jisung didn't hesitate. He pressed his thumb to the pad, watched the scanner blink green.

It was done.

He turned back one last time. His mother was crying silently. His father had his arm around her now, holding her up. Jun waved.

Jisung didn't wave back.

He walked out the door, and into the rest of his life.

Notes:

Fun fact: Jisung’s call number - 1137 was my pit ticket for London Day 1 :)

Chapter 2: The Rules

The journey began in silence.

The transport vehicle wasn't a van this time. It was a sleek, matte-black car with reinforced windows and no visible handles. The interior was cold, the seats stiff. One escort sat beside him, the other in the front, hands folded neatly in their laps as the car steered itself.

Outside, the slums slid past the window in slow motion.

Cracked concrete. Crumbling balconies. Graffiti slogans on water-stained walls, some rebellious, some grateful. Jisung recognised streets by the shape of the potholes, the tilt of familiar shopfronts. He'd spent his whole life navigating those corners.

Then the city began to change.

The buildings grew cleaner. Taller. Glass replaced rust. Fences were lined with flowers, not barbed wire. Pavement cracks vanished beneath perfectly symmetrical brickwork. Traffic grew more orderly. The air looked clearer, though he couldn't be sure if that was real or just illusion.

By the time the palace came into view, it was like a different world altogether.

Even from a distance, it was staggering. Built into the side of a gently sloping hill, the palace's black-stone spires cut into the sky like blades. Wide terraces swept out like wings, each one glowing faintly under the late afternoon sun. The entire structure was surrounded by a high outer wall of shimmering white stone, etched with ancient runes Jisung couldn't read.

He'd seen it in textbooks. On government broadcasts. Once in a dream, maybe.

But never like this.

Awe stirred somewhere in his chest, quickly followed by something colder. Not quite dread. Not quite fear. But something close to both.

As expected, the vehicle didn't approach the front gate.

Instead, they curved down and around the right side of the structure, stopping at a much less remarkable entrance, a high, narrow archway flanked by guards. It looked like a service access, not designed to be seen.

He was ushered through without ceremony.

The room they brought him to was clinical, quiet, and oddly corporate, he imagined it would be similar to a conference room in the office buildings the A-Class citizens worked at. White walls. Chrome accents. A long glass table with one chair at either end. No windows. The hum of overhead lights made the silence feel deeper.

The compliance band around his wrist still pulsed in warning, subtle, but constant.

They directed him to sit, and left him there.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer.

Then the door opened.

A woman entered, crisp and efficient, wearing a deep grey uniform with the Royal Registry insignia embroidered on the shoulder. Not a vampire, Jisung thought, at least, he didn't feel anything off her. She was probably Human, though there was a sharpness in her manner that made him wonder.

She didn't offer her name. She simply sat across from him, tablet in hand.

"Han Jisung," she said. "You've been assigned permanent residency within the Royal Donor Wing."

He swallowed, but said nothing.

She continued. "You'll be provided with full room and board, at no cost to you. This includes private accommodation, a wardrobe tailored to your measurements, and access to in-house medical care. All meals will be taken in the communal dining hall, unless directed otherwise. You'll receive a weekly personal allowance in addition to your base salary."

Jisung blinked. "Allowance?"

She didn't look up. "Yes. For discretionary spending. Within the palace, donor access to shops, gardens, and leisure courtyards is permitted within regulated hours."

She swiped to the next page on her tablet.

"You'll also undergo weekly wellness evaluations conducted by palace medical staff. These are mandatory and non-invasive, designed to ensure your blood remains at optimal yield. In addition, you'll be given access to a private terminal in the communications centre for sending outgoing mail. All correspondence is subject to review and censorship by the Royal Registry. Incoming messages are not permitted."

Jisung didn't react outwardly, but the words settled uncomfortably under his skin. 'Wellness evaluations'. It sounded harmless enough, but it wasn't lost on him that they weren't for his wellbeing. They were checking the product. And the mail system... No incoming messages, only outgoing, and even those would be sliced apart by some unseen censor. He didn't know what stung more. That he wouldn't hear from home, or that someone else would read his words before they were allowed to leave.

"You will be expected to follow all donor conduct protocol. These are non-negotiable."

Her eyes flicked to him then, sharp and steady.

"First. You must be inside your designated room no later than 22:00 each night. Attendance is monitored."

"Second. You are not to speak to any member of the palace royalty unless directly addressed. And they won't address you." She gave a thin, humourless smile. "Don't take it personally."

"Third. You are not to discuss your assigned match with any other donor under any circumstance. That includes their name, status, or frequency of feed."

She paused to let that settle.

Jisung's fingers curled slightly.

"Additionally, you may not refuse a feeding request from your assigned match, unless you are declared medically unfit by palace medical staff. You will be notified in advance of routine weekly draws. Refusal to comply with feeding requests may result in reassignment to a Lower-Rotation Facility. A... Less privileged environment."

"Fourth, romantic or physical relationships between donors are strictly prohibited. You are not permitted to leave palace grounds without written authorisation and a registered escort, and possession of unauthorised technology is forbidden. Personal devices are not permitted. All internal systems are monitored."

Jisung kept his face neutral, but the list turned in his stomach like something sour. No affection. No freedom. No choice. The phrasing was clinical, but the meaning was clear: you are property now. He wondered how many donors had broken those rules before. How many had disappeared into the so-called "Lower-Rotation Facilities," and whether anyone ever came back from them.

Then came the last rule, her voice dropping in tone just slightly.

"And the final stipulation. You are not to attempt to initiate direct feeding for any reason."

Jisung shifted in his seat. "...Direct feeding?"

Her gaze didn't soften. "The palace uses controlled extraction methods, medically facilitated. You'll be briefed beforehand, but rest assured. There will be no physical contact. Is that clear?"

He nodded once.

"Good. We value clarity here."

She stood, smoothed her uniform, and added:

"You'll be fitted for your formal wardrobe tomorrow. You may rest tonight. The schedule begins at sunrise."

She was almost at the door before she spoke again, not turning around.

"Welcome to the palace, Jisung. You'll find that obedience goes a long way here."

The door shut behind her.

And he was alone again.

He sat back in the chair, the sterile silence of the room closing in again. The band on his wrist had finally gone still, but its presence lingered like a bruise, not painful, but impossible to forget.

His thoughts spun.
Did I make the wrong choice?

It was easy to imagine his life if he hadn't signed. Still at home. Sleeping on the worn-out mattress with the broken spring that jabbed his shoulder if he turned the wrong way. Eating reheated rice or skipping meals altogether when work dried up. Watching Jun lose his chance at education bit by bit, like a leaking tap, not a flood, just a steady loss of everything he should've had.

And then the image came, his mother, greyed and thinning, clenching her hands to stop them from shaking. His father, bent with work and worry. Jun, still so young, already on the cusp of sacrifice.

Jisung took a slow breath and closed his eyes.

No. This was the right choice. For them.

When the door finally opened again, the same two escorts stood outside.

"Come with us."

He followed them down a long corridor lit by low, indirect lights, no windows, no decoration. Eventually, they stopped outside a door marked with a small brass plaque etched with the number 8.

"This is your assigned room," one of them said. "You'll be escorted to the dining hall at eighteen hundred hours. Wash and change beforehand."

The door clicked softly shut behind them as they left.

His room was... Simple. But clean. Controlled. Minimalist, but still a thousand levels of comfort beyond anything he'd ever known.

A bed, wide, with soft sheets and a thick blanket folded at the foot. A writing desk stood in the corner, with a full-length mirror on one side, and a wardrobe carved from some dark, polished wood on the other. The floor was smooth and spotless, the wall lamps set to a dim, warm glow.

He took one step forward, the soles of his feet soundless against the featureless floor. Then another. His fingers drifted to the wall, trailing along a faint groove until they found a recessed switch. He flicked it off. On. Off again. The lighting responded instantly, no flicker, no delay. Just obedient, perfect illumination.

The scent of the air registered next. Not detergent. Not dust. Just clean. Subtle hints of cedar and starched linen, layered over something faintly metallic, like the memory of hospital corridors, but warmer somehow. His mouth was dry without knowing why.

He walked slowly to the wardrobe, half-expecting it to creak when he opened it. It didn't.

Inside hung a single set of clothing, a loose-cut tunic and trousers, both cream-coloured and plain. Not tailored, not beautiful, but clean. Intact. No missing buttons. No hand-stitched patches.

Just new.

Across the room, a narrow door led into a small en-suite bathroom. The walls were tiled in ivory, the mirror spotless. He stepped inside, staring for a long moment at the chrome tap and the sleek controls beneath the showerhead.

Hot water. Unlimited. Private.

He reached out and turned the handle.

The water roared to life immediately, steaming, clear, perfect. He slipped his hand beneath the stream, and a gasp escaped him before he could stop it. The heat rushed across his skin like something alive. Not scalding. Not cold. Right.

His throat tightened unexpectedly.

They'd never had proper hot water at home. Not once. Baths were taken in buckets, heated on the stove if the gas was working, shared between bodies. Tepid. Short. Rushed. There had only ever been one bar of coal tar soap, passed from hand to hand until it was a sliver.

Jisung peeled off his worn clothes, the fabric stiff in places from age and grime, the collar threadbare. He stepped under the water slowly, like it might disappear.

He stood there for a long time, letting it soak into him, his skin, his hair, his bones.

It stole the air from his lungs, not in pain, but in sheer overwhelm. Jisung pressed one hand to the tile wall, then slowly let himself slide down, knees folding, spine curving into the steam. He wasn't crying. Not exactly. But something in him buckled. A full-body tremble passed through him, sharp and sudden. For a second, he was six years old again, knees in a metal basin on the kitchen floor, his mother behind him with a chipped mug, pouring boiled water in slow streams to keep from burning him. Her hand combing gently through his hair. "Hold still, baby. Almost done." He blinked. The water here didn't sting. It never ran cold. And he had no idea what to do with that kind of kindness.

He stayed there for a while, knees pulled to his chest, the water beating down on him relentlessly. His hands trembled faintly in his lap. He didn't know if it was grief or guilt or just the shock of being clean, truly clean, for the first time in his life. The silence around him felt empty. Home was never silent.
There would be Jun's laughter. Creaking pipes they couldn't afford to repair or replace. Shouts from neighbours in the adjoining homes.

When he finally stood, his legs ached with the effort, and he gripped the metal rail for balance. He wasn't ready for this world. But it didn't care.

Dozens of neatly lined bottles sat in a recessed shelf built into the shower wall. He picked them up one by one, turning them in his hands, unscrewing the lids and sniffing the contents. Citrus. Mint. Something sweet like honey. One was floral, but cloying. Another smelled sterile, too much like the clinic.

Then he found it. Bergamot and spice. Sharp. Earthy. Warm.

He poured a generous amount into his palm and scrubbed it into his skin, working the lather from his shoulders down to his feet. The water ran brown for a moment. He didn't look away.

It felt like he was washing someone else off his body. The boy from the tenement block. The one with second-hand shoes and empty pockets.

Not gone, he thought. But... Fading.

When he finally turned off the water, the silence felt different.

Clean.

Jisung stepped out of the shower, warmth still clinging to his skin in a soft cloud of steam.

A folded white towel sat waiting on a small stool by the basin, thick, impossibly soft. He picked it up carefully, half-afraid he'd ruin it just by touching it, and pressed it to his face. The fibres were plush against his cheeks, the opposite of the thin, scratchy rags they used at home. He wrapped it around his shoulders and ran it slowly over his arms, chest, and back, relishing the way it absorbed the water without scraping against his skin.

It was the kind of towel you only saw in luxury shop windows. Something he used to joke about never affording.

Now it was his. Provided. Expected.

Once dry, he moved back into the bedroom and pulled the clothes from the wardrobe. The tunic slipped easily over his shoulders, loose and soft, the fabric unlike anything he'd worn before, no coarse fibres, no fraying seams, no stiff patches where something had been mended for the fifth or sixth time. The pants were the same. Airy, perfectly cut at the waist, falling to just above his ankles.

He ran his hands over the material slowly, then let them fall to his sides.

It didn't feel like dressing. It felt like being replaced.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, half-expecting it to groan beneath him, but it didn't. It took his weight silently, the mattress moulding to him like it knew how he sat.

On the wall above the desk, a small clock ticked forward.

17:52.

Eight minutes to go.

He exhaled, shoulders slumping slightly, and let his mind drift.

Hyunjin.

He wondered what result the man had in the end. Whether he was already home with his family, joking about the test over dinner. Whether he'd ended up in the lottery system. Whether he'd even made it past D-Class. Jisung hoped he had. B-Class, like his mother, maybe. Or even C. Enough to make things easier, at least.

He hoped Hyunjin had gotten to choose.

17:59.

Jisung closed his eyes.

I made the right choice.

A knock came precisely at 18:00.

He opened his eyes again. The moment lingered before he rose.

Two escorts stood at the door, not the same ones from before. These were slightly younger, both in the same nondescript uniform, standing with the stillness of people trained to be ignored.

They didn't speak.

Jisung nodded once, and they turned, leading him down the corridor.

The palace was quiet, not empty, but vast enough to feel empty. The walls were smooth stone, a pale grey that caught the soft lighting like moonlight. No windows still. No noise beyond their footsteps.

They didn't tell him where they were going.
They didn't have to.

They passed through two more corridors, descending a gently sloped hallway lit by recessed lights embedded into the floor. The silence felt deliberate, like the building itself was trying not to disturb anyone too important.

Finally, they reached a set of tall double doors, smooth and unadorned, made from a dark wood that shone faintly under the overhead lights. One of the escorts stepped forward and pressed their hand to a discreet panel.

The doors slid open with a quiet, seamless glide.

Beyond them lay the communal dining hall.

Jisung wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, something sterile, maybe. Like a cafeteria in a hospital. But this... This was almost beautiful. Subdued, but intentional.

The space was long and rectangular, broken into seating clusters: round tables of four, and long tables along one side. The walls were lined with tall columns and soft amber lighting, giving the space a warm glow that felt too gentle for a place so heavily controlled.

He could see maybe twenty or thirty people already seated, all in variations of the same cream-coloured tunic he now wore. They were spread out unevenly, some eating in pairs, others alone. One girl near the far wall was laughing softly at something someone had whispered to her, though the sound didn't quite reach the edges of the room.

No one looked sick. Or starved. Or scared.

But none of them looked free, either.

His escorts didn't accompany him any further. They gave a silent nod toward the buffet line along the far wall, steaming trays of food under glass hoods, and then turned to leave.

Jisung hesitated, then walked forward on his own.

He kept his head down as he passed the tables, aware of eyes on him but refusing to meet them. Just another new face, another fresh body to be assessed, categorised. No one said anything.

The food options were... Surreal. Fresh vegetables. Rice that hadn't come from a ration bag. Something that looked suspiciously like slow-roasted meat, the kind he'd only ever smelled wafting from restaurants his family could never afford.

He filled his tray cautiously. Not too much. Just enough. He didn't want to look greedy.

Then he found an empty table in the corner, sat down, and exhaled slowly.

For a long moment, he didn't eat.

He just looked.

There was a boy two tables over with a shaved head and grey eyes, turning his fork in slow, precise movements. A woman sat alone by the windowless wall, her posture perfect, hands folded over an untouched plate. Another group of three chatted softly, their smiles polite but guarded, like they knew joy wasn't forbidden, just discouraged.

Jisung stared at them all, trying to decipher their stories.

Had any of them tested as S-Class? Or were they A? B? Did it matter? They all wore the same fabric. Sat on the same chairs. Ate the same food.

And they were all here for the same reason.

Blood.

He hesitated before taking his first bite, fork hovering above the plate. The food looked almost too perfect. Tender meat, steamed vegetables that still held their shape, a small roll still warm enough to steam slightly where it touched the plate. Instinct whispered that he should save it, wrap something in a napkin, slip it into a pocket just in case. His fingers twitched with the muscle memory of rationing, of hiding leftovers for Jun, of scraping the bottoms of chipped bowls to make a meal stretch.

He picked up his fork, hand steady now, and took his first bite. It was warm. Tender. Savoury in a way that made his eyes sting unexpectedly.

But as he continue, every bite he took felt like theft, indulgent, unearned, and the guilt sat heavy in his throat, making the richness taste faintly like ash.

He ate quietly. Alone.

And for the first time since arriving at the palace, he felt the weight of what he'd left behind, not in fear, but in absence.

His family wasn't suffering anymore.

But neither was he.

And somehow, that felt heavier.

He was halfway through his meal, the food warm and rich in a way that made his chest ache a little, when someone approached his table.

"Mind if I sit?"

Jisung looked up.

The woman standing before him wore the same cream-toned tunic, though hers was slightly more worn, the fabric soft at the edges, as if it had weathered years of careful folding. Her hair was streaked with a silvery grey, neatly pulled back into a braid. Lines traced the corners of her eyes, not from frowning, but from living, quietly, for a long time.

She looked to be in her late fifties, though there was something timeless about her, a stillness that came only with surrendering to routine.

He nodded. "Go ahead."

She lowered herself into the seat with a quiet groan, stretching her legs out slightly beneath the table. Her tray was modest, holding just steamed greens, a roll, and water.

"You're new," she said.

Jisung gave a small nod. "First day."

"You've got that glazed look," she added, gently. "Like you're trying to pretend it's still just temporary."

He managed a weak smile. "It doesn't feel real yet."

"It will. Too soon."

He paused, then asked cautiously, "How long have you been here?"

"Thirty-nine years."

Jisung's brows lifted before he could stop them. "Since you were-"

"Twenty-one," she confirmed, calmly. "Same as everyone else here."

She took a sip of water and glanced over at him. "I'm Rina."

"Jisung."

He watched her for a moment, taking in the calm set of her shoulders, the way she didn't flinch at the quiet clatter of trays or the ever-present hush in the room. She looked like someone who had become part of the palace, or maybe someone the palace had swallowed up entirely.

"I didn't think anyone stayed that long," he said.

Rina offered a small smile. "Most people don't. But you'd be surprised how easy it is to stay once you're here."

He looked down at his plate. The food was warm, fragrant, nothing like the meagre rations at home that he'd grown up with.

"I'll be leaving soon enough," she added. "Sixty's the cap. They age you out. Generously, they like to say."

"Do you get to choose where you go?"

Rina shook her head. "You're relocated. Given enough to live on, if you're careful. Most people likely don't know what to do with themselves once they're out. They forget how to live outside these walls."

Jisung felt the weight of her words settle somewhere low in his chest. He imagined himself at fifty-nine, still walking these halls, eating from this same dining room. Still silent.

"Do you regret it?" he asked.

Her answer came without hesitation. "No. But I remember who I was before I came here. That helps."

She rose then, lifting her tray with steady hands.

As she turned, she offered one last thought, voice quiet, but clear.

"Let the palace change your habits, Jisung. But not your memory. You'll need that, more than anything."

Then she walked away, disappearing into the silence of the room like she'd always belonged to it.

Jisung sat still for a long time after.

Then, slowly, he picked up his fork and kept eating. Not because he was still hungry, but because he didn't know what else to do.

Notes:

Feel free to join me on Threads to natter!

Same username 👍

Chapter 3: The Reading Room

Notes:

Early, because I’m impatient for you guys to experience Jisung finally meeting Minho for the first time 😅

The door slid shut behind him with a quiet hiss.

Jisung stood just inside his room, motionless.

The soft light overhead cast everything in gold, the desk, the smooth floor, the perfectly made bed. But it felt too still, too arranged. Like he was walking through one of those expensive doll houses he'd seen in shop windows. Something curated, never lived in.

Rina's words lingered.

Thirty-nine years.
Forty, if she made it to the maximum.

Could he do that? Could he stay here for four decades, in silence, in service, and never see his family again?

His parents would be old by then. If they were even still alive. Jun would be middle-aged, possibly with a family of his own. Would Jisung even recognise him?

And if he couldn't stay that long, if forty years was too much... What was long enough?

Five years? Ten?

What was the right amount of time to sell your blood for your family's future?

At what number did survival become guiltless?

He didn't have the answers. Only the questions.

Eventually, he crossed the room and stopped in front of the writing desk. He slipped his fingers beneath the edge of his tunic and pulled it over his head, folding it with care before setting it gently on the chair beside the desk.

It sat there awkwardly, too soft and pale against the hard lines of the chair.

Then he remembered the wardrobe.

He picked the clothes back up and walked across the room, opening the door to hang them inside. The fabric slid easily onto the hanger, too easily. No friction. No resistance. Like everything else in the palace, it behaved.

He closed the door, the soft latch clicking into place.

He crossed to the bed, hesitating only briefly before lifting the blanket and slipping beneath it.

The sheets were cool and smooth, the fabric softer than anything he'd ever touched. They clung gently to his bare skin, not suffocating, but close. Intimate. His body shuddered instinctively at the unfamiliar sensation.

Luxury was strange. It didn't always feel good.

It felt invasive. Unnatural. Like something that didn't quite belong to him.

He lay back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling.

The woman from earlier, the one who'd walked him through the protocol, had said the schedule would begin tomorrow.

But what did that even mean?

Was it a feeding? A physical? More briefings?

He didn't know.

And nobody had told him.

Maybe that was the point. To keep him just uncertain enough to stay quiet. To not ask too many questions. To keep moving forward, moment to moment, rule to rule, breath to breath.

Jisung closed his eyes.

The sheets were soft.

The air was still.

And for the first time in his life, he had no idea what was going to happen next.

 

_______________

 

Jisung was woken by the soft chime of his door unlocking, followed by a sharp knock.

"Up," came a voice, flat, familiar - an escort.

He sat up slowly, groggy and slightly disorientated. The room still looked too perfect. He wasn't used to waking up somewhere silent. No neighbours shouting. No pipes rattling. No muffled street noise.

Just stillness.

He dressed in the same cream tunic from the day before, surprised at how clean it still felt. At home, re-wearing anything after a day would've come with stiffness, sweat, and the faint scent of metal, dust or smoke from wherever he'd been working.

Not here. Nothing clung to him yet.

The same escort from the night before waited outside. No greeting. No acknowledgement.

They walked in silence back to the communal dining hall.

Breakfast was already being served.

More steamed rice. Roasted vegetables, glistening with sesame oil. And, astonishingly, a tray of golden, crisp-edged seafood pajeon, cut into neat squares and stacked like offerings.

Jisung filled his tray slowly. The smell alone was enough to make his stomach twist in conflict, part hunger, part nausea. He hadn't eaten like this in... Maybe ever.

He took a seat by the far wall and tried to pace himself, chewing slowly, sipping water between bites.

It was delicious, again.

But his body was still catching up with the reality of abundance, and he had to be mindful not to overdo it. The richness sat oddly in his gut, as though it was too foreign to trust.

After breakfast, his escort returned.

They took him through unfamiliar corridors, this time eastward, he guessed, deeper into a different part of the palace. The air felt warmer here. Brighter. There were no windows, but the lighting was gentler somehow. Not golden, like the dining hall, but white and precise.

Eventually, they stopped outside a room with two tall, arched doors. One escort reached forward and pushed them open.

The room beyond looked like a whirlwind had passed through it, and then politely decided to leave everything where it was.

Spools of fabric in deep, shimmering colours lined the walls, suspended on golden bars that gleamed under spotlights. Boxes of buttons and clasps were stacked in neat towers that nonetheless leaned with precarious character. Strips of lace, silk, and what looked like embroidered velvet were strewn across tabletops and trailed along the floor. It smelled faintly of steam, cotton, and perfume.

A moment later, a man stepped through a secondary door at the far end of the room. He was tall and wiry, with silver hair combed back and a tape measure slung around his neck like a ceremonial sash.

"Ah," he said, clapping his hands softly together. "The new arrival."

He approached with a kind of sweeping grace that made Jisung instinctively straighten his shoulders.

"I'm Corvin," the man said. "Palace tailor and wardrobe steward. Let's get a look at you."

Before Jisung could respond, Corvin was already circling him, tugging gently at the sleeve of his tunic, squinting at the way the fabric hung.

"This one's just your arrival issue, of course," Corvin said, "standard cut, one-size-fits-most, tragically bland. We'll sort you out with something far more appropriate."

He stepped back and beckoned Jisung to the centre of the room.

"Shoes off, arms out. Good lad. Hold still."

Jisung complied, uncertain, as the tape measure danced around his shoulders, his chest, the curve of his waist, the inside of his leg. Corvin muttered numbers to himself, scribbling on a tablet between each step.

"You'll receive a set of tailored tunics for daily wear," he explained, voice lilting with habit. "A few softer garments for rest hours and non-service periods. And then, of course, formal attire for feedings or any required attendances."

Jisung frowned slightly. "Required attendances?"

Corvin waved the question away with a flick of his hand. "Ceremonies. Appearances. Emergency calls. It depends entirely on your match, though I imagine you'll be briefed in time."

Jisung didn't respond. His eyes drifted back to the piles of discarded offcuts on the floor, silk scraps the colour of spilled wine, lace like spiderwebs, crushed velvet pooled in a heap like spilled luxury.

Why bother dressing us up at all? he thought. Why not just keep us in the tunics?

As if summoned by the thought, Corvin spoke again. "Donors are expected to present well in the presence of the palace royalty," he said. "It's considered part of the respect owed to your match."

Jisung's jaw tensed.

Respect, he thought bitterly. Is that what we're calling it?

He didn't say anything. Just kept his arms out while Corvin noted another set of numbers.

The idea of being dressed up, made clean, polished, and "presentable", just so someone could drink his blood felt... Absurd. Undignified in a way that even poverty hadn't made him feel.

He wasn't here to be beautiful. He was here to bleed.

Corvin finished the last of his measurements with a satisfied hum, stylus tapping quickly across his tablet.

"I'll have your tailored wardrobe sent to your quarters within the week," he said. "Until then..."

He crossed the room and returned with an ensemble folded in a sleek black garment bag. With a flick of his wrist, he unzipped it and drew the outfit free, a midnight-black set consisting of a fitted jacket, narrow trousers, and a buttoned shirt of plain black satin. Silver embroidery traced the cuffs, lapels and collar like starlight caught in motion, tiny crystals stitched delicately into the fabric so that they shimmered every time the fabric moved.

"It's not cut precisely to you," Corven explained, handing it over, "but close enough. Might be a bit large around the waist, yours is particularly slight."

Jisung took the clothes wordlessly, fingers brushing against the fabric. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever held. He didn't trust his voice.

The escort walked him back to his room in silence and stood at attention just outside the door while Jisung washed and changed.

He stepped into the outfit slowly, carefully, almost reverently. The trousers slid on smooth as water, the shirt whispering against his skin as he buttoned it closed. The jacket fit snugly across his shoulders and chest, emphasising the taper of his torso, though, as Corven predicted, it hung a little too loose around the waist. He tugged at the extra fabric absently.

Then he turned to the mirror.

He froze.

He looked... Good.

Striking, even. Clean lines. Tan skin framed by dark velvet. The crystals along the hem of his sleeves caught the light and sent it scattering like stars. His hair, still damp at the roots, curled gently against his temple. He looked like someone who belonged in a place like this, someone confident, expensive, untouchable.

But it wasn't him. Not really.

He bit his lip and turned away before the feeling could sink too deep.

 

_____________

 

The west end of the palace was nothing like the sterile corridors he'd seen so far.

Here, the floors gleamed like still water, the walls adorned with ancient tapestries that shimmered with golden thread. Stained glass windows filtered the morning light into soft rainbows across the stone. Painted portraits lined the halls, vampires, he assumed, each one solemn and regal, staring down at him with expressionless eyes.

He kept his gaze down, the soft thud of his shoes muffled against the expensive carpet.

They arrived at a set of tall, double doors inlaid with silver filigree. The escort opened one side and gestured wordlessly for him to enter.

Inside, the room was warm and richly appointed. A private reading room, by the looks of it. Bookshelves packed tight with tomes of varying thickness lined the walls, and a large marble fireplace glowed with a gentle, artificial fire. Two high-backed armchairs sat before it, one surrounded by softly beeping medical equipment.

The other was already occupied.

Jisung's heart stuttered.

They're here.

He'd assumed they'd take his blood separately, collect it in a container and deliver it, faceless and clinical, like everything else so far. He hadn't expected to meet his match this soon. He hadn't expected to be in the same room while it happened.

The escort spoke, voice low and routine. "The medical equipment is automated. Strap the armband over the crook of your arm. The extraction will begin once contact is confirmed."

Then they left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Jisung swallowed, forcing himself to walk forward. He kept his eyes down. There was no rule about looking at your match, but it felt forbidden all the same.

He sank slowly into the plush armchair, the cushioning swallowing his weight. His fingers trembled slightly as he shifted his jacket off one side, picked up the armband and wrapped it over the soft part of his arm, pulling the velcro tight.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, a click.

He sucked in a sharp breath as he felt the thin slide of a needle enter his vein, expertly placed, nearly painless, but not quite. He looked down and watched as his blood began to track through the attached tubing, dark red and steady. It flowed toward a container he hadn't noticed at first, resting on a low table between the two chairs, half-hidden in shadow.

Then he heard the sound of a page turning.

Without meaning to, without being able to stop himself, Jisung looked up.

And saw him.

His breath caught.

The man in the chair beside him was illuminated by the fractured light of the stained glass, cast in shades of rose and gold and blue. He sat in perfect stillness, one leg crossed over the other, a thick book resting lightly in his lap.

His side profile was almost inhuman in its beauty, sharp but not cruel, poised but not cold. His skin was pale like porcelain, not chalk, the sort of ivory that artists might beg the gods to replicate in marble. His lips were full, unsmiling, the corners neutral. His eyes didn't lift from the page, but Jisung could see their shape, long, elegant, dark as ink.

The man turned another page with slender, precise fingers. Not rushed. Not careless. Each movement was as deliberate as it was effortless.

He didn't look up. Didn't speak. If he'd noticed Jisung's stare, he didn't care. Or maybe he was just used to it.

This is my match?

A strange chill crept down Jisung's spine. Not fear, not quite.

Something worse.

Awe.

Jisung forced his gaze back down, but the image of the man beside him burned behind his eyelids.

His match.

That's who I belong to now.

He tried to steady his breathing. The room felt warmer now, the fire casting flickering light across the marble hearth, the scent of paper and leather binding drifting faintly through the air. The gentle hum of the medical equipment was the only sound between them, quiet and relentless.

Blood continued to move through the tubing, his blood, filling the small crystal vessel beside the armchairs. It was so carefully shaped, so beautifully unnecessary. Even the container looked expensive.

Jisung swallowed hard.

He risked another glance.

His match hadn't moved. His posture was perfect, but not rigid. He read with the kind of ease that made Jisung feel like an intruder simply for existing in the same space. Every now and then, a page turned beneath fingers that looked more like sculpture than flesh, graceful, slightly tapered.

Jisung looked away again, heat crawling up his neck.

He shouldn't be looking.
He shouldn't want to look.

But how could he not?

There was a gravity to the man beside him. A kind of quiet dominance that didn't require eye contact, or words, or even acknowledgement. He simply was, and that was enough to make Jisung feel exposed, despite the layers of satin and velvet wrapped around him.

And yet, for all the grandeur, he hadn't spoken.

Hadn't so much as glanced at him.

Was that indifference? Politeness? Disdain?

Jisung didn't know which he preferred.

He flexed his fingers slightly, staring down at his hands. The tube in his arm was still warm, the hum of the machine unchanged.

He hadn't realised how intimate it would feel, even without touch.

The room seemed too small now. Too full of silence. Of observation without contact. The kind that made you hyperaware of your breath, your posture, your very skin.

He wanted to say something. Anything. To break the stillness. Even just a polite introduction, something neutral.

But the rules echoed back to him.

You are not to speak to any member of the palace royalty unless directly addressed. And they won't address you.

He clenched his jaw, and stilled.

His blood kept flowing.

And beside him, his match turned another page, calm, regal, utterly unreadable.

Jisung didn't even know his name.

No introduction. No acknowledgement. Just... Presence. Absolute and unmoved.

He focused on the machine again, the steady draw of his blood into that crystal vessel, like it wasn't even part of him anymore. It looked like wine in the golden light. Rich. Precious.

He tugged slightly at the hanging sleeve of his jacket, suddenly too aware of how beautiful it was. Like a costume on the wrong actor. Velvet and silver for a boy from the slums, bleeding silently into a glass for a man who hadn't so much as looked at him.

A soft beep broke the stillness.

The band on Jisung's arm loosened with a quiet sigh of pressure, its grip releasing inch by inch. He flexed his hand once, just to feel it again. His skin tingled faintly where the needle had been.

Then came a faint hiss, a mechanical exhale, and the casing that had held the crystal vessel shifted forward, presenting its contents like an offering.

He stared at the crystal vessel as it caught the firelight, his blood glowing dark and rich inside. A single draw, maybe two hundred millilitres. Multiply that by a week. Multiply that by fifty-two. Multiply that by forty years. How many litres would he give in the end? Enough to fill a bath? A tub? A cistern? Would they track it in ledgers like currency? Would his name be reduced to a yield percentage on a palace report? His chest tightened. What did that make him worth, truly? Not as a person, but as a product. As a resource. Was there a number? And if there was, would anyone ever say it out loud?

The man beside him moved at once, unhurried but without hesitation. His hand rose smoothly from the page, pale and elegant, with fingers delicate and sculpted like something out of a grecian statue, and reached for the glass.

He still didn't look at Jisung. Still hadn't looked at him once.

The vessel lifted with perfect balance, and for the first time, Jisung really saw it.

It was beautiful. Thin-stemmed, goblet-shaped, cut in a geometric pattern that caught the light in flashes. The blood inside, his blood, glowed dark red through the crystal facets, rich and luminous, like it had been waiting centuries to be consumed.

And then the man drank.

No hesitation. No fanfare.

He simply tipped the vessel to his lips and took a deep swallow, as calmly as if it were a glass of wine. His throat moved once, then again, the motion smooth, controlled, practiced.

Jisung couldn't stop staring.

It felt obscene. Intimate in a way he hadn't prepared for.

To watch someone drink from you. Not directly, not with teeth, but no less personal for the lack of contact. His skin prickled beneath his clothes, warmth rising along the back of his neck and down his arms in a slow, creeping wave.

It wasn't pain. It wasn't even embarrassment.

It was... Exposure.

To see a part of himself held so casually in someone else's hand, lifted, swallowed, enjoyed, made his body feel too full and too empty all at once.

His heart was still hammering in his chest. Too loud. Too fast.

Can he hear it?

He didn't know much, no one really did, about what vampires were truly capable of. The government released approved facts, but the rest was rumour, speculation, scraps of stories that sounded too much like fear. Some said they could hear the change in blood pressure from across a room. Some said they could smell emotion. That they could taste it in you.

He didn't want to believe it. But right now, sitting next to him, he wasn't so sure.

Then he noticed something strange.

The man's gaze had shifted.

He was no longer looking at the book in his lap. His attention, calm, clinical, was fixed instead on the glass in his hand. He tilted it slightly, inspecting what remained, as if something about it surprised him. His expression didn't change, but there was a quiet furrow to his brow, an almost imperceptible narrowing of the eyes.

And then he turned.

Not fully, just his head, a slight turn, but it was enough.

Their eyes met.

And Jisung's heart stopped.

Notes:

Feel free to come find me on Threads! Same username 👍

I do also have a discord if you guys wish to join to discuss chapters etc 👉👈

https://discord.gg/ySqzdtzb

Chapter 4: The New Donor

Minho turned a page with quiet precision, the thin paper making a soft whisper as it settled flat.

The room was warm, faintly fragrant with smoke from the fire and the old bindings of the books lining the walls. He liked this room. It was private. Predictable. Still.

He had arrived early, as usual. It wasn't vanity, he simply preferred order. Routines held their shape better when they weren't rushed.

His book rested in his lap, open to the same passage he'd read dozens of times. Familiar words. Familiar rhythm. A memoir from a philosopher-king centuries gone, the ink now older than most of the palace staff. It soothed the silence.

He was waiting.

Rina was due for her draw.

She had been his donor for nearly forty years, an A-Class, chosen fresh from her blood screening at 21. Reasonable calibre. Dependable constitution. Never once missed a scheduled session. He appreciated that kind of consistency.

Of course, she was aging out.

Minho could feel it in the blood. Not unpleasant, not yet, but less vivid. Less sharp. The edges had dulled, as all things did, eventually. Time had a way of making even the brightest flavours go flat.

A shame. He didn't enjoy change.

The door opened behind him with its usual quiet hiss.

He didn't look up. He simply shifted back into the comfort of the chair, spine aligned perfectly, hands steady on the book.

The chair beside him gave a soft creak of weight.

Ah. She's here.

He resumed reading, gaze flicking across the lines, though his attention wandered slightly.

Then something strange happened.

An unfamiliar scent reached him.

Subtle. Unexpected.

Bergamot. Spice. Faint, but distinct, like warmth curled inside sharp citrus, smoothed with something darker underneath.

His brow twitched, just slightly.

Odd. Rina always wore rosewater. A habit she'd picked up decades ago, and never once abandoned. Her scent was one of the few constants in his schedule.

This was different.

Not offensive, in fact, it was... Intriguing. Unusual. And fresh. It didn't carry the weight of memory the way her scent usually did.

He turned a page, slower this time.

The scent hadn't faded. If anything, it had deepened, closer now.

He inhaled again, quietly, controlled.

Perhaps she'd simply run out of her usual blend.

It wasn't impossible. The palace didn't always replenish personal items promptly, and Rina was never one to make demands. He made a mental note to ensure a replacement vial was sent to her quarters. It was, after all, the least he could do before her retirement. One final courtesy for nearly four decades of reliability.

The machine beside him hissed softly, signalling the end of the draw. The automated systems here were precise, clean, calibrated, as unintrusive as feeding could be.

Without looking up, Minho reached for the vessel, lifting it with the same unthinking movement as he had every time before. The glass was always positioned in the same place, set in the same cradle. His fingers curled around it with easy familiarity, the crystal cool and delicate in his hand.

He brought it to his lips, still reading, still turning the next page.

And then he drank.

At first, he expected the familiar dryness, the faint metallic tang that lingered just behind the floral notes of Rina's blood, the kind of mature flavour that aged like old wine.

Instead-

His palate was overwhelmed.

Cherries.

Bright. Lush. Immediate. Not artificial, not cloying, but real, sun-warmed and bursting.

Spice followed close behind. A slow, rolling heat that wrapped around the sweetness like silk ribbon... Cinnamon? Something deeper. More elemental. Earth and smoke and a single, searing note of something that should not be in human blood.

Minho froze.

The taste, the quality, was unmistakable.

This was not Rina.

This was something else entirely.

He lowered the glass with quiet, deliberate care.

Then, at last, he turned his head.

The chair beside him was occupied, but not by the grey-braided, rose-scented woman he'd come to expect.

The human sitting beside him was young.

Minho blinked once.

Perhaps early twenties, just. Slender but not slight, with broad shoulders under an ill-fitted velvet jacket that glittered faintly in the firelight. His skin still held the flush of the draw, a delicate pink across the cheeks, the pulse in his neck fluttering fast beneath the surface.

Wide, startled eyes met his own, a deep, liquid brown that shimmered in the shifting colours cast from the stained glass window.

But Minho saw more.

The human eye would miss it: the faint dilation at the edge of the iris, the way his pupils contracted, minute flecks of gold contained within the depths of his irises. His breathing was shallow, but steady. His heart rate high, but not erratic. There was no scent of fear. Just anticipation. Nerves. Something close to awe.

His skin, a warm golden hue, held a subtle undertone, a glow just beneath the surface, blood rich and oxygen depleted from the draw. The kind of skin that held warmth long after touch. Cheekbones soft but defined, mouth full with the faintest shadow of a nervous bite imprint on the full, lower lip.

And the boy's lashes, absurdly long, feathered dark against his cheeks, trembling with every blink. Not styled. Not cultivated. Just natural. The kind of features that would be overlooked in the street but stopped time in stillness.

There was an asymmetry to his beauty, something unpolished that made it feel more real. A tiny scar at his temple, hidden beneath his fringe. The kind of face that felt, not just looked, alive.

Minho's gaze dipped once, fleetingly, to the column of his neck. A slight flush still bloomed there from the draw, skin pink and pliant. The blood beneath it still singing.

The boy looked breathless. Not afraid, exactly, but unguarded. Raw.

His lips were parted slightly, as though caught mid-thought, and his hands were curled tightly into the arms of the chair, as if unsure whether he was meant to sit still or flee.

Minho felt the faintest twitch of something behind his ribs.

This was not just a replacement.

This was... New.

New in the way lightning was new every time you saw it. New the way fire was, familiar, but never safe.

And he had just tasted him.

His fingers flexed imperceptibly against the armrest.

This donor was not what he'd expected. Not what he'd been prepared for.

And he was absolutely certain this was no mere A-Class.

The boy's mouth parted slightly, the smallest sound catching in his throat. A breath. A question, maybe.

But then, just as quickly, he closed it again. Lips pressed together, jaw tightening with restraint. Whatever thought had risen to the surface, he swallowed it. Minho watched the decision play out in real time, the flicker of something unspoken retreating behind a wall of protocol.

Well-trained, he thought. Or afraid.

Either way, it didn't matter.

Minho turned his gaze back to the crystal vessel in his hand. The last trace of blood clung to the inside of the glass, a rich sheen like lacquer in the shifting firelight. It moved slowly as he tilted it, the colour deep as garnet, touched with gold where the light hit it.

Still warm. Still singing.

The scent lingered, rich cherries, spice, him.

Minho studied the blood for a long moment, then brought the glass once more to his lips.

He tipped back the remainder, a single, silken mouthful, and let it settle on his tongue before swallowing. The heat bloomed again, curling low in his stomach.

He exhaled softly through his nose.

Then, almost idly, he drew his tongue along the edge of his lower lip, catching the last of it.

When he glanced back at the boy, the new donor, he caught the exact second the boy's eyes dropped.

To his mouth.

Minho stilled.

The reaction was subtle, but impossible to miss: the boy's throat moved in a tight swallow, and that warm, healthy flush that already coloured his skin deepened instantly, a vivid, blooming vermillion that reached up to the tips of his ears.

Oh.

So he'd noticed.

Minho didn't smile.

But he did turn slightly in his chair, angling his body just enough to face the boy more directly, one arm still draped over the side. His movements were languid and unhurried.

He tilted his head, just a fraction. Not a question. Not an invitation.

An observation.

This boy was not afraid. Not really.

He was enthralled.

Minho let the silence stretch just a moment longer, letting the boy feel it.

Then, as though none of it had ever happened, he moved.

With a slow movement, Minho placed the now-empty vessel back down on the low table, the glass making a delicate clink against the surface. Next, his hand drifted to the small, antique bell that sat beside it, silver, with a carved obsidian stem and a worn base where fingers had gripped it a thousand times before.

He rang it once.

The sound was sharp and cold in the quiet room, a single chime that barely echoed before fading away.

He replaced the bell gently, then turned back to his book, eyes lowered once more to the page.

The doors opened almost immediately.

Footsteps approached, and the familiar rustle of uniform fabric signalled the return of the escort. Minho did not look up again. He didn't need to.

The boy, his new donor, was rising, slow and hesitant. He felt it in the way the air shifted slightly, in the faint intake of breath. The soft scuff of shoes. One last heartbeat held just a moment too long.

And then it was gone.

The doors closed with a gentle thud.

Minho sat perfectly still.

The fire crackled softly in front of him. The page held by his fingers remained unread.

After a moment, he let out a slow breath and closed the book, placing it carefully on the armrest. He looked down at the low table again.

The glass remained where he'd left it. Empty, save for the thin sheen of blood still clinging to the inner curve.

He stared at it, long and quiet.

Then, before he could stop himself, he reached for it once more.

He lifted the vessel to his nose and breathed in deeply.

The scent was still there, rich, warm, and spiced with that intoxicating sharpness. It struck something ancient in him. Something deeply buried and long ignored.

Minho drew one long finger along the inside of the glass, slow and steady, gathering the last traces of red.

Then he brought it to his mouth.

And licked it clean.

Delectable.

He closed his eyes.

That boy was no A-Class. No B. No mutation of C disguised in silk.

Minho now knew what S-Class blood tasted like.

And his new donor had it.

 

_______________

 

Jisung stood frozen for a moment in the corridor, as if his limbs had forgotten how to move. His heart still hadn't calmed, each beat loud in his ears, a drum against the silence.

He followed the escort without speaking, legs moving on autopilot while his mind reeled, turning the moment over and over again.

He hadn't expected that.

From the moment he'd sat in that chair, he'd assumed, no, known, there would be no interaction. That was the protocol. That was the rule. Royalty didn't acknowledge donors. They fed. They dismissed. That was it.

But he'd looked at him.

Not glanced. Not skimmed past him like he barely registered his existence.

He had studied him. With eyes like ice and fire and centuries of something Jisung couldn't name. Like he was a puzzle. A question. A page that had unexpectedly turned itself.

And when he drank... When he drank-

Jisung's stomach clenched at the memory, hot and strange. Not from pain. Not fear. From... Whatever that had been. His blood, lifted so casually, sipped like a fine wine, then tasted, savoured, finished. The way he had licked his lips, unapologetic.

And then the way he'd turned. Looked directly at him. Saw him.

Jisung clenched his hands as they walked, trying to breathe evenly.

You're just a donor, he told himself. Just blood in a glass.

The escort stopped outside his door, tapping something onto the panel before turning to face him.

"You may experience lightheadedness or fatigue following your first draw. It is advised that you rest," they said, voice neutral and rehearsed, like reading from a pamphlet. "Medical will follow up tomorrow. Do not engage in any unscheduled activity until then."

There was no warmth in it. No real concern. Just careful management. Product care. Inventory control.

Jisung nodded anyway, mutely.

The door slid open, and he stepped inside.

His room welcomed him with soft light and cleaner air, the bed already turned down. The tunic from earlier lay folded at the foot like a suggestion he didn't have the energy to process.

He didn't even make it that far.

Still fully clothed, jacket rumpled from where he'd fidgeted with it, trousers creased from the walk back, he crossed to the bed and collapsed into it like the strings holding him up had finally been cut.

The sheets were cool against his flushed skin, the pillow still softer than anything he'd ever owned.

He let himself sink.

His arm ached faintly. His head buzzed. But more than anything, it was the feeling that stayed with him. Not the physical drain of blood loss, but the exposure. As though something intimate had been taken from him, and yet... Not taken.

Received.

He didn't know what to make of that.

So he didn't.

He closed his eyes, the weight of velvet still clinging to his shoulders.

And somewhere between memory and sleep, he saw those eyes again, shining in the stained glass light, watching him like he was an oddity.

Then darkness took him.

 

_______________

 

The knock came too soon.

Jisung blinked awake, disorientated, the faint light of the room soft against his eyes. He hadn't even pulled the covers over himself, just collapsed on top of the bed, still in his feeding clothes. His limbs felt heavy, like he was still half-submerged in sleep.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

He sat up with a groan, rubbing at his face. The velvet jacket clung uncomfortably to his back, slightly wrinkled from sleep. He stumbled to the wardrobe, quickly changing back into the loose cream tunic and trousers, folding the jacket neatly and setting it aside.

The door opened as soon as he approached, the same emotionless escort waiting outside.

"Evening meal," they said simply.

Jisung followed in silence, feet dragging just slightly.

The communal dining hall looked the same as it had that morning, warmly lit, pleasant, too serene for the undercurrent of what this place actually was. He collected his tray quietly, steam rising from a bowl of kimchi jjigae he hadn't consciously chosen but suddenly craved. It was familiar. Spicy, rich, grounding.

As he scanned the room for a place to sit, his eyes landed on Rina.

She was at the same table as last time, alone this time, eating a modest bowl of greens and rice cakes. Her shoulders were relaxed, but her eyes caught him immediately, still sharp, still kind.

He made his way over.

"Mind if I-"

"Sit, child," she interrupted, patting the seat beside her without looking up. "No need to be polite."

He sat down quickly, grateful for the sense of normalcy she offered.

Rina gave him a once-over with a smile that was warm, but touched with something heavier.

"Well, I hope you weren't planning on making this a regular thing."

Jisung blinked. "I-what?"

She chuckled, the sound dry but good-natured. "Hush. Just a joke." She turned to him fully, eyes crinkling. "I've officially had my marching orders."

The words hit harder than he expected.

His spoon paused midway to his mouth. "What? But... I thought you said you had a year or two left?"

"I did," she said, almost to herself. Then, with a small shrug: "Apparently not. It seems they have found my replacement already."

His stomach tightened. The closest thing he had to a friend here, gone before he'd even found his footing. And then the realisation dawned on him "I'm sorry," he said quickly, the words tumbling out. "I didn't mean... If it's because of me-"

She reached across the table and tapped the back of his hand.

"Nonsense, child. If it weren't you, it would've been someone else. My time was up long before you walked through that door. This place just finally caught up to it."

He looked down at his stew, suddenly less hungry. "...Still."

Rina gave him a knowing smile. "You've got that guilt-face on already. Don't waste it. Save it for something that deserves it."

He nodded, a little ashamed.

His spoon stirred the broth idly. Then, unable to help himself, he leaned a little closer and asked quietly, "My match... Did you have him- I mean them... The whole time you were here?"

Rina's expression didn't shift, but her voice softened. "Yes."

She said it with a certainty that left no room for elaboration.

Jisung hesitated, lowering his voice further, "I... Didn't expect them to actually be there."

"Oh yes," Rina replied, reaching for her water. "They always are. Well... If it's a formal match. Palace protocol. The moment the blood is drawn, it begins to degrade. Even under preservation. The properties they need from us, the potency, the warmth... It all starts slipping away the second it leaves our veins."

Jisung frowned, thinking back to the moment the crystal vessel left the machine. He didn't even look away from his book. And yet... He'd drunk it immediately.

"So they need to be right there," he murmured.

Rina nodded. "You'll notice there are no fridges in those rooms."

He huffed a small laugh, but it didn't reach his chest.

A silence settled between them again, not heavy, but thoughtful.

Jisung finally lifted his spoon, tasting the stew. It was hot and rich and comfortingly familiar, but even so, the warmth that filled his chest wasn't from the food.

It was from the woman beside him.

"If I could give you just one bit of advice," she said, her voice low but even, "it's this... Don't try to impress him."

Jisung looked up, startled. "I'm not... I wasn't planning to-"

She smiled, soft but steady. "I know. But you will. You'll want to be liked. You'll wonder what he's thinking. Whether you're doing it right. Whether you're enough."

He swallowed.

"You are," she said, plainly. "You're here because of your blood. That's the job. Let the rest come how it comes."

Notes:

Yes, the soap Jisung chose that Minho smells on him IS based on Sauvage. Which smells looooooovely by the way.

The first time I gave blood, I absolutely did NOT eat or drink enough beforehand.
It was such a miserable experience. It took me nearly an hour to give one pint, to the point the person checking on me wasn’t sure if they’d get the full pint.
When it finally finished, my head floated up into the stratosphere somewhere and I nearly passed out. The second time, I drank loads of water beforehand and ate well. I was in and out within less than 10 minutes 🙃
So yeah, if you ever decide to donate blood, make sure to eat and drink PLENTY in the 48 hours leading up to it.

Chapter 5: The Itch

Minho didn't knock.

He rarely did.

The administrative wing was quiet this time of evening, most staff already gone, save for the few who preferred solitude over the noise of palace life. One of them, of course, was Seungmin.

He was seated at his usual desk, shoulders hunched over a mess of screens and documents, surrounded by the low hum of palace systems and three different mugs, all half full, all long cold.

Seungmin was Minho’s closest friend, and had been for as long as either of them could remember. Their bond was forged not just through shared temperament, but rarity. Minho and Seungmin were the only two vampires born in the kingdom within the last five hundred years.

Conception among their kind was infamously difficult, the odds so low that vampire births were treated like celestial events. That rarity made them valuable in the eyes of some, and deeply resented by others. The vampire hierarchy, calcified over centuries, offered little movement; the nobles who had once clawed their way into power had fortified their thrones with age and influence, becoming near-impossible to displace.

For those capable of producing children, their fertility became a badge of status, another form of dominance. Seungmin, born to a lower branch of nobility, was given a role in the administrative wing, technically noble, but far from prestigious. To most, he was just another clerk. To Minho, he was irreplaceable.

Minho closed the door behind him and let the silence announce his presence.

"You're early," Seungmin said without looking up. "Or late. Depending on what you want."

"I need information."

That earned him a glance, sharp, curious, and already suspicious. "Hello to you too."

Minho didn't answer, just stepped further into the room.

Seungmin leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "You've got that look."

"What look."

"The one that means you're going to say very little and expect me to understand everything anyway."

Minho raised an eyebrow. "It usually works."

"That's because most people are scared of you," Seungmin replied. "Unfortunately for you, I've seen you trip on uneven stone steps and throw a tantrum at a broken pen."

Minho exhaled through his nose. "Seungmin."

"All right, all right." Seungmin turned back to the nearest screen and gestured lazily. "What are we digging into tonight?"

Minho hesitated for half a second, then said, "I want to see the file on my new donor."

That drew Seungmin's full attention. "Rina's replacement?"

Minho nodded once.

"I thought she had a year left," Seungmin muttered, already pulling up the registry system. "They never give you time to adjust, do they?"

Minho said nothing.

Seungmin scrolled down, brows lifting slightly when the profile came up. "Newly registered. First feeding today." He scanned the first line of data. "S-Class?"

He blinked. Then leaned in closer.

"...S-Class," he repeated, flatly. "That's... Huh."

Minho stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he scanned the lines of information beginning to populate the screen.

Name. Age. Date of classification. Blood yield and calibre. Medical evaluations. Matched recipient: L. Minho.

Seungmin kept scrolling.

Then frowned.

"Wait."

Minho glanced at him. "What?"

"This-" Seungmin pulled up the family history tab, flicking through each entry. "His parents. D-Class. His grandparents. Also D. Great-grandparents too. At least four generations of labour-class designation, all consistent. Not a single anomaly."

He stared at the screen, brow furrowed. "That's not normal."

Minho's voice was low. "What are the odds?"

"Of two confirmed D-Class parents producing a donor-class S?" Seungmin looked at him. "Statistically? Virtually zero."

Minho studied the screen a moment longer.

"Run the DNA results," he said.

Seungmin tapped into the file. A new window opened, the verification sheet for parentage. Paternity confirmed. Maternity confirmed. No disputed markers.

He scrolled through again, slower this time. "No genetic anomalies. No surrogate lineage. Everything's clean."

Minho's jaw tightened. "So there's no mistake."

Seungmin sat back. "No. Which means he's either a less-than-one-in-a-billion fluke..." He paused. "Or something else."

Minho tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on the screen. "Like what?"

Seungmin didn't answer immediately. He scanned the data again, slower this time, thoughtful. "Maybe some dormant marker activated. Maybe a mutation or something we don't understand."

Minho said nothing.

Seungmin turned toward him fully. "Why do you care?"

Minho's eyes flicked to the edge of the desk. "Because I tasted him."

That stopped Seungmin cold.

"...And?"

"It's the best I've ever had." Minho looked at him then. "By far. I could actually taste cherries... Cinnamon..."

Seungmin rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get stuck halfway.

"Rub it in, why don't you," he muttered, slouching back into his chair. "Some of us have to settle for C-class, y'know."

Minho gave a soft, disbelieving scoff. "Aish. I'm not saying it to brag."

"No? Because it's coming off real humble, your highness."

Minho ignored the jab. He stepped to the side of the desk, arms loosely folded, gaze still distant. "I'm serious. It was like... Nothing I've ever tasted before."

Seungmin gave him a long-suffering look over the rim of his coffee mug. "Yes, yes. Cherries and spice and transcendence, or whatever poetic nonsense you're cooking up in that little head of yours."

Minho narrowed his eyes. "You'd believe it if you'd tasted it."

"Well," Seungmin drawled, setting the mug down with a hollow thunk, "I haven't. And I won't. Because S-Class donors don't fall out of the sky for people like me."

Minho glanced back at the screen, the clinical string of data points still glowing softly.

Jisung's name. Jisung's blood type. Jisung's classification.

S-Class.

And yet everything else... So ordinary. So... Impossible.

Seungmin noticed the silence and exhaled through his nose. "Look," he said more gently, tone losing some of its bite, "if the blood's that good... Just enjoy it. You drew the long straw."

Minho didn't reply right away. His jaw flexed once, but he didn't speak.

Seungmin raised a brow. "Unless... You're not just talking about the blood."

That earned him a look.

"Minho," Seungmin said flatly. "Minho. Don't give me that face. I've seen that look before. You're thinking. You're brooding. Stop it. It never leads anywhere sane."

Minho turned toward the window. The stars beyond the pane looked cold and distant. Silent.

"...It's not just about the taste," he said quietly. "It's about the fact that he shouldn't exist."

Seungmin stared at him for a beat, then sighed and dropped his head back against the chair with a groan.

"Oh, great," he muttered. "You're obsessed already."

Minho didn't deny it.

Minho turned back toward Seungmin, his expression unreadable but his voice low with intent.

"While you're doing your nocturnal reading," he said, casually, but not really, "keep an eye out for anything about S-Class bloodlines. Lineage. Inheritance patterns. Anything that could explain... This."

Seungmin raised a brow. "You mean, why your walking glass of spiced merlot exists?"

Minho didn't dignify that with a response. He just gave him a look.

Seungmin sighed. "Fine. I'll keep an eye out. You know I'm usually in the South Wing archives most evenings anyway. Some of the old blood catalogues are kept in the restricted stacks, might be something tucked in there."

Minho's gaze flicked toward him. "Restricted?"

Seungmin shrugged. "Not off-limits to me. Just a pain to access. And some of the oldest records are in latin of course. Possibly even dead languages. So I'd have to translate them."

Minho's eyes narrowed slightly. "But you'll look?"

Seungmin gave him a dry look. "Yes, yes. I'll look. But don't hold your breath. If there was a precedent for this kind of anomaly, someone would've made a fuss about it by now. Blood class doesn't just... Skip rungs."

Minho was quiet for a moment, then nodded once.

"Still," he said, voice softer now. "If anyone would find it... It's you."

Seungmin made a face. "Flattery doesn't get you favours, you know."

"You're doing it anyway."

"Yeah, yeah," Seungmin muttered, already turning back to his screen. "Go sip your miracle blood and let the rest of us subsist on C-Class."

Minho allowed himself the faintest smile.

"I'll be in touch."

He turned and walked toward the door without waiting for a reply, his footsteps light and silent.

Behind him, Seungmin watched the file blink shut on the monitor, then sighed.

"...Why do I get the feeling this is going to get complicated?"

 

________________

 

Minho's quarters were the epitome of restrained opulence.

The walls were panelled in warm, dark wood, the kind that held a subtle sheen even in low light. The ceiling rose higher than most would deem necessary, arching with delicate moulding and inlaid silver filigree that shimmered faintly under the room's ambient glow. A plush sitting area anchored the centre of the room, all midnight blues and charcoal greys, the fabrics rich with understated embroidery that only revealed itself when the light caught just right.

A grand piano stood in one corner, polished to a mirror shine. Above it, a series of ornate wooden shelves displayed worn volumes of sheet music, flanked by old tomes and artefacts from foreign courts, a jade sculpture from the Eastern Reach, a carved obsidian mask gifted by one of the High Families.

Across from it, a sleek black violin rested in its case, open as if waiting to be played.

Minho's bed, though grand in size, was refined in its presentation, silver-threaded bedding, layered blankets of the softest wool, pillows stacked with clinical precision. He rarely used it, not out of disdain, but habit. Vampires didn't need sleep, though they could indulge in it when the mood struck.

Minho often didn't. Not when his hours could be spent perfecting a Liszt étude or transcribing orchestral scores from scratchy wax-cylinder recordings from over a hundred years ago.

Unlike Seungmin, who buried himself in knowledge for knowledge's sake, Minho preferred the balance of artistry and structure. Music offered both.

He was in the process of unfastening the top button of his current jacket when a soft knock interrupted him.

He didn't glance up. "Enter."

The door opened and a palace guard stepped inside, bowing with impeccable posture.

"Your Highness," he said crisply. "The King and Queen request your presence."

Minho gave a slight nod. "I'll be there momentarily."

The guard bowed again and disappeared without further word.

Minho moved to the armoire, a towering piece of blackwood carved with a crest older than the palace itself. Inside, rows of garments hung with precise spacing: silk-lined coats, intricately embroidered collars, pants pressed to impossible sharpness.

He selected a dark slate ensemble, touched with gunmetal threading at the cuffs and collar, formal, but not ostentatious. Appropriate.

He dressed quickly, fingers deft with long-honed routine, and smoothed the last crease from his sleeve before slipping a signet ring onto his finger.

Then he left the room, walking the familiar halls with unhurried steps.

The path to the royal drawing room that his parents favoured was lined with stained glass and oil portraits, tapestries spun in centuries of power. Velvet runners softened his footfalls. The guards stationed along the way gave deep bows, which he acknowledged with the barest nod.

The room in question was the west-facing one, where the light fell softest in the late afternoon, and the air always smelled faintly of jasmine and old parchment.

The doors to the west drawing room stood open just a crack, the scent of steeped jasmine and polished wood curling out into the corridor like a welcome, one deliberately curated, as everything was in this part of the palace. The guard posted at the door straightened when Minho approached, tapping the butt of his spear lightly against the marble floor.

"His Highness, Prince Minho."

Minho stepped inside.

The drawing room was bathed in amber light from the tall western windows, the stained glass filtering the sunlight into fractured shades of gold, crimson, and violet. The space was elegant, but lived-in. Shelves of antique books, a tea service steaming on the low table, and a half-finished embroidery hoop resting beside the Queen's elbow.

His mother sat poised on one of the high-backed chairs near the hearth, draped in a gown of muted silver that shimmered like moonlight when she moved. His father stood beside the window, a decanter of deep red wine in one hand, gazing out at the royal gardens with his usual unreadable stillness.

"Minho," the Queen greeted, her voice warm but precise. "Come. Sit."

He crossed the room and sank into the velvet chair opposite them, back straight, hands relaxed in his lap.

"You've sampled your new donor?" the King asked without turning. His tone was casual, but Minho didn't miss the edge of scrutiny beneath it.

"I have."

The Queen lifted her tea and took a slow sip, then set it back down with a soft clink. "And is he suitable? If not, the Registry can procure a replacement before the next scheduled draw."

Minho paused a heartbeat too long.

He felt the instinct, to say yes, to claim the boy immediately as a once-in-a-generation find, to express the sheer depth of what he'd tasted earlier that day. But that would raise questions. Too much enthusiasm always did.

And he had no answers yet.

"He's... Adequate," Minho said finally, carefully.

The Queen arched a delicate brow. "Adequate?"

"A fresh profile," Minho explained smoothly. "It will take time to assess the long-term viability. But there's no need for a replacement at present."

The King finally turned from the window, eyes sharp beneath the silver of his fringe. "His parentage?"

"Officially?" Minho said, lifting a shoulder in a slight shrug. "D."

That earned a flicker of visible reaction from both monarchs.

"D?" the Queen repeated, like the word tasted strange. "That must be a clerical error."

"Perhaps," Minho allowed. "Or a late-onset genetic mutation. The Registry doesn't elaborate."

The King stepped away from the window, his gaze narrowing. "Keep a close watch on him. If his yield changes, report it. If his health falters, report it. We cannot afford an imbalance, especially not with the foreign delegations arriving next month."

Minho nodded once. "Understood."

The Queen's expression softened slightly. "It's a shame about Rina aging out. She served our house faithfully."

"She did," Minho agreed.

"Have the staff send her something for the transition," she said. "Something comfortable. A legacy shouldn't be met with silence."

"I'll see to it," Minho replied.

The Queen gave him a long look, her eyes calculating. "You're not one to take lightly to new blood. If there's something unusual about this boy... We trust you'll notify us."

"Of course," Minho said smoothly. "As always."

The silence that followed was long, but not uncomfortable.

Eventually, the King moved to refill his glass. "That's all. You may go."

Minho inclined his head, stood, and turned to leave, his steps quiet, measured.

Behind him, the soft murmur of conversation resumed between his parents, already turning to matters of court and council.

But Minho's thoughts were far from politics now.

They were still wrapped around a pair of wide brown eyes.

And the taste of cherries and spice on his tongue.

 

____________

 

Minho closed the door to his quarters with a soft click, the echo swallowed by the thick silence of the private wing. The weight of the royal garments settled unpleasantly on his shoulders now, all velvet and embroidery, gold thread pressing against skin that wanted nothing but silk and solitude.

He shrugged the jacket off first, careful not to tug at the delicate clasps, and let it slide into his waiting hands before draping it neatly across the chaise at the foot of his bed. The shirt followed, its buttons silent under his deft fingers. Within moments, he was bare-chested, his skin already beginning to cool from the evening's conversation. He stepped toward the armoire, opened its tall doors, and reached for the familiar silhouette of his favourite dressing gown.

Black silk. Heavy, smooth, and cool to the touch. It slid over his shoulders like water, the sash cinched loosely at his waist. Freedom. Or as close as one ever came to it in the palace.

He moved to the long window and rested a hand on the cool stone of the sill, eyes drifting out toward the horizon. Beyond the glass, the gardens stretched in manicured darkness, sharp with moonlight.

But Minho didn't see them.

He saw the room from earlier.

The fire. The stained glass light.

The boy.

The blood.

The taste of it still haunted the edges of his throat, vivid, alive, seared into his senses in a way that shouldn't have been possible. Blood didn't echo. Not usually. You drank, you were sated, and the memory of it dulled within minutes. Even the best samples faded quickly under the weight of a thousand other tastes.

But not this.

This was different.

It still pulsed behind his teeth. Lingered in the corners of his mouth like a secret he hadn't quite finished telling. And worse, he wanted more. Already.

His fangs hadn't itched like this in decades.

Rina had always been reliable. Her blood consistent, calming. She fed him well, and that had been enough. He never craved her. Never sat awake at night with the echo of her in his veins, wondering how long he'd have to wait for the next draw.

But this boy... Jisung...

Minho breathed the name out slowly, almost without meaning to.

"Han Jisung."

He rolled it again, this time under his breath, feeling the shape of it settle behind his tongue.

Ji-sung.

Wise star.

He tilted his head slightly, as if tasting the sound of it, dissecting it the way he might a rare vintage or a complex melody. There was something gentle in it. Something bright.

He wasn't sure if the name fit the boy. Not yet. Not without knowing him. All he truly had were three things:

His name.

His blood.

And that wide-eyed look as Minho had licked the last of it from his lips.

Minho's gaze flicked toward the empty crystal vessel that had been returned to his room following the draw.

He crossed the room, knelt beside it.

Lifted it again.

There was nothing left now, not even a scent. But his fingers traced the inside lip anyway, a slow, idle pass of skin over glass.

"Han Jisung," he murmured again.

The name felt dangerous now.

Not because of who the boy was.

But because of what he might become

His fingers lingered on the empty crystal.

He shouldn't be thinking about it like this.

The blood was a donor's offering, valuable, yes. Refined, even. But it was never meant to haunt the corners of his mind like a phantom taste. Never meant to evoke... Need.

Minho pulled his hand away slowly, as if the glass had grown hot in his grip.

He stepped back, exhaling quietly, though his breath did nothing to clear the tightness coiled low in his chest.

Desire.
He had trained his entire life to control it.

Desire, when it came to blood, was weakness. Attachment blurred instinct. Craving made monsters of men, even ones born to wear crowns.

And yet...

He closed his eyes.

He hadn't felt this pull once in the 143 years he'd been living. Not even in his youth, when the temptations were fresher, when he'd fed more recklessly, following scent more than sense. Even then, nothing had ever tasted like that.

Not just the flavour, though that alone had been enough to stir something primal, but the effect it had on him. His skin still tingled faintly where it had touched the vessel. His throat, so rarely dry, felt tight again now. He pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth, where the faintest pressure hummed along his fangs.

He hadn't meant to look at the boy. Hadn't needed to. But the draw of that heartbeat, the warmth still clinging to the air between them, it had pulled him in despite himself.

And when Jisung's eyes had dropped to his mouth-

Minho's hands clenched at his sides.

No. Enough.

This was dangerous. This was uncharted.

This was beneath him.

He was a prince. A scholar. A strategist. Someone whose name could command silence across a room before a single word had been spoken.

And here he was, in silk robes, standing in the dark, aching for a second taste of something that shouldn't even exist.

He turned from the table sharply, as if movement might scatter the thought.

But it didn't.

Jisung's name still sat heavy on his tongue. Sweet. Unsettling.

And far too close to the edge of desire.

Chapter 6: The Garden

The morning came quietly, light filtered through the small, frosted windows of his assigned quarters. It was a strange kind of comfort, too clean, too still. Jisung rose without thinking, the ritual of waking already falling into shape. A glance at the time confirmed it: breakfast was soon.

He dressed quickly, pulling on the pale tunic folded neatly on the writing desk. The escort was already waiting outside the door, as expected. Jisung gave a small nod as he stepped into the hallway. The guard didn't speak, they never did, and Jisung didn't try to change that.

Somehow, their presence had already begun to blur. A shadow beside him. A constant fixture. Not quite a person, not quite a wall.

He knew the route now. Left, left again, second hall, third door on the right. The palace was vast, but in the donor quarters, everything moved with efficient precision. He could almost convince himself he belonged in it, if only for the quiet illusion of purpose.

The communal dining hall hummed softly with low voices and the clatter of utensils. Jisung's eyes swept over the room, almost involuntarily.

No Rina.

He swallowed once and moved toward the serving line. His hand hovered for a moment over the selection before settling on something familiar, rice, a boiled egg, a bowl of miso soup, and a small dish of pickled radish kimchi.

He sat alone, not by design, but by instinct. The seat beside him remained empty.

He tried not to let it bother him.

She hadn't said goodbye. Not properly. Maybe that was how she wanted it, clean, quick, no attachments. Or maybe she hadn't been allowed. Either way, her absence hit harder than he expected.

He pushed a spoonful of rice into his mouth, chewing slowly, thinking.

Would he be able to make friends with the others?

He didn't know. Everyone here wore the same smile when they spoke, polite, clipped, tired. As if warmth was a luxury they hadn't budgeted for.

Still, he supposed he had time.

After breakfast, his escort fell back into step behind him without a word. Jisung didn't ask where they were going. He'd already been briefed on the first week's schedule the day before.

Medical check.

They passed through two more corridors and an arched doorway into the clinical wing, where the sterile scent of antiseptic met them like a wall.

Inside, a nurse greeted him with a pleasant but impersonal expression. She waved him toward the exam chair with the same dully efficient manner one might reserve for processing paperwork.

"The first wellness check is more thorough than the others," she explained as she fitted a cuff around his arm. "We monitor your baseline recovery speed after a draw, your hemoglobin, iron saturation, cardiovascular stability, and a few neurochemical markers. It's important that you can recover fast enough for your next session."

Jisung nodded mutely.

The nurse gestured to a second tech, who approached with a tray of equipment, syringes, vials, an oxygen monitor.

"Some of this will sting," she added, as if it were a passing weather report.

He nodded again.

The needle slid in. He didn't flinch. A row of crimson filled one vial, then another. He watched the process with detached interest, trying to focus on the rhythm of his breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

It wasn't painful, not really. Just... Clinical. Like he wasn't entirely present. Like his body had been filed under something too functional to resist.

He caught a glimpse of the monitor beside him. The numbers glowed green, column after column of metrics ticking perfectly into place. One of the techs raised her eyebrows slightly, adjusted the display, then leaned in for a closer look.

They made notes. Cross-checked. Whispered something to each other too quietly for him to hear.

The nurse reappeared, tablet in hand. "You've recovered exceptionally well," she said, tapping twice on the screen. "Your blood volume's already back to baseline. Iron levels are optimal. Cellular regeneration is well above average."

She glanced at him, just the smallest flicker of something behind her eyes, curiosity, maybe. Or envy.

"It's rare to see full replenishment after a first draw," she added. "Almost unheard of. But... Very good news."

She smiled, polite and professional.

Good for who, Jisung thought bitterly, sipping the iron-rich glucose drink they handed him anyway. It tasted vaguely like metal, cheap cough syrup and compliance.

He didn't say anything. Just let the machines finish their readings, let them smile at his numbers like they were a particularly interesting story.

Like he wasn't even in the room.

There would be more tests. More draws. More empty chairs at breakfast as the years passed.

He just had to get through it.

One week at a time.

The technician glanced up from her notes, her voice polite but distant. "Do you have plans for the rest of the day?"

Jisung blinked. The question felt out of place, too casual for a room full of machines that had been monitoring his veins like they belonged to the palace.

"Um..." he stalled, caught off guard. "I thought this was supposed to take three hours."

The technician offered a small smile, the kind that didn't reach her eyes. "Ordinarily, yes. But your results are... Unusually efficient. No anomalies, no strain markers. Blood pressure's ideal, glucose stable, iron fully replenished. Your system bounced back faster than protocol accounts for."

She tapped her tablet once more and powered it down. "So, we're done. No need for the extended observation or any of the usual interventions."

He stared at her.

"Oh," he said, finally.

It felt strange. The last two days had been planned down to the minute, escorted walks, timed meals, monitored sleep. The idea of unstructured time was... Strangely unnerving.

The technician tilted her head, studying him for a beat longer than felt comfortable. "Have you been outside since you arrived?"

Jisung shook his head. Not because he hadn't wanted to, but because no one had told him it was allowed.

"Well," she said, tapping the side of her stylus thoughtfully, "the royal gardens are open to registered donors. You're permitted access to the western grounds after your first medical check."

He gave her a wary look. "Alone?"

"Yes," she replied, as if it were obvious. "There are cameras, of course. But you won't need an escort unless you request one."

He didn't respond right away. It was hard to tell if the suggestion was kindness or another layer of protocol disguised as choice.

Still, the idea of walking without someone hovering behind him... Of breathing air that hadn't been filtered through vents and expectation...

"Fresh air will help regulate the healing process," the technician added, as if she needed to justify it. "You've earned a few hours."

Jisung looked down at the empty cup in his hands.

"Right," he murmured. "Fresh air."

He stood slowly, his legs steady now, stronger than they should've been. His body felt fine. His body felt... Ready.

Whatever that meant.

The technician gave him a nod and turned back to her notes, already moving on to the next file in the system.

Just like that, he was dismissed.

Jisung stepped out of the room, the door sliding shut behind him with a mechanical hush.

No escort met him in the hall this time.

For the first time since arriving at the palace, other than his room, he was truly, entirely... Alone.

 

________________

 

Minho had slept.

Which, in itself, was unusual.

He had hoped it might help. That surrendering to the stillness of a few hours' rest might quiet the gnawing edge of thought that had clung to him since the moment the glass touched his lips.

But it hadn't worked.

The ache was still there, coiled low and persistent, as if it had followed him into sleep. The taste of Jisung's blood still haunted the back of his throat, soft and sharp all at once. As if the flavour had imprinted itself on his palate, on his body. On something deeper.

Minho scowled at the ceiling for several minutes before dragging himself upright.

He filled the morning with distractions.

A bath, longer than usual, hot enough to sting, steam curling around the edges of the large clawfoot tub. He submerged himself to the chin and stared at the tiled wall, waiting for the water to burn the want out of his skin.

It didn't.

He dried off slowly, taking deliberate care with the silver clasps of his robe, every movement precise and practiced, as if control might return through routine.

Then the piano. Fingers against ivory, muscle memory leading him through a Chopin nocturne, then a stormy, half-formed Debussy. His playing was good. Technically flawless. Empty.

He stopped halfway through a measure, the notes bleeding into silence.

By mid-morning, he had pulled half a dozen books from the shelves in his reading room. Ancient court histories, obscure political treatises, an old philosophical volume bound in oxblood leather. He skimmed each page without taking anything in, his eyes moving but absorbing nothing.

He snapped the last book shut with a flick of his wrist and tossed it onto the low table with a dull thud.

Frustration coiled under his skin.

It was just blood. It should be just blood.

He moved to the window, restless, arms folding loosely across his chest. The gardens stretched beyond the glass, manicured and serene in the pale light. This time of year, most of the colour had faded, but not all. The last roses of the season were still blooming, stubborn against the shift in air, their pink heads nodding in a final show of defiance.

His gaze fell across them idly.

And then stilled.

A figure was crouched among the low hedges, one hand reaching forward, cupping a bloom with such delicacy that for a moment Minho almost forgot why he'd been irritated in the first place.

The figure then leaned forward and smelled it. Eyes closed. Still.

It was him.

Han Jisung.

Minho's brows drew together, his stance going still as stone. What was he doing out there?

He checked the angle of the sun, still mid-morning. Too early.

By standard protocol, Jisung should be in post-draw medical observation. The wellness exam alone should have taken three hours. Possibly longer, given the rarity of his classification and the palace's obsessive interest in preserving their "assets."

So what was he doing wandering the royal gardens?

Minho's gaze narrowed. He stepped closer to the window, arms dropping to his sides as he watched the boy move gently from one plant to another, pausing every so often to examine something, petals, bark, a fallen leaf.

There was no guard trailing behind him. No escort at his shoulder.

He was alone.

Completely, blissfully alone.

Minho tilted his head slightly, as if the angle might offer some explanation.

It didn't.

All it gave him was a clearer view of Jisung's profile as the boy turned slightly, eyes lowered, expression soft, peaceful in a way that stirred something uneasy in Minho's chest.

He shouldn't be able to look like that so soon after a draw. After a first draw especially.

Unless...

Minho's thoughts twisted, recalibrating.

Had he recovered already?

He blinked once, slowly.

No. That's not possible.
And yet, there he was. Breathing freely. Skin warm with colour. Moving without the faintest trace of strain.

Minho's eyes narrowed further, his pulse tightening with something he couldn't name.

He turned from the window.

Then, quietly, he called for his steward.

The steward arrived promptly, his footfalls quiet against the marble.

Minho didn't turn from the window.

"I need a copy of Han Jisung's post-draw medical report," he said simply.

There was a brief pause behind him. Not insolence, just surprise.

"...Your Highness?" the steward asked, polite but uncertain.

Minho turned his head slightly. "You heard me."

The man straightened, bowing once. "Of course, Your Highness. I'll see to it immediately."

He left without further question, professional enough not to linger, but Minho caught the subtle tension in his gait as he left.
This wasn't a typical request. Donors were meant to be monitored by the Registry, not questioned by their recipients. Especially not royalty.

But Minho wasn't interested in expectations today.

He returned his gaze to the gardens. Jisung was still there, crouched low by the rose beds, touching petals with delicate motions. The boy leaned in, inhaling the scent as though it might anchor him to the moment. A gesture more human than utilitarian.

He didn't look tired. He didn't even look pale.

Minho's fingers curled lightly around the edge of the windowsill.

It wasn't just unusual. It was impossible.

Most donors took days to return to baseline. Especially at first. Three, four, sometimes six if they were weaker. Even Rina, seasoned and stabilised over years, had required over fourty-eight hours to fully recover. And that was after iron supplementation and rest.

But this boy...

If anything, he looked better than he had the day before.

Minho's jaw ticked as he watched him stand, brushing his palms on the sides of his tunic, a faint crease between his brows as if he were thinking too hard about nothing at all.

The door behind him opened again.

The steward returned, breathing a touch faster than decorum allowed. He bowed and extended a slim folder, bound in cream and sealed with the insignia of the palace medical corps.

Minho took it silently, flicking it open perhaps too quickly to feign lack of interest.

Blood pressure. Normal.
Iron saturation. Replenished.
Cell regeneration markers. Elevated.
Haemoglobin. Stable.
Recovery status: Cleared. No intervention required.

Minho's eyes skimmed the notes at the bottom.
Full replenishment noted within less than 24 hours of first post-draw cycle. Donor responded exceptionally well. No evidence of fatigue, iron loss, or circulatory stress. Recommend minimal supplementation. Planned weekly schedule remains viable.

There was even a handwritten annotation from the attending physician:
The fastest recovery we've ever seen. Donor appears highly adaptable. Would benefit from close observation for research purposes.

Minho's eyes narrowed.

Research purposes.

Of course.

He snapped the folder closed with a quiet click and handed it back to the steward without a word.

The man hesitated. "Shall I file it with your personal records, Your Highness?"

"No."
A beat.
"Burn it."

The steward blinked. "... Your Highness?"

Minho finally looked at him, gaze cold and steady. "You heard me."

The man bowed sharply. "Yes, Your Highness."

He turned to go, the folder tucked under one arm like it might sting him.

Minho returned his attention to the garden.

Jisung had moved on from the roses now, drifting toward the inner fountain. He looked small in the vast space, but not lost. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders a little hunched, like he was trying to fold himself into something less noticeable.

It wasn't working.

Minho's fingers brushed the windowsill once more.

'Exceptional', the report had said.

That was one word for it.

There were others. Words he hadn't said aloud yet.

But they lingered at the edges of his thoughts. Dark and rising.

And they wouldn't leave.

Before he could overthink the decision, Minho crossed the room in long, decisive strides. He pulled a day suit from the armoire, tailored navy, casually elegant, and dressed quickly, fingers moving with mechanical precision. No rings, no royal pins, nothing that would draw attention. He didn't bother calling for an escort.

He slipped through the side door of his quarters and into the west corridor, footsteps soundless on the stone.

He had no plan.

But his feet carried him ahead anyway.

 

______________

 

The garden path curved softly beneath Jisung's feet, edged with late-summer hedges that whispered as the wind passed through them. The breeze tugged playfully at his hair and clothing, the kind of wind that was cool but not cold, crisp enough to remind him he was still alive.

He hadn't realised how quiet it was out here until now. Not clinical, sterile silence, like the halls of the donor quarter, or the medical wing. This was a natural quiet. Birdsong flitting from the canopy overhead. The distant rustle of leaves. The steady, rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot as he walked.

Every few steps, he stopped to lean over a rose bush, bringing the petals close to his face. Some of them were fading, their edges curling just slightly with the season's change, but others were still bright and soft, blooming defiantly despite the changing weather.

He smiled faintly to himself.

It was the first time since the blood screening that he hadn't felt watched. Or weighed. Or filtered through someone else's clipboard.

Peace. Not much, but enough.

Eventually, the path opened into a wide, circular clearing, at the centre of which stood a grand marble fountain. It was older than the rest of the garden, the stone worn smooth in places by time and weather. A tall statue of a woman stood in the middle, robed and barefoot, a goblet lifted in her outstretched hands.

Water poured from it endlessly, clear and bright, sparkling in the sunlight like shards of glass. It caught the light in a hundred shifting angles, throwing silver reflections across the basin in rhythmic, glinting patterns.

Jisung watched it for a long moment.

The goblet reminded him, too clearly, of the vessel from the day before. How easily it had been lifted from the tray. How unthinking that sip had seemed. And yet...

He shook the image from his mind with a small sigh and stepped forward.

He sat sideways on the lip of the fountain, the stone cool and solid beneath him. One leg bent at the knee, foot resting on the ledge, the other dangled over the edge, grazing the trimmed grass. Slowly, he leaned back, bracing his hands behind him for support, then let himself sink lower down, back flat against the marble edge.

The sun was warm on his face. The bubbling of the water sang just above a whisper, accompanied by the ambient hum of bees and distant songbirds.

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he simply... Breathed.

No numbers. No tubes. No metallic, cloying taste in his mouth. Just sun. Air. The gentle gurgle of water.

It might not be freedom.

But it was close enough to trick his body into relaxing.

Listening to the sound of the birds in the trees, he was reminded of the walks he would take Jun on in the late summer, before he was due to return to school.

Given the lack of money in the family, entertainment was extremely hard to come by. So they had to make their own.
Every summer, he and Jun would go out walking in the nearby woods. They would make a game of identifying plants, seeking out bugs, and looking for fish in the brook.
They never found any, or they would have taken them home to eat.

The sound of the water from the fountain dragged a distant memory to the forefront of Jisung's mind. Jun's yelps of delight when Jisung splashed the cold water from the brook at him, the glittering drops drying almost instantly on his skin under the hot sun.

He smiled.

The minutes slipped by.

He wasn't sure how long it lasted, five minutes? Fifteen? Before something shifted.

Not in sound. Not in light.

But something.

A weight.

The distinct feeling that someone's gaze had fallen on him.

His eyes snapped open. His chest lifted with a short, startled breath as he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

He scanned the space around him, the curved hedges, the overhanging boughs of the orchard trees, the path winding back toward the main garden.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No shadows moving. No rustle of undergrowth.

But the feeling lingered.

His heart gave a cautious thud against his ribs.

Maybe it was nothing.

Or maybe it wasn't.

 

_______________

 

He hadn't meant to follow.

He told himself that much, at least, that it had just been coincidence, curiosity, coincidence again.

But then he'd seen Jisung sitting on the edge of the fountain, no, lying on it, one arm draped over his chest, one leg bent at an angle, his head tilted back into the sunlight like he belonged there.

And Minho had... Stopped.

Just... Watched.

From the cover of the southern path's marble balustrade, half-shadowed by an overgrown cypress tree, Minho's gaze had lingered longer than it should've. He had studied the way the sunlight played off Jisung's skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the loose way his fingers tapped against the rim of the stone.

Peaceful, he thought.

Unselfconscious in a way that was increasingly rare within palace walls.

And why? What could a donor, freshly drawn, newly installed, rankless in every measurable sense, possibly be thinking about to wear that kind of expression?

It wasn't serenity. Not quite.

It was something quieter. Softer. An inner stillness.

Minho's brows drew slightly together.

Does he even realise he's alive right now? Or is that just how he exists?

And then, just as Minho took one silent step forward-

Jisung sat up.

Eyes flashing open. Posture tense. Gaze sweeping the garden.

Minho moved before he had time to think, slipping back behind the base of a marble statue to his left, a carved rendering of some forgotten ancestor or house saint, arms raised in solemn prayer, the cool stone pressing into the back of his shoulder as he held himself still.

He heard nothing but the bubbling of the fountain and the low rustle of wind through the rose bushes.

And still, he waited.

A slow breath escaped through his nose.

This is ludicrous.

He was a prince. A royal of the high blood. This was his garden.

And yet here he was. Concealing himself behind marble and ivy like a schoolboy spying on a crush.

Why was he hiding from a donor?

Not just any donor, his mind corrected. That donor.

The one who had upended nearly a century and a half of consistency in a single blood draw. The one whose taste still ghosted across his tongue when he least expected it. The one who now sat unknowingly at the centre of a question no one in the palace could yet answer.

His fingers twitched once at his side, and he quickly curled them into a fist.

Enough.

This wasn't productive. He wasn't going to ambush a donor in the middle of the royal gardens like some common stalker. He had standards.

Minho turned back toward the palace path, retracing his steps with a fluid stride.

He wouldn't linger.

But his thoughts did.

Circling the shape of a name once again.

Han Jisung.

Notes:

I actually do have pink roses in my little garden. They are insanely fragile. I’ve literally watered them before, and the stream of the water has sent the majority of the petals flying to the floor. It’s frustrating 😩

Do we have any thoughts or theories on why Jisung would recover so quickly? 🤔

I’m also very tempted to try and draw the fountain scene… Might do that today.

Chapter 7: The Second Glass

The days passed in a blur of schedule and silence.

Meals at the same hour. Walks on the same garden paths. Soft murmurs of donors exchanging pleasantries that didn't stick. Words without weight, names that slid off the tongue and vanished the moment backs were turned. Jisung tried. He nodded. He smiled. He replied when spoken to.

But nothing took.

He was too new. Too uncertain. Or maybe just too different.

The others knew, of course.

Everyone did.

He was the only S-Class donor in the facility, the rarest designation, the outlier. The rest were mostly a quiet mix of A and B, some C, most of them veterans of the system, seasoned enough to mask the quiet fatigue behind practiced smiles.

They weren't unkind to him. Just... Cautious. Like they weren't quite sure what to do with him.

Not hostile, but distant in that way people get when something is too rare to be familiar, and too valuable to be safe. Like getting close might crack something delicate, or worse, draw attention.

Even among the compliant, even among the conditioned, S-Class status came with weight.

And he could feel it pressing against him every time someone glanced too long before looking away

His days were structured like latticework. Morning check-ins, planned exercise to "keep his strength up," supervised stretching, hydration schedules, prescribed supplements he didn't need but swallowed anyway. Every time the nurse looked at him, she smiled too quickly. Every number in his charts seemed to unsettle them more, not less.

"You're responding well," one of the attendants had said midweek, tapping something into her tablet. "Exceptionally well."

He didn't know what to say to that.

He still didn't.

On one afternoon, a knock came at his door, softer than the usual escort's rapping knuckles, almost tentative. When he opened it, a palace attendant stood there, arms full of folded fabrics, hangers glinting beneath protective covers of fine gauze.

"Delivery," she said with a polite dip of the head. "Your tailored garments."

He stared at the bundle for a moment, dumbly, before nodding and stepping aside to let her in. She laid everything across his bed, brushing invisible dust from seams that didn't exist.

Once she left, he stood over the neatly arranged array for a long time.

The fabrics shimmered under the soft overhead light. Not in an ostentatious way, no gaudy embroidery, no status-signalling brocade, but with the quiet richness of quality so fine it whispered rather than shouted. Deep charcoal, pale bone-white, dusk-blue. Layers for different times of day, different appointments, different rituals.

He touched one of the tunics. The weave was smooth under his fingers, but strong. Light, but durable.

He tried the first piece on.

It fit like a second skin.

Every seam fell exactly where it should, no tightness at the shoulders, no awkward bunching at the elbows or waist. The collar sat close to his throat but didn't choke. The sleeves curved along the line of his arms like they'd grown there.

He caught his reflection in the mirror across the room.

He barely recognised himself.

The Jisung that had arrived a week ago had done so in borrowed clothes and uncertainty, a loose jacket and shuffled footsteps. But this Jisung, standing tall, dressed in palace-tailored fabric, every line of his body smoothed and refined by the precision of someone else's hand, he looked like he belonged here.

Almost.

His fingers curled lightly into the fabric at his side. This wasn't him, not really. It was a version. A silhouette drawn from numbers and need and quiet expectation.

Still, he didn't take the tunic off.

He just stood there, staring.

 

________________

 

At seven days in, one full week since he'd arrived, Jisung stood at the edge of his room, looking in the mirror.

He was dressed now in the suit they'd provided specifically for feeding sessions, a light charcoal grey that shimmered faintly under the overhead glow. The embroidery along the cuffs, lapels, and collar was finer than anything he'd ever worn before, each twinkling crystal catching the light like dew on silk thread. It fit him perfectly, not just in size, but in intention. The span of his shoulders was framed with precision, the jacket wrapping neatly around his waist instead of hanging inches loose like the black one had on the day of his first draw. It was like the suit knew him.

And yet, in it, he felt like something fragile wrapped in glass, made to be looked at. Or used.

He looked back toward the door, like if he stared at it hard enough, it would vanish.

It didn't.

The knock came exactly when he knew it would. Not a second early. Not a second late.

Right on schedule.

Of course it was.

The escort gave him the usual polite nod. "Time for your draw."

Jisung nodded, murmured something quiet and agreeable, and stepped out into the hallway.

His footsteps were light, but the weight in his chest had returned. Low and quiet. Apprehension wrapped in curiosity, tied off with a thread of unease he couldn't quite decipher.

It wasn't fear.

Not exactly.

But it wasn't nothing.

He hadn't seen his match since the first draw.

Not in the halls. Not in the gardens. Not even from afar.

And yet, Jisung felt as if he had. As if the space around him still buzzed faintly from the memory of those eyes, sharp, endless, impossibly still, settling on him like a held breath.

He remembered the moment he had looked at him. The way it turned his skin warm and restless at once.

And the blood.

He hadn't let himself think about that part too deeply.

But it lingered. The memory of the draw, more than the needle, more than the pull, it was him. Sitting there, unreadable, flipping a page in his book as if Jisung were background noise. And then... Drinking.

Looking.

Like it was nothing.

Like it was everything.

Jisung swallowed hard, blinking as they reached the door to the drawing room.

The escort stepped aside. No words.

This part didn't require them.

His heart beat faster.

Not from fear.

But from the unknown.

 

_____________

 

Minho sat in the same armchair as the week before, one leg crossed over the other, spine resting in a comfortably indolent curve. A different book lay open in his lap this time, not that it mattered. He'd read it so many times he could recite half the passages in his sleep, and he suspected today's reading session would be no more productive than the last. Not with him arriving.

Anticipation curled low in his stomach, warm and persistent, like the first rumbles of thunder before a storm.

He was annoyed at himself for it.

Still.

He smoothed a hand over the page, eyes skimming lines he wasn't really seeing, and tried to school the flicker of expectation in his chest into something more neutral. But then, finally, the door opened with a soft sound.

Minho didn't look up right away. He simply flipped a few pages forward at random, pretending to engage with the spine of the text.

But he felt it, the shift of the room. The subtle pull of presence as Jisung stepped inside. Heard the hush of the door closing behind him. The soft rustle of footsteps against the floor. The near-silent thwump as the chair beside his own was occupied.

And then, faint, but unmistakable, that scent again.
Bergamot and warm spice, threaded through with something richer beneath, something that prickled faintly at the edges of Minho's senses. He knew it now. Recognised it.

Jisung.

Then the faint, distinctive scratchhkk of velcro.

He chanced a glance, just as the boy finished adjusting the medical strap around his arm.

And paused.

He was wearing a new suit.

Charcoal grey. Not the black one from last time, the one that had hung too loose around the boy's waist and bunched slightly at the shoulders. This one was tailored. Precisely. Painstakingly. The embroidery that edged the lapels shimmered when he moved, catching the light like morning frost on glass. The fabric hugged his frame with such precision it made Minho's thoughts stumble, the neat pull across the shoulders, the cinch of the jacket drawing in just beneath the chest to emphasise a waist far slimmer than he had realised.

His mouth felt a little too dry.

And then Jisung glanced at him.

It was only for a moment, as if he had sensed the weight of Minho's gaze and turned to meet it by instinct, but the contact landed with far more impact than it should have. Brown eyes, steady, alert, and a little too knowing.

And in the exact same instant, the medical band activated.

Jisung's expression faltered. His mouth parted, a silent breath, and he winced faintly, eyebrows drawing together slightly as the needle slid into place under his skin.

Minho felt his own pulse catch, sharp and sudden. A spike of something dark and immediate, threading heat through his chest like the beat of a second heart.

The scent wasn't strong yet. Not fully. But he could feel it hovering in the air already, just beyond reach. That electric hush of prelude.

His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the book, knuckles whitening for a breath, then loosening again.

This was going to be a problem.

A real problem.

Minho shifted in his seat, spine pressing harder into the back of the chair as if that could anchor him.
What the hell was wrong with him?

One draw.
One.

He wasn't a fledgling. Wasn't some untrained child biting through wrists in alleyways. He was a prince. A trained palate. A century and a half of discipline braided into muscle memory.
And yet here he sat, heart stuttering in anticipation, lips parted just slightly, like some wretched creature at the mercy of a craving.

Like a fucking addict.

Minho forced himself to look down at the book, its words blurring immediately. His jaw flexed once, then again.
Pathetic.

He risked another glance toward the boy.

Jisung was staring straight ahead now, doing his best to sit still, but the effort showed in every line of his body. His brows were pulled in ever so slightly, pinched just enough to signal discomfort, though he made no sound.

His right hand was curled over one knee, fingers tight, too tight, the tension bleeding into the soft tendons along his wrist. Minho's eyes tracked the movement, watching the faint tremor at the tips.

Then-

His tongue.
A quick dart across the bottom lip, like he was steadying himself. It left a faint sheen in its wake before his teeth caught the same spot in a soft, involuntary bite.

The movement made the tendons in his neck flex, drawing Minho's gaze like a magnet.

And then, he smelled it.
Properly.
Not the ghost of it that had hovered since Jisung entered the room, not the memory laced in air and nerves.
No.
This was fresh.
Warm.
Alive.

The scent of blood, his blood, beginning to tint the air, subtle but immediate, like the first note of a favourite song.
Minho's grip on the book faltered for half a breath.

How the hell had he missed this last week?

His eyes flicked back to Jisung's neck.
There, just beneath the skin, was the steady rhythm of his pulse, threading quietly under the surface.

What would it be like?
To lean forward.
To sink his teeth in.
To taste him from the source, not through the clinical chill of crystal and metal, but him, hot and alive and shivering under the touch of his mouth.

Minho inhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tightening.

He knew exactly what it would feel like for Jisung.
The donor bond. The way it made their nerves sing, their backs arch, their hands reach. Jisung would feel it, the wave of pleasure designed by nature to ensure cooperation.

No.

He shut the thought down hard, spine stiffening.
No.

Direct feeding was banned.
For a reason.
It clouded judgment. Broke protocol. Created dependency.

He didn't need more reasons to crave the boy.

And yet his gaze lingered, just a second too long, as if some ancient part of him hadn't quite finished imagining the taste of that golden skin under his tongue, blood bursting warm across his lips.

He exhaled slowly.

He needed to pull himself together.
Before this became more than a problem.

The quiet hiss of the machine broke the relative silence between them, soft, almost imperceptible, but to Minho it may as well have been a gunshot.

His hand moved on instinct.

He reached for the crystal vessel almost too fast, the polished glass cool against his palm as he drew it close. He barely spared it a glance, no ceremony, no performance, just the unbearable pull of want gnawing at the base of his spine.

And then he drank.

The moment the blood touched his tongue, his eyes fluttered closed, lashes sweeping against his cheekbone as the taste hit him like a tidal wave.

Gods.

It was worse than last time.

Or better.

He didn't know anymore.

Velvet warmth. Spiced sweetness. That same impossible blend of cherry and cinnamon and something deeper, darker, unnameable. It painted his throat like a lover's whisper, smooth and slow and decadent.

He tried, tried, not to let the sound slip from his chest, but it was there anyway, low and half-formed, vibrating just behind his teeth.

A hum. A sigh. Something dangerously close to a moan.

His fingers tightened around the stem of the glass.

He forced his jaw to stay shut, muscles tense with restraint, his spine iron-straight as he swallowed again, slower this time, but no less undone by it.

The blood didn't just sate. It thrummed. It spread out from his core, filling every cold inch of him with something startlingly warm. Something bright.

His heart twitched behind his ribs, unsure whether to settle or race.

Minho breathed out slowly, glass still hovering in the air.

He hadn't even made it halfway through.

And already he was spiraling.

 

________________

 

The hiss of the machine cut through the quiet like a breath released.

Jisung felt the medical band loosen, the needle sliding out with a soft click, the pressure against his arm releasing all at once. He flexed his fingers out of habit, his gaze falling to the glass now filled with what had, moments ago, been part of him.

His match's hand moved almost immediately.

No hesitation.

He reached for the glass with a smooth grace, not hurried exactly, but not quite casual either. Jisung's eyes followed the motion, strangely fixated, like watching someone unwrap a gift he hadn't known he'd given.

The man didn't even glance at him.

Just brought the vessel to his lips and drank.

Not like it was medicine. Not like it was duty.

Not a polite sip. Not the practiced sort of taste one might give to a fine wine.

He drank like he'd been waiting for this all week.

Jisung's breathing stuttered.

It was... Weird.

Seeing someone get pleasure from something that came out of him. From inside of him. Something that, until a week ago, had only ever meant scraped knees or clumsy medical pricks. It felt strange to see it handled like treasure, and stranger still to watch the way his match's expression shifted as he swallowed.

Eyes closed.

Throat moving.

Not a sound in the room but the soft, wet slide of blood going down his throat.

Jisung's skin prickled, too aware of every detail: the way the man's fingers curled around the vessel, the way his lashes fluttered like he was holding something in. Like the blood wasn't just good... It was ecstasy.

It felt wrong to witness, to keep looking.

But how could he not?

How was he supposed to sit here and ignore himself being consumed?

And why, for a split second, did it make something low in his stomach twist in response?

The man's eyes were closed now, the cut-glass vessel tilted in one hand like something sacred. Every movement was controlled, precise, like he was tasting it, not just drinking it. Enjoying it.

And when he lowered the glass, tongue sliding along the rim to catch the stray smear of red, something in Jisung's chest kicked hard against his ribs.

It felt... Obscene.

Too intimate.
Too much.

Like hearing a stranger whisper your name in the dark.

He looked away, or tried to, but his gaze clung stubbornly to the man's mouth, still faintly stained, still parted ever so slightly as though tasting every last trace of what Jisung had given.

He didn't notice the glass being set down. Didn't notice the hand retreating or the breath that left the other man's chest. Not until the soft, metallic chime of a bell broke the silence between them, bright, delicate and final.

Jisung blinked.

The room snapped back into focus, the way a dream might dissolve at the edge of sleep.

He glanced down at his arm, just as the strap began to retract. One of the guards stepped forward and removed it, not offering so much as a word. The faint pressure around his bicep faded, leaving only a shallow impression on the skin, a perfect circle. Like a brand. Or a seal.

He flexed his hand without thinking. It felt fine. He always felt fine. That was the problem.

No fatigue. No spinning in his head. No ache in his chest.

And yet, something had shifted.

He could still see it. That moment, the tongue, the glass, the hunger behind the man's otherwise unreadable expression.

A stranger had tasted something from inside his body. And found pleasure in it.

Real, visible pleasure.

Jisung didn't know what to do with that.

So when the guard pulled lightly at his arm, Jisung let himself be guided up from the armchair, limbs loose with something he couldn't name, not quite fatigue, not quite shock. Just dazed.

He didn't look back. Didn't glance again at the man seated by the fire.

The corridors passed in a quiet blur, all marble hush and distant footfalls, the sharp lines of columns softened by the smear of his unfocused vision. He registered the flicker of stained glass along the windows, cool blues, deep crimsons, golden shards that caught in his hair and vanished just as quickly. He didn't try to take it in.

The guard didn't speak. Just walked a step behind, not touching, but close enough to catch him if he faltered.

He didn't.

At least not on the outside.

They stopped before his door. The guard opened it with the same silent efficiency they'd all used every day since Jisung arrived. He didn't wait for gratitude, didn't even meet his eyes, just gave a shallow nod and turned to go.

Jisung stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind him with a quiet finality.

He stood still for a moment.

The room was the same as it had been that morning, neat, pristine, undisturbed. A tray of fresh water on the table. The soft shimmer of lamplight over the embroidery of his spare tunic. The faint, familiar scent of lavender from the linen spray they used on the sheets.

Nothing had changed.
Not really.

But as he sat down on the edge of his bed and looked at his arm, still marked faintly by the pressure of the medical strap, Jisung couldn't help the thought that curled quietly through his mind.

He enjoyed it.

And somehow, in a way he didn't understand, that made him different too.

 

______________

 

Fuck.

That didn't go as planned at all.

Minho stared into the fire, the glass long since returned to its place on the side table, though his fingers still tingled from how tightly he'd gripped it. He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath until he exhaled, sharp, short, like it could cut through the flush of heat still licking at the edges of his control.

He had planned, meticulously, to be reserved. Composed. As always. Take the feed, summon the guard, dismiss the donor, and carry on with his day as if it were any other. That was how this worked. That was how it was supposed to work.

But the moment the blood had touched his tongue, all of that had crumbled like ash in his mouth.

Pleasure, raw and immediate,had surged through him like a wave breaking against stone. No build, no warning. Just impact.

He'd barely managed to keep his composure, barely resisted the urge to tilt the glass higher, to drain it, to lick every last drop from the cut crystal and then demand more. Gods, he'd wanted to.

If he hadn't been so painfully aware of the fact that the boy, Jisung, though he still hadn't said the name aloud, had been sitting right there, he might have done exactly that.

His tongue ran along the inside of his mouth, chasing nothing.

He could still taste it. That same cherry and spice, the faintest undercurrent of something brighter now. Citrusy almost. Maybe blood changed slightly with mood. He'd read that somewhere. Or maybe it was just that he'd wanted it more this time.

The urge to look back, to watch Jisung as he'd left, had been almost unbearable. But he hadn't allowed himself that either. Not with how tightly wound he already felt, like one misstep and the control he prided himself on would fracture completely.

He reached for the book in his lap, the one he'd barely read a single sentence of, and closed it slowly.

Then he sat there, in the thick, charged silence of the room, letting the firelight warm his skin.

This is going to be a problem, he thought again.

Only this time, it wasn't a warning.

It was a certainty.

Notes:

And yes, the light charcoal grey suits Jisung wears to the draw is based on the grey concert fits 🥰

Chapter 8: The Attempt

Six weeks.

Six times he had sat in the same chair, let the same machine pierce his skin with a quiet, clinical hiss.

And six times, the man across from him had drunk from the crystal glass like it held salvation.

Every time, it was the same. The moment the blood left his body, something else seemed to take root in its place. Something heavier. Something watchful.
Jisung couldn't name it. But he could feel it in the way the man's eyes would never quite meet his until the first drop touched his tongue.

That was when everything changed.

Lips parted. Lashes lowered. That same, near-silent breath. A sigh. A hum. Pleasure. Undeniable. Unspoken. Undiluted.

And every single time, Jisung had watched it happen.

He didn't know why.
He didn't mean to.

It was wrong, maybe. Invasive. Maybe even pathetic. But how was he supposed to look away, when someone was consuming something from inside of him and reacting like it was the finest thing they'd ever tasted?

Something about it made him feel hollow. And full. All at once.

He'd memorised the shape of the other man's mouth before he even knew he was doing it.

He hadn't heard his voice. Had never caught a name.

But he'd come to know the rhythm of his breath when he drank.

The way he held the glass, not casually, not possessively, but reverently. As though he wasn't entitled to it, but grateful for the gift anyway.

It made Jisung's skin feel too tight most days. Like he was carrying something electric beneath it. Something raw.

Still, the weeks passed. A strange rhythm of silence, routine, and the quiet whir of machines.

He had stopped flinching at the sound of the needle. Stopped wondering how long he would be here. The idea of time itself had begun to bend. It didn't stretch or shrink, just folded in on itself in neat, scheduled corners.

Breakfast. Walks. Hydration reminders.
A new tunic laid out on Thursdays.
Blood draw on Fridays.

Rinse. Repeat.

But not everything remained still.

He'd started to build something, slow, delicate bridges between himself and the others. The older donors. The ones who had been there for months, or years, or longer. The ones who had first looked at him like he was an alien instead of just another human with a different blood type.

Now, they smiled when they passed. Sometimes offered soft commentary about the taste of the food or the state of the gardens. One of them, Hakyung, a tall A-class woman with long dark hair and a dry sense of humour, had even offered him half a peach from the morning tray. That felt like something.

No one mentioned his classification anymore. Not aloud. Not even in the weighted way they had at first. He wasn't S-Class to them, not in conversation. He was just Han Jisung. Boy with the steady hand and the too-soft voice who always returned his tray exactly how he found it.

It was a relief.

To be treated like a person again.
Not a resource.

Still, there were moments when the weight of distance pressed down on him. He missed home.

God, he missed home.

Even if he didn't know what that meant anymore.

He'd been allowed to send two messages since arriving, short, monitored, impersonal. One to his family as a whole, and one he'd addressed specifically to his younger brother, Jun.

He had no way of knowing if they arrived. No way of knowing if they'd been read, or screened, or lost in the chain of bureaucracy that now governed every part of his life.

But he liked to think about them. Even when it hurt.

His parents, he wondered if they were sleeping more now. If the constant ache in their joints had eased, if the calluses on their palms had started to fade. If the heaviness in their eyes had finally lifted just a little.

He hoped so.

He prayed they'd taken the stipend that came with his S-Class status and bought something warm. A better heater. A softer bed.

Maybe a small tin of the candied ginger his mother always said she didn't like, but ate anyway.

Mostly, he thought about Jun.

His little brother would be starting term soon, if Jisung was counting right. The age when school turned from memorisation to something that might shape a person's whole life.

He hoped he was doing well. That he'd found friends. That he'd stopped forgetting his lunch.

He pictured Jun in a proper uniform, backpack askew, laughing like he always used to, nose scrunched, eyes squinting. The kind of joy that hit like a spark and was gone in a breath.

He wondered if Jun missed him.
If he still had the little notebook Jisung used to sketch in, the one with the curling corners and the doodles of birds and stars.

If he still whispered goodnight in their shared room, even though the bunk above him had been empty for weeks. Or even, if he'd finally taken the coveted top bunk for himself.

Jisung lay on his back one night, staring at the ceiling, and imagined writing to him again.

Jun,

I saw a goldfinch in the garden today. It reminded me of you.

I don't know if you're getting these, but I'll keep sending them.

I'm okay. Not good. But okay.

Tell Mum and Dad I'm eating well.

Tell them not to worry about me.

Lie if you have to.

Love,
Sungie

He didn't write it down. There was nowhere to send it.

But he said it in his mind anyway.

Again and again and again.

Until sleep pulled him under like water, quiet and deep and slow.

And the weight of missing settled like dust on his ribs.

 

_____________

 

Six weeks.

Six weeks of gulping down Jisung's blood, and the rampant desire for it hadn't faded one iota.

If anything, it had sharpened.

Minho had always prided himself on his restraint. Self-control had been drilled into him from his earliest days, first by tutors, then by lineage, and finally by nearly a century and a half of careful, cultivated habit. He did not crave. He selected. He savoured. He rationed pleasure into measured, manageable pieces, like a sommelier of hunger.

But this?

This was beginning to border on compulsion.

He'd had to physically stop himself more than once from summoning the steward and requesting an unscheduled draw. It wouldn't be difficult. Not even inappropriate, by protocol. He was, after all, Jisung's formal match. If he desired an additional feeding, be it for health, preference, or simple indulgence, he had the right.

And with how quickly Jisung replenished, there'd be no measurable harm to the boy.

But that's precisely what made it dangerous.

Because it wouldn't just be once.

He could already feel the way his mind would rationalise it.

Every five days, instead of seven. That wasn't indulgence, that was moderation.

And from there, it would be easy to justify every four.

Then three.

Then-

He caught himself, disgust flaring hot behind his ribs.

He wasn't a fledgling. Wasn't some greedy, mindless leech sucking pleasure out of a vein until the host fell limp. He was a prince of the palace. 143 years old. He had trained alongside the elders of the blood sanctum. He'd meditated for weeks in silence to learn how to ignore the hunger during scarcity years.

But Jisung had undone all of it with a single draw.

Six weeks in, and Minho still had to actively suppress the urge to lick the inside of the glass when he was finished drinking.

He had never done that before. Never wanted to. Blood, for him, had always been sustenance dressed in ceremony. A duty. A ritual. Sometimes pleasant, but never unforgettable.

Until now.

Now, it was pleasure in its purest, most maddening form.

Worse still, it wasn't just the taste.

It was the boy.

The way he sat there, so composed in his perfect charcoal suit, gaze calm but never dull. The tension in his shoulders when the needle first slid into place. The way his hand sometimes curled over his knee, or the soft shift of his throat when he swallowed down nerves.

Minho couldn't stop noticing.

He shouldn't be noticing.

Every time Jisung walked into the room, Minho's senses flared before he even turned the page of his book. The scent always hit him first, that strange, singular blend of bergamot and spice, subtle but unmistakable, like a whisper that lingered on the walls even after he was gone.

It wasn't just his blood that left a mark.

Minho was acutely aware of it now. Every Friday, he found himself waiting for the hour with a slow-burning anticipation he refused to name. Watching the clock too closely. Pretending to read. Turning pages he couldn't remember. All while some dark, coiled thing inside him stirred, restless and wanting.

He'd even caught himself once, pausing outside the donor wing. For no reason. Just standing there, under the guise of taking an evening stroll.

Pathetic.

He hadn't seen Jisung that day, nor since. The protocols were clear. Donor interactions were supposed to be limited to scheduled draws. No conversation. No familiarity. No attachments.

And still, his thoughts circled back to the boy like water to a drain.

What did he do in the hours between? Did he think about Minho at all? Did he lie awake wondering what his blood tasted like to someone who never spoke, never smiled, never looked at him for more than a few seconds at a time?

Or did he forget him the second the door closed?

Minho didn't know which answer was worse.

He leaned forward in his chair now, staring into the dying embers of the fire that had long since guttered low. His limbs were loose with practiced elegance, posture easy, but his mind was anything but still.

If he wanted to, he could send a summons.

Could call for a draw right now.
Could walk down the corridor, open that door, and speak.

Ask his name properly.

Ask what he dreamed about, if he ever did.

Ask if he felt it too, that low hum of something not quite fear, not quite longing, that bloomed every time their eyes met across that narrow gap of space.

But he wouldn't.

Because if he crossed that line once, he would never uncross it again.

And he had no idea where it would lead.

Only that he already wanted to follow it.

More than he'd ever wanted anything.

 

______________

 

The hall shimmered in the low, opulent light of a hundred candle sconces, the long dining table a river of crystal and gold. Minho sat three seats down from the king's right, his place marked by the subtle curve of his family crest on the edge of his charger plate. A fresh decanter of wine breathed gently beside his hand, the blood-red surface catching slivers of firelight from the chandelier above.

The king spoke politely to the emissary from the Eastern Reach, a dour man with bright eyes and a penchant for long silences, while the queen lifted her glass with the elegance of someone who had done this a thousand times.

Minho barely listened.

He smiled when expected. Tilted his head once in interest at some comment about port trade. But his mind was elsewhere. Or more precisely, on someone.

Jisung.

Again.

Even now, dressed in formal wear, surrounded by nobles, seated under the full scrutiny of a political dinner, Minho felt the echo of that craving pulsing beneath his ribs.

Six weeks.

And it hadn't waned.

He poured a measured half-glass of wine, more for ritual than enjoyment. Vampire palates could appreciate vintage, yes, but nothing rivalled what he'd tasted from that boy's blood.

Nothing came close.

Still, appearances mattered.

A palace steward approached silently with a covered plate, placed it gently before him, and lifted the domed lid with a quiet flourish.

Minho took up his knife and fork. The dish was some kind of citrus-lacquered fowl with grilled figs, presented in perfect symmetry. He barely tasted the first bite.

Sweet. Smoke. Something bitter just beneath-

His breath caught.

Subtle. Almost undetectable. But there.

A bitter whisper under the glaze, like scorched herbs. Faint enough to question whether it was his imagination.

His eyes flicked to his wine. Still untouched.

The conversation around him blurred slightly, nobles laughing softly at something the queen had said, silver clinking delicately across plates. And yet Minho could already feel the shift.

His heart tightened.

A strange ache, not sharp. Just... Wrong.

His breath hitched.

The fork slipped slightly in his hand, fingers too cold too fast.

He tried to straighten his posture. A smile. Maybe a nod. Keep the illusion intact.

But the pain came again, this time like a fist pressing inward through his ribs.

His mother glanced toward him.

"Minho?"

He opened his mouth to respond but found nothing there. Just silence. Just heat rising up his spine.

His pulse, a thing that should be steady and quiet, kicked against his throat like a drum.

His vision stuttered.

No.

The food. Something in the food.

He tried to stand, but the chair wobbled beneath him. His hand slammed down against the table, drawing startled glances.

The king sat up sharply. "Minho?"

Minho looked at him, and saw concern. Real concern. But it was already too late.

Pain bloomed across his chest, vicious and consuming. It spread like wildfire. He gasped, staggering sideways, silverware crashing to the marble floor beneath him.

Chairs scraped back. The table erupted into chaos.

Guards rushed forward.

But none of them could help.

Because Minho knew, even before he collapsed to his knees on the polished floor beneath the chandelier, what this was.

Shattered heartroot.

He'd read of it only once. A poison that didn't attack the flesh, but the heart. The real heart. The tethered spirit. A compound so rare it had been outlawed before even his parents were born. A toxin that didn't kill with fire, but with grief.

The only poison that could mimic the effects of a broken heart.

And he was feeling every breath of it now.

Like love lost.

Like a mate gone cold.

Like every lived century of longing, grief, and despair collapsing into his chest all at once.

He couldn't breathe.

His hand gripped the edge of the table like it could anchor him.

Servants rushed forward.

The queen had stood. The king barked orders. But their voices were fading.

The chandeliers fractured above him, candlelight dancing like stars in a too-dark sky.

Everything was spinning.

Crashing.

His fingers clawed at the edge of the table, one last effort to stay upright. His jaw clenched. His heart, that ancient, immortal tether, trembled.

And in the end, only one word made it out of his mouth.

One name.

A plea.

A tether.

"Jisung-"

 

_______________

 

Jisung was curled beneath the soft weight of his blankets, a simple linen shirt hanging loose around his collarbones, the matching pants wrinkled at the knee where one leg tucked beneath the other. The room was quiet save for the occasional flicker of the wall lamp, casting golden light across the pages of the book in his hands.

It was a strange little novel he'd found in the small library annex they were permitted access to, stories no one would miss if they were misplaced or dog-eared from rereading. This one followed the son of a merchant, a quiet boy with ink on his fingers and a head full of poetry, who had been taken by pirates during a raid.

Jisung had just reached the part where the pirate captain, after weeks of barbed exchanges and suspicious glances, had agreed to accept a ransom reward for the boy's return.

He was reading the lines again, slower this time, imagining the captain's voice, when the sound of pounding footsteps shattered the quiet.

They were fast. Heavy. Urgent.

He sat up, heart thudding.

Before he could even swing both legs over the edge of the bed, the door flew open with enough force to make it slam against the wall.

A guard stood there, panting like he'd sprinted the entire length of the palace.

"Han Jisung," the guard barked, voice strained. "Prince Minho requires your immediate attendance."

Jisung blinked. "Who?"

But the guard was already at his side, gripping his arm and hauling him upright, the book falling forgotten to the floor.

He didn't resist, too stunned to form questions, feet stumbling to keep pace as they rushed down unfamiliar hallways. These weren't the corridors he knew, not the stonework of the donor quarters, nor the gilded halls that led to the drawing room.

This wing was different. Older. Darker. Yet clinical.

A door loomed ahead, large and flanked by two more guards. One of them swung it open without waiting for instruction.

Jisung stepped inside.

His breath left him all at once.

On the hospital bed, writhing and barely coherent... Was his match.

It was the man who drank from him. The one who always looked so calm, so infallibly in control. Now he was curled in on himself, fists clutching at the starched sheets as his back arched in a cry of pain that echoed off the walls.

Jisung's stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Other figures stood nearby, two finely dressed, adorned with crowns, their expressions drawn tight. The queen, regal even in tension, spoke in clipped tones to one of the medics. The king stood rigid beside her, a storm brewing behind his eyes.

"There's no standard antidote," one of the medics said urgently. "It's a derivative compound. We're trying to synthesise-"

"Not fast enough," the queen snapped.

"His heart is destabilising-"

The man on the bed, Minho, Jisung realised numbly, Prince Minho, let out another broken, anguished sound, raw and unfiltered.

"Everyone-!" he gasped. "OUT."

No one moved.

"GET OUT!"

This time, it was a roar, pained and soaked in tears, his body shaking with the effort of it. The sound seemed to shake the very air in the room.

The queen stepped forward, indignant. "Minho-"

"I said OUT!" he screamed, the veins in his neck straining. "All of you! Except-except-!"

His gaze locked with Jisung's.

A stillness swept through the room.

"Except him."

The medics hesitated. The queen looked ready to argue again, but the king laid a hand on her arm, and after a tense beat, gave a sharp nod to the staff.

They filtered out reluctantly, glancing at Jisung as they passed, unreadable, the Queen still arguing with the medical staff as they fretted over their medicine options.

Then the door shut.

Silence fell.

Minho's chest heaved in shallow, stuttering breaths, his body slick with sweat, one trembling hand pressed against his ribs.

"Jisung..." he rasped.

It was the first time Jisung had heard his name from the man's mouth.

"I... I need your help."

Jisung stood frozen, caught in the heat of his gaze. He didn't answer. He didn't know if he was even allowed to answer. This wasn't procedure. This wasn't anything he'd been told to expect.

Minho cried out again, gripping his chest with a howl that sounded like it had been torn from his lungs.

Jisung flinched forward, instincts overriding hesitation, his body moving before his brain could argue.

He was beside the bed before he realised it, one hand reaching out without thought.

Minho blinked rapidly, eyes glassy. "It's poison," he gasped. "Mimics... Heartbreak. Makes the heart collapse from the inside out." He winced violently, curling tighter. "Only way-flush it... Fast enough-"

He swallowed.

"Is to feed."

Jisung's gaze darted around the room.

No machine. No sterile band. No crystal decanter.

Nothing.

"Yes," Minho said, almost breathless, following his line of sight. "You see the issue."

Jisung stared at him, his stomach turning cold.

Minho's lip trembled.

"I'd need to feed-directly."

A pause.

"Please."

The word cracked like something sacred, raw and fractured. A sob.

And suddenly, none of the palace rules felt clear anymore.

Notes:

So uh… What do we think is going to happen now? 🙃

Chapter 9: The Taboo

Notes:

Because I’m an impatient swine and I genuinely don’t like leaving you guys hanging, here’s the next one 😭

Jisung hovered just out of reach, arm half-extended, trembling faintly. His heart was hammering in his chest, a staccato rhythm of nerves and confusion.

"...Will it hurt?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He hated how small it sounded. But the question clung to his tongue, thick with fear he hadn't known was there. He'd grown used to the sterile press of automated machinery, the hiss of the medical band, the clean precision of the weekly draws. This, fangs, skin, blood taken directly, was something else entirely.

Minho, pale and shaking, shook his head as much as he could manage.

"No," he croaked, voice rough but certain. "I can-promise that much. At least."

Jisung hesitated.

And then nodded, once.

It was enough.

Minho reached out with a trembling hand, fingers curling around Jisung's wrist. The grip wasn't strong, couldn't be, not in his condition, but the intent was unmistakable. A pull. A need.

Jisung stepped closer, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.

Minho's grip on his wrist was light, trembling, but full of intent.

"Can you-" Minho's voice cracked, and he gestured weakly toward himself.

Jisung nodded, mouth too dry to speak. He slid an arm behind Minho's back, careful and hesitant, helping to raise him to a sitting position. The weight of the prince's body slumped heavily against his chest the moment he was upright, not forceful, but complete. Like he'd finally given in to gravity.

Jisung's breath caught as he felt the rapid, shallow drag of air from Minho's lips against his neck.

"I promise," Minho whispered again, as if the reassurance mattered. Maybe it did.

With one trembling hand, he reached up and gently pulled aside the collar of Jisung's linen shirt, exposing the bare skin beneath. His fingertips were cold.

Jisung's eyes fluttered shut, and he gritted his teeth, bracing himself.

But instead of pain, there was something wet, soft and oddly gentle, against his neck. A tongue. The feeling sent a strange shiver down his spine. Where it touched, a tingling warmth spread, and then... Numbness.

He gasped, eyes shooting open in surprise. The area immediately began to tingle, strange, soft, and numb all at once.

Then the fangs sank in.

Minho then bit down in earnest, his other hand holding Jisung's neck in place as he did.
Jisung felt no pain, just a strange, rhythmic pull at the skin, like the tide drawing out to sea. A tugging sensation, deep and steady, but not unpleasant.

Jisung's brain was flooded. Not with thought, but with sensation. A riot of colour exploding behind his eyelids as he closed them again, of soundless music humming in his bones, of tingling that danced across every inch of his skin. He felt weightless, like he was drifting somewhere far above his body, tethered only by the steady anchor of Minho's mouth at his throat, the firm pressure of his hand cradling the curve of Jisung's throat.

It wasn't pain. Not even close.

If anything, it felt too good. Like being cradled in music, like being touched by light from the inside out. His skin was hypersensitive, every brush of fabric against his side or shift in Minho's grip exaggerated and amplified.

His breath stuttered as a rush of warmth curled in his stomach, pooling and spreading with each pull at his neck. He squirmed without meaning to, hips twitching slightly, and Minho's hand slid further up into his hair, holding him steady.

If was like falling and floating at the same time.

Each pull of Minho's mouth sent a slow, warm ripple through his body, not sharp or demanding, but consuming in its own quiet way. He could feel the occasional flick of Minho's tongue, catching the blood before it could spill, tracing heat against the skin that made Jisung shiver without meaning to.

He'd never felt anything like this.

As the draw continued, a lightness started building behind his eyes, not dizziness exactly, but a loosening. Like the world had let go of him a little. His limbs felt warm and lax, floating just beneath the surface of real sensation. The steady bloom of heat at the centre of him spread slowly outward, curling low in his belly and flushing hot beneath his skin.

Minho's fingers tightened in his hair, grounding him, keeping him from drifting entirely. Jisung's head tipped back in response, eyes fluttering open for just a moment, but everything was blurred, sparkling, dreamlike.

Some distant part of Jisung knew this was far more blood than he should be giving. Knew the draw had gone on longer than protocol would ever allow. But the part of him that knew that was fading into the background, dulled by the pleasure threading through his nerves like silk.

Jisung became dimly aware of a tightness gathering low in his body, the distinct strain of fabric pulling against him, uncomfortable and urgent. It registered like a distant bell, half-heard through water, muted by the rush in his veins and the slow, golden pull of whatever was happening to him.

And then, suddenly, Minho's mouth lifted from his skin.

The connection broke like a snapped tether.

For a moment, Jisung felt as though he were falling, the world tilting out from under him, the weight of Minho's presence vanishing too quickly, too sharply. All the colour, the music, the sparkling lights... Gone. His breath caught in his throat as the cold air hit the damp skin of his neck, and everything reeled.

But then Minho's hands found his shoulders, firm, steady, grounding him with a pressure that told Jisung he wasn't going to tip over completely. His grip was gentle, but strong enough to keep Jisung from slipping under the pull of blood loss and whatever else still sparked like static beneath his skin.

He was shaking. Or maybe they both were.

 

_______________

 

The moment Minho's mouth withdrew, the world tilted on a new axis.

Jisung was trembling faintly beneath his hands, his body slack and pliant, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. His eyes, when Minho dared to meet them, were glassy and unfocused, pupils blown so wide the irises were almost swallowed whole. Just the faintest ring of deep brown remained, golden flecks suspended like starlight around the edges.

Minho's breath hitched. His hands tightened slightly on Jisung's shoulders.

There was a glisten along Jisung's lashes, tears that hadn't quite fallen, and in the delicate space between blinks, Minho's enhanced vision caught every shimmer. His skin was paler than usual, the apples of his cheeks flushed only by exertion and the dizzy sheen of blood loss, and there was a dampness along his brow and jawline, a fine layer of sweat catching the low amber light like it had been painted there.

And then, Minho saw it.

A single thread of crimson, trailing from the bite down the side of Jisung's neck. Slow, lazy, defiant.

Minho didn't think. He leaned in.

His tongue darted out, catching the droplet before it could fall, drawing it back into his mouth in one fluid motion. Jisung shuddered, a soft, involuntary motion that passed from his spine through Minho's hands, as if the contact itself was electric.

Gods.

Minho's eyes fluttered shut for half a second. Even now. Even direct from the source, hot and perfect and alive, it wasn't enough. Not remotely.

It never was.

The taste still set his nerves alight, still curled pleasure through his bones with a precision that felt surgical. Every drop seemed more vibrant than the last. Every second, harder to resist than the one before.

The craving wasn't fading.

It was evolving.

And the thought of returning to sterile crystal vessels, the chill of polished glass and the mechanical precision of controlled draws, it filled him with something dangerously close to dread. With disappointment that curled low and sullen in his gut.

He didn't want that anymore.

He wanted this.

The warmth. The bond. The softness of Jisung's skin under his mouth. The way his breath caught. The way he shivered when Minho so much as touched him.

Minho opened his eyes again, locking onto Jisung's.

Still dazed. Still pliant.

Still... His.

And gods help him, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop.

 

_______________

 

Jisung slowly started to come down.

The tingling in his fingertips dulled first. Then the heady, weightless rush in his chest began to fade, settling into a quiet hum behind his ribs. His vision cleared in increments, and the gilded haze that had painted the room in light and warmth drained back into ordinary shadow.

But Minho's hands remained at his shoulders, firm, steady, grounding.

Jisung blinked, his breath catching once as the last echo of the high skated down his spine. He was too aware of his body now. The heat in his cheeks. The sweat at the nape of his neck. And the unmistakable pressure at the front of his pants.

Oh gods.

His eyes widened slightly, mortification setting in like a second fever.

"I-" he stammered, voice hoarse, cracking at the edges. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Minho didn't flinch. "It's a known side effect," he said calmly, voice low and even, not unkind. "Don't worry about it." A beat. "Are you okay?"

Jisung hesitated. The question wasn't sharp or clinical, but it wasn't exactly gentle either. Just... Direct.

He nodded once, then paused again before answering.

"Yeah. Just a little light-headed, I guess." He managed a faint, self-conscious smile. "That was... More intense than I expected."

Minho's mouth twitched, whether it was amusement or sympathy, Jisung couldn't tell. But his grip on Jisung's shoulders eased slightly, one hand drifting away while the other lingered a moment longer, as if reluctant to let go.

Minho reached for the familiar silver bell, perched neatly on the bedside table. The moment his fingers closed around it, he cast a quick downward glance toward Jisung, a pointed gaze, a silent confirmation that what needed to be hidden... Was, for now, resolved.

Satisfied, he rang it once.

The sound was soft, almost musical, but it summoned chaos.

The door burst open with urgency, guards flanking either side as the king and queen swept in with a flurry of silks and concern. Their presence filled the room immediately, followed by a cluster of medical staff in white and charcoal, their coats already being shrugged on, gloves tugged into place as they moved with efficient speed.

"Minho," the queen exhaled, already making for the bedside, voice taut with something brittle under her formal tone.

"My son," the king echoed, dark eyes sweeping the room like a storm front.

But Jisung barely registered the words. He'd risen instinctively as the room filled, only to find himself shuffled backward, gently but firmly, by a nurse who murmured something noncommittal as she guided him aside.

And suddenly, the space around Minho was crowded, hands on his wrist, his jaw, his temples, checking vitals, drawing conclusions, muttering half-phrases about heart strain and neurological response and rapid toxin clearance. Medical jargon formed a blur in Jisung's ears.

He stepped back another pace. Then another.

The heat of the prince still clung to his skin, the echo of fangs at his throat not quite fading. But the bed, Minho, was swallowed now by silks and uniforms and anxious authority. Jisung stood stranded near the room's edge, chest tight, unsure if he was meant to stay or go.

No one spoke to him.

No one even looked his way.

He suddenly felt like furniture, something incidental in a room of consequences.

His hand rose slowly to his neck, fingertips brushing the faint dampness left behind. Not blood, Minho had taken care of that. Just... The memory of it.

And despite the noise, despite the press of bodies crowding around the prince, Jisung couldn't shake the vivid clarity of a moment that now felt impossibly private.

Like something he wasn't meant to keep.

He pressed his hand a little tighter to his neck and stepped back toward the shadows of the wall, waiting quietly for someone to remember he was there.

He might've kept standing there, silent, forgotten, if not for the now-familiar rasp of a voice cutting through the din.

Rough. Frayed. But unmistakably his.

Jisung's breath caught.

Even under the hum of conversation and medical assessments, he heard it. The tone was weary, but it held weight. Command.

Two of the medical staff paused mid-movement, exchanging a glance before turning, toward him.

Jisung instinctively straightened. The look in their eyes wasn't harsh, but it was clinical, assessing, like they were already slotting him into a protocol. He flinched slightly under their gaze, pulse ticking faster beneath his skin.

"Come with us," one of them said, already reaching a hand out toward his elbow. "We'll need to run a quick review. Ensure there weren't any adverse effects."

Adverse effects.

His eyes darted back to the bed as he nodded mutely, allowing them to guide him by the arm.

They moved quickly, not unkind but brisk, as if Jisung were a task to be completed before the hour turned. And still, his head twisted back over his shoulder, heart hammering in search of something.

A glance. A nod. One more second of connection.

Minho was still there, of course, he could feel it. Could hear the muffled buzz of voices tending to him, layered concern from a mother, a father, a physician. But the crowd of bodies around the bed hadn't thinned, hadn't parted.

He caught only a flash of him.

A sliver of pale skin.

A glimpse of his mouth, just below the crook of someone's elbow, parted slightly in exertion or breath or maybe just pain.

That mouth.

The same one that had left him floating in silent music and sparkling lights. That had anchored him by the throat, and left him shuddering in its wake.

The memory of it lit his skin anew, sudden and uninvited. He dropped his gaze, heat prickling up the back of his neck.

They led him through the doors and into the corridor, and he let them.

But something in him remained behind. Still tethered to that room. That bed. That mouth.

And the way, even now, he couldn't tell whether the ache in his chest was from finally being able to leave...
Or from wanting to go back.

 

_________________

 

The room they led him to was cool and pale, its walls painted in soft tones of ivory and sage, the air scented faintly with antiseptic and lavender. It was quiet too, too quiet after the chaos of the last half hour. Like stepping into a different world entirely.

Jisung lowered himself onto the narrow cot without being told. His limbs felt loose, foreign, like they belonged to someone else. The adrenaline had worn off somewhere in the corridor, leaving only an uncomfortable emptiness in its place. His skin was clammy, his stomach rolling, his vision slightly edged in grey.

One of the medics moved toward a cart by the wall and pulled out a small kit. Another knelt by his side, fingers already reaching for his wrist, finding the thready pulse there.

"You're pale," she murmured, not unkindly. "Let's check your levels."

Jisung nodded mutely and let them work.

The process was clinical, precise. One of the medics brought over a sleek handheld scanner, matte black, barely the length of Jisung's palm, and gently pressed it against the inside of his forearm.

A soft pulse of light flickered over his skin, cool and faintly tingling. On the nearby monitor, a projection bloomed to life: a shifting, three-dimensional display of his circulatory metrics, each vessel highlighted in soft hues of red and blue. Numbers and graphs updated in real time as the scan ran its course.

Jisung watched, equal parts fascinated and unsettled, as the screen calculated percentages, fluid volume, and oxygen saturation.

When it finished, a quiet chime sounded, and the medic's brow furrowed slightly.

"Blood volume's very low," she murmured, adjusting a slider on the panel. "Roughly three pints down. That explains the pallor. And the nausea."

Jisung blinked at her. "Three?"

She nodded, already prepping an IV line. "Standard draw is barely half a pint, at most. But the prince-" She hesitated. "Well. There were extenuating circumstances. Still. You'll be feeling it now, I'm sure."

He was. His head was swimming, the weight of his body strange and sluggish against the cot. He tried to focus, but the room had taken on a gentle, unreliable tilt, like the floor didn't quite trust itself.

A dull throb had started behind his eyes.

Another nurse brought over a tray of supplements, iron tablets, electrolyte boosters, a soft vial of something thick and purple that smelled faintly of citrus. Jisung swallowed everything without protest.

He didn't ask questions.

Didn't mention the flush that still lingered on his cheeks, or the heat still curled embarrassingly low in his stomach. They hadn't asked, and he wasn't about to volunteer.

When the IV line was finally in, cool fluid working its way into his veins, one of them pulled a thin blanket over his legs and clicked something on the side of the cot.

"You'll stay here overnight," she said gently. "Just for observation. We'll monitor your vitals and let the supplements do their work. You'll feel better in the morning."

Jisung nodded faintly, letting his eyes drift closed. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on him like warm sand, heavy and inescapable.

He should've asked something, maybe. About Minho. About whether he was alright. But his thoughts were already slipping sideways, thick and slow with fatigue.

The only thing that stuck was the memory of Minho's voice rasping his name, and the feel of fangs sinking gently into his skin.

Then sleep pulled him under.

 

________________

 

The world had steadied. Not perfectly, but enough.

Minho leaned back against the pillows, the embroidered silk cool beneath his spine, the sharpest edge of agony now dulled to a low, persistent throb. His chest still ached, like bruises pressed outward from the inside, but he could breathe again. Think again. Speak without feeling like the sound might splinter him in two.

The medical personnel had finished their final checks some time ago, murmuring reassurances with tight smiles and tired eyes. The verdict had been simple, if not particularly comforting.

"You're stable now, Your Highness. The shattered heartroot has been neutralised. Most of it, at least. There may still be lingering symptoms, ghost pain, chest tightness, some emotional confusion... Artificial grief, essentially. But the worst has passed."

Minho had nodded. Said nothing.

What was there to say?

He already knew the pain hadn't vanished completely. He could still feel it ghosting across his sternum, tight and low like grief with no memory attached. It left him with a dull sense of mourning he couldn't place, like something had been lost, though he couldn't name what.

But he was alive. His blood was his own again. His body his own again.

Thanks to Jisung.

His fingers twitched slightly at the thought, an involuntary curl over sheets he'd yet to let go of, even now.

He remembered the way Jisung had looked, lips parted, head tipped back, the slow hitch of his breath as Minho fed. The way his pulse had fluttered under Minho's mouth like a live wire. The smell of his skin. The heat of his blood. The way it had burned away the poison like sunlight through fog.

It had worked.

And now... The aftermath.

Minho dragged a hand over his face, then let it fall against his chest again.

He wasn't alone in the room, though it had quieted, grown thinner. Only two of the palace physicians remained, stationed by the door, reviewing notes on a tablet in murmured voices. Guards stood just outside, silhouettes visible through the sheer panel of the entryway.

His parents had left an hour ago. The Queen had resisted, insisted on staying until he was "fully restored," her voice clipped and bright with fear she'd refused to name. But in the end, the council had pulled them both away.

Because the political visitors, the ones who had smiled so sweetly over the lamb course and praised the wine like it was a performance, were now under armed questioning.

It hadn't taken long.

An investigation team dispatched to the kitchens had uncovered the breach within minutes. One of the visiting party's attendants, a cook's assistant brought under the guise of diplomatic staff, had slipped into the palace's lower kitchens earlier that day. The root had been worked into the glaze of Minho's dish with clinical precision. No one else had eaten it.

It had been meant for him. Only him.

The guards had already begun dragging members of the delegation off to holding chambers by the time Minho was stable enough to register their voices.

Treason.

That was what it would be named.

And rightly so.

Minho's jaw ached from how tightly he'd clenched it when he was told.

They'd tried to kill him. Tried to unmake him from the inside out. Quietly. Cleanly. Without ever raising a weapon.

If it hadn't been for...

Minho swallowed.

He didn't finish the thought.

Instead, he stared up at the carved ceiling, the same pattern he'd looked at since he was a child. For the first time, it looked unfamiliar.

He closed his eyes.

The poison was gone.

But something else had taken its place.

Notes:

I did actually look up what a “safe” blood loss level looks like. Apparently you can lose up to 40% of your blood and still be… Okay? Ish?

God help whichever FBI man has to monitor my search history. Do you even realise the kinds of things I have to research for these fics?

TCC in particular was an absolute doozy. Looking up names of parts of ships, what roles specific titles had, tattooing practices that would have been common in the late 1800’s… And so much more 😅

Also hey - If you’re binge-reading this… Now is a good time to take a break. Drink. Eat. Sleep. Do whatever it is that your fleshy meat suit requires ❤️

Chapter 10: The Craving

The sun filtered through the high windows in fractured amber light, the same warmth of day that usually bored Minho into restless pacing. But now, he lay still, propped up against an unnecessary pile of pillows, chafing beneath the weight of royal concern. His parents had insisted. So had the medics. And the guards. Everyone seemed to think he was fragile now, cracked glass held together by tape and formality.

But Minho felt better. Not just recovered. Reforged.

His limbs thrummed with something more than vitality, something finer, like power coiled beneath his skin. His chest no longer ached, not even in phantom memory. If anything, his senses felt sharper. His vision, already superior, seemed near-painful in its clarity now. Every fibre of fabric on his skin, every sound from outside his room, he felt like he could peel the world back with his hands and see its clockwork moving.

It was Jisung. It had to be.

He was still thinking of the boy's blood, how it had tasted, yes, but more than that. How it had changed him. No donor blood, not even from the rarest of the old lineages, had ever made him feel like this.

The door clicked open.

Minho glanced over. "Seungmin," he said with a nod. "You're late."

"I'm three minutes early," Seungmin replied flatly, already folding himself into the armchair by the fireplace without waiting to be invited. "You're just impatient."

Minho huffed. "Only because no one else is telling me anything useful. I feel fine, better than fine, and they're all treating me like I might die if I sneeze too hard."

"Well, you were poisoned," Seungmin reminded him, setting down the satchel at his feet. "And the only reason you're still alive is because your donor let you feed on him directly. Which, by the way, is still highly illegal."

Minho's mouth curled. "Don't sound so annoyed. I'm alive."

"That's the problem," Seungmin muttered. "You're too alive."

Minho's brow arched.

Seungmin sighed and leaned back in the chair. "I spoke to the medical team. They said your levels aren't just normal, they're enhanced. Immune response, cardiovascular function, neural output. You're functioning at least twenty percent above average baseline. That shouldn't be possible after an incident involving shattered heartroot. You should still be curled up in pain, not glowing like you just drank liquid sunlight."

Minho tilted his head. "So. You're saying I should be dead, but I'm not, and therefore, we need answers."

"Exactly." Seungmin rubbed a hand down his face. "Which brings me to your donor."

"Jisung."

"Yes." Seungmin hesitated. "He's... Not ordinary. I've been trying to figure out why someone from a D-class bloodline could possibly test into S-class. There's no record of a family like that ever producing anything above C. I thought it was a clerical error at first. But after seeing what he did for you..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing. "There's something else in him."

Minho's fingers curled slightly in his lap. "Go on."

"I've started going through some of the oldest donor classification records and blood theory texts. Some of them predating the founding of the Five Courts," Seungmin continued. "But it's slow. Half of them aren't indexed. The older the texts, the more chaotic the organisation gets. No catalogues. No indexing. Just handwritten logs and dusty tomes buried in stone shelves."

Minho gave a faint smirk. "Sounds like your idea of fun."

"It would be if they weren't written in six different dead languages," Seungmin snapped. "The oldest of them? Sumerian. Do you have any idea how hard it is to decipher bloodline nomenclature written in Sumerian shorthand?"

"Should I send somebody in with a torch and a sword?" Minho offered.

Seungmin scowled. "Send me a linguist instead. One who doesn't get nosebleeds at the sight of a vowel cluster."

Minho chuckled, but it faded quickly.

"So, no answers yet."

"Not yet." Seungmin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "But there's something buried in those texts. A name, maybe. A trait that doesn't align with human bloodlines. I've found references to recessive patterns resurfacing after long periods of dormancy, sometimes hundreds of years. Usually dismissed as anomalies, but... Maybe they're not."

Minho's expression sobered.

"Whatever Jisung is," Seungmin said, voice low, "he's not just a statistical fluke."

Minho sat back, eyes drifting to the high window, where the light glinted just faintly off the rim of a silver goblet.

"Good," he murmured. "Because I think we're only beginning to understand what he's capable of."

 

_____________

 

Jisung sat upright on the edge of the narrow cot, arms crossed tight over his chest, frustration simmering just beneath his skin.

"I feel fine," he repeated for the third time, staring down the nurse who refused to meet his gaze. "My levels were stable when you checked at midnight, and your little scanner thing confirmed that they're still fine this morning. So why am I still here?"

The nurse gave a polite, if strained, smile. "Because protocol requires any donor who's undergone excessive loss be observed for a full seventy-two hours, regardless of immediate recovery signs."

Jisung rolled his eyes. "And what, you think I'm going to suddenly collapse now? I've already been upright for an hour. I walked the length of the hall and didn't even feel faint."

Another nurse, older, adjusted the scanner cradle beside his bed and cleared her throat. "This isn't about what we think, Han Jisung. It's about precedent. No one recovers from three pints in less than a day. Not without-"

"Being abnormal?" Jisung snapped before he could stop himself. The edge in his voice surprised even him.

The older nurse paused, lips pressing together.

"I didn't say that," she murmured. "But unusual recovery or not, it's our responsibility to ensure you're safe. That's all."

Jisung's jaw tightened. "Then let me go back to my room. I'll stay there, I'll rest, whatever you want, just not here."

The two nurses exchanged a look. Jisung hated that look. The quiet one, laced with doubt and quiet calculation, as though they were debating whether or not he could be trusted with his own body.

Eventually, the older one sighed. "If you agree to return directly to your quarters and rest for the remainder of the week, and no activity beyond that... We'll sign the release."

Jisung straightened. "Agreed."

"We'll have your meals delivered," she added pointedly. "No walks. No visitors. If your readings stay consistent, we'll reevaluate.”

Jisung wanted to protest again, but he bit his tongue and gave a short nod. "Deal."

Minutes later, he was changed out of the hospital-issued linen and into his usual tunic and pants. A palace guard was waiting at the door with that neutral expression they all wore, eyes sharp, mouth unreadable.

"Back to your quarters," the guard said with a curt nod. "Your midday meal will be brought to you within the next half hour."

"Thanks," Jisung mumbled, too relieved to be leaving to care that he still felt like a monitored lab rat.

They walked in silence through the winding halls, familiar enough by now that Jisung didn't need to look up to know where they were. He passed stained-glass windows and the same marble columns he'd seen every day for weeks, but today, they felt different. Smaller, maybe. Less like scenery, more like a cage.

His neck still tingled faintly, like the ghost of a touch that hadn't entirely faded. He didn't reach up to brush it, not with the guard just a pace behind. But the memory of Minho's mouth, of the way it had felt, electric, overwhelming, almost holy, lurked just beneath his skin like a secret only he was carrying.

He pushed the thought down.

He had other things to worry about now.

Like what the hell was happening to him, and why no one could give him a straight answer.

Jisung sank onto the edge of his bed with a grateful sigh. The room was still and familiar, the only space in the entire palace that felt remotely like his own. The linens were neatly turned down, a fresh pitcher of water on the table by the window.

He barely had time to run a hand through his hair before a knock sounded at the door.

Already?

He frowned slightly. "That was fast," he muttered, rising to answer it, fully expecting to see a steward balancing a breakfast tray.

But when he opened the door, it wasn't a steward.

It was a stranger.

A taller man stood in the doorway, young in appearance, maybe a similar age to him by human standards, though his poise hinted at something much older. His dark clothes were simple but impeccably cut, and his eyes, clever, observant, fixed on Jisung with sharp interest. A vampire.

Jisung blinked warily. "Um... Can I help you?"

The man offered a courteous smile and a shallow bow. "You're Han Jisung?"

"...Yes?"

"I'm Seungmin. May I come in?"

Jisung hesitated. "I've been told I can't have visitors. Recovery protocol."

Seungmin's smile widened just slightly. "I'm certain an exception will be made for me."

There was something about the way he said it, soft, assured, that made it difficult to argue. Not entitled, but inevitable. Like the weather.

Jisung stepped back, gesturing for him to enter.

Seungmin swept into the room without further ceremony, taking the seat at the writing desk as if it were already his. He looked perfectly at home among the crisp parchment and ink pots, like someone who belonged wherever he chose to be.

Jisung closed the door behind him and returned to his spot at the edge of the bed, sitting a little straighter than before.

"I wanted to thank you," Seungmin said, folding his hands loosely in his lap. "For what you did. For saving the prince."

Jisung shrugged, staring down at his fingers. "It's fine."

But the truth was... It wasn't just fine.

It was-

He didn't know what it was.

Even now, the memory pressed against the inside of his skull. The feel of Minho's mouth against his throat. The dizzying flood of colour and warmth and noise. The way it had made him feel more alive than anything in his life ever had.

He would do it again. Even if it wasn't life or death. Even if it wasn't necessary. Just to feel it again.

The thought curled in his chest like guilt.

He forced it down, reminding himself firmly. It's banned. And clearly for good reason. It was an exception. It won't happen again. It shouldn't happen again.

Still, the emptiness that thought left behind was oddly sharp. Like something beautiful he'd touched too briefly.

"I know it wasn't easy," Seungmin said, interrupting the spiral. "Direct feeding takes a toll."

Jisung gave a noncommittal nod.

Seungmin tilted his head, studying him for a beat too long. "You're recovering remarkably well. That alone has... Raised some interesting questions."

Jisung blinked. "Questions?"

"I'm currently researching genealogy. Lineage. In particular, bloodlines with unusual traits. Exceptional recovery, rare classifications, things that don't quite match the historical data." He leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, what do you know about your family's history?"

Jisung frowned, caught off guard. "Not much, really. We're D-class. Always have been. My parents, their parents. Labourers, mostly."

"No records of elevated classifications?"

"None that I've ever heard. I was blindsided when I tested S-Class. I thought it was a mistake."

Seungmin nodded slowly, thoughtful. "I don't think it was a mistake."

Jisung looked at him, wary now. "Why are you asking?"

"Because," Seungmin said, his voice calm but steady, "you're not like the others. You're not just S-Class. You're something else. And I intend to find out what."

"Great," Jisung muttered flatly, dragging a hand through his hair.

As if it weren't enough being tagged S-Class out of nowhere, now this man, this scholar, or spy, or whatever he was, had just implied he might be some kind of second-tier anomaly. A glitch in the bloodline. A fluke of nature.

A freak.

"In any case," Seungmin continued, either missing or ignoring the sarcasm, "it's remarkably good luck that you recovered as well as you have. You're due your next draw in two days."

Jisung blinked.

Right.

It was Wednesday.

Which meant... Yes. In two days, he'd see Minho again.

He didn't know what to feel about that. Or maybe he knew exactly what he felt, and just didn't want to admit it.

Would it be like before? The usual routine, he sits, the strap goes on, the machine hums, and Minho doesn't so much as glance in his direction until the blood hits the crystal?

Or... Would it be different?

He didn't know if he wanted it to be. Or if he was just afraid of what it would mean if it wasn't.

Maybe Minho would talk to him. Or look at him the way he had right after, eyes blown wide, lips stained dark. Maybe he'd say thank you. Maybe-

No.

Maybe he'd do none of that.

Maybe Jisung would only see the prince's side profile again, stony and perfect in the firelight, mouth closing over the rim of a glass filled with blood he never tasted straight from the vein again.

The thought made something tug low in his chest. A sharp, twisting disappointment he didn't quite know what to do with.

He was still chewing on it when he realised Seungmin had stood, the quiet scrape of the chair legs breaking through his thoughts. He was already smoothing out the sleeves of his coat, clearly preparing to go.

Jisung startled slightly and stood, stepping quickly to the door.

As Seungmin stepped through the threshold, Jisung's voice caught him just before he could disappear down the hall.

"Wait-"

Seungmin turned, one brow arched in silent question.

"If you... If you do find anything," Jisung said, trying to keep his voice steady, "about the blood status. About... Me. Could you let me know?"

There was a brief pause. Then Seungmin nodded once, slow and certain.

"I will."

And then he was gone.

Jisung closed the door behind him with a soft click, standing for a moment in the quiet.

He exhaled, long and low, and let his head fall back against the cool wood.

Two days.

He wasn't sure what he was hoping for.

But gods help him, he was hoping anyway.

 

____________

 

Minho paced.

Back and forth across the polished stone floor of his chambers, bare feet whispering against the cool surface. He'd already dressed for the draw, formal, as expected. The high-collared jacket in deep navy, fastened to the throat, the gleam of silver edging at the cuffs. His hair was combed, boots polished, insignia glinting at his chest.

And still, he paced.

He'd reviewed Jisung's medical records three times this morning alone.

The reports were clear. No irregularities. No drop in hemoglobin or vitality. No reason to delay the draw.

Perfect levels. Again.

As if the direct feed hadn't happened at all.

And yet Minho remembered every second of it.

The weight of Jisung against him. The warmth of his skin. The taste, impossibly pure, devastatingly potent, flooding his mouth like sunlight turned liquid. The way the power had surged through his limbs after, driving the poison from his system and leaving something else in its place. Something stronger.

Even now, four days later, he still felt it, vitality thrumming beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. But it was fading. Dulling at the edges, like a high slipping just beyond reach.

And this draw... Today's draw...

It wouldn't bring it back.

Because this would be like before. Clinical. Sanitised. The scent of antiseptic and the quiet hiss of the machine. He wouldn't touch Jisung. Wouldn't even look at him, probably. That was the protocol. That was how it had always been.

That was how it had to be.

Minho stopped pacing and turned toward the heavy windows, staring out at the sun cresting the eastern peaks, the light diffused in pale streaks across the clouded sky. His reflection hovered faintly in the glass, pristine, composed, cold.

This was a one-time thing, he reminded himself. The direct feed. An emergency response, not a precedent.

He could not, would not, ask for it again.

He'd made the mistake of reading the regulation clause aloud to himself last night, as if he needed the words to hold him to account: Direct feeding is permissible only in the event of acute medical emergency or imminent death, and must not, under any circumstance, become routine or recreational.

He was neither dying nor delusional.

He would drink from the glass. He would say nothing. He would not look at Jisung's throat, wouldn't think about the curve of his neck or the way his breath caught or the flush that had painted his skin during the feed.

And then he would forget.

Eventually.

Minho's jaw clenched.

The bitterness on his tongue was sudden, unwelcome. Not just memory, but something else. Resentment, maybe. That he'd been given even a taste of something that potent, that alive, only to know it could never happen again.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.

He had duties. Expectations. Laws.

Whatever this thing was, this pull toward Jisung, this hunger, it wasn't real.

It was just the blood.

It had to be.

And today, he would prove it.

 

_____________

 

Jisung stepped into the room, the familiar hush settling over his shoulders like a weighted shawl. The door whispered shut behind him, leaving only the quiet crackle of fire and the soft hum of the medical equipment.

Minho was already in his usual armchair, angled just slightly toward the hearth. The flames threw dancing reflections across his features, painting his sharp cheekbones in shifting gold and shadow. He wasn't reading today, no book open on his knee, no idle flipping of pages to distract his gaze.

But he wasn't looking at Jisung, either.

His eyes were locked on the fire. Completely still.

Detached.

Jisung swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat and walked toward his own chair. The fabric felt stiffer than usual under his palms, his hands suddenly too warm.

He didn't speak. Neither did Minho.

Instead, he reached for the medical strap, fastening it to his arm with a practiced motion. The rasp of the velcro felt loud in the quiet room. Clinical. He adjusted the placement slightly, ensuring the inside of his elbow was properly aligned for the draw.

His fingers lingered for a moment longer than they needed to.

Just nerves, he told himself.

He glanced back at Minho.

Still no movement. No greeting. No eye contact.

The prince's face was carved from calm, his jaw tight, mouth a thin line. But Jisung had seen him closer than this, had felt him closer. He could sense the difference now. The subtle lock in his shoulders, the deliberate stillness. Gone was the desperation that had cracked through the prince like lightning the night of the poisoning. Gone was the near-feral edge that had made Jisung feel like gravity had shifted around him.

In its place was something colder.

Controlled.

Detached.

The medical band engaged with a soft hiss. A pulse of pressure, then the near-silent puncture of the needle beneath his skin. Jisung exhaled through his nose, steadying himself against the small surge of discomfort.

Across the room, Minho's posture didn't change, but Jisung noticed it anyway.

A twitch in the fingers.

Barely a movement. Just a subtle clench, then release, at his sides. But it was there.

Jisung's gaze snagged on them.

Those hands.

He remembered them at his throat, steady and firm. Curled around the back of his neck, then threading into his hair, holding him in place like it was the only anchor keeping them both from unraveling. He could still feel the imprint of them, not on his skin but somewhere deeper. A ghost-memory.

He tore his eyes away, staring straight ahead.

This was different now.

This was normal again.

So why did it feel like a lie?

The minutes ticked by, quiet and taut, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

Jisung's arm lay still on the rest, the medical band pulsing faintly as it worked. A gentle pull, almost soothing now after weeks of repetition, drawing blood in a steady rhythm.

Minho hadn't moved at all.

Jisung tried not to fidget. His legs were tense beneath him, back too straight, hands folded tighter than necessary in his lap. The memory of what it had felt like, hot, alive, rose up in his chest like an ache, and he forced it back down. He hadn't known it would be like that. Hadn't expected the way his body had responded, beyond reason, beyond thought.

Now, here, in this carefully contained room, he tried to pretend none of that had happened.

Minho made it easier, in a way. The prince hadn't even looked at him. Not once.

It had been just a solution. Emergency protocol. Function, not feeling.

But something still itched beneath Jisung's skin.

Finally, the soft hiss of the machine broke the tension, the quiet release of pressure, followed by the mechanical click of the band disengaging.

Jisung flinched, just slightly.

He didn't look.

Don't look.

He focused on the way his arm felt slightly colder than the rest of him. He lifted it slowly, rubbing at the crease of his elbow. Out of the corner of his eye, movement, Minho's hand, reaching for the crystal glass.

Jisung looked down. Stared at the weave of fabric on his trousers. At the way his fingers curled into his thigh.

Then he heard it.

The soft, thick sound of swallowing. The muted clink of glass. A low, almost involuntary sound, a moan, barely there, followed by a sigh. But not a content one.

A frustrated one.

Jisung's head snapped up before he could stop himself.

Minho's eyes were closed.

His mouth parted slightly, his throat shifting with another swallow. His expression wasn't one of satisfaction. It was something else, something closer to pain.

Was this a side effect? Residual symptoms from the poison?

But then Minho's eyes opened.

They met Jisung's instantly.

Held.

There was something in them, tension, restraint, regret maybe, but more than that... Want.

And then Minho's gaze drifted lower.

To Jisung's neck.

It was subtle, but unmistakable. A shift in his jaw. The faintest furrow in his brow. Hunger, untempered. The kind that had nothing to do with necessity.

Jisung's breath caught in his throat.

That look...

It wasn't about the blood in the glass anymore.

Minho wanted it, still.

He wanted him.

Not in the sense of possession. Not even in some romantic swell of affection. No, this was something far more primal. More immediate. A kind of pull that curled low in Jisung's gut.

And now, he couldn't look away either.

Notes:

So Seungmin is getting closer… Do we have any more theories? 🤔

Chapter 11: The Book

Notes:

This one is for Rachel, currently covid-riddled after London 😭

The glass touched his lips, and for a second, just one, Minho allowed himself to hope it would feel the same.

The taste hit his tongue like it always did: velvet-sweet and spiced, that impossible blend of warmth and brightness, cherry and something darker, rarer. A flavour unlike anything he'd ever tasted before Jisung. Every cell in his body lit up in response, receptors flaring, a spark of awareness rushing down his spine.

But the second wave never came.

There was no echo of heat beneath his palm. No soft gasp beside him. No weight slumped trustingly into his arms. No flutter of a heartbeat pressed against his own chest.

Just glass. Cool and unfeeling in his hand.

Minho swallowed.

The flavour was all there. Perfect. Immaculate.

But something was missing.

He took another sip, slower this time. Focused on it. Tried to summon that same rush that had consumed him in the dark, on the bed, Jisung's body trembling against his own.

Still nothing.

No connection. No give and take. No shared pleasure thrumming beneath the skin.

The sterile distance between them had returned, crystal and machinery and protocol drawing hard lines between the once-broken rules. And despite the raw pleasure of the blood itself, his body barely responded.

His jaw flexed. His fingers tightened around the stem of the glass.

It should be enough.

He told himself that again, and again, and again.

It had to be.

But it wasn't.

Because now he knew. Now he remembered what it could feel like, when Jisung's pulse beat under his mouth, when breath and scent and taste all collided into one overwhelming high. When Jisung had gasped beneath him, and Minho could feel the pleasure ricochet through both of them like a live wire.

That wasn't happening now.

This was consumption, not communion.

Sustenance, not satisfaction.

His lips parted as another sigh escaped, frustrated, quiet, unintentional. He felt the restraint in his muscles like a chain. The memory of Jisung's skin haunted the inside of his mouth more than the blood did.

This would sustain him, yes. He'd be stronger by the hour, his systems boosted, his senses sharpened.

But the ache inside? That gnawing lack he couldn't quite name?

Still there.

Minho swallowed again, slower this time, forcing the motion past a bitter knot in his throat.

His eyes opened.

Jisung was staring.

Wide-eyed. Breath shallow. Minho could almost imagine a mark at the exact spot where he had bitten him days ago.

And for a moment, just a second too long, Minho let himself look.

At the shape of him.

At the echo of memory etched across his skin.

His gaze fell to Jisung's neck.

And the hunger surged again, unfiltered, electric.

But he didn't move.

Didn't speak.

He just let the longing live, unspoken, behind his eyes.

Then Jisung broke protocol.

Soft. Hesitant. Just above a whisper.

"Are... Are you okay?"

Minho blinked.

The words, unexpected and unsanctioned, cracked through the air like a match to dry wood. The silence between them wasn't supposed to be broken. That was the whole point, procedure, etiquette, separation.

And yet, hearing Jisung speak directly to him felt less like a violation and more like a lifeline. A thread thrown across the space between them.

A short, incredulous laugh escaped him, more a bark than a chuckle. He rolled the stem of the half-empty glass between his fingers, watching the last of the blood swirl gently, a slow ring of red tracing its way around the crystal.

"Yes. No. Maybe," he said dryly, voice rough at the edges. "Take your pick."

The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but they were honest, and that was rare enough to sting.

He looked up again, eyes locking onto Jisung's face. There was a flicker of something there, surprise, yes, but amusement too. Like he hadn't expected an answer at all, let alone candour. The curve of his mouth was small, barely formed, but it was there.

And then-

"Yeah I... I think I know what you mean," Jisung said, quieter now, like he wasn't sure he should be saying it at all. "It's... Not... The same, is it?"

Minho stilled.

His pulse, already quiet, seemed to pause entirely.

Because Jisung knew.

He felt it too.

That empty space where connection had lived. That strange, echoing silence where something more had once sung through both their bodies. The sterile taste that should have satisfied, but didn't.

Minho's throat worked around a sudden swell of something unnameable.

Jisung wanted more too.

It was dangerous knowledge. Reckless, sharp-edged, and heavy in his hands.

Knowing Jisung wasn't repulsed. That he hadn't shrunk back from the memory of fang or breath or touch. That he hadn't left the medical wing shaking, demanding answers, demanding space.

No... He'd felt it.

He'd said so.

And now Minho was left reeling, thoughts racing down a thousand paths they had no business exploring. Because if Jisung wanted it, if he wouldn't say no, then it would be so easy. Too easy.

Minho did his best to kill the thought at its root.

It was banned. Against every law, every tenet, every protocol drilled into his head since the moment he'd first been allowed to drink. Emergency direct feeds were a contingency, nothing more. It couldn't happen again.

It wouldn't.

He forced his gaze down, exhaling through his nose.

Then his tongue flicked, slow and habitual, to wet his bottom lip, catching the last ghost of Jisung's blood. The taste bloomed again, a flicker of heat across his tongue.

And he saw it. The flicker.

Jisung's eyes, trained on his mouth. Not just noticing, but watching. Lingering.

Something in Minho's chest twisted hard.

The bell, he thought. Ring the bell.

The silver bell waited, its stem gleaming at the edge of his vision. Just a reach away. One chime, and it would all go back to procedure. To protocol. To safety.

But he didn't move.

Not yet.

Instead, he reached for something else entirely.

"So," he said, voice soft but clearer than before, "how are you feeling? After the... Everything."

Jisung blinked, the question catching him off guard. "Oh. I'm fine," he said. "Better than fine, actually. I had to argue with the staff to let me leave the medical wing."

Minho's laugh came before he could stop it, sudden and bright, a burst of colour in the otherwise muted space. It felt unfamiliar, like a sound borrowed from someone else, but it didn't ring false.

Jisung's mouth curved at the sound, and Minho felt it again, that twist behind his ribs.

"Of course you did," he said. "I can practically hear them now. 'Protocol this, risk that.' They hate being wrong."

Jisung shrugged, but there was amusement in his expression now too. "They said I had to stay in my quarters for the rest of the week. Meals delivered. No visitors."

Minho raised an eyebrow. "And yet here you are."

"You summoned me," Jisung said, a little too quickly, like he wasn't sure what Minho was getting at.

"Right," Minho murmured. "Of course."

His fingers tapped once against the side of the glass. He should stop. End the conversation. Let the guards take Jisung back before the silence got too comfortable.

Instead, he blurted, "Are your quarters warm enough? With the weather changing, I mean."

Jisung blinked again, clearly surprised. "Uh... Yeah. They're fine. The blankets are thick."

Minho nodded. "Good. If you need more, just say. The east wing gets colder than the rest of the palace."

He could feel himself scrambling now. Grasping for any neutral topic. Something, anything, to keep Jisung talking. Half of him was trying to drown the memory of that pulse in his neck, the sound of his breath, the taste of skin, of blood. And the other half...

The other half just wanted to hear his voice again.

Warm. Soft-edged. Human.

Minho's thumb rolled the base of the glass again, head bowed slightly, but his eyes flicked back up to Jisung.

He didn't want to ring the bell.

Not yet.

 

_______________

 

Why isn't he ringing the bell?

The question rose to the front of Jisung's mind before he could stop it. Sharp-edged and persistent.

Not that he wanted him to. Not exactly. But the silence had grown strange, taut like a stretched string, humming with something unspeakable. Every second that passed without the usual end to their routine only made it worse. Made it clearer.

And a dark, irrational part of him, buried somewhere deep, coiled like a spring, wanted to break it. Wanted to lean forward, to close the space between them. To tip his head and offer his neck again like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He shoved the thought aside.

Gods, what is wrong with me?

He folded his hands tightly in his lap again, squeezing his fingers together to anchor himself, focus on something real.

But it was hard.

Too hard, with the way Minho kept glancing at him like that. Not with disinterest or disdain. With... Ache. With hunger he was clearly trying not to feel. Trying not to show.

We both want it, Jisung realized, heart thudding loud in his chest. He felt the phantom echo of fangs again, an impression more imagined than remembered, and swallowed hard.

It was different for Minho. He was a vampire. Blood was necessity, not indulgence.

But his reasons?

They were knotted up in things he didn't understand. In the rush of sensation that had flooded him that night, in the colours that had burst behind his eyelids, in the way the world had gone utterly silent except for his own heartbeat and Minho's mouth at his throat.

It had felt good. Beyond good. Euphoric, electric. A feeling he hadn't known his body was capable of. And ever since, that craving had lurked just beneath his skin.

He'd thought about it more than he cared to admit.

He'd dreamed about it.

And now, sitting across from the one person who could summon that feeling with nothing but a glance and a graze of teeth-

It was unbearable.

Jisung's hand clenched faintly against the fabric of his trousers, fingers twitching like they were searching for something, like they didn't know whether to reach out or retreat.

Minho still hadn't rung the bell.

The vampire was watching him now, fully, with none of the careful sidelong glances or polite detachment that usually clouded his expression. His eyes were dark, intense, glinting with something unspoken. His body was still, too still. Like a predator mid-thought.

Jisung felt heat rise up the back of his neck.

His breath was too shallow. His skin too hot. He could feel the subtle hum in his chest again, that traitorous spark that bloomed the last time Minho had touched him, bitten him. He swore he could hear it. That same phantom music, distant and wild, just out of reach.

And gods, he wanted to feel it again.

He was going to say it. The words were forming on his tongue before he could stop them. They burned there, aching to be spoken.

If you want to-

If you need to-

If you ask, I'll let you-

A knock.

Sharp, too loud. Too sudden.

It shattered the moment like glass dropped from height.

Minho exhaled slowly, the sound like deflating tension, a soft release of everything wound tight between them. His shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly, and the glint in his eyes dulled as he turned toward the door.

"Enter," he said, voice smooth but quieter now. Controlled.

The door creaked open, and a guard stepped inside, bowing slightly, his eyes flicking from Minho to Jisung and back again with a hint of unease.

"Your Highness," he said carefully, "are you ready for your donor to be removed?"

Removed.

Like he was an object. A thing.

Jisung felt the words sting, but he didn't move. Didn't breathe.

And then-

He felt it. That unmistakable weight of Minho's gaze pressing into him, threading through the air like a current. Drawing his attention whether he wanted it or not.

Jisung looked up.

Minho was already looking at him. Not just looking, seeing. Through skin, through bone. That same sharp, calculating intensity that always made Jisung feel like he was being measured, dissected, wanted.

His eyes flicked, just for a second, to the curve of Jisung's neck. The skin that had once been split beneath his teeth.

And then, Minho met his eyes again.

"Yes," he said, voice quiet.

A pause. A breath too long.

"I think that would be best."

Jisung swallowed hard, the words sinking deeper than they had any right to.

Best.
For who?

The guard moved without delay, stepping forward to gesture toward the door. Jisung stood slowly, legs stiff beneath him, the arm that had borne the draw still tingling faintly beneath his sleeve.

He didn't look at Minho as he left. Not again.
He couldn't.

Because if he did, he wasn't sure he'd survive what he wouldn't see there.

The door clicked shut behind him. And for the first time in days, Jisung felt cold.

Really, truly cold.

 

____________

 

Two days.

It had only been two days since the draw, and yet Minho felt the shift in himself like a fault line settling back into place.

The elevated clarity, the sharpened vitality from the direct feed... Gone. His limbs no longer thrummed with heightened strength. His mind didn't move quite so fast, his vision just a shade duller than it had been when Jisung's blood had still lingered rich and recent in his veins.

But that wasn't all he missed.

Not really.

It was the feel of him. Jisung. Warm, pliant beneath his hands. The soft tremble of his breath. The faint, involuntary sound he'd made when Minho's mouth had found his skin. The heat of him, body and blood alike, vivid and consuming.

Minho's hands curled reflexively against the arms of his chair. He stared ahead at the fire, its flickering light offering no comfort, no distraction.

That sound Jisung had made. The way he'd looked at him in the aftermath, lips parted, eyes dazed, like Minho had taken more than blood from him and left something else in return.

It looped through his head like a curse. He hadn't stopped thinking about it.

His thoughts veered back again and again to the way Jisung had looked in his charcoal suit, the light catching the crystals at his cuffs. The fragile column of his neck. The way his eyes flared every time they lingered too long on each other's faces.

It had been too long.

He should be over it by now. Should be focused on other things, like the court's investigation, or the tightening political unrest. But instead...

Instead, all he could think about was the taste of Jisung's skin, the way it had felt to hold him, and how the craving that burned in him now had less to do with hunger and more to do with want.

Never before had somebody's blood left him feeling like this.

 

____________

 

He wasn't stalking him.

That would imply intent. Strategy. Malice.

This wasn't that.

It was his home. His corridors, his halls, his library. If Jisung happened to be occupying the same spaces from time to time... Well. That was hardly Minho's fault, was it?

Still, he kept finding him.

Ever since the draw where they'd spoken, Minho's steps had been a little more... Purposeful. His errands better timed. His strolls through the east wing, which housed the donor quarters, became more frequent. Sometimes, he even brought a book with him. Something to make the loitering look less like loitering.

And now that the weather had turned sharp and cold, wind chasing brittle leaves across the stone terraces, Jisung no longer ventured into the gardens.

Minho missed that. Missed the sight of him half-kneeling beside a autumn-thinned rose bush or perched on the edge of the fountain, head tilted back toward the sky.

Now, he always found him in the annex.

It was a quiet, high-windowed alcove off the side of the public wing of the library, lined with cracked spines and threadbare armchairs. Reserved for donor use, but rarely occupied, except now.

Minho had started arriving there second, not first.

Jisung would already be nestled into the same corner seat, legs tucked beneath him, a throw blanket sometimes draped over his lap, lost in a book. His brow creased, his lips twitching minutely as he read. Minho never stayed long, but he always lingered just long enough to see what title had him so enraptured.

The answer, almost always, was romance.

He found it amusing, at first. Not in a mocking way. Just... Unexpected.

Sometimes, the stories had knights. Sometimes musicians. Sometimes ordinary boys with extraordinary problems and improbable soulmates. And once, Minho had caught him mouthing along to a line on the page like he knew it by heart.

He didn't understand it. Not really. What was it about those stories that pulled him in like that?

A few days later, after watching Jisung return the well-thumbed novel to the shelf, for the second time, Minho doubled back into the annex once the space was empty, and took the book for himself.

The spine was bent in a way that suggested affection. The pages softened from being turned too often. He studied the cover: a dramatic painting of a dark-haired pirate captain and a wide-eyed merchant's son framed by storm-tossed seas.

Minho rolled his eyes. Then he tucked it under one arm and brought it back to his private study.

He only meant to skim it.

Just enough to understand the appeal.

But several chapters in, he found himself frowning as the pirate brushed the merchant son's hair back and treated a wound with far more tenderness than a hardened criminal should probably possess.

He didn't stop reading.

And when he did, hours later, he stared at the wall, suddenly and fiercely aware of a warmth blooming low in his chest, sharp and uncomfortable.

It didn't mean anything.

It was just a story.

Just curiosity.

Just Jisung.

 

_____________

 

Minho ran his fingers down the spine of the book one last time before slotting it carefully back into place on the shelf. The cover caught a slant of morning light from the tall annex windows, the gold-inked title briefly gleaming before vanishing into shadow.

He had no reason to feel sheepish about borrowing it, and yet... Something in him hesitated. Something entirely too human.

A soft gasp, sharp and surprised, cut through the hush of the library.

Minho turned slowly.

Jisung stood a few paces behind him, dressed in a soft grey sweater and fitted pants. His lips were parted, caught mid-expression, his eyebrows lifting in something between confusion and disbelief.

"You-" Jisung started, then stopped. His eyes flicked to the shelf, then to Minho's face. "You read that?"

Minho raised a brow. "You sound surprised."

"I-" Jisung blinked. "It's just... That's the pirate romance. The one with the... Um..." He trailed off again, clearly regretting every syllable.

Minho couldn't help it. A smirk tugged at his lips. "With the merchant's son and the criminally soft-hearted captain?" He gestured toward the spine. "That one?"

Jisung flushed. "I didn't think it was your type."

Minho tilted his head slightly. "And what would you guess my type is, Han Jisung?"

The full name made Jisung stiffen slightly, the formal use of it oddly intimate in the quiet space. He looked away, toward the window, then back again.

"I don't know," he muttered. "Politics. History. Strategy manuals. Vampire classics."

"Dull," Minho said simply. "Most of the time."

Jisung's brow furrowed, as if still struggling to slot this version of Minho into the idea he'd been holding of him. The still, cold prince who barely spoke. Who took blood without so much as a glance. Who had kissed his throat with teeth, then locked it all back behind iron control.

Minho watched all of that pass through him, unspoken.

Then, quietly, he added, "I liked the captain. And how he learned to go after what he wanted."

That made Jisung look at him again. Full on. The library was suddenly too quiet.

Minho cleared his throat and reached for another book, anything to mask the shift in atmosphere.

"I was just returning it," he said. "It's yours again."

Jisung stepped forward slowly, brushing fingertips over the book's spine like it might burn him.

Jisung turned to him, something hesitant but brave in his expression. "Would you... Like some more recommendations?"

His voice was softer than usual, less the default caution of a donor, more like a shared secret between equals. It caught Minho off guard, settling somewhere unfamiliar in his chest.

He found himself smiling before he could stop it. A real one this time, not the sharp-edged smirks he used as armour.

"I'd like that," he said.

Notes:

Wooooo Book Club!!

Chapter 12: The Offering

Notes:

Happy Soda Pop day everyone! 😂

The days had slipped past him quietly.

Jisung still remembered the way the palace had loomed when he'd first arrived, unfamiliar, intimidating, full of rules and silences he didn't yet understand. But now, as the final week of December crept in, he could hardly believe it had already been over fourteen weeks.

Fourteen weeks of pristine hallways. Of meals taken in a communal hall. Of clockwork routines and a rhythm of life that no longer startled him.

And of Minho.

The weekly blood draws had resumed their old structure, sterile, quiet, efficient. There were still moments, though. Glitches in the script. Times when their eyes caught and lingered a beat too long. When their conversations about books stretched a little further than they should. When Minho would mention a story Jisung hadn't expected him to read, or ask what he thought of a plot twist in something he'd returned just the day before.

Jisung tried not to think too hard about those moments.

But he did.

Especially tonight, curled in his usual seat in the library annex, half-listening to the ticking grandfather clock across the room. The fire was warm, far warmer than his own quarters, and the cushion beneath him had taken on the familiar shape of his curled-up legs.

He'd told himself he would return before curfew. He always did. But the book was good, the heat was soothing, and five more minutes wouldn't hurt.

His eyes flicked to the clock again. Twenty-one fifty-two. Eight minutes to spare. He could push it to five minutes before the hour, make it back in time, and avoid any of the guards' unnecessary scolding.

He was just sliding his thumb between the pages to mark his place when the quiet shuffle of footsteps broke through the silence.

He startled upright, already blurting, "I'm not breaking curfew, I was just about to go back, I swear-"

But then the figure stepped into the firelight.

Minho.

Jisung's breath left him in a quiet rush of relief, his shoulders dropping as the tension melted off him like ice in heat. His book remained forgotten in his lap, spine open, as he stared at the prince standing not ten feet from him, the light from the hearth catching faintly in the loose strands of his dark hair.

"Oh," he said, softer now. "It's just you."
Then, instantly regretting it, he added, "I mean, not just you. Sorry. I thought you were a guard."

Minho didn't respond at first. He stepped further into the room, gaze sweeping across the low-lit annex, from the hearth to the shelves to the worn armchair Jisung was still half-curled in. Then, finally, his eyes landed on Jisung.

"I figured I'd find you here," Minho said simply.

That sent a soft ripple of something through Jisung's chest. He tried not to read too much into it. Tried not to let the words sink too deeply.

He cleared his throat and stood, brushing at the blanket that had slipped off his knees. "Were you looking for me?"

Minho gave the barest hint of a smile. "I was."

Jisung's fingers tightened slightly around the book still in his hands.

It was past nine fifty-five now.
And he didn't feel like going anywhere.

Not yet.

Not if Minho had come here, looking for him.

 

_____________

 

Minho watched as Jisung fidgeted, shifting his weight, brushing invisible creases out of the throw blanket like it gave him something to do. The book still sat open in his lap, forgotten.

Minho let the quiet hang just a little too long between them.

"What are you reading?" he asked finally, voice softer than usual.

Jisung looked down, blinking like he had to remember. "Oh. Uh..." He turned the cover toward himself, a bit sheepish. "It's just... Another romance."

Minho tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he closed the distance between them by two slow steps.

"Another?" he repeated, with the faintest smile, almost teasing.

Jisung cleared his throat. "Yeah. This one's about two students. One's a musician. The other's a dancer."

"Mm," Minho said thoughtfully. "That sounds..."

He let the word trail off, stepping closer.

Jisung didn't move.

Minho reached down, slow and careful, and gently took the book from Jisung's hands, fingers brushing over his in the process. The contact was brief, feather-light, but it sparked something like static in his chest.

Jisung's eyes flicked up to his face, startled, then down again to where Minho now held the book open, thumbing lightly at the first page. "I won't say much else in case you want to read it... I wouldn't want to spoil it."

"Yes," Minho said, finally completing the thought. "That would be a shame. If it were spoiled."

He was standing close enough now to see the way Jisung's throat bobbed as he swallowed. Close enough to catch the subtle scent that clung to his skin, something warm, faintly herbal, like old books and clean linen and blood. Always blood.

Minho scanned the first few lines of the book, but didn't really read them. He was too aware of the boy still seated beneath him, spine tense against the chair back, head tilted just enough to meet his gaze if he dared.

And he did.

Jisung looked up again. Slowly. Warily. Like something fragile was suspended in the air between them, and the slightest movement might break it.

His eyes were wide, mouth faintly parted in something halfway between surprise and anticipation.

Minho felt a pulse of heat bloom low in his chest. His hand tightened slightly around the book's spine.

"You like stories like these," he said quietly. Not a question.

Jisung nodded, lips pressing together as if unsure whether to explain himself.

"Why?"

Jisung blinked, caught off guard. "I don't know. They're just... They feel real, even when they're not. And I like seeing people... Choose each other."

Minho's chest constricted. Something about the phrasing, seeing people choose, lodged somewhere deep, deeper than it had any right to.

He looked down at the book again.

A dancer and a musician.

A relationship built on rhythm and restraint. Timing and tension.

How fitting.

Minho closed the book slowly, carefully, and handed it back.

His fingers brushed Jisung's again.

This time, neither of them moved away.

Jisung clutched the book lightly in both hands, his eyes flitting from Minho's face to the grandfather clock in the corner.

"I should..." he said, voice thinner than before, like the air had turned denser around them. "I should get back to my room. Before curfew."

Minho didn't step aside.

Didn't move at all.

Which meant that when Jisung rose from the chair, slow, tentative, they ended up too close.

Far too close.

Minho felt it instantly. The shift in the air between them. The soft exhale against his collarbone. The subtle press of body heat in the narrow space separating them. The sound of Jisung's breath, quickened now, not from exertion, but from something quieter. Heavier.

Minho's eyes fell to his neck.

The shape of it. The slight sheen of warmth on his skin. The flutter of his pulse, gods, he could hear it, feel it, practically taste it again.

And then Jisung tilted his head.

Just a fraction.

But enough.

Enough to look like an answer. An invitation.

Minho's breath caught, a thin, sharp thing in his chest. His hand lifted, unthinking. Slow, cautious. Like trying not to spook a wild creature.

He let his fingers hover for a second too long before they made contact, featherlight against the curve of Jisung's neck. His thumb settled near the place where his pulse beat steady and strong, and the rest of his hand cradled the side of his throat with deliberate care.

Jisung didn't flinch.

Didn't retreat.

Instead, Minho felt the change in him instantly. The subtle loosening of his shoulders. The way his breath softened, deepened, like he was... Waiting.

Minho didn't move closer. Not yet.

But gods, he wanted to.

His thumb brushed once against the warm skin, reverent, tracing over where his teeth had once broken through.

The heat between them was unbearable.

The moment stretched, quiet and trembling, strung tight as a bowstring. Balanced on a knife's edge between memory and temptation, between want and restraint.

And still, Jisung didn't pull away.

Minho's heart, for once, beat too fast.

Too loud.

Because this wasn't hunger. Not entirely. This was something else, something dangerous and unnamed that lived in the space where his palm met Jisung's skin.

Something he wasn't ready to look at directly.

Not yet.

The grandfather clock in the corner struck the hour.

The chimes rang through the stillness like a slap of cold air, sudden and loud in the warm hush of the annex.

Jisung startled beneath Minho's hand. The muscles under his palm tensed sharply, and he pulled back like he'd been caught doing something illicit. His eyes widened.

"I-I didn't mean- I wasn't..." he stammered, words stumbling over one another as he took a half-step back, clutching the book to his chest now like it could shield him from consequence. "I didn't mean to break protocol. I lost track of time, I'm not trying to sneak around, I just-"

Minho didn't move.

"Jisung."

The word was soft. Measured.

Jisung froze.

Minho let a pause stretch between them, let the weight of his own stillness slow the panicked breath he could hear echoing in Jisung's chest.

"You won't get in trouble," he said simply. "I'll walk you back."

Jisung blinked at him. "You...?"

"You're matched to me," Minho said, tone carefully casual. "As far as protocol is concerned, if you're with your formal match, curfew doesn't apply."

"Oh," Jisung breathed.

And then again, quieter: "Oh."

He looked unsure, still, but the panic began to recede from his posture. His shoulders dropped by a fraction. His fingers uncurled slightly where they'd been tense around the book's spine.

Minho finally stepped back, allowing space for Jisung to breathe properly again. But the memory of that closeness lingered, electric against his skin. He could still feel the echo of Jisung's pulse beneath his palm, like it had imprinted itself there.

"I didn't mean to keep you," Minho added, voice gentler now. "It's just... I saw the light."

He didn't elaborate.

Didn't need to.

Jisung's eyes flicked to the firelight that still burned quietly in the corner. And then back to Minho.

"Okay," he said at last, voice soft and breathless.

"I'd... Like that."

Minho gave a small nod. Then turned, gesturing for Jisung to follow him through the darkening corridor.

Their footsteps echoed side by side, and neither of them said a word.

But the silence didn't feel empty this time.

It felt charged.

 

_____________

 

The corridor was quiet at this hour. Their footsteps were the only sound, softened by the plush carpet that ran the length of the east wing.

They passed two guards in polished uniforms. Both bowed low to Minho, murmuring "Your Highness," without ever glancing at the figure walking a step behind him.

Jisung didn't react. Not outwardly. But Minho caught the smallest shift in his shoulders, the way he folded inward, like he'd been reminded again that he didn't belong here. That he was a presence, not a person.

Minho didn't say anything. But something twisted low in his chest.

The short walk to Jisung's quarters ended at a simple wooden door, etched faintly with ivy patterns in the dark grain, a brass plaque with the number 8 etched into it. They paused at the threshold, both a little too still.

Jisung turned the handle halfway, then glanced back. "I... Actually have a book you might like. If you want? I forgot to take it back with me today"

Minho tilted his head. "You're lending me a romance novel?"

"You started it," Jisung said, eyes flicking down. A small smile ghosted his mouth.

Minho let himself smile back.

The door creaked open.

He stepped inside.

The click of it shutting behind them echoed, a moment sealed, set apart.

Jisung crossed to the writing desk and placed the book from the annex down carefully before reaching for another. A green leather-bound tome, visibly well-worn.

He turned, book in hand, but didn't move at first. Just stood there, as if the air had gone heavier.

Minho watched the way his fingers curled around the edges of the cover, the way his throat bobbed with a quiet swallow.

Jisung looked up.

And his eyes dropped.

To Minho's mouth.

Again.

Minho didn't speak. Didn't breathe.

Jisung's sweater had slipped slightly off one shoulder, baring the smooth line of his neck and the delicate angle of his collarbone. The same spot Minho had bitten before. The same skin that still lingered in his memory like fire.

He stepped forward.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Until they were standing close again, not quite touching, but enough for Minho to feel the heat rolling off him.

Jisung didn't move away.

Minho lifted a hand. Not to reach, not yet. Just hovering. Waiting.

And then, Jisung stepped closer.

Just half a pace, but enough to leave no space between them. His chest almost brushed Minho's. His breath was soft and quick against Minho's collar.

"In the library..." Jisung began, his voice tentative, each word chosen with delicate precision. "You... Were you... Did you want...?"

Minho stilled.

Jisung swallowed, and continued, gaze flickering between Minho's eyes and mouth.

"Because... If you were..." He inhaled, voice going even quieter. "I... I'm okay with it."

The words hit like lightning.

Minho's breath caught, sharp and immediate. His body went still, then thrummed, alive and electric, barely containing the sudden storm behind his ribs.

He could barely believe what he was hearing.

Jisung was offering. Not out of obligation. Not under protocol. No machines. No procedures. Just... This.

The space between them vanished.

Minho reached up slowly, reverently, his hand finding the side of Jisung's neck again, feeling the pulse fluttering hard beneath his skin. His fingers settled there like they were meant to, the warmth of Jisung's throat singing against his palm.

He leaned in, letting his lips ghost across the same spot he'd bitten before, just a whisper of contact, not even a kiss.

Jisung shuddered beneath him.

Minho felt it.

Every trembling breath. Every tiny surrender.

He hadn't even tasted him yet. Hadn't breached the skin. But satisfaction, a different kind of satisfaction, was already threading through him. Not hunger. Not survival. Something else.

Something worse.

Something better.

He closed his eyes.

Ran his tongue gently across the old mark, still faintly raised beneath the skin. He tasted sweat. Salt. A faint tang of something sharper, uniquely Jisung.

Minho's jaw flexed. His hand slid to cradle the base of Jisung's skull.

And with infinite care... He bit.

Minho was dimly aware of the soft thud of the book hitting the floor, dropped, forgotten, as Jisung's fingers curled tight into the fabric of his clothes. Gripping hard. Like he needed something to anchor him.

Minho's mouth was full of him in the next breath.

Warmth surged over his tongue, that impossible taste he'd tried to forget, failed to forget, blood and light and something rich and heady, alive in a way nothing else had ever been. It hit him like heat, like hunger, like memory sharpened into craving.

Jisung gasped.

Not in pain, never in pain, but in sensation. Minho felt it vibrate through him, the sound pressed against his chest, so close they may as well have shared skin. Jisung's pulse stuttered once beneath his tongue, and then steadied, strong and fast.

Minho drank.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Not like the emergency feed. Not out of desperation.

This was different.

Every draw was measured, matched to the rhythm of Jisung's breathing. Each tug of pressure met with a shiver, a faint sound from the back of Jisung's throat that made Minho's hands tighten, one at his neck, the other splayed flat across the curve of his back.

There was no machine.

No crystal glass.

No sterile separation.

Just this, Jisung's heart beating wild against him, his skin hot with something between adrenaline and surrender. The slight press of hardness between them again.

Minho could feel him trembling.

Could feel the soft flex of Jisung's fingers at his back, not pushing, not pulling, just there. Holding.

He didn't want to stop.

Didn't want to need to stop.

But he felt Jisung's knees falter, and Minho pulled him closer, one hand sliding down to support his waist. He eased the suction, let the pull soften. His mouth gentled at the wound, tongue stroking across the punctures before they'd fully closed, licking the blood clean.

He stayed there.

Just breathing against his skin. Listening.

Jisung's body sagged against him, boneless, weight warm and trusting in his arms. His heartbeat was still quick, but steady. His breathing shallow, but not weak. And the blood, Minho could already feel it moving through his own body like the warmth of the sun. Hot, glowing.

He hadn't taken much.

But it felt like more. Like too much. Like too good.

Minho exhaled slowly, still braced against the storm inside him.

He opened his eyes.

Jisung was trembling slightly, but his hands were still clutching Minho's shirt. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, mouth parted as if on the verge of speaking, but unable to find words.

Minho wanted to kiss him.

The thought came sharp and immediate.

Ridiculous. But there it was, unbidden, undeniable.

And stranger still... It didn't feel like instinct.

It wasn't a predator's reaction to prey. Not hunger. Not bloodlust. Not even the echo of intimacy that direct feeding sometimes brought.

It was something else.

He stared at Jisung's mouth, flushed and parted, lips still damp from the breathy sounds he'd made just moments ago. Minho could still taste him, not just his blood, but the salt of his skin, the warmth of his pulse, the quiet surrender of his body in his arms.

And the thought returned, firmer this time: I want to kiss him.

It rattled Minho more than he expected. In all his long years, through decades of ceremonial draws and carefully managed exchanges, never, not once, had a donor made him feel this.

Blood was blood. Sacred, yes. Powerful, yes. But always transactional. Even the direct feeds, rare and dangerous as they were, were always reported to stop at need. Never desire.

Not like this.

No one's blood had ever made him crave touch. No one's pulse had ever made him ache to be closer, not with teeth, but with lips. With hands. With everything else that had absolutely nothing to do with nourishment and everything to do with Jisung.

It was maddening.

It was terrifying.

It was-

Jisung shifted slightly in his arms, and Minho caught the tiniest flicker of awareness returning to his eyes. Still dazed, still trembling, but present.

And watching him.

Minho realised then, with a sharp clarity, that he hadn't let go. That his hand was still cradling the base of Jisung's skull, fingers tangled just above the nape of his neck. That the other was firm at his back, holding him too close to be platonic. Too close to be safe.

He should release him.

He should take a step back, say something level and dry, pretend none of this had happened.

 

___________

 

Jisung floated.

That was the only word he had for it.

Floated, like breath caught in syrupy stillness, like a body unbound by gravity or logic. The bite had sent him spinning, the world swallowed in colour, vivid, dancing things that weren't sights so much as sensations. He'd tasted light. Tasted it. Felt the shape of a chord humming through his spine. Heard the colour blue.

It was exactly like the first time. A kind of synaesthesia that broke him open and poured the world in.

But slowly, so slowly, it began to fade.

The sparkling lights dimmed behind his eyelids. The soundless music quieted to a hum, then silence. The sweet, aching tug at the base of his spine stilled, replaced by a warm lassitude that left his limbs heavy and trembling, his head floating somewhere above his shoulders.

And in the space where the high ebbed away... Minho remained.

Minho, still holding him. Minho, still close. Minho, still warm where he shouldn't be. Not like this.

Jisung opened his eyes.

Minho's were right there, deep, rich brown, the kind that held light and shadow all at once. He blinked, and Jisung tasted something.

Chocolate.

Not the processed, artificial kind. No, this was real. Earthy and dark and a little bitter at the edges.

What the hell.

He blinked again, unsure if the after-effects were messing with his head, but the taste clung to his tongue like memory. Then Minho shifted slightly, just enough for Jisung's gaze to dip to his mouth.

Red fruit bloomed in his mouth. Tart and sweet. Raspberry, maybe. Pomegranate.

He jerked slightly in Minho's arms, breath catching.

This was just a chemical reaction. A post-feed hallucination. The sensory soup his brain had decided to cook up in the aftermath. That's all it was.

Right?

But still-

Minho's face was so close. His lips slightly parted, breath brushing against Jisung's cheek in soft, feathered bursts. His hand was still cradling the back of Jisung's neck, fingers gentle but sure. There was no distance left between them, barely enough room for breath, let alone reason.

And Jisung-

He felt a strange, traitorous compulsion.

He wanted to kiss him.

The realisation came with zero warning. No fanfare. Just a simple, devastating clarity that echoed through him with terrifying softness.

I want to kiss him.

He tried to write it off as a side effect. You're high. This is hormonal soup. You're not thinking straight.

But... Was he mad, or was Minho also thinking it?

He couldn't be imagining the way the vampire's gaze had dipped to his mouth and lingered. Or the way his jaw clenched slightly, like he was holding something back. Jisung had never seen Minho hesitate before, not like this. It was subtle, barely perceptible, but it was there. Like he, too, was standing on the edge of something.

Jisung swallowed hard. The sound of it felt loud between them.

His heart thudded. His skin burned. His limbs were shaking, but not from weakness. From want.

What would happen if he just leaned in?

What would Minho do?

What did Minho want?

The answer was there, somewhere in the inches between them. In Minho's grip. In the way he hadn't let go.

And gods help him, Jisung didn't know if he wanted the answer or feared it.

Jisung swallowed.

The sound felt too loud in the silence between them, wet and uncertain, like a stone dropped into a still lake.

Minho blinked.

It was small. Barely a motion. But it was like something inside him had snapped back into place. His gaze lost its molten edge. His posture shifted, straightened. Composure sliding into place like armour.

Then his hand dropped from Jisung's neck.

The absence of it was immediate. Cold. Jisung felt it like wind against bare skin, like being shaken awake from a dream he didn't want to leave. The warmth of Minho's palm, the weight of it, the intention behind it, it vanished all at once, and the moment broke with it.

Minho stepped back.

Just a pace.

Just enough.

And yet-

Jisung's body moved on instinct, half a step forward, like he could close the space again, like maybe if he just-

"No."

Minho's voice cut through the air, low and firm. Not unkind, but absolute.

"We can't do this again."

Jisung stilled.

Minho's eyes searched his face, dark with something more complicated than command. "If we're caught..." he said, the words tight, controlled. "It won't just be protocol. It'll be scandal. Punishment. For both of us."

Jisung nodded slowly, once.

He understood. He really did.

But that didn't change the way his chest ached. Or the way his fingers still twitched with the memory of Minho's shirt in his fists. Or the way he knew, with an awful clarity, that if Minho ever gave him the chance again... He'd take it.

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

He'd fall headlong.

Minho crouched briefly to retrieve the book from the floor. He straightened again, dusting off the green leather cover with a motion that felt almost too casual.

He glanced at it, then at Jisung, one corner of his mouth tilting, wry, almost amused.

"I'll let you know what I think," he said, "at the next draw."

Jisung's breath hitched.

And all he could do was nod.

Notes:

Another Pixel fic reference‽ 😱

What’s your favourite type of story? 🤔

Chapter 13: The Dull Pull

Two days later, the hum was still there.

Faint, but unmistakable. A thrumming beneath Minho's skin like static in his blood, something that didn't dissipate with time the way it should have. Most feeds, especially those filtered through crystal and protocol, faded within hours. Even direct feeds, rare and sacred as they were, dulled quickly according to what he had read.

But this...

This wasn't fading.

Minho could still feel the warmth of it in his hands. The echo of Jisung's pulse in his mouth. The weight of his trust, pliant and steady beneath him. And worse, far worse, the way it had made something else in him stir.

The memory was not dim. It was bright. Too bright. Burning at the edges of every idle moment.

He hadn't just wanted to feed.

He'd wanted to kiss him.

The absurdity of that thought still burned. Still made him feel stupid. Dangerous. Unworthy. He could make peace with hunger. Even craving. But that, that, was something else. Something unsanctioned and far more perilous than protocol ever accounted for.

He'd promised himself it wouldn't happen again.

He'd stood in front of his mirror this morning, jaw clenched, eyes hard, and vowed: no more seeking him out. No more excuses to loiter near the annex or detour through the west hall. No more ghosting toward wherever Jisung happened to be.

Because it wasn't coincidence. Not anymore.

He had been following him.

Tracking his presence like scent on the air, always hyperaware of when Jisung entered a space. Always attuned to the exact temperature shift when he left it.

It had to stop.

Because the truth was, Minho could not be trusted.

Not when Jisung looked at him like that. Not when the boy's breath caught beneath his hands. Not when his body went loose and open with nothing more than a whispered invitation. Not when he tilted his head like an offering, not with fear, but with want.

Minho had sunk his teeth into him.

Twice.

And the second time it wasn't from necessity. Not from emergency.

But because he wanted to.

He was the Crown Prince. A symbol of restraint. Of discipline. Of sacred boundaries and ancient lineage.

And yet, the second he was alone with Jisung...

His mouth was at his neck.

His hands were on his neck.

His thoughts were far, far worse.

Minho dragged a hand over his face, exhaling hard as he leaned back against the cold stone wall of his chambers. He'd spent the better part of the morning reviewing trade reports from the northern territories and hadn't retained a single line of text.

Because every time he blinked, he saw the flush on Jisung's cheeks.

He felt the tremor in his hands.

He heard that breathy 'I'm okay with it' repeating like a curse.

He had to regain control.

He would.

Even if the taste still lingered in his mouth like sugar and sin.

Even if the want hadn't lessened, only sharpened.

The next routine draw was today.

Minho straightened the collar of his shirt, smoothed a hand over the front of his coat, and told himself, for the seventh time this hour, that it was fine.

He'd promised Jisung they would discuss the book.
That was okay.

That was safe.

A designated interaction, neatly boxed and labeled. Two chairs. A table between them, precise and clinical. No firelight in a night-dark room. No dim corridors. No echoing silence made thick with almosts.

Just protocol. Just literature.

He could handle that.

Minho exhaled through his nose, steady and quiet, like it could help push the memory of Jisung's skin from his mind. The soft arch of his neck. The way his mouth had parted, dazed and pink and kissable.

Minho blinked sharply.

Not helping.

He was already running late. Not technically, he was the prince; his timing was never questioned, but he'd grown accustomed to arriving a minute or two early. An unconscious habit, it turned out. One he was now very consciously correcting.

He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves and moved for the door.

The walk to the draw room was brisk. Efficient. A corridor he'd memorised with his eyes closed. He ignored the slight quickening of his pulse as he neared the heavy doors. The faint burn of anticipation in his limbs.

He stepped inside.

And there he was.

Jisung.

Seated already in the donor's chair, arm prepared, sleeve rolled back, medical strap lying idle next to him. He looked up the moment Minho entered, eyes catching his with that same wide, unreadable intensity.

Minho slowed, nodded once in greeting, and crossed the room with measured calm. He sat in his usual chair across from Jisung, back straight, face neutral.

A table between them.

An assigned task ahead.

Safe.

"Green leather-bound," Minho said simply, allowing the ghost of a smile to flicker across his lips. "The romance novel. With the musician and the dance student."

Jisung blinked, startled for half a second. Then his face softened. "You read it."

"I said I would."

"And?"

Minho leaned back slightly, tilting his head, considering. "I didn't expect to enjoy it. I assumed it would be predictable. Cliché."

"And was it?"

"Very," Minho said. "But I still read it in one sitting."

Jisung's laugh, quiet, bright, eased something tight in Minho's chest. This. This was okay. This was what they did now. Books. Opinions. Structured moments in a sterile room.

Nothing else.

"Good predictable or bad predictable?" Jisung asked, his fingers fidgeting slightly with the hem of his sleeve.

"Good," Minho admitted. "In the way comfort food is good. Familiar. A little indulgent."

"You're saying it was literary cake."

"I'm saying," Minho replied, eyes narrowing slightly in mock warning, "that if the next book you recommend includes a love triangle, I may revoke my approval."

Jisung grinned, and Minho felt it like a pulse in his throat.

He looked away quickly.

Jisung turned to grab the medical band, shifting his arm out of his sleeve as usual to attach it at the crook.

Minho welcomed the interruption. He folded his hands neatly in his lap and stared at the opposite wall while the hum of equipment came to life. The scent of antiseptic filled the air. The safe, cold familiarity of the drawing chamber wrapped around him like armour.

He could survive this.

He would.

Because the table was there.
Because the draw was routine.
Because if he kept the conversation about books and structure and ordinary things, he wouldn't think about the flush in Jisung's cheeks.
Or the way his pulse had jumped under Minho's tongue.
Or how, two nights ago, he'd wanted something he couldn't put into words.

Something that didn't belong in a draw room.
Something far more dangerous than blood.

 

_________________

 

Jisung tried to sit still.

He really did.

But the moment Minho had walked in, composed, unreadable, achingly present, something in his body betrayed him. His spine straightened too fast. His fingers curled into the fabric of his pants. His breath caught, just for a second.

He hated that he noticed all of it.

The conversation that followed should have relaxed him, banter, easy and familiar. But it didn't. Not quite. Not when every word felt like it carried a second meaning, tucked just beneath the surface. And not when Minho's eyes flicked to his mouth once, briefly, before darting away again like the glance had burned him.

It was fine. It was normal.

Except it wasn't.

Because now Jisung knew what Minho looked like when he wasn't pretending. Knew what it felt like to have his hand pressed flat against his back. His teeth against his throat. His body held firm and close and trembling with restraint.

And it wasn't gone.

None of it was gone.

It lived just beneath his skin now, like a secret he couldn't scrub clean. And every time Minho looked at him like this, every time they talked like nothing had happened, he felt it press harder against the inside of his ribs.

The draw began.

Minho said nothing.

Neither did he.

But the silence was heavier than usual.

Not sterile. Not detached.

Jisung closed his eyes and tried to pretend it was fine. That it didn't feel like something between them was winding tighter again, waiting for the next time it would snap.

Because this was routine.

This was protocol.

This was the safest they were ever going to be.

So why did it feel anything but?

The quiet hum of the draw filled the space between them, the low hiss of the device, the rhythmic pull of blood being drawn from his vein.

Jisung stared at the opposite wall, but his mind wasn't in the room anymore. It hadn't been since Minho sat down. Since their eyes met. Since the careful way Minho said, "Green leather-bound. The romance novel."

Gods.

Two nights had passed. And the realisation he'd come to then, still raw, still dangerous, hadn't dulled.

He would do it again.

If the chance came, if Minho slipped even slightly, let his restraint falter just enough to open the door to another direct feed... Jisung would take it. Would fall headfirst into that moment like it was gravity and he was helpless to resist.

And maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was helpless to resist it.

He shifted slightly in the chair, careful not to dislodge the medical strap as it continued its work. The room felt warmer than usual. Or maybe that was just the blood leaving his body, dragging sense and logic with it.

What even are the consequences? he thought, not for the first time.

They'd all been told direct feeding was forbidden. It was one of the earliest rules he'd been briefed on. Repeated, reinforced. No exceptions. But no one had ever really said why.

Was it dangerous? For him? For the vampire?

Or was it just... Improper?

The kind of taboo that came from old customs. The kind designed to preserve distance. Status. Control.

He glanced at Minho from the corner of his eye. The prince's expression was unreadable, shoulders squared, gaze trained not on Jisung, but somewhere just above and beyond him. Like pretending none of this was personal would make it true.

But Jisung had felt those hands.

Had heard the sound Minho made when he tasted him.

Had felt the tremble in his fingertips when they'd held him close, the way his mouth had gentled, reverent, at his neck.

That wasn't protocol.

That was craving.

And it hadn't been one-sided.

Could we keep doing it? Jisung wondered. In secret? Could we find ways to be alone, to chase that same high again and again?

He didn't know. He had no idea how far Minho's self-control stretched, or how long they could keep up the illusion that nothing was happening.

But he did know this:

It was worth the risk.

The press of Minho's body against his. The fire that poured through his limbs as blood left him and pleasure bloomed in its place. The euphoria that shattered all other feeling, left him floating in a world made of light and heat and want.

Yes.

He would risk it.

Again. And again.

If Minho let him.

The machine hissed once more, signalling the final sequence. The medical band prepared to disengage, slow and clinical.

Jisung didn't move.

Not yet.

Because he wasn't ready to stop thinking about it.

Wasn't ready to let this return to just a draw.

He wanted more.

And gods help him, he was pretty sure Minho did too.

 

_______________

 

Minho pushed the truffle-stuffed pastry across his plate for the third time without taking a bite. The glaze shimmered under the golden light of the dining hall, the crisped shell giving way with the gentlest pressure of his fork.

He still couldn't bring himself to eat it.

Since the poisoning attempt, the thought of food, real food, had soured. Not because he feared another attempt, though truthfully he did, but because the act of eating had started to feel absurd. Obscene, even. Why spend hours preparing such delicate fare when the only thing that truly nourished him had been Jisung's blood. Warm, unfiltered, immediate?

His father, seated at the head of the table, was murmuring something to one of the stewards. His mother, poised and elegant as always, was listing arrangements in a low, measured tone. Something about the guest list. Musicians. Flower types.

Minho tuned it all out.

His thoughts were full of him.

Of Jisung.

Of the way his eyes had fluttered shut under Minho's touch. The way he'd offered his neck, trembling, willing. The way he'd looked after, like someone floating between stars.

And gods, the books.

He had read three more this week. One about a nobleman falling in love with a servant. Another about childhood friends finding each other again after years apart. All full of aching glances, of tension, of the unbearable quiet between two people trying not to want.

He'd recognised something of himself in those pages. And not just his hunger.

No. It wasn't just the blood.

That was the problem.

He was starting to wonder if it never had been.

A voice pierced the haze of his thoughts, cutting sharp and clear through the velvet-soft hum of memory.

"Minho," the Queen said, with that sharp tone of gentle reproach that always meant you weren't listening.

He blinked. Sat straighter. "Yes?"

She narrowed her eyes, a mild amusement behind them. "I asked," she repeated slowly, "whether you've briefed your donor on his responsibilities for the New Year's Ball."

Minho opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Right.

That.

He hadn't.

He'd been so lost in the pull of things he shouldn't want, so preoccupied with keeping his distance, that the practical logistics had completely slipped past him.

He was still adjusting, he realised. Still forgetting that this wasn't Rina, his previous donor of nearly four decades. It was Jisung now. Jisung, who'd arrived not even four months ago and somehow unraveled every careful boundary Minho had placed between himself and the world.

"I'll speak to him," Minho said at last, careful to keep his tone measured.

"See that you do," the Queen replied. She delicately cut into her entrée, steam rising from the porcelain. "He'll need formal attire, of course. Tailored by the 28th at the latest. You'll both be required to attend for the entire evening."

Minho nodded, trying to recall the last few years' routine.

The ball was more than tradition. It was presentation. Every vampire with a formal donor brought them to stand at their side, dressed in silks and ceremonial fabrics, tokens of power and access. Every other donor, the unmatched or unattached, was effectively on call. Left waiting in a side room, monitored, marked, available to visiting nobility should anyone need to dilute the alcohol in their system.

The thought turned his stomach.

It always had.

The practice of using donors to balance excess consumption, like some grotesque living water jug, was a throwback to indulgence-era vampirism, an echo of the old Romanesque gluttonies. It disgusted him. But tradition held fast, and the palace remained the stage.

Jisung would be expected to stand beside him. To remain there, regal, poised, untouched unless Minho needed him. He would wear a deep red sash with the royal seal that marked him as Minho's formal match. No one else would be permitted to feed from him.

And Minho...

Minho would have to stand beside him, look at him, and pretend nothing had happened.

Pretend that he didn't remember the sound Jisung made when his lips ghosted over his neck.

Pretend that his blood wasn't still burning in his veins.

Pretend he didn't want to reach out, curl a hand around his wrist, and kiss the soft corner of his mouth for no reason other than he could.

He swallowed, throat tight.

"I'll see to it."

 

_____________

 

Jisung sat in his usual chair, fingers worrying the edge of the medical band in anticipation.

Minho was late.

Again.

The silence in the room stretched longer than usual, broken only by the subtle hum of the equipment and the faint crackle of the fire across the room. But there was no armchair occupied. No book left abandoned. No vampire prince watching him with that unreadable expression.

And that, Jisung hated to admit, was disappointing.

He hadn't seen Minho once since the last draw.

Not in the annex. Not in the corridors. Not anywhere.

He told himself it made sense. That after what had happened, what they did, Minho was smart to keep his distance. To re-establish boundaries before they both made a mistake that couldn't be undone.

Still. That didn't mean it didn't sting.

Because for one brief, brilliant moment, Jisung had believed that maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't stop.

That they couldn't stop.

He'd thought Minho might seek him out again. That another feed, another stolen moment, was inevitable.

But here he was. Alone. Medical equipment at the ready.

Like it had never happened at all.

He was just about to leave and speak to the guard outside, unsure whether to report Minho's delay or just stew in silence for a little longer, when the heavy door finally clicked open.

Jisung looked up, breath catching involuntarily.

Minho entered with his usual quiet grace, his clothes dark and perfectly tailored, hair swept back, eyes unreadable. But he didn't move toward the armchair. He didn't sit.

Instead, he spoke immediately.

"You'll need to visit the tailor today," Minho said, voice brisk. "Right after the draw."

Jisung blinked. "What?"

Minho crossed to the side table and lifted the crystal glass, inspecting it absently before setting it back down. "For the New Year's Ball. You'll need a formal uniform. They'll need time to prepare it."

Jisung stared at him, stunned.

The New Year's Ball? The palace's most public, prestigious event?

"Wait," he said slowly. "I'm attending?"

Minho finally looked at him then. Not with warmth, but with something precise. Controlled. "You're my matched donor. Of course you're attending."

Jisung's lips parted. He hadn't thought... He didn't know...

"You'll be fitted for ceremonial attire," Minho continued. "Full regalia. There's a sash to denote formal matches. You'll wear it across your chest for the duration of the event."

"The whole night?"

"Yes."

Jisung swallowed. "I... I didn't think I'd be involved. I thought... I mean, last year I was still D-Class. I heard the donors just stay on standby and-"

Minho cut him off, tone sharper than before. "You're not on standby."

Jisung flinched, more from surprise than anything else.

Minho caught himself, exhaled, and added, more gently this time. "You'll be at my side. It's expected."

Jisung nodded slowly, still reeling.

It wasn't the formality that rattled him. It wasn't the idea of tailoring or even the looming pressure of an elite vampire ball.

It was the reminder.

The confirmation that, no matter how deeply Minho had distanced himself these past few days... Jisung was still his.

Still matched to him.

Still tethered.

The band chirped softly, the sound slicing through the tension like a blade.

Jisung looked down at it, then up at Minho, expecting him to take his usual seat across from him.

But Minho didn't move.

Not at first.

He stood in silence for another long moment, then finally crossed the room, settling stiffly into the armchair opposite Jisung's. He didn't lounge like usual, didn't let his posture soften even slightly. It was the most distance Jisung had ever felt in the short span between them.

Still, the equipment whirred to life.

Jisung felt the familiar tightening pressure around his arm, the faint pulse of extraction starting, mechanical and cool. Nothing like teeth. Nothing like heat.

In the next chair, Minho's eyes were fixed on the fire again. His hands lay motionless on the arms of the chair, one thumb rubbing slowly along the seam of the fabric like it was the only tether he had.

Jisung tried not to watch him. Tried to focus on his breathing instead.

It wasn't the same.

Not even close.

He could feel the blood leaving his veins in slow, measured pulls. Could feel it settle into the sterile container with clinical precision. Could hear the faint hiss as the system calibrated the final amount.

It didn't hurt.

But it didn't feel good, either.

Not the way it had with Minho's mouth at his throat. His hands holding Jisung steady, the drag of fangs and tongue, the way pleasure had surged through his body like heat and lightning and left him gasping, aching, floating.

The machine stopped with a soft hiss.

Done.

The band released its grip and hissed open. A clean, simple feed. Efficient. Safe.

Emotionless.

Jisung flexed his fingers slowly and looked up just as Minho reached for the crystal glass.

He poured carefully, with almost too much precision. Like if he let even a single drop fall outside the rim, the whole illusion of control would shatter.

And then he drank.

Jisung watched, he couldn't help it, as Minho lifted the glass and tipped it to his lips. The way his throat worked with the swallow. The way his lashes fluttered once, briefly.

And then-

A sound. Barely audible. A quiet, pained hum.

Not like pleasure.

Not this time.

Minho's brows drew together faintly, his mouth tightening even as he set the glass down, empty once again. His jaw flexed once. Twice. Like the taste didn't quite sit right.

Jisung hesitated. The words were on his tongue before he could stop them.

"... Does it taste different?"

Minho blinked.

It was the first time their eyes met since he'd sat down.

He didn't answer right away. His gaze dropped to Jisung's neck, then flicked back to his face, unreadable.

"Yes," he said finally.

Flat. Honest.

"Different how?" Jisung asked, surprised at his own voice.

Minho didn't look away. "Like it's missing something."

The words sat heavy in the air between them.

Jisung swallowed. His throat felt dry.

"Right," he said softly. "Of course."

Minho stood suddenly, the chair creaking under the sudden motion. He straightened his cuffs, collected the glass, and turned toward the sideboard without another word.

Just as he reached the door, he paused.

"I'll send someone to escort you to the tailor."

His voice was measured. Distant.

Jisung managed a nod, even though Minho's back was already to him.

And then he was gone.

The room felt colder when he left.

And Jisung sat alone, staring at the place Minho had just been, the dull ache in his arm forgotten in the wake of a far deeper kind of hollow.

Notes:

Because we know Minsung can’t be trusted without a table between them and an assigned activity to keep them busy 🙃

Chapter 14: The Fittings

Notes:

Today’s early chapter brought to you by Hyunjin chattering on FANS at 3am… Even after he said he was going to sleep 🙃

The tailor's room was much as Jisung remembered it. The large spools of fabric on golden rails, the fabric off cuts dotted around, scissors and various other tools left forgotten on worktops.

Corvin greeted him with the same crisp nod he had when Jisung first arrived at the palace, three months ago.

"Stand here," he said, gesturing to a small dais in the centre of the room.

Jisung stepped up without protest, rolling his shoulders back out of instinct.

Corvin began the measuring in silence, pulling a well-worn tape from around his neck and beginning at the shoulders.

"You've put on weight," he noted, without malice or praise. "Good."

Jisung blinked. "Have I?"

Corvin hummed. "Slight muscle increase. Broader across the chest and back. Arms as well."

That made sense, he supposed. The structured meals. The regimented exercise. The sleep. The careful way the palace seemed to shape his life into something far more orderly than it had ever been. He hadn't noticed the change until it was pointed out, but... It was there. He felt more grounded in his body. Less fragile. Less invisible.

Corvin continued his work with quiet efficiency, noting down numbers, adjusting angles, instructing Jisung to shift his weight here, straighten there.

When the measurements were complete, Corvin moved to the long racks of fabric bolts lined against one wall. Dozens of options, crimson, silver, slate grey, pine green, deep maroon. Most of them shimmered faintly under the atelier lighting, woven through with fine threads of silk or metallic fibre.

Corvin pulled out three bolts at once and began holding them up against Jisung's torso one by one.

"No," he muttered at the first, a muted steel blue. "Too cold."

The second, a rich garnet, got a short shake of the head.

Finally, he held up a fabric so dark it was nearly indistinguishable from black.

But when he tilted it slightly under the light, it came alive.

Midnight blue.

Like ink under moonlight. Like sky stretched thin at the very edge of night. It shimmered faintly, not ostentatious, but regal. Weighty with quiet presence.

Jisung stared at it. For a long moment, he forgot to breathe.

Corvin tilted his head. "This one."

And Jisung... Didn't disagree.

He didn't say anything at all. Just nodded.

It wasn't a colour he would've picked for himself.

But now, seeing it there, reflecting back at him from the mirror, dark, luminous, severe, it felt... Right.

Like he could disappear into it and still be seen.

Corvin made a few more notes, murmuring about accent stitching and sash positioning.

Jisung watched the fabric being folded again, smoothed and secured.

He imagined himself wearing it. Standing in the ballroom, beside Minho.

He wondered if Minho would look at him in that moment.

And if he did, if he really looked, what would he see?

Not a D-Class nobody. Not just another donor in a plain grey tunic.

But someone who matched him.

Someone who could stand beside him and not look out of place.

The idea sent a strange flutter through his chest.

He told himself it was just nerves.

And not the memory of Minho's hand on his neck, or the way the prince had said 'You'll be at my side' like it was a truth, not a task.

Corvin cleared his throat. "You'll return for the first fitting in four days. Don't gain or lose any more weight between now and then."

"I'll... Do my best," Jisung said, dazed.

Corvin gave a sharp nod, then turned away, already absorbed in a new set of measurements on his ledger.

Jisung stepped down from the platform and glanced one last time at the mirror. The image reflected back at him wasn't quite the same one he'd arrived with four months ago.

He looked taller.

Sharper.

More certain of his place, even if his mind was anything but.

And wrapped in midnight blue...

He could almost look like someone who belonged.

Almost.

 

_____________

 

Minho sat curled into the corner of the armchair, book in hand, legs tucked beneath him in a posture far too informal for anyone who might walk in unexpectedly. The fire crackled gently in the hearth to his left, but he hardly noticed the warmth. His mind was elsewhere.

The book wasn't one Jisung had recommended. In fact, it wasn't from any list he'd seen before. He'd sought this one out himself, found it in the catalogue in the northern wing of the library, and requested it be pulled from storage.

It was called Moonbound. The kind of title he might once have scoffed at.

He wasn't scoffing now.

He'd reached the pivotal scene. The moment everything turned. The protagonist, a young human woman with too much curiosity and a fierce, aching kind of hope, had just confessed her love to the werewolf who'd saved her life more than once. And the werewolf had refused her.

Not out of apathy. Not because he didn't return her feelings.

But because he was afraid.

Afraid of what he was. Of what he could become. Afraid that one day, his control would break. That he'd lose himself to instinct and craving and hunger, and she would be the one to suffer for it.

Minho stared at the words, a sick familiarity pressing hard against the inside of his ribs.

He understood.

Gods help him, he understood.

The number of times he had nearly called for Jisung between their scheduled draws... The number of hours he'd stood outside the annex, poised to walk in but never moving, just to see if he could sense him through the door. The number of times he'd dreamt of him, mouth flushed, eyes soft, throat bared, and woken up needing to bite something, to feed or tear or feel.

He'd wanted to kiss him.

More than that. He'd wanted to take.

And he knew, deep down, in the place where his blood still sang with the memory of Jisung's, how dangerous that want was.

What if he lost control?

What if he bit too deep?

What if the next time, Jisung didn't float gently down from the high, but spiralled? What if Minho pushed him too far, took too much, broke something sacred in the process?

He couldn't be that reckless. He wouldn't.

Because Jisung had trusted him.

Because Minho wanted to be worthy of that trust.

He turned another page, slowly, his thumb brushing the margin as he read the werewolf's final lines in the chapter:

"If I lose myself, it'll be you who pays the price. And I can't live with that."

Minho shut the book softly and let it rest against his chest.

He didn't know what made him ache more, that he agreed, or that some small, wretched part of him still wanted to ignore it. Still wanted to go to Jisung now and ask, plainly, would you let me? Would you still say yes?

A knock at the door pulled him abruptly back to the present.

He straightened, spine snapping into a more formal posture, slipping the book down beside the arm of the chair. He cleared his throat.

"Enter."

The door creaked open, and Seungmin stepped inside, a small stack of papers clutched in one hand, his coat dusted faintly with the snow that had started falling an hour ago.

"Sorry to disturb," he said briskly, already halfway to the nearest side table before Minho could respond.

"It's fine," Minho said, rising. "What is it?"

Seungmin dropped the papers and gave a small shrug, but Minho could tell from the tightness in his jaw that this wasn't a casual visit.

"I think I'm getting somewhere," he said. "I don't want to say too much until I'm sure, but... It's not nothing."

Minho's brow furrowed. "How far along?"

"Close," Seungmin admitted. "There are still inconsistencies, and I need another set of cross-references from the eastern library to verify it. But... I think I'll have answers soon. Actual ones."

Minho didn't realise until just then how tightly he'd been holding himself.

"How soon is soon?"

"A week. Maybe two." Seungmin glanced at him, sharp and quick. "But this time, I'm confident."

Minho nodded slowly, his thoughts already spiralling forward. If Seungmin was close, and if this did point to an explanation for Jisung's blood, then-

Then maybe there was a path forward.

Something beyond secrecy. Beyond guilt.

"Let me know the second you have something," Minho said.

"I will." Seungmin hesitated. "And Minho?"

"Yes?"

Seungmin didn't smile. But his voice, when it came, was a little less dry than usual.

"Don't do anything stupid in the meantime."

Minho gave a tight, quiet laugh. "I'll do my best."

Seungmin turned to leave.

Minho watched the door swing closed behind him.

Then, and only then, did he let himself look down at the book again.

'If I lose myself, it'll be you who pays the price.'

He didn't open it.

But the words lingered all the same.

 

____________

 

The tailor's fitting room was warm, quiet, and smelled faintly of pressed linen, starch, and the soft musk of wool. Jisung stood on the raised platform at the centre of the room, arms slightly outstretched, as Corvin bustled around him with pins clamped between his teeth and a murmured stream of measurements that made no sense to Jisung at all.

It had been two weeks since his initial visit.

Now, the jacket was almost finished. It had only been basted together at the seams, a temporary construction to allow for last-minute alterations, but even in its incomplete state, it was stunning.

The colour was what struck him first.

Midnight blue.

So dark it could have been black in the shadows, but when the light from the long, arched window struck the fabric just right, it shimmered. Not glittered, nothing so gauche, but gleamed, like moonlight on deep water. Understated. Quiet. Intentional.

Corvin had chosen well.

"The waist," Corvin muttered, frowning at the back of the coat. "In by a centimetre. Arms forward slightly."

Jisung adjusted.

He was getting used to these fittings now, the endless tugging, pinning, readjusting. The soft scrape of chalk against cloth. The occasional jab of a pin when Corvin got too distracted with muttering and forgot Jisung was, in fact, a person wearing the garment and not a static mannequin.

"It's nearly ready," Corvin said, pulling back to examine his work. "We'll need one more sitting. Sash fitting, final collar seam. That's all."

Jisung nodded absently, eyes catching on his reflection in the long mirror opposite the platform.

He barely recognised himself.

The jacket fit like armour, elegant, formal, subtly imposing. The dark fabric sharpened the lines of his shoulders, and the collar framed his throat in a way that made him self-conscious. Especially now. Especially after...

He glanced away.

He hadn't seen Minho between draws. Not properly. Just glimpses. A shadow down a hall. A voice, low and measured, speaking to someone else behind closed doors. The growing distance between them felt deliberate. Protective. Like Minho had folded himself back into princely restraint and left Jisung to float outside the gates.

He told himself it was fine.

He told himself it didn't matter.

But standing here now, dressed in fabric chosen to match a prince's regalia, waiting to be pinned into place at Minho's side for the most public event of the year, it felt impossible not to think of him.

The ball was only days away.

He would stand next to Minho. Be presented beside him. All eyes on them, together.

And what then?

Would they talk?

Would Minho look at him like he had that night, heat in his eyes, want in his hands?

Or would he wear his silence like another layer of ceremonial silk?

"Good posture," Corvin said approvingly, nodding as he circled around to the front again. "Keep it when you stand next to him. You'll want to hold the line."

Jisung frowned faintly. "What line?"

Corvin smirked, slipping a pin into the hem of the sleeve. "The invisible one. Between what's shown, and what's real."

Jisung didn't respond.

Because gods help him, he wasn't sure he could tell the difference anymore.

Not where Minho was concerned.

Not when the memory of his mouth at Jisung's neck still played like a fever dream behind his eyes.

Not when every inch of the jacket felt like a promise of proximity. A whisper of: You'll stand at his side. And pretend.

"Last pin," Corvin said, stepping back.

Jisung didn't move.

He kept his eyes on the mirror.

On the reflection of someone who looked composed, formal and ready.

Even if he wasn't.

Even if his hands were shaking behind the sleeves.

Even if all he wanted, in the quiet space behind his ribs, was to feel that closeness again.

The kind that wasn't about blood, or duty, or public ceremony.

The kind that came with teeth and hands and heat and a heartbeat shared in silence.

"Final fitting tomorrow," Corvin said, snapping the cover shut on his pin box. "You'll be ready."

Jisung nodded, slowly stepping down from the platform.

But even as he walked back toward the changing room, even as he slipped free of the midnight-blue shell Corvin had carefully constructed around him, he knew the truth.

He wasn't ready.

Not for the ball.

Not for the attention.

And certainly not for Minho.

Because some part of him still hoped.

Still burned.

Still wanted.

 

____________

 

The communal dining hall was unusually loud that evening.

Louder than Jisung had ever heard it, in fact, a low, swelling buzz of conversation rising above the usual clatter of cutlery and the soft hum of overhead lights. The heavy stone columns that lined the length of the hall echoed with laughter and the rustle of shared gossip, and for once, it didn't sound forced.

There was something in the air. A tension. Not unpleasant, not quite. More like the effervescence of a shaken bottle just waiting to be uncorked.

The ball was days away.

And everyone could feel it.

Jisung took his tray from the server at the kitchen window, some kind of roasted root stew, dense with herbs and butter, and moved to his usual table near the middle. As he approached, a few familiar faces waved him down.

"Oi, Han," called Yoojin, a fellow donor from the western wing, balancing a bowl of soup precariously in one hand while sliding into her seat with the other. "Sit here. We've just gotten to the best part."

"The best part of what?" he asked, easing into the seat beside her.

"New Year's ball horror stories," came the answer from across the table, a donor named Gijun, lean and tall, his rolled sleeves already stained with something unidentifiable. "Or, well, memorable stories. Depends how you look at it."

Jisung raised an eyebrow. "Is that allowed?"

"It's not not allowed," Yoojin said, grinning. "You can't discuss your formal match, we all know that, but past visitors? Fair game. Besides, the palace likes us to be prepared, don't they?"

"They say we're assets," Gijun added dryly. "Assets need orientation."

A ripple of laughter went around the table. Jisung offered a small smile, starting in on his stew as the stories began.

"I was posted here two years ago," said a donor from the far end of the table, Felix, a blonde Australian who always seemed two seconds from laughter. "Didn't have a formal match, so I was on standby. Thought it'd be fine. Just wear the robe, stay quiet, keep near the exits. Easy."

He paused dramatically. "I made the mistake of standing too close to the drinks table."

"Oh no," groaned someone across the aisle.

Felix grinned, unapologetic. "Some young heir from the North District tried to mix my blood into his cocktail. Said he wanted to 'cut it with something spicy' - his words, not mine."

"You're joking," Jisung said, horrified.

"I wish," Felix said, with mock solemnity. "One of the guards had to step in before he tried to garnish me with a twist of lemon."

More laughter.

Yoojin took a sip of her wine and chimed in, "My first year, I was matched, but only just. Barely a week after my certification. The whole thing was a blur, I was still getting used to the palace, to feeding schedules, to the bloody corridors."

"Did your match treat you okay?"

"Oh, sure," she said. "But I wore the wrong shoes. No one tells you how long you're expected to stand. You're expected to look stately. Elegant. Like you belong there. I made it four hours before I passed out in a pile of silk by the orchestra pit."

"That was you?" Felix exclaimed, eyes widening. "I heard about that!"

"Did you?" she said sweetly. "Well, then you'll also know I threw up on the court pianist."

Jisung choked on a bite of stew.

"It's not all horror," someone else put in, Hana, a quiet donor who usually kept to herself, but whose voice now rose just enough to be heard. "A visitor last year... He danced with me. Just once. Right before the toast."

Several heads turned.

"You danced with him?" Yoojin asked, visibly intrigued. "That's rare."

"He said I looked tense," Hana said with a soft, almost shy smile. "Said it was tradition, where he was from. For a donor and vampire to mark the new year in step. I don't know if it was true, but... It was nice."

There was a pause, soft and cheerful.

And then Gijun ruined it.

"I bet he bit you behind the curtains after."

"Gijun!" half the table hissed at once, half-laughing, half-appalled.

"What? I'm just saying, romance is nice and all, but you've seen what a vampire acts like after two glasses of ceremonial wine."

There were nods at that. Murmurs of agreement. Jisung felt a chill run down his spine. Someone leaned in close, Bomi, one of the northern district donors who always wore dark gloves, and said quietly, "That's what gets dangerous, actually. They drink, they lose control. You can't blame them, not entirely. But it still happens."

"What, attacks?" someone asked.

"Not exactly," she said. "But... On rare occasions, there's illegal direct feeding. Too deep. Too long. The visitors from other countries often don't care about the law here. One donor had to be medically discharged two years ago. I heard he couldn't walk properly for weeks."

A heavier silence settled over the group at that.

Jisung didn't speak.

His mind went back, not to a stranger, not to the blurred horrors of some anonymous donor in a gilded ballroom, but to the soft, reverent way Minho's mouth had moved against his skin. The way he'd stopped. Cared. Held him up when he'd gone weak.

He hadn't taken too much.

He never had.

Even the first time, when his own life had hung in the balance.

Jisung's chest ached, sudden and strange.

More stories followed, one about a donor who'd spilled red wine down their ceremonial sash, one about a Countess from the Western isles who'd tried to "sample" five donors in a single night and ended up fainting into a hedgerow.

Jisung let the sound of laughter and bickering wash over him like warm rain.

But still, beneath it all, his thoughts drifted back to Minho.

To the upcoming night.

To what it would mean to stand beside him in front of hundreds of others, linked by a sash and ceremony. Bound by title, but also by something else. Something neither of them dared name.

His hand flexed slightly against the table.

The ball was coming.

And no story, no laughter, no fear, no cautionary tale, could change what he wanted.

Or what might happen, if Minho wanted it too.

Notes:

A bit of a calm before the storm moment? 🤔

Chapter 15: The Ball

Notes:

Just a heads up for those that aren’t on the Discord or Threads, there will be a double upload today :)

Minho stood still, spine straight as iron, as the final clasps of his ceremonial jacket were fastened into place.

The manservant at his back was efficient and quiet, his movements practised from years of dressing nobility. Minho didn't speak. He rarely did on nights like this, nights where tradition became armour, where the weight of his title bore down on him like a thundercloud.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, barely recognising himself.

The royal regalia was heavier than he expected, sharp-shouldered and unforgiving, cut from slate-grey velvet so rich it seemed to drink in the light. Black velvet panels broke the monotony with depth, edged in precise silver piping that caught at every turn. The trim was set with small silver studs, lined like military decoration, polished to a cold gleam. Looped ornamental fastenings ran down the front, more for show than for function, a carefully crafted blend of tradition and authority. Every detail was deliberate. Symbolic. A statement not just of his lineage, but of restraint, discipline, and the quiet, immovable weight of the Crown Prince.

And atop it all sat the crown itself.

He'd tried to avoid it. As he always did.

But this year, the advisors had been firm. The New Year's Eve Ball marked not only the turn of the calendar but a renewal of alliances, fealties, and old vows. Minho's public image mattered. More than ever. And the crown... Well.

The crown made things clear.

It was a masterpiece, ornate and imposing, blackened silver twisted into elaborate, barbed filigree, inlaid with black diamonds. The metal shimmered darkly under the candlelight, catching at strange angles, a reflection of both power and caution.

Minho hated it.

It didn't just sit on his head, it perched, looming like it might devour him whole if he forgot who he was supposed to be.

"There," the servant said softly, stepping back. "It's secure."

Minho gave the faintest nod. He could feel the weight of it now, a pressure that sat not just on his scalp, but behind his eyes. He adjusted the collar of his jacket himself, needing something, anything, to feel in control of.

He was ready.

At least, on the surface.

The real unrest simmered beneath it all.

Because tonight, he wouldn't just be a prince. He wouldn't just be a figurehead.

He would be standing beside Jisung.

And that, that was what unsettled him most.

He still hadn't decided whether it was the risk of being seen together, tethered and formal in front of hundreds of watching eyes, or the risk that came from being close again. From proximity. From wanting.

Minho exhaled once, slow and silent, and pressed a hand to the mirror.

Tonight would demand everything of him. Composure, grace, and the self-restraint he'd spent the better part of a century and a half cultivating.

Because Jisung would be dressed beautifully, he knew. Marked with the royal sash. Standing beside him, matched by rite and ceremony.

And Minho...

Minho would have to look at him. All night.

And not touch.

Not reach.

Not want.

Gods help him.

 

____________

 

Jisung stood still as the servant adjusted the final fastening on his shoulder, fingers deft and impersonal. It was the first time he'd ever had help dressing, the first time he'd worn anything that required it.

The uniform clung perfectly to his frame now, every button and chain gleaming in the firelit mirror before him. Midnight blue, so dark it passed for black in shadow, but shimmered to indigo where the light caught the folds. The fabric was dense and finely woven, smooth beneath his fingertips. It felt heavier than anything he'd worn before, not just in weight, but in meaning.

Navy piping trimmed the epaulettes and cuffs, regal but restrained. A broad sash, matching the uniform's body in colour but with a crimson line through the middle, cut across his chest from shoulder to hip. Embellished with polished gold buttons and ornate insignias, some royal, some symbolic, the sash pinned everything into formality, marking him unmistakably as a donor with a formal match. Minho's donor.

He couldn't look at himself too long.

There were medals too, purely decorative. A stylised crest at his breast, surrounded by subtle flourishes. Fine gold chains draped from his shoulder epaulettes, catching the light every time he moved. It was beautiful. And entirely alien.

He wasn't used to looking this way.

He wasn't sure he liked what it did to his reflection, not just the way it made him look, but the way it made him feel.

Tall.

Composed.

Like someone important.

His hair had been lightly styled for the occasion, just enough to give him shape without concealing too much softness. He looked... Polished. Finished.

Like he belonged somewhere he still wasn't convinced he did.

The servant stepped back and bowed slightly, murmuring, "You're ready, sir."

Sir.

He wasn't used to that, either.

Jisung gave a short nod, throat dry, and turned to face the corridor. Outside, the palace would already be stirring with movement. Donors being escorted to the grand hall, vampires greeting each other with clipped pleasantries and fake smiles.

Somewhere inside that glittering tide of faces would be Minho.

And Jisung would stand beside him.

Tonight, they wouldn't speak in half-whispers behind locked doors. They wouldn't be alone with their secrets and near-kisses. Tonight, everything would be on display.

He exhaled slowly, trying to steady the flutter in his chest.

Midnight blue or not, he had never felt more exposed.

But he squared his shoulders, turned on his polished heel, and stepped out into the corridor, into the night where everything was about to begin.

 

_____________

 

Minho descended the grand staircase, every step measured beneath the full weight of his ceremonial attire. The regalia pulled at his shoulders, broad-cut black velvet, the silver embroidery catching flashes of the ballroom's crystal light with every movement. Even the crown, sharp-spired and heavy, sat like a warning above his brow. He hated wearing it. Too conspicuous. Too loud. But tonight wasn't about preference. It was about display. About legacy. About control.

And control, Minho reminded himself, was the one thing he could not afford to relinquish tonight.

The doors to the ballroom had not yet been thrown open, though murmured voices already echoed faintly beyond. He veered instead through a side corridor, toward the antechamber known as the donor holding room, a quiet, clinical space carved out for protocol's convenience.

A uniformed staffer at the entrance gave him a low bow. "Your Highness."

Minho inclined his head. "Is everyone assembled?"

"Yes, Your Highness. All donors arrived promptly. Those with formal assignments are prepared and waiting."

He gave a short nod and stepped through.

The room was quiet, muted murmurs here and there, but no laughter, no idle noise. Donors stood or sat along the polished benches, all in their ceremonial uniforms: varied in colour, but all embellished, immaculate. Eyes darted to him as he entered. A few dropped into shallow bows or made space as he passed. But most simply watched. Not with hostility, just with awareness. With weight.

Minho ignored it all.

He only had eyes for one.

Jisung stood near the far end of the room, his back straight, his expression composed but not entirely blank. The midnight blue of his uniform was dark here in the low light, bordering on black. The golden accents across his chest gleamed faintly as he turned, just enough to meet Minho's gaze.

Minho inhaled once, slow and shallow.

He looked... Exquisite.

Poised, as if he'd been doing this his entire life.

And yet, Minho could see it. The slightest tremor in his fingers, the faint tightening of his jaw. A sliver of unease beneath the polish. It made something twist in his chest.

This was why he hated the Ball.

Because despite all the rules and pageantry, donors were still seen as resources. Their uniforms, their strategic placements around the room, it was all carefully orchestrated to give the illusion of honour. But in truth, tonight reduced many of them to vessels. Beautifully dressed, politely spoken, and entirely disposable.

Only those with formal matches were exempt from being shared.

And even that protection, Minho knew, was political. Conditional.

He crossed the room without breaking pace, eyes locked on Jisung's until he stood in front of him. Close, but not improperly so.

"Come," he said quietly, his voice lower than usual.

Jisung gave a small nod, gaze flickering for a second to the others in the room. Then back to Minho.

Without a word, he stepped to his side.

They exited the holding room together.

Behind them, the staff began shifting into position. The others, unmatched, unattached, would now wait. Some would be summoned throughout the evening, guided into one of the smaller feed chambers located down the corridor that branched off the main room. Each chamber was identical to the palace draw rooms, clean, clinical, and monitored by a rotating schedule of attendants. Medical-grade equipment would be used. Fresh kits readied after every feed, the room sterilised and reset within minutes.

Efficient. Professional.

Cold.

Minho hated the thought of Jisung ever having to wait in one of those rooms. Hooked up to a draw band like a nameless blood bag.

Minho didn't speak as they moved toward the ballroom's receiving corridor. He didn't have to.

He could feel the warmth of Jisung beside him. Could feel the quiet thread of trust that had somehow been built, even as everything about their arrangement strained against it.

Tonight, protocol said he would stand at Minho's right side, silent and still.

But gods help him, Minho already knew, he wouldn't be able to stop looking at him.

The ballroom shimmered under the light of a thousand crystals, every chandelier ablaze with glass and gold. The music had started soft, unobtrusive, just enough to coat the air with refinement, but the real performance was in the conversations. In the careful choreography of diplomacy, power, and pretense.

Minho stood tall beneath the crushing weight of his crown, posture impeccable, voice measured as he received greeting after greeting with the grace expected of him.

Jisung stood just behind and to his right, formally one step back, as tradition dictated, but close enough that Minho could feel his presence like gravity. Always aware. Always anchoring.

Foreign dignitaries. Highborn nobility. Council members. Ministers and magnates from every corner of the empire and beyond. Minho shook hands, bowed heads, exchanged dry pleasantries with impeccable fluency. All while his thoughts were half-caught on the steady sound of Jisung's breathing. The occasional flick of a glance from the corner of his eye. The almost imperceptible shift of movement as Jisung turned slightly to acknowledge someone, then returned to stillness.

He looked every inch the part: his deep midnight-blue uniform sculpted to his frame, catching the light in soft metallic sheens. The ceremonial sash crossing his chest bore the royal seal, a silent signal to all in the room that he was claimed. Off-limits.

It should have been enough.

It wasn't.

Because as the evening wore on, Minho caught the first signs of something brewing. A subtle hum of attention directed toward his right. At first it was nothing more than curiosity. Donors of matched rank weren't often as young as Jisung. Or as striking.

But then-

The Duke of Rehvan approached. Tall, broad, clad in heavy cream brocade trimmed with animal bone and lapis. His crown was flatter than Minho's, foreign in shape, a strange open circlet that glinted with greenish stones. His eyes were pale. Sharp. Smiling in the way a predator does, teeth visible but emotionless.

And he looked at Jisung.

Not in passing.

Not in acknowledgement.

But in appraisal.

"Your Highness," the duke said smoothly, his accent thick with the lilt of his northern coast. "A pleasure, as always."

Minho dipped his head, polite but cool. "Duke Rehvan. You honour us with your presence."

The man smiled wider. "I wouldn't miss your New Year's Eve gathering. Always such... Delectable company."

Minho didn't flinch, but his gaze sharpened by a fraction.

Rehvan's eyes flicked to Jisung again.

"And this," he said, stepping forward half a pace. "This must be your new formal donor. Beautiful. Far more captivating than your last."

Minho's spine straightened. "He's not to be touched."

"Of course, of course," Rehvan said, hands raised in mock surrender. "Merely admiring. In my country, you understand, donors serve dual functions. It's considered wasteful to restrict such rare beauty to mere blood."

Minho's expression didn't move. His voice dropped a shade colder.

"Perhaps in your country. But here, he is not available to you. For blood. Or anything else."

Jisung didn't say a word, but Minho felt the shift in his stance. The silent tension that passed between them like a secret language.

Rehvan's eyes lingered a moment too long.

And that was when it struck Minho, hot and uninvited.

Jealousy.

It hit like a blade between his ribs. Not quiet. Not dismissible.

The idea of Rehvan touching Jisung, pressing fingers to his pulse, dragging his mouth over his skin, speaking to him like something to be acquired, was nauseating.

Unthinkable.

He hated the image. Hated that it existed in his head at all.

Minho stepped slightly closer to Jisung without thinking. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to close the distance. To make a point.

To claim what was already his.

"Your Highness," Rehvan said smoothly, eyes gleaming with amusement now. "No need for alarm. I wouldn't dream of insulting your... Property."

Minho's jaw twitched.

Jisung remained perfectly still. But Minho could see the way his hands were curled at his sides, the tight control in every muscle.

"You've already done so," Minho said, soft and lethal.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Rehvan chuckled. "Spirited, as ever. I'll leave you to your evening."

And with one last lingering look, he turned and melted back into the crowd.

Minho didn't watch him go.

Instead, he turned slightly, eyes flicking to Jisung's face, still composed, but unreadable.

"You're alright?" he asked under his breath, low enough that no one else would hear.

Jisung nodded once. "Yes, Your Highness."

But Minho heard the tightness in it. The practiced deference. The lie.

He wanted to say something else. Something real.

But the crowd pressed in again. Another delegate approached. Another title to remember, another handshake, another glass of wine offered and waved away.

Still, as the evening wore on, Minho kept Jisung close.

Closer than protocol required.

Not because he had to.

But because he wanted to.

 

_____________

 

It hadn't taken much effort to understand what the foreign duke had meant.

The words were polished. Cloaked in charm. Delivered with that easy, civilised tone that made Jisung's skin crawl even more than outright cruelty ever could.

"Dual functions."
"Such rare beauty."
"Property."

He understood.

And it made him sick.

Jisung stood perfectly still beside Minho as the ball continued around them, the music rising into a more festive swell, laughter spilling like wine over polished marble and velvet. The air was thick with perfume, blood, and too many bodies in close proximity. But all he could think about was the weight behind those words.

There were other courts, other countries, where donors weren't just vessels for blood. Where being matched to a vampire didn't protect you, it meant you were owned. Touched. Used.

Reduced.

He'd heard stories, of course. Whispers in the slums when he was still D-Class. But he'd never put much weight in them. Not really. And now... Now he had a name. A face that had looked him over like inventory.

And it had chilled him to the bone.

He felt the aftertaste of it still, curled low in his stomach like rot. His hand twitched at his side, the echo of the tension still threading through his arms.

But more than anything, more than fear, or disgust, or anger, what shocked him most was Minho.

How quickly he had stepped forward.

How sharp his voice had gone. Controlled, yes. But deadly beneath the calm.

Not just defensive. Protective.

Not out of duty. Not out of decorum.

Something else.

And gods, that was what was tying knots in Jisung's chest now. Not the encounter itself, but the way Minho had responded to it.

Fierce. Possessive. Like the very idea of someone else touching Jisung was an offence. Like the thought of it physically hurt him.

Jisung's eyes flicked sideways, stealing a glance at Minho.

He stood tall again now, regal and unreadable, offering a small bow to a Duchess from the Eastern Isles. His voice was calm, his posture perfect. Not a hair out of place. The crown glittered on his head like it was an extension of his very spine.

But Jisung had felt him lean closer.

He'd felt the shift of space between them, that almost imperceptible narrowing, as if Minho's body couldn't bear the distance. As if his presence alone would be enough to shield Jisung from the eyes of the world.

Why?

Why that reaction?

It wasn't as if Minho hadn't been cold and detached for days. Ever since their last direct feed, ever since he'd told Jisung, in that quiet final tone, that they couldn't do it again. That it was too dangerous. Too much.

He'd distanced himself. Withdrawn.

And yet...

Tonight, there was no distance.

Jisung stood straighter, unsure of what to do with the hope threatening to well up in his chest. Was it foolish? To read into a single moment? Into the clench of Minho's jaw, the sharpness in his tone, the word mine unsaid but loud enough to shake him?

He didn't know.

But he felt it.

Like heat beneath his skin.

And it was that, not the disgust, not the revulsion of the foreign Duke's insinuation, that stayed with him long after the man had walked away.

Minho had chosen to stand between him and the rest of the room.

And Jisung didn't know what that meant yet.

But gods, he wanted to.

The rest of the night passed in a slow, glittering blur.

Nobody else spoke to him.

Not directly, at least. There were glances, the occasional raised brow in his direction, curious, speculative, sometimes appreciative in ways that made his skin crawl, but no more words. No more thinly veiled insinuations or probing questions.

He supposed he should be grateful for that.

Still, the silence felt oddly isolating. Like he was on display, a mannequin in ceremonial fabric, beautiful but untouchable. A decoration to stand at Minho's side while he moved through conversation after conversation, diplomats, council leaders, nobles from various provinces, distant relatives he didn't even try to memorise.

Jisung mostly stood still, nodding when necessary, hands clasped behind his back just as he'd been instructed. His ceremonial sash was beginning to chafe at the edge of his neck.

More than once, he found his eyes drifting to the massive clock at the far end of the hall.

It was a monstrous thing, all brass and gilded carvings, its face framed in curling vines of gold leaf, each hand moving with a ponderous, dignified slowness. Every time he looked, he hoped the hour hand had moved further than it had.

It hadn't.

The guests were still here. Still talking. Still drinking.

And the donors... The others... They weren't all still in the holding room.

He'd already noticed at least three disappear behind the carved side doors along the east corridor. One of them hadn't come back for over an hour. The second had returned pale and red-lipped, dazed but walking. The third, well, the third had left again with someone else shortly after returning.

Jisung tried not to think about it too hard.

Tonight, the usual curfew was irrelevant. No one would question a donor being out past ten, not when they were required to remain "on duty" for as long as the guests remained in attendance. The ball was tradition. Ceremony. But beneath the surface, he now knew, it was something darker. More indulgent.

His feet ached.

It was edging towards one o'clock. The shoes, perfectly fitted though they were, had no give, no softness. His toes felt cramped, the balls of his feet sore from hours of standing. He shifted subtly, trying to relieve the pressure, but winced when he rolled too much weight onto one side.

"What's wrong?"

The voice came low and quiet beside him, only for him.

Jisung looked up quickly. Minho hadn't turned his head, still politely nodding to the envoy in front of him, but his voice had dipped into that soft register Jisung had only heard a handful of times. Reserved. Intimate.

"Nothing," Jisung replied just as quietly, forcing a small smile. "It's fine."

Minho's eyes flicked to him properly then, attention sharpening.

"It's not nothing," he said, and there was no space for pretence in his tone. "What is it?"

Jisung sighed quietly. "Just... My feet," he admitted. "The shoes. I'm not used to standing this long in something so..." He shrugged, embarrassed. "Stiff."

Minho's gaze lowered momentarily, as if assessing the problem in real time. Then his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly.

Jisung expected him to say something pragmatic, some reminder of duty or etiquette.

Instead, Minho said softly, "Once the majority of the guests have left, we'll be able to as well."

Jisung blinked.

Minho continued, "Decorum won't allow me to leave early. Not before the key ambassadors and the highest-ranking nobles have taken their leave." He paused, voice dipping just enough for Jisung to feel the heat of it in his ear. "But once that's done, we go."

It wasn't a command. It was a promise.

And something in Jisung's chest tightened.

He nodded once, grateful, then returned his eyes to the floor for a moment, trying to quiet the restless flutter beneath his skin.

Minho didn't have to notice his discomfort. He didn't have to care. He certainly didn't have to promise him anything.

But he had.

And that... Meant more than it probably should.

Jisung looked up again, letting himself watch the curve of Minho's profile in the golden light. Regal. Composed.

And still, somehow, looking out for him.

Notes:

Is now a good time to talk about toenails?

I did something stupid and didn’t cut my toenails short before the concert. As a result of that/ two long days of being on my feet in boots that rubbed a bit, I’ve actually lost a toenail now.
It decided to vacate from the premises, and I now have to wait for it to grow back…

Don’t worry though, I won’t do that to Jisung, even if his discomfort is inspired by my own 😭

Chapter 16: The Fall

Minho's jaw was tight as he stood beside the grand doors of the ballroom, posture impeccable, outwardly serene. But inside, his thoughts fidgeted just as much as his fingers, subtly curling and uncurling at his side as if grasping for a reason to leave.

He had long since stopped caring about the diplomatic importance of the night. His mind was elsewhere, anchored to the quiet pain on Jisung's face an hour ago, the way he shifted from foot to foot in silence, trying not to complain. Minho had tried to be discreet in glancing at the clock, tracking exits, calculating thresholds. How many dignitaries needed to leave before his own absence wouldn't invite gossip? How long until decorum no longer tethered him to the dais?

Finally, at nearly two in the morning, the balance shifted.

Minho made his way through the thinning crowd, pausing only briefly to address his parents. They were seated in stately calm, observing the last of the wine-slowed conversations drifting through the hall. His mother turned toward him with mild curiosity, but when he bowed slightly and said, "I believe I've fulfilled my duties for the evening, I'll be retiring now," neither of them protested.

His father gave a small, dignified nod.

His mother offered a faint smile. "Well done, Minho."

He took it as permission, not praise.

And then they were gone.

He and Jisung stepped out from the glittering crush of music and gold into the corridor beyond. The hush was instant, jarring, as though the walls themselves had swallowed the sound. Lamplight flickered low and warm, far dimmer than the opulence they'd just escaped. The silence felt like permission to breathe.

Minho glanced sideways, just once.

The lamplight caught the gold thread woven into Jisung's sash, the subtle shimmer of embroidery tracing the edge of his fitted jacket. Each glint seemed to pull at Minho's focus like gravity, dragging his gaze across the length of Jisung's form.

His steps slowed imperceptibly.

Jisung walked without complaint, but the ache in his gait hadn't disappeared. He was clearly trying not to limp, back held stiff, shoulders square with effort.

Minho's chest tensed.

It would be nothing to lift him. He could carry him down this corridor without breaking a sweat, without effort or ceremony. Jisung wouldn't even need to ask.

But he didn't know how he'd react. Didn't want to risk his pride or mistake concern for condescension. And so he kept walking, fists clenched lightly at his sides, pretending he didn't ache to close the space between them.

They reached Jisung's door.

Minho turned slightly, ready to retreat, to disappear behind the safety of his own walls and quiet these thoughts before they grew teeth.

But then-

"Ah..." Jisung's voice halted him. "I... had help earlier. There's some fastenings I can't reach. Would you mind?"

Minho stilled.

The words slid through him like water over stone, soft, but impossible to ignore.

He swallowed once.

Jisung was asking him to stay.

To help him undress.

He nodded, once, quiet, and stepped inside.

The door closed with a quiet thud behind him, cutting them off from the rest of the palace.

Jisung moved toward the corner of the room, to the full-length mirror by the desk. He stood before it, back straight, eyes flicking up briefly to meet Minho's reflection. Then, slowly, he reached up, fingers slipping beneath the ceremonial sash, beginning to unfasten it.

Minho stepped forward.

His fingers found the hidden clasps along the back of the jacket, an intricate, near-invisible series of hooks nestled into the fabric. He undid the first one slowly, feeling the tension slide from the fabric as it loosened. Then the next. And the next.

Each movement was measured. Painfully slow. As if any haste might shatter the spell.

The jacket slipped loose at the shoulders, and Minho eased it down carefully, folding it over the chair at the writing desk next to them. Jisung was left in just his midnight-blue pants and a simple, collarless linen under-shirt, the sleeves pushed to his elbows, the soft fabric clinging slightly to the line of his shoulders.

Jisung looked up again.

Back over his shoulder.

Directly at him.

And Minho forgot how to breathe.

 

_________________

 

Suddenly, the ache in Jisung's feet didn't matter.

Didn't exist.

Because he was sure now.

It wasn't in his head, the look in Minho's eyes. The way his breath had caught, shallow and sudden, when Jisung turned his head and looked at him over his shoulder. The connection between them, once quiet and tentative, now crackled in the space like electricity waiting for a grounding point.

He hadn't imagined it.

Minho was looking at him like he was something rare. Something sacred.

His hands came up, deliberate and slow, settling on Jisung's waist. The touch was light, careful, but it grounded him, burned through the linen like a brand. Jisung stayed perfectly still, afraid even a breath might break the moment.

Then Minho moved.

His face dipped closer, and Jisung felt the subtle brush of his nose against his skin, just at the curve where his neck met his shoulder. He shivered, not from cold, but from the unbearable intimacy of it. From the knowledge that Minho was scenting him.

Savouring.

The air shifted. Slowed. Thickened around them.

Jisung let his eyes fall shut for half a second, heart stammering in his chest. His hands hung loose at his sides, unsure whether to lift and touch Minho in return or just stay still and open and waiting.

He swallowed, and Minho's hands tightened slightly at the sound. Not hard, not possessive. Just... Responsive. Present.

"Minho," Jisung breathed, unsure what he meant by it, his name a whisper, a question, a plea.

The grip at his waist tightened again almost imperceptibly.

Then, Minho spoke, low and hoarse, a confession more than a request.

"Tell me to stop."

And Jisung didn't.
Couldn't.

Instead, he turned slightly, just enough to angle his neck closer. Just enough to make the offering unmistakable.

That was all it took.

Minho exhaled sharply, almost like pain, and then lowered his head. His lips found the crook of Jisung's neck first, a gentle brush. Then the heat of his tongue, the slow drag against sensitive skin. And then-

Fangs.

The press of them, the ache of it, the pull.

Jisung's hand flew up, instinctive, threading into Minho's hair. Not pushing, not resisting, instead pulling Minho closer to him. His fingers curled at the base Minho's skull, and he let out a gasp as the bite took hold.

The world shifted.

There it was again, colour behind his eyes. Taste without flavour. Sound without source. Synaesthesia in full bloom.

The pressure of Minho's mouth translated into starlight.

The tug of his blood felt like music, deep cello notes reverberating through the cage of his ribs.

Everything else fell away. The ache in his feet, the tightness in his chest, the rules that said this shouldn't happen, couldn't happen, gone. Burned away by the heady, floating euphoria that overtook every corner of him.

He was full of light.

He was outside his body and in it all at once.

And Minho, gods, Minho, was still holding him like something precious. Not a prince claiming property that was his. Not a vampire drunk on power. But a man trembling at the edge of want, and doing his best to make desire look like restraint.

Jisung's breath hitched again, this time louder. A soft whimper curling in his throat, because he didn't know what else to do with the overload. It wasn't pain. It wasn't even pleasure in the normal sense.

It was more.

Minho slowed the pull, just slightly, enough for the world to begin to return in hazy waves. Jisung's blood still thrummed through both of them, bright and alive, but the moment was softening now.

And Minho...

Minho hadn't moved.

He was still pressed against him, mouth lingering at the bite, breathing uneven.

Jisung kept his hand in his hair, fingers trembling now.

Jisung felt Minho's tongue swipe gently over the bite, the motion unhurried, almost indulgent, like he was savouring the taste even now. A tremor ripped through him, stealing his breath and curling his toes inside the confines of his polished shoes. His fingers were still knotted in Minho's hair, but his grip slackened slightly, overwhelmed by the sensitivity flooding his nervous system.

The lick became a press, a soft seal of lips against the punctures, as though Minho was closing the wound with a kind of sensitivity that felt almost worshipful. Jisung exhaled shakily, head tilting back just a little more, surrendering to the moment.

Then Minho pulled back.

Not far. Just enough to breathe. Enough to use both of his hands to steady Jisung at his waist as he slowly turned him in place until they were face to face again. The low lamplight from the wall spilled across the planes of Minho's face, highlighting the restraint in his eyes and the longing pooled beneath it.

Jisung's pulse skipped.

Minho's hand came up, carefully, almost as if he were touching something delicate. His palm cradled Jisung's cheek, warm and solid. The contact sent a scatter of sparkling colours exploding behind Jisung's eyes, golds and pale purples and silver-edged blue, like stained glass catching fire.

Jisung let out a soft, unbidden sound, half gasp, half sigh.

Minho's thumb brushed once across his cheekbone.

He leaned in.

And Jisung knew.

This time, it was going to happen.

No hesitation.

No veiled almosts.

Minho's lips found his with aching slowness.

The kiss wasn't demanding. It wasn't desperate.

It was... Considered.

Like Minho wanted to memorise the shape of him, every curve, every softness, every tremble.

Jisung's entire body lit up.

The blood between them pulsed like a shared rhythm, still humming with the afterglow of the feed. And in the kiss, that connection only deepened. Jisung could taste his blood in Minho's mouth, but it wasn't jarring. It wasn't grotesque.

It was overwhelming.

There was the metallic tang of blood, yes, but it bloomed immediately into something else. Cherries. Ripe and sticky-sweet, like they'd been plucked still sun-warm from the tree and crushed between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Then cinnamon, sharp and comforting, curling heat low in his belly. Smoke followed. Not harsh, but soft, like burning cedar or incense caught in heavy velvet curtains.

And deeper still, flavours he couldn't name. Like dark earth and rain-soaked bark, like the feeling of falling asleep in safety. Familiar and foreign at once. And still, the somehow soundless spill of music across his mind.

Minho angled his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and Jisung's knees nearly gave out.

His hand slid to the fabric of Minho's ceremonial coat, clinging for balance, for closeness, for something to anchor himself against the sensory hurricane that threatened to unravel him.

Because it was too much.

And not enough.

Jisung let himself melt into it, lips parting further, inviting. The kiss turned languid, then heady, more confident, less careful. Minho's other hand came to his back, sliding up the line of his spine with aching precision. Jisung could feel the press of his fingers through the thin linen of his shirt, feel every tremor, every shift, magnified by the lingering synaesthetic haze.

Minho tasted like him. And yet... Not.

There was something else in the mix. Something uniquely his. Like wild mint crushed underfoot, or the sensation of moonlight over bare skin. Cool, sharp, electric.

Jisung shivered.

Minho broke the kiss slowly, gently. His lips hovered just above Jisung's, their breath mingling. For a second, neither of them moved. The silence between them stretched long and tender, filled only with the sound of ragged breathing.

Jisung's eyes fluttered open. Minho was still so close. His gaze searched Jisung's, unreadable, wide and dark and stormy with something not quite nameable.

And Jisung?

He was undone.

Completely.

Utterly.

Willingly.

His mouth still tingled, his skin still sang, and behind his eyes the world had not returned to normal. He didn't want it to. Not yet.

Because here, held in Minho's hands, with blood in his mouth and fire in his limbs, was the only place that felt real.

 

______________

 

Minho hovered there, lips barely parted, breath slow and shallow where it mingled with Jisung's. His eyes searched the space between them like it held an answer he hadn't known he was looking for.

He'd kissed him.

Not on impulse. Not because of hunger. Not even because of the taste that still lingered faintly on his tongue like something sacred.

He'd kissed him because he wanted to.

And Jisung had kissed him back.

And that realisation landed in his chest with the quiet weight of inevitability.

Minho pulled back just enough to see Jisung's face, his flushed cheeks, the dazed, half-lidded eyes, the way his lips were still faintly parted like he was caught mid-breath, mid-thought, mid-feeling. As if a single word from Minho would undo him.

Gods. He looked...

Beautiful wasn't the right word.

Too soft.

Too distant.

No, Jisung looked vivid. Like something alive in the way very few things ever truly were. Like blood warm in the mouth. Like music vibrating under the skin. Like colour that didn't need light to be seen.

And Minho's hand was still on his waist.

Still holding him.

He hadn't even realised.

Carefully, reluctantly, he loosened his grip, drawing one hand back to rest over his own chest, the other brushing down the back of Jisung's arm as if to steady him, or maybe himself. He was trying to think clearly again, to breathe like a man who hadn't just done the one thing he'd sworn not to do.

But clarity didn't come.

Only feeling.

Warmth, still blooming along the seam of his lips.

The ghost of sweetness and salt still layered on his tongue.

The taste of Jisung still in him, not just in his blood, but in the way his body felt lighter. Fuller. Like something vital had shifted into place without him noticing.

He had fed tonight.

He'd kissed him.

And it wasn't enough.

That was the most dangerous part.

Minho closed his eyes briefly, willing his pulse to steady, the flicker of desire to dim. It didn't. It only settled deeper, like roots curling into the hollow places inside him.

He opened them again. Jisung hadn't moved.

Still watching him.

Still waiting.

Minho's voice, when it came, was soft. Frayed at the edges.

"...You should sleep."

It was all he could manage.

Because if he didn't leave now, if he stayed even a moment longer, he wasn't sure what he would do next. And for once, it had nothing to do with blood.

And yet...

As Minho stood there, breath still uneven, heart pounding with something far too human, a traitorous part of him, buried deep but burning, hoped that Jisung would say it.

That he'd ask for the impossible.

That he'd whisper 'stay' in that warm, trembling voice of his. That he'd close the distance again, reach out, tug him back in, mouth still swollen from the kiss they'd just shared.

That he'd give Minho the excuse he needed to forget himself.

Because Minho knew he'd say yes.

He wouldn't hesitate.

If Jisung asked, gods, if he begged, Minho would forget every rule. Every line. Every threadbare piece of logic he'd clung to like armour. He would stay. He would feed again. He would kiss him until the taste of him was written into his bones.

But...

Jisung didn't ask.

He didn't speak at all.

Just stood there, lips flushed, chest still rising and falling in delicate rhythm, eyes wide with something unreadable. Something that might have been longing. Or fear. Or restraint.

Minho didn't know.

He didn't dare guess.

So instead, he nodded. Just once. Barely a movement at all. Like it cost him something.

He turned toward the door, his hand tightening briefly on the latch before he pulled it open. The corridor beyond was dim, quiet, a corridor like any other. But it felt cold. Empty. Like he was stepping out of colour and back into shadow.

He didn't look back.

Didn't give himself the luxury.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click. Final. Too final.

And the second it shut, the ache settled in his chest again. Worse this time. Sharper. Lonelier.

Minho pressed his palm flat against the wood for a breath too long, eyes closed, willing the echo of Jisung's heartbeat to fade from his ears.

It didn't.

It followed him down the corridor, steady and warm like a curse he'd chosen.

 

_______________

 

Jisung woke slowly, like rising through water. The first thing he felt was heat, low and steady beneath his skin, like the embers of something that hadn't quite burned out. His pulse thudded soft and even, but his body still remembered.

The bite.
The kiss.

He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth without thinking. It was still tender. Not bruised, not swollen, but marked in a way he couldn't see. Not physically. But it was there. The way Minho had leaned into him like he couldn't stop. The way Jisung had tasted the essence of himself on Minho's tongue, mingled with dark cherries, smoke, cinnamon, something molten and strange and absolutely unforgettable.

His neck still tingled.

Not in pain. Not in discomfort. But a sensation like memory made tactile. Like his body refused to forget what it had felt like to be touched like that. Bitten like that. Held and kissed like something fragile and treasured and wanted.

He swallowed.

The sheets rustled around him as he shifted, every nerve still tuned to the ghost of Minho's hands. His waist. His back. His face.

And then came the thought he hadn't let himself have last night:

What now?

Because they had crossed a line. No, they'd obliterated it. The rules were no longer smudged but shattered.

And Minho... He'd left. Pulled away before Jisung could ask him to stay, before either of them could say anything that might make it worse.

He hadn't said it was a mistake.

But he hadn't said anything at all.

Jisung turned his face into the pillow, exhaling slowly. He didn't regret it. Not even a little. But that only made it worse. Because now he knew. Now he understood just how far he would go to feel Minho's mouth at his throat, his lips at his own, his hands grounding him while the rest of the world spun apart.

He'd given him everything.

And he would do it again.

So what would happen next?

Would Minho return to ignoring him again? Re-establish that iron-clad restraint like the past few weeks hadn't cracked it open?

Or... Was that crack permanent now?

Jisung didn't know.

But the uncertainty burned almost as hot as the kiss had.

Notes:

So uh… Yeah. Things are starting to happen now 🙃

Chapter 17: The Matched Pair

The corridors were quiet.

A rare thing, especially after an event like the New Year's Ball. Jisung's footsteps echoed a little too loudly on the polished stone as he made his way toward the infirmary wing, the air around him still thick with last night's scent, rosemary oil, spiced wine, expensive perfumes clinging to velvet and skin.

He tugged at the collar of his shirt for the third time.

He'd checked his neck in the mirror before leaving. Twice. Maybe three times. Not out of vanity, but out of necessity. What he and Minho had done... What Minho had taken from him...

It should've left a mark.

But it hadn't.

Not visibly, at least.

No twin pinpricks. No bruising. No blood.

The skin was smooth, unbroken. A faint flush had risen to the surface, sure, but Jisung was almost certain that was just him. Just heat crawling up his spine whenever he thought about it.

The weight of Minho's hands on his waist.

The breath against his skin.

The impossible drag of fangs followed by the soft, reverent lap of Minho's tongue.

Jisung shook his head hard, willing the flush to recede. It didn't help.

He couldn't tell if the warmth burning in his chest was memory or biology. Maybe both.

He rounded the last corner leading to the wellness wing and exhaled quietly, already rehearsing what he might say. Not that he had anything to hide, exactly, but if anyone looked too closely, if anyone asked the wrong question, would they know? Would they suspect?

He was fine.

More than fine.

That was the problem.

After a direct feed like that, raw, unfiltered, intimate, he should have needed to rest. Should have experienced dizziness, fatigue, or numbness that lasted for days.

Jisung had woken up humming with energy. The world around him had colour. His appetite was ravenous. His body felt lighter.

Better.

His neck, apparently, agreed.

He didn't know what kind of regenerative quirks his bloodline might carry, none of the physicians had been able to pinpoint the source of his blood's "unusual resilience", but whatever it was, it had cleaned up after Minho like the whole thing had never happened.

Except it had.

And Jisung still felt it everywhere.

He stepped into the whitewashed hallway of the wellness wing and tried to compose himself, even as his pulse betrayed him.

It wasn't guilt.

Not really.

But it felt like a secret written on his skin, and he wasn't sure how long he could keep pretending it wasn't there.

Jisung barely paused as he walked through the open door of the familiar treatment room.

The space was bright, sterile as ever, soft white light diffused through frosted windows, clean linens folded with precision, the faint scent of medicinal herbs clinging to the air. It didn't smell unpleasant. Just... Clinical. Comforting, in a distant kind of way.

"Ah, Jisung," came the calm voice of one of the nurses. "Right on time, as usual."

He offered her a faint smile, already slipping off his jacket and rolling up his sleeve without being asked. The motions had become second nature. Sit on the padded cot. Offer the arm. Let her check pulse and temperature and hydration and whatever routine checks are required. Answer the same questions. Smile when prompted.

He wasn't sure when it had stopped feeling strange. Sometime around week six, maybe. After the nausea faded. After he stopped flinching every time a cuff tightened around his arm.

"Your colour looks better this week," the nurse commented, glancing over her small set of instruments. "And your heart rate's good. Resting a little high, but nothing concerning."

He gave a non-committal hum in response.

She raised a brow at him. "Sleeping well?"

"Mm-hm."

"Any headaches? Dizziness?"

"No."

She scribbled something quickly on her tablet, then moved to press her fingers against the inside of his wrist, counting under her breath. He watched her lips form the numbers. It kept his mind from drifting. From thinking too much.

Because if he thought too much, he might remember Minho's mouth on his neck. And then he might blush. And then she might notice.

She moved on. Checked his pupils. His temperature. Looked over his blood pressure reading with a satisfied nod. "Hydration's optimal. You've been drinking more water?"

"Trying to." He wasn't. But maybe the soup he'd had last night counted for something.

"Still exercising regularly?"

"Every day."

That, at least, was true. Movement helped. It stopped the memories from crashing into him too hard, gave his body something to do while his thoughts churned in silence.

"And the draw frequency?"

"Once a week."

"Any unscheduled draws?"

There was a brief pause before he answered. Too brief to register as hesitation, he hoped.

"No. Nothing like that."

She marked it down.

Jisung shifted slightly on the cot, willing his leg to stop bouncing.

She moved on to the final stage, drawing a small vial of blood for internal monitoring. He watched the scarlet ribbon wind into the glass with a detached curiosity. It felt clinical now. Distant. This didn't affect him the way it used to.

Only Minho's mouth ever did that.

Gods.

Focus.

"You're looking strong," the nurse said after a moment, sealing the vial and labelling it with tidy handwriting. "Healthier, actually, than when you first arrived. Have you noticed any changes yourself?"

He blinked. "Changes?"

"Energy. Recovery time. Sleep. That sort of thing."

Jisung paused, choosing his words carefully. "I think... I bounce back faster now. I feel like I recover from the draws quicker than I did at first."

She nodded, thoughtful. "Some of your readings are remarkably stable for someone with a regular draw schedule. I've had to recalibrate your averages three times."

She sounded more intrigued than concerned, but still, he felt the tightness in his chest creep up a notch.

"Should I be worried?"

"No," she said quickly. "It's not dangerous. Just unusual."

Unusual.

That word again.

He'd heard it a dozen times since arriving. Whispered in reports. Written in margins. Murmured between nurses.

She offered him a reassuring smile and stood. "We'll monitor. But whatever it is, it's working in your favour. You're adapting faster than most."

He nodded, though something about the word 'adapting' made his stomach twist.

After a moment, she stepped back and said, "You're all done. Feel free to go. I imagine they'll want everyone well-rested before tonight's closing ceremony."

"Closing ceremony?"

She gave him a curious look. "Oh, I thought you knew. The royal family always hosts a private supper after the ball. Smaller group. Just higher nobility, family... And matches."

Matches.

Right.

Jisung nodded once, slipping his sleeve back down over his arm as he stood.

"Thanks," he murmured, and left the room before she could notice how tightly he was gripping his own wrist.

Because there was nothing left on his neck.

No mark.

No wound.

No proof.

But he still felt it.

Still felt him.

Everywhere.

 

______________

 

Minho felt good.

No. That wasn't quite the right word.

He felt... Buoyant.

It wasn't a term he'd ever applied to himself before, not in a long lifetime shadowed by protocol, responsibility, the quiet suffocation of legacy. He wasn't someone who floated through the world. He was grounded. Anchored. Heavy with the weight of lineage.

And yet...

This morning, his feet barely seemed to touch the stone of the corridor as he walked. Every breath felt cleaner, deeper. His limbs moved with an ease that felt luxurious somehow, not laziness, not indulgence, just... Ease. His coat swung lightly around his calves. His shoulders didn't ache from tension like they usually did.

He could still feel Jisung's breath against his lips. Still taste the kiss, rich with blood and something warmer, cherries, cinnamon, smoke. Still see the way his pupils had blown wide, as though he were seeing stars from the inside out.

Minho had kissed him.

That part kept looping, repeating, like a ripple in time.

He stepped into his private study, the doors clicking shut behind him. Without thinking about it, he crossed to his desk, flicked the hidden switch beneath the drawer, and retrieved the small bundle of reports he'd had delivered.

Medical readings. Donor health summaries.

He peeled the seal from the envelope and unfolded the top sheet, skimming quickly until he found the name he was looking for.

Han Jisung.

His eyes danced over the notes.

Hydration: excellent. Resting heart rate: stable. Haemoglobin levels: optimal. No sign of depletion. Elevated cell turnover consistent with prior readings. Strong rebound time post-draw. No other abnormalities detected.

Minho exhaled slowly.

Good.

He hadn't taken too much. Hadn't caused damage. The readings were even stronger than last month.

Minho's gaze lingered on the words.

Jisung was a mystery. One that was quickly becoming an obsession.

Not just because of his blood, though, gods, the blood was extraordinary.

But because of the way he responded. Because of the way he looked at Minho like he wanted to be devoured. Like he was offering something more than just blood.

And the kiss...

Minho hadn't planned it. Truly, he hadn't. But when Jisung looked at him like that, all soft and open and shimmering with the afterglow of the bite, it had felt inevitable.

And now that he'd had it, he wanted more.

He wanted to taste him again. Feed from him again. Kiss him again, and again and again until he memorised the shape of it. Until it no longer felt like a miracle.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, the report still open in his lap.

They couldn't keep risking direct feeds like this. Not without strategy. Not without stealth.

If they were caught...

But that wasn't an option.

Minho would not be caught.

He was the Crown Prince. Trained from birth in the art of subtlety, control, and execution. And now he had something worth protecting.

He would find a way. He would orchestrate it. Make it seem incidental, inevitable. Create space and timing where no one could question their presence. He'd call for draws in private chambers under pretexts if necessary. Find rooms with no witnesses. Lock doors.

Because Jisung was his.

His donor.

His secret.

And if Minho had anything to do with it, no one would ever know. Except the two of them.

There was a knock at the door.

Minho barely looked up, still turning the phrase "no other abnormalities detected" over in his mind like a prayer.

"Your Highness?" his steward's voice filtered through the heavy oak. "Your manservant is waiting in your chambers. He's prepared to assist you in dressing for the Closing Ceremony."

Minho blinked.

The what?

He straightened abruptly, his spine protesting from where he'd half-sunk into the armchair, and cursed under his breath. The Closing Ceremony. Of course. The formal conclusion to the New Year's festivities.

Mandatory attendance. Impeccable dress. Another glittering, stifling palace affair.

Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew about it. Had been briefed a dozen times. But between political meetings, the daily reports, and the... Unplanned developments with Jisung, it had entirely slipped his mind.

"Tell him I'll be there shortly," Minho said, rising to his feet.

The steward bowed through the door and disappeared down the corridor, his footsteps echoing back like a reminder of everything Minho had just forgotten.

He crossed to the mirror. Adjusted his collar. Ran a quick hand through his hair.

And began to think.

There would be a receiving line. A formal procession. Dinner. Speeches. A ceremonial toast. None of it particularly conducive to privacy.

But...

He closed his eyes briefly, his thoughts sharpening. If he could slip away partway through the reception, during the mingling phase, when the guests had scattered, he could easily disappear with Jisung. Or ask for a private draw under the pretense of needing a steadying feed before delivering the closing words.

Perfectly plausible. Politically acceptable. Nobles wouldn't question it. Several would likely be seeking supplemental draws themselves by that point in the evening.

And with the high-profile nature of the event, the staff would be preoccupied. It wouldn't be difficult to ensure they were left alone for a time.

Not long.

Just long enough.

Long enough to feed from him again. Feel that heat surge through him like liquid sunlight. And, if the gods were merciful, press Jisung back against something solid and taste his mouth again.

Minho turned from the mirror, pulse ticking faster now. He crossed the room, grabbed the tailored jacket he was meant to wear, then paused.

He turned back to the armoire, seeking through it for a colour he was sure he had contained there.

Midnight blue.

Not unlike Jisung's formal garb.

Unintentional harmony, he told himself. But even that small thread of connection sent something warm curling through his chest.

He would make it work.

He would see him again, properly, tonight.

And this time, he'd be ready for it.

 

_______________

 

The knock at the door came just as he was finishing his tea.

Sharp. Palace-trained.

Jisung set his cup down, wiping his fingers against the side of his pants before moving to answer. He didn't need to ask who it was, the palace only knocked like that when it wanted something.

A manservant stood crisply in the corridor, already holding the neatly folded set of deep midnight blue that had been collected from his room for cleaning this morning.

"You've been summoned to the Closing Ceremony, sir," the man said, with a respectful incline of his head. "You'll be expected at His Highness's side. The prince requested your formal attire."

Jisung blinked, pulse already jumping.

Another night. Already?

"Of course," he managed, stepping aside so the servant could enter. "Is it the same outfit as yesterday?"

"Yes, sir. I've brought fresh linen under-garments. The jacket and pants have been cleaned and pressed. I'll assist with the fastenings."

Jisung nodded, then turned and padded across the room to where the wardrobe doors stood open. On instinct, his eyes drifted down, there, in the corner, were the polished formal shoes from last night. Gleaming. Merciless.

He grimaced.

"I'll take care of the pants and boots," he said quickly. "I just need help with the jacket again."

The servant hesitated but didn't argue. Jisung waited until the man turned his back, then quietly retrieved a softer pair of evening shoes from under his bed, midnight suede, lower heel, far more forgiving.

After he'd slipped on his pants, rhe servant began with the undershirt, fitting the fabric flush against Jisung's body, his motions professional and efficient. Jisung stood still, arms loose at his sides, letting the process carry him like clockwork. He barely noticed the way the shoulder seams tightened when the jacket was fastened, or the way the velvet shimmered black-blue when the lamplight caught it.

His thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

"Do you know what happens at the ceremony?" he asked, breaking the silence.

The servant paused briefly before responding. "It's the official close of the midwinter court season. There will be a formal procession, then a ceremonial toast and a formal dinner followed by speeches from the King, Queen, and Crown Prince. The rest of the evening is... Less structured. A final opportunity for guests to take their leave, make quiet negotiations, or indulge in whatever last excesses they feel compelled to."

Jisung nodded faintly.

Excesses.

Right.

He didn't want to think about the "facilities" again. The rooms with equipment and donors like him inside them. He certainly didn't want to be reminded of the way some of the guests had looked at him the night before, like he was something they could order and consume.

And yet, beneath that unease... His pulse continued to tick faster. A restless beat behind his ribs.

Because tonight, he would be at Minho's side again.

Another night with the prince who had kissed him with blood on his tongue and desire in his hands. Another night to stand beside him, to be near him, his matched donor, marked and chosen.

It made something flutter in his chest.

"Thank you," he said softly as the manservant stepped back and nodded, satisfied with his work.

The servant bowed once, and exited without further word.

The room fell quiet again, just the whisper of his breath and the flicker of the candles.

Jisung turned slowly to face the mirror.

He looked... Regal again.

He looked like someone who belonged beside a prince.

The thought made Jisung's heart stutter.

He swallowed and studied his reflection a little longer, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the sharp tailoring. The midnight blue fabric still shimmered when he moved, catching glints of candlelight in a way that made it seem alive, more like magic than cloth. His sash sat perfectly over his shoulder, and even the softer shoes, hidden beneath tailored trousers, didn't diminish the formality of the look.

He looked the part.

But more importantly... He felt it.

Not just a donor. Not just another pawn in some court's politics. But someone... Chosen. Wanted. By him.

Minho.

The name echoed in his mind like a struck bell. A tremor pulsed low in his spine, memory rising unbidden: the heat of Minho's breath on his skin, the sharp pleasure of fangs, the taste of cherries and smoke on his tongue. The press of his body. The kiss.

Gods.

Would it happen again?

He'd barely slept last night, body still buzzing with the aftermath of the bite, the kiss, the way Minho had touched him like he was precious, like he was dangerous. He'd lain awake replaying it in endless detail, convinced that no amount of time would be enough to dull it. And now, with the closing ceremony only hours away, that question loomed huge and burning in his chest.

Will it end the same way?

Would there be another late walk through darkened halls? Another charged silence outside his door?

Another excuse to ask for help?

Another invitation to be touched?

He licked his lips, pulse ticking faster. He wanted it. Gods, he wanted it again. The kiss, the bite, all of it. The surrender.

But what if it didn't happen?

What if the moment had passed, and the danger of it had sunk in enough that Minho wouldn't risk it again?

What if all tonight brought was ceremony, and long silences, and the quiet ache of what almost was?

He turned from the mirror and moved to the door, fingers grazing the edge of the polished wood.

There was no way to know.

But his skin buzzed with the possibility.

And whatever happened tonight... He knew one thing for sure.

He would be watching Minho.

And hoping.

The holding room was already half full when Jisung stepped inside, the low murmur of conversation underscored by the soft rustle of fine fabrics and polished shoes against marble. The atmosphere tonight was different, buzzing, but subdued, like a tide waiting to crest. There was anticipation, but also fatigue. A long season drawing to its close.

A few familiar faces nodded in greeting. Jisung found himself near a cluster of fellow donors, some still adjusting their cuffs or smoothing down embroidered lapels. Hakyung offered a smile.

"Looking sharp," she said, tugging her sash into place. "I heard the dinner tonight is going to be absurd. Sea Bass, whole glazed fruits, wine that's been ageing since the war ended."

"Which war?" someone muttered.

"All of them, apparently."

A laugh rippled around the group, soft but genuine. Someone mentioned spiced custards and another swore they caught a glimpse of chocolate-dusted truffles being ferried past the kitchen doors earlier.

Jisung tried to join in, smiling when appropriate, nodding when something warranted agreement. But the truth was, his attention kept sliding. He couldn't quite relax. He couldn't stop wondering how long he'd have to wait until Minho arrived, and he could be with him again.

He didn't have to wonder for long.

The quiet hush fell like a velvet curtain across the room.

It began at the far end, closest to the doors, and rippled outward. Words faltered mid-sentence. Movements stilled. Heads turned.

Jisung followed their gaze-

-and his breath caught.

Minho.

Standing in the doorway.

No guards. No fanfare. Just him.

But gods, what a sight.

The prince's hair had been styled away from his face, crown resting steady against the dark sweep of it. His ceremonial garments were a rich, impossibly deep blue, so dark they seemed black until the light struck them, revealing that subtle midnight sheen.

The same as mine, Jisung realised.

His chest tightened.

The cut of Minho's coat was sharper, more severe, accented with filigreed gold embroidery along the collar and sleeves. A gold chain draped across one side of his chest anchored by a brooch in the shape of a stylised star. The silhouette was regal, commanding, but somehow still matched the softer lines of Jisung's ensemble.

Together, they didn't just look coordinated.

They looked like two halves of a whole.

Jisung stood, barely realising he was moving, just as Minho's eyes found his. The prince's gaze swept over him in a single, unreadable moment, but it lingered. Not just a polite check, but seeing him. Taking him in.

Minho didn't smile.

But something in his expression softened, just for a heartbeat.

And then he spoke.

"Ready?" he asked.

His voice wasn't loud, but the quiet that followed gave it weight.

Jisung nodded once, steadying himself.

"Always."

Notes:

I can’t lie… I’m so not ready for DominATE to be over.
I watched the livestreams (with difficulty), and sobbed multiple times at the idea of it being the last S-Class kick it, the last Socialpath circle, the last Cover Me high notes, the last Han Blind Spot dance, the last… Everything.

Anybody else in mourning right now? 😭

Chapter 18: The Sixth Course

Minho's boots rang softly against the marble floor as they moved together into the Grand Hall, the swell of orchestral music drifting down from the gallery above like smoke.

The procession was flawless.

Each matched pair, each noble and donor, followed a precise order of entrance, choreographed down to the second. It was designed to impress, to intimidate, to uphold the grandeur of the court.

Minho barely noticed any of it.

His focus was beside him.

Jisung moved with quiet confidence, his face calm, chin lifted slightly in a way that felt practiced. But Minho could feel the thrum of tension underneath, could sense it, in the way Jisung's sleeve shifted when his elbow moved ever so slightly closer.

Gods, how he wanted to offer his arm.

To make it obvious. To let the court see what he'd already accepted.

That he wanted him.

Not just as a donor. Not just for blood.

But that was a step he could not take here. Not in front of everyone.

So instead, Minho walked beside him, allowing the back of his hand to brush lightly, intentionally, against the velvet of Jisung's sleeve with every second step. The contact was maddening in its restraint. Barely there.

He saw the flicker of a breath that Jisung took in response. Saw the faintest flush begin to bloom at the base of his throat. No one else would have noticed it. But Minho did.

And it settled something wild in his chest.

The Grand Hall stretched out before them, a masterpiece of symmetry and decadence. Golden candelabras stood at precise intervals, casting warm halos of light against the high vaulted ceiling. Velvet drapes framed each window, pooling like spilled ink on the floor, and from every arch hung delicate crystalline garlands that caught the light like stars.

But the centrepiece, the thing that commanded every eye, was the dining table.

It spanned the entire length of the hall, a single, gleaming expanse of dark polished wood lacquered to a glass-smooth finish. Runners of crushed silk and deep velvet ran the centre, overlapped with scattered rose petals and pieces of raw-cut crystal that glinted like ice in firelight.

Crystal goblets were already filled with wine. Golden charger plates gleamed beneath layers of folded damask napkins. Even the cutlery looked impossibly elegant, polished forks with onyx-inlaid handles, knives honed to surgical perfection.

The seating had been predetermined. Minho led Jisung the final few steps along the length of the table, ignoring the ripple of glances from courtiers they passed.

When they reached their place, he turned, resting one hand on the back of a high-backed chair.

He looked at Jisung.

Motioned gently.

"Here."

His voice was soft, private. For Jisung alone.

Jisung blinked, clearly surprised for a second at the courtesy, but nodded. He moved to sit, and Minho pushed the chair in for him with an ease that felt far too natural. His fingers grazed the back of Jisung's shoulder just once, just enough to make contact, before withdrawing.

Minho took the seat beside him.

He didn't look at anyone else.

Didn't care to.

Not when the one person he wanted to look at was now right next to him, framed by candlelight and velvet, lips parted slightly in surprise, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

And gods help him, Minho thought...

He looked like he belonged there.

The first course was brought in with fanfare.

Not a word spoken from the staff, but the silent arrival of the uniformed servers, each one in identical black waistcoats with silver embroidery, was a ceremony unto itself. They moved in unison, perfectly timed, placing each dish with elegant precision before vanishing into the wings again, only to return moments later with the next set of plates.

Minho, seated near the head of the table, was among the first to receive his course: a delicately folded parcel of pheasant pâté nestled in a sliver of crisped brioche, crowned with pickled pear and a whisper of saffron jelly.

He didn't touch it.

Instead, he reached for his wine glass with one hand and shifted his fork with the other, toying with the dish absently while turning his attention to the noble seated across from him, Lord Nireth, a cousin from the Southern court.

"I understand the grain tariffs are due to be renegotiated in the new year," Minho said, tone light, conversational. "Have the regional governors agreed to table the vote again?"

Lord Nireth perked up, clearly not expecting Minho to open with trade policy, but grateful for the invitation. "Ah, yes, Your Highness. The Tri-Federation bloc is lobbying for another deferral. I expect we'll see another set of concessions, if not outright threats, before spring."

Minho nodded, eyes trained on the man but focus elsewhere entirely. He shifted a bite of pheasant across his plate. Smoothed the jelly with his knife.

Still not eating.

Not until Jisung had been served.

He could feel him beside him. The quiet composure in the line of his shoulders, the way his hands rested lightly on his lap, waiting. He hadn't spoken. Hadn't moved. Was just... Waiting. Proper. Patient. Unnoticed by most.

But not by Minho.

Never by Minho.

Another wave of staff emerged, trays balanced expertly between hands. The donor courses were simpler by tradition but no less exquisite: each plate a flawless presentation of warm rosemary bread, sweet-roasted root vegetables, and a delicately braised cut of sea bass glazed with white wine and lemon.

The plate was placed gently before Jisung.

Only then did Minho move.

He speared a small piece of food and brought it to his mouth with measured precision, finally letting himself eat. The flavours were balanced, well-executed, precisely what he expected from a palace chef. It would have satisfied any other evening.

But tonight, he didn't care about pheasant or politics or saffron jelly.

Because beside him, Jisung had just taken his first bite, and made a sound.

It was soft.

Barely audible over the hum of conversation and clink of silver.

But Minho heard it.

A quiet, involuntary mmh of delight. Low in his throat, just a breath of sound, but enough to derail every thought Minho had managed to string together.

His hand faltered mid-movement. His fork clinked softly against his plate.

He blinked.

Jisung, oblivious to the reaction he'd caused, was chewing with obvious appreciation, eyes fluttered closed for just a second as he swallowed, a faint smile playing at his lips.

Minho forced his hand steady again.

Took another bite of food he didn't taste.

He shifted slightly in his chair, every muscle drawn tight beneath his regal façade.

Gods.

This was going to be a very long dinner.

The second course was a crystal-clear consommé, poured tableside into shallow porcelain bowls already cradling specks of wild mushroom and slivered shallot confit.

The third, seared venison, velvet-dark and blood-warm, paired with blackcurrant jus and smoked potato mille-feuille.

Then fourth, a cheese course, rich and varied. Sharp ash-rolled goat, truffled brie, a citrusy wedge of blue veined through with honey. A serving of spiced fruit preserve and toasted hazelnuts glistened in the centre of each plate.

Throughout it all, the wine never stopped flowing.

Gilded crystal goblets refilled before they'd fully emptied. Amber-hued aperitifs, plum-rich reds, crystal-clear white wines.

Minho sipped only occasionally, more out of obligation than thirst. He was too focused on timing. Waiting.

Watching.

Jisung had been quiet. Courteous. Perfectly composed, save for a few more soft, pleased sounds that escaped him here and there, especially during the venison course. Each one set Minho's nerves sparking like struck flint. Every glance at his wrist, at the gentle lines of his jaw, sent heat unfurling behind Minho's ribs.

By the time the final course was brought in, dessert, Minho could feel the change in the room.

The energy had shifted.

Gone was the brittle, ceremonial restraint of the first hour. In its place: indulgence. Laughter too loud, cheeks flushed, conversation flowing thick with bravado and excess.

Dessert was a lavish affair, dark chocolate torte flecked with gold, served with chocolate truffles, sweetened black cherries and a curl of cinnamon spiced crème fraîche. The rich scent of sugar and fruit drifted across the table like a final, whispered temptation.

Minho took a single bite, fork sliding cleanly through the torte, the ganache melting across his tongue, the cherry bursting sweet beneath it. The crème fraîche curled warmly at the edges, cinnamon and cream rising together like memory. It was exquisite. Perfectly crafted. And yet... Utterly lacking. There was no surprise, no wildness. No impossible heat or flicker of light behind his eyes. No rush like tasting something alive and sacred and his. It was akin to a crude mockery.

It paled in comparison to the flavour of Jisung.

Minho chewed slowly, forcing himself to swallow, already knowing there was only one thing that could ever truly satisfy him again. And it wasn't dessert.

The donors had received the exact same dish, and Minho watched Jisung take his first bite, a slow sweep of fork through ganache, lips parting around the silver. Another hum escaped him, quieter this time, but no less devastating.

Around them, nobles were beginning to leave the table in twos and threes. A softly murmured word here, a subtle gesture there, donors rising quietly from their seats and vanishing through the side corridor.

To the drawing rooms.

To feed.

And suddenly, finally, Minho had his excuse.

He turned slightly in his chair, voice pitched low, almost private.

"Come with me."

Jisung looked up, startled, lips still flushed with wine and sugar. His eyes met Minho's, searching, questioning, but not resisting.

Minho didn't wait for confirmation. He simply stood, regal and composed, offering no explanation to those nearby. None was needed. This was expected. Customary.

They walked side by side from the table.

His fingers brushed the silk & velvet of Jisung's sleeve again.

 

____________

 

The corridor was quieter than the hall, lit only by soft sconces spaced along the walls, low, golden light that turned the midnight hue of Jisung's jacket near-black, the gold accents catching and glinting as he moved. The murmurs of conversation, clinking glasses, and soft strains of music faded behind them as they stepped away from the grand dining room.

They walked in silence.

Side by side.

Minho's fingers brushed the edge of Jisung's sleeve again, just a glancing touch, barely there, as though it were accidental.

Jisung's skin buzzed beneath the fabric, and he swallowed hard, trying not to lean closer, not to betray the way that simple graze of contact had unravelled something inside him. The corridor curved gently, and just ahead, the donor holding room came into view. Outside its door, a line had formed, three couples ahead of them, nobles waiting to take their donors into one of the private drawing rooms beyond.

Minho didn't speak.

But Jisung felt the shift when they slowed to a stop.

His own fingers twitched at his sides. He resisted the urge to reach for Minho's hand, to tangle their fingers together in the shadows. The hum beneath his skin was stronger now, anticipation tangled with memory, the ghost of Minho's mouth on his skin, the lingering heat from the kiss the night before that still hadn't faded.

He could feel Minho's presence beside him like pressure.

The seconds ticked by slowly as the line shuffled forward.

Jisung was almost trembling, but not from fear. From want. From need. From the unspoken tension between them that had been building since the moment they left the grand hall.

He felt Minho move again, subtle but deliberate, the brush of his fingers along the cuff of Jisung's sleeve. Toying with the edge. A soft tug. Jisung's breath hitched. His own hand moved, instinctive, drifting an inch closer before he caught himself and clenched it into a fist.

Another pair stepped through the waiting door. A room had opened up.

The staff at the side gave Minho a silent nod, standing aside.

Minho gestured, allowing Jisung to go first.

He stepped through the threshold, into a space both familiar and different, high-backed chairs, deep red walls, a plush carpet beneath his feet, the faint scent of fresh linen and antiseptic in the air. But none of that mattered.

Because behind him, the door clicked shut.

And locked.

And Jisung's pulse surged.

He was already reaching for the collar of his jacket, fingers sliding against the clasps at his throat, ready to undo the fastenings and bare his neck.

But before he could-

Minho was on him.

Jisung let out a soft sound, breath punched from his chest as Minho surged forward, hands catching his face like something precious. There was no hesitation, no slow build.

Minho kissed him.

Full. Deep. Unrestrained.

The world tilted.

Jisung stumbled back from the sheer force of it, his hands flying out behind him until they found the back of the nearest chair. He gripped it, knuckles white, holding himself steady as Minho's mouth claimed his.

There was nothing hesitant this time.

No cautious ghosting of lips. No restraint.

Minho kissed like he was starving.

Like he'd waited too long and couldn't bear it a second longer.

His hands cradled Jisung's face, fingers splayed across his jaw, thumbs brushing beneath his cheekbones as if cataloguing the shape of him. Jisung whimpered softly, lips parting wider, welcoming the deeper pull of the kiss, the slip of Minho's tongue against his own. The taste of him hit his tongue like lightning.

Minho pressed closer, and Jisung could feel every inch of him now, the heat of his body, the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell unevenly. Jisung's hands slid up instinctively, one bracing against Minho's chest, the other curling around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

Minho moaned softly against his lips.

It was the most intoxicating sound Jisung had ever heard.

And gods, it made him ache.

 

________________

 

The second the door had shut behind them, and Jisung's eyes had lifted to meet his in that low-lit room, something inside Minho snapped.

Not with hunger. At least, not for blood.

Not even desire in the way he'd known it before.

But something deeper. Something startlingly soft. Something that cracked open the iron-barred part of him that had always held fast against want.

Because when Jisung looked at him like that, wide-eyed, trusting, lips parted and fingers at his collar as if ready to offer himself again, Minho didn't think of blood.

He didn't think of necks or veins or protocol.

He thought only of kissing him.

Of touching him.

Of holding him so close that nothing else could exist.

He surged forward before he could think better of it, hands finding the warmth of Jisung's face, the delicate line of his jaw fitting perfectly against his palms. And then his mouth was on Jisung's, and the world faded into nothing around him.

The kiss was everything.

Not rushed exactly.

But consuming.

And Minho, for all his years of control, found he couldn't get close enough. Couldn't drag him in deep enough. Jisung tasted like heat and the kind of sweet, reckless hope Minho had long forgotten how to crave.

Jisung's hands were on him now, one against his chest, the other at the nape of his neck, grounding him, anchoring him to the now. And Minho moaned into his mouth, a soft, guttural sound he didn't mean to make, but didn't bother to hold back.

Because gods, this, this was ecstasy.

Not the bite. Not the rush of blood.

But this.

Jisung's tongue sliding gently against his, the soft pull of his breath between them, the small, wordless noises he made when Minho tilted his head and kissed him deeper.

The heat of his body, trembling slightly beneath Minho's hands, his chest rising and falling against his own.

It sent fire straight through him. Not the fire of bloodlust, but of something far older. Something tender and burning and utterly irrational.

He wanted more.

But not in the way vampires usually meant it.

He wanted to touch more of him. To taste more of his laughter. His sighs. His skin.

He wanted to cup the back of Jisung's head again and kiss him until he melted.

He wanted to be good for him. Not careful. Not cold.

He didn't even care if he fed from him tonight.

That realisation nearly startled him.

Because that had never happened before.

Not once.

Not with anyone.

But with Jisung, wrapped in his arms, flushed from his kiss, lips pink and slightly damp, eyes half-lidded in wonder, Minho felt full.

Not sated, exactly. But whole.

He didn't need the blood. Not right now.

Because Jisung's body was against his, and his tongue was in his mouth, and the two of them were tangled together in this perfect, impossible silence, where the only sound was the soft gasp of breath and the rustle of silk and velvet.

Minho breathed him in.

He tasted like joy.

Like surrender.

And suddenly, nothing in the world had ever mattered more.

 

______________

 

Jisung's whole body was humming.

Every inch of him felt attuned to where Minho touched him, the warm press of his hands, the gentle drag of his thumbs beneath his jaw, the way his breath ghosted against his skin in the moments between kisses. Each one felt like it left an imprint, a lingering echo of heat and want and dizzying pressure that built, slowly, exquisitely, beneath his skin.

Minho pulled back only slightly, their foreheads touching, breath shared in the scant space between them. His hands slid down from Jisung's face, skimming the curve of his neck, tracing the edge of his collar with careful slowness. Jisung felt his pulse stutter, his breath catching as Minho's thumbs hooked lightly beneath the edge of his jacket.

"You're shaking," Minho murmured, voice low and rough.

"I know," Jisung whispered.

He didn't try to explain that it wasn't nerves. It wasn't fear. It was sensation. It was the way Minho's hands made his whole body feel electric. It was the heat coiling in his belly, the need singing through his blood.

Minho leaned forward again, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of Jisung's jaw, down the side of his neck. Jisung's hands found his shoulders, fingers curling tight in the rich velvet of his coat. His knees felt weak, but his senses were on fire.

Minho paused when his mouth reached the spot just below Jisung's ear.

"Do you want it?" he asked, the words barely more than breath.

Jisung didn't hesitate.

"Yes."

Minho let out a sound that might have been relief, or hunger, or something dangerously in between. He kissed the skin there first, soft, seeking, and then sank his fangs in.

The world exploded.

Light burst behind Jisung's eyes, colour blooming across his senses in impossible waves. Gold. Violet. Electric blue. He tasted crushed flowers, spiced wine, honey, and stars. Felt velvet and sunlight and the vibration of sound itself, like he was music, like he was a song being played on the inside of his skin.

His fingers tightened in Minho's coat as his knees buckled slightly. But Minho was there. Always there. One arm around his waist, the other pressed flat against his spine, holding him upright, holding him close.

Every pull of blood was a heartbeat, a pulse of something too big to name.

And still, Minho was gentle. Still careful.

Jisung felt his body sway, his head dropping forward, forehead resting lightly on Minho's shoulder as the synaesthesia peaked and slowly, slowly began to soften.

He felt Minho's tongue against the wound, soothing, sealing, tasting him one last time.

And Jisung, flushed and breathless and trembling, let himself melt into it.

Just like the first time, and every time since, Jisung felt the familiar tension building, the tightness in his pants unmistakable. But this time, it wasn't happening in the private quiet of his own body. This time, he was pressed tight against Minho's firm body, held fast by strong arms and deliberate hands.

And still, he felt no shame.

Because this time, the arousal hadn't been sparked by the high of the bite. No dizzying rush of blood or pleasure had triggered it. It had been there long before Minho's mouth ever touched his neck, had stirred at the first brush of fingertips, at the first kiss, at the way Minho had looked at him like he was something precious.

It wasn't about the feed.

It was about him.

Minho's mouth trailed heat along the curve of Jisung's throat, breath catching against damp skin. He wasn't biting, just pressing open-mouthed kisses there, like worship, like apology. His hands didn't roam far, just held firm at Jisung's waist and hip, grounding him.

Then, Minho's voice, low, rough, impossibly close, broke the silence.

"I can feel you," he murmured against his skin, lips brushing the spot just beneath his ear.

Notes:

Don’t @ me about the food, I have no idea if any of this stuff even goes well together, but it sounds fancy 😂

Chapter 19: The Royal Touch

Notes:

This one may feel familiar to readers of TGK…

"I can feel you"

And he could. Jisung's entire body lined up with his perfectly, and there was a very obvious solid point between them.
Jisung's arousal was firm and blatant against him, unmistakable and impossible to ignore.

It wasn't sudden.

It wasn't the bite that caused it. Minho was almost certain of that. The tension had been building long before his fangs touched skin. Long before the kiss. Long before they'd even left the table, if he was honest.

And Jisung had been aroused before the bite.

And that knowledge, raw and undeniable, hit Minho harder than anything else had that night.

Not because it was flattering.

Not because it proved Jisung wanted him too.

But because it made everything between them real. Unfiltered. Unsanitised by protocol or performance.

It was want. Simple. Honest. Physical.

And Minho felt it like a spark down the spine.

He shifted his hips, and the friction between them drew a sharp, helpless gasp from Jisung, a sound that tore straight from his throat, raw with need, his body arching instinctively toward the pressure.

It was the only encouragement Minho needed.

Slowly, deliberately, he shifted forward, guiding one thigh between Jisung's legs until they parted around him, open, yielding, his body fitting there like it had always belonged.

Minho wasn't thinking anymore.

There was no room for thought, only heat and motion and the aching reality of Jisung beneath his hands, against his body, fitting against him like gravity had always meant them to collide this way.

His mouth found Jisung's again, and this time there was no restraint, only hunger, only possession, only need. He kissed like he was dying for it, like this was the only thing that could keep him alive. And Jisung, gods, Jisung kissed him back with that same abandon, like he had no intention of holding anything back.

Minho could feel the shudder ripple through him when Jisung rolled his hips again, slower now, more deliberate. It was obscene how good it felt, how easily his thigh slotted between Jisung's, how every slow grind sent a white-hot pulse of pleasure straight through both of them. Minho's jaw clenched at the pressure, the friction. It was maddening, deliciously so. Too much and yet nowhere near enough.

A sound escaped him before he could stop it, a groan, low and rough and broken, and Jisung responded like he'd been lit from the inside. His hands moved instinctively: one braced against Minho's chest, fingers spread as though feeling for the heartbeat beneath velvet and gold; the other tangled in Minho's hair, holding him close, grounding him even as they threatened to unravel together.

Minho barely managed to catch his breath.

"Tell me if it's too much," he whispered, his voice ragged against the shell of Jisung's ear. "If I... If you need me to stop-"

But Jisung was already shaking his head, mouth brushing his in answer. "Don't stop," he said, soft and wrecked. "Please don't stop."

He gripped Jisung's hips tighter, fingers digging in as he rocked him forward, guiding the rhythm of their bodies with a steady, devastating pace. He matched the drag of pressure perfectly, just enough friction to keep Jisung gasping, trembling, his breath faltering with every movement.

Somewhere along the way, Jisung's jacket had shifted up from his waist. Minho barely noticed until his hands were sliding over the thin linen beneath, following the line of Jisung's spine, the heat of his skin burning through the fabric like a live current.

Everything about him was electric. Exquisite.

Minho leaned in, mouth at Jisung's temple now, then his cheek, then lower, his breath catching as he murmured into his ear.

"You make the most beautiful sounds," he said, reverent, almost stunned. "Do you know that?"

The breath Jisung let out was wrecked. Shattered. His knees were starting to give. Minho could feel it, the trembling in his legs, the way his weight leaned heavier with every grind, every kiss, every whispered sound passed between them like a secret.

Minho held him tighter.

Anchored him.

Not just to keep him upright, but because letting go felt impossible.

He hadn't expected this.

Hadn't expected to feel like this.

He'd thought the danger was in Jisung's blood, in the taste, in the hunger.

But it wasn't.

It was in this.

In the way Jisung melted into his touch.

In the way he gave himself so wholly to Minho's hands, his mouth, his voice.

This wasn't about the feed.

It hadn't been for a long time.

This was something else. Something impossibly fragile and painfully real. Something Minho hadn't allowed himself to imagine he might one day hold, only now he did.

Jisung.

In his arms.

Kissing him like he'd never known anything safer.

Grinding against him like he needed him.

Looking at him like he was something sacred.

And Minho... Minho had never wanted anything more.

Not power. Not ceremony. Not blood.

Only this.

Only him.

Minho raised a hand again, pushing a damp strand of hair back from Jisung's forehead, fingers lingering along his temple. "You're... Dangerous," he murmured, voice barely audible. "You make me want things I shouldn't."

Jisung's breath hitched. "Then want them," he whispered.

And gods.

Minho did.

He wanted everything.

He wanted to press Jisung down into the velvet of the chair and worship every inch of him. He wanted to hear every sound his mouth could make, learn every rhythm of his breath and body. He wanted to kiss him until he forgot his name.

But more than that, more than touch, more than hunger, he wanted to be known. By him. Only him.

He didn't know when that want had become need. Only that it had.

And now it was burning in his chest like wildfire.

There was a sharp knock at the door.

The sound sliced through the haze like ice water.

Minho stilled, his breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, just a moment, he didn't move. The heat of Jisung's body was still pressed so close, his mouth kiss-bruised, eyes dazed, chest rising and falling in short, shaky bursts. And Minho was still holding him, still wrapped in that impossible ache.

But the knock came again, sharper this time. More insistent.

Minho exhaled through his nose and stepped back, forcing himself to let go.

His hands dropped away from Jisung, and he smoothed a hand down the front of his own jacket, fingers trembling just slightly as he straightened the line of it. Gold embroidery glinted faintly in the low light.

"Behind the chair," he said quietly, gently. "Now."

Jisung blinked, dazed, but nodded. He turned, jacket still unfastened, and stepped behind the high-backed chair they'd nearly ruined, shifting his weight to let it hide him. His hands moved to his collar, clumsy but swift, redoing the fastenings with only a slight tremor in his fingers. His face was flushed, lips parted, and the tremble at his throat told more truth than words ever could.

Minho turned to the door, already calculating. His body still ached, every cell alive and screaming, but his mind moved fast.

When he opened the door, he didn't wait for the attendant to speak.

"Well, it's about time!" Minho snapped, voice sharp and clipped, just the right edge of irritation. "Why is this equipment faulty? The medical band won't engage at all!"

The assistant blinked, startled. "I... Your Highness, I wasn't aware-"

"I tried it three times," Minho cut in, gesturing behind him with exasperation. "It didn't respond. I'd just given up and told my donor to put his jacket back on."

The assistant immediately stepped into the room, moving swiftly to inspect the equipment. Minho didn't stop them, no need to raise suspicion further.

Jisung, behind the chair, bowed his head slightly, eyes lowered, the perfect picture of quiet obedience.

The attendant fiddled with the device for a few moments, murmuring apologies. "It must have been miscalibrated, Your Highness. It happens occasionally after heavy use. Would you like me to fit the band for you now, ensure it's working properly?"

Minho waved a hand, already turning away.

"No. Don't bother. I've lost my appetite."

The assistant hesitated. "Of course, Your Highness. Shall I... Log this as a faulty draw?"

Minho gave a curt nod, eyes already drifting back to Jisung, whose fingers were now neatly finishing the last button on his jacket.

"Sure," Minho said shortly. "Do whatever you like."

And with that, he walked past the assistant and out into the corridor, not looking back, because if he did, he wasn't sure he'd be able to pretend again.

 

_____________

 

The moment the door shut behind them, Jisung felt like the air had shifted.

It was colder out here. Sharper. The quiet, marble-lined corridor was all polished decorum and distant laughter, too bright, too real after the heat of what had just happened behind that door.

His mind was a storm.

A maddening, incoherent swirl of memory and sensation, as if his body was still suspended in that impossible moment. He could feel it all. The bite, hot, dizzying, euphoric. The kiss, deep and claiming and far too intimate to make sense of. And worse, better, the ache between his legs as Minho's thigh had pressed up against him, every rock of his hips sending a shuddering jolt of need through his spine.

He swallowed hard.

The image of Minho's face, lips red, eyes dark, voice thick with wanting, flashed behind his eyes like a fever dream. Jisung had never seen him like that. Had never seen anyone like that. Completely undone. Holding him as if he were something precious. Something his.

And gods, the sounds.

Minho's groan when he'd rolled his hips. The way he'd said, "You make the most beautiful sounds."

Jisung's cheeks burned just remembering it.

He walked half a step behind Minho now, his legs still slightly unsteady, his hands curled tight at his sides like he could trap the memory of Minho's touch in his palms. The soft brush of lips at his throat. The weight of him, the heat, the way his hands had gripped Jisung's hips with such purpose-

He dragged in a sharp breath.

What would've happened if they hadn't been interrupted?

Would Minho have kept going?

Would he have kissed him again? Pressed him down into that velvet chair like Jisung so badly wanted him to? Would he have touched him more, slower, deeper, learned the shape of his hunger the way he had already learned the taste of his blood?

The thought made his pulse stutter.

He shouldn't want those things.

He knew that.

But he did.

He wanted more. Not just the thrill of feeding, not just the drugging pleasure that came with Minho's teeth in his neck. He wanted his hands. His mouth. His voice in Jisung's ear. He wanted to be wanted, like that. Again.

And worse... He wanted to be kept.

Minho hadn't looked back once since they left the room. But Jisung still felt tethered to him, like an invisible thread had formed between their bodies, strung tight with everything they hadn't had time for.

If we hadn't been interrupted...

The thought kept looping.

And each time it returned, it landed heavier.

Jisung sat back in his chair with practiced grace, spine straight, hands folded lightly in his lap as though nothing had happened. As though his blood wasn't still humming in his veins like a struck chord. As though his skin wasn't still tingling from Minho's touch, or his mouth didn't still burn with the ghost of a kiss that had nearly unravelled him.

He exhaled quietly. Focused on the polished surface of the table.

The Grand Hall had grown louder again in their absence, filled with the rustle of silk, clink of crystal, the low murmur of conversation from those who had already returned. Most guests seemed relaxed now, sunk into the comfort of indulgence and excess. Several had a new flush to their cheeks, the kind that didn't come from wine alone.

Jisung had caught a few glances cast their way as he returned to his seat beside Minho, but nothing overt. Nothing he couldn't ignore.

Minho eased back into his own chair like a man completely unaffected, adjusting a cuff, lifting his wine glass, turning to the noble across the table with an expression of polite interest.

"Have you finalised the delegation for spring negotiations yet?" he asked lightly, the tone casual, perfectly even.

Jisung tried not to stare at him.

He looked as regal as ever, composed, commanding and unshaken. It was maddening. Moments ago, Minho had held him like he was oxygen, kissed him like he couldn't bear to stop, whispered things into his skin that made Jisung tremble. And now... Now he looked every inch the crown prince. Distant. Cool. Untouchable.

But then-

Under the table, Jisung felt it.

Minho's hand.

Slow.

It found his thigh.

A gentle press of palm and fingers through the soft fabric of his pants, just above the knee. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing overt. Just presence. Contact. A silent message carved in touch rather than sound.

Jisung stiffened imperceptibly, breath catching before he could stop it.

His lips parted, but he caught himself just in time.

Instead of a gasp, a moan or a whispered plea, he bit his lip. Hard. Forced his face blank. Carefully neutral.

Minho didn't look at him.

Didn't acknowledge what he was doing at all.

He was still making small talk, nodding along to the response of the noble beside him as though his hand wasn't currently resting on the leg of the donor he'd just kissed breathless in a locked draw room.

Jisung tried to breathe. He really did.

But every breath seemed to get tangled up in the moment. In the heat radiating from Minho's palm. In the quiet pressure of fingers that weren't moving, weren't coaxing, just there.

It was almost worse that way.

Not hungry. Not claiming.

Just present.

As if to say 'You're mine.'

And gods help him, Jisung wanted to believe it.

He shifted slightly in his seat, pretending to adjust the fall of his jacket, and Minho's hand gave the smallest, almost imperceptible squeeze. Not forceful. Just enough to be felt.

A reassurance?

A warning?

A promise?

Jisung swallowed hard, his cheeks warm despite himself. He looked down at his goblet of wine, heart thudding against his ribs in a rhythm that felt too fast, too loud.

All around them, the last of the nobles were returning to their seats. The last few murmured conversations died down. A hush began to fall over the table.

Soon, the toasts would begin.

Soon, Minho would stand. The hall would turn their eyes to him. The room would hold its breath for the heir to the throne.

But for now, beneath the flicker of candlelight and the silver glint of cutlery, Minho's hand remained right where it was.

Grounding.

Possessive.

And maddeningly, achingly intimate.

By the time the King rose from his seat, regal, ancient, his voice as smooth and commanding as the centuries behind it, Jisung was barely hearing the words.

Minho's hand was still on his thigh.

And now, it was moving.

Slowly. Lazily. As if Minho had all the time in the world.

It started with his thumb drawing circles against the fabric just above Jisung's knee, each pass maddeningly soft. Absentminded, almost. Like he didn't even realise what he was doing. But Jisung knew better. There was nothing accidental about Minho's touch. Not now. Not ever.

Jisung fought to keep his face composed. Eyes forward. Shoulders square.

He could feel the weight of so many eyes in the room, all of them fixed dutifully on the King, who was speaking of tradition and longevity, of diplomatic successes and the honour of hosting foreign dignitaries.

But all Jisung could focus on was the slow, hypnotic movement of Minho's thumb... And the way, with excruciating patience, that thumb had now stilled.

Because Minho's hand was drifting higher.

No longer resting above his knee, but sliding further up his thigh, fingertips finding new territory. Questing. Testing.

Jisung sucked in a shallow breath through his nose, his gaze flickering briefly to the side, to the blur of Minho's sleeve beside him. The prince hadn't moved. His posture was impeccable. His expression, serene. As though he were listening attentively to every word from the throne.

But Jisung could feel him.

The soft pressure of his fingers. The confident way they pressed just a little firmer, just a little deeper, until they hovered dangerously close to the inside of Jisung's upper thigh.

He shifted, slightly, subtly, trying to relieve the sudden tension strung taut beneath his skin.

And Minho's hand followed.

Didn't retreat. Didn't pause.

Just... Stayed. Heat radiating through fine fabric, far too near to where Jisung was already flushed and aching, his earlier arousal never having truly faded, just dulled beneath the weight of courtly ritual.

Until now.

Now it surged back like flame catching at dry tinder, licking up his spine with every moment Minho's fingers stayed where they were.

The King concluded his speech to gentle applause, the sound rising and falling in a polite wave.

The Queen stood next.

Her voice was softer than the King's, yet every bit as assured, cool and regal, with just enough iron beneath the silk to command the full attention of the hall.

Jisung bowed his head slightly, feigning reverence.

Minho's hand shifted again.

Higher still.

A breath caught in Jisung's throat, and he had to blink rapidly to keep the haze from clouding his vision.

The fingers weren't truly bold, not yet, but they were far from innocent now. They hovered close enough to make every inch of his body tense, alive with anticipation.

Minho was playing a game.

A dangerous one.

But gods, Jisung didn't want it to stop.

Minho's fingers shifted with a final, deliberate intent, sliding inward, breaching the narrow gap between Jisung's thighs.

And then-

Contact.

A single, firm press of Minho's palm, cupping him fully through the fine fabric of his pants.

Jisung's spine snapped straight, his breath caught behind his teeth. The heat of Minho's touch burned straight through the fabric, flooding his veins with fire and white noise. His fingers curled tight against the edge of the table, knuckles straining to keep him anchored, grounded, composed.

The moment held.

Minho's palm pressed in, just once, firm, unambiguous, proprietary.

And then-

"My son," the Queen's voice rang clearly through the hall, "if you would."

Minho's hand tensed against him in parting, fingers curling subtly against him.

Then it was gone.

The absence was instant. Sharp.

Jisung exhaled, not even realising he'd been holding his breath until the air left him in a slow, trembling gust. His pulse thundered in his ears. His skin prickled under his clothes, every nerve left buzzing with unmet need.

Minho stood with effortless poise, his chair sliding back without sound as he rose. His regalia caught the light, the deep midnight of it striking in the golden candlelight as he stepped forward toward the dais.

No one watching would have seen the flicker in his gaze, back toward Jisung, fleeting and unreadable.

Jisung sat frozen.

Still flushed. Still hard.

Still aching with the imprint of Minho's hand against him.

His mind reeled, trying to grasp hold of something solid, something normal, while Minho climbed the steps to deliver his closing speech.

It was absurd.

Moments ago, he'd been cradled in velvet shadows, kissed breathless, bitten, ground against until his whole body had hummed with arousal.

And now Minho was addressing a ballroom full of royalty and nobility with the measured calm of a prince, his voice low and sure, echoing through the crystal-choked stillness.

Jisung's body felt like it was vibrating. His skin still ached for Minho's hands. His lips still tingled with the ghost of their kiss. And gods, his thighs-

He shifted in his seat, discreet and slow, willing the aftershocks to settle.

Minho's speech rolled on above the soft flicker of candlelight, composed and eloquent.

And all Jisung could think about...

Was how that same mouth had been gasping against his only minutes ago.

Notes:

Lucky for Jisung that this Minho didn’t take things quite as far as TGK Jisung did… Does this count as extended foreplay? 🤔

Chapter 20: The Unwelcome Guest

Notes:

TW: For Sexual Harassment - Further details in the end notes

Minho moved through the warm hush of the hall with practiced poise, each step toward the dais perfect, calculated. His expression was composed, the very picture of princely decorum, jaw set, spine straight, the edges of his ceremonial jacket catching the candlelight like spilled ink and gold.

But inside?

He was practically levitating.

There was a heat beneath his skin that hadn't cooled since he'd pulled his hand from between Jisung's thighs.

Gods, the way he'd trembled. The way his breath had caught. The way he'd bit down on his lip so he wouldn't make a sound.

Minho's fingers twitched slightly at his side, phantom echoes of the pressure he'd applied to Jisung's body still lingering in his palms. That warmth, that tension, that undeniable proof of how badly Jisung wanted him, it hadn't faded. It was branded into him now.

He kept his gaze steady as he approached the dais, even as his mind spun, replaying the feel of silk-covered muscle beneath his hand, the way Jisung's legs had parted around his palm like instinct, like invitation.

He hadn't meant to go that far. Not here. Not there.

But then Jisung had gasped. Had arched. Had pressed into him like he couldn't help it.

And Minho had lost every shred of reason.

He'd been careful. Of course he had. Even under layers of fabric, even beneath the watchful eyes of the court, he'd made it seem like nothing at all. A still hand. A polite posture. Just a prince resting his palm on his donor's knee.

Only it wasn't his knee.

And Minho had known exactly what he was doing.

The fact that he'd gotten away with it only sweetened the high.

He reached the top step and turned to face the hall, placing one hand lightly on the edge of the lectern. His other remained at his side, fingers curling once before stilling.

He let his gaze sweep across the sea of candlelit faces, offering a calm, princely smile.

But his mind?

His mind was still back at that table, under it, tracing the line of Jisung's arousal, feeling the tension coil tighter and tighter with every stroke of his thumb.

He wanted more.

So much more.

And next time?

They wouldn't be interrupted.

He would see to that personally.

He cleared his throat, voice smooth as silk when he finally spoke.

"Honoured guests. Members of the court. As we bring the midwinter season to a close..."

But behind his steady tone and regal bearing, Minho was already plotting exactly how to get Jisung alone again.

And what he'd do with him when he did.

"...and as always, we thank the court for their steadfast service throughout the long night of the season," Minho said smoothly, voice projecting with ease across the expanse of the Grand Hall.

He didn't need to look at the page in front of him.

Didn't need to think, not really.

He'd memorised every line of this speech weeks ago. Knew each diplomatic nod, every well-placed reference to alliances, trade balances, blood pacts, and civic duty. It was practically muscle memory by now.

Which was good.

Because Minho's mind was not on diplomacy.

He allowed his gaze to sweep lightly across the assembly, meeting the eyes of dignitaries and council members with effortless grace.

And then, for just a second, it dropped back to Jisung.

Still seated. Still composed. Still-

Ah.

Minho almost smiled.

His posture was perfect, but the tension was still there, in his jaw, in his hands folded just a little too tightly in his lap, in the too-careful stillness of his shoulders.

Not calmed down yet, then.

Not even close.

"... These bonds remind us that our strength lies not only in bloodlines, but in our ability to share, to bind, and to build together, across borders and between worlds..."

Minho allowed his gaze to linger for a moment longer.

Jisung's skin was flushed still, warm colour riding high on his cheeks despite the coolness of the hall. The memory of that warmth, of how it had felt, radiating through those thin layers of silk and linen, made Minho's fingers itch.

Gods, what would it feel like with nothing in the way?

What would his skin feel like under Minho's palms? What would it be like to touch him properly, to finally press his hand to Jisung without a barrier, to stroke that same pressure across soft, flushed skin and feel every tremble directly?

He had to look away again. Just for a moment. Just to keep from losing the thread of the next line.

"... For unity forged through trust remains the cornerstone of our peace, and the mark of our shared future."

He heard the scattered applause that followed, timed and respectful.

Minho let the quiet settle just enough to breathe, before continuing. "And as this cycle turns, as our court renews its vows and reaffirms its vision, I offer gratitude-"

Another flick of his eyes.

Jisung still hadn't moved.

Still sitting there like he was glued to the chair, like one more breath too deep might break him in half.

Minho bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a grin.

He wondered if Jisung was still hard.

If his thighs were still trembling beneath the table.

If he could still feel the exact shape of Minho's hand imprinted between his legs.

And gods, what he wouldn't give to find out.

He shifted his weight slightly, continuing smoothly.

"... Gratitude to the old blood and the new, to those who endure and those who serve, and to those who make this kingdom worth the keeping."

Another round of polite applause swelled through the room.

Minho inclined his head graciously, his gaze catching briefly on the Queen's proud expression. She'd be pleased. It was a strong delivery. No missteps. No hesitation.

And yet-

He still wanted to return to Jisung and see just how tightly wound he still was.

Wanted to lean in close and whisper something wicked into his ear. Something that would make him shift in his chair again. Something that would remind him exactly who he belonged to.

And later?

Later, Minho planned to finish what he started.

Not in some sterile medical draw room.

But somewhere private, where he could take his time.

Where Jisung could be loud.

Where nothing would interrupt them.

Where he could bring him towards the edge for a third time, then finally, send him tumbling over it.

Minho offered his final words, the formal close.

"May the long dark of winter yield to bright dawns ahead. And may we all rise, together."

Applause rose around him, echoing through the vaulted hall like a tide.

Minho stepped back from the lectern and bowed his head.

Then he turned.

And as he walked back down the dais, he didn't need to look directly at Jisung to feel the tension crackling in the space between them.

He would see him again in seconds.

He would touch him again soon.

But next time?

There would be no distractions.

No fabric in the way.

No knock at the door.

Just Minho.

And Jisung.

And everything they had yet to become.

 

____________

 

The Grand Hall had changed.

Gone was the formality, the pristine order of place settings and silken napkins folded like birds of paradise. The long dining table had been stripped bare of its ceremonial weight, cleared of polished cutlery and golden charger plates. In their place now stood decadence in another form entirely.

Ice sculptures glittered under the chandelier light, their crystalline forms catching and refracting gold and silver like prisms. Some were abstract, twisted helixes of frozen art, but others were deliberately playful: a winged stag, a great feathered serpent coiled mid-strike, and the most popular of all, a tall, tiered obelisk designed so that champagne could be poured at the top, slithering through carved channels until it reached a spout at the base, perfectly chilled.

It was absurd.

Exquisite.

And somehow, the most opulent thing he'd ever seen.

Jisung lingered near the edge of the table, fingers curled lightly around the slender stem of his flute. The champagne was dry, delicate, laced with the barest whisper of peach. It tasted like celebration. Like distraction.

He took another slow sip.

The bubbles danced at the back of his throat.

Donors were permitted to indulge tonight, as long as they didn't overstep. Moderation was expected. Sobriety was not. Jisung was fine with that. A little indulgence might do him some good, might slow the spin of his thoughts, calm the electric edge still fizzing in his blood after... Earlier.

His face was still warm.

His body still ached faintly with memory.

He swallowed the thought like he'd swallowed the first glass of champagne: too fast, too sharp. It didn't help.

His eyes wandered the room, catching the glitter of embroidered jackets, the shimmer of silk and velvet, the easy grace with which courtiers now leaned close, laughing into each other's shoulders. The air was looser now. Less brittle. The sharp formality of the banquet had dissolved into something more intimate, more indulgent. The afterglow of a well-fed court.

And yet, Jisung felt... Wired.

Even here, surrounded by beauty, music curling in from the gallery above and laughter swirling the air, he was still humming with tension.

He hadn't seen Minho since the speech.

The prince had vanished into the blur of nobles almost immediately after returning to his seat. Courteous nods. Accepting handshakes. Leaning in to answer whispered questions from visiting dignitaries. Ever the heir. Ever the picture of poise.

And Jisung?

He'd tried not to watch him too closely. Tried not to imagine the feel of his hand again, his mouth again. Tried not to replay the precise pressure of Minho's palm between his thighs while the Queen had been speaking, or how his body had gone taut with want the second Minho stood.

He'd failed, of course.

Over and over.

He brought his glass to his lips again, half for something to do with his hands, half because the cold fizz on his tongue was a poor but welcome distraction.

He exhaled slowly, letting his gaze drift over the ice obelisk again. The base shimmered with condensation, the champagne flowing through it like molten gold. Someone nearby let out a pleased hum as they caught their pour perfectly, the chilled liquid splashing slightly in their glass.

It was beautiful, all of it.

Gilded distraction.

Jisung stood near the corner of the grand hall, flanked by a glinting tower of champagne flutes and the slow melt of a sculpted swan carved from ice. The chilled air that clung to the sculpture kissed at his skin, a stark contrast to the flush still lingering in his cheeks from earlier.

Minho was somewhere across the room, occupied in conversation with a small cluster of delegates. Jisung had been content to keep his distance, to catch his breath, calm his racing thoughts, and maybe finish the glass of champagne he'd been nursing for the last ten minutes.

It was a brief reprieve.

Until he felt someone sidle up beside him.

The presence was unmistakably male, tall, broad-shouldered, cloaked in a deep crimson that set him apart from the other nobles. His voice came a second later, smooth and accented, curling with amusement.

"Well now... It seems I find the prince's little jewel unattended."

Jisung stiffened.

He turned slowly. The Duke of Rehvan stood beside him, his dark eyes gleaming with something just shy of polite interest. Predatory. Dangerous.

"I... He's here," Jisung said quickly, voice a bit too sharp, a bit too fast. "He's just... Fulfilling his duties for the evening."

The Duke raised a brow, then smiled like a man who knew exactly what kind of reaction he was provoking.

"Mm. And leaving you to the mercy of the crowd. Bold of him."

Jisung didn't respond. His grip on his glass tightened, the condensation slick between his fingers.

Rehvan took a step closer, his voice dropping lower. "Of course... If he's not making time for you, it would be a tragedy to let such beauty go unappreciated." He gave Jisung a long, deliberate once-over, gaze lingering far too long. "You'd be... Deeply... valued in my household. Treated with care. Richly rewarded for your talents."

The implication landed hard.

Jisung felt his stomach turn.

He schooled his features as best he could, trying to recall every etiquette lesson drilled into him about how to navigate uncomfortable advances from powerful guests.

"You're... Very generous, Your Grace," he said carefully, dipping his head just slightly, "but I'm spoken for. The Crown Prince would be-"

"Oh, I'm sure he'd be disappointed at first." The Duke chuckled. "But princes bore easily. I've never found them to be particularly... Consistent in their appetites." He leaned in, his breath warm against Jisung's ear. "Whereas I am. Intensely so."

Jisung froze.

He couldn't pull away, not without causing a scene. Not with so many eyes nearby and the man beside him carrying diplomatic immunity like a shield.

He swallowed hard, trying to summon the right words. The right excuse. The right out.

And gods, where was Minho?

Jisung's skin prickled beneath the Duke's gaze, every inch of him taut with screaming unease. He kept his posture composed, straight-backed, neutral, deferential, but there was a sharpness behind his eyes now. A calculation. A silent weighing of every possible response that wouldn't cause offence.

"Your Grace," he said, gently but firmly, "I think you misinterpret-"

A hand settled at his waist.

Warm, steady and familiar in its intention.

The pressure was light, not demanding, not forceful, but it lingered far too long for politeness. Fingers splayed under the layers of his jacket, as if testing the fit. As if entitled to the space Jisung occupied.

Jisung's breath hitched.

He didn't move. Couldn't. His training held him in place like chains.

"I think I interpret quite well," the Duke murmured.

And then his other hand rose, not to touch his face, but to the crook of Jisung's neck, fingers grazing the fine hair at his nape, thumb resting against the hollow of his throat, pressing lightly, angling his face upwards.

The contact sent a shiver down his spine.

He hated it.

The way his body responded on instinct, not in arousal, but in warning. In memory. The realisation that he wasn't being asked. He was being measured. Tasted in advance.

"You've been trained beautifully," Rehvan continued, almost absentmindedly, voice low. "I can see it in your composure. In the way you hold still, even now."

Jisung's mouth opened, but no words came.

He leaned back subtly, away from the hand at his neck. But the Duke only followed, tilting in closer, as if this were all a game. As if Jisung's discomfort was part of the appeal.

It was a calculated press of dominance, one that stopped just short of a real violation.

And still... Jisung felt trapped.

His mind raced. Options flickered through him like flash-paper. He could try to excuse himself. Risk appearing rude. He could make a scene quietly, risk drawing eyes. Or he could wait. Endure.

But every second that passed made the air feel thinner.

The Duke's fingers at his waist flexed.

And just before Jisung could speak again, before he could take the risk of stepping away, he felt it.

A presence.

Cool. Focused. Absolute.

Minho was near.

And for the first time in minutes... Jisung could breathe.

 

____________

 

Minho's gaze swept the room with the detached precision of someone trained to see everything without appearing to look at anything.

He hadn't been searching for Jisung, not exactly.

At least, not consciously.

But the second his eyes found him, across the cleared length of the Grand Hall, haloed in candlelight and shadow, every other sound in the room dropped away.

And Minho saw red.

The Duke of Rehvan had one hand braced arrogantly at Jisung's waist, fingers spread under his jacket like he owned him, and the other, worse, unforgivable, curled around the nape of his neck, thumb pressing against the fragile curve of his throat.

Jisung wasn't looking at him.

He had turned his head slightly away from the Duke, not enough to appear rude, just enough to protect his mouth, his breath, his self.

But his discomfort was written in every line of his posture.

Minho knew the way Jisung moved. Knew the set of his shoulders, the stillness of his hands when he was calm, or excited, or even overwhelmed.

This was different.

This was restraint.

This was fear held still.

And that was all it took.

Minho's vision narrowed to a pinpoint, hot, sharp and lethal. A low thrum of fury ignited in his chest, primal and immediate, hotter than any bloodlust he'd ever known. It pulsed through him like a war drum.

No courtly grace. No etiquette. No calculation.

Just rage.

No one should touch him like that.
Not with that entitlement.
Not with those hands.

Not him.
Not Jisung.

Mine, something in him snarled. Mine.

He was moving before he realised it, strides clean and silent, each one coiled with too much control. If he didn't master himself in these next few seconds, he wouldn't just interrupt.

He would tear the Duke's arm from its socket.

He didn't care that Rehvan was a foreign dignitary.
Didn't care about protocol or diplomacy or the careful balance of the summit.

He saw Jisung cornered. Flushed for the wrong reason. Touched without permission. Treated like a courtesan in public.

And Minho had never in his long, measured life felt a rage so complete.

He was almost on them now.

Another step and he could rip Rehvan's hands off of him.

Another step and Jisung would see him-

Jisung turned his face away further, as far as he could go, his jaw tightening as Rehvan's hands on him prevented any real movement of his body. His eyes were downcast, lips parted, the lines of discomfort etched stark across his face.

"... I-please don't-" he whispered, barely audible.

But Minho heard it.

He heard every trembling syllable like it had been screamed across the hall.

His voice, when it came, sliced through the air like a blade drawn clean across frost.

"If you want to leave this court with both hands intact, Rehvan," Minho said, each word dipped in glacial malice, "I suggest you step back."

The effect was immediate.

The Duke stiffened, spine rigid, his hand falling away from Jisung's throat like he'd been burned. The one at his waist lingered a moment too long, a final challenge, until Minho took that last step forward and the weight of his presence crushed whatever pride remained in the man's chest.

Jisung gasped softly, freed, stumbling half a step back.

Minho caught him.

One hand on his elbow, the other at the small of his back, steady, certain, a mirror of what he'd wanted so desperately earlier, only this time it wasn't desire that guided his touch.

It was protection.

Possession.

A warning written in flesh and posture.

His eyes never left Rehvan's.

Not for a second.

Not even as he felt Jisung shake beneath his hands. Not even as Jisung turned toward him, instinctively seeking his nearness.

Minho held his gaze.

Flat.
Lethal.
Unyielding.

"You forget yourself," he said softly. "He is not one of yours."

A pause.

Then, slower. Darker.

"Touch him again, and I won't stop at your hands."

For a moment, Rehvan said nothing. Just stood there, the hand Minho had stared down now slowly drawing back to his side. His expression shifted, not to shame, not to fear, but to something far more practiced. Composure, cold and calculated, the kind worn like armour by men who thought charm could buy absolution.

And then, finally, he spoke.

"Your Highness," he said smoothly, inclining his head just slightly, though not enough to call it a bow. "Had I known he was still in your service, I would not have presumed."

His voice was low, oily. A performance, not an apology.

"He was alone," Rehvan went on, gesturing faintly with one hand. "Unattended. I merely assumed you had no further use for him this evening."

Minho's grip on Jisung's elbow tightened. Not enough to hurt, but enough to ground them both.

"It seemed... Wasteful," Rehvan continued, eyes flicking briefly toward Jisung in a way that made Minho's fangs ache with restraint, "to let such beauty go unnoticed. I was, of course, only appreciating his many fine qualities."

The smile he wore was thin. Sharp. Mocking.

Minho saw red again.

But this time, he didn't let it burn.
He let it freeze.

Because rage could be loud, but vengeance was better when it was quiet.

"Then I suggest you practice your appreciation from a distance," Minho said, his voice dangerously low. "Unless you're eager to discover exactly how this court handles trespass."

He stepped forward, just half a pace, bringing himself within the edge of Rehvan's space. Close enough to remind him who held power here. Who had permission to touch and who didn't.

"And if you ever mistake my donor for something that can be used and discarded again..."

A pause.

Minho smiled, just barely. And it was not kind.

"You'll leave this kingdom in pieces."

Rehvan's jaw tensed, but he said nothing else.

Minho turned deliberately then, placing his body between them, the line of his shoulder a wall Jisung could tuck behind if he needed to. He didn't look back. Didn't give the Duke another moment of his attention.

Instead, he leaned in, just slightly, voice pitched low for Jisung alone.

"Come with me."

And this time, there was no mistaking it:

It was not a request.

Notes:

Jisung is alone and gets cornered by the Duke of Rehvan. Rehvan is grabby (waist and neck), but he is interrupted before it goes any further

Chapter 21: The Pavlovian Response

Notes:

Posting extras because I’m just as impatient as you guys. Maybe more, actually 🙃

Minho didn't speak as he led Jisung across the length of the hall.

One hand braced at Jisung's elbow, firm but not forceful. The other rested low against his back, possessive. There was no attempt to hide the touch. No subtlety. No concern for who might be watching.

And many were watching.

Jisung could feel the eyes. Dozens of them. Courtiers and nobles and donors and dignitaries, all of them tracking their passage through the glittering aftermath of the feast, champagne flutes pausing mid-air, whispers rising like wind through crystal.

Minho's grip only tightened.

Jisung focused on the heat of it, on the way that single point of contact at his spine burned steadier than the rest of the world. He walked where Minho guided, legs steady now only by the sheer force of will. His mind still reeled. His breath still felt shallow in his chest.

But he was safe.

That truth ran under his skin like a second pulse.

Minho stopped only once, at the foot of the dais, where the twin thrones rose above the court in regal relief. The Queen, radiant and sharp-eyed, was seated with her hands folded neatly atop her lap. The King stood beside her, speaking quietly with a high-ranking envoy until Minho's shadow crossed their line of sight.

The King's gaze sharpened the moment he saw them.

Minho didn't bow at first. He stood tall, eyes unwavering. His voice, when it came, was clipped steel.

"My donor has been accosted."

The Queen's brow furrowed immediately. The King straightened to full height, his expression darkening.

Minho continued, "I'm taking him to ensure no permanent damage was done."

Jisung stood still, the burn of humiliation still singing beneath his skin. He didn't raise his eyes, but he could feel the weight of their attention, regal and searing.

The King's voice was low, dangerous.

"Who."

Minho didn't hesitate. "The Duke of Rehvan."

A silence fell.

Sharp. Cold.

The Queen exhaled through her nose, controlled but deeply displeased. But the King, he didn't bother hiding his rage. It rippled through the air around him like heat from a forge.

"We've warned him before," the King muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "He touched an unmatched donor years ago... Overstepped his welcome even then."

He turned to one of the nearby guards, speaking swiftly under his breath.

"His invitation to court is revoked. Permanently. He will not attend another event under this roof. See to it he's removed from the hall."

Minho gave a short nod. "Thank you."

"You were right to come directly," the King added, his voice like thunder behind glass. "Matched donors are not to be touched. That sash is not decoration, it's protection."

His gaze shifted briefly to Jisung, something like apology softening the edge of his fury. "You were wronged. He'll face the consequences."

Jisung blinked once. Then nodded. It was all he could manage.

Minho finally inclined his head, a formal bow made only out of duty, then straightened, already turning.

"Come."

The word was soft this time. Meant for Jisung alone.

Jisung bowed quickly to the King and Queen, then followed without hesitation.

The thrum of courtly noise returned behind them as they moved, but it felt distant now, muffled by the pounding of his heart and the quiet, steady pressure of Minho's hand at his back.

They left the Grand Hall in silence.

And Jisung never looked back.

The warmth of Minho's hand at his back didn't falter until they were well past the second corridor, through the high arch of carved stone, beyond the echo of voices and music. The moment the last flicker of candlelight from the Grand Hall disappeared behind them, something in the air shifted.

Minho's touch dropped from his back and elbow.

And slid instead into his hand.

Jisung startled just slightly, not from the contact, but the quiet intimacy of it.

Their fingers laced together like it was nothing. Like it had always been this way.

Minho didn't say anything. Just kept walking, steady and sure, his grip warm and firm, grounding. Jisung let himself be led, trying not to think too hard about how tightly his own hand curled around the prince's. How natural it felt. How comforting.

He didn't recognise this part of the palace.

It wasn't part of the formal donor quarters, nor any of the main wings he was used to. The corridors here were quieter, narrower, lined with darker stone and fewer windows. Ornate sconces lit the way, but the light was dimmer, more golden than the stark white of the many of the other halls.

It felt... Older. Private.

Jisung's breath slowed. Not quite calm. Not yet. But quieter now. More even.

Minho didn't let go.

Not until they reached the end of a long hallway and stopped before a heavy wooden door set with carved iron and the royal insignia.

Minho opened the door soundlessly, drawing him inside.

Minho released his hand, and Jisung immediately missed the warmth of it.

He watched in silence as the prince slid home one thick bolt... And then another, each locking into the stonework with a deep, heavy clunk. Not a latch. Not a ceremonial twist of the wrist. These were made to hold.

To keep the outside world out.

Minho exhaled once as the final lock fell into place.

And then he turned.

His eyes found Jisung's immediately. Something unreadable flickered behind them, shadows and starlight, fire and restraint.

Minho crossed the distance in two steps.

And without a word, his hands came up, gentle and careful, but urgent. They framed Jisung's face, one brushing his hair back from his forehead, the other cradling his jaw, tilting it just slightly so he could see.

Jisung froze.

Not from fear. But from the sheer intensity of it.

The way Minho looked at him. Like he was reading every detail. Memorising the slope of each bruise that hadn't formed. Searching for marks that might still bloom later.

Like he was afraid he'd missed something.

"I'm fine," Jisung said softly, almost a whisper. "Really."

Minho's eyes narrowed, not angry, just sharp. Focused. Still cataloguing.

"Are you?" he asked. His voice was low, not demanding, but laced with something Jisung hadn't heard before. A tremble of barely leashed emotion. "Did he hurt you?"

The sincerity in it knocked the breath from Jisung's chest.

His thumb brushed just under Jisung's cheekbone, barely touching. His other hand shifted from Jisung's hair to his shoulder, warm and steady. Like he couldn't decide if he wanted to keep holding or start checking for injuries again.

Jisung swallowed.

His voice was steadier this time. "No. He didn't hurt me. Just... Crowded me."

He looked down. Then, quieter still: "Touched places he shouldn't have."

Minho's jaw clenched, and his hand at Jisung's shoulder flexed slightly, fingers curling.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The silence stretched long between them, held only by the slow, quiet inhale of breath and the nearness of hands not letting go.

Then Minho's voice broke through again, quieter now. Calmer, but no less serious.

"I shouldn't have left you alone."

Jisung shook his head, voice soft. "It's fine. Really. It's not your fault, Minho-"

"That's beside the point."

The interruption was quiet. Sharp.

Minho's hand at his shoulder didn't let go. If anything, it pressed more firmly now, grounding him, holding him there.

"You belong at my side," he said, eyes locked to Jisung's, not a flicker of doubt in them. "That's your place. Nowhere else."

Jisung's breath caught.

There was no flourish to the words, no dramatics. Just steady conviction, cut and certain and true.

It wasn't a possessive claim. Not a threat. It sounded almost like... A vow.

Minho didn't blink.

And Jisung, for the life of him, couldn't look away.

"I'm not just saying that because of tonight," Minho continued, voice quieter now, but no less resolute. "Not just because of what he did."

He took a breath, his thumb brushing again across Jisung's cheekbone, gentle, almost absent.

"You're not some ornament, Jisung. You're not a temporary indulgence. You're not replaceable."

His gaze dropped briefly to Jisung's lips, then back up to his eyes.

"You're mine."

The words landed like something sacred. Not a demand. A declaration.

Jisung's chest ached.

He felt the weight of it in every part of him, in the space where fear had sat earlier, in the trembling place just under his ribs that hadn't quieted since Rehvan's hands had dropped away.

Now it bloomed with something else entirely.

He hadn't even known how much he needed to hear that.

Not just that Minho was furious on his behalf. Not just that he'd acted. But that he saw him. Claimed him not as a function or a role, but as his, something wanted. Chosen. Kept.

Slowly, Jisung nodded.

"I know," he whispered.

And this time, he stepped forward first.

He lifted one hand, slow but sure, and pressed it to Minho's chest. The heartbeat beneath it was steady, but strong. Grounding. And when Minho didn't flinch away, didn't pull back, Jisung let his other hand rise to cup the side of his neck.

His thumb brushed along the line of Minho's jaw.

And then, without waiting, without asking, he rose up on the balls of his feet and kissed him.

It wasn't sweet.

It wasn't careful.

It was all heat and tension and the kind of craving that comes after a night held on a knife's edge. It poured out of him like breath, like gratitude, like fire. Jisung kissed Minho with all the tremble still left in his body, with all the weight of what could have happened if Minho hadn't found him in time, and all the aching possibility of what still might.

Minho's breath caught, and then he was kissing him back, deep and hungry, one hand sliding around Jisung's waist, the other still braced at his shoulder, pulling him closer like he never meant to let go again.

Jisung melted into it.

Into the warmth, the safety, the strength that had shielded him without hesitation.

Minho angled his head, mouth parting slightly, and Jisung let him in without resistance. The kiss turned hotter, deeper, more consuming, less reassurance now, more claim.

More need.

Jisung's hands slid from Minho's jaw to his shoulders, fingers curling in the fine material of his jacket. He barely registered the brush of brocade beneath his palms, only the heat of the man wearing it.

Minho didn't rush him.

His hands stayed steady, one warm at Jisung's waist, the other still curled lightly around his shoulder, as he began walking him backwards, slow and sure, as though afraid any sudden movement might shatter the moment.

Jisung let himself be led, every step backward making the kiss deeper, hungrier. He barely noticed the world around them, too consumed by the press of Minho's mouth, the slide of fingers at his side, the gentle way he was being handled like something fragile and precious all at once.

Only when the backs of his legs bumped into something solid did he gasp, eyes widening in surprise as his knees gave slightly.

A bed.

Minho guided him down with care, hands never leaving him, following him as he sank into the thick softness of a mattress draped in navy and charcoal linen. It was only then, when his hands splayed against the fabric, when the scent of pine and clove and Minho's skin sank into his lungs, that Jisung finally looked past him, past the heat and the nearness, and saw the room.

It was unfamiliar.

Elegant. Dark. Quiet.

His gaze darted to the tall bookshelf against the far wall, the low-burning hearth, the single heavy armchair near it. A sword displayed above the mantle. The thick rug beneath his boots. The crest carved into the armoire.

This wasn't a guest room.

This wasn't a drawing room.

This was Minho's.

His private quarters.

Jisung's breath caught at the realisation.

And then Minho leaned over him, eyes dark and focused, and kissed him again, slow and steady this time, like he had nowhere else to be.

Like he was exactly where he wanted to be.

And Jisung stopped thinking altogether.

 

_____________

 

Minho wasn't sure when the cold inside him, the slick, lethal rage that had flared the second Rehvan laid a hand on Jisung, had started to melt.

But it was.

Slowly.

Inevitably.

Replaced by something hotter.

Something far more dangerous.

Jisung was beneath him now. Breathless, flushed, lips kiss-bitten and parted slightly as if he'd forgotten how to breathe without Minho's mouth on his. His eyes flicked open just enough to meet his, wide and wanting, and it gutted him.

Minho braced himself above him, one knee pressed to the mattress beside Jisung's thigh, trying, failing, to remember restraint. But it was slipping, quick as snow in spring.

His hand moved without permission.

Down, slow, deliberate, finding the solid muscle of Jisung's thigh and gripping it firmly, almost possessively. His thumb pressed into the fabric there, testing the tension, feeling it give just enough beneath his hand. Jisung exhaled sharply at the contact, hips shifting involuntarily, and Minho's control slipped another inch.

He let his hand slide inward, dragging across the dip between hip and thigh, until his palm rested at Jisung's side. The shape of him, so warm, so there, made Minho feel half feral with want.

He wanted to erase Rehvan's touch.

Wanted to cover every place that man had dared to lay a hand and claim it for himself instead.

Slowly, his fingers traced the edge of Jisung's jacket, slipping beneath the hem. The linen undershirt beneath was barely a barrier, thin and soft, and his hand quested under both without pause.

The first brush of bare skin made something stutter in his chest.

Heat.

Soft, tense muscle.

Alive.

His fingertips skated across Jisung's side, splaying open like he meant to memorise him, every line, every breath, every flinch. And Jisung shuddered under the touch, eyes fluttering shut again, jaw twitching.

Minho bent forward, breath grazing Jisung's temple, voice a low rumble barely more than air.

"You're burning," he murmured, almost to himself. "You feel like fire under my hands."

And he did.

Gods, he did.

Every inch of Jisung was fever-hot with tension, with want. And Minho couldn't tell where the fury ended and the hunger began, he only knew they were both his. All of it. The trembling beneath him. The way Jisung arched into his palm when he pressed firmer. The pulse fluttering high in his throat.

He slid his hand higher beneath the linen, up the curve of his ribs, thumb dragging lightly over warm skin, up, and up, until his palm splayed just over Jisung's heart.

The beat there was rapid. Erratic.

And entirely for him.

He leaned down again, lips brushing Jisung's cheek, then the corner of his mouth, softer this time, barely a kiss at all.

"I'm going to take my time with you tonight," he whispered, voice rough with restraint. "No one's going to touch you again. No one else. Just me."

His hand gripped tighter at Jisung's side, possessive, anchoring.

Only him.

Forever, if he had anything to say about it.

Minho's hand flew up, and without ceremony, he tore the crown from his head, dark metal glinting like forged shadow, its black diamonds catching the candlelight like shards of night, and threw it aside. It hit the floor with a dull metallic thud, rolling across the plush rug before clattering onto stone, the sound sharp in the stillness.

He didn't spare it a glance.

Let the symbol fall.

He only cared about the body beneath him now.

His hands were on Jisung again in the next breath, firm, steady, guiding and undoing. He worked open the last of the clasps on Jisung's jacket, then peeled the fabric from his shoulders, slow enough to savour the heat rising off his skin, fast enough to feel like he might come unraveled from the anticipation.

His palms skated down the length of one arm, then the other, sliding the sleeves free, before returning to his waist.

The linen undershirt was thin. Too thin to be a barrier. And yet it was.

Minho's hands found the hem, fingers slipping underneath again, touching skin. Warm, taut, trembling slightly.

Gods, he wanted more.

He slid his palms upward, dragging the shirt with him, until Jisung lifted his arms instinctively, wordlessly obedient. It was the smallest gesture, the simplest surrender, and Minho felt it like a spark behind his ribs.

He pulled the shirt over Jisung's head and tossed it aside, baring him fully to the golden candlelight.

And then he just... Looked.

Jisung, laid back on his bed, lips parted, eyes wide, skin glowing in the dim light, all flushed collarbones and delicate ribs and the soft, tense line of his stomach. His pants still clung low on his hips, but it was the rest of him that arrested Minho completely.

Mine.

It wasn't a thought, not really. More like a truth that had always been waiting for a voice.

Minho's breath caught as he drank him in, every inch of newly revealed skin, every tremble in Jisung's limbs as he lay bare beneath him, chest rising with shallow, expectant breaths.

He couldn't stop touching him. Wouldn't.

His hands slid back down, tracing the curve of his ribs with a feather-light brush, fingers mapping the lines of his sides as though he could commit them to memory through skin alone. He paused at the waistband of Jisung's pants, fingers curling against the fabric, seeking permission without words.

Jisung met his gaze, pupils dark and wide, lips parted, and gave the smallest nod.

That was all it took.

Minho undid the fastenings slowly, deliberately, watching Jisung's breath catch again as the fabric eased down over his hips, revealing more, inch by inch. The tension in his body made every movement feel electric. His pants slipped lower, revealing golden skin, smooth and warm under Minho's hands, until they were cast off entirely, left in a heap at the side of the bed with everything else that didn't matter.

Jisung was completely bare now, laid out across Minho's bed, bathed in gold and shadow, flushed and exposed and utterly beautiful. There was nothing princely or rehearsed in Minho's bearing anymore. No mask of poise. Only hunger. Only awe.

He hovered over him, one knee on the edge of the mattress, one hand braced beside Jisung's head as the other roamed, over his hip, his thigh, the crease where his leg met his pelvis. Possessive. Intent.

Minho lowered himself with aching slowness, lips brushing over the soft plane of Jisung's stomach, a barely-there kiss, followed by a gentle lick, warm and deliberate.

He felt the reaction immediately.

Jisung's abdomen tensed beneath him, muscles pulling tight as a faint, involuntary breath shivered from his lips. His fingers curled into the sheets, legs twitching just slightly where they lay parted around Minho's hips.

Minho smiled against his skin.

Again, he pressed a kiss just below the ribs. Another small lick, tasting salt and warmth and something undeniably Jisung. And again, that same reaction. A subtle clench. A breath caught in his throat. The smallest whimper, swallowed too quickly to be anything but instinct.

And then it clicked.

Minho's smile deepened, almost amused, but fond, achingly so.

Every time I lick his skin, he braces for a bite.

He let the thought settle, warm and certain in his chest.

Of course he does. Minho always licked before he bit, it was a habit, a quiet ritual of his own making, the soft before the sharp. And now Jisung's body, even bare and flushed and trembling with a very different kind of need, still reacted as if that were what was coming next.

Not pain. Not fear. But the thrill of expectation. Of surrender.

He kissed over Jisung's sternum, open-mouthed and slow. His tongue flicked across one sensitive spot just below the collarbone, and Jisung gasped, sharp and high, his back arching slightly from the bed.

Minho chuckled softly, low in his throat. "Are you even aware you're doing that?" he murmured, trailing his mouth across to the other side of his chest, laying a soft lick over the delicate skin stretched there. "Tensing every time... Like I'm going to bite you."

Jisung gave a sound somewhere between a breathless laugh and a moan. "You usually do," he managed, voice thick. "My body's just... Learned you."

Minho paused, heart catching behind his ribs at the weight of those words.

My body's learned you.

He swallowed hard, chest tightening, and pressed his lips to Jisung's heart, just once, just firmly enough to feel the beat against his mouth.

"Then let it learn more," he whispered.

And with that, he continued his path lower, trailing his tongue and lips across the warmth of Jisung's chest and down his sides, drinking in every reaction. Every twitch. Every catch of breath. Every Pavlovian shiver his touches earned.

Chapter 22: The Sensory Storm

After long minutes of teasing, soft licks over Jisung's ribs, butterfly kisses along the dip of his waist, the slow drag of his mouth over flushed skin, Minho noticed the change.

Jisung had begun to relax.

Where before each stroke of Minho's tongue had made him brace in anticipation, now his muscles only fluttered gently beneath his touch, breath coming in softer waves. He was growing used to it. Letting go. The trembling tension replaced by a slow, smouldering need.

Minho felt it in every shift of his hips, every breathless exhale, every little moan that slipped free when he thought Minho wasn't listening.

And gods, he felt it against his abdomen, the growing heat and weight of Jisung's arousal pressing up through the last of the fabric between them.

It made something possessive and dark curl low in his belly.

He didn't touch it. Not yet.

He simply shifted lower, trailing his mouth down the flat of Jisung's stomach, slow and worshipful. His lips skimmed over the ridge of one hipbone, then across the sensitive skin of his pelvis, avoiding the very place Jisung was now silently begging him to reach.

Jisung writhed, just faintly, as if trying to tilt himself upward. Minho chuckled against his skin and pressed him gently back down with one steady hand on his hip.

"Patience," he murmured.

Then he dipped lower still, shifting between Jisung's thighs, pushing them further apart with steady, coaxing hands. The light caught along the lines of his skin, flushed and trembling, and Minho swore he'd never seen anything so devastatingly beautiful.

And then, he leaned in.

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Jisung's thigh, warm and slow, lips brushing just beside that maddening ache. He let his tongue dart briefly over the surface. And before Jisung could so much as breathe-

He bit.

Teeth sinking deep into the soft flesh with a precision that was neither cruel nor rushed, just claiming.

Jisung cried out, hips jerking slightly in shock, both from the sudden action and the white-hot pleasure laced through it.

Minho's fangs pierced cleanly, and the taste that hit his tongue was like always. Rich. Familiar. Addictive. Jisung's blood was molten and sweet, singing with adrenaline and trust and something far deeper.

He took only a few slow, measured pulls, letting the taste roll across his senses.

Just enough.

Just until Jisung's breath went shaky and his hand tangled blindly in the sheets.

Then Minho drew back, tongue already laving gently over the punctures, soothing the sting, sealing the edges with care.

He kissed the skin just beside the wound, letting his mouth linger there.

"I couldn't resist," he murmured, lips brushing against Jisung's thigh. "I needed to taste you. Right there. Mine."

And gods, how true it was.

Because the need inside him wasn't just hunger anymore.

It was devotion.

And Jisung had just let him take it, all of it, without flinching.

Minho didn't rise just yet.

Instead, he let his mouth hover just above the place where Jisung's body throbbed for attention, breathing in the heat of him. But he didn't touch, not with hands, not with lips. Not yet.

Instead, he kissed his way sideways, across the narrow bridge of skin above Jisung's pelvis, dragging his lips with unhurried movements until he reached the other thigh. The opposite mirror to where he had first sunk his fangs.

This one he took his time with.

He mouthed gently at the skin there, licks, kisses, the soft scrape of teeth just grazing, not biting, not yet. He wanted to feel the way Jisung trembled in anticipation. Wanted to hear the tension in his breath notch tighter, tighter, until it broke.

And it did.

The moment Minho's lips closed over the softest part of Jisung's inner thigh, warm, wet, slow, Jisung shuddered beneath him, breath stuttering out in a helpless gasp.

Then Minho bit.

Deep and sure.

Jisung arched with a cry, high and desperate, his hips jerking up off the bed again, hands flying to fist the blankets on either side of him. The sound he made was sharp, wrecked, pleasure bleeding into overstimulation, and back again, tangled until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Minho drank, two deep pulls, enough to taste the rush of blood, to feel Jisung's pulse flutter in his mouth like wings, and then he eased back. Licked over the wound with care, sealing it with soft, slow strokes of his tongue until only the heat remained.

Jisung's chest was heaving, his whole body taut as a bowstring. And yet still open. Still his.

 

______________

 

The second bite hit like a flare.

Not as deep this time, less drawn-out, less consuming, but the effect was immediate. Colours burst behind his eyes, not bright, but loud. He could hear the colour red, sharp as the snap of silk. The room pulsed violet around the edges, cool and low like a bassline under his skin. And Minho's mouth, where it pressed to his thigh, was a burn, white-hot and silent, like lightning in a vacuum.

Jisung gasped. His hands flexed uselessly in the sheets, seeking anchor, control, something. But there was nothing. No gravity, no rules, just sensation.

It passed almost as quickly as it came, the second bite shorter, more restrained, but it left a rawness in its wake. A breathless, aching want that coiled low in his stomach, heat pooling and pooling with nowhere to go.

Minho's tongue swept over the skin again, soothing and sealing, but Jisung could barely process it. Every nerve in his body was tuned to one single note, touch me, touch me, please, please, please.

But he didn't beg. He couldn't. His voice wouldn't work, throat choked with the sheer weight of being seen, of being taken apart this slowly. It was unbearable. It was perfect.

He bit down on a groan, hips twitching involuntarily, and tried to lift his head, but Minho's hands were still on him, keeping him in place. Gentle. Commanding. Not restraining, but unmistakably in control.

Jisung's breath shuddered out of him.

He was spread bare, trembling, lips parted and eyes unfocused, and still Minho hadn't touched him where he ached. Hadn't even come close.

And Jisung knew, helplessly, irrevocably, that he wouldn't move until Minho allowed it. Until Minho decided he'd had enough of watching him need.

Until then, Jisung was just... His.

At his mercy.

And gods help him, he didn't want it any other way.

Something akin to satisfaction crossed Minho's features, quickly masked by a carefully cultivated composure.
His tongue traced against Jisung's skin again, trailing a wet path to the seam of his underwear.

It sent a jolt of electricity through Jisung's body, a stark contrast to the cool air that prickled his overheated skin.
He trembled, caught in between the desire to arch into the touch, and to pull away from the intensity of it all.

His hands fisted in the sheets, knuckles white with the effort of holding himself back, of not begging Minho for more.

With a final, lingering kiss at Jisung's hip bone, Minho hooked his fingers into the waistband of his underwear. He slowly dragged the fabric down, his lips teasing across the newly revealed skin in the process.

The fabric slid over Jisung's thighs, over his knees, then pooled at his ankles. Jisung kicked them off the rest of the way, sucking in a gasp at the fact he was completely bare and vulnerable beneath a fully-clothed Minho.

It was a stark visual representation of the power dynamic between them.

Minho finally leaned back over him, his breath ghosting over Jisung's skin, his voice a low rumble.

"You're beautiful, Jisung."

Jisung barely had time to respond before Minho's lips brushed against his inner thigh again, a feather-light touch that made his hips jerk involuntarily.

Minho's lips trailed a path of fire across his skin, a meandering route that left goosebumps in his wake. Jisung was lost in a haze of pleasure, his body aching and needy, his mind fogged with desire and the leftover high from the bites.

And then finally, mercifully, he felt Minho's breath on his cock, hot and teasing, and he couldn't hold back the whine that tore from his throat.
His hips bucked, seeking friction, but Minho's hands held him in place, a firm unyielding pressure that kept him pinned.

Jisung's heart raced. His skin felt too tight, his body too hot, and he was sure he'd combust if Minho didn't touch him, taste him, fucking please him, right now.

His eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back against the bed, and he let out a shaky breath, a plea and a prayer all in one.

Jisung's eyes flew open as he felt the first brush of Minho's tongue against his cock, a lightning bolt of pleasure that shot straight to his core. A broken moan tore from his lips, hands fisting the sheets again as he fought the urge to thrust into the heat of Minho's mouth.

Minho took his time, swirling his tongue around the head of Jisung's cock, teasing the sensitive underside.

Jisung trembled under his touch, unable to stop the desperate and needy sounds spilling from his lips, but they only seemed to spur Minho on.

He took Jisung deeper, inch by inch, his mouth hot and wet and perfect.
Jisung's eyes rolled back, his back arching off the bed, a keening cry of pleasure tearing from his throat.

He was close, so close already, his body wound tight, his cock throbbing between Minho's lips and his skin slick with sweat.

And then Minho swallowed around him, his throat constricting, and Jisung broke.

The world shattered into a million brilliant sparkling pieces as his orgasm crash over him like a tidal wave. His back rose off the bed, his hands fisting in Minho's hair, his mouth open in a silent scream as pleasure tore through him, relentless and all-consuming.

He could still feel Minho's mouth and tongue working against him, it was too much, too intense, and Jisung was suddenly sure he would fracture into so many pieces that he would never be whole again.

Jisung clung to Minho, his body shaking, his breath coming in desperate gasps, his world narrowing to the point where Minho's mouth met his stomach.

 

______________

 

Minho swallowed around Jisung, taking every last drop, relishing in the way Jisung shuddered and moaned above him.
He could feel the tension in Jisung's body, could feel the way he clung to him, desperate and needy, and it sent a surge of possessive satisfaction through him.

When Jisung's release finally subsided, Minho drew off him slowly, his tongue swirling one last time around the head of his cock, sending Jisung twitching beneath him.

When he sat back and looked down at Jisung, he found him a mess. Chest heaving, skin flushed, his hair a tangled halo around his head.
He looked thoroughly debauched, claimed, and another wave of possessive pride ran over Minho.

Only he should get to see him like this. Only he should be able to make him look like this.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over Jisung's skin, his lips brushing against his jaw. "You taste divine, Jisung."

His voice was a low rumble, a whisper that made Jisung's cock twitch between them.
"I could spend hours worshipping you with my mouth."

Jisung whined beneath him at his words, and Minho couldn't fight the smile that stole across his face.

Only he would get to draw those sounds out of him.

And he wanted more of them. So much more.

Minho let his fangs drag deliberately across the sensitive line of Jisung's neck, not biting, just tasting the anticipation.
He felt the tension ripple through him, every nerve in Jisung's body strung tight, the heartbeat beneath his lips hammering like a drum.

Jisung's whisper cracked at the edges, breathless and wrecked.
"Minho..."

Minho stilled, lips still brushing the fragile skin of Jisung's throat, where the pulse trembled. He'd felt the way Jisung had gasped, how his body had arched into him without even thinking, all instinct, all surrender.

But it was the voice that undid him.

That voice, whispering his name like a tether and a plea all at once.

"Tell me what you want, Jisung," Minho murmured, voice low and deliberate, his breath skating across damp skin. He didn't move, didn't rush. He needed to hear it. Needed Jisung to give it to him, in words, in want, not just in trembling silence.

There was a long beat. Then-

"All... All of it."

The answer came like a tremor. Barely more than air. But it landed in Minho's chest like a thunderclap.

All of it.

Desire and permission folded into one shattered admission.

Minho exhaled slowly, shakily, and pulled back just far enough to look at him, really look. Jisung was flushed, lips parted, eyes blown wide with heat and something soft beneath it. His hands still fisted in the bedding, knuckles white, like he didn't trust himself to let go without falling apart.

Minho reached down, took one of those clenched hands, and brought it to his mouth. Kissed each knuckle, slow and reverent.

"Then you'll have it," he said. "Everything."

 

____________

 

Jisung's heart raced at Minho's words, a fluttering, frantic beat that echoed the whirlwind of emotions and sensations whirling inside of him.

He felt raw, exposed and vulnerable in a way that both terrified and exhilarated him. To bare himself so completely, to offer everything... And yet, with Minho, it felt right.

Minho's voice was a low, seductive rumble as he released Jisung's hand, his lips brushing against the skin. "Wait here."

Jisung's breath caught as Minho pulled away, the loss of contact leaving him feeling cold and aching.
He watched, eyes wide and hazy as Minho moved to a small cabinet by the bed, his movements as fluid and graceful as ever.

Jisung's pulse still raced, his skin still prickled, and his body thrummed with a deep, primal need.
He could feel the ghost of Minho's teeth across his skin, could feel the heat of his breath, the press of his hands, and it was both torture and bliss. A sweet, aching emptiness that he knew only Minho could fill.

When Minho returned, his eyes were dark, his lips curved into a wicked smirk, and Jisung felt his heart skip a beat in his chest.

Jisung's eyes locked onto the small bottle of lube in Minho's hand, and a fresh wave of anticipation washed over him. His body trembled, a low, needy whine escaping his lips as Minho climbed back onto the bed, his movements slow and deliberate.

Minho settled between Jisung's thighs, his hands skimming over his skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He could feel the heat of Minho's body, the weight of him, the way he fit so perfectly against him, and it made his head spin, made his heart race, made his cock ache with need.

When Minho's fingers brushed against his entrance, Jisung's eyes fluttered shut, a gasp escaping his lips. He could feel the cool, slick slide of the lube, could feel the way Minho's fingers teased and circled, the way they pressed and prodded, the way they stretched and filled him, and it was too much, too intense, and yet not nearly enough.

Minho's lips brushed against his ear, his voice a low, seductive rumble that made Jisung's toes curl.

"Do you want more?"

Jisung could only nod, unable to form words around his heart seemingly trapped in his throat.

Minho's fingers continued to work Jisung open, the slick slide of lube and the firm press of his digits a delicious stretch. Jisung could feel every ridge, every knuckle, every slight curl and twist of Minho's fingers as they explored. It was overwhelming, the sensations too much and not enough all at once, and Jisung found himself arching into the touch, desperate for more.

He could feel the way Minho's gaze raked over him, could feel the heat of it, the weight of his desire, and it made his heart race.

Jisung's breath stuttered as he felt Minho's fingers withdraw, a whimper of protest escaping his lips at the sudden emptiness. But before he could voice his need, Minho's cock nudged against his entrance, hard and hot and perfect, and Jisung's eyes fluttered shut, a gasp tearing from his throat.

"Please, Minho," he breathed, his voice raw, desperate, a plea and a prayer all in one. "More. I need more."

He could feel the way Minho's cock pulsed against him, could feel the way it slid, slick and teasing, over his rim. It was a maddening sensation, a delicious torment, and Jisung found himself arching, trying to force the contact, trying to urge Minho to take him, to fill him, to claim him in the most primal, intimate way possible.

And then finally, Minho pushed forward, the head of his cock breaching Jisung's entrance, spreading him wide, filling him in a way that made Jisung's eyes roll back, a broken moan tearing from his lips.

It was a delicious, intense burn, a sensation that bordered on pain, but didn't quite cross over, a sweet, aching stretch that made Jisung's body sing.

He could feel every inch of Minho as he pushed deeper, could feel the way his cock dragged over sensitive nerves, the way it filled him so completely, so perfectly, like he was made for this, made for Minho.

When Minho was finally sunken to the hilt, his hips flush against Jisung, Jisung felt a surge of emotion, a wave of longing so intense it almost brought tears to his eyes.

Jisung gasped out as Minho began to move, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm that made Jisung's back arch off the bed.
He could feel the way Minho's muscles flexed, could feel the way his skin burned, the ways his moans grew louder, more desperate.

Minho's thrusts grew faster, harder, more urgent, and Jisung found himself meeting him thrust for thrust, his hips rising to meet the press of Minho's cock, his body craving more, more, more.

Jisung could feel the coil of pleasure tightening in his core again, the heat building until it threatened to consume him whole. His breath came in short, desperate pants, his body trembling and muscles tensing  as Minho's relentless thrusts drove him closer and closer to the edge.

Each snap of Minho's hips, each drag of his cock over the sensitive spot inside him, each low, guttural moan that tore from his lips, sent a shockwave of pleasure through Jisung's body, making him shake, making him gasp, making him whimper with desperate, aching need.

The pressure was building, a delicious, intense, overwhelming pressure that made Jisung's toes curl, made his fingers tingle, made his skin burn with a fevered heat. He could feel the way his cock throbbed, the way it leaked, the way it twitched, desperate for release, desperate for more, more, more.

"Minho... I'm... I'm so close..." Jisung gasped out, his voice desperate plea. "I can't... Not much longer..."

And as if those words were the key, as if he'd planned it all along, Minho dipped down and sank his teeth into Jisung's throat right as he imploded.

The world around him shattered into a kaleidoscope of colours and sensations.

The colours came instantly, impossible, electric, the flash of burning gold behind his eyes, streaks of violet and crimson washing across his vision like spilled ink in water.

Sound bent sideways. A high, keening note rang through him, maybe his own voice, maybe the echo of a heartbeat that wasn't his. He wasn't sure. Everything was distant and too close at once. His skin sang with it. Every nerve felt exposed, raw, but not wounded, alive.

But alongside what he'd come to expect was something else. He felt the rush of pink and green flooding through his body in waves, their sparkles and burning heat drawing through his body as he spilled music onto his stomach.

And Minho was there. Not just physically, but everywhere. Wrapped around the edges of his senses like smoke, grounding and consuming all at once. The warmth of his mouth at Jisung's throat, the weight of his body above, the iron grip of his hands at his hips, it blurred into one devastating truth:

There was no him anymore. Only them.

The intensity crested, again and again, like waves breaking through him, and a broken sob ripped its way out of his throat, the overstimulation leaving glittering trails of moonlight streaming from his eyes.

And then, silence.

No sound. No breath. Just white.

He felt almost blinded.

He collapsed back into himself by degrees, ribs fluttering, lungs scraping for air as the aftershocks rolled through him. His limbs refused to obey, trembling too hard to be still, too wrung-out to move. His hands clutched blindly at the sheets, at Minho, at anything, trying to find a tether back to earth.

He barely noticed as Minho moaned against his skin, having found his own release as he drank deeply from Jisung's throat.

And through the haze, Jisung felt it, a thumb smoothing across his cheek. Gentle. Undemanding.

It grounded him more than words ever could.

He wasn't alone.

He wasn't broken.

He was held. Even in this.

Even like this.

Notes:

I hope it was worth the wait 🩷💚

Chapter 23: The Breakthrough

Notes:

New POV unlocked‽ 😱

The lamp overhead buzzed faintly, its golden light casting long shadows across the parchment-strewn desk. The restricted wing of the palace library was quiet at this hour, silent, save for the soft rasp of old pages turning and the scratch of Seungmin's pen against the margin of a translated scroll.

He didn't look up. Didn't blink. He was too close now.

Months. Months of sifting through half-rotted scrolls and fragmented codices, cross-referencing footnotes and obscure marginalia, learning to read script that hadn't been used in over two thousand years. It had taken him nearly a full day to translate just the footnote of the 1,548-year-old fragment last week. But it had been worth it.

Because there it was again.

Aurelian.

Not a name. Probably not. A title, perhaps. A descriptor. It appeared almost casually, embedded in a list of suspected bloodline carriers, mentioned with the kind of reverence usually reserved for monarchs and deities.
Seungmin leaned forward, fingers brushing over the delicate vellum. Aureus. Gold. Aurelian. The golden one.

The more he traced the term, the clearer the shape of it became. Not a human. Not a vampire. But something else. Another humanoid species, thought long extinct.

The traits lined up like tumblers in a lock.
Rapid regeneration.
Blood replenishment in hours, in rare cases, minutes.
Resilience that defied known biology.
And something more: a unique resonance when bonded to a vampire. An amplifying effect.

According to a manuscript dated nearly 3,000 years ago, pieced together through duplicated fragments scattered across three separate archives, Aurelians granted not just sustenance but power. Heightened speed, sharpened senses, accelerated recovery from wounds.

Page after page, scroll after scroll, Seungmin began to notice something strange. The earliest texts described Aurelians with reverence: "Golden-blooded kin," "Sungifted," "Beloved of the eternal night." Then, slowly, the tone shifted. Later records referred to them clinically: "genetic anomalies," "reactive blood traits." Finally, the latest documents treated them as threats.
"Do not allow bonding. No unauthorised feedings."
The change wasn't just scientific. It was deliberate. A pattern of dehumanisation. Of silencing. Of erasure. As if the vampires feared not just the Aurelians, but what they made the vampires feel.

And then the final note. Almost an afterthought. Scrawled in a trembling hand at the edge of a crumbling page:

"Some loved them. Married them.
And when they were killed, the vampires followed soon after."

Seungmin sat motionless for a long moment, eyes fixed on the words as they sank into him like cold iron.

Then he turned the page.

The ink bled through from the reverse. Another passage, faint and fractured by time. But readable. And beneath that, a reference.

He followed it.

A different volume. Different region. This one catalogued the aftermath of one of the old wars, The Westfall Campaign, he realised after checking the date. A conflict most remembered for vampire infighting, the fall of a minor royal house. But here, buried in a margin footnote, was something else entirely:

"Of the golden-blooded, four were captured. One survived the burning. Three reconstituted after limb dismemberment.
Only one method proved final. Complete severance of the head, and immediate incineration of both parts."

Seungmin's hands stilled over the fragile paper.

So it was true.

The barest references in the footnotes. The strange gaps in the bloodline histories.

Aurelians hadn't just been rare, they'd been immortal.

Not invulnerable. But like vampires, their bodies had defied natural death. Wounds sealed. Blood replenished. Limbs, entire limbs, regrown over time. There were diagrams. Horribly detailed ones. Sketches of flesh mending, of skin reweaving over ruined bone.

And worse still, testimonies.

He found one from a healer-turned-interrogator, dated over 2,000 years ago, a man who had been "commissioned" by an eastern prince to determine the full regenerative limits of "the golden breed."

The words were chilling in their clinical detachment:

"Subject expired multiple times under duress. Yet revived in each instance, save when decapitated and burned.
Regrowth of minor organs occurred within hours.
Recovery from exsanguination was near total within six.
Attempts to destroy the heart proved unsuccessful unless removed entirely."

Seungmin's gut twisted. Not just from what had been done, but from how familiar the phrasing felt.

He looked again at the detail: exsanguination. Three hours.

That was twice as long as it had taken for Jisung's blood volume to restabilise after the poisoning.

He flipped through the rest of the records with shaking fingers.

More scrolls. More names. All long lost. Many of the records deliberately altered, others redacted. There were centuries where the name Aurelian vanished completely, replaced with vague euphemisms like "enhanced donor" or "highborn kin."

But the same traits appeared. Again and again.

Healing. Longevity. A bond that went beyond biology.

And always, always, the obsession of those who fed from them.

Some married them. Some guarded them like treasure. And when they were taken, when they were beheaded, when they were killed, the vampires who had loved them didn't just grieve.

They followed.

Torn apart from the inside by grief, their hearts calcifying.

He picked up another scroll, The parchment was brittle, its ink faded to a pale rust, but the meaning was unmistakable. Seungmin stared at the passage, heart thudding.
"...and thus fell Lord Hareth, betrayed not in battle but in trust, by the very Aurelian he kept at his side."
His eyes narrowed. There was no context, no motive, only the blunt finality of the line. He cross-referenced the date with known conflicts between vampire Houses and found the name of the rival family who'd risen swiftly in power afterward. Coincidence? Possibly. But the idea that an Aurelian could turn, that not all bonds were mutual, twisted in Seungmin's gut like a warning bell.

He found more buried in a philosophical treatise written by a vampire scholar named Lysandre, whose works were often dismissed as dramatics. But one passage stopped Seungmin cold.
"To love an Aurelian is to thread your soul through with a golden needle. The stitch never heals, and when it is pulled loose, it tears the heart to ribbons. A vampire who loves them will never love another. And if the Aurelian dies, the vampire soon follows, not by injury, but by ruin."
A romantic exaggeration, perhaps. Or a warning no one had listened to. Either way, Seungmin couldn't unsee the way Minho looked when he spoke of Jisung. Not with hunger. Nor with mere need. Devotion.

Seungmin closed the book, the soft thud of the parchment echoing in the quiet.

This changed everything.

Seungmin sat back, the chill crawling up his spine unnoticed until it settled like a weight between his shoulders.
Of course.

The edict banning direct feeding had never sat right with him. The official line was safety. Control, restraint, professionalism. Donor health above all. But this...

No. It hadn't been about protection.
It had been about containment.

If Aurelians had survived, even in diluted form, the risk wasn't just biological. It was emotional. Intimate.
Vampires were immortal, but not invulnerable. Especially not to heartbreak.

Which brought everything back to Jisung.

Seungmin's eyes drifted to the notes he'd jotted along the side of the page.
The regeneration patterns. The absence of fatigue after draws.
Minho's unusual reaction after the first draw.
The way Minho had acted after the poisoning.

Seungmin closed his eyes, fingers steepling over his lips. He already knew Minho had direct-fed from Jisung that night. There had been too much at stake.

But the real question wasn't if it had happened in the first place.

It was whether he had stopped.

Because if Jisung was what Seungmin suspected, something closer to a pure Aurelian than anyone had seen in nearly two millennia, then Minho's obsession wasn't just emotional. It was physiological. Addictive. Potent in a way that could change him. Strengthen him. Unbalance him.

And if Minho had already tasted that, the rush of power, the intimacy, the bond, how could he possibly go back to sterile vials and scheduled draws from crystal glasses?

Seungmin's pen hovered above the page.

He remembered the look in Minho's eyes when he'd last spoken of Jisung. Not just affection. Not desire. Something deeper. Something almost holy.

The lamp flickered slightly as Seungmin read back over the final translation, the word Aurelian still lingering in his mind like static.

And then, he froze.

His head snapped up.

The painting.

He was on his feet in seconds, parchment scattering across the desk in his wake. One rolled clean off and hit the stone floor with a hollow thud, ignored entirely as Seungmin grabbed his coat and all but sprinted out of the library.

He'd seen it years ago. Maybe once. Maybe twice. A faded oil painting tucked behind a torn tapestry in the disused western gallery, a space few people bothered to enter unless they were lost or hiding. He hadn't thought about it in years. Not until now.

But he remembered it suddenly, vividly.

A kneeling vampire. Head bowed. And someone else above him. Lit like a sun.

Seungmin's boots echoed sharply against the marble floor as he turned corner after corner, descending stairs two at a time, heart pounding with a strange, urgent certainty.

By the time he reached the western wing, his breath was coming fast, and the cold air that lived in these forgotten halls bit against his skin. Dust clung to the crown moulding. Shadows pooled along the floor, long and silent. The lamps here buzzed inconsistently, flickering like old thoughts trying to resurface.

The tapestry was still there.

Frayed at the edges. Velvet edging worn bald in places. A depiction of some long-forgotten battle. He didn't care. He pushed it aside in one sharp motion, revealing the painting behind.

There it was.

Dust-coated, cracked with age, but unmistakable.

He stepped closer.

It was larger than he remembered, framed in tarnished silver and taller than he was. A composition of deep ochres and golds, offset by subtle details rendered with a level of care that bordered on obsessive.

At the bottom, a vampire knelt. His face was turned downward, expression hidden, but his posture radiated submission. No weapons. No crown. Just devotion.

But it was the figure above him that stole the breath from Seungmin's lungs.

He stood bathed in light. Not painted light. Something else. The artist had layered fine gold leaf within the oil, so that even now, centuries later, the halo shimmered faintly under the flicker of the lamp overhead.

Brown hair. A soft, tousled shade, familiar in a way that made Seungmin's pulse hitch.

Large, dark eyes. Wide with some unreadable expression, somewhere between sorrow and grace.

Their hands were held loosely at their sides, palms open. Not victorious. Not demanding. Just... Radiant in a way that made the vampire's kneeling seem like the only logical reaction.

Seungmin stepped even closer, breath shallow now.

Everyone had always assumed this figure was a forgotten deity. A saint, perhaps. A lost god from a time before vampire rule. The records were unclear, and the date on the plaque beneath the frame had long since been scratched clean.

But looking now, seeing the lines, the proportions, the softness of the features...
This isn't a god.
It's a person.

And Seungmin knew who they looked like.

Not identically, this portrait was idealised, stylised, but the resemblance was undeniable now that the thought had seeded.

Jisung.

Or someone like him.

An Aurelian.

He reached out slowly, fingertips brushing the lower edge of the frame, just above the tarnished nameplate. The gold halo gleamed faintly in the flickering light.

This wasn't a forgotten deity.
This was history.
Hidden in plain sight.

And if the portrait had survived, if this had survived, then what else had been hidden?

Who else had known?

Seungmin stepped back, heart still thudding, mind racing. Every thread he'd followed, every obscure text, every dismissed myth, they were all pointing here. The pieces weren't just falling into place anymore.

They were colliding.

And the implications were enormous.

Minho didn't know this. He couldn't know. Not fully. Not yet.

Because if he did, if he did...
There was no telling how far he'd go to protect him.

To keep him.

Seungmin turned and vanished back into the corridor, the image of the painting still burning behind his eyes.

 

_______________

 

Minho lay still, eyes half-lidded, breath quiet. The room was dark around them, save for the faint, flickering cast of the lantern in the corner, its light pooling like liquid amber across the floor. It didn't touch the bed. Didn't reach them.

And yet Minho felt lit from the inside.

The afterglow of feeding always left him sated. Steady. But this, this was different.

This was blinding.

His heart beat too steadily. Too strongly. There was no sluggishness, no post-feeding haze, no familiar pull of hunger momentarily silenced. Instead, it was like his body had been wound tighter, nerves thrumming beneath his skin with a clarity that felt both sharp and unnatural.

He blinked.

And heard something.

Not Jisung's breathing. Not the whisper of sheets shifting. No... It was the faint tick... tick... tick of a clock.

Minho frowned. There was no clock in his quarters.

He strained, not because he needed to, but because the sound was already there, embedded in the quiet like a thread of silver through silk. He recognised the cadence. The one in the library wing, three corridors down.

He sat up slightly, careful not to disturb Jisung.

His skin felt... Warm.

Not the radiating, superficial heat of touch, but internal, a slow burn behind his ribs, coiling through his limbs. Vampires didn't run warm. Their bodies were held in a suspended state just below human temperature. It was why humans always felt like fire.

But now? Now he was fire.

He flexed his fingers. They moved with unsettling ease, no stiffness, no delay.

It was evolution.

Minho looked down at his own body. It didn't look different. But it felt like something beneath the surface had shifted. Like every cell had been recalibrated.

He drew in a breath, slow and deep. Even the air tasted richer.

His tongue traced the inside of his mouth, seeking the faintest lingering trace of blood.

Jisung's blood.

It didn't just heal. It changed him.

And it hadn't stopped.

Jisung lay beside him, curled loosely on his side, one leg tangled with Minho's, his skin still damp and flushed with exertion. His breath was deep now, slow and steady, but his body glowed, not visibly, not really, and yet Minho swore he could feel it. Some ripple of warmth beneath the skin, like sunlight through trees, soft and golden and impossible to name.

He'd known taking Jisung to his bed would change things.

But not like this.

Not like this.

Minho's hand hovered inches above Jisung's hip, not quite touching, as though even the gentlest contact might stir something too deep to control. His fingers itched. Not from thirst. From want. From the overwhelming need to press into Jisung's skin and mark him again. Not just with teeth. With time. With forever.

Because Jisung wasn't just beautiful. He wasn't just powerful. He was his.

And Minho had felt it, that moment when Jisung fell apart beneath him, when his cries turned to sobs, his body convulsing with overstimulation, his blood singing through Minho's veins like lightning.

He'd let him see it. Let him have it.

Minho had lived over a hundred years. He had witnessed beauty in its rarest, most fleeting forms, the bloom of dusk through ice fog, the cry of dying starlight on winter rooftops, the first taste of vintage wines aged by centuries. He had felt awe. He had known reverence.

But never like this.

Never like him.

Minho turned his head slowly, gazing at the boy curled beside him. His Jisung. The flush in his cheeks had begun to fade. His lashes fanned over his skin, fluttering faintly now and then, like his dreams were vivid, or too full.

Minho's throat tightened.

He had to protect him.

It was no longer a question. Not even a desire. It was a law that now lived inside his body, buried deeper than instinct.

He would protect him from gossip. From protocol. From jealousy. From the palace. From the system that had made Jisung believe he was D-Class, disposable, nothing more than fodder.

He would guard him against every noble who saw him as a resource. Every vampire who looked at him like property. Every law that still claimed to have power over him.

Because no one else deserved him.

No one else could have him.

Minho shifted slightly, moving to brush a damp strand of hair away from Jisung's forehead, fingers so light it barely counted as a touch. But the contact made Jisung murmur something in his sleep, soft and half-formed. Minho froze, every part of him stilling as he listened.

The sound wasn't a word. Just a breath. But it curled around his heart like an embrace.

He wanted to stay like this. Just like this. With Jisung warm and safe beside him, the ghost of his voice in the dark, the taste of his blood still on Minho's lips.

But then, like ice in the gut, the thought came.

Forty years.

At best.

Maybe less.

Minho's entire body went cold.

The image hit him suddenly, Rina's hands, steady even after thirty-nine years. The aged weariness behind her smile. The increasing bodily pains she didn't speak aloud. She'd survived this long. And she'd left. Moved to another life, away from the palace. And soon enough, she would die.

Jisung's death, when it came...

Minho would outlive it.

That thought was unbearable.

Could he survive it?

He imagined the bed cold. The scent of Jisung gone. The memory of his blood fading into absence. His body recoiled. No. No, he wouldn't survive it. Immortality meant nothing if it ended like that. An unhealing wound stretched unendingly for the rest of his existence.

Even if it didn't physically kill him...

His gaze dropped to Jisung's collarbone, to the soft line of his throat where the most recent bite had already begun to fade. He leaned in, barely grazing the skin with his lips, not biting. Just anchoring himself.

He'd only just found him.

And now time had become the enemy.

What was forty years to a vampire?

Nothing.

What was forty years with Jisung?

Everything.

He wanted longer. He wanted always. And gods, that want was dangerous. It twisted in his chest like hunger, like panic, like a curse.

He thought of the laws. The restrictions. The way they'd banned direct feeding, called it unstable, undignified, dangerous for the donors.

But it couldn’t be about health.

It had to be about control.

Because they must have known. Somewhere, long ago, the elders must have seen what direct feeding did, the bonds it formed, the power of it. They must have feared what vampires would become when they loved their donors.

Minho clenched his jaw, blood buzzing beneath his skin.

He understood now.

Because if anyone ever threatened Jisung... If they tried to take him away... He would burn the world to ash.

He would walk through fire and ruin and centuries of law just to keep him.

To keep this.

Minho's breath came slower now. Not calm. But steady.

He pulled Jisung gently closer, chest to chest, their limbs tangled, their breath slowly syncing. He let himself feel the warmth of him. The fragility. The immensity of what he'd been given.

And as Jisung slept, content, glowing, his body slack and trusting against him, Minho whispered, voice barely sound:

"You're mine."

Not to own.

To protect.

To love.

To lose, someday.

But not yet.

Not while he still had time.

Notes:

And yes, I chose Aurelian because it sounds a bit like alien 😂

Chapter 24: The Revelation

Jisung woke to the press of warm lips against his shoulder.

A soft kiss. Then another, near the curve of his neck.

"Jisung," Minho murmured, voice rough with sleep and something fond underneath. "You need to wake up."

Jisung groaned faintly, eyes fluttering open. The room was still cloaked in darkness, but he'd clearly been asleep for a while. He blinked against the low lantern light and found Minho watching him.

"I need to take you back to your room," Minho said gently.

He didn't want to.

The thought bloomed sharp in his chest before he could smother it. He didn't want to go. The bed was warm, and Minho's arms had been steady around him all night, anchoring him in ways he hadn't known he needed. His body still tingled from the memory of it, touch, bite, heat, surrender, every inch of him sore and humming in the aftermath.

But he nodded. "Okay."

Minho helped him sit up, then reached for the garments they'd tossed carelessly aside the night before. He shook them out, moving with the same precision as he had when he first undressed Jisung, only this time in reverse. Soft hands guiding sleeves over arms, smoothing fabric down his sides, fingers brushing against skin in passing.

And every brush came with a kiss.

One to the corner of his mouth as he fastened the ties of Jisung's linen undershirt.

Another against the line of his jaw as he slid the belt back through its loops.

One to his wrist, just above the pulse point.

A lingering one to his collarbone, just where the undershirt dipped low.

It was like being stitched back together, kiss by kiss.

Jisung's breath caught with every one.

"You're doing this on purpose," he said softly, almost accusing.

Minho looked up, all faux innocence. "Doing what?"

"You know what."

Minho smiled, wide and devastating. "Guilty."

He pressed one final kiss to the hollow of Jisung's throat. "I'm sorely tempted to keep you here," he whispered. "To say to hell with protocol and let them find us tangled together come morning."

Jisung's heart lurched.

He tried for a grin, light and easy. "What's stopping you?"

Minho didn't answer. Not directly. He just brushed Jisung's hair back from his forehead and said, quietly, "You deserve better than the fallout."

The words settled heavy between them. No bitterness, just a truth too big to ignore.

Jisung didn't argue. Because he knew.

But gods, a small part of him still wanted Minho to say it. To tell him to stay.

He stood instead, adjusting the fall of his sleeves. His legs still felt loose beneath him, not from exhaustion, but from whatever magic Minho had wrought into his bones the night before.

Minho offered his hand as they stepped toward the door. Jisung took it, fingers curling tight around his

The halls were hushed at this hour, lit only by soft sconces flickering low against the carved walls, casting long shadows that danced across the stone walls. Their footsteps were nearly silent, Minho's by nature, Jisung's by effort. He felt too loud in this quiet, like he didn't belong in it. Like any sound he made would give him away.

Minho walked just half a step ahead, but his hand never left Jisung's back. A steadying weight between his shoulder blades. Reassuring.

And yet, Jisung's stomach was a knot.

He knew, logically, that he couldn't be punished for this. Technically, so long as he was in the presence of his assigned match, curfew restrictions didn't apply. He wasn't breaking any rules. And Minho... Minho was royalty. Nobody would dare accuse him of anything.

But that didn't stop the creeping paranoia.

That someone would see. That someone would say something. That Jisung would be dragged away to some shadowed wing of the palace, accused of impropriety, of seduction, of stepping beyond his place.

They turned a corner and passed two guards stationed along the main corridor.

Both bowed immediately, not to Jisung, of course, but to Minho.

Their heads dipped in unison, eyes respectfully lowered. Neither of them so much as glanced in Jisung's direction. Not out of kindness. Just... Disregard. Like he wasn't worth acknowledging.

The air felt colder after.

Minho didn't slow.

Another pair of guards passed them at the stairwell, same response. Deep bows. Silence. And again, Jisung was invisible.

He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to look straight ahead. The palace had always made him feel small, but next to Minho, exalted, untouchable, the contrast was unbearable.

He was dressed in expensive fabric, yes. He had walked these halls countless times now. But none of that mattered.

He was still a donor.

Still lesser. Decorative, but disposable.

The silence stretched.

Minho said nothing, perhaps sensing the tension in him, perhaps not. His touch at Jisung's back never changed, but Jisung felt himself shrink with every step, anxiety eating at the edges of the warmth he'd carried from Minho's bed.

As they neared his door, Jisung risked a glance sideways, not at Minho's face, but at his silhouette. Tall. Regal. Effortlessly composed.

It should have made him feel proud to be at his side.

Instead, it just made him wonder how long he'd be allowed to stay there.

They reached his door too soon.

Minho slowed first, fingers brushing lightly against Jisung's spine as he came to a stop in the alcove just beside the entrance. The hallway was empty, quiet enough to hear the soft hum of the temperature controls embedded in the wall. No guards in sight. No footsteps approaching. Just silence.

Jisung turned to face him, already feeling the chill of absence before it came.

Minho glanced once down the corridor, then again behind them. A quick scan, not paranoid, but precise. Always precise. And when he was certain they were alone, he stepped in close, hand lifting to cup Jisung's cheek.

Jisung leaned into the touch instinctively, eyes fluttering shut just as Minho kissed him.

It wasn't a goodbye kiss. Not really. It was too deep, too slow, too consuming. Minho kissed him like there was no time limit, no need to come up for air, like Jisung belonged nowhere else but here, pressed close and warm and wanting.

Jisung melted into it, his fingers curling into the front of Minho's jacket, clinging as if he could hold him there by will alone. The fabric was soft beneath his palms, but Minho was solid beneath that, steady, unshakable.

His heart felt like it was going to break.

He wanted to stay there. Wanted to drown in the heat of Minho's mouth and forget everything else, the guards, the curfew, the ache of being lesser in a place where that difference ruled every breath.

He wanted to stay. He always wanted to stay.

The kiss broke eventually, slow and reluctant, their mouths parting just enough for breath. But their foreheads remained pressed together, breath mingling in the narrow space between.

Jisung could feel the thud of Minho's heart, could feel the echo of his own pulse trying to match it.

Minho's voice was quiet, lower than usual, as if he didn't trust it to carry.
"Meet me in the Annex tonight."

Jisung nodded, unable to speak.

Minho's thumb stroked lightly across his cheekbone, once, then again.

And then he stepped back, just enough to let the space return between them, but not enough to undo the weight of what they'd just shared.

Jisung didn't move until Minho did, a final glance, a ghost of a smile, and then he was gone, vanishing down the corridor with the same grace he always carried.

Jisung opened the door to his room.

He stepped inside, heart still thrumming.

And the space without Minho felt immeasurably colder.

 

_______________

 

Minho walked slowly.

Each footfall was measured, quiet against the palace stone, his steps echoing faintly in the long, hushed corridor. The warmth of Jisung still lingered on his skin, the softness of his mouth, the trembling cling of his hands, the breath they'd shared between kisses. It clung to him like a second pulse. And yet, even as the memory simmered warm in his chest, a cold weight pressed just beneath it.

Forty years.

It would sound like a lifetime to a human. But to Minho, it was nothing. A blink. A brief, golden flare before the dark.

He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, jaw tight.

He'd waited so long for something, someone, to shake him out of the inertia of eternity. He hadn't expected it to be a trembling boy with wide eyes and gold-threaded blood, but the moment Jisung had cried beneath him, overstimulated and open, Minho had known.

He wasn't going to survive this cleanly.

And now he'd have to be careful. Very careful.

He could request unscheduled draws. That much was within his rights. But too many would garner attention. Suspicion. And he knew how closely donor activity was monitored, especially for someone in his position.

He'd only requested one in the entirety of Rina's tenure, when he'd fractured a rib after being thrown from a horse during an equestrian exercise two decades ago. He would have healed by morning. But the medical unit had insisted. A minor injury wasn't minor when it was the Crown Prince.

He couldn't justify frequent deviation from routine, not even for something as quietly intoxicating as Jisung.

Minho reached his wing and stepped through the final archway, the corridor narrowing to the private royal quarters. He expected silence. Emptiness.

Instead, he found Seungmin.

The younger vampire stood just outside Minho's chamber door, arms crossed tightly over his chest, brows drawn in a way Minho hadn't seen in years. Not worry. Not confusion.

Alarm.

"Seungmin?" Minho slowed to a stop. "What are you doing here?"

Seungmin's eyes flicked up, sharp, unreadable. "We need to talk."

Minho's shoulders stiffened. There were very few things that could rattle Seungmin. Even fewer that would drag him to Minho's door, at this hour, looking like he'd just emerged from battle with his own thoughts.

"What happened?"

"It's about Jisung." Seungmin's voice was low. Tight.

Minho didn't move for a moment. His heart clenched.

He stepped forward, expression hardening. "Inside. Now."

Minho closed the door with a quiet click behind them, locking it out of habit. The air inside his chambers was still faintly laced with Jisung, that faint sweetness that seemed to linger in the corners, impossible to scrub out.

Seungmin moved first.

He strode across the floor and lowered himself into the armchair beside the hearth with the controlled restraint of someone trying very hard not to pace. His eyes flicked briefly to the low fire, but he didn't bother warming his hands. His fingers remained laced tight in his lap.

Minho didn't sit. He stood across from him, brows drawn, arms folded, tension already coiling in his spine.

"Well?"

Seungmin exhaled through his nose and cut straight to it.

"I think I know what Jisung is."

Minho's jaw tensed. "He's mine."

"That's not what I meant."

"I don't care what you meant-"

"Minho," Seungmin said, his voice harder than usual, sharper, like a blade snapping free of its sheath. "You need to listen. You're not the only one at risk."

That gave Minho pause. A long moment passed in which only the low crackle of the hearth stirred the silence. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Talk."

Seungmin adjusted his posture in the chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. The fire cast his features in gold and shadow, the fatigue behind his eyes suddenly more evident than before.

"I've been researching for months now," he said. "His regeneration rates, his blood resilience... None of it matched known S-Class donors. He shouldn't have recovered like he did. Not that fast."

Minho said nothing, but his shoulders drew tighter.

"I dug deeper. Through old texts, restricted archives, palace records from the pre-Reformation dynasties. And a word started appearing. Once, twice, then more."

He met Minho's gaze.

"Aurelian."

Minho blinked. The word didn't register at first, too archaic, too unfamiliar. But he felt something tighten in his gut.

"Aurelian?" he echoed.

Seungmin nodded. "A title, not a name. From the Latin 'aureus' - golden. I found it first in a passing footnote from fifteen hundred years ago. But the deeper I went, the more references surfaced. Not many. The records are fragmented, like someone tried to erase them. But what I did find... It's enough."

Minho didn't realise he'd started pacing until the fire caught a glint of movement, his own reflection twisting faintly in the glass of a cabinet door. He stopped short. "What were they?"

"Another humanoid species like us. Not vampires. Not human. Separate." Seungmin's voice was steady now, clinical. "They had extraordinary regenerative abilities. Injuries healed in minutes. Blood replenished in hours. Some reports even claim true immortality, the kind only stoppable by complete beheading and burning of the body."

Minho turned back toward him, silent, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"But the real reason they were coveted?" Seungmin said, voice lowering. "Their blood. Vampires who fed on them, even in small amounts, experienced enhanced physical and cognitive performance. Sharpened reflexes, increased stamina, even heightened senses. And not just temporarily. Prolonged exposure caused permanent change."

Minho's breath hitched, and for a flicker of a second, he remembered his own senses the morning after the poisoning. The alertness. The strength. The control. The same change he felt thrumming through his veins again right now.

Seungmin was still speaking.

"They were rare even then. But when direct feeding was still common, they were treated as the highest honour a vampire could be given... A bonded Aurelian. There are records of vampire lords marrying them. Devoting themselves. Some apparently even went mad or died from grief after losing them."

Minho's voice was hoarse when it came. "What happened to them?"

Seungmin's expression shifted, something bleak pulling tight across his features.

"They became targets. In war, they were hunted. Killing an Aurelian meant stripping a vampire of their greatest strength. Of their love, their power, their future. It was a calculated form of destruction. Some rival houses used it to dismantle dynasties."

Minho's hand curled into a slow, trembling fist at his side.

"But it didn't stop there," Seungmin added grimly. "Eventually, they were captured. Dissected. Tortured. Researchers, vampires, wanted to know the limits of their regeneration. How much blood they could lose before death. How long it took a crushed organ to regrow. There are entries... Transcripts, even. Pages of it."

Minho's vision blurred.

A low, thrumming sound filled his ears, rage, ancient and cold. It sat behind his ribs like a blade.

"And now," Seungmin said, quieter, "we may have one again."

Minho stepped forward slowly, his voice deathly low. "You're sure?"

Seungmin didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he stood. "Come with me."

Minho narrowed his eyes. "Where?"

"I need to show you something. You won't believe it until you see it for yourself."

There was no room for argument in his tone, only the clipped edge of urgency. Without waiting for consent, Seungmin turned on his heel and strode toward the door. Minho followed without another word, his pulse quickening, unease rising with every step.

They walked in silence through the palace, past the locked archives and the quiet hush of sleeping tapestries. Eventually, Seungmin led him down a narrower corridor, one reserved for old acquisitions, where ancient records and uncategorised relics were left to gather dust.

A single iron-bound door stood at the end.

The hinges groaned as the door swung open, revealing a long, narrow chamber with a row of shrouded frames leaned against the far wall.

He crossed to the third one without hesitation.

A worn plaque with an aged tapestry covering the frame, yellowed at the edges.

Seungmin hesitated, then reached out and pulled the tapestry away.

Minho felt his breath catch.

The figure in the painting was haloed in gold leaf, the background a swirling mix of violets and reds. Brown hair, softly curled. Large, dark eyes. A gentle, almost melancholic mouth. Painted with reverence, every detail rendered with the kind of care reserved for saints or sovereigns.

A faint shimmer still clung to the gilding, catching the lamplight.

"We used to think it was a forgotten deity," Seungmin said quietly, not looking at him. "Or a martyr from some lost religious sect. But I found their name in a registry from a thousand years ago. They weren't just worshipped. They were Aurelian."

Minho didn't speak.

He was rooted to the spot, staring at the portrait, at a face that didn't belong exactly to Jisung and yet mirrored him in ways that made his chest ache. The eyes. The expression. The pull of something warm and terrible that wrapped around his ribs and didn't let go.

"He looks like him," Minho murmured, almost to himself.

Seungmin nodded. "Too much to be coincidence."

Minho stepped closer. The gold halo bled into the background like sunlight at the edge of dusk.

"What did they do to him?"

"To the one in the painting?" Seungmin's voice went flat. "There's no record of their death. But others? Captured. Tortured. Studied. Executed. Once the vampire court realised what Aurelians could offer... And what it cost to lose them..."

Minho's hands curled into fists at his sides.

"I won't let that happen to him," he said, low and dangerous.

Seungmin looked at him then, truly looked, and nodded once.

"I know."

He felt suddenly cold. Like someone had yanked the earth out from beneath him.

"They didn't all die out," Seungmin said. "They hid. Interbred. The blood diluted. What we now call S-Class donors are their remnants."

"And Jisung..." Minho rasped.

"Somehow, after centuries... It's all manifested in him again."

The very air seemed to crackle.

Neither of them spoke.

Then, Minho's voice, frayed with fury.

"If anyone so much as looks at him with suspicion-"

"I know."

"I will tear the throat from the first person who dares touch him."

"I know, Minho."

Minho's hands were shaking.

All this time, he'd thought the worst thing was how little time they had. Forty years, if even that. A blink. But now, that future wasn't finite... It was fragile.

Jisung wasn't just rare.

He was a secret the palace wouldn't allow to exist.

 

______________

 

Jisung finally curled under the covers with a quiet sigh, the sheets cool against his freshly showered skin. The lights had dimmed automatically a few minutes earlier, casting the room in a soft, amber half-glow that barely touched the corners. He liked it like this, quiet, warm, the air still but not stifling. For once, there was nothing expected of him when he'd wake up. No medical appointments. Just the standard physical conditioning block in the late morning, and that had long since stopped feeling like a punishment. His muscles no longer ached after every session; his breath didn't hitch by the third lap. He was stronger now. Calmer.

But none of that was why he was finding it so hard to close his eyes.

He turned onto his side, the pillow shifting beneath his cheek as he stared at the faint outline of the books on the writing desk across the room. Tonight. He'd see Minho again tonight.

The thought was a thread that wound itself around his spine, tugging, pulling, making it impossible to settle. He tried not to imagine too much, the way Minho's eyes might look in the low light of the annex, or how his voice would sound in a space meant for whispers. He tried not to think about the weight of Minho's hands, or the way he kissed when no one was watching.

He failed miserably.

His breath caught in his throat at the memory of being undressed slowly. Of being kissed with such patience it made his chest ache. The hunger in Minho's eyes, the way he looked at him like nothing else mattered. It was seared into his memory now. Irretrievable.

Jisung pressed a hand lightly over his own chest, as if to quiet the heartbeat pounding there. It didn't help. He was warm under the covers, too warm. His skin tingled faintly, the echo of past touches sparking like static beneath the surface.

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a slow breath, willing his body to settle. Just sleep, he told himself. You'll see him soon enough.

But the minutes stretched long and wide around him, every second marked by the quiet thrum of anticipation in his veins.

He was going to see him again.

And gods help him, he wanted that more than anything.

Notes:

Welp. Minho knows the truth now 🙃

Chapter 25: The Reunion

Notes:

Time for a lil’ blast from the past?

The bar clanked softly back into place as Jisung finished his set, arms trembling faintly with the effort. He exhaled, long and steady, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, sweat dampening the back of his neck. The activity wing was quieter this time of day, most donors took their exercise earlier in the morning, before their schedules pulled them in a dozen different directions. But Jisung had stayed longer than usual.

Forty-five minutes, by his last count.

He wasn't even sure what he was working toward anymore. He wasn't chasing a particular goal. He was just... Trying to shut his mind up. Trying to move enough that his thoughts slowed, that the anticipation stopped humming beneath his skin like a second pulse.

It wasn't working.

His muscles were sore, sure, but his thoughts still circled the same place they had when he first walked in. Tonight.

Minho.

The annex.

The thought alone made his stomach flutter, electric and ridiculous. He reached for his water bottle and took a long sip, trying not to let his mind flash back to last night, to Minho's mouth on his skin, to the way his voice had dipped low and reverent like a prayer. Just thinking about it made his skin prickle, made something deep inside him tighten with want.

Focus, he told himself. You're in public. Don't start blushing over a memory like a-

"Hey."

Jisung glanced up quickly, startled.

Hakyung stood beside him, towel slung over one shoulder, dark hair damp from her own workout. Her expression was curious, slightly amused.

"You good?" he asked. "You've been going at it like a man possessed. We're about to head out and figured we'd ask if you wanted to come."

Jisung blinked. "Come where?"

"Town centre. We got our quarterly clearance this morning." Hakyung grinned, clearly excited. "We're allowed out for the afternoon. Shopping, food, whatever. Few hours of pretending we're normal civilians. Want in?"

Jisung hesitated. For a second, his brain caught on the words 'town centre' like they were foreign. Then the rest of it registered. The quarterly outing. He'd heard others mention it in passing, but this was the first time anyone had asked him directly.

He glanced down at his hands, still dusted faintly with chalk, then back up at Hakyung. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I do."

It would help. It had to. Anything to keep him from burning a hole through the hours until nightfall with nothing but thoughts of Minho to fill them.

Hakyung brightened. "Awesome. Go shower. We'll wait for you."

Jisung nodded and grabbed his towel, heading toward the locker room. As he walked, he let the smallest smile tug at the edge of his mouth.

He was still counting down the hours. Still aching to see Minho again.

But maybe a few hours of pretending to be normal, just one of the others, would make the wait a little easier.

Or at least a little less distracting.

 

The town centre was even cleaner than Jisung expected. Wide stone walkways stretched between tall storefronts, their displays polished and glowing under the soft morning light. A few towering trees lined the edges of the plaza, their leaves a soft blue-green shade he'd never seen in the slums. Everything felt curated, tidy and civilised in a way that didn't quite feel real.

Back home, the streets had been a patchwork of cracked pavement and puddles that never dried. Market stalls sagged on warped wooden legs, their tarps faded and torn from too many seasons under a sun that didn't forgive. The buildings were a haphazard mix of brick and concrete, crumbling at the corners, paint flaking like dry skin. He could still hear the buzz of old generators straining to power single bare bulbs, the clatter of tin pans, the shouted haggling that always bordered on a fight. Nothing had ever gleamed. Nothing had ever felt untouched.

As the shuttle rolled to a gentle stop, a palace attendant stepped on board, carrying a small case of familiar compliance bands. One by one, each donor was called forward to have one fitted snugly around their wrist, smooth, cold, and faintly humming. "You're free to explore," the attendant said, tone clipped, "but you are expected back at this shuttle by eighteen-hundred hours sharp. Failure to return will result in disciplinary action." The donors nodded, some more nervously than others, and then, just like that, the doors opened and they were released into the sunlight.

Jisung flipped the plastic card he had been given between his fingers as they walked, still uncertain about it. According to the palace staff, it contained the stipend he'd been accumulating since the day he arrived, his monthly allowance digitally deposited and stored like currency in a world he had no access to until now. It felt... Strange. Like being handed the keys to a room he didn't know existed.

Around him, the other donors buzzed with excitement. Hakyung was in rare form, bouncing on her heels as she talked rapidly with another donor about a store that sold custom embroidery kits. One of the older donors, a tall man named Bongchan, walked a little slower, clearly experienced in these excursions. He already had a mental map of stops and had declared his first destination to be a stationary shop with "journals with leather covers soft as butter."

As they meandered, Jisung asked what sort of shops were here.

"Oh, all sorts," Hakyung replied. "Clothing, teas, housewares-though of course we don't really need those, music, stationery, bookstores. Oh! There's this cheesecake place that people rave about, too."

"Bookstore?" Jisung perked up at that.

"Yeah," Hakyung said, grinning. "Down near the end of the block, left-hand side. I'm pretty sure the palace gets their orders from them. But the public stock's got a lot more variety. Mysteries, Horrors, romance... Trashy stuff, spicy stuff."

Jisung smirked. "Good to know."

The first shop they stopped in sold handcrafted accessories, rings with embedded opals, carved hairpins, charms made from clay and resin. Jisung admired the craftsmanship, though he didn't buy anything. The next was the stationery shop Bongchan had mentioned, filled with thick, leatherbound journals in jewel tones and crisp parchment in neat reams. Bongchan invested in a gorgeous deep blue journal, running his hand over the embossed cover like it was an old friend.

Then came the sweets shop. The moment they stepped inside, the air turned warm and dizzyingly fragrant. The display counters were overflowing with colour: candied fruits, spiced nuts, chewy jellies, melt-in-your-mouth caramels. Hakyung dragged Jisung straight to the section filled with old-style confections.

Jisung's eyes snagged on a neat stack of candied ginger cubes dusted in sugar. He didn't hesitate. He paid for a small paper bag full, clutching it tightly as they left the shop.

His mother used to buy some, once a year if they were lucky. It had been her indulgence, and she always shared it with him first.

He wouldn't be able to send this to her. But he could eat it. And remember.

The group visited several more shops, a novelty toy store, a fabric vendor where Bomi bought a ridiculous scarf, and finally, as the others started talking about getting lunch, Jisung slipped away toward the bookstore.

It was quiet inside, hushed and warm. Rows upon rows of shelves towered around him, wooden signs hanging from the beams above to guide the way. He wandered slowly through the fiction section, his fingers drifting over the spines. Romance was tucked in the back, a little alcove with low lighting and a few cushioned reading benches.

He took his time, thumbing through titles, reading blurbs, and cracking open the first pages of a few. Some were saccharine. Some were surprisingly well-written. He tucked one slim volume under his arm, its opening lines about two strangers meeting during a storm oddly captivating.

Maybe he could find something here for Minho.

He was halfway through reading a particularly spicy scene when he heard it:

"Jisung?"

The voice was disbelieving. Familiar.

Jisung turned. His heart lurched.

"Hyunjin?" he said, stunned.

The other man looked just as shocked. He wore the same wide, expressive eyes as before, though they were clearer now, less shadowed by exhaustion and nerves.

"I can't believe it's actually you," Hyunjin said with a small laugh, stepping forward. "You look... Good."

Jisung flushed. "You too. I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again after the screening."

"Same. I thought you were long gone to... Wherever D-class get sent."

"How did you test?" Jisung asked quickly.

"B-class," Hyunjin said, almost sheepish. "Same as my mother."

"Hyunjin, that's amazing." Jisung meant it.

"It's... Helped," Hyunjin admitted. "My brother's in school full-time now. We have electricity all day. I still feel guilty about it, sometimes. But I'm grateful."

Jisung nodded, smiling.

Then Hyunjin's brow furrowed, his head tilting. "Wait. Jisung, what are you doing here?"

Jisung hesitated.

Hyunjin looked around the bookstore, then back at him, lowering his voice.

"I mean... This is B-class neighbourhood. And you were D."

Jisung's mouth went dry.

He stared at the book in his hands, heart suddenly loud in his ears.

What the hell do I say?

Jisung swallowed, eyes fixed on the cover of the book in his hands, something soft and pastel with a floral spine, utterly benign and suddenly impossible to look at. His pulse thudded hard behind his ribs.

He forced his voice to steady. "It's... Kind of complicated."

Hyunjin stepped a little closer, his brow creased with confusion and concern. "Complicated how?"

Jisung took a breath. "I didn't test D."

That made Hyunjin pause. "You didn't?"

"No," Jisung said, keeping his voice low. "It was weird. I got... An unexpected result."

Hyunjin blinked. "Unexpected how?"

Jisung met his eyes briefly, then looked away again, scanning the rows of books as if the answer might be tucked between spines and dust jackets. He didn't want to lie, not to Hyunjin, who had been kind to him... But how the hell was he supposed to explain this?

It's not that he didn't trust Hyunjin. Not exactly.

It's just... Nobody sane would believe this. Would understand this.

"I-" he hesitated again, then let the words fall out before he could stop them. "I tested S-Class."

The silence that followed was heavy. Jisung looked back at Hyunjin to find him frozen, lips parted, eyes wide.

"S-Class?" Hyunjin repeated, barely a whisper. "You're joking."

Jisung gave a small, humourless laugh. "Wish I was."

"But-" Hyunjin glanced around, voice still low. "That's not even... Jisung, how is that possible? I've never even heard of someone testing S. I thought it was just... Like, theoretical."

"So did I," Jisung said. "But the palace didn't seem to think so."

Hyunjin just stared at him, eyes scanning his face like the truth might be written there. "And they just... What? Asked you if you wanted to pack a bag and come live with the nobility?"

"I was escorted home under guard," Jisung said quietly. "They gave me a choice but... The alternative was the lottery. I needed to make the right decision for my family."

There was a beat. Hyunjin looked stricken.

"I'm sorry," he said, genuinely. "That must've been... Terrifying."

Jisung nodded slowly. "Yeah. It was. Still kind of is."

Hyunjin rubbed the back of his neck, still trying to process it. "So what does it mean? Why you?"

"They don't know," Jisung replied. "There's somebody at the palace looking into it. Digging through bloodlines and whatever else they can get their hands on. I guess they're trying to figure out if I'm a mutation, or if there's... Some explanation."

"And do you have any idea?"

Jisung shrugged, his grip tightening around the book in his hands. "I'm just... An anomaly. A fluke."

"A miracle," Hyunjin said without thinking.

Jisung blinked.

Hyunjin gave him a sheepish look. "I mean, from their perspective. From the system's. That kind of blood? You might as well be royalty."

Jisung let out a slow breath. "Yeah. Maybe. Or a freak of nature."

Hyunjin's expression softened, but he didn't disagree. Not out of cruelty, just realism. He looked around again, as if half-expecting someone to be listening in. "So what's it like?" he asked, his voice gentler now. "Palace life."

Jisung's eyes flicked up, and his thoughts, as they always did now, drifted to Minho.
To warm lips on his skin. To teeth and velvet.
To whispered secrets in the dark.

He cleared his throat. "It's... A lot."

Hyunjin gave him a small smile. "You're still you, though."

"Trying to be," Jisung said. And then, softer, "Some days it's harder than others."

Hyunjin nodded. "Well, for what it's worth... I'm really glad I ran into you."

Jisung smiled back, a little crookedly. "Me too."

He was grateful, profoundly, that someone from his old life had seen him, really seen him, and hadn't flinched.

Hyunjin grinned suddenly, giving Jisung an exaggerated once-over. "Actually... You look good. Like, really good. What the hell are they feeding you there?"

Jisung let out a surprised laugh, warmth flooding his cheeks. "Thanks. Uh... They've got us on this strict daily exercise regime. And the food is-" he hesitated, thinking of rich jjigae and perfectly cooked meat, fruit he hadn't seen in years and pastries that melted on the tongue "-honestly? It's incredible."

Hyunjin groaned dramatically. "Ugh, I knew it. You're probably eating steak on gold plates while I'm still rationing noodles and powdered eggs at the end of the month." But the smile on his face softened as he added, "Still. I don't think I could've done it. Leaving my family behind like that."

Jisung's smile faltered a little. "Yeah," he said, quieter now. "That part... It doesn't go away."

There was a beat, quiet and honest.

"But," Hyunjin went on quickly, nudging him with an elbow, "I think you made the right choice. Seriously. You're brave, Jisung. Braver than I'd ever be."

The words hit somewhere deep in Jisung's chest, unexpected and oddly heavy. He tried to smile again, to shrug it off, but it clung to him, the idea that what he'd done had meant something, even to someone else.

"So..." Hyunjin continued, his voice lowering a little, conspiratorial, "what's it like? Life as a donor? Are they... I don't know, as terrifying as they look on the news?"

Jisung paused, turning the book in his hands.

"I'm matched," he said slowly, "to one vampire. That's how it works at my level. A-Class donors and above get matched to one person. Permanently."

Hyunjin's eyes widened. "Right. Of course. So... What are they like?"

Jisung's throat went dry.

He thought about how Minho had looked the night before, the way his hair had fallen over his eyes, the press of kisses on his collarbone, the unrelenting focus of his hands and mouth. The way he'd kissed Jisung like he was afraid he'd vanish.

Part of him ached to tell someone. To spill the truth of it. That his match wasn't cruel or distant, but magnetic. Overwhelming. That he didn't feel like some passive blood source, he felt seen. Wanted.

But he'd been warned, clearly, plainly, from the very first day. The terms of his match were to remain private. Always. The punishments for violating that boundary were never spelled out, but they didn't need to be. And he was pretty sure that rule extended past discussions with other donors.

So instead, he smiled, just faintly. "He's... Intense."

Hyunjin tilted his head. "Good intense or bad intense?"

Jisung let out a breath of laughter. "Both. Maybe. It depends on the day."

"Sounds mysterious," Hyunjin teased, but he didn't push.

And Jisung was grateful for that. Because whatever this was between him and Minho, whatever line they were crossing, inch by inch, it was too raw, too fragile to explain.

Too dangerous to name.

A voice rang out from somewhere deeper in the shop, light and distinctly feminine. "Hyunjin-ah?"

Hyunjin turned toward it, seemingly half-expecting the sound, and called back, "Over here!"

A few seconds later, a woman rounded the corner of the bookcase, her eyes scanning until they landed on Hyunjin, and then immediately flicked to Jisung.

Jisung recognised the resemblance at once. The delicate lines of her face, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the expressive eyes. She was beautiful in that way certain women aged, gracefully, effortlessly, like time had no real claim on them. And she moved with a quiet assurance, a kind of poise that made Jisung instinctively straighten where he stood.

"Eomma," Hyunjin said with a sheepish grin, "I got distracted. Ran into someone."

Her gaze lingered on Jisung now, curious but not unkind. "So I see." Her voice was soft but clear. "Are you a friend of Hyunjin's?"

Jisung bowed slightly, unsure of the correct etiquette. "We met during the blood screening," he said.

Hyunjin touched his mother's arm lightly. "Eomma, this is Jisung. He's the one I told you about."

Her expression shifted subtly, a flicker of something like recognition, perhaps memory. "Ah. Yes." She extended a hand, formal but warm. "It's good to meet you properly, Jisung."

Jisung shook her hand, surprised at the softness of her grip.

Hyunjin slung an arm around his mother's shoulder with a casual familiarity that Jisung both envied and missed fiercely. "We should probably get going, though. Don't want to miss the last shop you wanted to visit."

"Of course," she said, then turned back to Jisung. "It was a pleasure."

Jisung nodded. "Likewise."

Hyunjin hesitated for a beat before giving Jisung a crooked smile. "Maybe I'll see you again sometime?"

"I'd like that," Jisung said, and meant it.

Then they were gone, back through the aisles of books, Hyunjin's voice fading into a low, easy murmur.

And Jisung stood for a moment longer, surrounded by shelves and titles and stories not his own, trying to slow the odd flutter still lingering in his chest.

Jisung finally emerged from the bookshop with a small mountain of paper bags cradled in his arms, the handles biting faintly into his fingers. His compliance band gave a soft, irritated pulse, but he barely noticed, his head was still full of titles and blurbs and the imagined look on Minho's face when he handed them over.

He'd tried to be selective. Really, he had. But somehow he'd ended up with twelve books. A mix of romance, poetry, and even one old, leatherbound volume on vampire folklore, purely for Minho, of course. Jisung couldn't help but grin as he walked, the weight of the books oddly comforting in his arms. Something about the promise of stories, of quiet hours curled up in Minho's quarters, felt like a tether. Like a future.

The town centre was golden with late afternoon light now, the long rays stretching over the stone walkways, catching on glass windows and casting soft shadows between the stalls. The trees rustled faintly in the breeze, their pale leaves almost glowing against the sky.

His compliance band gave another soft hum, a firmer warning this time, and Jisung quickened his pace.

He spotted the shuttle parked ahead, sleek and matte against the warm light. A few donors were already loitering nearby, chatting in low voices, bags swinging from their hands. He still had twenty minutes.

Just beside the shuttle was a small coffee shop, quaint and tucked between two larger buildings. Its windows glowed amber, and a few iron tables were still occupied with late shoppers enjoying the tail end of their outing.

Jisung hesitated for all of two seconds before ducking inside.

The smell hit him first, sweet, rich, comforting. Cinnamon, coffee, cocoa. Something buttery and warm.

He ordered a hot chocolate from the woman behind the counter, who barely glanced at his compliance band before handing him a takeaway cup adorned with swirls of cream and a scattering of soft, melting marshmallows.

He stepped back outside and leaned against the edge of the building, away from the main bustle, letting the fading sun warm one side of his face as he took a tentative sip.

It was absurdly good. The cream caught on his upper lip, and he licked it away with a grin, chasing a marshmallow along the rim of the cup with his tongue before catching it and letting the sugar melt on his tongue.

The sweetness was almost sharp, intense after so many months of carefully controlled meals and the meagre rations he'd been used to before that. But it was the good kind of sharp, the kind that made him hum in satisfaction, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment.

Around him, more donors began to return, clustering in pairs and groups of three, laughter and conversation weaving through the air. But Jisung stayed tucked in his little corner, hot chocolate in one hand, books at his feet, and something warm blooming quietly in his chest.

Tonight, he would see Minho.

And suddenly, that was the only thought that mattered.

Chapter 26: The Annex

The moment Jisung stepped back into his room, the quiet wrapped around him like a blanket. He deposited the stack of new books onto his desk with a gentle thud, taking a moment to admire the satisfying weight of them. He ran his fingers lightly across their spines, imagining them shelved neatly in the annex once the two of them had read their way through them all.

The annex was his domain, seemingly never visited by others, but... Maybe one day someone else would wander in. Someone curious. Someone who might find the same kind of magic he had between those quiet shelves. The idea made his chest feel warm.

Rummaging through his bags, he found the soft green sweater he'd bought earlier that afternoon. The fabric was plush under his fingers, almost cloud-like in its softness. He tugged it on and let out a small, involuntary sigh. It hung oversized on his frame, draping low over his hips and sleeves grazing his knuckles, but it was the perfect kind of comfort, warm, breathable, and somehow just right.

He picked up one of the older books from his desk, the pirate romance he'd already read countless times but still wasn't tired of. Tucking it under one arm, he slipped out into the hallway, the low lights guiding his path through the palace.

He checked the time on the clock as he passed: 21:30.

Half an hour before official curfew.

But it hardly mattered. He was meeting Minho after all.

The annex was empty, as usual, save for the faint scent of old books and polished wood. The fireplace cast a soft golden hue across the high shelves, and Jisung settled into one of the old, worn armchairs near the back, pulling his legs up beneath him. He flipped the book open to a well-worn page, Chapter Twenty-two, and settled into the scene where the pirate captain tossed maps and goblets and navigational tools from his desk in a desperate bid to lay the Merchant's son across it.

Jisung's face warmed.

He could see it, too easily. Minho, eyes dark, mouth set in determination, sweeping the contents of Jisung's desk to the floor in one decisive motion. Jisung leaning back against the wood, breath catching, his heart pounding in time with the ache he felt in his gut. Minho's hands bracketing his hips. That look of hunger as he descended upon him.

Jisung swallowed hard.

His eyes flicked toward the door.

Any minute now.

 

______________

 

Minho stepped into the annex without a sound.

He didn't announce himself, not here. The door creaked softly behind him, then clicked shut with a whisper, muffled by the thick stone walls and shelves packed tight with long-forgotten books. He paused just inside, letting his eyes adjust to the flickering lamplight, the warm glow casting long shadows across the quiet space.

There was only one soul here. The only one that had visited here in years.

Jisung.

Minho's gaze landed on him instantly, curled into the old armchair like it was made to cradle him, one leg folded beneath the other, head tilted as he read, entirely unaware of the eyes now fixed on him. Minho stayed where he was for a moment, just watching.

Gods, he was beautiful like this. The soft green sweater, new, clearly, swamped his frame in a way that made Minho's fingers twitch with want. His hair fluffed slightly, cheeks tinged with a faint, rose-pink flush that deepened each time he turned a page.

The pirate romance. Again.

Minho bit back a smile. That book had been in the annex long before Jisung ever arrived, untouched for years, and now it was clearly beloved. The spine had begun to wear, and Minho made a mental note to have a new edition sent to Jisung's room. A quiet gift. No note. Just a small thing to find.

And from how far into the book he was... Of course. That chapter. No wonder his lips were parted slightly. No wonder his breath was a little uneven.

Minho's smile turned wicked.

Quiet as a shadow, he crossed the room, taking care to avoid the creaky floorboard halfway into the room. Jisung remained still, lost in his page, utterly unaware. And Minho couldn't wait another second.

He reached him in three long strides.

His hands closed firmly around Jisung's upper arms, lifting him clean out of the chair in one smooth motion. The book slipped from his lap with a muted thud, fluttering onto the rug.

Jisung barely had time to gasp before Minho's mouth was on his.

Desperate. Consuming.

Minho kissed him like a man starved, like he needed him to survive. And in some ways, he did. More than blood. More than duty. More than the crown that hung heavier by the day.

Jisung melted against him instantly, soft hands fisting in the front of his shirt, mouth opening in surprise and surrender. Minho drank in the heat of him, the taste of him, the unmistakable feel of him, and it stoked something deep and possessive in his chest.

When he finally drew back, just barely, their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling between them in quick, uneven pulses.

"Missed you," Minho murmured, voice rougher than he intended.

Jisung laughed softly, the sound brushing warm against Minho's lips. "You literally saw me this morning."

Minho's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Still missed you."

He didn't say how he'd thought about Jisung every hour since, how the memory of him laid out across his bed, flushed, wrecked, his, had lived under his skin all day like a second heartbeat. He didn't say that being apart, even for half a day, had started to feel wrong in a way he couldn't name.

Because the moment Jisung's arms circled his waist and held him there, steady, warm, grounding, everything else faded into the background.

Minho exhaled slowly, forehead still pressed to his, eyes slipping shut.

He needed to tell him.

Needed to explain what Seungmin had found, what he was. That his blood wasn't just rare, but historic. Sacred. Coveted. That there were names for people like him buried in dust-thick scrolls and forgotten histories, and those names came with consequences.

He needed to tell him that danger didn't always look like a knife. Sometimes it looked like a throne. Sometimes it looked like centuries of envy and hunger passed down through powerful mouths.

But not right now.

Right now, Jisung was in his arms, warm and smiling and impossibly, impossibly real.

The need to be wrapped up with him, in him, to bury himself in the safety of Jisung's presence, of his quiet joy and soft laugh, was louder than fear. Louder than logic. Louder than the ghost of Seungmin's voice in the back of his mind.

Minho's hands slid down to Jisung's waist, fingers curling around the softness of the green sweater, anchoring him close. He tilted his head and kissed him again, deeper this time, needier, his tongue brushing gently against the seam of Jisung's mouth in silent plea.

Jisung answered with a soft, yielding sigh, lips parting, welcoming him in.

The kiss shifted. Grew.

What began as an expression of longing turned molten in seconds, heat curling low in Minho's stomach as Jisung's hands slid up his chest, clinging like he didn't want to be let go. Their mouths moved together in perfect rhythm, breathless, messy, desperate in the way only time apart could make it.

Minho groaned softly against his lips and dragged him in tighter, until there was no space between them at all. Jisung's chest pressed against his, warm and rising in quick little breaths, their hips flush. He let himself rock forward, just slightly, enough that the growing ache in his pants nudged against the curve of Jisung's hip.

The gasp it pulled from Jisung was quiet but sharp, swallowed immediately in the heat of the kiss.

Minho smiled into it. Couldn't help it.

His fingers tightened at Jisung's waist, guiding him until his back hit the edge of one of the ceiling-tall bookshelves. The abandoned book from earlier lay face-down on the floor, but neither of them gave it a glance.

Minho kissed along Jisung's cheek, then his jaw, then lower, his voice low and rough as it brushed against his skin. "You drive me mad, do you know that?"

Jisung let out a breathless laugh, threading his fingers into Minho's hair. "You're the one barging into libraries and dragging me out of chairs."

Minho kissed the corner of his mouth, once, tender and devastating. "I'll drag you out of anything, if it means I get to kiss you like this."

Minho pressed Jisung back into the bookshelf, guiding him there with a hand at his waist, holding him firm. The slight jolt of contact against the wood made Jisung gasp quietly, a sound Minho swallowed with another kiss, this one slower, deeper and more consuming.

He couldn't get enough of him. Couldn't seem to stop touching him, kissing him, breathing him in. Jisung was warm beneath his hands, pliant and clinging, his mouth soft and parted, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Minho kissed him like he was starving, because in a way, he was. This wasn't hunger for blood. It was worse. Deeper. More dangerous.

He dragged his hand beneath the hem of Jisung's sweater, fingertips tracing along the curve of his waist. Jisung shivered under his touch, his body twitching just slightly, and it made something possessive and feral coil in Minho's chest.

Still mine.

"Still flushed from your book," Minho murmured against his lips, voice low and dark with amusement. "Was it the desk scene again?"

The startled laugh that puffed against his mouth was half a gasp. Minho felt Jisung's fingers twist tighter in his hair.

"You... You know which scene?"

Minho smirked, brushing his nose along Jisung's cheek. "You've reread that part a lot. I pay attention."

He tilted his head, pressing a slow kiss to the hinge of Jisung's jaw, then lower. He licked a line just beneath his ear, feeling the way Jisung's body jerked faintly in response, the sound of his breath catching in his throat. Minho smiled against his skin.

"You know what I think?" he whispered, voice like silk dragged over blade-edge. "I think you imagine me in that scene. Every time."

Jisung didn't answer, but he didn't need to. The heat blooming across his face, the way his hips shifted, pressing closer, it told Minho everything.

Gods.

He kissed him again, greedier now. Took his mouth like it was something sacred and owed to him both. Jisung gave it freely, like he always did, like he couldn't help it. Like he needed it just as badly.

Minho rocked against him, slow and deliberate, grinding their hips together just enough to draw out a gasp that vibrated through them both. Jisung's head tipped back against the shelf, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted around his name.

"Minho..."

He exhaled through his nose, the sound catching somewhere in his throat. That voice. That tone. It unravelled him.

"I know," he murmured, dragging his mouth down Jisung's neck, teeth grazing skin without biting. "I know."

Jisung clung to him like he'd never let go, and Minho didn't want him to. Not now. Not ever. He kissed the spot just beneath his ear again, lingered there, breathed in the scent of him, soft and clean and threaded with something uniquely his. Something that grounded him, quieted every other noise in the world.

Jisung was trembling in his arms, chest rising fast, and all Minho could think, all he could feel, was that he never wanted to let go. Not even for a second.

Minho didn't let himself think, just moved. The need pulsing in his chest was too loud now, a thrum beneath his skin, urgent and consuming. So instead of pulling away, instead of pausing for breath or caution, he did the opposite.

He bent his knees slightly and slid his hands around the backs of Jisung's thighs, gripping firm and lifting in one fluid motion. Jisung gasped, startled, a breathy noise that punched into the air between them as Minho hoisted him clean off the ground.

Arms looped around his neck instantly. Legs wrapped tight around his waist. Minho felt the moment Jisung pressed fully against him, all heat and need, and he nearly groaned at the contact.

Gods, he was weightless. Not physically, though Minho barely registered the effort it took to hold him, but in presence. Jisung wrapped himself around him like it was second nature, like he'd been made to fit there. Minho staggered the two of them gently back into the bookshelf, bracing Jisung's weight with the strength of his own body and a flattened palm beneath his thigh.

Minho pulled back just enough to look at him, really look, and gods, he was beautiful. His flushed cheeks, lips kiss-swollen, hair a little mussed. His eyes were wide and shining, and there was no fear there. Only trust. Only want.

Minho cupped his jaw with one hand, thumb brushing across the apple of his cheek. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he said quietly, voice low and rough-edged with restraint. "I'll stop. Just say the word."

Jisung didn't. He just leaned forward and kissed him again, slow this time, with the kind of intention that broke something open in Minho's chest.

His free hand splayed over the small of Jisung's back, pressing him closer still, until there wasn't a breath of space left between them. Jisung's hips rolled just slightly where they were pressed together, and Minho swallowed the soft, broken moan it earned. Every movement stoked the fire. Every gasp made it harder to think.

The soft knit of Jisung's sweater bunched at his waist, and the thought struck Minho suddenly, he wore this for comfort, softness, warmth. And now here he was, against a bookshelf, legs around a vampire, trusting him with everything.

Minho felt something hard and terrible twist low in his gut. Not lust, or not just lust, but need. To protect him. To keep him. To never let anyone, not the world, not time, not even fate, take him away.

He ducked his head again, lips brushing the side of Jisung's neck, just at the pulse point.

Mine, he thought, fiercely.

But he didn't bite.

He shifted Jisung's weight slightly, pressing him more firmly to the bookshelf behind them. His hand slid down, tracing over the soft knit of the green sweater, then beneath it, until his palm met bare skin, warm and smooth.

Jisung gasped, his lips brushing Minho's temple as Minho's hand moved lower, cupping the curve of his ass through the thin sweatpants he wore. He felt the tremble in his thighs, the way his fingers twitched in Minho's hair, and Minho's heart kicked hard against his ribs.

He dipped his head to Jisung's throat, where the memory of faded bite-marks lingered, and kissed gently along the curve of his neck. His hand moved back up, fingertips catching on the waistband of those soft sweatpants.

He tugged gently.

Just enough to feel them loosen under his grip, just enough to expose skin beneath the hem, enough for Jisung's breath to catch audibly in his ear.

Minho's heart pounded in his chest as he felt Jisung's breath against his skin. He could feel the way Jisung trembled, could see the way his pupils dilated, his eyelids fluttering as Minho dragged the waistband further, revealing more of his skin.

He pulled the sweatpants down just to the tops of Jisung's thighs, the fabric bunching around the swell of his ass exposing him, leaving him vulnerable, bare and perfect.

Minho let his hands skim over the supple skin for a moment, his fingers trailing a teasing path towards the cleft of Jisung's ass as he squirmed against him.

Jisung's head tipped back with a slight thunk, a low, desperate moan tearing from his lips, his body arching towards Minho.

Supporting Jisung's weight with one hand, Minho let his other drift up, trailing over Jisung's jaw, his chin, his lips, a feather-light touch that made Jisung's breath catch, made his lips part in a soft, desperate gasp.

Slowly, gently, Minho pressed two fingers against Jisung's bottom lip, pulling it down, exposing the wet pink interior of his mouth.
Jisung's tongue darted out, tasting and teasing, a delicate whimper escaping from him as he opened wider, welcoming Minho's touch.

Minho's fingers pressed deeper, sliding into the hot wet cavern of Jisung's mouth, and he could feel as Jisung's tongue swirled around them, could feel the way his lips closed, the way he silently begged for more.

Minho's fingers withdrew from Jisung's mouth with a soft, wet sound, a sparkling string of saliva connecting them for a brief, tantalising moment before breaking. He could see the way Jisung's lips parted, could see the way his tongue chased them, craving, desperate for more.

Slowly, teasingly, Minho's hand moved lower, his fingers trailing over the curve of Jisung's hip, the swell of his ass, the way his skin trembled, the way it begged to be touched, to be claimed, to be devoured.

Minho let his fingers tease at Jisung's entrance, feeling the way his body tensed, his fingers clenching in Minho's hair.

With a gentle, measured pressure, he sank one finger into Jisung's entrance. A low moan came from in front of him as his finger breached him, sinking deep, inch by inch until it was buried to the knuckle.

The sensation was intoxicating, the way Jisung's body yielded, how it seemed to welcome him.

Minho's cock was throbbing, the need to claim Jisung painful. But Jisung wasn't ready yet.

After a few moments, Minho withdrew his finger, replacing it with two this time. The change had Jisung's back arching away from the bookshelf before Minho pressed him firmly back against it.

He curled his fingers, letting them pass over the spot he knew would have Jisung shuddering.

Jisung's body responded beautifully, his hips bucking against Minho's fingers as he let out another low moan.

Minho couldn't help but think of last night. When Jisung had been left a sobbing, overstimulated mess. The thought sent his cock twitching in his pants. He wanted it again.

Minho added a third finger, scissoring Jisung wider. He could feel Jisung's inner walls clenching around his fingers, trying to pull them deeper.

Minho drew his fingers out, ignoring when Jisung whimpered at the loss. Instead he grasped his cock, lining it up with Jisung's hole, pre-cum already beaded at the tip.

Jisung gasped and squirmed, his legs tightening around Minho's waist.

Minho held him up firmly with one hand as he pushed slowly into him. Jisung let out a low whine, his fingers clutching in Minho's hair.

Moving his other hand so that both were grasping Jisung's hips, he rolled his own, catching Jisung's half-lidded expression, his mouth going slack at the intrusion.

He sank himself deeper, Jisung's warmth enveloping him, pulling him further and further until he was fully seated within him.

"Minho, I can't..." Jisung was trapped against the bookcase, unable to move much.
Which was exactly where Minho wanted him.

His fingers flexed at Jisung's hips as he drew back, before slamming back into him, the books on the shelves shuddering at the same time Jisung did.

Jisung's breaths came out in pants as Minho snapped his hips forward again and again, the books shifting behind them.

The pull of Jisung's fingers in his hair was almost painful, but it just added to the tight sensation he felt below.

Minho leaned forward, catching Jisung's lips with his own, their tongues tangling desperately as he continued to thrust into him, drawing almost all the way out each time before slamming back into him.

Jisung clung to him, his legs tight against his waist as he lost himself to the sensation, strangled gasps coming from him each time Minho bottomed out.

"Jisung... Tell me... Tell me you're mine"

"Yours-I'm yours," Jisung panted out, his brows drawing together as Minho pushed him closer to the edge.

Minho already knew he would do anything to keep Jisung forever, and now it was possible.

He was Aurelian. He was immortal. Just like Minho.

The thought of eternity with him by his side, eternity with him pliable and wanton beneath him, had the rush of heat pooling in his core faster than ever before.

He snapped his hips faster, desperate to chase Jisung over the cliff and fall after him.

The bookcase groaned, and several books fell clattering to the floor as he pistoned his hips, Jisung's hands scrabbling against his scalp as his head fell against Minho's shoulder.

"Minho-please... I... I want it..."

Minho couldn't deny him.

He groaned as he sank his teeth into his neck without even bothering to lick first, Jisung's hands scrabbling at his scalp and hissing at the momentary pain of his fangs piercing the flesh.

He felt Jisung shiver in his arms, his whole body going limp between him and the bookshelf.

He continued to roll his hips, pulling Jisung up and down against him as he drank.
Jisung's blood bloomed against his tongue, the familiar spiced fruit taste drowning his throat in pleasure as his cock pulsed into Jisung.

Eternity. An eternity of this. With Jisung.

He licked and sucked at Jisung's throat, drawing another shudder from him as he did, before finally drawing back.

Jisung's hands finally detached from his hair, coming to rest either side of Minho's face as he drew him into a searing kiss.

Minho kissed him back like it was instinct, like it was survival. His mouth opened under Jisung's, tasting him all over again, not just his blood, but the heat and ache still trembling between their bodies.

When they finally parted for breath, Minho didn't step back right away. He just looked at him. Memorised the flushed pink of his cheeks, the dazed gleam in his eyes, the curve of his lips swollen from kissing.

Slowly, Minho slid his hands back down to the backs of Jisung's thighs and shifted his weight, gently, carefully pulling out of him with a groan muffled into the curve of his shoulder.

Jisung whimpered softly, the sound high and tired and clinging. His legs gave an immediate wobble when his feet touched the ground, and Minho caught him before he could sink, one strong arm circling his waist to steady him.

"I've got you," he murmured, voice rough and low, pressing a kiss to Jisung's temple. His other hand rubbed soothing circles against the small of his back. "I've always got you."

Jisung let his forehead rest against Minho's collarbone, breathing shallow and uneven, his arms still looped lazily around his neck as if he didn't want to let go.

Minho held him close, chest to chest, skin still warm and damp where they touched, a cocoon of breath and racing heartbeats.

Minho kept holding him for a few more moments, just breathing him in, the warmth of Jisung's skin, the lingering sweetness of his blood, the aftershocks still fluttering beneath the surface of both their bodies. But eventually, the moment shifted. The ache in his chest returned, heavier now, clawing beneath his ribs.

He pulled back just enough to look at Jisung properly.

There was something unguarded in his face, soft, open, wrecked in the most beautiful way. And trusting. Still trusting.

Minho swallowed.

"I need to tell you something," he said, quietly.

Jisung blinked, his brows twitching together slightly as he searched Minho's eyes. "What is it?"

Minho hesitated, his thumb brushing absently along the curve of Jisung's hip, grounding himself. He could feel the moment teetering, fragile and irreversible.

"It's... About you," he said at last. "About what Seungmin's found."

Notes:

Won’t somebody think of the poor books‽

Chapter 27: The Aurelian

Jisung was still floating.
Not metaphorically, or at least, not only metaphorically. His legs didn't quite feel like they were touching the ground properly, and his head was wrapped in cotton, the aftereffects of Minho's bite still humming through his system like soft electricity.

His back ached dully from where he'd been pressed against the bookshelf, but it was a muted sort of pain, buried beneath the deeper heat in his chest. The kind that came from being wanted, and taken, and held like something precious.

He leaned a little more of his weight against Minho, letting his eyes flutter half shut as Minho gently smoothed the mussed hair from his forehead.

And then he finally registered what Minho had said.

"... What did Seungmin find?"

His voice came out lower than he expected, a little raspy, a little uncertain. The words tasted strange on his tongue, like something from a different reality. One where things like research and records still existed. One where he wasn't half-undressed and still trembling from a bite mid-orgasm that had nearly undone him.

But Minho's expression shifted at once. His eyes, warm just moments ago, flickered with something tighter. Guarded.

"Not here," he said firmly.

Jisung blinked. "What do you mean-"

"You need to get cleaned up first," Minho interrupted, already reaching down to straighten the hem of Jisung's jumper and pull his sweatpants back up. "And we need to get you back to your room before the next shift change. The fewer people who see you, the better."

Something cold and strange began to settle in Jisung's stomach.

"Minho-"

Minho cupped his cheek. Gentle. But serious.

"I'll explain. Everything. I swear. But not in this room. Not while you're still flushed and full of me."

Jisung's cheeks flared at that, half embarrassment, half something hotter, and he ducked his head.

Minho let out a soft breath, thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth.

"Come on," he murmured. "Let me take care of you first."

 

The walk back to Jisung's room was silent, not tense, but taut, like the hush before a storm.
Minho kept a hand at the small of his back the whole way, steering him gently but with purpose. The corridors were quiet, blessedly so, with only the distant hum of the palace systems and the occasional flicker of lamplight. No guards. No staff. Just the two of them, moving like a shadow through the halls.

By the time they reached Jisung's door, Minho was visibly impatient, the door swung open, and they slipped inside.

"Come on," Minho said quietly, already walking ahead of him. "Bathroom. Now."

Jisung didn't argue. His legs still felt a bit wobbly, not from the walk, but from everything else. His back twinged slightly again, and he shifted his shoulders to stretch it out, following Minho through the softly lit room.

The bathroom light blinked on automatically as they stepped inside, warm and soft.

Minho turned to him, expression gentle but firm. "Arms up."

Jisung did as he was told, and Minho peeled the green sweater off him gently, folding it neatly and placing it on the counter. The rest of his clothes followed, sweatpants, underwear, all removed in slow, silent movements, then deposited in the laundry basket. Not sexual. Not rushed. Just... Tender.

Then Minho began undressing himself. His eyes never left Jisung's. And Jisung couldn't look away. The slow drag of the jacket from Minho's shoulders, the sound of buttons slipping free, the way the fabric folded from his frame like water. He was so beautiful it hurt.

The last of the clothes hit the floor, and Minho reached for him, guiding him gently into the shower.

Warm water poured over them at once, steam curling around them like smoke. Jisung let out a sigh, half from relief, half from the heat, and leaned into the stream as Minho adjusted the temperature.

And then Minho's hands were on him again.

Not greedy or rough. Just thorough. He lathered soap into his palms and smoothed it over Jisung's shoulders, down his arms, across his chest with slow, sweeping movements. He moved behind him, washing the sweat from his back, fingers catching briefly at the curve of his hips, as though he couldn't help but linger.

Jisung shivered, not from the water, but from the closeness. The care.

When Minho turned him gently to face him again, his expression had softened. He ran his fingers through Jisung's damp hair, tipping his head back under the stream. His hands were steady, his touch sure. Jisung couldn't remember the last time someone had washed his hair for him. Maybe his mother, when he was a child.

Rivulets of suds slid down his back, over bruises he hadn't even realised were there. Minho's fingers followed them, rinsing away the remnants of their last encounter, washing the heat from his skin like a benediction.

And through it all, he said nothing. Not yet.

But Jisung could feel it coming.

Whatever Seungmin had found, whatever truth Minho was holding, it was waiting just on the other side of this silence.

Minho turned off the water with a smooth flick of his wrist, and the cascade stopped instantly, replaced by the hum of the built-in vents warming the space. Steam still hung thick in the air, curling around them.

Jisung swayed a little on his feet, exhausted but weightless, skin tingling with heat and the lingering press of Minho's hands. He barely registered the glass door opening until Minho was guiding him forward again, steady hands at his waist.

"Step out-careful," Minho murmured, as if Jisung might shatter if he slipped.

He obeyed without speaking, letting Minho pull him gently into the main bathroom space where a thick, pale towel was already waiting. Minho wrapped it around his shoulders at once, cocooning him in softness. Another was pressed into his damp hair, Minho's fingers rubbing through it gently to wick away the excess water.

The movements were easy. Almost domestic.

"You're going to catch a chill," Minho muttered, mostly to himself, as he folded the towel around Jisung's body more snugly and pushed his damp fringe back from his face with one hand.

Jisung blinked up at him, heavy-limbed and pliant. "I don't think I could if I tried."

Minho huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. His focus was still narrowed in, methodical and thorough in his approach. He toweled through Jisung's hair a little more, then gave it a soft ruffle, thumb brushing behind his ear.

"You okay?" he asked finally, voice gentler now. Low and sincere.

Jisung nodded, eyes slipping closed for a second. "Yeah. Just... Warm."

"Good," Minho said softly. "That's good."

He didn't say anything else right away. Just pressed one hand against the small of Jisung's back and guided him toward the bedroom again, towel still bundled tight around him.

 

Jisung sat on the edge of his bed, towel clinging to him, skin still faintly damp beneath it. The warmth from the shower lingered in his limbs, but it couldn't touch the sudden knot beginning to form in his stomach.

He glanced over at Minho, who was moving quietly around the room, retrieving the clothes he'd left abandoned on the bathroom floor, slipping them on with careful precision. But something in his movements was just a little too controlled. Taut, like a thread stretched tight.

Jisung swallowed hard. "Minho... What did Seungmin find?"

Minho froze for a second, his fingers stilling at the collar of his shirt. Then he glanced over his shoulder.

"Get dressed first."

That alone made Jisung's pulse skitter.

"Why?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "What is it?"

Minho shook his head once, firmly. "Please, Jisung. Just... Get dressed."

Jisung didn't argue again. His hands moved on instinct, pulling on the soft pyjama bottoms and linen shirt that were waiting in the drawer. His mind was racing, faster with every beat. What the hell could Seungmin have found that would have Minho this tense? This... Careful?

A thousand terrible possibilities chased one another through his brain, disease, scandal, rejection. Something wrong with him. Something in his blood. Something in his body.

By the time he turned back toward the bed, his fingers were trembling.

Minho was already sitting there, back against the headboard, legs outstretched. He looked up as Jisung approached, and his expression softened. He opened one arm in invitation, and Jisung went without hesitation, curling into his side like he was trying to hide himself there.

He didn't speak. Just pressed his cheek against Minho's chest, where the beat of his heart, slow and steady, offered the only reassurance he had.

Minho exhaled through his nose, resting his chin against the top of Jisung's head.

"What Seungmin found," he said slowly, "changes nothing for me. I need you to understand that."

Jisung went still.

The knot in his stomach coiled tighter.

Changes nothing.

His breath caught in his throat. "Minho..."

Minho's arm curled tighter around him, the words low and certain. "I feel no differently about you now than I did last night. Or the night before that."

Jisung's heart beat a wild staccato in his chest.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't this. Not this aching tenderness. Not this fierce, protective calm laced over something much darker underneath.

And still... He whispered, "Then what did he find?"

Minho paused, just a moment too long.

And that was enough to make Jisung's stomach flip over entirely.

Minho's arm remained curled tightly around Jisung, but the air between them had shifted. Gone was the easy warmth of moments ago, replaced now by a quiet tension, a gravity that made the room feel smaller, heavier.

Minho began speaking slowly, his voice low and careful. "Seungmin's been researching since you first arrived. Cross-referencing ancient manuscripts, palace records, some dating back three thousand years or more. He found mentions of a species called Aurelians."

Jisung blinked, brow furrowing slightly. "Aurelians? I've... Never heard of them."

"You wouldn't have. Neither had we. The records are scarce, buried. But Seungmin dug deep. And the more he found, the more certain he became."

"Certain of what?" Jisung asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"That you're descended from them," Minho said, voice low. "Maybe even more than that. Maybe you're one of them, returned."

Jisung stared at him, stunned into silence.

Minho continued gently, "They were rare. Revered. Their blood healed faster than anything else, sometimes in minutes. They were immortal, unless they were beheaded and burned. And when a vampire fed from them, it made them stronger. Sharper. Deadlier. But the connection was... Different. Stronger. It wasn't just physical. Vampires fell in love with them. They married them. Died for them."

The words felt like they were landing from a great distance, each one heavier than the last. Jisung's breath grew shallow.

"You can't be serious," he whispered. "That sounds like something out of a story."

"It does," Minho agreed. "But Seungmin found consistent references, from texts written centuries apart. The same traits. The same word. And then he found the painting."

"What painting?"

"It was buried in a sealed section of the archives," Minho said. "A portrait from at least two thousand years ago. And Jisung... The figure in it-he looked just like you. Same eyes. Same mouth. Same hair. There was a golden halo painted behind him."

Jisung felt the floor tilt beneath him. "That's-no, that's not possible. My family's always been D-Class. All the way back."

"We don't understand it either," Minho admitted. "But something in you skipped every law of blood we thought we knew."

Jisung was silent, his heart pounding. And then suddenly, softly, he laughed. A dry, disbelieving sound.

"I always thought that rhyme was about poison," he murmured.

Minho looked at him. "What rhyme?"

"One drop enough to make kings fall." Jisung's voice was quiet. "We used to whisper it at school. We thought it was just some weird urban myth. Scare-the-D-Class kind of thing."

Minho's face was unreadable. "It wasn't. It was history."

Jisung shook his head. "This doesn't make sense. I'm not special. I've never been, how could I be this? How could I be them?"

Minho reached out, brushing a knuckle gently down his cheek. "I don't have the answer for that. But you are. Somehow, you are. And it doesn't change anything for me. You're still the boy I first met in that draw room. The one who makes me forget the weight of everything else."

Jisung's throat tightened. "So what now?"

"Now," Minho said quietly, "we be careful. And we figure out what it all means. Together."

Jisung nodded slowly, resting his head on Minho's shoulder as the weight of the truth settled in his chest.

He still didn't know how any of this was possible. But if he had to unravel the mystery of what he was... He was glad it would be with Minho by his side.

Jisung stayed curled into Minho's side, the weight of everything still pressing against his thoughts. But as the silence settled between them, something else rose up through the haze of disbelief, a thought so startling, it made his breath catch.

"Minho," he said quietly, his voice still hoarse from too much emotion, "if... If I really am what you say I am-if I'm Aurelian, and I'm immortal..."

He trailed off, the rest of the sentence hanging there like a breath waiting to be drawn.

Minho turned toward him slightly, brows lifted in question.

Jisung swallowed. "Then that means... I don't have to leave. In forty years, or ever. I could stay with you. Forever."

Minho froze for the briefest second. Then, slowly, steadily, a smile began to bloom across his lips, a rare one, full and unguarded, as if Jisung had said the very thing he'd never dared to hope for.

"Gods," Minho murmured, cupping Jisung's jaw in both hands now, tilting his face up to look at him. "You have no idea how much I wanted to hear that."

Jisung blinked, stunned at the sudden shift in his expression, something fierce and vulnerable flickering beneath it.

"I tried not to think about the future," Minho admitted, voice low, words a little rough around the edges. "Tried to focus on what time we had. But I... I hated the idea of losing you. Of watching you grow older while I stayed the same. Of having to let you go."

He leaned in, brushing a kiss against Jisung's temple, his breath warm against his skin.

"But now I don't have to," he whispered. "Now I can keep you."

Jisung's heart stuttered, a thousand emotions rising in his chest at once, disbelief, joy, fear, love.

Minho pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, his thumbs stroking along Jisung's cheekbones with reverent care.

"You're mine, Jisung," he said softly but firmly. "Not just now. Not just while it's easy. Forever. Mine."

Jisung sat up, heart thudding so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs. His eyes searched Minho's face for a beat, as if to make absolutely sure this wasn't some fragile dream spun out of exhaustion and longing.

But Minho's gaze was steady. Steady and sure and his.

Jisung nodded. His voice was soft but unwavering. "Yours."

The word hung between them for only a second before Minho reached for him, hands gentle, as if handling something precious. Jisung went willingly, sliding into his lap, his knees bracketing Minho's hips, arms draped around his shoulders. The position felt natural, like returning to something they'd never really left.

Minho's hands settled at his waist, firm and grounding.

They kissed again, but not like before. Not the kind of kiss that devoured and demanded. This one unfurled like a promise. Slow, deep, and aching with emotion. Their mouths moved in tandem, lips brushing and parting in unhurried rhythm, breath exchanged like vows too sacred for words.

Minho's fingers traced lazy circles at the small of his back, and Jisung melted into the warmth of it. Into the shared warmth of them. He could feel Minho's heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt, steady and strong beneath his palm.

Minho sighed quietly against Jisung's mouth, the exhale warm and reluctant. His hands flexed gently at Jisung's waist, the subtle tension there giving him away.

He was preparing to leave.

Jisung's heart sank at the thought, and before Minho could shift away, he whispered, "Stay."

The word was soft, but it landed like an anchor.

Minho stilled. His eyes searched Jisung's for a long, quiet moment before his hands rose to cradle Jisung's face, as if he were something precious, something breakable, but deeply, irrevocably his.

"I don't think," Minho murmured, "I can tell you no."

"So you'll stay?" Jisung asked, his voice barely more than breath.

Minho nodded, and the answering smile that bloomed across Jisung's face was clearly enough to steal the last of his restraint.

Jisung leaned in and pressed a kiss to Minho's cheek, soft and sweet, before folding himself forward to wrap his arms around Minho's shoulders and curl tight against his chest. Their bodies aligned perfectly, the kind of closeness that left no room for air or fear.

Minho chuckled, the sound low and full of something warm and unguarded, and his arms came around Jisung in turn, strong and secure. He pulled him close with that same reverence, that same need.

"Gods help me," he murmured into Jisung's hair, "you'd best not use that to your advantage too much."

Jisung grinned, not moving. "No promises."

 

_______________

 

Minho couldn't stop the smile that curled at the corners of his mouth, even if he tried. It was the kind of smile he usually reserved for moments when no one was watching, private, unguarded. Stupidly happy. That's what he was.

Jisung was curled against him, warm and pliant, trusting in a way that made something deep in Minho ache. He held him gently, trailing his fingers in idle lines across the fabric of Jisung's shirt, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath.

He was glad, deeply glad, that he hadn't told him everything. The stories of broken bodies, the records of experiments that read more like torture manuals, the clinical dissection of what made an Aurelian "useful." No. Jisung didn't need to carry that.

Minho would carry it for him.

He'd carry everything if it meant Jisung could keep smiling like this.

His thoughts drifted, unspooling without restraint. He let himself think about it, really think about it, the possibility of forever. Of decades, centuries, millennia that didn't end in grief. Of Jisung at his side not just as a phase of life, but as his constant. His equal. His mate.

The ache in his chest deepened, not painful, but full. Gratitude. Want. Love.

A soft yawn broke through his reverie, muffled where Jisung's face was pressed against his shoulder. Minho tilted his head slightly to glance down.

"You should sleep," he murmured, brushing his fingers along the curve of Jisung's spine.

Jisung only nuzzled in closer, a small grumble rising from his throat. "Don't want to move. I'm too comfortable."

Minho huffed a quiet laugh, heart tugging. He could let him stay like this. He didn't need sleep himself after all, and the idea of Jisung using him as a pillow all night was honestly... Appealing.

But he also knew his own limits.

Namely, that he couldn't be trusted to sit like this with Jisung wrapped around him and not do something about it eventually.

Minho shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to cup Jisung's cheek and coax his gaze upward. "If you stay here, you're not going to sleep well. And neither will I."

Jisung pouted sleepily. "You don't need sleep."

"Exactly." Minho leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Which means I'll spend all night thinking about touching you and trying not to. That's not restful."

That earned him a sleepy giggle. But finally, reluctantly, Jisung uncoiled himself from Minho's lap and rolled to lie on the bed.

Minho followed, drawing the covers back and watching as Jisung crawled beneath them. Once he was settled, Minho leaned over and tucked the blanket snug around him, smoothing a hand through his damp hair.

"Sleep," he whispered, voice softer now. "I'll be right here."

Jisung shifted slightly beneath the blanket, eyes already half-lidded, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. He looked small like this. Soft. Like something Minho should be guarding with blade and blood and breath.

"...Will you cuddle me?" Jisung asked, voice muffled by the pillow, almost shy.

Minho let out a quiet, breathy sigh. Of course.

"You know," he said, drawing the covers back again so he could slip in beside him, "one day you're going to realise I've completely lost the ability to tell you no."

Jisung smiled sleepily and reached for him. "Good."

Minho huffed a laugh and let himself be pulled close, curling his body around Jisung's from behind. One arm slotted under the pillow, the other tucked tight around his waist, pulling him flush to his chest.

Jisung sighed contentedly, already melting into the warmth of Minho's body, like it was the only place he belonged. And maybe it was.

Minho pressed his lips to the back of Jisung's neck, just once. His eyes fluttered closed.

Forever didn't feel like a curse anymore.

Not if he could spend it like this.

Notes:

Anybody else want a Minho pillow? 🙃

Chapter 28: The Reenactment

Jisung stirred slowly, the soft weave of sheets tucked around him like a cocoon, warmth pooled beneath his skin. For a moment, he didn't open his eyes. The air was still. Quiet. The kind of silence that held breath.

He cracked one eye open, and immediately met Minho's.

He was sitting just beside the edge of the bed, half-leaned against the headboard, still dressed in yesterday's clothes, his expression unreadable but unmistakably soft.

"You're watching me," Jisung croaked, voice still rough with sleep.

Minho blinked, caught. He looked away for a beat. "I-might have been."

Jisung pushed himself up slightly, the blanket pooling at his waist. "All night?"

A long pause.

"...Yes."

Jisung should've felt unsettled. Should've made a joke, or teased, or at least blinked in mild surprise. But instead, a warmth bloomed in his chest. It was strange, maybe even a little unhinged, but he didn't hate the idea of being watched over like that. Not by Minho.

"You really are completely gone for me, huh?" he murmured with a small smile.

Minho didn't answer, but his gaze, bright and heavy and molten, said everything.

Jisung pushed the blanket off his shoulders and sat up slowly, limbs loose and warm with sleep. Without saying anything, he shifted across the bed, movement lazy and unhurried, and settled himself into Minho's lap, his knees bracketing his thighs, just like the night before.

Minho let out a soft breath, almost a sigh, as his arms came up instinctively to hold him. Jisung curled into his chest, his face tucked into the crook of Minho's neck, breathing in the scent of him. His heart beat steadily beneath Jisung's chest, calm and grounding.

Minho's hand rose to cup his cheek, thumb brushing along his jaw.

"Gods, I missed you," he whispered, even though it hadn't even been eight hours Jisung had slept.

Before Jisung could say anything back, Minho leaned in and kissed him.

It was slow, deep. Not a hungry thing, not a fevered thing, but one that sank into his bones. It was the kind of kiss that stitched promises between mouths, the kind that said you're mine without needing the words. Jisung let himself melt into it, his hands curling against the fabric of Minho's shirt, the world narrowing down to lips and breath and the press of them together in the soft hush of morning.

By the time the hour grew late enough to draw suspicion, Minho stood reluctantly, brushing his hands down his slightly rumpled clothes. He looked annoyingly perfect despite not having slept.

"Your escort will be here soon," he said, voice low. "I need to go."

Jisung followed him to the door and, just before Minho could slip out, caught him by the collar and tugged him down into a kiss, slow and warm and lingering.

Minho groaned quietly against his lips, reluctant to part.

"I hate this part," he muttered, forehead pressing briefly to Jisung's. "Leaving you."

Jisung smiled sadly. "Then don't stay gone long."

And with that, Minho was gone, vanishing into the hush of early morning.

By the time Jisung made it to the breakfast hall, he'd buried the flush in his cheeks and tidied his hair as best he could.

He dropped into his usual seat between Hakyung and Bomi, nodding his greeting as trays of food were passed down the line. Pastries, steamed rice, sweet tea.

"You look... Smug," Hakyung commented, narrowing her eyes. "Suspiciously happy. What gives?"

Jisung shrugged, fighting a smile. "Just slept well."

"Well," Bomi cut in, "you've got that 'just won a lottery' glow."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he replied airily, sipping his tea to hide the heat creeping up his neck.

 

That night, Jisung found himself curled up in the annex armchair again, legs tucked beneath him, an open book forgotten in his lap. The low lamplight painted the pages amber, flickering gently with the sway of the candle's flame nearby. It was a good story, he could admit that. Full of intrigue and yearning and stolen glances across dangerous courts. But his heart wasn't in it.

Not when his mind was replaying everything Minho had told him the night before.

Aurelians. Immortality.

It was still too big to hold in his hands all at once. Too impossible. And yet, every time he remembered the certainty in Minho's voice, that unwavering 'mine', it felt a little more real. Like something sacred he hadn't meant to stumble into, but now couldn't imagine living without.

He ran his thumb along the spine of the book, staring blankly at the middle of a paragraph he hadn't processed.

Did anyone else know? Seungmin, of course. But anyone else?

Would the Queen and King know, eventually?

And what would they do?

His stomach churned at the thought. His mind flitted to the Duke of Rehvan, how his touch had lingered, possessive and presumptuous. Jisung swallowed hard, the memory scraping cold down his spine. If that man had known what he was... What his blood could do...

He shuddered.

No. Better that it stayed a secret. Minho had told him out of necessity. But this wasn't the kind of truth you set loose lightly.

The annex remained quiet around him, the silence stretching. Still no sign of Minho.

He sighed and glanced toward the doorway.

Come on, he thought. Where are you?

As if summoned by the force of his longing, a shadow crossed the threshold, regal, unmistakable in the low light.

Jisung's heart leapt.

He was out of the chair before he realised it, the blanket tumbling from his shoulders, the book slipping to the floor. His feet padded softly across the rug, and in two strides, he was there, throwing his arms around Minho just as the prince caught him.

Minho laughed against his cheek, the sound low and full of warmth. "Eager, are we?"

"You took your time," Jisung murmured into his collar, already smiling.

Minho's hands tightened around his waist, strong and steady, holding him like something precious. He pressed a kiss to Jisung's cheek, then his jaw, then just below his ear, murmuring softly, "I'm here now."

 

The next month passed in a strange blend of past and present. Jisung often felt like he was living two lives, one in the light, and one in the shadows. The palace days continued as always, filled with protocol and polished silence, and the sterile weekly blood draws remained a constant, clinical, detached, and utterly devoid of the fire that lived in Minho's touch. Jisung would sit there, sleeves rolled up and eyes down, while Minho drank from a crystal glass like it was water, barely swallowing before setting it aside with visible distaste.

They kept up appearances because they had to. It was expected. And Minho, cautious, calculating, deeply aware of the eyes that followed his every move, wasn't about to invite suspicion. Not when secrecy was the only protection they had.

But the nights... Those were theirs.

The annex became a sacred thing between them. A quiet place of books and whispers, long kisses and fingers interlaced across shared pages. Sometimes they talked about the novels Jisung had brought back from the town centre, or reread favourite scenes out loud just to laugh at the dialogue. Sometimes they talked about the palace, about court politics, or palace gossip, or the way the moonlight hit the ivy outside the annex window just so.

Sometimes, they didn't talk at all.

And still, in the background, Seungmin worked.

Apparently, he'd thrown himself entirely into the Aurelian research, spurred not just by Minho's concern, but by a deep-seated hunger for knowledge. Forbidden knowledge, especially. Jisung had never known much about Seungmin before this, but it was becoming clear that once he got his hands on something interesting, he didn't let it go.

Minho found it endlessly amusing.

"He won't stop," he'd said one night as they curled up together, Minho stroking lazily over Jisung's back through his soft pyjama shirt. "He'll dig until there's nothing left to uncover. And even then, he'll check the footnotes. He's even borrowed that book you gave me."

Jisung laughed against his shoulder. "He might find a hidden library under the palace one day. Full of even more secrets."

"Don't tempt him. He'd vanish for a decade. Come back with four notebooks and a beard."

Jisung grinned, warm and sleepy and content in a way he'd never thought possible. The world outside might still be dangerous, but in here, wrapped in Minho's arms, he felt untouchable. For now.

And of course, the direct feeds continued. Jisung, breathless beneath him, learned what it meant to unravel, one bite, one touch at a time. Minho explored him with awed precision, mouth finding new places to sink his teeth, each mark a symphony of sensation. Every time was different, yet achingly familiar: Jisung floating outside himself, tasting music, hearing colour, lost in the kaleidoscope of pleasure that only Minho could draw from him. It wasn't just blood that Minho took, it was every shiver, every gasp, every fragile, sacred surrender.

Jisung had to keep reminding himself that this was his life now. Not a fever dream. Not a cruel fantasy he'd eventually wake from. It was real, Minho was real, and yet, every time their eyes met, every time Minho touched him like he was something treasured, something his whole existence had been waiting for, Jisung's heart stuttered like it didn't quite know how to carry all that it was feeling.

He'd never known this kind of want. Not just desire, though gods knew there was plenty of that, but something deeper. Thicker. Like honey in his lungs. Like a gravity that only existed when Minho was near.

It wasn't just the way Minho looked at him, like he saw every version of Jisung at once, every shadow and every shine, but the way he listened. The way he remembered small things, like how Jisung preferred to sleep curled to his left, or which books he loved to reread. The way he never rushed him, even when his own hands were shaking with restraint.

And it was in the quiet things too. The small, domestic silences they sometimes shared in the annex or in Jisung's room, no grand declarations, no smouldering stares, just presence. Comfort. Peace.

Jisung tried to pinpoint the exact moment the shift had happened, the second his heart had slipped past fascination and into something far more dangerous. He thought maybe it was the night Minho had stayed with him just to hold him, whispering nonsense into his hair until he fell asleep. Maybe it was when he'd sent him a brand new, gilded copy of the pirate story after noting the Annex's copy was particularly worn. Or maybe it was when Minho had gently kissed the back of his palm after a bad dream, no teasing, no agenda, just warmth.

Maybe it had been building all along.

But now... It bloomed in him like a winter rose.

He loved Minho.

He loved him with a bone-deep certainty that made his chest ache and his throat tighten. It was terrifying in its scope, how much he wanted him, how much he needed him, how much he couldn't imagine a future without him. And yet, it was the most natural thing in the world. Like his body and soul had just... Known.

He was in love with a vampire prince.

And he didn't care about the politics or the rules or the whispers that might come.

He'd give him everything.

Because somewhere along the line, Minho had become everything.

 

____________

 

The scent of old parchment and aged leather curled like incense through Minho's reading room, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth and the steady rhythm of Seungmin's voice. The younger vampire was perched in his favourite armchair near the window, a worn journal balanced on one knee and a sheaf of notes splayed across the table between them. His eyes were bright with that particular glint they always took on when he was deep into some ancient puzzle.

"I think I've finally found something interesting," Seungmin was saying, flipping to a marked page with something like reverence. "These ceremonial records, most are useless fluff, but look here, references to pre-reformation rites between vampire nobility and the Aurelian elite. Joint pacts. Blood oaths. Even shared estates. They weren't just consorts or donors. They were... Partners. Equals."

Minho raised a brow in quiet interest, though his gaze flicked, for the third time, toward the grandfather clock ticking solemnly in the corner. Still an hour before he could reasonably slip to the annex without suspicion, but the seconds felt like a slow bleed, each one dragging him further from where he wanted to be.

Seungmin didn't miss it.

He arched a brow, his tone dry. "Should I be offended, or is that clock simply more compelling than my findings on the lost rites of blood-bonded royalty?"

Minho gave a faint smirk but didn't deny it. "I'm meeting Jisung later."

Seungmin snorted. "Of course you are."

His tone wasn't judgemental, but Minho caught the edge of caution tucked beneath the words. He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together as he regarded Minho with quiet intensity.

"You know I don't care what you do in your own time. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried."

Minho stilled.

"I'm being discreet," he said, but even to his own ears, the defence sounded thin.

Seungmin didn't soften. "Discreet only matters if no one's looking. And someone will be. Eventually."

Minho's jaw tightened, but Seungmin pressed on, quieter now.

"You're the Crown Prince, Minho. And he's not just any donor. You're direct feeding. Repeatedly."

Minho's eyes darkened at that, and for a moment the air between them felt charged, volatile.

Seungmin sighed. "Last time one of the minor nobles got caught direct feeding from a donor, the donor was transferred to a remote facility before the ink dried on the report. No trial. No appeal. Just gone."

The words landed with a cold weight in Minho's chest. He stared at the flickering hearth, his fingers curling tight around the arm of his chair. A quiet, burning rage lit in his chest like a fuse.

Jisung. Taken away.

The thought alone was enough to send something wild and ancient surging through his veins. He would not, could not, let that happen. Not to Jisung. Not when he'd already sunk so deep into his bones he couldn't imagine breathing without him.

"I'd burn this palace to the ground before I let anyone touch him," Minho said, voice low and steady.

Seungmin looked at him. "I know. That's what I'm afraid of."

A beat passed.

"I'm not saying you have to stop," Seungmin added, more gently now. "I'm just saying... Be careful. You don't get to lose your temper in front of the Court. You don't get to protect him the way you want to. Not yet."

Minho's throat worked around the knot of fury and fear sitting there.

Not yet.

But one day.

His gaze drifted again to the clock. Only forty-five minutes now. He could already taste the soft hush of the annex, already feel the warmth of Jisung's skin beneath his hands, already hear the way his laugh curled around his name like a secret.

He turned back to Seungmin, voice quieter now, but firm.

"Thank you for the warning," he said. "But I'm not giving him up."

"I didn't expect you to," Seungmin replied, closing his notebook. "Which is why I'm still digging. Just... Don't get reckless."

Minho nodded once.

He would be careful. He would be clever.

But gods help anyone who tried to come between him and Jisung.

Because he would not be merciful.

 

Seungmin had left with a promise to keep him updated, a small stack of papers tucked beneath one arm and that familiar gleam of obsession in his eye. Minho had murmured his thanks, offered the usual nod of parting, but the truth was, his interest had begun to wane.

He already had his answer.

Jisung was Aurelian. That was why he healed so fast. Why his blood felt like fire and heaven all at once. Why Minho couldn't imagine breathing without him anymore.

He had his answer. What more was there to learn?

The question echoed softly in his mind as he walked, each footstep echoing down the long, dim palace corridor. His boots clicked softly against the polished floors, the shadows of high stained-glass windows stretching long with the last of the evening light. He kept his stride even, deliberately measured, too fast and the patrolling guards might wonder where he was going, why the crown prince was striding through the servant halls with barely concealed urgency.

So he reined it in.

Barely.

Even now, knowing he'd see him in moments, his chest was tight with anticipation. He could already feel the phantom weight of Jisung's body curled against his, the scent of his skin, the taste of him still lingering on his tongue from two nights ago. He remembered the way Jisung had smiled into his kiss last time, sleepy and flushed and so heartbreakingly beautiful he'd nearly forgotten how to speak.

He passed a guard at the corner of the corridor, offering a curt nod. The man bowed with deference, eyes lowered, none the wiser.

Minho didn't slow.

By the time he reached the annex door, his restraint was fraying at the edges. The simple brass handle turned easily beneath his fingers, and he stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him.

And there he was.

Jisung.

Curled into the armchair with one leg draped over the side, a familiar book in his lap, that book, again, and his eyes dancing across the page. His face was slightly flushed, his lips parted just so, and Minho's heart lurched painfully in his chest.

Home.

He lingered in the shadows for a moment longer than necessary, just watching. Soaking in the sight. The glow of the reading lamp turned Jisung's skin to amber, softening every edge. He looked... Safe. Unaware. Untouched by the world outside this little bubble they'd carved for themselves.

And Minho, he felt like the luckiest man who had ever walked the earth.

He stepped forward quietly, careful not to make a sound.

One more second. Then another.

Then the familiar, irrepressible ache rose up in his chest, and he closed the distance.

Tonight, he didn't need more history. Didn't need another scroll, or secret, or prophecy. He had Jisung.

And he had a plan for the evening.

Minho's voice was low and amused as he stepped close enough for his shadow to fall across Jisung's lap. "Chapter twenty-two again?"

Jisung jumped slightly, his head snapping up, eyes wide, cheeks instantly turning pink.

"Gods, don't sneak up on me like that," he said, his voice an octave too high. And then, quieter, "... Maybe."

Minho laughed softly, crouching beside the armchair, one hand braced on the armrest as he leaned in. "You've read that chapter more than the rest of the book combined."

"I like the dialogue," Jisung said defensively, which only made Minho grin wider.

"Oh yes," he murmured, voice curling like smoke, "I'm sure it's the dialogue you're clinging to when the pirate captain lays his lover out on the desk and-"

"Okay, okay!" Jisung cut in, hands flying up to push at Minho's chest, laughing and flushed, scandalised and utterly undone. "I get it, you're a menace."

Minho caught his wrists easily, still smiling, and pressed a kiss to one knuckle. Then another. "I'm just saying," he whispered, "you could have asked me for a reenactment."

Jisung's eyes snapped up to meet his, and the laughter still clinging to his lips faltered, caught on the sudden weight of something heavier. Brighter. A flicker of shock, followed swiftly by unmistakable desire, pooled dark in his pupils.

"Oh," he breathed, so quietly it was barely a sound.

Not fifteen minutes later, they were in Jisung's room, his writing desk cleared and Jisung laid out across it, his hips bucking into Minho as his tongue swirled around Jisung's cock.

Minho recalled the lines from the book, one hand holding him in place whilst the other ran patterns down Jisung's thigh, just as the pirate captain had.

Jisung was shuddering beneath him, and he could tell he was close.

Jisung's hands flew up to Minho's hair, carding through it as he whimpered beneath him, a strangled moan falling from his lips as he finally climaxed.

Minho swallowed him down greedily, using his tongue to torture Jisung into overstimulation, seeing as he couldn't use his teeth.
He heard a wrecked sob come from above him as he continued to lathe his tongue against Jisung's cock, holding Jisung firmly in place so that he couldn't shift away like he was attempting to.

"Minho, minho stop I-ahhh"

Minho finally moved away, pulling Jisung up to him, wiping away his tears as he kissed him.

Minho held him close, arms tight around his back, one hand soothing gently through the sweat-damp strands of Jisung's hair as he pressed a lingering kiss to his temple. His voice, when it came, was a murmur against his skin, quiet, warm, full of the kind of fondness that made Jisung's chest ache.

"Was it how you thought it would be?" he asked, still stroking softly down his spine. "The scene you liked so much."

Jisung's cheeks flushed all over again, still tucked safely against Minho's shoulder. He let out a small, breathless sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, then gave a slow, sheepish nod.

"Mmh," he hummed, muffled into Minho's skin. "Better."

Minho chuckled, low and pleased. "Yeah?" he teased gently, tipping Jisung's face up just enough to meet his eyes. "You liked your little reenactment, then?"

Jisung narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. "Don't make me regret admitting it."

Minho leaned in, brushing their noses together. "Not a chance."

Notes:

Is it still plagiarising when I’m stealing ideas from myself? 🤔

Chapter 29: The Royal Cage

Notes:

Please note that the end of this chapter spoils the events of The Glass Kingdom, so feel free to skip ahead when Minho starts reading!

The medical wing was quiet this morning, its cool sterility wrapping around Jisung like an extra winter chill. He moved through the steps without needing instruction, he knew the routine by heart now.

He sat still as the nurse clipped the monitoring band around his wrist, watching the flicker of numbers on the wall display. Pulse, oxygen, temperature. All steady. All normal.

He held his arm out for the blood draw, barely registering the prick of the needle. He didn't bother watching the crimson stream curl into the vial. There were at least six more tests after this one.

Next came the reflex test, he tapped the buttons when the lights blinked, steady and precise. Then the balance scan, the hydration readout, the neural feedback loop. All smooth. All exactly as they always were.

"Still perfect," the nurse said, a little absently, scribbling notes on the tablet. "You'll be signed off within the hour."

Jisung gave a polite nod but didn't answer. He wasn't particularly interested in the confirmation anymore. It always said the same thing.

He slid off the exam table, pulled his shirt back over his head, and made his way out, his steps automatic. Part of him wondered why they even bothered testing anymore. His levels had never once faltered. Not once.

Even now, with Minho feeding from him nearly every night.

Not that they knew that. No one did, and they couldn't. The direct feeds left no trace in his bloodwork, at least, none that had ever been flagged. If anyone in the medical team suspected anything untoward, they hadn't said a word.

Still, it made his skin crawl faintly each time they drew blood. Not because he feared exposure, exactly... But because he feared what would happen if someone did find out. And he didn't think he could survive being separated from Minho now. Not when he'd tasted what it felt like to be his.

He made his way toward the palace activity wing, craving something physical to shake the lingering ache in his chest. The one that came from not having seen Minho in two days.

Minho had warned him in advance, there were meetings, protocol dinners, an incoming noble delegation that demanded his full attention, but Jisung still felt hollow without him. The ache was quiet but constant. Like his limbs had grown too long for his body and didn't know how to rest without Minho wrapped around them.

He pushed open the door to the gym and headed straight for the weights. Something heavy to lift. Something he could feel in his muscles.

He hoped, desperately, quietly, that tonight would finally be the night he saw him again.

Jisung slipped his water bottle into the holder on the weight bench and wrapped his fingers around the cool metal bar, exhaling slowly as he settled into position.

The gym was mostly empty this early in the day, just a few other donors scattered around, lost in their own routines. No one paid him any attention. He preferred it that way.

He started with his usual warm-up set, feeling the stretch in his shoulders and the smooth engagement of muscle as he pushed the bar upward. It no longer burned like it used to. Not right away, at least. Now, it was more of a thrum, a pleasant resistance. A reminder of how far he'd come.

When he'd first arrived at the palace, the weights had felt impossible. Even the lightest ones made his arms shake, breath shallow and quick. But now? Now they bent to his will. He upped the weight on the bar without hesitation and moved into his second set, sweat already forming at the small of his back.

He liked this part of the day. When the only thing that mattered was how much he could lift, how far he could push. He could lose himself in the repetition, the strain. Let his thoughts melt into the rhythm of breath and burn.

In. Press. Hold. Down. Repeat.

The ache was familiar. Solid. Earned.

He glanced sideways as he reached for the dumbbells next, heavier than he'd started with months ago. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored wall and paused. His arms had definition now. Real definition. His shoulders looked broader, his chest more filled out under the cling of his tank top. His body no longer looked like the one he remembered from home, thin and wiry, always a little underfed.

Now he looked strong. Healthy. Capable.

He let the weights fall to his sides between sets, rolling his shoulders with a faint grunt. There was pride in that. Quiet, but real.

And maybe... Just maybe... There'd be a flicker of satisfaction in the way Minho looked at him too. That heat in his eyes when his hands skimmed over the curve of his biceps. That breathless sound he made when Jisung wrapped his legs around him and held on tight.

A flush crept up Jisung's neck as he bent down to adjust the weights again. Not helpful.

But he didn't stop smiling.

 

______________

 

Minho was seated at the long, polished table in the east wing conference room, surrounded by velvet-robed delegates, silver trays of finger food gone untouched, and the persistent tap of fingers on tablet keyboards. The low drone of discussion about seasonal tariffs and grain levy exceptions buzzed in his ears like a swarm of bees, monotonous and ceaseless.

He wanted to gouge his own eyes out with a spoon.

Across from him, his mother wore the same neutral, mildly interested expression she always used when politics dragged on longer than they should. His father didn't even pretend to be bored, he was enjoying himself, offering curt nods and well-timed counterpoints with the same ease he wielded a blade.

Minho hadn't said more than ten words in the last hour. Not because he wasn't capable of engaging, but because his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Jisung.

His thoughts pulled toward him like a tide.

He hadn't seen him in two nights. Two nights. It felt like weeks.

And while Minho had grown adept at masking want behind protocol, behind his titles and suits and ceremonial smiles, he couldn't smother the itch under his skin. The gnawing need to feel Jisung again. To taste him. To press his lips to the hollow of his throat and drink until the world went soft at the edges.

He craved him. Craved the warmth of his body curled into him at night. Craved the sound of his laugh in the annex, the way his face lit up over another ridiculous romance novel. He missed the quiet way Jisung always touched him, absentminded and thoughtless, like Minho belonged to him already.

He hadn't realised just how much he'd come to depend on it.

His father cleared his throat beside him, snapping Minho back to the present.

"Yes," he said smoothly, without really knowing what he was agreeing to. "The northern route will need reinforcement. I'll have my officers send a proposal by week's end."

That seemed to satisfy them. Another round of fingers tapping against screens.

He clenched his jaw and glanced toward the tall windows overlooking the snow-dusted gardens. Dusk was falling fast. With any luck, he'd escape dinner with just enough time to see Jisung before curfew.

Just a few minutes. A few touches. A single kiss.

It would be enough to survive the rest of the week.

He hoped.

The heavy oak doors of the meeting chamber finally creaked open, and Minho exhaled slowly through his nose. The delegates stood, bowing and murmuring formalities as the meeting came to its long-overdue end.

Minho rose from his seat with tightly restrained grace, already calculating the route he could take through the palace to avoid as many staff and guards as possible. If he moved quickly, he could be in the annex within ten minutes, fifteen if someone tried to stop him with meaningless chatter. Jisung would be waiting for him, probably with a book in his lap and that warm, quiet smile that undid him completely. Just the thought of it made his steps quicken-

"Minho."

His father's voice halted him instantly.

Minho turned, spine straightening instinctively. The King had stepped down from the raised platform, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze cool and unreadable.

"You'll be attending dinner," he said evenly. Not a request.

Minho schooled his face into something approaching calm. "Father, if I may-"

"You may not," the King interrupted. His tone was quiet, but absolute. "I've overlooked your absences these past weeks. Allowed your steward to cover for you when you've vanished in the evenings. But your... Distractions are becoming too obvious."

Minho's jaw tightened. "I've been managing all of my duties. Every report submitted, every proposal signed, every meeting attended."

"Yes," his father said, stepping closer. "And yet half the council has noticed your focus drifting. You're physically present, but your thoughts are elsewhere." He paused, studying his son with cool detachment. "If you are courting someone, Minho, there are formal channels for that. Announce it properly. Arrange the appropriate meetings with her family. We can schedule it into your duties."

Minho's chest tightened. "It's not like that."

"Then what is it?" the King asked, voice softening with something that might've been concern, or calculation. "Because if there is someone occupying this much of your time and attention, we must consider the consequences. Especially if emotions are involved. These attachments are not without cost."

Minho's mouth went dry.

He held back the sharp retort that rose in his throat. He couldn't explain. Not now. Not to him.

So instead he said, "Just tonight. Please. I'll attend every dinner next week."

The King's expression didn't shift. "You'll attend tonight. And you'll remember what it means to carry this crown. Even when it's not on your head."

The words landed heavy. A warning. A reminder.

Minho inclined his head with the slow, reluctant grace that had been drilled into him since childhood. "Understood."

But inside, rage simmered, low and pulsing, not because of the duty, but because it meant one more delay. One more night where Jisung would sit in the annex, maybe waiting. Maybe falling asleep with a book tucked under his chin. Alone.

Not for long, Minho thought. I'll find my way to him. No matter what.

 

_____________

 

Jisung sat curled into the corner of the annex armchair, legs tucked beneath him, the weight of the hardback book resting warm in his lap. This time, it wasn't pirates. No storm-tossed seas or sword-wielding declarations of love. Just boardrooms, polished marble floors, and stolen glances between a CEO and the intern he wasn't supposed to love.

It was enjoyable. Descriptive writing, entertaining dialogue. But that wasn't what had him so tightly wound.

The one protagonist, all dark suits and colder silences, bore too much resemblance to a certain crown prince. And the intern, swept up in the shadow of power he didn't fully understand, felt far too familiar. The secrecy. The late nights. The glances that held too much and said too little.

He rubbed a thumb absently along the page's edge. The CEO's father had just berated him: all expectation and legacy and sacrifice. Jisung could almost hear the lines echoing off the palace walls. Born into a gilded cage. No exit. Just the illusion of choice.

Jisung sighed and tilted his head back against the armchair. The soft lamplight painted the spines of the annex's books in gold, but even their warmth couldn't ease the tightness in his chest.

Where was he?

It had been three nights now. Three nights of waiting in this chair, the seconds ticking louder with every pass of the clock. Three nights of rehearsing hellos and teasing jabs and the things he would say when Minho finally walked in, only to go unsaid, the door never opening.

He wasn't angry. Not exactly.

But he felt carved out in the shape of disappointment. He missed him. Missed the calm his presence brought. Missed the fire in his eyes. Missed the feeling that he wasn't alone in all this, whatever this was.

His eyes flicked toward the clock. 21:48.

Two minutes, and he'd have to give up again. Curfew was at 22:00, but walking back now meant avoiding questions, avoiding patrols. He couldn't risk someone catching him and asking why he'd been in the annex so late with no excuse.

Minho would hate it if he got in trouble.

Still, he lingered another breath, heart stubborn. Maybe-

But the door stayed closed. The annex remained silent. Just the soft rustle of the pages in his lap and the low hum of the old light overhead.

Jisung closed the book slowly, holding his place with one finger. He stared down at the cover, a clean serif title in brushed silver, a corporate skyline behind it, and felt the sting in his throat start to burn.

Is this it, then?
An eternity of shadows and silence? Meetings stolen in between obligations? Waiting for someone who might not always be able to come?

He didn't want to resent it. Didn't want to resent him.
But something in him whispered that love, no matter how eternal, would grow bitter if it always had to hide.

With a quiet breath, he stood. The book was clutched to his chest now, the warmth of it not quite enough. He padded toward the annex doors, sparing one last glance over his shoulder before he slipped into the corridor.

Minho hadn't come.

Again.

So Jisung would read. And hope. And wonder if tomorrow would be different.

 

______________

 

Minho speared a piece of perfectly braised venison and set it back down on his plate untouched.

The room was warm with golden candlelight and low, aristocratic conversation, the dull rhythm of courtly life continuing around him like clockwork. Nobles lifted their goblets and laughed at things he didn't hear. His father, seated two places down, was deep in conversation with one of the trade delegates.

Minho stared at the clock on the far wall.

21:57.

His jaw tightened. He should have been gone nearly half an hour ago. But every time he so much as shifted in his seat, his father's gaze had cut across the table like a blade. A silent warning.

'You'll attend tonight. And you'll remember what it means to carry this crown.'

Minho's chair scraped softly as he stood, offering a murmured excuse to the noble beside him. He didn't care if it was noticed. His patience, like the time, had run out.

By the time he reached the library annex, the tenth hour was chiming through the halls, long and sonorous. His hand gripped the doorframe as he stepped inside, breath shallow.

Empty.

The chair still bore the creases of someone having sat there for a long while. A blanket draped over the arm.

He'd waited.

Minho's heart twisted, guilt crawling up his spine. He moved slowly into the room, gaze lingering on the blanket Jisung had been wrapped up in. He knew it was foolish to feel gutted over something so small- but he did.

Three nights. And now this.

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing sharply, before turning and striding back into the hallway, taking the quickest route to Jisung's corridor. His movements slowed as he reached the final corner. The last thing he wanted was to wake someone. Or worse, draw attention.

He reached Jisung's door and raised his hand, pausing for a moment before knocking.

Soft. Just twice. Gentle enough to be ignored if Jisung was already asleep, but loud enough if he wasn't.

He waited, heart thudding in his chest like a drum.

After what felt entirely too long, long enough for doubt to creep in, long enough for Minho to consider turning back, the door finally creaked open.

Jisung stood there in a loose t-shirt and sleep pants, hair tousled, a dog-eared book still in his hand. His brows were drawn in confusion, but the moment his eyes landed on Minho, the whole expression melted into something else entirely, surprise, warmth, and something that might have been relief.

"Minho-?"

Before Minho could answer, Jisung reached out, gripped his wrist, and pulled him inside in one smooth motion, shutting the door firmly behind them.

"You're here," he said, voice low, like he didn't quite believe it yet.

"I am," Minho murmured, searching his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... I wanted to come. I did. The dinners-"

Jisung shook his head, already reaching up to cup Minho's face with one hand. "It's okay. You're here now."

Minho didn't realise how much he needed to hear that until the words hit the quiet of the room. The tension he'd been carrying the last three nights finally began to crack, piece by piece.

Jisung smiled at him, tired but genuine, and Minho reached for him without another word, drawing him into a tight, grounding hug. Jisung went easily, arms slipping around his waist, head pressed to Minho's chest like he belonged there.

And he did.

Gods, he did.

"I missed you," Minho whispered into his hair. "I missed you so much it made me angry."

Jisung huffed a soft laugh. "You and me both."

They stayed like that a while, tucked into the quiet, late-night hush of Jisung's room, Minho still dressed in stiff formal wear, and Jisung in pyjamas and bare feet, but neither of them caring in the slightest.

Minho pulled back the covers as Jisung climbed into bed, the book still in hand. As he settled against the pillows, Minho's eyes flicked down to the unfamiliar title.

"I don't recognise that one," he said, nodding to the book. "New acquisition?"

Jisung gave a sleepy little grin. "Yeah, picked it up yesterday from the annex. I haven't gotten too far yet... Maybe a third in? But it's about this heir to a major company, a CEO-in-training kind of guy. He ends up taking one of the interns under his wing."

Minho raised a brow, intrigued. "Romantic tension?"

"Obviously," Jisung replied, nudging him. "It's pretty clear they're drawn to each other, but everything's complicated. Expectations. Power dynamics. That kind of thing."

Minho hummed, nodding, before sinking down beside him under the covers. The room dimmed to its usual warm lamplight glow, wrapping them both in a quiet cocoon.

As they settled in, Jisung rolled onto his side to face him, blinking up through heavy lashes. "What kept you away these last few nights?"

Minho groaned softly. "Trade delegates. Endless meetings. Political dinners with people who talk too much and say nothing at all. My father insisted I be there. Said I've been 'distracted' lately."

Jisung smirked at that, but his reply was lost to a yawn that he didn't bother hiding. He blinked a few more times, tried to rally, then finally surrendered to sleep, the book still resting against his chest.

Minho reached over gently, easing it from his grasp. He cast his eyes down at the cover, a stylised black-and-white cityscape, a single figure standing silhouetted against the skyline. He flipped it open, just to glance at the first line-

-and didn't stop.

The prose pulled him in faster than he'd expected. The CEO's voice, clipped and lonely; the intern, bright and brave in quiet ways. Their connection was undeniable, the way their gazes lingered on each other, the way their hands brushed too long when passing documents. Minho read as their first kiss happened, as their relationship spiralled into something secret, urgent, sacred.

Then came the fallout.

The discovery. The intern's immediate removal. The cold fury of the CEO's father, followed by a marriage arrangement designed to restore the family's public image.

Minho's grip on the pages tightened.

He could see the parallels too easily. Jisung, wrenched from the palace, reassigned to some remote compound. Himself, forced back into the gilded life his parents had spent a century and a half curating. And it made his stomach twist.

Thankfully, blessedly, the story didn't end there. The CEO fought back. Walked away from the family fortune. Searched and found the intern again, choosing love over legacy.

Minho closed the book slowly, gaze dropping to Jisung's sleeping form. His hair curled slightly at the temples, and his fingers had twitched once in his sleep. He looked peaceful. Trusting.

Minho reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his brow.

There wouldn't be an ending. Not for them. Not if he could help it.

He would tear down the world before he let it take Jisung from him.

Chapter 30: The Summons

Dawn broke in delicate slivers across the stone paths of the palace grounds, and Seungmin squinted against the pale gold light as he emerged from the archive tower. His body ached with the strain of being hunched over a table reading, and his hands were ink-stained, his mind still turning over the older dialects he'd been translating.

He didn't regret it. Not really. There was something meditative about those hours, just him and the scrolls, the hush of long-dead voices whispering through brittle parchment. The Aurelians were an endlessly tangled knot of myth, misdirection, and forgotten law, but Seungmin was close. So close to something significant. He could feel it under his skin.

Still, even he knew he needed to wash the archival dust from his skin before sunrise court duties.

His personal rooms were tucked into the eastern scholar's wing, not as grand as Minho's suites, nor as barren as the donor chambers. The furniture was understated but solid: carved darkwood, practical shelving, warm grey stone walls. The kind of space designed for someone who didn't want distractions. Just clarity.

He shrugged off his coat and threw it over the back of a chair, his fingers already tugging at the buttons of his shirt when a knock rattled the door.

Seungmin paused.

No one knocked this early. Even palace stewards gave scholars a wider berth before the ninth bell.

He moved to the door and opened it just enough to peer into the corridor.

Minho's steward stood there, straight-backed, expression carefully schooled, but Seungmin caught the stiffness in his shoulders. The way his jaw ticked.

"Kim Seungmin," the steward said with a quick bow. "Your presence is requested."

Seungmin blinked once. "By whom?"

The steward hesitated. "I wasn't told to say."

That was answer enough.

Seungmin exhaled slowly through his nose, nodding once as he stepped out and closed the door. He locked it with a turn of the bronze key and tugged it free again, slipping it into the lining of his jacket. His notes were scattered across his desk, scribbled translations, diagrams, loose parchment covered in marginalia and hypothesis. All locked away now. He didn't like people touching his work. Especially not when he wasn't sure he'd be coming back to it soon.

The walk through the west wing corridors was brisk and quiet, the sound of their footfalls echoing against the high ceilings. Seungmin kept his questions to himself, but his stomach began to knot the closer they drew to the royal wing.

Then they turned left, down a corridor with only one true destination.

Not Minho's office. Not the council chamber.

The favoured room. The private audience hall used by the King and Queen when they wished to speak quietly. Discreetly. When they didn't want records.

Seungmin's jaw tightened as he followed the steward up the narrow side stair. The thick curtains were drawn. The scent of beeswax and Jasmine hung in the air. Familiar. Regal. And unmistakably heavy with implication.

This wasn't about a document needing clarification.

This wasn't about the archives.

They weren't summoning the palace researcher.

They were summoning Minho's friend.

Seungmin stepped through the arched doorway, spine straight, expression unreadable. And as the steward bowed and left them alone, the doors shut behind him with a low, definitive click.

And suddenly, Seungmin was no longer sure what exactly he was walking into.

But whatever it was, it wasn't going to be kind.
And it wasn't going to be simple.

The chamber was already too warm.

A fire crackled in the grate behind the Queen's shoulder, and sunlight filtered weakly through the long slats of the high arched window. The gold-embroidered drapes had been pulled halfway closed, just enough to let in morning light while preserving the intimacy of the room. A room used for conversations best kept off the record.

Seungmin stepped forward the moment his name was announced, boots quiet against the patterned carpet. He offered the deepest bow protocol allowed, right hand across his chest, gaze respectfully lowered.

"Your Majesties."

"Seungmin," the Queen greeted, her voice smooth as velvet. "Thank you for your promptness."

The words were pleasant, warm even, but they both knew it wasn't truly a compliment. It was a requirement. Anything less would have been seen as contempt.

Seungmin straightened and kept his face carefully neutral. "Of course, Your Majesty."

The Queen gestured delicately to a standing position before them, and he stepped into place, spine straight. The King's eyes were already fixed on him, unblinking.

"We'll be direct," the Queen said, fingers laced in her lap. "Our son did not return to his chambers last night."

Seungmin didn't react outwardly. "That would be for his steward to confirm, your Majesty. I haven't seen the Crown Prince since yesterday morning."

"And before that?" the King asked, his tone low and firm. "We understand you two spend a great deal of time together."

Seungmin inclined his head slightly. "His Highness and I have worked closely for years. He values my assistance in navigating archival material. I believe he finds it... Clarifying."

"We are not accusing him of anything improper," the Queen interjected with a polite smile that did little to thaw the ice in the room. "Only observing that his actions of late have become... Shall we say, unpredictable."

Seungmin did not answer. He knew better than to fill silence with nervous noise.

The King stood then, moving a few paces closer. "He's been trying to avoid evening engagements. Dodging responsibilities. And when he does appear, his attention is fragmented. You notice things, Seungmin. You're sharp. Surely you've seen the change."

"I've seen him tired," Seungmin allowed. "These recent negotiations have taken a toll. The trade councils have been demanding."

"Yet he seems to find time for other... Distractions," the King said, his eyes narrowing.

Seungmin remained still. "I wouldn't presume to know, Sire."

"Is he courting someone?" the King asked, blunt and cold.

The air in the chamber shifted.

Seungmin felt his throat tighten, but only slightly.

"I can't say," he said after a pause, each word chosen with surgical care. "His Highness hasn't confided anything of that nature to me."

And strictly speaking, it wasn't a lie. Minho hadn't said the words. Not directly. Not yet. And that left Seungmin room to navigate without breaking faith entirely.

The Queen's expression remained smooth, but the King's eyes sharpened.

"He hasn't confided in you," the King repeated slowly. "But would you say he's been... Emotionally affected by someone recently?"

Seungmin met his gaze without flinching. "With respect, Sire, the Crown Prince has been under unusual pressure. The trade talks, the border unrest, the court's expectations. If he's become more emotionally withdrawn or distracted, I would suggest it's a symptom of the strain, not a secret lover."

He wasn't sure if they believed it.

He wasn't sure if it mattered.

The Queen leaned slightly forward now, voice gentle but clear. "We ask because we care for our son's well-being. We've ruled for a very long time, Seungmin. We've seen what happens when princes become... Entangled. When duty and affection pull in opposite directions."

The warning in her tone was carefully veiled, but unmistakable.

Seungmin nodded once. "I understand, Your Majesty."

The King stepped back again, folding his arms. "Should the Crown Prince choose to pursue a relationship, it must be declared. If he is serious, arrangements must be made. There are protocols. Agreements."

That landed like a stone in the space between them.

They didn't know.

Not yet.

But they were circling close.

Seungmin offered one final bow, low and controlled. "If His Highness chooses to share anything with me, I will advise him appropriately."

It was the most he was willing to promise.

And the least he could say without betraying either of them.

"Very well," the Queen murmured. "You may go."

Seungmin stepped backward, bowed once more, and turned on his heel with practiced grace, pulse finally beginning to pick up speed as the doors clicked shut behind him.

He needed to find Minho.

Because whatever safety they'd had until now, it was beginning to unravel.

And fast.

 

_____________

 

Morning light spilled through the narrow window, soft and golden, warming the sheets where Minho lay still.

Jisung slept beside him, curled on his side with one arm tucked beneath the pillow, lips parted just slightly, breaths slow and even. A few strands of hair had fallen across his forehead, curling faintly against his skin. The slope of his shoulder was bare where the covers had slipped down, golden and smooth.

Gods, he was beautiful.

Minho didn't move. Didn't dare. Not just because he was afraid of waking Jisung, but because he didn't want to break the moment. There was a serenity here he didn't often get to witness. No teasing glint in Jisung's eyes, no breathless laughter between stolen kisses, just the quiet truth of him, relaxed and unguarded in the dawn light.

His eyes roamed slowly: the full curve of his mouth, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the faint muscle definition that had grown steadily beneath Minho's hands over the past few months. The quiet strength in his body now, earned and honed. He was so heartbreakingly lovely. Not in the ornamental way nobles sometimes prized, all porcelain fragility and performative poise. No, Jisung's beauty was honest. Warm. Something living that pulsed just beneath the skin.

Minho's chest tightened, the ache there familiar now. He should have left already. He had meetings. Expectations. A carefully timed exit that was now... Well past salvaging.

But how could he pull himself away? How could he step back into a world of half-truths and glass masks after this?

His mind circled back, unbidden, to the book from the night before. The CEO and the intern. The impossible choice laid bare by exposure. Family or love. Legacy or freedom.

Would he walk away from it all for Jisung?

The answer was instant. Yes. Of course. Without hesitation.

But he wasn't just the son of a dynasty, he was its heir. He didn't want to leave his world behind. He wanted to change it. He wanted to carve out space in it that Jisung could step into, not hidden behind locked doors, but at his side. Visible. Untouchable. His.

Minho's thoughts were still tangled in that desire, how to reshape a kingdom for one person, when a soft knock sounded at the door.

He froze.

Jisung stirred, brow furrowing faintly. He blinked blearily, propping himself up just enough to peer toward the door.

Minho sat up quickly, one foot already hitting the floor. If anyone saw him here-

He slipped into the bathroom silently, heart thudding hard.

"Who-?" Jisung's voice was still thick with sleep as he moved to the door, cracking it open just slightly.

A beat.

Then: "Seungmin?"

Minho's blood iced.

There was the sound of footsteps, then Seungmin's familiar, clipped voice.

"Do you know where Minho is?"

A pause.

"He's..." Jisung began, clearly faltering.

Minho didn't wait.

He stepped out of the bathroom, still shirtless, his hair slightly tousled from where Jisung had run his hands through it the night before. "I'm here," he said, voice calm, but not cold.

Seungmin's head snapped toward him.

His expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened.

"Well," Seungmin said, very flatly, "that answers that."

Jisung's eyes bounced between them, wide and startled. "Wait, what-what's going on?"

Minho's stomach sank.

If Seungmin had come here, and asked for him like that... It could only mean one thing.

Something had shifted.

Something had been noticed.

And the quiet, golden morning they'd shared just shattered at the edges.

Minho crossed his arms, bracing. "Tell me why you're here."

Seungmin didn't waste time. "The King and Queen summoned me this morning. You weren't in your chambers last night, and your steward's excuses are falling apart. They've noticed your pattern. They're asking questions."

Minho's jaw clenched. "What kind of questions?"

"The kind that imply surveillance might be the next step. They were dressed in concern, but you know better than anyone, that's how it starts. They think you're hiding something. That you're courting someone. And not through the proper channels."

Jisung paled visibly beside Minho.

Seungmin's eyes flicked to him, then back to Minho. "I said I didn't know anything. Technically not a lie at the time. But they're not going to stop there."

A thick silence settled for a moment. Minho moved closer to Jisung, almost instinctively, hand brushing his wrist in reassurance.

"They won't find anything," Minho said quietly. "Not unless they're willing to tear the entire palace apart."

Seungmin's voice softened, but the urgency didn't leave it. "Minho. You need to understand what's at stake. If they discover a direct feeding relationship between you and Jisung..."

He didn't finish it. He didn't have to. They all knew what happened to donors caught willingly feeding directly, especially those involved with nobility. Quiet removals. Reassignments. Vanishings.

Jisung swallowed hard.

Minho's hand curled into a fist at his side. "I won't let them touch him."

Seungmin's jaw tightened as he stepped further into the room, his voice low but sharp. "Then you need to be far more careful about what you're doing. I did try to warn you."

Minho bristled, the sting of truth landing with all the subtlety of a blade. He knew. Of course he knew. Seungmin had been warning him for weeks now, subtle glances, careful phrasing, occasional outright reminders. And he'd ignored every one of them.

Because every time Jisung looked at him like he was something holy, every time his blood touched Minho's tongue, every time he whispered his name in the dark with his arms wrapped tight around him, everything else simply stopped mattering.

He turned away from them both for a moment, raking a hand through his hair in frustration.

"I know," he muttered, the admission low and bitter. "You were right."

Seungmin folded his arms. "I take no pleasure in that. But right now, this is bigger than what you want. You think I don't understand how much he means to you? I do. But if you want to keep him, if you want any hope of a future with him, you can't keep playing with fire in a powder room."

Minho exhaled harshly through his nose, pacing a few slow steps before turning back. "You think I don't want to be cautious?" he snapped, more harshly than intended. "But every time I see him, every time I touch him, I forget how to think straight. I just want-"

He stopped short. Jisung was watching him, wide-eyed, silent.

Minho's shoulders dropped slightly, the storm inside him still churning but slowly settling.

"I just want to keep him," he said softer this time. "I want to stay here, with him, and never have to think about the palace or the throne or the bloodlines or the way our whole world punishes things it doesn't understand."

Jisung stepped forward then, sliding his fingers into Minho's hand, grounding him.

Seungmin's face was unreadable, but his voice carried the weight of undeniable truth. "You know as well as I do, a human and vampire relationship will never be tolerated. Not by your court. Not by the elders. Not by the people."

Minho's spine straightened like a whip, defiance rising. "But he's not human."

"Yes," Seungmin said flatly. "But they don't know that. And what happens in ten years? Twenty? Forty? When he mysteriously doesn't age, doesn't grey, and remains perfect and youthful at your side, Minho?" His voice sharpened, the edge of reality slicing clean through fantasy. "Have you even thought about that? How are you planning to hide him being an Aurelian for the rest of eternity?"

The words hit like a slap.

Minho opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because no. He hadn't thought that far. Not really. He'd been so swept up in the promise of forever, of soft mornings and stolen nights and an eternity wrapped in Jisung's arms, that the logistics, the danger, the reality of it had been shoved to the side. Out of view. Out of reach.

But Seungmin had dragged it into the light. And now it stared him in the face.

Minho blanched, the weight of it sinking into his chest like stone.

Beside him, Jisung's hand tightened in his.

"You have to ask yourself, Minho," Seungmin said, his voice low but urgent. "Your parents, they're much older than us. Older than most in the High Court. They've seen more than they'll ever admit. They may know of the Aurelians. Hell, they may have helped cover it all up."

Minho's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing, but Seungmin held his gaze.

"Just because we were ignorant doesn't mean they are," he continued, undeterred. "They may know exactly what Jisung is. They may have known the second they saw him. The resemblance to that painting... The purity of his blood... You think they wouldn't recognise it if they know?"

A silence settled between them, thick and growing.

"And if they do know?" Seungmin pressed. "You have to consider that they didn't just stand by while the Aurelians were destroyed. They may have taken part in it. They may have had something to gain from wiping them out."

Minho felt like the air had been stolen from the room.

His parents, his family, had always been shrewd, always meticulous. Every move was a calculation. Every alliance, every policy, every piece of history preserved or erased... All part of the delicate balance they believed held the crown in place. It wasn't impossible. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed.

Jisung shifted closer to him, hand still laced with his, but Minho could feel the faint tremor in his fingers.

"I'm not saying this to hurt you," Seungmin added quietly. "But you have to face it. If they do know, then Jisung isn't just a complication. He's a threat. A reminder of something they worked to bury. And they won't stop at disapproval, Minho. You know that."

Minho stared at the floor for a long moment. His throat felt tight.

If Seungmin was right... If this went beyond scandal and into something ancient, something dangerous-

Then the bond he shared with Jisung wasn't just taboo. It was a fuse. And the moment it was lit, the explosion would come for both of them.

And still, as he turned his face to Jisung's and saw the calm in his eyes, even beneath the fear, Minho knew exactly where he stood.

He'd tear the palace to the ground before he let them take him away.

Jisung stepped in close, rising onto his toes to cradle Minho's face between his palms. His touch was warm, grounding, but his eyes were steady. Not afraid. Just resolute.

"Minho," he said gently, voice barely above a whisper. "It's fine. We'll figure something out. But for now... We have to be careful."

Minho's eyes fluttered shut under the weight of those words. He leaned into Jisung's touch like it was the only thing keeping him upright. "Careful," he echoed, like the word tasted bitter on his tongue.

"We go back to the way things were," Jisung continued, pressing his forehead to Minho's. "Weekly draws only. No direct feeds. We ration our time. Stop meeting at night. Stay in our own rooms."

Minho groaned, low and broken, like the mere suggestion had knocked the air from his lungs. He turned his face slightly to press a kiss into Jisung's palm, lingering there. "I can live without the feeds," he murmured. "The weekly draw is enough to keep me stable."

He swallowed hard, breath stuttering as the ache in his chest bloomed like fire. "But not seeing you? Not holding you? Not kissing you?" He shook his head, voice cracking. "Jisung, I can't."

His arms came up, wrapping around Jisung's waist in a desperate pull. Not hard, not possessive, just needing. Like the idea of letting go might undo him completely.

Jisung didn't resist. He let himself be held for a moment, letting the silence stretch around them. Then he pulled back, just enough to look Minho in the eyes. "We have to," he said softly, firmly. "Just for now. Until it's safe again."

The words fell like a lead weight.

Minho didn't argue again. He couldn't. Because he knew Jisung was right. The risk was too high. And now that Seungmin had said it aloud, now that Minho had seen the fear in Jisung's eyes, he knew it would be selfish to fight it.

But still. It hurt.

A dull, echoing ache deep in his chest, like a ghost of the shattered heartroot, like the shadow of a bond being stretched to its limit.

Behind them, Seungmin stood silently, arms crossed, watching. His expression wasn't cold, but it wasn't pitying either. Just quiet understanding.

When Minho finally turned his head, meeting Seungmin's eyes, Seungmin gave a single slow nod. A gesture of support. And apology.

"I'll keep digging," Seungmin said softly. "I'll find you something. A way out. I swear it."

Minho didn't thank him. He just nodded, tightly. Words felt useless right now.

Jisung let his hands slip from Minho's face, his fingers lingering for just a heartbeat longer than they should have.

And then, just like that, the air changed.

There was space between them again.

Necessary.

Agonising.

Notes:

Seungmin is a smart boy. Do we think Minho is a smart boy?

Chapter 31: The Vampire’s Cocktail

The first day without Minho felt like a skipped heartbeat. A strange, echoing stretch of hours where the palace seemed too quiet, too cold. Jisung kept expecting to see him in the corner of his eye, passing in a hallway, stepping into the annex with that soft, crooked smile, but the door stayed closed. His shadow never came.

By the end of the week, the silence had become its own companion. Jisung had memorised the sound of the nurse's shoes in the medical wing, the clink of cutlery in the dining hall, the specific way the air shifted at 18:00 when the last shuttle hummed away from the compound. But no footsteps ever brought Minho to him.

Instead, he got messages. Slips of parchment, carefully folded, always carried in Seungmin's secretive hand.

The first note arrived tucked beneath the edge of his tray at breakfast. He hadn't noticed it at first. Just another tray of food, another dull morning. But then Seungmin passed behind him on the way to speak with one of the guards, and his fingers tapped the wood lightly in passing, once, twice.

Jisung lifted the note with shaking fingers.

"Still yours. I miss you so much it makes my bones ache. -M."

He didn't cry. But his tea went cold in his hands as he read it again. And again.

He started keeping them in the bottom drawer of his desk. Locked with the tiny key he wore on a chain under his shirt. By the second week, there were eleven. Then fifteen. Some were only a line or two, hurried scrawls passed on when Seungmin could manage. Others spanned whole pages, quiet admissions, pieces of poetry, confessions that Minho couldn't bear to keep silent even if he couldn't speak them aloud.

Jisung read every one like it was scripture.

And in return, he wrote back. Simple notes. Quiet words. Sometimes just: I miss you more. I'm still here. He passed them off to Seungmin whenever they crossed paths, in the library, outside the gym, once even in the quiet back corridor of the orangery.

Seungmin never asked what the notes said. Never commented on the tightness around Jisung's eyes or the way he folded the parchment with quiet care. But his gaze, when it lingered, was kind.

Jisung filled his days with anything that would make the hours pass faster. He trained harder at the gym, pushed himself through reps until his muscles burned. He read constantly, though he barely remembered the plots. He cleaned his room twice over, reorganised the bookshelves in the annex, tried and failed to finish a drawing he'd started months ago.

The nights were the worst.

He could handle the physical distance during the day. Could pretend that this was just another shift in routine. But at night, in his room, in the hush of everything... The ache of missing Minho settled deep in his chest.

His bed felt too big. Too cold. He would lie there, eyes wide in the dark, replaying the feel of Minho's hand at the small of his back, the heat of his mouth on his neck, the way he would whisper soft nothings into his skin when he thought Jisung was already asleep.

He'd wake some mornings with the pillow still damp beneath his cheek.

He never told anyone that.

The closest he came was one evening, when Bomi asked if he was alright. They were seated side by side in the common lounge, watching the flames crackle in the fireplace. Jisung just smiled, tight-lipped, and said he hadn't been sleeping well. She nodded, offering a hand on his knee, and said nothing else.

On the seventeenth day, he caught a glimpse of Minho across the courtyard. Just a flicker, black coat, silver buttons, a glint of gold at his collar, before he disappeared down another hallway. Jisung didn't know if it had been real, or if his mind had conjured it from memory. He stood there for a long time, frozen in place, breath caught in his chest.

Three weeks passed like that. Stolen moments. Silent exchanges. A thousand things unspoken.

And still, Jisung held on. To the words. To the hope.

To the memory of Minho's mouth pressed to his shoulder, whispering: Forever. Mine.

He believed him.

Even now. Even still.

 

_____________

 

It was torture.

Every minute without Jisung felt like a small, deliberate wound. A thousand quiet cuts hidden behind Minho's carefully blank expressions and diplomatic smiles. He went through the motions, meetings, council sessions, state dinners, his every step monitored, every hour accounted for. And still, none of it anchored him. None of it mattered.

Not without Jisung.

He could bear the absence of touch. Barely. He could even survive the thirst, the direct feeds had become addictive in their intimacy, but he was strong enough to resist. What he couldn't bear was the silence. The way the palace felt colder without Jisung's laugh echoing in the annex. The way the hours dragged like lead when there was no one to steal a moment with.

The memories he had of Jisung tormented him. They reminded Minho of what he couldn't have. Of everything he'd tasted and now had to deny himself. Again. And again. And again.

Seungmin, quiet and ever-pragmatic, stepped in where he could. Passing notes between them like some trusted courier in a rebellion. Minho would tuck his folded messages into hollowed books, slide them into Seungmin's satchel, knowing they'd reach Jisung's hands eventually. Sometimes the replies were lengthy, longing wishes. Once, a single sentence: I miss the sound you make when you taste me. Minho had to excuse himself from a strategy meeting to collect himself.

He didn't sleep anymore. He couldn't. Instead, he paced the outer courtyards long after the guards had changed shifts. The moon was a cruel companion, full, bright, and indifferent to his suffering.

Some nights, he'd avoid the gardens, sit in his reading chair, staring down at the CEO romance he had taken with him. He'd reread it three times. Each word more painful than the last. He dogeared the chapter where they reunited, just so he could remind himself it was possible.

But real life didn't have tidy chapters. Real life had politics. Secrets. Parents with sharp tongues and watchful eyes. And Minho couldn't keep pretending that everything would just work out. Not anymore.

Still, in the darkest hours, he clung to the image of Jisung's smile. The way his eyes crinkled when he was trying not to laugh. The way he tasted, like sunlight and something older, something forbidden.

Minho didn't want eternity without him.

The first weekly draw was agony.

Minho had arrived early, like he used to, but this time he'd taken his seat with a weight in his chest that no amount of royal poise could hide. He folded his hands in his lap, fingers laced tightly, the silver tray already prepared beside him, glass vial, clean linen, a damp cloth in case of blood spillage, the silver bell. Everything in its proper place. Pristine. Ritualistic.

Empty.

The sterile chamber echoed with the distant ticking of the clock on the wall, and Minho stared at it too long, as if willing the hands to turn faster, or perhaps slower, because he wasn't sure which hurt more, the anticipation or the inevitable disappointment of too little, too short, too cold.

Then the door creaked open.

And Jisung walked in.

Minho's breath caught like a hook in his ribs. He wasn't prepared. Not for this.

Jisung didn't look at him at first, just walked with the quiet grace he always carried, steps soft, head slightly bowed as the attending staff closed the door behind him and announced his name, as though Minho could ever forget it.

But then, slowly, those brown eyes flicked up. Met his.

And gods. It was like sunlight pierced the room.

Minho had to physically stop himself from standing, fingers tightening around the arms of his chair. He wanted to run to him. Wanted to wrap him up, pull him into his chest, kiss every second they'd been apart out of his bones. But he didn't move. He couldn't.

Jisung smiled, just slightly. A shadow of what he used to give him. But it was still real. Still his. And Minho felt his chest crack open just a little more.

They didn't speak much during the procedure. They never really did, not here. But when Minho took the crystal glass in his hands, something in him shook.

He'd prepared himself for this. Told himself it would be enough. That just tasting Jisung again, even through clinical crystal, would soothe something inside him.

But the moment it hit his tongue, he nearly sobbed.

It was him. It was Jisung. Sweet and spiced and electric. But it was muted, dulled by the container, stripped of that radiant warmth that only ever came when Minho bit into him directly. The taste was there, yes, but it was like drinking a memory.

He finished it slowly, drawing out every mouthful like a prayer, but when the final drop was gone, all he felt was the hunger still clawing at his ribs. Not for blood.

For him.

For the way he trembled under his hands. The way he kissed with every part of himself. The way he sighed Minho's name like it was sacred.

He wanted that. Not this sanitised substitute.

When he rang the bell and Jisung stood to leave, Minho watched every step like it might be the last, until the door closed behind him and the ache returned tenfold.

The second weekly draw, Minho held off on the bell.

Minho stared at it this time. Didn't touch it.

Jisung sat quietly on the bench beside the tray table, fingers folded in his lap, clearly waiting for the cue to leave. But Minho couldn't let him go. Not yet.

Minho thought of the book. He wanted to ask if that would ever be them. If there would be a moment when he could walk away. If he could find Jisung and begin again, without crowns or obligations or guards waiting outside the door. But he didn't.

Instead, he looked at the clock. The draw was complete. The guard would be here soon.

He still didn't ring the bell.

Jisung looked at him like he knew. Like he wanted to stay, but knew he couldn't.

"Seungmin passed me your last note," he said softly. "I memorised it."

Minho swallowed. "I read yours over and over until the ink nearly faded."

Footsteps echoed outside the door.

Jisung stood.

Minho's hand twitched toward the bell, hesitated, then finally, reluctantly, rang it.

Jisung looked back one last time before he opened the door. Minho held his gaze. No words. Just a heartbeat exchanged in silence.

And then he was gone again.

Minho stared at the empty space where he'd been. The ghost of his warmth still hovering in the air.

Seven more days until he could see him again.

An eternity. A breath. It didn't matter.

It was still torture.

 

_____________

 

Jisung had never cherished the weekly draws before. They used to be routine, sterile, clinical, the kind of thing he could sleepwalk through if he wasn't careful. But now?

Now he counted down the days.

They were the only time he could see Minho. The only time he could look at him without fear of discovery, even if he couldn't touch him. Even if the conversations were brief and the silences louder than they used to be.

Even if it hurt just as much as it soothed.

He walked the familiar hallway toward the draw chamber, heart in his throat and hands sweating slightly against the seam of his trousers. The guard ahead of him nodded, knocked once, then opened the door for him to step through as he announced his arrival.

Jisung entered, breath shallow, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft thud. His eyes swept the room automatically, landing on the silver tray on the table, the chair where Minho always sat-

-empty.

He frowned.

Where was-

The lock clicked behind him. A sharp, decisive sound.

Jisung whirled around, startled. "What-?"

But before he could finish the thought, a solid weight crashed into him, knocking the air from his lungs as he was pinned against the now-locked door.

Lips. Hands. Heat.

Minho.

Minho, whose mouth was on his, desperate and wild and hungry. Minho, whose hands gripped his waist like he might disappear if he didn't hold on tight enough. Minho, who groaned into his mouth like this kiss was oxygen and he'd been drowning without it.

And Jisung-

Jisung was helpless.

Helpless but willing, eager, arms wrapping around Minho's neck like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to a mast in a storm. He kissed him back with every breath in his body, every heartbeat that had missed him, every night he'd spent awake with the memory of Minho's touch curled around his spine.

It was frantic. It was raw. It was everything they hadn't been able to say for three endless weeks poured into lips and teeth and fingertips.

Minho kissed him like he was trying to burn their separation from his bones. Jisung let him.

Let him devour him.

Let himself be undone, here in this sacred, hidden room where they could finally be close again, even if only for a moment.

And gods, it still wasn't enough.

Minho's mouth moved over his with feverish precision, like he was trying to memorise it all over again. The angle, the taste, the tremble in Jisung's breath. And Jisung let him. Let him take and take and take, because it had been weeks. Three weeks of quiet nights, of silence instead of laughter, of crumpled notes instead of kisses.

He whimpered into the kiss, fingers digging into the fabric of Minho's jacket as though that might fuse them together. "Minho..."

Minho pulled back just enough to suck in a ragged breath, eyes blazing, lips red and kiss-swollen. "I couldn't wait anymore," he said hoarsely, his forehead pressing against Jisung's. "I tried. I did. But gods, Jisung-"

His voice cracked like it hurt to say his name.

Jisung's hands slid to cup his face. "I know," he breathed, thumb brushing the soft curve of Minho's cheekbone. "I know. Me too."

Minho kissed him again, slower this time. Lingering. His fingers moved from Jisung's waist to his hips, drawing him forward until their bodies aligned, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

"I thought I'd be fine seeing you once a week," Minho murmured against his lips. "I told myself it was enough. That I could handle it."

Jisung's heart twisted painfully. "And?"

"It's not," Minho admitted, almost shamefully. "It's not enough. Not even close."

Jisung nodded, his throat tight. "I know."

For a long, aching moment they just held each other, bodies pressed tight, breath shared in the quiet room like prayer.

Outside, no one would know. No one could know. But here, for now, they had this.

"I locked the door," Minho said after a beat, voice quieter. "We have ten minutes. Maybe fifteen if the guards don't rush."

Jisung huffed a half-laugh. "Ten minutes."

Minho arched a brow, lips quirking into something almost smug. "You'd be amazed what I can do in ten minutes."

Jisung flushed, but didn't look away. "I already know what you can do in ten minutes."

Minho's grin turned wicked.

Then it softened, though the glint in his eyes remained dangerously fond. He stepped back just enough to take Jisung's hand and tug him gently toward the chairs, their fingers still loosely entwined as he walked them backward.

Jisung let himself be pulled along, his pulse fluttering like a caged bird beneath his skin. The familiar chair was still waiting, bathed in sterile morning light from the high stained-glass window. It felt different now, less clinical somehow.

Minho gestured to the seat. "Sit."

Jisung obeyed, sinking into the chair quickly, though his body was still humming from the kiss. Minho reached down beside the armrest, pulling out the medical band and holding it between two fingers.

Jisung took it, shrugging his arm out of his sleeve to put it on. Just as he was attaching the velcro, Minho's hands fell on the fastenings of his pants as he knelt in front of him.

"Minho!" Jisung hissed, eyes darting towards the door.

"What? You think I won't be quick enough?"

Jisung clapped a hand over his mouth as the medical band engaged at the exact same moment Minho sunk his lips over his cock.

He groaned, his spine pressing against the back of the chair as Minho lavished his attentions upon him, using his hands on the part of him that his mouth wasn't reaching.

Jisung huffed a gasp as Minho sped his movements, eyeing the crystal glass on the table as it slowly filled with crimson.

Jisung gripped the arm of the chair tightly with his other hand, nails leaving dents in the fabric as Minho's tongue swirled relentlessly around the head of his  cock.

"F-fuck Minho..."

Minho's eyes locked with his own, and Jisung could feel the tell-tale heat at his core already.

Minho hollowed his cheeks out, shifting his hand so that he could take him right to the back of his throat.
After three weeks without his touch, Jisung couldn't handle it any more.
He squeezed his hand tight over his mouth, tears threatening at the edges of his eyes as he spilled hot and fast into Minho's waiting mouth, the draw machine chirping as it signalled the end of the draw.

Minho slowly drew back, a satisfied look on his face as he reached to grab the crystal glass from the table.
Instead of drinking from it as he usually did, he opened his mouth above it and-

Jisung's eyes went wide as he realised what was happening. Minho let his tongue hang from his mouth as he spilled Jisung's release into the crystal vessel, mixing with the blood that had just been taken from him.

Jisung could only watch in disbelief as Minho swirled the glass around, before tipping it back and drinking the entirety in one go.

"Much better," he sighed, licking his lips as he set the glass back on the table.

"Minho...." Jisung breathed out, shock and awe colouring his words.

He didn't answer, instead leaning forward and placing almost chaste kisses against Jisung's thigh.
"Minho... There's no time-ah!"

Jisung bit back a yelp as Minho sank his teeth into his thigh, his cock twitching helplessly as Minho drew his blood into him, painting stars and flashes of colour across his vision.

His skin prickled hot and cold, and he felt music course through his veins again.

The feel of Minho's tongue passing over the bite was a balm, the smell of rain on earth after a heat wave.

Minho sat back on his ankles, quietly doing Jisung's pants back up as he fizzed in his skin.

He raised upwards, drawing Jisung's face towards him as he kissed him deeply, the lingering after-effects of the bite decorating Jisung's tongue with cherries and spice along with the faint metallic and salty tang of himself.

"Sorry, I couldn't resist" Minho chuckled.

Minho finally stood, leaning over to grab the silver bell.

"Wait-what about-"

"Like you said Jisung. There's no time." Minho smiled at him, cupping his jaw as he kissed him one last time before ringing the bell.

Notes:

STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.

I had the idea and it wouldn’t go away, okay? 😩

Chapter 32: The Thorn

Minho hadn't stopped smiling since dawn.

He was halfway through a meeting on agricultural policy reforms, something about revised grain import quotas from the southern provinces, and all he could think about was the way Jisung had looked yesterday, breathless and flushed beneath him, panting his name as he lost control.

The memory played on a loop. Not just the taste, gods, the taste, but the sound of Jisung gasping his name, the little tremor in his thighs when Minho had bitten into him…

He hadn't even felt guilty about it.

Minho pressed a knuckle to his mouth now, as if that could hide the smirk tugging at his lips. One of the councillors misread it as thoughtful contemplation and nodded approvingly.

That only made it worse.

He wasn't proud of himself.

... No, actually, he was. He was very proud of himself.

He'd pulled it off, the break in protocol, the locked door, the impromptu mouthful of Jisung and the draw, and gods, the way it had hit his bloodstream like lightning dipped in wine. He was still tingling from it. Still high on the feel of Jisung's skin under his hands, the sounds he made, the way he'd first hissed "Minho..." like he wasn't sure if he wanted to protest or beg for more.

And the utterly delicious look of disbelief on his face when Minho had tipped his release into the crystal and drunk it like it was the rarest vintage on the continent?

That would live in his head forever.

The best part was that no one suspected a thing. Not the guard who retrieved Jisung a few minutes later, not the medical attendant who signed off the draw as routine, not even Seungmin, though the way his eyes narrowed slightly at breakfast had maybe suggested otherwise.

Still. No lecture had arrived yet, and Minho was content to bask in the glow of his own wicked ingenuity.

It was risky. Stupid, even. He knew that.

But it had been worth it.

Worth the ten minutes they had. Worth the danger of discovery. Worth the ache that had been clawing at his chest every day they were apart. Because now that ache was quiet. Warmed by the memory of Jisung's lips, his blood, his body. A temporary salve, yes, but gods, what a salve it was.

He barely registered the remainder of the meeting, just nodded when appropriate, offered a few clipped phrases that sounded princely enough, and then politely excused himself the moment protocol allowed.

He headed not for his room, but the upper corridors of the palace, where the morning sun streamed through large windows and the hush of ancient stone made every footstep sound important. There, tucked into the crook of his inner coat pocket, was the latest note from Jisung, passed to him by Seungmin without a word during the pre-meeting tea.

He hadn't read it yet.

He wanted to savour it.

Minho paused at the end of the corridor, checking once to make sure no one was near, then pulled it free. The parchment was folded in thirds, edges a little smudged, as if Jisung's hands had trembled while writing.

He unfolded it slowly.

"You're a menace. I'm still shaking.
I'll never drink from a glass again without thinking of what you did."

Minho closed his eyes, a low laugh curling in his throat.

He was already planning what to do at the next draw.

The rest of Minho's day passed with a grinding slowness, the kind that made him consider, not for the first time, how much of ruling was ceremony dressed up as duty.

He sat through a review of infrastructure proposals for the southern coast, tedious, but necessary, and signed off on three revised agreements for seasonal grain rotations. He offered polite, calculated responses to noble requests, endured a ceremonial luncheon with a minor viscount who wore too much cologne, and fielded no fewer than four subtle jabs from his father about his "renewed focus" of late.

If only he knew.

Still, Minho played his part. He was composed. Efficient. Regal. All the things expected of the crown prince.

But beneath it all, the pulse of the last draw still throbbed like a secret against his ribs. Jisung's taste lingered on the edges of his senses, sharp, sweet and warm in a way that made everything else feel dull by comparison.

He made it until mid-afternoon before he gave up on pretending to care about numbers and names.

The frost had melted back from the flagstones today, the faintest breath of warmth curling through the palace corridors. The air still held a crisp bite, but the sun had deigned to show its face. A rare luxury.

Minho requested a break from courtly engagements and made his way toward the south gardens, his stride loose for the first time all day. The guards at the rear gate offered a bow but no questions. He was allowed to walk without company when he pleased, though that had become rare as of late.

He'd almost reached the western edge of the garden, where the hedge maze parted to reveal one of the lesser-used arbours, when movement caught his eye.

There. Among the hellebores.

Minho's steps slowed.

Jisung.

He recognised him immediately, even from a distance, the familiar shape of his coat, the slope of his shoulders, the way his head tilted as he examined the delicate winter blooms that clustered in gentle creams and soft purples along the base of the walkway. Minho didn't approach, not yet. He simply watched.

He hadn't seen Jisung in the gardens for weeks.

But of course he'd come now. The frost was lifting, and the hellebores were blooming in earnest, bold little flowers that didn't wait for spring's permission.

Minho smiled to himself.

He remembered the first time he'd followed him here. An accident, he'd told himself at the time. A coincidence. But it hadn't been. Not after the second time he'd sought him out. Or the third. Then eventually, he'd stopped pretending.

He liked watching Jisung among the flowers. He fit there. Just like he fit everywhere Minho had seen him since.

And now, with sunlight dappled against the folds of his coat and his breath visible in the cool air, he looked like something out of a dream Minho hadn't realised he'd been having until he woke inside it.

Jisung reached out to brush his fingers along one of the taller blooms, a pale pink one tucked against the hedge. He leaned in to examine it more closely, brow furrowed in that adorable way he had when he was curious-

-and then hissed softly, yanking his hand back.

Minho saw the glint of red immediately.

A droplet of blood welled bright and glossy on the pad of his finger, like the flower had pricked him in protest. It sparkled in the light, small but unmistakable.

Minho's body moved before his mind did.

One moment, he was frozen. The next, he was striding forward, covering the distance between them in seconds.

"Jisung."

The sound of his name had Jisung spinning in place, startled. "Minho-?"

But Minho didn't answer. His gaze dropped to Jisung's hand, still slightly raised. He caught it gently, careful not to startle him further.

"You're bleeding," he murmured, more to himself than anything.

"It's nothing, just caught a bramble thorn, I think-"

Minho didn't wait. He brought Jisung's hand to his mouth and drew the injured finger between his lips.

Jisung gasped, eyes going wide, but he didn't pull away.

Minho sucked lightly, tongue smoothing over the tiny wound, his lashes fluttering shut for the briefest second.

Gods.

Even just this-

Even just this was better than nothing.

The blood was fresh, sharp, laced with that impossible sweetness that lingered at the back of his throat like a forbidden fruit he was never meant to find. Minho licked once more, tenderly, and then let the finger slip free.

"There," he said, voice low. "All better."

Jisung was staring at him.

"Minho," he whispered. "What are you doing?"

Minho finally met his eyes, letting the heat behind his own rise, barely tempered. "I'm indulging myself. Just for a second."

His thumb traced the uninjured side of Jisung's hand, slower now, reverent. "You shouldn't bleed near me," he said softly. "Not unless you want me to lose every ounce of control I've got left."

Jisung's lips parted slightly, but no answer came. Just the faintest hitch in his breath.

Minho released his hand after a beat, stepping back. Just enough to be proper. Just enough to be safe.

"I hadn't planned on it," Jisung muttered, frowning slightly at his finger. "It's not like I came out here hoping to impale myself on a bush."

Minho watched the way his lips tugged into a pout, and it hit him with an intensity he hadn't prepared for. That soft, unconscious curve, barely a flicker of petulance, and yet Minho's desire to kiss it away nearly overwhelmed his restraint.

Gods, he wanted him. Always. But right now, with the winter light catching in his hair and that tiny frown pulling at his mouth, it took everything Minho had not to close the distance between them and steal what he craved.

His eyes flicked around the garden paths. Empty. Even with the mildly warmer weather, there weren't many who would brave the garden in winter, they were far from the palace itself, and the nearest hedge wall offered just enough shelter. A statue stood nearby, an angel, cast in pale stone, tall and watchful.

"Come here," Minho said, voice low.

Jisung barely had time to blink before Minho caught his uninjured hand and tugged him gently toward the statue, off the gravel path and out of open view. He moved with purpose, urgency humming just beneath his skin, and didn't stop until they were shielded by the marble base and the thick winter foliage.

As soon as they were hidden, Minho turned, closing the final step between them.

Jisung looked up at him, startled at first, but already softening, like he always did. Minho caught his breath. That face. That mouth. That expression like he was already half undone just by being near him.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he said quietly. "You pout and I forget how to function."

Jisung flushed, lips parting as though he meant to reply, but no words came.

Minho didn't wait for them.

He surged forward, capturing Jisung's mouth with his own in a kiss that was both apology and indulgence. He kissed him like he still needed to make up for every missed moment, every note passed, every glance stolen in silence. Their mouths slotted together perfectly, like always, familiar and newly electric all at once.

Jisung made a soft, helpless sound against him, one that shot straight through Minho's ribs.

His hand rose to cup Jisung's jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheek, while the other curled around his waist, grounding them both. The cold stone of the statue's base pressed into Jisung's back, but he didn't complain, didn't move, just melted into Minho, clinging to his coat like the sky might fall down if he let go.

Minho's mouth softened gradually, slowing the kiss until it was just the faintest press of lips. A lingering warmth.

Jisung chased Minho's retreating mouth with a soft, breathless kiss of his own, barely more than a brush, but it was enough. Enough to undo the last of Minho's composure.

A low, desperate sound broke from his chest, reverberating against Jisung's lips as he pressed forward again, kissing him slow, then deep, once, twice, before he forced himself to stop.

His forehead fell to Jisung's, their noses brushing. He exhaled hard, trying to calm the storm building just beneath his skin.

"All I want to do," Minho murmured, voice rough with restraint, "is take you back to my room again and never leave."

Jisung let out a small, breathy laugh, his fingers fisting in the fabric of Minho's coat. "And yet... Here we are. In a garden. Behind a statue."

"Tragic," Minho groaned, dropping his head to Jisung's shoulder for a moment, eyes squeezed shut. "You don't understand how close I am to ruining both our lives."

Jisung's hand came up to his nape, gentle, comforting. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't say it like that."

Minho turned his head, brushing his lips against the curve of Jisung's neck, letting them rest there for a breath, then another. The scent of him, warmth and bergamot and the faintest trace of his blood, was intoxicating. Familiar. Home.

He didn't want to pull away.

Didn't want to return to duties or diplomacy or the endless masks he had to wear. Not when he could have this. Jisung, in his arms, his body soft and pliant beneath him, mouth swollen from kisses, breath uneven.

Minho shifted just enough to press one more kiss to his temple. "It's not fair," he murmured. "Having you this close and not being allowed to keep you."

Jisung's answer was quiet but certain. "You do keep me."

Minho's eyes fluttered open. He looked at him, really looked at him. And there it was again, the thing he couldn't name, couldn't explain. The way Jisung held him in place without ever trying to tether him. The way Minho, despite everything, felt more like himself in Jisung's presence than he ever had behind all the palace walls.

The ache in his chest returned, sharp and sweet.

Minho lingered in the hush of that kiss, forehead still resting against Jisung's, his breath shallow with the weight of everything he was feeling. The ache in his chest had grown unbearable, a steady pulse of longing, adoration, and something dangerously close to desperation.

"I can't do this anymore," Minho murmured.

Jisung tensed slightly beneath his hands, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"This," Minho said softly, motioning vaguely toward the empty path, the garden, the hidden space they'd tucked themselves into like criminals. "Being away from you. Pretending you don't exist outside of that draw room."

His voice dropped, rougher now. "I can't keep myself away from you, Jisung. Every time I see you I fall apart. And I know we said it was safer this way, that it was only temporary, but I'm... I'm losing."

Jisung's mouth opened, but Minho pressed a thumb gently to his lower lip, stalling whatever protest might've come.

"I've been thinking," Minho continued, steadier now, like he was trying to talk himself into something just as much as he was trying to convince Jisung. "About the draws."

Jisung blinked. "The weekly ones?"

"No, and yes" Minho said. "Not just those. I mean calling for unscheduled draws. Formally. Through the palace logs. If I request them personally, no one will question it. I'm the Crown Prince. My preferences are... Tolerated."

Jisung looked wary. "Minho..."

"They'd be documented," Minho said quickly. "Which means we wouldn't have to sneak. We wouldn't have to find dark corners or rely on Seungmin smuggling notes like we're schoolboys passing secrets. We'd just... Be. In the same room. Without fear of someone catching us."

A breeze stirred through the hellebores behind them, brushing past Minho's coat, but he didn't feel the cold.

He was watching Jisung's face too closely.

"I'm not saying we do anything reckless," Minho added. "We don't cross lines during the sessions. We just use them. To talk. To see each other. To be close again." His voice faltered, then turned into a plea. "Please, Jisung. Let me have that. Let us have that."

Jisung hesitated.

And Minho held his breath.

Because this, this was the only compromise he had left. And he was ready to take it, if it meant he didn't have to pretend not to need him anymore.

 

______________

 

Jisung's heart thundered in his chest as Minho's words settled around him, heavier than they had any right to be.

Unscheduled draws. Formally requested. Documented.

His first instinct was yes. Gods, yes. He wanted that. He wanted him. He wanted to stop counting minutes like stolen coins, wanted to breathe in the same air without checking over his shoulder. The thought of spending time with Minho again, really spending time, made something sharp and hollow inside him suddenly feel full.

He could see it already. The chamber doors clicking closed behind them, the soft hush of privacy without secrecy. Minho's voice uninterrupted. His smile unguarded. No patrols. No hiding.

But then...

Jisung's gut twisted.

If the sessions were documented, then they were visible. Logged. Trackable. Anyone who knew where to look could start to see the pattern. Someone diligent enough, suspicious enough, could piece it together. Could start asking why a prince was calling for his donor outside of the scheduled cycles.

And if someone asked too many questions, if someone decided to watch too closely, what then?

He glanced down at their hands. Minho's thumb still brushed lightly over his fingers, grounding him. Warm. Familiar. His.

Was it worth the risk?

He thought of the last three weeks. The way his bed had grown too cold, too vast. The way his lungs had felt like they never filled completely unless Minho was near. The way he read every note a dozen times just to remember the shape of Minho's voice in his mind.

He'd spent every day since their separation wondering when he'd break.

Maybe this was it.

Maybe the only way to survive this impossible situation was to take the small victories. To gather them close and hold them like light against the dark.

He lifted his eyes to Minho's, the words catching in his throat for a breath before they finally spilled out.

"Yes."

It came out softer than he meant it to, but no less certain. "Yes. Let's do it."

Minho stared at him for a beat, like he hadn't dared hope Jisung would agree. And then-

He smiled.

And it was everything.

It hit Jisung like wind off the sea. Breathtaking and unstoppable. Minho's entire face lit from within, eyes crinkling at the corners, relief and joy rushing in like floodwater. It was the kind of smile people wrote poems about. The kind that ruined him.

Jisung's breath hitched.

Whatever the risk... It was worth it.

He'd walk every dangerous path if that smile was waiting at the end.

Minho's smile hadn't even fully faded before he leaned in again.

The kiss this time was softer and slower this time. It was a promise. A reassurance.

Minho's hand cradled Jisung's face with aching care, thumb ghosting along his cheek as if memorising him all over again.

Jisung melted into it.

Into him.

His fingers curled in the lapel of Minho's coat, clinging despite himself. Even knowing it had to end, even knowing the risk of being caught still lingered at the edges of their moment, he didn't want to let go.

But Minho was already drawing back.

Just a breath.

Just enough.

"I'll call for you soon," he murmured, voice roughened at the edges.

And Jisung nodded, speechless, watching as Minho's eyes lingered on him for a second longer, just long enough to make him feel like the most important thing in the world, before he finally stepped away.

He didn't look back.

Jisung stood frozen for a moment, heart still racing, lips tingling from the kiss. The cool air rushed back in to fill the space Minho had left, but it couldn't dislodge the warmth still blooming in his chest.

It was only when the sound of footsteps finally faded into silence that Jisung exhaled.

His back sagged against the stone base of the statue, knees suddenly weak beneath him. The hellebores nearby trembled faintly in the breeze, their blooms delicate and bowed beneath the pale winter sun. He stared at them, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to remember how to exist in a body not currently being kissed to pieces by the Crown Prince of the realm.

It was impossible.

Jisung brought a hand to his lips, dazed, flushed, barely breathing. The ghost of Minho lingered in every nerve ending.

Soon, Minho had said.

Soon.

He would hold onto that.

Chapter 33: The Unscheduled Draw

Jisung was halfway through his third re-read of the same paragraph when the knock at the door pulled him from the page.

He blinked, frowning at the sentence that refused to settle in his mind, then rose and crossed the room, tugging the door open just a crack.

A man stood on the other side, dressed in deep royal blue, insignia at his shoulder gleaming faintly in the candlelight. Older, composed, unreadable.

"His Highness has requested your presence for a draw," the man said smoothly. "Please prepare yourself and be ready to report to the draw chamber in ten minutes. I will escort you."

Jisung blinked. "A draw?"

The man's expression didn't shift. "Yes, sir."

A twinge of excitement flared in his chest, immediately followed by a stubborn flicker of suspicion. This was the first unscheduled draw Minho had promised, and even though Jisung had agreed, and even though he'd been waiting, heart in his throat every time someone knocked on a door nearby, it still startled him to have it arrive like this. With formality. With protocol.

The steward shifted slightly. "You'll want to be presentable."

Jisung couldn't help the small, dry laugh that escaped him. "He doesn't care what I wear."

That earned him nothing more than a faintly arched brow.

Jisung rolled his eyes, mostly at himself, and nodded. "Alright. Give me a minute."

He closed the door gently and turned back toward the room, his pulse already quickening.

He didn't rush. Not exactly. But his hands moved with steady ease as he undressed, pulling out the formal draw outfit. He ran a hand through his hair, tidied the collar of his shirt, then paused in front of the mirror, fidgeting with the fastenings just long enough to realise he was stalling.

His reflection gave him nothing.

Not reassurance. Not doubt.

Just the image of a boy trying not to look too eager.

Gods, he was already failing.

Jisung took a breath, then opened the door again.

The steward was still waiting in the corridor, precisely where Jisung had left him, hands clasped neatly in front of him.

"This way," he said.

And then they walked.

Down corridors of polished stone, past the familiar annex and the hush of private rooms, all the way to the entrance of the draw room.

The door closed behind him with its usual soft click, but the air felt different today.

Minho was already waiting, not seated in the high-backed chair like usual, but standing beside it, jacket unfastened, posture loose and languid in a way that set Jisung instantly on alert. His gaze was warm. Expectant.

"Lock the door," Minho said softly, nodding toward it.

Jisung didn't question it. He reached behind him and turned the latch with a satisfying snick, heart already thudding in his chest.

When he turned back around, Minho was sitting.

In his chair.

Not the one designated for royalty. Not the one lined with glass trays and silver implements.

His.

Jisung blinked. "That's-"

"Come here," Minho said, voice low.

Jisung stepped forward, brow furrowed in mild confusion, but his breath caught the moment Minho reached out and pulled him in, gentle but sure, guiding him down until he was straddling Minho's lap, legs bracketing his thighs, knees sinking into the soft cushion on either side.

The sudden closeness made Jisung's pulse spike. His hands instinctively gripped Minho's shoulders, for balance at first, and then just to touch him.

Minho looked up at him, pleased. "There we go. Much better."

He tugged at the lapels of Jisung's jacket next, sliding it from his shoulders, draping the fabric over the nearby armrest before turning his attention back to Jisung's arm. He fixed the medical band carefully, attaching the velcro strap firmly in place.

The medical band was cold against his skin. Jisung barely felt the pinch of the needle through the haze of adrenaline and Minho's nearness.

And then-

Minho's hand curled gently around the back of his neck and pulled him down into a kiss.

Soft. Unrushed. Less like a demand, more like a welcome home.

Jisung melted, exhaling shakily against Minho's lips. The touch of him, the warmth of his breath, the familiar, grounding press of their mouths, it made everything else fall away.

When Minho pulled back, he didn't go far.

Instead, he pressed tiny kisses to Jisung's face, his jaw, his cheek, the edge of his nose, in a slow constellation of affection. Each one made Jisung feel simultaneously cherished and undone.

"How was your day?" Minho asked, between kisses.

Jisung blinked. "You want me to... Talk?"

"Mhm." Kiss. "Tell me things." Kiss. "Normal things." Another kiss, this time to the tip of his chin. "I miss hearing your voice."

Jisung's chest tightened with something that felt suspiciously like longing. He swallowed hard and tried to focus, though Minho's mouth was still dancing across his skin like he had all the time in the world.

"I-uh." He cleared his throat. "Hakyung and I had breakfast together this morning, and she told me about this ridiculous rumour going around the staff wing that one of the palace cooks is secretly a retired opera singer."

Minho hummed, amused, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

Jisung continued, a little more breathlessly now. "She said she heard him humming La Traviata yesterday and nearly burst into tears."

Minho laughed softly. "I like her."

"I do too." Jisung's fingers brushed along the back of Minho's neck. "Then I went to the gym. Beat my personal best on the weights."

That earned him a genuinely impressed look. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I added five kilos to my incline set."

"Gods, that's hot."

Jisung flushed. "Shut up."

Minho just grinned and kissed his temple.

"And dinner?" he prompted. "Tell me what you ate."

Jisung tried not to giggle. "Why?"

"Because I want to pretend I was there. Indulge me."

Jisung gave in with a soft laugh. "Grilled sea bass. Rice. A salad I didn't touch. And I stole a piece of cheesecake from Bomi's plate when she wasn't looking."

Minho pressed a kiss to his forehead like it was the most tender thing he'd ever heard.

Jisung leaned into him, hands splayed over Minho's chest, finally letting himself relax into the moment.

Because gods, it had only been two days. And already this, Minho's voice, Minho's mouth, the way he listened to the most mundane parts of Jisung's life like they were precious, already it felt like a hunger he'd never fully sate again.

And now, here he was.

Being fed. Kiss by kiss. Word by word. Minute by minute.

And Minho hadn't even tasted his blood yet.

As if it had been listening to the beat of his thoughts, the draw machine gave a soft chirp, signalling the end of the draw.

Jisung felt the faint hiss of pressure release from the cuff on his arm, the smallest shift in the atmosphere, subtle, but noticeable, like a page turning.

Minho looked over at the machine, then reached out, muscle memory guiding his hand, except he was on the opposite side this time, and his fingers fumbled briefly before locating the crystal glass.

Jisung couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. Minho shot him a sheepish glance, then lifted the glass.

Their eyes met as he drank.

Jisung watched the way his throat worked, the graceful tilt of his wrist, the way Minho closed his eyes like he was tasting something rich and rare. Like he was savouring it.

Minho set the glass back down with care. Then his hands found Jisung's waist again, pulling him down, guiding him into another kiss.

It was soft. Unhurried. Intimate in a way that made Jisung's chest ache.

But-

He tasted it this time. Just the blood.

There was no sweetness. No fruit. No spice. Just the metallic tang of his own blood still on Minho's tongue.

It wasn't unpleasant exactly.

But it wasn't the same.

When they finally parted, Jisung was quiet for a beat, searching Minho's face.

And then he asked the question that had lingered at the back of his mind for months.

"What do I taste like to you?"

Minho blinked. Then his expression shifted, softer, more thoughtful. His thumb brushed over the swell of Jisung's hip as he considered.

"It changes slightly," Minho said, voice low, "but there are always a few constants. Sun-ripened cherries. Cinnamon. Sometimes something smokey, like incense."

Jisung blinked. "That's-"

"And warmth," Minho added, tilting his head. "I know that's not a flavour. But it's always there. You taste like warmth."

Jisung's breath hitched. His mind spun back-
-to the first time Minho had kissed him after drinking directly.
The heady sweetness, the smoky spice, the strange richness that lingered on his tongue and left him dazed.

He'd tasted it then.

His own blood.

Jisung's hand curled lightly in the fabric of his coat. "So... What's the difference? Between this-" he nodded toward the glass, "-and when you feed from me directly?"

Minho hesitated, as if trying to translate something instinctive into words.

"It's... Hard to explain. Blood is blood. But when I drink from the glass, it's like reading a transcript of something beautiful. You get the words. The flavour. The shape of it. But not the tone. Not the music."

He paused, eyes locked on Jisung's.

"When I feed directly from you, it's you. Not just the blood. It's the sound of your heartbeat in my ears. The way your skin warms under my hands. The way your breath catches right before I bite you. It's... Everything. It's the moment. The emotion. The scent of your skin. The tension in your muscles. The way you taste when you're turned on. Or when you're nervous. Or when you're laughing."

Minho leaned in slightly, his nose brushing along Jisung's jaw.

"It's like blood with a soul."

Jisung's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, overwhelmed. He'd asked out of curiosity. But now...

Now he felt as though Minho had peeled something open in him. Something intimate. Sacred.

Minho continued, voice barely above a whisper now. "It's also sensual," he admitted. "Almost unbearably so. When I bite you, I feel everything. It's like a shortcut to the truth of you. No lies. No filters. Just you, stripped bare under my mouth, every sound you make a part of the taste."

He kissed the corner of Jisung's mouth then, slow and tender.

"And gods, Jisung, you taste like need. Like heat and longing and... Something I've never had before. Something I didn't know I'd crave until I found it in you."

Jisung sat very still, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He was sure of very little in his life. But in that moment, with Minho holding him and speaking to him like he was the most sacred thing in the world...

He was sure of this.

Of him.

Of them.

Jisung hesitated, his fingers absently toying with the edge of Minho's collar. He wasn't sure how to say it without sounding strange, but then again, they were long past pretending anything about their connection was normal.

"I think I tasted myself," he said quietly.

Minho blinked. "You-what?"

Jisung looked up at him, slightly sheepish but determined. "That night... The first time we... After you fed directly." His voice dropped, more tentative now. "When you... Kissed me."

Minho's brows furrowed slightly, curious. He didn't interrupt.

"I remember it really clearly," Jisung continued. "Your eyes were such a dark brown... And I remember tasting chocolate when I looked at you."

Minho's lips parted like he might speak, but Jisung pressed on.

"Then I looked at your mouth, and I tasted raspberry. Sharp and sweet. And that sort of thing has happened every time you fed directly, so it wasn't unusual exactly. But then you kissed me, and I tasted the blood, yeah, but also-" his eyes lifted, locking with Minho's, "-cherries. Cinnamon. Smoke."

Minho stilled.

"I didn't know it then, but... That's what you said just now. It was exactly what you described. Even the warmth."

Minho was quiet for a moment, gaze distant, clearly turning it over in his mind.

"That's... Not normal," he said finally, though there was no judgment in his tone, only fascination. "Not for humans."

Jisung smiled faintly. "We've already established I'm not exactly normal."

Minho's eyes sparkled at that, something fond passing over his expression. "No. You're not."

He tilted his head, the sharpness of his curiosity sharpening. "You've never tasted things like that before? Outside of feeding?"

"Never," Jisung said. "Not until then."

Minho hummed thoughtfully, fingers absentmindedly stroking Jisung's hip where his jacket had ridden up slightly. "You're sure it wasn't emotional projection? I know direct feeds blur a lot of lines, you could've been picking up on my perception."

Jisung shook his head. "Maybe. But it felt... Internal. Like it was coming from me. Not from you."

Minho's eyes narrowed slightly in contemplation. "It might be your Aurelian blood." He met Jisung's gaze again. "You should ask Seungmin. If anyone would know, it's him."

Jisung made a small face. "He'll give me that look. You know the one. The 'you two are going to get caught and it's all going to blow up in your faces, but sure, tell me more about your magical makeouts' look."

Minho laughed, full and warm and fond. "He will. And he'll hate himself for being curious anyway."

Jisung sighed, but nodded. "I'll ask. Just... Not today."

Minho leaned forward, brushing a kiss over his temple. "Not today," he agreed. "Today, you're mine."

Jisung didn't mean to move.

Truly. He hadn't made the conscious decision to press down against Minho's lap, to roll his hips in a slow, hungry grind. It wasn't calculated. It wasn't careful.

It was need.

Simple, blinding, overwhelming need.

Minho's hands, already settled at his waist, tightened reflexively, the sudden hitch in his breath vibrating between them like a struck chord. The room felt too small all at once, the air thick and heavy, charged with heat. Minho's eyes flicked up to meet his, darker now, pupils blown wide. His mouth parted slightly, breath brushing warm against Jisung's cheek.

"Jisung..." he warned, voice already fraying at the edges.

But Jisung only ground down again, slower this time, more deliberate. His hands curled against Minho's shoulders, clinging for balance, and his eyes fluttered shut as the friction sang through his nerves. It wasn't enough. Gods, it wasn't nearly enough. But it was something. And he was so starved for something.

Minho growled low in his throat, the sound pure want, and surged upward to kiss him again. This time it wasn't sweet or slow. It was open-mouthed and wet, desperate and consuming. Teeth, tongue, heat. Their hips moved in tandem, grinding together in a rhythm that could've undone them both if they weren't careful.

Jisung whimpered against his lips. Minho swallowed the sound greedily.

"Not fair," Minho whispered into his mouth. "You're not playing fair."

Jisung bit back a smile, lips swollen, pupils glassy. "You started it."

"I was trying to behave."

Jisung rocked his hips again, drawing a guttural groan from Minho's throat.

"Try better," he murmured.

Minho's hands slid up his back, strong and sure, pressing them impossibly closer. Jisung's entire body felt electric, every brush of fabric and skin like lightning under his skin. He could feel Minho, hot and hard beneath him, and the urge to move faster, to take more, was rising in him like a tide.

Another roll of his hips, this one sharper, and Minho's head tipped back against the chair, lips parted in a soundless curse.

Jisung leaned forward, lips ghosting along the line of Minho's throat. "I missed you," he whispered. "Missed this."

Minho groaned again, hands moving to cup the curve of Jisung's ass, guiding the grind now, slower, deeper. "You're going to kill me," he rasped.

"Not before I get you alone again."

Minho's laugh was short, strangled. "You're going to make me call for another draw tomorrow."

"I'm not stopping you."

Another kiss. Another slow grind. Another flash of heat blooming between them like fire catching dry wood.

And then-

Knock knock.

A pause.

"Your Highness?" came the voice from behind the door. "Shall I remove the donor now?"

The room turned to ice.

Jisung froze. So did Minho.

Their bodies were still pressed tight, breathing uneven, sweat beading at the back of Jisung's neck despite the cool air. But now the illusion was shattered. The spell broken.

Minho's eyes opened slowly, blinking once like it physically pained him to return to reality.

He let out a long, suffering sigh.

"Of course," he muttered.

Jisung couldn't help the small, breathless laugh that escaped him.

Minho rolled his eyes, still breathless. "I should have you declared medically irreplaceable. Get you a wing of the palace. Keep you on call."

"You already do," Jisung teased, voice low and warm.

Minho didn't smile. Not exactly. But the look in his eyes was molten.

He brought his hands to Jisung's hips, guiding him gently, reluctantly, off his lap. Jisung's legs wobbled slightly as he stood, muscles still humming from the friction and the heat, from the press of Minho's body against his own. Minho steadied him with a hand, fingers firm and lingering before they finally fell away.

"Compose yourself," Minho murmured, brushing Jisung's tousled hair down, straightening the collar of his shirt.

Jisung huffed. "You're one to talk."

Minho raised a brow. "I look fantastic. You're the one flushed like a guilty schoolboy."

Jisung muttered something impolite under his breath as he reached for his jacket, slipping it back on with shaking fingers.

Another knock came, softer this time. Polite. Waiting.

At Minho’s subtle nod, Jisung slipped to the door, easing the lock open with an achingly slow, near-soundless turn.

Minho reached for the silver bell and rang it once, clear and bright. "Enter," he called, voice calm now, every inch the composed Crown Prince.

The door creaked open behind them.

Jisung didn't look back.

He was still trying to steady his breathing. Still tasting Minho on his lips. Still burning.

Ten minutes had never felt so short.

And gods, he was already counting down until the next one.

 

______________

 

He was going to murder the guard.

It would be quick, probably. Not entirely painless, but satisfying. A clean snap of the neck, or perhaps something a little messier, just to drive the point home. He could see it already: the startled look, the wide eyes, the way the body would crumple to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut.

He sighed.

No. That's not fair.

The guard was just doing his job. Following orders. Sticking to protocol. Being punctual.

The problem wasn't him. The problem was that Minho had been this close.

This close to losing himself entirely. To forgetting that they were still playing a dangerous game. That time wasn't a luxury they had, not yet. That every second with Jisung was still borrowed, still threaded with risk, and the knock on the door had been a brutal reminder of that.

His jaw tensed.

He could still feel Jisung. Still taste him. The warmth of him pressed into his lap, the way his hips had moved-fuck. Minho raked a hand through his hair, fingers twitching with leftover adrenaline, leftover need. His entire body was strung tight, wound like a bow that had been pulled to the breaking point and then abandoned mid-shot.

He was hard and aching one second, then soft and furious the next.

Nothing was fair.

Minho turned from the door, the polished bell still trembling slightly in its spot on the table. His eyes found the armchair again, still warm from their bodies, still holding the ghost of their closeness.

His breath left him in a tight hiss.

He wanted to punch something.

More than that, he wanted him. Jisung. Back in his arms. Back in that chair. Back with that little smirk on his face that said he knew what he was doing. Knew exactly how far to push Minho before he unraveled completely.

Minho let out a low, humourless laugh.

Gods, he'd let him.

He wanted to be unraveled.

And that's what made it worse. That's what left him standing there now, alone in the quiet draw room, teeth clenched, fists curled at his sides, trying to shake off the buzzing hum beneath his skin that still whispered more, more, more.

He knew better than to touch himself now. It would do nothing. Not after that. Not after Jisung's breathless moans in his ear, not after the scent of his skin and the feel of him grinding down in that slow, devastating rhythm.

There were fantasies, and then there was that.

That had been something else. That had been real.

And real was a thousand times worse when it was taken from you too soon.

He paced once, twice, then sank into the chair they had been sitting in, letting his head tip back, eyes sliding shut. The room still smelled like him, like crisp linen and bergamot and the faintest trace of blood. Minho's body throbbed with residual heat, and he clenched his jaw so tightly it ached.

He could still feel Jisung's voice in his chest. "I missed you. Missed this."

Minho ran his thumb across the inside of his wrist, where his pulse thrummed just beneath the surface.

He missed him too.

So much it hurt.

But the guard had knocked. The time was up. The illusion had broken. The room was empty now.

And Minho was left behind with the hunger.

Again.

Chapter 34: The Biological Imperative

Seungmin hadn't meant to bump into Jisung.

He'd been making his usual pass through the medical wing, reviewing post-checkup notes from the palace physician, half-listening to some nurse prattle on about inconsistent potassium readings from one of the older donors, when a familiar mop of brown hair caught his eye near the exit corridor.

"Jisung."

The name slipped out before he could stop it.

Jisung turned mid-step, eyes widening for a second before softening into something easier, friendlier. "Seungmin."

"Medical checkup?" Seungmin asked, tilting his head toward the direction he'd just come from.

"Routine," Jisung confirmed. "Levels still disgustingly healthy, according to them."

Seungmin let out a dry hum. "You always were strangely resilient."

Jisung grinned at that, then hesitated. "Actually... Since I've got you, there's something I should tell you."

Seungmin arched a brow, already wary. "If this is about the draw chamber meet-ups, I already know. You're both terrible liars."

"It's not... Well. Not exactly." Jisung scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish.
He checked the corridor both ways, making sure they were alone before he continued. "It's about something that happened after the last draw. The one Minho formally requested."

Seungmin's expression didn't change, but his attention sharpened. "Go on."

Jisung shifted on his feet, then spoke quickly. "When Minho kissed me the first time... After feeding... I could taste it. My blood. Not just the metallic tang, like really taste it. The way he does. Cherries, cinnamon, smoke. He described it later, and it matched what I'd experienced exactly."

Seungmin blinked.

"You tasted it?" he echoed.

Jisung nodded. "It was... Overwhelming. But vivid."

A long pause stretched between them.

"Do you think it's because I'm Aurelian?" Jisung asked, voice uncertain.

Seungmin didn't answer immediately. His brain was already half a dozen pages ahead, rifling through memories of old texts, fragmented theories he'd skimmed, and a note, just a footnote, really, about neural mimicry during interspecies exchange.

He clicked his tongue once. "I'll look into it. After I finish the rest of today's bureaucratic hell."

Jisung looked relieved. "Thanks."

"I make no promises," Seungmin added. "But I'll see what I can find. I already have a few ideas where to look"

Jisung just nodded.

 

The rest of Seungmin's day passed under the oppressive fog of administrative duty.

Most people imagined the personal administrative assistant to the Crown Prince had a glamorous job, full of intrigue and proximity to power. In reality, Seungmin spent the majority of his waking hours trapped beneath stacks of dull reports, budget drafts, and the endlessly looping spiral of logistics.

Today was no different.

He corrected a supplier invoice discrepancy for the southern stables. Then refiled an internal transport request for inter-wing medicinal transfers. No, the medical team could not requisition a Mercedes for exclusive use, no matter how nicely they asked. After that, he spent an hour chasing down an improperly coded staff meal stipend that had thrown the entire monthly chart into chaos.

By midafternoon, he was fantasising about throwing himself out of the window.

It wasn't until well past dinner that he finally freed himself from the last of the drudgery.

He made his way through the west halls and down the spiral stairwell that led to the lesser archives, a place dusty enough to discourage casual visitors but meticulously maintained thanks to Seungmin's own system of cataloguing. He didn't bother with a personal lamp. His eyes had adjusted to the dim glow of the old filament sconces long ago.

The volumes he needed were already laid out across a worktable, left from his last visit.

Textual Analysis of Pre-Unification Aurelian Writings.
Vampiric Metabolism and Historical Interfacing with Donor Classes.
A Comparative Study of Interspecies Neurological Traits.

He cracked his knuckles and got to work.

The first hour yielded nothing. The second gave him a few speculative mentions of Aurelian tissue adaptability, but it was vague and steeped in superstition. Only in the third hour, tucked deep into the appendix of a compiled research journal, did something useful appear.

Seungmin sat straighter.

"Though genetically distinct from both humans and vampires, Aurelians possess dormant allelic pathways, most notably along chromosomal pair 17, that mirror the neurosensory markers found in the vampiric line. In cases of direct blood exchange (unfiltered through containment), it is hypothesised that the increase in adrenaline in certain Aurelian brain regions may briefly prompt these to emulate vampiric perception patterns, particularly in the insular cortex and gustatory response centres. This overlap may account for enhanced perception during or immediately following direct feeds."

There it was.

Not magic. Not mysticism.

Neurosensory mimicry.

It wasn't simply that Jisung was tasting his blood like a vampire. It was that, biologically, neurologically, his brain thought it was a vampire's. Just for a few minutes. Just long enough.

Seungmin flipped to the reference list and scanned for supporting studies.

One caught his eye: "Inter-donor Variability in Aurelian-Vampiric Transfer Reactions." It noted an experiment performed with an Aurelian donor and three different vampires. After a direct feed, the donor was able to identify and describe the dominant taste profiles in each of the vampires donors as experienced by each separate vampire.

So it wasn't a fluke.

It was real.

And rare.

Seungmin sat back in his chair, the flickering sconce casting long shadows on the stone walls.

He'd just confirmed something undocumented in any modern archive. Something ancient. Biological.

He rubbed a hand over his face and muttered, "Of course it's you, Jisung."

He was going to need more parchment. And possibly a very large drink.

But first, he needed to write down everything.

 

Seungmin wrote until his hand cramped.

His notes had sprawled across three pages already, each one filled with his characteristically neat script, cross-referenced and annotated. He paused only to skim another passage or to underline a particularly alarming section with sharp, deliberate strokes.

The synaesthetic response Jisung described was rare enough, but it wasn't the only thing he found.

As he continued his research, flicking between translated texts and footnotes buried deep in speculative biological records, one line made his breath catch.

"Repeated direct blood exchange between Aurelians and vampires, particularly when paired with sexual climax, has been observed in rare cases to instigate a permanent shift in vampire neural architecture, specifically aligning to Aurelian partner signatures. Though difficult to quantify, the result dwarfs the effects of a 'true' vampire mate bond."

Seungmin reread the passage twice.

Then once more.

Permanent. Neurological. Bonded.

He sat back in his chair, heart ticking faster than before. That kind of change wasn't just metaphorical, it was chemical. Physical. Tangible. And it only happened between vampires and Aurelians.

Not humans.

Not even other vampires.

He flipped to the associated research codex. The studies were sparse, mostly anecdotal accounts and fragmented medical observations lost over time. But the trend was clear: the bond between an Aurelian and a vampire, if it formed, was strong. Devastatingly so.

In at least one recorded case, the vampire had gone mad when his Aurelian partner was taken from him. In another, the vampire experienced full system collapse after being forcibly separated, dying from the resultant grief.

It wasn't just emotional attachment. It was physiological dependency.

Seungmin's pen hovered over the parchment. His mind was moving faster than his fingers could keep up with.

If Minho and Jisung continued like this, if they kept feeding, kissing, sleeping together, they might not be able to stop, even if they wanted to. The bond wouldn't just deepen emotionally. It would burn into them. Make separation a death sentence.

And neither of them had any idea.

Seungmin let out a slow, weighted breath and leaned back in his chair. He stared up at the curved stone ceiling of the archive vault, where dust clung to the seams of the mortar and silence pressed in like water.

This changed everything.

Because if anyone else found out-

Minho's parents.

The thought arrived cold and swift, cutting through him like a blade. He didn't know the exact age of the royal pair, but he knew enough. Knew they were ancient enough to remember wars that had long since fallen off official records. Old enough to have fought in, or at least profited from, the Aurelian purges. If they had known about the species, and Seungmin would bet good coin that they had, then they also would've known how dangerous an Aurelian bond could be.

And now their son was feeding from one.

Feeding. Touching. Falling for him.

Because make no mistake, Minho was gone. Anyone with watchful eyes could see it. It was in the way he looked at Jisung. The way his moods had shifted, the reckless way he'd broken protocol, the softness in his voice when he said his name. This wasn't infatuation.

It was deeper than that. Rawer.

Possibly irreversible.

And if his parents discovered it?

Would they react with clinical detachment? A swift dismissal? Quiet removal of what they saw as a lowly donor?

Or would they see it as a threat? A stain on the bloodline? A risk to the heir apparent?

Would they break the bond, whatever it took?

Seungmin shut his notebook.

If he was right, and gods, it looked like he was, Jisung's life might already be on borrowed time. Not because of anything he'd done, but because he'd been chosen. Because Minho had pulled him too close, too fast, and now neither of them could let go.

The Crown Prince had taken a step over a line that no one else in the royal family had dared to cross.

And if the King and Queen ever realised it...

Would they risk their son's heartbreak to maintain order?

Would they risk losing him to grief?

Would they even understand what such a loss might do to him?

Seungmin didn't know. He didn't have the answers to those questions. But he knew this:

He couldn't stay on the sidelines anymore.

If Minho and Jisung were going to survive this, if they were going to stand any chance of staying together, someone needed to plan ahead. Someone needed to find a way to make Jisung untouchable.

And if that had to be him?

So be it.

He opened his notebook again. He'd start with the legal precedents, find any case, even a footnote, where a donor was given protected status under the royal court. And if that failed, he'd turn to the blood sciences. The bond itself. Maybe there was a way to prove the connection's permanence. Maybe it could force recognition.

Because whatever came next, whatever storm was waiting, he was going to make damn sure Jisung had a shield.

And Minho?

Minho had better appreciate it.

___________

 

There wasn't a second.
Not one breath, not one beat of time in which Jisung wasn't present in his mind.

Minho had stopped pretending otherwise.

At first, he'd tried to focus, on work, on council reports, on the endless drone of state affairs that made up a prince's daily life. But Jisung lived in the seams of it all. In the soft slide of a silk shirt under his fingers, he remembered the way Jisung's skin felt against his palms. In the bloom of red ink on a trade report, he thought only of blood. His blood. How it tasted. How it made Minho ache for more.

In strategy meetings, he found himself idly calculating the frequency of unscheduled draws, how many he could request before someone started whispering. Would two a week be excessive? What if he spaced them erratically? Could he mask his hunger as a medical need? Would anyone dare challenge the prince on it?

He couldn't call for him too often.
But not calling him was worse.

He was losing the fight against his own mind.

Ten minutes. That was all they ever got. Sometimes not even that. It was absurd. It was torture.
The door would lock, Jisung would step inside, and Minho's entire world would narrow to the curve of his smile and the shape of his voice, and then just like that, the draw would end, there would be a knock at the door, and it was over.

Gone.

Ripped away again.

Each time, it left Minho wrecked. Wanting. Chained by formality and the suffocating weight of royal surveillance.

And ten minutes, the time they were allotted, was laughable. Ten minutes was a cruel joke.

He wanted hours. Nights. All of them.
He wanted Jisung.

There was no end in sight.

And worse, they had no alternatives.

He couldn't take Jisung to his room. The one night he had, had been a singular opportunity owing to the circumstances. The staff rotated nightly, and each donor was accounted for, their locations checked, their beds monitored. Any absence raised red flags. Minho could protect him from many things, but not from repeatedly being absent during routine inspections.

And Minho going to him? Out of the question.
Minho's own quarters were constantly surveilled. For security, allegedly. His guards reported to the Lord Commander. His attendants rotated between dusk and dawn. If he were caught sneaking back at the wrong hour...

Still, the knowledge chafed.

Every second they spent apart frayed him. He'd lie awake at night, staring up at the arched ceiling of his bedchamber, and wonder where Jisung was in the palace at that moment. Was he asleep? Was he dreaming? Was he dreaming of him?

The sheets grew cold no matter how many blankets he used.

For the first time in his life, Minho wished he were king. Not for the crown. Not for the control. But for the freedom. Because if he were king, no one would question the draws. No one would question anything.

He could have Jisung in his rooms at will. Appoint him to some formal title, personal donor, companion, consort if he dared, and silence the palace with one decree.

But he wasn't king.

He would never be king. That path wasn't his, not really. His parents would never die. Could never die. They were eternal. The weight of the crown wasn't passed, it was simply... Worn. Until the end of the world, maybe.

Minho was the crown prince in name only. A placeholder. A symbol. A diplomat, a statesman, a polished face for tradition to pin its hopes on.

But power? Real authority?

He had none.

Which meant no decrees, no command to legitimise Jisung. No royal protections. No titles granted out of love. Not unless his parents approved, and the look in his father's eyes when he had questioned his "distractions" made it perfectly clear that they would never approve.

And even if they suspected what Jisung was, an Aurelian, they would see him not as a miracle, not as a partner... But as a threat. As an ancient ghost best kept buried.

So Minho was left with this: quiet desperation, locked doors, and the low, insistent ache of wanting.

He paced his room now, long strides cutting across the carpeted floor, fingers raking through his hair.

It was maddening.

Every rule felt like it had been designed to keep them apart.

Ten minutes.
Twice a week, maybe, if he behaved.

And even those ten minutes had to be masked as medical necessity. Feeding requirements, he'd called them. A prince's constitution. Minor irregularities in his readings. Let the palace physicians wring their hands, so long as it bought him time.

He hated how grateful he was for even that much.

He thought of Jisung's laugh, breathless and flushed, his voice barely steady as he tried to tell Minho about some joke from breakfast. The way he'd said "you do keep me" like it was already a fact. Like Minho wasn't still chasing the dream of a life he couldn't have.

And he thought of the way he'd felt that last time. The taste of his blood. The warmth of his skin. The feel of him in his lap, straddling his thighs like he was home.

Minho let out a harsh breath and slumped into the nearest chair.

What would it take?

What had others done, long before him, when they fell for someone they couldn't claim?

Had anyone ever managed it? Survived the scrutiny? The silence?

I will, Minho promised himself. Somehow, I will.

If that meant stretching the rules to their limits, fine. If that meant leaning on Seungmin more, asking him to find new cracks in the old systems, he would. If it meant risking his own standing, letting whispers follow him through the court like smoke, then let them whisper.

Because he wouldn't survive losing Jisung.
Not now. Not after everything. Not with that taste still lingering on his tongue like forever.

 

The chandelier overhead dripped soft golden light across silver platters and crystal goblets, the quiet clink of cutlery punctuating the low murmur of conversation between the King and Queen.

Minho barely heard them.

He sat where he was meant to, posture straight, napkin folded in his lap, a glass of plum wine untouched at his elbow, and pushed roasted root vegetables around his plate without really tasting them.

He could still smell Jisung. Still feel the ghost of him pressed to his skin. Still hear the little breathless sound he made when Minho kissed the corner of his jaw.

He missed him.

Three hours. That was all it had been since Jisung left the draw room. It might as well have been days.

His mother was laughing gently at something the King had said, a reference, Minho thought vaguely, to the scribe assigned to her charitable foundation.

"... Bless her, she means well, but she can't even spell 'benefactor’," the Queen murmured, amusement rippling through her voice. "I had to rewrite her last report myself."

The King made a low noise of agreement. "Too many of them rely on stylists and speechwriters these days. They forget their records will outlast them." His gaze flicked toward Minho without ceremony. "Which reminds me."

Minho blinked, pulled halfway back into the room. "Sorry?"

"The memoir," the King said, voice calm but heavy with intent. "The one you were instructed to begin three years ago."

Minho went still.

He'd known it was coming, eventually. But that didn't mean he was ready for it.

"You were supposed to have started by the equinox," the King continued, as though reciting from a ledger. "It was intended to reflect your transition from court youth to Crowned Heir. A symbol of focus. Responsibility. Permanence."

Minho opened his mouth to object, then thought better of it.

His father's voice sharpened just slightly. "It's not optional."

The Queen, ever the soft blade beside the steel, offered a more tempered smile. "It's tradition, Minho. Not just for you. Every heir has documented their journey, their appointments, their thoughts, their impressions of court life, since before the reformation. It's how the archives were built."

Minho's fingers tightened slightly on his wine glass. "It's just... Not a priority right now."

The King raised a brow. "Then make it one."

A pause. Then:

"If you cannot be bothered to write it yourself, then appoint a scribe," he continued, tone clipped with finality. "Someone discreet. Loyal. Who can capture your words exactly as you speak them. The process should take no longer than a season."

"A season?" Minho echoed, startled.

"You should meet twice a week," his father said. "Minimum. You'll cover everything. Early diplomatic visits, your impressions of the trade delegation, your perspectives on governance. Your life must be recorded, accurately and in full."

Minho couldn't stop the scoff that slipped out.

His mother's smile thinned, but she said nothing.

The King gave him a long look. "You've been drifting of late," he said plainly. "This will give you structure. And remind the court, and yourself, that you are not above the legacy you were born into."

The silence that followed was ironclad.

Minho swallowed down the dozen protests that bloomed in his mouth. He had no room to refuse.

He dipped his head slightly. "Yes, Your Majesty."

The King gave a small nod and returned to slicing his meat. Conversation resumed, a shift in topic, a comment on the grain reports from the southern provinces, but Minho hardly heard any of it.

His ears were ringing.

Twice a week. A full season. With a scribe.

He was already calculating. Already sorting names in his mind. Already crossing out every noble-born bureaucrat and careerist who would leap at the opportunity just to leak the contents later.

No. He needed someone private. Grounded. Too busy to gossip. Too smart to embellish.

Which left... Seungmin.

Minho's brow furrowed slightly.

He wasn't sure if Seungmin had the time, his daily duties were already split between admin, policy research, and his own archive work, but if anyone would know how to handle this properly, it would be him. Seungmin understood the value of discretion. Of clarity. Of truth.

And more importantly, if Seungmin couldn't take it on himself, he'd know someone who could. Someone competent. Someone loyal.

Minho pushed his half-eaten plate away and wiped his fingers on his napkin, movements precise but absent.

"I'm full," he said, rising smoothly. "Apologies. I think I'll take a walk before it gets dark."

The Queen gave a faint nod, distracted by the conversation shifting toward military provisioning. The King didn't so much as look up from his wine.

Perfect.

Minho left the dining hall with long, measured strides. But the moment the door closed behind him, his pace quickened. The guards at the main stairwell bowed as he passed, but didn't follow. Everyone knew Crown Prince Lee Minho preferred to walk alone.

He didn't head toward the gardens, or the royal suites, or any of the salons that were more appropriate for an evening stroll. He took the lower staircase instead, the one most nobles avoided because it smelled faintly of ink and old parchment, and followed it down three flights to the private wing of the Royal Archives.

Notes:

Yes, I did have to research parts of the brain for this one.
We all know by now that the “we only use 10% of our brains” claim is a lie.

But did you also know that whilst the brain only makes up roughly 2% of your body weight, it actually uses 20% of your body’s total energy… Even when you’re resting?

So I guess it makes perfect sense that you feel so tired after doing something mentally taxing 🙃

Chapter 35: The Scribe

It was quiet in the Archives. Always. The air cool and dry, the lanterns dim but steady. The scent of leather bindings and candle wax clung to the stone walls like history itself.

Minho didn't need directions. He knew exactly where he'd find him.

And sure enough, there Seungmin was, right where he always seemed to be of an evening, seated cross-legged at the long mahogany reading table that took up most of the room, surrounded by chaos only he seemed able to navigate.

Books lay open in multiple languages, half-sorted scrolls tumbled off one end of the desk, a thick roll of parchment lay flattened beneath a glass weight at the centre, and perched precariously on top of it all, like a crown of disorder, was that worn and weathered folklore volume that Jisung had bought for him.

It was ridiculous. And yet Seungmin looked perfectly in control.

He didn't glance up as Minho entered, just made a vague sound in the back of his throat, the one that usually translated to "If you interrupt me for anything less than state collapse, I swear to god I'll end you."

Minho stepped closer anyway.

"You're still reading that?" he asked, nodding to the folklore book.

"That," Seungmin said, eyes still on the parchment in front of him, "will probably prove more useful than the Treatise on Aurelian Mythos, which is, frankly, just 400 pages of an 18th-century vampire writing in circles about how little he understands anything."

Minho smirked. "So you're saying it's basically your standard noble's memoir."

That earned him a dry look over the top of the parchment.

"Was there something you needed?" Seungmin asked.

"Yes," Minho said, more seriously now, sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat. "And I'd rather you didn't throw anything when I tell you."

Seungmin raised an eyebrow, already suspicious.

Minho stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"My parents have reminded me to begin my formal legacy documentation. Twice weekly entries, full seasonal cycle. Starting immediately."

Seungmin made a low, sympathetic sound. "Ah. The 'show us you're still a focused heir by burying you in ceremonial paper cuts' punishment."

"Exactly."

Seungmin sighed. "You want help."

"I want a scribe. But not just any scribe." He gave Seungmin a pointed look. "You know how much of this court would kill to get their claws on those pages. I need someone I trust."

Seungmin looked at him for a long beat, then leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. "You want me to do it."

Minho hesitated. "You were my first thought. But I know how much you already have on your plate. So if you can't, or won't, I get it. I’m happy to take suggestions on an alternative that you think is suitable."

Seungmin tilted his head. "So what, you want me to play matchmaker for your royal diary?"

"I want you to recommend someone," Minho said plainly. "Someone trustworthy. Quiet. Smart enough to keep pace. Discreet enough to keep their mouth shut."

There was a pause.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Seungmin's face.

And then, without missing a beat, he said, "Jisung."

Minho blinked. "You think they'd allow it?"

"You're the crown prince. You're not asking, you're appointing." Seungmin reached for a nearby quill, twirling it once between his fingers. "And frankly, the optics work in your favour. You're not pulling a noble heir from their duties. You're not favouring any major house. You're appointing someone already cleared for palace access, with proven literacy, full medical clearance, and-" he gestured vaguely, "-zero close ties to other political players. Not to mention the donor rules which specify he cannot discuss any information he holds about you"

Minho exhaled, tension he hadn't realised he'd been holding finally loosening in his chest.

"And," Seungmin added, deadpan, "he already knows more about your current life than any scribe ever will."

Minho gave a small, crooked smile. "That part does help."

Seungmin nodded once, businesslike. "Then make it official. Write the appointment. Submit it by tomorrow morning. The council will grumble, but no one will oppose it directly. There's no better candidate."

Minho glanced down at the desk, where Seungmin's latest translation lay in careful, concise notes. The room felt heavier all of a sudden. More real. This wasn't a game anymore, not just stolen kisses and secret notes. This was a step. A risk. A declaration, even if cloaked in duty.

"You're sure?" he asked, quieter now. "You think it's safe?"

Seungmin looked up at him, for once, no sarcasm in his gaze.

"No," he said honestly. "But it's safer than what you've been doing."

Minho nodded.

He leaned an elbow on the cluttered edge of the desk, brushing a stray parchment aside with careless fingers. "So," he said, glancing at the half-translated text in front of Seungmin, "found anything more interesting in all this?"

It was mostly habit, the asking. He knew Seungmin would keep digging regardless, because that's who he was, relentless, brilliant, and deeply invested in the truth of things. Minho, on the other hand, had gotten what he wanted weeks ago: the answer to what Jisung was.

That had been enough.

But Seungmin didn't look up right away. He sat back slowly in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw, expression unreadable.

"Nothing you'll want to hear from me," he muttered, voice low.

Minho's eyes narrowed slightly.

Normally, he'd laugh that off. Shrug. Maybe tease Seungmin for being dramatic. But there was something off in the way he said it. Not bored. Not even frustrated.

Wary.

Careful.

Minho straightened. "What does that mean?"

Seungmin's gaze flicked to him then, and for a second, it wasn't the familiar irritation or academic fire that burned there. It was something colder. A rare stillness behind his usual sharp edges.

"It means," Seungmin said, folding his arms, "that I've been looking into what Jisung asked me about."

Minho blinked. "You found something?"

"Oh, I found a lot," Seungmin replied. "And before you ask, yes, it's credible. Multiple sources, tucked behind a thousand other things nobody's thought to translate because the titles were wrong or the pages were misfiled."

Minho didn't speak. He waited.

Seungmin inhaled through his nose, slow and measured. "Aurelians are closer to vampires than they are to humans. Genetically, neurologically. When they're fed on directly, their body triggers a response, a kind of chemical flood. It mirrors a vampire's perception. Temporarily."

Minho's brow furrowed. "So that's why Jisung could taste the blood?"

"Yes. That, combined with your saliva, which acts like a catalyst, neurologically, gave him a synaesthetic overlay. It's rare. And it's not supposed to happen. Because," Seungmin added pointedly, "direct feeding from donors is banned."

Minho's mouth twitched. Not in amusement this time.

"But," Seungmin continued, "that's not even the part you'll hate."

Minho tensed. "There's more?"

Seungmin nodded, slow and grave. "Repeated sexual contact between a vampire and an Aurelian, especially post-feed, has been shown, in multiple cases, to cause a neurochemical shift. A literal rewiring of brain chemistry. Memory pathways. Emotional processing. It's like... A vampire mating bond. But stronger. Permanent."

Minho's stomach dropped.

"Permanent," he repeated.

"Yes. Irreversible." Seungmin didn't sugarcoat it. "And not just emotional. It can change your physiological reactions. Your nervous system can start prioritising the other person's presence. Their safety. Their scent, even. Absence can trigger withdrawal symptoms in extreme cases. And presence..." He paused. "Presence causes euphoria. Obsession. Dependency."

Minho couldn't move.

Could barely breathe.

Because it had already happened.

The first time he and Jisung had laid together... He'd felt it. That unbearable, tectonic shift beneath his ribs. Like he'd been cracked open. Like the axis of his world had been forcibly moved and he hadn't even tried to resist it.

The pain when they'd pulled away. The way everything after that had felt grey. The ache in his chest when he wasn't near. The need that no meeting, no meal, no distraction could quiet.

Gods.

Minho swallowed hard, mouth dry.

"How many times does it take?" he asked, voice rasping.

Seungmin shrugged one shoulder. "There's no fixed number. But the more intense the emotion, the quicker the shift. The bond strengthens every time. The records I found said some pairs were altered after one encounter. Others took weeks. Months. But all of them ended the same."

"And how is that?" Minho murmured, even though he already knew.

"They couldn't be separated," Seungmin said simply. "Not without serious consequences."

Minho looked away.

The candlelight flickered low across the old parchment, casting long shadows over the desk.

He didn't need the confirmation. His body had known long before Seungmin's books did.

But hearing it aloud, that it was real, permanent, scientific, hit differently. It wasn't just desire. It wasn't even just love.

It was something hardwired now. Coded into his blood and bones.

He was already bound.

To Jisung.

Forever.

It should have terrified him.

This knowledge, this confirmation that something irreversible had been set in motion between them, something that altered brain chemistry and rewrote the most primal parts of what made him him, should have sent panic crawling down his spine.

But it didn't.

It settled instead behind his ribs like a weight he was always meant to carry. Not a burden, but a truth. Ancient. Inevitable.

Of course.

Of course he was bound to Jisung. Of course his blood had recognised what his heart had already known.

And even if Seungmin had brought this to him before, before the first kiss, before the draw room, before that first time he'd had Jisung laid out beneath him, flushed under his touch, he wouldn't have done a single thing differently.

He would have chosen him still. Every time. In every timeline.

Even if it broke him.

Even if it meant the entire realm turned on him.

Even if it meant losing the crown, the palace, everything he'd ever been raised to protect.

He would still choose Jisung.

Minho dragged a hand over his mouth, exhaling slowly. "Well," he said finally, voice flat but calm. "That's... Good to know."

Seungmin blinked at him. "That's your reaction?"

"What else am I supposed to say?" Minho asked, lowering his hand to the desk, fingers curling in around the edge. "You've just confirmed that I'm chemically, emotionally and physiologically tied to the only person in this palace I'm not allowed to love. Congratulations. That changes nothing."

"Minho-"

"No. I mean it." He looked up, meeting Seungmin's eyes with something firm. "I knew. Not the science. But I knew something had shifted in me. I knew it the night I first touched him, hell, maybe even before that. And I still went back. Again and again."

His voice softened. "I'd do it again now. Even knowing all this. Especially knowing all this."

Seungmin let out a long breath and leaned back in his chair, the candlelight flickering between them. "You really are too far gone."

"I know," Minho said quietly. "That's the point."

He sat back slowly, eyes flicking to the stacks of books and papers, the silent witnesses to the truth Seungmin had unearthed.

He wasn't scared.

He was certain.

Jisung was his. In a way that no ceremony or decree could define. In a way that had been written into the marrow of his bones the moment he'd tasted him, really tasted him, and kissed him after.

And if that bond meant danger, meant defiance, meant war with the very rules that governed their society-

Then so be it.

 

_______________

 

The second knock startled him.

Jisung had been curled against the headboard of his bed, book balanced across his thigh, one hand absently turning a page without reading a word. The winter sunlight dappled through the glass, warm enough to lull him into stillness, but not enough to chase away the restless thrum in his chest.

He was waiting.

For a summons. For a note. For anything.

Another unscheduled draw, maybe. He'd even tidied his lengthening hair a little nicer today just in case, which was stupid, but gods, he missed Minho with a kind of frequency that felt medically concerning.

So when the knock came, his heart leapt.

He placed the book down and hurried to the door, smoothing his shirt as he opened it.

A palace steward stood there, solemn and stiff-backed.

"Han Jisung," he said, with a slight bow. "Your presence is required. His Highness has issued the request."

Jisung's stomach flipped in anticipation. "A draw?" he asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"No, sir," the steward said. "You are to change. These have been selected for you." He held out a neatly folded bundle of clothing.

Jisung blinked. "What is it for?"

"I've not been informed of the details," the steward replied. "Only that you are expected within the quarter-hour."

Something in the formality of the language, the absence of Minho's name, set his nerves humming. This wasn't an unscheduled draw. It was something else.

He accepted the clothes and nodded. "Alright. I'll be out shortly."

He changed quickly.

Black tailored trousers, sharp and just fitted enough. A plain white linen shirt, crisp and collarless. The belt was familiar, his own, black leather, polished rings looping the seams. But the jacket...

Red silk.

Intricately patterned with delicate threading, florals and flourishes he couldn't quite place, somewhere between embroidered and painted. It shimmered faintly under the candlelight.

He ran his fingers down the seams.

It was beautiful.

And definitely not chosen by accident.

They walked in silence.

The steward led him through unfamiliar corridors, ones that twisted away from the donor wings and the medical hallways, past vaulted windows and gold-accented sconces. The deeper they went, the quieter the palace became. By the time they reached the double doors at the end of the final corridor, Jisung's heart was pounding.

The steward stepped aside and opened the door with a shallow bow. "You may enter."

The scent hit him first.

Jasmine.

Heavy and heady in the air, curling through the wood-paneled room like incense.

Jisung stepped through the threshold, and froze.

Three people turned at his entrance.

Minho. In full formal wear, red accents to match Jisung's jacket.

And the King and Queen.

"Your Majesties-" he gasped, immediately bowing so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. "I... I didn't realise-I wasn't-"

"It's alright," the Queen said warmly, gesturing toward him. "You weren't expected to."

Jisung straightened slowly, hands clenched at his sides. He glanced at Minho, searching for a clue, something in his eyes to explain what was going on. But the prince merely offered the faintest, reassuring smile.

"Han Jisung," the King said, voice smooth and even. "You've been summoned today to formally accept a new assignment. Prince Minho has informed us of his intent to begin fulfilling a responsibility long overdue."

Jisung swallowed. "And that would be...?"

"The archival record," the Queen replied. "A complete and thorough documentation of his royal lineage, princely obligations, and official court interactions. A journal of succession, if you will. Every heir to the throne is expected to maintain one."

Jisung's lips parted in surprise, then turned automatically toward Minho.

The prince gave the tiniest shrug, as if to say 'surprise'.

"He is required to meet with his scribe twice per week for a full season," the King continued. "More, if needed. The position carries confidentiality protections under the royal seal. You will not be permitted to discuss anything shared in those sessions. Not with other donors, not with staff, not even with your physician."

Jisung felt the weight of that land. He straightened his shoulders.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Good," the King said, clearly pleased. "Prince Minho has requested you personally. That carries its own implications, of course, but we trust in your discretion."

Jisung bowed again. "You have it."

The Queen's voice softened slightly. "Understand the gravity of what you're being entrusted with, Han Jisung. This is not simply a clerical role. It's a record of legacy. Your name will be attached to a portion of our history. Treat it as such."

"I will," Jisung said, more firmly this time.

Minho finally stepped forward then, a hand brushing against Jisung's elbow in the smallest, almost imperceptible motion. But it steadied him.

"You'll begin as soon as possible," the King declared. "Until then, speak with the palace scribes if you need additional training. The archives are at your disposal."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"You may go."

Jisung bowed once more before turning to follow Minho toward the side door. His fingers twitched with the effort not to reach for his.

It wasn't until the jasmine-scented room was behind them, and they were alone in the corridor, that Jisung finally let himself exhale.

Minho grinned.

"Well," he murmured, voice low and rich with satisfaction. "I'd say that went well."

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Jisung rounded on him.

"What the hell, Minho," he hissed, voice just above a whisper. "You could've warned me!"

Minho's eyes sparkled with poorly concealed amusement. "I tried to. Believe me."

"I walked into a room with you, the King, and the Queen, with no context and a bundle of clothes I didn't even get to question-" Jisung gestured down at the jacket, "-looking like I'd been dressed for a ceremonial ritual!"

Minho glanced at him sidelong, tone smooth as silk. "You look incredible, for the record."

"That's not the point."

"I know," Minho said, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I really did want to speak to you myself. But they insisted it be formal. Said the role required proper gravity, all that."

Jisung scowled, still trying to keep his voice low in the echoing corridor. "Gravity. Right. I almost fainted."

"You didn't faint."

"I almost did."

Minho chuckled, hand brushing lightly against the small of Jisung's back as they turned a corner. "You didn't even stammer that much."

"I hate you."

"You don't."

Jisung let out a quiet, frustrated sigh, mostly at himself. Because no, he didn't hate him. Not even close. Not even when he'd been caught between the weight of the Queen's gaze and the King's voice, standing there like he was being handed a death sentence in velvet wrappings.

"You could've at least told me it wasn't a draw," he muttered.

"I didn't know they'd send someone for you so soon," Minho said honestly. "I was going to tell you tonight."

Jisung finally glanced over at him. Minho looked... Genuinely apologetic now. His brows drawn, mouth soft with remorse.

And still quietly, insufferably pleased with himself.

"You planned this," Jisung said, eyeing him.

"I planned a thing," Minho allowed. "The rest... Unfolded."

Jisung narrowed his eyes. "You just wanted an excuse to see me more."

Minho stopped walking.

He turned to face him fully, expression sobering just slightly. "Yes," he said. "I did."

And just like that, the weight of the day shifted.

Jisung felt it in the space between them, in the way the air stilled, how Minho's voice dropped to something softer, truer.

"I wanted to find a way to be with you that no one could question," Minho went on. "No patrols. No closed doors. No pretending. Just... Time. With you. I'd been trying to find something, and coming up empty. So when they pushed for me to work on this... Well, it was actually Seungmin who was clever enough to suggest you"

Jisung swallowed.

He hated how fast his heart responded. How immediately every protest melted.

"It's a lot of pressure," he said, trying to find his footing again.

"I know."

"I've never done anything like this."

"I'll help you," Minho said. "Hell, I'll write it myself if I have to. But this is the only way I've found that means we can spend time together without it prompting suspicion."

Jisung nodded, still slightly dazed, his whole body buzzing with the leftover panic from the room they'd just exited. His hands were clammy inside his sleeves. His heart hadn't yet resumed its normal rhythm. He was saying yes before he'd even fully processed what exactly he was agreeing to, but the force of Minho's presence, the calm steadiness of his voice, it pulled him along like gravity.

He was still trying to slow his breathing when Minho added casually, "And given the private nature of the sessions, they'll be conducted in my quarters."

Jisung's head whipped around so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

Minho barely smothered a grin. "Ah," he said, tone light. "There it is."

"You-" Jisung blinked at him, scandalised. "You could have led with that!"

"I thought you might appreciate the full context first," Minho said innocently. "Didn't want you fainting twice in one day."

"I did not faint!"

Minho made a small, thoughtful sound. "You're right. You just turned white as bone ash and nearly tripped on your own feet in front of the Queen."

Jisung groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Kill me now."

"Tempting," Minho mused. "But I have better plans for you."

The way he said it, soft and teasing and wicked all at once, made Jisung's cheeks flame. He hated how easy it was for Minho to turn him inside out like this, one phrase at a time.

"I thought you said this was supposed to be subtle," Jisung muttered, trying to regain some sliver of control.

"It is," Minho said, still looking unfairly pleased. "No one questions the Crown Prince working late into the evening with his appointed scribe. Especially not when he's finally completing a task he's been dodging for years."

Jisung raised an eyebrow. "And you're suddenly very motivated."

Minho met his gaze, smile gentling just slightly. "I have the right reason to be."

The words landed softly, not flirtation this time, but sincerity. And that, somehow, was worse. It turned the air between them thick and slow, too many things left unsaid swimming just beneath the surface.

Jisung looked away first, flustered. "When... When do we start?"

Notes:

Now, who could ever have seen THAT coming? 👀

Chapter 36: The Unofficial Account

The green sweater was just as soft as the day he'd bought it. That was the first thing Jisung noticed as he tugged the sleeves down over his hands. It smelled faintly of the wood from the wardrobe in his room and had just enough give in the shoulders to make him feel like he wasn't dressed for duty, which, he supposed, was the point.

Minho had told him to dress how he liked.

So: soft green sweater. Grey sweatpants. Nothing regal or polished about him. A far cry from the tailored formality he'd worn the day before in front of the King and Queen.

The steward had raised a single eyebrow when Jisung opened the door. His gaze swept over the outfit with thinly veiled judgment, mouth twitching as though he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Jisung just smiled sweetly, stepped out, and shut the door behind him.

The walk to Minho's quarters was quiet. Polished stone underfoot. Lamplight casting long shadows down the empty corridor. The guards they passed stood stiff-backed and silent. No one spoke to him. No one acknowledged him beyond a glance.

And yet, Jisung felt like every nerve in his body was thrumming.

He was going to Minho's room.

For work, technically. For the memoir. The official account of Minho's life, of his lineage and his reign and all the things the palace believed were worth remembering.

But still.

Minho's room.

Jisung couldn't help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he walked. The air was a little warmer here, tinged with the scent of old books and wax-polished wood. Familiar. Comforting.

The closer they got to the royal wing, the more his thoughts scrambled.

He was excited. Not just about the chance to spend time with Minho again, gods, finally, but also... Curious. What exactly was he going to document? How personal was this memoir supposed to be? Were they expected to cover official milestones and treaties and ceremonial events, or-

Or was this something else?

Something more intimate?

It was a ridiculous thought. Of course there would be writing. Of course there'd be content to document. Minho wasn't about to waste an official excuse like this with nothing to show for it. Even if the whole thing was mostly a pretext.

Still... Jisung wondered.

How much of the evening would be spent actually writing?

And how much of it would be spent doing... Other things?

Heat crept up the back of his neck before he could stop it.

He didn't want to assume. But he also knew Minho. And if there was even a flicker of opportunity, even a sliver of time left unstructured-

Well.

Minho wasn't exactly known for his restraint.

And if Jisung was honest with himself, he wasn't sure how much of it he had left either.

They turned the final corner.

The steward knocked once at the solid wooden door ahead, then stepped aside without ceremony. A moment later, the door cracked open, and Jisung found himself face to face with the man who had made this entire ruse necessary.

Minho stood there in soft grey slacks and a loose black shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbow, collar slightly askew like he'd only just shrugged into it.

He looked entirely too pleased to see him.

Jisung's pulse skipped.

The steward straightened at the sight of the Crown Prince and cleared his throat.

"Donor Han Jisung, as requested, Your Highness."

Minho, to his credit, managed to school the slow grin that had begun to tug at his mouth. He nodded solemnly, stepping back just enough to allow Jisung inside.

"Thank you," he said, voice all polished formality. "You may return to your post."

The steward gave a tight bow and pivoted smartly on his heel, clearly more than happy to be dismissed from whatever strangeness he suspected was going on between the two of them.

But before he could take a single step down the hall, Minho reached out and closed the door, rather deliberately, right in his face.

Click.

The bolt slid into place a beat later.

Minho didn't say anything at first. He just stood there for a moment with his back to the door, one hand still resting against the wood, a smile blooming slowly across his face as he turned to face Jisung fully.

The gleam in his eye was unmistakable.

"Very official," Jisung deadpanned, folding his arms. "I especially liked the part where you slammed the door like a teenager whose parents just grounded him."

Minho chuckled, unapologetic. "What can I say? I take my privacy seriously."

Jisung didn't answer.

Because his face had already split into a grin, wide and uncontainable, and before he could think better of it, he was moving, launching himself forward with a sound that was half-laugh, half-gasp.

Minho caught him effortlessly.

Strong arms wrapped around his back and under his thighs as Jisung climbed him like it was instinct, legs hooking around Minho's waist and arms locking behind his neck. It wasn't graceful, not really, but it was them, and the moment their mouths met, nothing else mattered.

The kiss was immediate, greedy and open and warm. Minho smiled into it, lips curved against Jisung's in delight, one hand sliding up his back, the other settling just beneath his thigh. He kissed him like he'd been starving for it, like the 24 hours apart had been unbearable, even with their plan finally in motion.

Jisung melted into him, completely unbothered by the way his back arched slightly or how his feet were dangling off the floor. He loved this, how weightless he always felt in Minho's arms. Not just physically, but like the world fell away. Like he didn't have to think about the palace, the curfews, the rules, the danger. There was just Minho, solid and sure against him, kissing him like he was his whole damn universe.

Minho drew back just enough to breathe, his forehead brushing against Jisung's as he huffed out a soft laugh.

"Hi," he said, voice low and fond.

Jisung's smile didn't fade. "Hi."

Minho kissed him again, quick and sweet. "Gods, I missed you."

"You saw me last night."

"Still too long."

Jisung laughed again, breathless, tucking his face into the crook of Minho's neck, his chest heaving slightly from the rush. "We're terrible at restraint."

Minho hummed, walking them slowly deeper into the room, Jisung still wrapped around him. "We had restraint. Then we locked the door."

Jisung snorted. "You locked the door."

"Exactly."

They both grinned, flushed and shameless.

Jisung exhaled a shaky laugh into Minho's shoulder, still half-breathless, arms loose around his neck. "Shouldn't we... I don't know... Make some progress on this memoir thing before we get completely distracted? I'm assuming you have a writing desk somewhere?"

Minho didn't answer right away.

Instead, his mouth found the curve of Jisung's jaw. Then lower.

"Too late," he murmured against the soft skin just beneath Jisung's ear, voice rich with amusement and intent. He kissed the hollow of his throat, slow and deliberate, while his grip shifted to support him more firmly. "Already distracted."

Jisung's breath caught.

Minho's lips continued downward, feather-light along his pulse, the heat of his mouth drawing goosebumps across Jisung's arms.

"I'm more than happy," Minho added between kisses, "to introduce you to the desk though."

Jisung flushed.

Visibly. Fully. His mind went instantly to that memory, vivid and unshakable, the last time they'd been in close quarters with a desk. When Minho had spread him out over polished wood before sinking his hot, wet mouth over him until he broke.

He swallowed, the air in the room suddenly heavier. His fingers curled in the collar of Minho's shirt, holding tighter without meaning to.

"Hey," Jisung breathed, trying to sound stern, but it came out thinner than he intended, trembling and far too affected. "I'm trying to be responsible here. Since at least one of us probably should be."

Minho groaned, a sound of deep, theatrical dissatisfaction, muffled against the warm skin of Jisung's neck. "Why must you say such cruel things to me," he muttered, his lips brushing against the column of Jisung's throat.

And then-

His tongue flicked out. Just once.

A hot, deliberate stripe along the sensitive skin above his pulse point.

Jisung shuddered, eyes going wide, breath catching in his chest like he'd been struck. It wasn't a bite, not yet, but it didn't need to be. The touch was electric. Teasing. Perfectly placed. He could feel his own pulse racing beneath Minho's mouth, like it was begging for teeth, for pressure, for everything Minho was so infuriatingly capable of delivering.

"You ass," he gasped, fingers tightening in Minho's shirt. "That's not fair."

Minho pulled back just enough to grin at him, lazy and smug. "You started it."

"I did not-"

"You said desk."

Jisung's whole body flushed again, as if that were the most damning accusation in the world.

Minho leaned in again, this time brushing his nose along Jisung's jaw. "And now all I can think about," he said low and slow, "is bending you over it."

Jisung bit down on a curse.

"Minho-"

But Minho was already moving, adjusting his hold before walking them both toward the desk like he had no intention of pretending to care about responsibility or restraint.

 

_____________

 

Minho didn't bother hiding the grin stretching across his face as he carried Jisung to the desk. His weight was nothing, his arms full of the one person who had any real power over him, and gods, wasn't that a dangerous thing?

The desk came up fast, old, heavy, and needlessly ornate. It had probably belonged to a succession of royalty before him, and Minho was sure none of them had ever made use of it quite like this.

He set Jisung down gently on the edge, hands gliding down his thighs, fingers lingering at the soft dip just above his knees. He stepped between them without a word, just watching him for a breath, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his lashes fluttered like he was still trying to collect himself.

"You look good like this," Minho murmured, leaning in to kiss the corner of his jaw.

Jisung's breath hitched, but he rolled his eyes, half-hearted. "This is not productive."

Minho let out a low hum against his skin, unfazed. "I am being productive. Writing requires inspiration. And I'm very, very inspired."

Jisung made a weak sound of protest, one that melted instantly into a gasp when Minho mouthed at the edge of his jaw, lips brushing his pulse.

"Minho-"

"You said you wanted to work on the memoir," Minho said, voice warm and low as he slid his hands beneath the hem of Jisung's sweater. "I just think we should start with the most important chapter."

Jisung blinked down at him, confusion flashing across his face. "What-?"

"I'm just saying," Minho said, tugging the sweater up a few inches, palms sliding along the warm skin of his waist, "if I'm going to immortalise my life in writing, shouldn't I begin with the best part?"

That flushed look Jisung gave him in response was nearly pornographic.

"That is not going in your memoir," he said, scandalised.

Minho grinned into his shirt. "Oh, it is. Full detail."

"I'll sue you."

"On what grounds?"

"Defamation."

Minho laughed. "That would require a lie. And I don't lie about how perfect you are."

Jisung's mouth fell open, likely to argue, but no words came out. Just a strangled noise of disbelief, somewhere between wounded pride and barely suppressed arousal.

Minho loved it.

He ducked lower, pressing a kiss to the centre of his stomach through the jumper, inhaling the warm, clean scent of him. Gods, he could write a whole damn volume on this alone, Jisung perched on his desk, cheeks pink, jumper rumpled, looking at him like Minho had stolen the very breath from his lungs.

Minho nuzzled lower, smiling wickedly. "Come on," he murmured, voice low. "You said you wanted to document history."

Jisung fisted a hand in his hair and tugged, hard enough to make Minho laugh, the sound muffled against his belly.

Yes. This was absolutely going in the memoir. But maybe a singular volume he kept just for him and Jisung.

Minho couldn't help himself.

He pulled the hem of Jisung's soft green sweater higher, slow and deliberate, his knuckles brushing skin as he went, until the fabric bunched just beneath his ribs, revealing the warm, golden stretch of stomach beneath. His breath hitched at the sight. It didn't matter how many times he'd seen it. Tasted it. It still felt like something sacred.

He dipped his head, brushing his lips just above Jisung's navel.

The skin was warm. Soft. His.

He pressed another kiss. Then another. Each one slower than the last. His hands curled at Jisung's sides, thumbs rubbing small circles into his hips as he mouthed affection into the tender flesh below his sternum. He let his tongue flicker out once, lazy, teasing, and smiled when Jisung jolted, a tiny gasp escaping him like he hadn't meant it to.

"Minho..." he warned, or maybe pleaded, it was hard to tell.

Minho glanced up, chin resting just above Jisung's waistband. "What?" he murmured, all innocence. "You said we should be responsible. I'm just worshipping your work ethic."

"You're impossible," Jisung said, but his voice was shaky. His fingers threaded through Minho's hair again, not tugging this time, just grounding.

Minho hummed against his stomach, reverent and slow. "You're warm," he said softly, letting his hands slide up the sides of Jisung's torso, beneath the fabric now. "Always so warm. You know that drives me mad, right?"

Jisung squirmed, his hips twitching slightly where they met the edge of the desk. "You say that like it's my fault."

"It is," Minho muttered, dragging his mouth lower again, kissing across to the dip of Jisung's side, "for existing. For having this skin. For letting me near it."

His lips trailed a path across Jisung's abdomen, mapping it out like he hadn't already committed it to memory a hundred times over.

Jisung's thighs tightened around his waist. His breathing was shallow now, hands still tangled in Minho's hair, his sweater hitched nearly to his chest.

Minho smiled against his skin.

Gods, he could stay like this forever.

He dragged his mouth along the plane of Jisung's stomach, slow and indulgent, tasting warmth and salt and something that was wholly, unmistakably him. His senses had long since memorised the map of Jisung's body, and yet every inch still felt like discovery.

And the ache in Minho's chest?

It was no longer just longing.

It was the bond. That pull, deep and immutable, that had snapped into place when their bodies first met that night. The moment their skin had pressed too close for too long, the moment Minho had bitten down with his blood already burning in his veins.

He could feel it now. Settled behind his ribs like something sacred.

The shift in chemistry that Seungmin had warned him about. The irreversible change that meant he wasn't just in love, he was bound. On a level no vampire education had ever prepared him for.

And he didn't care.

He should have been afraid. Should have weighed the danger, the vulnerability, the exposure.

But there was no room for fear when he looked at Jisung. No room for hesitation when his body responded this viscerally, this instinctively, to a single flex of muscle or the way his breath stuttered under Minho's touch.

Gods, if this was what it meant to be bound, to feel tethered and whole in the presence of another, he wouldn't give it back for anything.

He hoped Jisung felt it too.

Some echo of it. Some answering thread in his chest that tugged tighter every time Minho looked at him like this.

Because this wasn't normal want.

This was forever.

Jisung's hips bucked upward then, seeking friction, breaking Minho out of his thoughts. He felt the motion like a spark straight to his spine, and he grinned, lips still pressed to the curve of Jisung's abdomen.

"Impatient?" he asked, voice low and teasing.

Jisung made a breathless sound that might've been a protest, but Minho didn't give him time to finish it.

In one smooth movement, he grabbed his arms tight and pulled him up from the desk, Jisung yelping in surprise.

Before Jisung could even catch his breath, Minho spun him around, so Jisung's back was pressed against his chest, and then Minho's hand was bracketing his throat. Not squeezing, just holding, while the other anchored around his slim waist.

"So tiny," Minho muttered, mouth brushing the shell of Jisung's ear before he began trailing kisses down the curve of his neck, across his jawline, pausing at the hinge like he could inhale his pulse from just beneath the surface. "And you let me manhandle you like this."

Jisung trembled, just slightly, not from fear, but from want, and Minho could feel it.

He grinned again, nipping gently beneath his ear, then soothed the spot with his tongue.

Minho hummed softly against Jisung's skin, the vibrations just enough to make him shiver again. He could feel the fine tension running through him, the way Jisung hovered between anticipation and surrender like a taut wire.

Still grinning, Minho slowly let his fingers slip from Jisung's throat, dragging a featherlight line up to the nape of his neck, where he curled his palm and pressed gently.

Jisung folded instantly.

It wasn't forced. It wasn't rough. It didn't need to be. Minho simply guided him down, and Jisung went, pliant and perfect, until his chest was flush with the cool surface of the desk.

"Gods," Minho murmured, eyes tracing the way Jisung's back curved, his hips jutting back instinctively in search of Minho's body. "You're going to be the end of me."

He didn't bother hiding the hunger in his voice.

His hand remained firm at the back of Jisung's neck, not restraining, just anchoring, while the other slid down his spine, searching, as if to reassure himself that this was real. That Jisung was real. That he was here. His.

Minho's fingers dipped lower, slow and exploratory, following the slope of fabric until he met the edge of Jisung's waistband. He paused there, teasing, slipping a thumb beneath the band and skimming the soft skin beneath it.

He leaned down, mouth brushing the edge of Jisung's ear again, voice husky with something darker now, possessive, aching.

"You should see yourself," he whispered. "Bent like this. Just for me. Like you want to be ruined."

Jisung whimpered, barely audible.

And Minho smiled.

That sound, breathless and soft, barely held in, did more to him than any begging ever could. It made his blood hum. Made his control flicker like a candle caught in wind.

The urge to bite was there, constant and sharp. But he didn't. Not yet.

Not until Jisung asked.

Jisung whined his name, soft and desperate. "Minho..."

The sound tore through Minho like a live wire.

Then Jisung wiggled his hips, just slightly, just enough, and Minho sucked in a breath, sharp and immediate, like he'd been sucker-punched.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, the word barely shaped as his hands gripped tighter, one splayed possessively over Jisung's lower back, the other finding his hip to still him.

But Jisung didn't still.

He arched.

A deliberate roll of his hips, slow and sinuous, pressing back into Minho's body, dragging friction right where he wanted it.

Minho let out a strangled groan, head falling forward so his lips brushed the shell of Jisung's ear again.

"Do you want to kill me?" he hissed, breath trembling. "Is that it? Is this how I die? With you bent over my desk grinding against me like you don't know what it does to me?"

Jisung shivered beneath him, cheek pressed to the desk, his exhale shaky with need.

Minho felt it all, every inch of him. The way his body was already humming, vibrating beneath the fabric of that soft green sweater. The way he pushed back, unafraid, needy.

He shifted behind him, just enough to slot himself closer, letting Jisung feel every sharp line of him, the thick press of his arousal through both layers of fabric.

Jisung whimpered.

Minho grinned, dark and wrecked and already so far gone.

He leaned down again, mouth brushing along the curve of Jisung's jaw, voice low and ragged.

"Say it again," he whispered. "Say my name like that one more time, and I'll give you exactly what you're asking for."

"Minho..."

Moments later found him seated fully within Jisung, thrusting his hips forward, hands clasped around Jisung's waist to hold him steady.

The desk creaked faintly beneath them, a quiet rhythm in time with the ache pooling low in his body.

Jisung's hands scrambled for purchase, fingertips dragging across the polished edge of the desk, as though grounding himself through touch alone.

Minho watched, breath catching at the sight, at the tremble in his arms, the way he held tension like a live current. Without a word, Minho reached forward, wrapping his fingers between Jisung's wrists and drawing his hands back, guiding them behind his spine as he continued to thrust into him.

Jisung keened high and loud beneath him, chest rising from the desk slightly as Minho held his hands up behind him.

Minho's name came in a breathless plea from Jisung's lips, fragile and aching, sending a shiver down Minho's spine.
He raised Jisung's hands higher, almost pulling him fully off the desk as he dropped kisses across his knuckles.

The tremble in Jisung's thighs gave him away, a warning sign of how close he was to the edge, how little it would take to break him.

Minho exhaled shakily against his hands. "Tell me what you want," he panted, voice barely holding together. "Say it, Jisung."

There was a pause, just a breath, just a beat, and then it came, wrecked and desperate:

"Ah-I... Bite... Bite me."

Minho didn't wait. Didn't ask again. His mouth was already at Jisung's wrist, and in the next breath, his fangs sank deep into the tender flesh with a groan of surrender.

The moment his fangs pierced skin, Jisung's entire body shuddered, once, sharply, and then went utterly slack.

Minho barely caught him in time.

He adjusted his grip instinctively, holding Jisung up by the wrists as his body melted, boneless, towards the desk. His knees gave out, but Minho kept him steady, one arm slipping around his waist to support him, the other anchoring both of his wrists.

The taste, gods, the taste, hit him like fire and velvet. Familiar now, yet no less devastating. That impossible sweetness, laced with something deeper, darker, uniquely Jisung. It spread across his tongue like sunlight through wine, and he felt himself groan against the skin he was still latched to, spilling into Jisung as he did.

Jisung whined, barely conscious of the sound, head tipped forward, hair falling over his eyes as he convulsed against him.

Minho eased his bite, just enough to soften the pressure, careful not to take too much, not to let the pull overwhelm him.

Jisung was already trembling in his arm, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh, lost in the pull of sensation.

Minho pressed his mouth closer, kissing over the mark he'd just made.

Minho lingered for a moment, eyes tracing every inch of the man beneath him, breathless, pliant, wrecked and still trembling faintly from the aftershocks. His lips brushed one last kiss over the skin at Jisung's wrist, before slowly, gently, he eased his body back down.

Jisung made a quiet, reluctant sound as Minho shifted, and then went limp the moment his chest met the polished wood of the desk. He panted softly, cheek pressed to the cool surface, limbs sprawled as though gravity had finally remembered it owned him.

Minho laid a palm flat on his back for a second, steadying him, before relinquishing his grip on Jisung's hands. Jisung let out a whine, barely louder than breath, as Minho released his wrists, his arms slowly stretching out in front of him like he wasn't quite sure what to do with them now that they were free.

Minho leaned down, brushing the sweat-damp hair from Jisung's nape before pressing a warm kiss to the base of it.

"Perfect," he murmured.

Jisung's response was a soft, breathy sigh, his body still entirely boneless beneath him.

Eventually, Minho exhaled a long breath, eyes flicking to the untouched papers on the far end of the desk, the open journal still waiting, ink uncapped.

He chuckled, the sound low and unwilling.

"Come on then," he said, trailing his fingers lightly along Jisung's spine. "We probably should get some actual work done."

Jisung didn't move. He didn't even lift his head. He just let out a faint, exhausted hum, the kind that clearly meant 'you can start without me.'

Minho smirked, still not moving either.

"...Later, then," he amended, leaning over to press another kiss to the crown of Jisung's head. "Much later."

And Jisung hummed again, the barest smile curving his lips, even as his eyes fluttered closed.

Notes:

Well we all knew that was gonna happen, right? 😂

Chapter 37: The Request

Writing a memoir, Jisung discovered, was far more complicated than he'd expected.

Not because the material was difficult, Minho's life was practically begging to be immortalised in print, but because they were, apparently, incapable of being within five paces of each other without forgetting entirely why they were there.

More than once, the ink in the well had dried untouched while they ended up tangled together on the desk, or the couch, or sprawled across the rug in front of the fireplace, and the pages stayed blank. Some afternoons it felt like the palace itself was conspiring against their productivity, offering far too many flat surfaces and far too many hours where no one could interrupt them.

Still, the weeks that followed blurred into something warm and golden, stitched together with laughter and stolen touches and the occasional triumph of actually committing a few sentences to paper.

When they did manage to work, Jisung found himself fascinated. Hearing Minho speak about his own life, not the rehearsed, polished lines he used for court, but the unguarded memories and private moments he'd never shared aloud, felt like discovering secret doors in a place Jisung had thought he already knew by heart.

Sometimes Seungmin joined them, settling into a chair with his long legs crossed, correcting a date here, filling in a political detail there. His presence was oddly grounding. They didn't have to pretend around him; he already knew. And though his gaze carried the faint wariness of someone who understood exactly how dangerous this was, there was also a quiet, steady thread of support in the way he stayed, in the way he offered pieces of the story only he could give.

It was easier, Jisung thought, with Seungmin there. Less temptation. More work actually getting done. And maybe, someday, they'd even finish this memoir before the century was out.

Spring arrived quietly, softening the air and coaxing the first buds open in the palace gardens.

One morning, Jisung found himself standing at Minho's bedroom window, bare feet curling into the thick rug as he looked out over the view. The frost had finally gone from the lawns, replaced by a shy flush of green. The flower beds were just beginning to show colour, pale blushes of yellow and deep, velvety purples. Somewhere below, a gardener moved slowly along the paths, stooping to tend the new shoots.

He let his eyes drift further, following the familiar winding trails between the hedges, the small stone benches tucked into quiet corners. The air outside seemed to hum faintly, alive with the promise of warmer days.

The sound of footsteps was the only warning before a warm weight pressed against his back. Minho's arms slid easily around his waist, drawing him close. His chin came to rest on Jisung's shoulder, his breath brushing his neck before his lips found the skin there, light, grazing kisses that sent a shiver skittering down Jisung's spine.

"You're cold," Minho murmured.

"I'm fine," Jisung replied, though his voice had gone softer than he meant it to.

Minho hummed low in his throat, as if unconvinced, and pressed another kiss just below his ear. They stood there for a moment, breathing in sync, until Minho's voice came again, quieter now.

"The first time I followed you into the gardens," he said, "was after the first draw."

Jisung stilled.

Minho's arms stayed firm around him, but his gaze was somewhere far away now, out across the lawns. "I'd... Tasted you for the first time. And I was already-" He broke off with a small shake of his head, then started again. "I looked out the window, and there you were. Walking through the roses. You stopped to smell one, right there by the west path. And I... Couldn't ignore it. The pull."

Jisung turned slightly, trying to catch his expression. "You followed me?"

Minho's lips curved faintly. "I did."

Jisung frowned, thinking back, and then froze. "Wait. There was a moment... I was on the stone edge of the fountain. I thought..." He trailed off, embarrassed. "I thought I was being watched."

"You were," Minho said simply. His mouth brushed Jisung's jaw in a slow, deliberate kiss. "By me."

A quiet warmth spread through Jisung's chest at the confession, a mix of surprise and something far deeper, something that made his pulse quicken even now.

Minho's gaze stayed fixed on the gardens, his voice low enough that Jisung almost had to lean back into him to hear.

"At the time, I didn't really know why I followed you," he said. "I told myself it was just curiosity. I'd never tasted blood like yours before. Never felt it in my veins like that, sharp and sweet, like liquid sunlight. I thought that was all it was."

His arms tightened briefly around Jisung's waist, like the memory was still alive in his muscles. "But you... You weren't doing anything remarkable. You were just walking. Stopping to touch the petals. Then led by the fountain, the light hitting your hair... You were smiling."

"I wondered," Minho murmured, "what you were thinking about to make you smile like that."

Jisung hesitated. A sigh slipped from him before he could catch it, the kind that came from weighing whether an answer would confuse or upset the person asking. Their worlds were so far apart it was a wonder they could stand in the same room, much less in the same arms.

"I was thinking about my family," he said at last. "Mostly my younger brother, Jun."

Minho's head tilted slightly against his shoulder. "Tell me about them."

Jisung stared out over the gardens, the bushes blurring a little at the edges as the memory took shape. "Jun was ten when I left. He'll be turning eleven soon." He paused, then added, "Before I left, he'd already started missing school to work. Just small things, running errands, stocking shelves and sweeping up for shopkeepers... But it was money. And we needed it. I hated it. I wanted more for him than that."

He felt Minho's arms tighten again, silent but listening.

"My parents... Worked harder than anyone I've ever known. They both took whatever labour they could find. My mother also sewed for anyone in the neighbourhood who didn't have the skill but needed clothes mended. She was good at it. Fast. The clothes we had were nothing like the things here, no velvet, no silk, no jewels. Just old fabric patched over and over until it was more stitch than cloth. Scuffed, faded and stained. But she made them last."

For a moment, Jisung's gaze dropped to the rich, embroidered sleeve brushing against Minho's forearm where it circled his waist. The contrast made his chest tighten.

Minho's voice came quietly against his ear. "You said Jun's turning eleven soon?"

Jisung nodded. "The seventh of March. One week from now." His mouth curved faintly, the memory tugging at him. "We'd usually make a banner. Just paper and string, hung crooked across the front door. A few balloons if we could afford them. And my mother would cook bread and stew for dinner. She only ever bought spices for special occasions. Couldn’t really afford it but… She made it work"

Minho said nothing right away. His chin rested lightly against Jisung's shoulder, gaze fixed somewhere far away, his silence carrying a weight Jisung couldn't quite read.

"Do you still write to them?" Minho asked softly.

Jisung's head dropped almost instantly, shame curling heavy in his chest. "I... Stopped. Just before Christmas." His voice was quiet, but the words still felt raw in his throat. "It got too hard. Not knowing what they'd actually see after the palace staff went through my letters. Not knowing if they got them at all, since no outside mail is permitted."

Silence stretched between them, the kind that felt deliberate, like Minho was turning something over in his mind. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful, measured.

"Would you like to see them?"

Jisung's entire body went still. He twisted in Minho's arms so fast the hold nearly slipped. "Of course I would. But that's-" His brow furrowed. "That's not possible. Why would you even ask me that?" The words came out sharper than he meant, the sting of impossible hope making his chest ache.

Minho's hands came up, palms open in a quiet gesture for calm. "I'm not teasing you. I think... I might be able to request a special dispensation."

Jisung blinked at him, hardly daring to breathe.

Minho went on, steady and certain. "I could have it permitted as a benefit for your position, as my scribe, my memoirist. Call it a perk of the job. There'd be conditions, no doubt. A compliance band." He traced the air around Jisung's wrist with a fingertip. "Probably an escort. But I think I could arrange it in time for Jun's birthday."

The rush of feelings that hit Jisung was so sudden it left him unsteady, disbelief, hope, fear it would fall through, and beneath all of it, a flood of warmth for Minho so fierce it almost hurt.

"You'd do that for me?" he managed, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Minho's mouth curved faintly, his eyes holding steady on Jisung's. "For you? Anything."

Jisung didn't respond. His mind was a whirl of sharp edges and bright flashes, Jun's face, smaller and younger than it would be now; the crooked homemade birthday banner; the scent of his mother's cooking; the way his father's laugh always came from deep in his chest.

He tried to tamp it down, to push the hope back before it could bloom into something too dangerous. He'd spent months telling himself not to dream about things he couldn't have, because dreaming only made the loss sharper when reality closed in again.

But now Minho had cracked the door open, and the light was spilling through before Jisung could stop it.

His throat tightened.

A shaky breath left him, and then another, and the prickling behind his eyes was too much to blink away. The first tear slipped free before he realised it, and once it started, the rest came too quickly to stop. He ducked his head, pressing his face into Minho's chest as if he could hide the sound.

Minho didn't say anything. He just held him, one arm strong around his back, the other threading into his hair with slow, steady strokes. His palm moved in gentle circles at the nape of Jisung's neck, fingertips brushing in a way that grounded more than any words could.

When Jisung's shoulders trembled, Minho leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to his temple. Then another. And another.

Jisung clung to him, the fabric of Minho's shirt bunching under his fists, until the world felt a little steadier again. Minho stayed with him through every uneven breath, through every stifled sound, until all that was left was the soft hum of his heartbeat against Jisung's own.

 

____________

 

The double doors to the drawing room stood open, flanked by two guards in ceremonial dress. Minho straightened the line of his jacket as the herald stepped forward.

"His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Lee Minho," the man announced, voice carrying easily to the far end of the room.

The King and Queen sat side by side on the dais, their posture impeccable, eyes trained on him with the kind of measured attention that never failed to feel like a test.

Minho crossed the expanse of polished stone, stopping at the prescribed distance before bowing low.

"Your Majesties," he said, his voice even, formal.

"Rise," his father intoned.

He did, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

"You requested an audience," the Queen prompted, her tone polite but not warm.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Minho folded his hands behind his back. "I come to seek a special dispensation for my scribe, Han Jisung."

His father's brows drew together slightly. "Special dispensation? For what purpose?"

"I wish for him to be granted leave to visit his family," Minho said plainly.

A faint ripple passed between them, a glance exchanged, almost imperceptible. His father's reply was as expected.

"Highly irregular," the King said. "It is not our custom to grant such liberties to palace donors."

"I'm aware," Minho replied, inclining his head. "But in the course of writing my memoir, I have been reminded of how much our world has changed, and how much more it could still change, for the benefit of all who live in it."

His mother's gaze sharpened, but she said nothing.

"If needs be," Minho continued, "I would be more than happy to personally escort him to ensure that no issues arise."

His mother's eyes sharpened. "And this is how you propose to contribute to such change? By escorting a donor on a personal visit?"

"Yes." Minho held her gaze steadily. "This visit will grant him renewed focus on his duties, and allow us to make better progress with the memoir. l will take full responsibility for his conduct."

The King's eyes narrowed. "Responsibility is easy to claim, harder to demonstrate. Why is this man so important to your progress?"

"Because he has become integral to the telling of my life," Minho said simply. "No one else could record it as he does."

His father regarded him for a long moment, and Minho knew without looking that the thought of "distraction" had crossed his mind again, the same suspicion voiced weeks ago, though they had yet to guess the truth.

When the Queen finally spoke, her voice was measured. "If we were to consider this, he would wear a compliance band at all times, and he would not travel without an additional escort."

"Of course," Minho said smoothly. "Might I suggest Kim Seungmin as the escort? He is known to both of you, and I know you trust him implicitly."

They considered that, then nodded in unison.

"One destination only," his father said. "His family home. No more than one hour before returning to the palace."

Minho bowed again, the movement crisp. "Agreed."

The Queen's voice softened almost imperceptibly. "See that you do."

Dismissed, Minho turned to leave, his steps quieter now against the marble floor. He kept his expression composed until the great doors closed behind him, the sound echoing through the hall.

Only then did he allow the corner of his mouth to lift, the faintest shadow of a smile breaking through. An hour was not much, but it was enough.

And Jisung's face, when he told him, would be worth every moment spent under his parents' scrutiny.

 

_______________

 

The administrative wing always smelled faintly of paper and stale coffee, a far cry from the cold stone and regal scent of the room he'd just vacated. Minho followed the narrow corridor past a line of closed office doors until he reached the one already ajar, light spilling into the hall.

Seungmin was exactly where he expected him to be: hunched behind a desk that looked dangerously close to collapse under the weight of stacked files. A laptop sat open in front of him, a tablet propped to his right, and an untidy spread of paper documents to his left. He seemed to be working on all three at once, eyes flicking between screens and pages in quick succession, one hand scribbling notes even as the other tapped at the keyboard.

Minho leaned against the doorframe. "You always this busy, or are you just putting on a show to make me feel guilty?"

Without looking up, Seungmin replied, "The day you feel guilty about interrupting me will be the day hell freezes over."

Minho stepped inside, lowering himself into the other available chair with deliberate slowness. "I come bearing news."

"That so?" Seungmin finally glanced up, suspicion already in his eyes.

"I've just come from the audience chamber. My parents have agreed to grant Jisung a special dispensation to visit his family. It's his brother's birthday next week."

Seungmin's brows lifted slightly. "That's... Unexpected."

"They've approved it for one hour, at his family home only. He'll have to wear a compliance band, and they insisted on an escort." Minho's mouth curved faintly. "Naturally, I suggested you."

There was a beat of silence, and then Seungmin finally stopped writing. "You do know I have actual work to do?" His tone was mild, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "I shouldn't be wasting time ferrying you around on questionable excursions."

"It's hardly questionable," Minho countered, leaning back in the chair. "It's to visit his family. You like family. You even have one."

Seungmin gave him a long-suffering look. "Yes, and that's exactly why I know better than to get in the middle of someone else's."

"You'll survive," Minho said, smirking. "Besides, it's only an hour."

Seungmin sighed, setting his pen down with a deliberate click. "You know damned well why I'm calling it questionable, Minho. Stuff like this..." He gestured vaguely, as if the entire plan could be summed up in a wave of his hand. "You may have gotten it approved officially, but it's just another chink in your armour. Do you not think it'll be considered odd that you've even asked for this? That it could be deemed suspicious you're requesting special treatment for him?"

Minho leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. "I told them it was a benefit of his position as my scribe. That the visit would renew his focus and improve the pace of work on the memoir. It's all framed as an investment in efficiency. Nothing more."

Seungmin's brow furrowed. "And they bought that?"

"They agreed to it," Minho corrected, the faintest hint of satisfaction in his tone. "Compliance band, escort, strict limits. On paper it's no different than any other supervised outing granted for palace personnel."

Seungmin sat back, studying him for a long moment. His expression said he still wasn't entirely convinced, but there was no real fight left in his voice when he finally replied. "Fine. If you've already set the wheels in motion, I suppose I'd better be ready to play escort."

A slow smile tugged at Minho's mouth. "I knew I could count on you."

Seungmin rolled his eyes, already reaching for another document. "Just don't make me regret it."

 

Minho left Seungmin's office with a faint spring in his step, ignoring the muttered "close the door properly" that followed him down the corridor. The heavy scent of paper and ink gave way to fresher air as he crossed the marble halls, his steps unhurried but purposeful. He already knew where he was going.

The donor quarters were quieter this time of day, most of their residents were either at scheduled draws or tucked away in the recreation rooms. Minho passed a pair of guards at the entrance, their eyes tracking him briefly with a respectful bow before flicking back to their posts.

Jisung's door was halfway down the main corridor, the simple brass number 8 fixed above the frame. Minho didn't knock. He eased the door open just enough to peer inside.

Jisung was curled sideways on the bed, one knee bent, a paperback resting open against his thigh. The late afternoon light from the narrow window spilled across the pale bedding and over him, catching in his hair until it gleamed a warm golden brown.

At the sound of the door, Jisung glanced up. "You look... Pleased with yourself."

"I have news," Minho said, stepping inside and closing the door firmly behind him.

"That explains it," Jisung replied, marking his page with a finger. "Go on, then."

Minho crossed the small space in a few strides and stopped at the foot of the bed. "I just came from a meeting with my parents."

That got Jisung's attention, his brow creased, book lowering. "And?"

"They've agreed to let you visit your family."

For a heartbeat, Jisung didn't move. Then his head tilted slightly, as though the words needed rearranging before they could make sense. "I'm sorry... What?"

"On Jun's birthday," Minho said, his voice warm but steady. "One hour at your family home. You'll wear a compliance band. There'll be an escort. Seungmin."

Jisung blinked rapidly. "You're not joking?"

Minho's smile softened. "I wouldn't joke about this."

Disbelief flashed across Jisung's face, chased almost instantly by something sharper and far more fragile. "You-Minho-" He broke off, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.

"I'll be going with you as well," Minho added.

Jisung pushed the book aside and crossed the bed in two quick movements, his arms going around Minho's middle and holding tight. The grip was fierce enough to make Minho exhale against the top of his head, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Jisung's neck.

They stayed like that, the hum of the corridor beyond the door fading into nothing, the only sound Jisung's uneven breathing against Minho's chest.

The flicker of disbelief in Jisung's eyes gave way to something warmer, something so bright it made Minho's chest ache.

"You're... You're incredible," Jisung finally said, the words rushed and uneven.

Chapter 38: The Birthday

Notes:

Sorry it’s late today, got sidetracked by my toilet deciding to break and just… Keep flushing endlessly? Thankfully I’ve managed to fix it 🙃

The car was all sleek lines and silent power, the kind of polished black vehicle that turned heads even before you noticed the tinted windows. Inside, the air smelled faintly of leather and polish, the soft hum of the engine barely audible beneath the quiet thrum at Jisung's wrist.

The compliance band wasn't heavy, but its presence was impossible to ignore. Every few seconds it pulsed, a low vibration against his skin, as if reminding him with each hum: your time is not your own.

Seungmin drove with the easy focus of someone used to navigating busy streets and impatient traffic. He hadn't spoken much since they left the palace, other than to mention, almost offhandedly, that Jisung's family no longer lived in the cramped building where he'd grown up.

"They were relocated after your blood screening results," Seungmin had said, eyes on the road. "Bigger place. Better neighbourhood. Part of the benefits package."

It should have been good news. And it was. But there was a strange hollowness in Jisung's chest at the thought of not seeing the old place, the peeling paint on the stairwell walls, the stubborn window in the kitchen that never quite shut properly, the corner of the bedroom where Jun used to draw on the plaster. All the things that had made it theirs.

His leg bounced in time with the hum of the band, nerves fizzing under his skin. He stared out the window, watching the city change around them.

A warm weight settled on his thigh.

Jisung glanced over to see Minho's hand resting there, fingers curling just enough to still the restless motion. No words, just the quiet anchor of touch.

They left the busier streets behind, trading them for a neighbourhood of neat, modest homes. Each one had a small, tidy garden out front, hedges clipped, fences painted. The kind of place where neighbours probably knew each other by name.

When they rounded the next corner, Jisung's breath caught.

There, tied to the front gate, were bright balloons swaying gently in the breeze. And above them, stretched across the front porch, a homemade banner in his mother's looping handwriting. The letters wavered slightly, uneven the way they always were, but the sight of them was enough to make his throat tighten.

Clearly, some habits didn't fade.

Seungmin eased the car to a smooth stop at the kerb. "I'll wait here," he said, glancing briefly at Jisung in the rear-view mirror.

Jisung swallowed hard, fingers already curling around the door handle, but he didn't move just yet.

Minho's fingers gave his thigh a gentle squeeze. "Ready?"

Jisung didn't trust his voice not to crack, so he just nodded.

They stepped out into the cool air together, Minho falling into stride beside him as they headed up the short garden path. Jisung's heart hammered harder with every step.

What if they're not in? They don't even know I'm coming.

And if they are... Will they even want to see me?

Had they read his letters? Had any reached them at all? Or were they sitting somewhere in a box in the palace, never sent? Were they angry with him for stopping?

The questions churned in his head until the edges blurred, until the air in his lungs felt too thin. He didn't even realise he was starting to hyperventilate until Minho stopped walking and pulled him gently to a halt.

Warm hands settled on his shoulders. "Slow breath," Minho said, voice steady but low enough that it didn't carry. "Look at me."

Jisung lifted his eyes, finding Minho's calm, unflinching gaze. He tried to match the prince's slow inhale, to steady the stutter in his chest-

A sharp gasp cut across the space between them.

He turned his head.

There, in the doorway, stood his mother. One hand was pressed to her chest, her face pale, her eyes wide as if she were staring at a ghost.

"Jisung-ah?" she asked, her voice barely more than a breath.

He nodded, his feet rooted to the path.

She moved as though in a trance, her steps slow at first, then quicker, until she was right in front of him. Her arms came around him with sudden force, the breath nearly knocked out of him in a bone-breaking hug.

He was dimly aware of Minho stepping back, giving them space.

Jisung clung to her, his hands fisting in the fabric of her jumper, willing himself not to cry as he buried his face in her shoulder. She was warm, she was real, she smelled of soap and the faint spice of the stew she always made for birthdays.

His mother finally eased her grip, leaning back just far enough to look at him properly. Her eyes moved over every inch of him, his face, his hair, the fine clothes he wore now, as though she were memorising the changes and searching for the boy she'd last seen.

A sad smile tugged at her mouth, warm but tinged with something heavier. She gave a quick breath through her nose, as if steadying herself, before turning her head toward the open doorway.

"Jun-ah!" she called, her voice carrying into the house.

Jisung's breath caught. He held still, heart pounding, waiting.

There was a shuffle from inside, the sound of quick steps, and then a boy appeared in the doorway. For a moment, Jisung forgot how to breathe.

This wasn't the scruffy, skinny kid he'd left behind. Jun had grown, at least two inches taller, his frame filling out just enough to hint at the man he'd one day become. His hair was neatly cut, his clothes clean and new, not a single patch or tear in sight. The sight made Jisung's throat tighten in equal parts relief and ache.

Jun's eyes went wide. "Ji... Jisung!!"

He didn't hesitate. He tore down the path at full speed, the kind of reckless sprint only siblings ever risked, and collided with Jisung in a forceful, almost toppling hug.

Jisung caught him with one arm, the impact jolting through his ribs, laughter spilling out of him even as his vision blurred with tears. His other arm stayed tight around his mother, holding them both as though letting go might undo the moment entirely.

"Gods, I missed you," he managed, his voice breaking into a laugh that wasn't far from a sob.

For a long moment, the three of them just held each other, his mother on one side, Jun on the other, both clinging as if afraid he might vanish if they loosened their grip. Jisung closed his eyes and let himself sink into it, feeling the thud of Jun's heart against him, the faint tremor in his mother's shoulders.

Eventually, he eased back enough to see their faces, though his hands stayed anchored to their arms. "Where's Dad?" he asked, his voice still thick.

His mother's expression softened even further. "He's gone to the shop to get a cake."

Jisung blinked. "A cake?"

She nodded.

A bubble of joy swelled in his chest. Birthday cakes had always been a luxury they couldn't afford, birthdays in their family had been celebrated with love and food and makeshift decorations, never anything bought from a bakery. To know they could have one now, without it breaking them, filled him with a fierce kind of gratitude. At least some good had come from all of this.

It was only then that his mother's gaze shifted past his shoulder, noticing Minho standing a polite distance away on the path. Her brows drew together slightly. "And... Who is this?"

Jisung's mind scrambled for an answer, something safe, something that wouldn't invite questions, but before he could open his mouth, Minho stepped forward.

"Minho, ma'am," he said smoothly. "I'm Jisung's escort for today."

He extended a hand, his expression warm but formal.

Jisung's mother took it after the briefest hesitation, shaking it with the cautious politeness of someone trying to work out exactly where this stranger fit into her son's life.

"Come in, come in," his mother said after releasing Minho's hand, stepping back toward the open door.

Jun grabbed Jisung's wrist immediately, tugging him toward the house with all the urgency of someone afraid the moment might slip away. Jisung let himself be pulled, his heart aching in the best way as they stepped over the threshold.

The air inside was warm, carrying the familiar scent of his mother's cooking, rich, savoury, and spiced just the way he remembered. Sunlight poured in through the kitchen window, spilling across a neatly swept floor. The furniture was new, or at least in far better condition than anything they'd had before. The old sagging couch had been replaced with one upholstered in soft grey fabric, the sort of thing they'd have had to save years for before, if they could afford it at all.

It was still small, still modest, but it felt brighter. Lighter. Like the walls themselves had shed some of the strain they'd carried all those years.

Jisung swallowed hard, torn between joy for them and the sharp pang of knowing this comfort had come at a cost.

He glanced at Minho, who lingered just inside the doorway, polite as ever, taking everything in without comment.

"Sit, sit," his mother urged, waving toward the sofa. "I'll make tea. Jun-ah, keep your brother company."

Jun beamed and practically pushed Jisung down onto the cushions, taking the spot beside him. His small hand stayed hooked in Jisung's sleeve as if anchoring him in place.

From the kitchen came the faint clink of cups, and the low murmur of the kettle beginning to heat.

The hum of the compliance band at his wrist pulled at the edge of his awareness. Their hour had already started.

 

_____________

 

Minho sat back in his chair, letting the hum of domestic life wash over him. There was a quiet joy blooming in his chest, not loud, not sharp, just steady, at seeing Jisung with his family.

He'd felt the tension in him earlier, the way Jisung's shoulders had drawn tight, the restless movement in his leg on the drive over. Now, though, the edge of it was finally loosening.

On the couch, Jisung sat angled toward his brother, his expression open and lit from within. Jun spoke with animated hands, his voice rising and falling as he told Jisung about school, his favourite subjects, the teachers he liked, the ones he didn't. Jisung laughed at the right places, leaning in as if every word mattered, his eyes shining with something Minho didn't often see so vividly: uncomplicated happiness.

Vampires didn't celebrate birthdays. With eternity laid out before them, the passing of years was meaningless. Just another bead on an endless string. But something about attending his first ever birthday celebration had made Minho feel startlingly, almost painfully, human.

The sound of the front door opening drew Minho's attention. Jisung's mother darted through to the hallway just as a man stepped inside, a cake box balanced carefully in his hands. She took it from him almost immediately, and Minho understood why a second later.

The moment the man's gaze landed on Jisung, he froze, jaw slack. It took several long seconds for him to even blink, and another minute before words seemed to return to him.

By then, Jisung's mother had reappeared with a tea tray, her composure restored. She set it down on the low table and began handing out cups, one for each of them, including Minho.

They drank together, the conversation flowing easily now between Jisung and his parents. Minho stayed quiet, content to listen as Jisung asked after their work.

His mother spoke of her new position at a tailor's, her skill with needle and thread finally given proper recognition. His father, it turned out, was working for a manufacturing company, his years of experience earning him a supervisory role. Both spoke with a quiet pride that seemed to fill the room.

By the time the tea was gone, the table in the adjoining dining room had been set, and Jisung's mother was ladling out bowls of stew for each of them.

They sat together, all of them, around the large table. The steam curled from Minho's bowl, rich with the scent of slow-cooked beef and herbs. He took a bite and was pleasantly surprised at the depth of flavour.

"This is wonderful," he told Jisung's mother sincerely.

She smiled, though her tone was politely dismissive. "Surely it can't compare to palace fare, but I appreciate the compliment."

"It's lovely," Minho said again, more firmly this time.

Across the table, Jisung met his eyes and smiled, small but warm, and the expression settled in Minho's chest like something far stronger than the stew's heat.

 

The cake appeared from the kitchen with its candles already glowing, Jisung's mother shielding the flames with her palm as she set it down in front of Jun. The boy's face lit up immediately, cheeks flushing with excitement.

They all sang, Minho included, though his voice was low enough not to stand out. Jun beamed the whole way through, his eyes flicking to Jisung as if to make sure he was still there, still real. When the final note faded, Jun took a deep breath and blew the candles out in one go.

Jisung cheered and clapped, the sound full of unrestrained joy.

Jisung's father took over then, cutting generous slices and passing plates around. When Jisung handed one to Minho, the porcelain tilted dangerously in his grip, forcing him to steady it quickly before it slipped entirely. Jisung just laughed it off, shaking his head as if at his own clumsiness.

Minho glanced at the clock on the wall, certain their hour must have passed by now, but Jisung hadn't shown any sign of the compliance band alerting him.

So Minho let the moment linger.

They ate, the room warm with laughter and conversation. Jun was still talking as he polished off his slice, his words tumbling over themselves in excitement. "Best birthday ever," he declared, grinning at Jisung.

Jisung's smile softened, though there was a trace of guilt in it. "I'm sorry I didn't bring you a present."

"It's okay-" Jun began, but Minho cut across him.

"I did."

Two pairs of eyes turned to him. Minho reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out a small, neatly wrapped package. He placed it in Jisung's hands.

Jisung's fingers curled around it as he reached out, but his hand trembled, enough to make Minho pause. Concern flickered briefly through him before Jisung passed the parcel across to Jun.

The boy tore the paper away to reveal a slim leatherbound notebook, a fountain pen with fine detailing, and a set of coloured inks in glass vials. His mouth fell open.

"For your schoolwork," Minho prompted.

When he looked back at Jisung, he found him watching him with an expression that stopped him cold, wonder, gratitude, something far deeper that Minho couldn't let himself linger on. He broke the gaze, looking instead to the table.

A sudden, sharp inhale snapped his attention back.

Jisung's free hand cradled his wrist, the compliance band glinting under the overhead light. His teeth were pressed into his lower lip, and the muscles in his jaw twitched.

Minho was out of his chair in an instant. "What's wrong?"

Jisung gave a humourless laugh. "Our hour ran out a while ago."

It hit Minho like a blow. The near-drop of the plate. The trembling hand. He'd been ignoring the warning pulses from the band, enduring them, just to stay a little longer.

Every instinct in Minho screamed to rip the thing from his wrist, crush it to dust, consequences be damned. But he knew what that would mean. Too much attention. Too much risk.

So instead, he stood there, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides, burning with the knowledge that he could not take this pain from him.

Jisung gasped again, the sound sharp enough to make his family glance over in alarm. He forced a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I... I have to go."

Jun's face crumpled instantly. "No-" His voice cracked, and then he was crying, flinging himself into Jisung's arms.

Jisung caught him, holding him close with one arm while keeping the other, the one with the compliance band, angled away so Jun wouldn't accidentally press against it. He murmured something into his brother's hair, words Minho couldn't quite catch, his voice breaking on every other syllable.

He hugged his father next, a firm, bracing embrace between men who didn't always need words. Then he turned to his mother, pressing a kiss to her cheek and holding her tightly, his forehead briefly resting against hers before he let go.

"Wait." She darted to the kitchen and returned with a sealed container, still warm. "Stew. For later."

Before Jisung could protest, Minho stepped forward and took it from her. "I'll carry it," he said quietly, glancing at the way Jisung's posture was already tightening with each new wave of pain from the band.

Their final goodbyes were swift but no less heartfelt. Jisung's mother stood in the doorway, one arm around Jun's shoulders, his father just behind them. Jun kept waving, tears still streaking his cheeks, until they were in the car and gone from sight.

The moment the car doors shut and the world outside was muted, Jisung let out a shuddering breath, sagging into the seat. The compliance band fell silent against his skin at last, its relentless torment easing as it picked up the fact he was finally back in the car.

Minho didn't say anything. There was no point in chastising him, he understood too well why Jisung had endured it.

Instead, he reached across the narrow space between them, taking Jisung's wrist gently in his hands. His thumbs moved in slow circles, massaging the tender flesh around the band, as if he could undo the mark it had left there.

Jisung closed his eyes, the smallest sigh escaping him, and Minho kept at it, silent but steady, until some of the tension began to leave his frame.

The road stretched ahead in a ribbon of dark tarmac, the hum of the engine the only sound for long stretches at a time. Seungmin drove without comment, his eyes fixed on the lanes, one hand resting loosely on the wheel.

In the back seat, Jisung sat with his head tilted against the glass, watching the city slip by in blurred colours. The container of stew rested on the seat between them, still warm through its lid.

Minho's hand stayed wrapped lightly around Jisung's wrist, his thumb occasionally brushing over the skin just below the compliance band. He felt the faint throb there ease bit by bit, though he could still sense the ghost of pain in the way Jisung's fingers curled loosely against his thigh.

The streets outside grew busier the closer they got to the palace, pedestrians glancing up as the sleek black car passed, some pointing, some slowing their steps to watch. The tinted windows offered privacy, but not invisibility, everyone knew that kind of car only belonged to the palace.

Jisung didn't look at them. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, expression unreadable. Minho could guess at the jumble in his head, the warmth of home still lingering, the ache of leaving, the knowledge that every moment had been borrowed time.

He wanted to say something, to fill the space with words, but anything he could offer felt too small. So he stayed quiet, letting his presence be the thing he gave instead.

When the palace gates finally came into view, Jisung shifted slightly, sitting up straighter. Minho's hand gave his wrist one last squeeze before releasing it, the warmth of the gesture lingering even as the car rolled through into familiar stone corridors and measured formality once more.

Notes:

What present would you have given Jun? 🤔

Chapter 39: The Eternal Vow

The moment they stepped back into the palace, the cool, faintly perfumed air closed around them like a tide.

Seungmin slowed as they crossed the grand entry hall, already angling toward the administrative wing. Minho caught his arm briefly. "Thank you for today," he said.

Seungmin gave a short nod, the barest ghost of a smile. "Don't make a habit of it," he replied before disappearing into the corridor lined with tall windows.

Minho's hand settled at the small of Jisung's back, guiding him toward the medical wing. Jisung didn't protest. He could feel the compliance band like a cuff of molten iron around his wrist, its surface now deceptively cool to the touch but every nerve beneath it still screaming.

He'd done his best to keep his face neutral, to not let anyone, especially Minho, see the full toll it had taken. But the truth was ugly. The pain had started just before the hour had ended, a low, insistent ache that came in short pulses every few minutes. Each one had been worse than the last, like a warning tap that turned into a shove, then a punch.

By the time they'd been cutting the cake, the pulses had come so close together it felt like hot lava was spilling through his skin, filling the veins beneath the band. Then the harsh jolts started, sharp bursts that made the muscles and tendons in his forearm seize and lock. Every flex of his hand had been a fight, every gesture an exercise in control.

The last stretch, the one he'd used to cling to Jun, hug his parents, walk out the door, had been the worst. The burning had gone constant, threaded through with shocks that seemed to shoot all the way to his shoulder. Each one stole a fraction of his breath.

Now, seated in the white-lit room with the palace medic's tools clinking quietly on a tray, he stared at the far wall and gritted his teeth while the band was disengaged. The clasp gave a soft click, and the hum against his skin fell silent.

Relief hit like a rush of cool air. The raw flesh underneath throbbed, but at least it was his pain now, not the palace's.

Minho stayed beside him, close enough that Jisung could feel the warmth of his presence, saying nothing.

When the medic finished, Minho was already on his feet, offering a steadying hand as Jisung rose. "I'll walk you back to your quarters," he said quietly.

Jisung shook his head. "No... I-"

The words stalled. His mind was too full.

The whole day played itself over in flashes:
Minho standing before the King and Queen on his behalf.
The subtle squeeze to his thigh in the car when his nerves had threatened to boil over.
The gift for Jun, given so simply, without fanfare, as though it were nothing.
The quiet, steady massage of his wrist on the way home when the pain had been eating him alive.

Each piece slotted into place with a kind of inevitability, stacking into something he'd known for too long already. Something he couldn't un-know.

He loved him.

Jisung glanced around. The corridor wasn't empty, two guards stood stationed near the main junction, their eyes politely elsewhere but still aware of every movement.

"Actually..." He drew in a breath, steadying his voice. "I think I could use a distraction. Do you think we could do some more memoir work?"

Minho blinked, surprise flickering across his face before it smoothed into something softer. "Now?"

Jisung nodded.

A faint smile curved Minho's mouth. "All right."

And without another word, he turned them toward the royal wing.

 

______________

 

Minho kept his stride easy as they walked the familiar route toward his quarters, but his mind was already straying far ahead of his feet. He didn't want to assume, Jisung had been through an emotional day, after all, but it was impossible not to picture what usually happened when they "worked" on his memoir.

His thoughts betrayed him almost instantly. The desk, paper spread out and ignored. Jisung perched on the edge, lips parted on a quiet gasp as Minho's mouth found the line of his throat. The slow slide of fabric against skin. The way Jisung's fingers always sought his hair, gripping tight enough to keep him exactly where he was.

Minho exhaled slowly, dragging his attention back to the present, but the phantom sensation of Jisung's body under his hands clung stubbornly to his thoughts. He knew the shape of that yielding by heart, how Jisung would melt into him, not in surrender, but in the quiet confidence that Minho would catch him every time.

By the time the door to his rooms loomed into view, Minho's pulse was a shade too quick, his anticipation threading through him like static. He told himself to expect nothing. To keep his head clear.

But the truth was, he was already halfway lost in the possibilities.

Minho held the door open for Jisung, watching the slight stiffness in his movements as he stepped inside. The remnants of the compliance band's torment were still in the set of his shoulders, in the way his fingers twitched occasionally at his sides.

Minho followed him in, pushing the heavy door shut before sliding the bolts across one by one, a small ritual that had long since become habit now. Privacy was a rare commodity in the palace, and he wasn't about to waste a moment of it.

The final bolt slid into place with a dull clunk.

That was when he felt it, light fingers ghosting around his waist, warm even through the fabric of his shirt. He turned, brows lifting slightly, only to find Jisung already close enough to steal the words from his mouth with a kiss.

It was soft. Just the faintest press of lips. A breath of warmth and something far heavier threaded into it.

"Thank you," Jisung murmured against him, so close Minho felt it more than heard it.

Minho huffed a quiet laugh. "You already said thank you."

"Yes," Jisung said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, "and I'm saying it again."

His voice was steady, but there was something in his gaze that made Minho's chest tighten, a kind of sincerity that wasn't easily spoken aloud.

"Thank you for everything. For the visit. For keeping me calm. And... For bringing a gift for Jun."

Minho felt a flicker of surprise, though he kept it from his face. The gift had been a deliberate choice, not just something bought for the sake of politeness, but something with purpose. Jun's education clearly mattered deeply to Jisung. It was in the way his eyes lit up whenever he spoke of his brother's potential, in the unguarded hope he held for the boy's future. Minho had wanted to give Jun something that would feed that. A pen, good paper, inks to make the act of learning feel like a craft worth caring for.

It hadn't felt like a grand gesture at the time. Just... Right.

"You don't need to thank me for it," he said, meaning it.

"Yes," Jisung replied quietly, "I do."

And before Minho could parse that, before he could decide how to answer, Jisung sank to his knees in front of him, fingers seeking out the fastenings of his pants.

He made quick work of it, drawing out Minho's cock before he could even consider telling him he didn't have to.

Jisung's eyes met Minho's with a molten gaze as he drew his fingers along Minho's shaft, once, twice, before licking a stripe up the underside that had Minho's knees threatening to buckle.

"Jisung you-"

Jisung hummed a note of dissatisfaction, already having sank his lips over the head of Minho's aching cock, his hand still working the remainder.

Minho sighed, his hands stealing into Jisung's hair as he worked him faster, sinking his mouth deeper over him.

He had one hand grasping Minho's thigh, fingertips bruising the flesh slightly as he fought the leftover tension in his arm from the compliance band's brutal punishment.

Minho gasped as Jisung's tongue suddenly swirled around the tip, his fingers tightening as it passed over the slit.

He couldn't stop his hips from bucking forward slightly, apologising breathlessly when he felt himself hit the back of Jisung's throat.
Instead of drawing back, Jisung just took him deeper, hollowing his cheeks and pulling at Minho's thigh to encourage his movements.

Minho finally allowed himself to move, punching his hips forward as Jisung's other hand moved to grab his other thigh, holding himself steady as Minho lost himself in the feel of his throat.

The telltale curl of heat rushed forward, and Minho quickly drew himself backwards, a wet pop sounding as he withdrew from Jisung's mouth entirely.

Jisung looked up at him with a confused expression.

"Bed. Now." Minho demanded.

Jisung didn't need telling twice.

He rose in one smooth motion, already tugging at the hem of his clothes, each layer falling to the floor in quick succession. Minho followed suit without thinking, shucking his own garments as if they were an inconvenience keeping him from something essential.

By the time Minho reached the bed, they were both bare, skin flushed with heat, drawn to each other like gravity had finally stopped pretending it wasn't in control.

They met in the centre with a force that knocked the breath from him, Jisung's hands firm on his shoulders. Minho let himself be pushed back, sinking into the mattress without resistance, the world narrowing to the sight above him, Jisung, wild-eyed and beautiful, already lowering himself like he couldn't get close enough.

The moment their mouths met, Jisung pressed in harder, tongue tracing the seam of Minho's lips until he yielded. The taste of him hit like a rush, sharp and sweet, and Minho sank into it, luxuriating in the feel of every breath, every shift of muscle against his own.

Jisung tasted like heat and home, and Minho let himself drown in it.
The kiss turned greedy fast, their mouths sliding, parting, finding each other again, until Minho could barely remember which of them had started it. Jisung shifted against him, straddling his hips, the press of bare skin to bare skin pulling a groan from deep in Minho's chest.

Gods, he was perfect like this, flushed, intent, all soft heat over the sharp edges of muscle.
Minho's hands slid up the backs of his thighs, fingers curling in to grip, savouring the way Jisung leaned into his touch like he needed it. The bond hummed under Minho's skin, deep and low, every part of him alive to the way Jisung's body moved against his.

"Jisung..." His name was almost a growl, but it came out softer than Minho meant, reverent even as his pulse thundered.

Jisung broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, brushing his lips over Minho's jaw before dipping lower, his mouth mapping a slow, heated path down his throat. Each kiss left a spark in its wake, and Minho's hands tightened, not to restrain but to hold, to keep him close, to keep this moment anchored in place.

When Jisung finally reached his chest, his mouth closed over one sensitive peak and Minho's head fell back against the pillow with a curse. He could feel his control slipping, every nerve tuned to the man above him, every thought narrowing to a single truth, he would give Jisung anything, everything, just to keep feeling him like this.

Jisung broke from him only long enough to rummage through the cabinet beside the bed, returning with the familiar bottle in hand. He climbed back into place, straddling Minho's hips again, and pressed it into his palm.

Minho took it without a word, never breaking eye contact as he flipped the cap. The faint slick sound of the lube filled the space between them as he coated his fingers, his gaze steady on Jisung like he could keep him in place by sheer will alone.

Sitting up, he drew Jisung closer, one broad hand splayed at the small of his back, guiding him in until their foreheads almost touched. His fingers found him on instinct, pressing in slow, deliberate, until the first slid past that tight ring of muscle.

Jisung gasped into his mouth, the sound muffled by the kiss Minho claimed a heartbeat later. He moved his finger in a careful rhythm, crooking just enough to stroke where he knew it would unravel him, the heat of him clenching around Minho's touch.

Every pass, every soft, bitten-off sound from Jisung pulled Minho taut between two warring urges, to savour this slow build until Jisung was shaking apart, or to give in to the pull and sink into him now, hard and deep, until neither of them could think.

Minho slid his hand up Jisung's spine, grounding him with the steady pressure while his other hand worked lower, easing in a second finger beside the first.

Jisung's mouth broke from his with a shaky exhale, his forehead dropping to Minho's shoulder. The sound he made was somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, his hips instinctively pressing down to take him deeper.

"That's it," Minho murmured against the shell of his ear, his voice low and coaxing. He moved his fingers in a slow scissoring motion, stretching him carefully, feeling the tension melt bit by bit under his touch.

Jisung's hands clutched at his shoulders, nails grazing skin, breath hot against his neck. Minho kissed his temple, then the hinge of his jaw, letting his mouth linger there as he curled his fingers just right, rewarded by a soft, broken moan.

He withdrew slightly only to press back in, the slick heat around his fingers making him ache to replace them with himself. But he forced the restraint, swallowing down the urge, letting the rhythm stay steady, deliberate.

"You're perfect like this," Minho whispered, his thumb brushing in light circles over Jisung's hip. "Every time."

Minho felt the tremor run through Jisung before he heard his voice.

"Minho..." It was breathless, almost pleading.

He tilted his head just enough to catch Jisung's expression, flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes, lips parted like he'd forgotten how to breathe properly.

"I need you," Jisung whispered, the words spilling out with no hesitation now. "Please... I just-I need you."

The sound of it went straight through Minho, molten and dangerous. Every last shred of patience he'd been clinging to threatened to snap.

His fingers stilled for a moment, withdrawing slowly, and he caught the small sound of protest Jisung made in response. Minho soothed him with a kiss, brief but grounding, before murmuring, "You have me. Always."

He reached for the lube again, slicking himself quickly while keeping his eyes on Jisung, watching the way he swallowed hard, anticipation written in every line of him.

"Come here," Minho said, his voice low, a command wrapped in warmth.

Jisung moved without hesitation, straddling his hips, hands braced against Minho's chest. Minho guided him with steady hands at his waist, lining them up with a care that belied the heat in his veins.

When Jisung sank down onto him, the sharp pull of pleasure nearly stole Minho's breath. He held Jisung there for a beat, fingers flexing at his hips, grounding himself in the feel of him, tight, hot, and entirely his.

Minho barely had time to register the shift before Jisung's palms pressed firmly against his shoulders, guiding him back into the mattress.

He let himself be pushed, more out of surprise than anything, his head sinking into the pillows as Jisung settled over him. The heat in his chest flared at the sight, Jisung poised above him, every line of his body drawn tight with intent, eyes fixed on him with something fierce and unshakable.

Then Jisung moved.

Slow at first, the steady roll of his hips pulling a groan from Minho's throat before he could bite it back. Minho's hands twitched, wanting to grip, to guide, but Jisung's hold at his collarbones was firm, a silent command to stay put.

The realisation hit like a spark to tinder: Jisung was setting the pace.

He watched him, transfixed, the way his brows knit in concentration, the way his mouth fell open on a quiet gasp each time he sank fully down. The rhythm built in careful increments, each movement sending a hot ripple of pleasure through Minho's spine until he could feel his control fraying at the edges.

"Fuck, Jisung," he breathed, the words rough with awe. "You're-" His voice caught on the next movement, and he swallowed hard, eyes locked on the flushed curve of Jisung's mouth.

Jisung didn't slow. If anything, he moved with more purpose, drawing out every sound Minho couldn't contain, every shudder he couldn't hide.

And Minho let him. Completely.

Minho's restraint was hanging by the thinnest thread, every muscle in his body wound tight as Jisung kept his relentless rhythm. The sound of him, the soft, uneven breaths, the choked little gasps, wound around Minho's spine like a vice.

When the pressure coiled low and sharp in his belly, Minho gave in to the one impulse he couldn't ignore. He reached between them, curling his fingers around Jisung's length and stroking in time with the press of his hips.

The reaction was immediate, Jisung's breath hitched, his head tipping forward, a shiver rippling through his frame. Minho worked him steadily, each pass of his hand dragging a soft, broken sound from his throat until they were both teetering on the edge.

It hit almost at the same time, Jisung collapsing as he spilled hot over Minho's knuckles with a sharp gasp, his body tightening around him, pulling Minho under with him. Minho groaned into the curve of Jisung's neck as he came, holding him tight, his free arm wrapping instinctively around his back.

Jisung’s weight against him was solid and warm, his breath still ragged. For a moment, they just stayed like that, tangled, skin damp, the air between them charged and quiet.

Then Jisung shifted, pressing his face into Minho's neck, voice barely above a whisper.

"I love you."

The words landed like a punch and a balm all at once, sinking deep into Minho's chest before he could even think to respond.

Minho froze, every thought in his head scattering like startled birds.

He felt the words settle into him, low and permanent, like they'd been etched straight into his ribs. Jisung's voice, quiet but certain, still seemed to hum in the air between them, reverberating in his bones.

He'd imagined hearing those words before. In idle moments, in the quiet just before sleep, in the press of Jisung's mouth against his own when neither of them could keep from smiling into it. But imagining it hadn't prepared him for the real thing, for the sheer gravity of it.

He could feel his pulse everywhere. In his throat. In the curve of his palms where they rested against Jisung's back. In the slow aftershocks still running through his body.

Part of him wanted to stop time entirely, to hold this moment and stretch it into eternity, because there was no reality he could imagine where he would ever want to let it go.

The other part, the reckless, instinctive part, wanted to drag Jisung closer still, bury his face against his skin, and say it back until his voice broke.

Minho's breath hitched, the words leaving him before he'd even fully decided to speak them.
"I love you too," he said, his voice rough with conviction. "Gods, Jisung, I'll love you until the sky falls. Until the moon shatters. Until the sun fails to rise and the stars burn themselves out."

His hands came up, framing Jisung's face so he could see him, really see him, in this moment. "I'll love you in every world and every lifetime. In the light and in the dark. When we have days like this and when we have nothing at all. I'll love you until I have nothing left to give, and then I'll love you still."

Jisung's eyes shone, his lips parting like he might say something, but Minho leaned up to steal the chance, kissing him with all the force of the vow he'd just made.

Notes:

🥹

Chapter 40: The Bond and The Crown

The next week passed in a blur, and not the kind Jisung could blame entirely on palace routine.

If he'd thought Minho was insatiable before, the days since that night had proven him wrong in the most thorough, unrelenting way possible. It was as though telling him he loved him had flipped a switch, stripping away the last thread of restraint Minho had been holding on to.

Now, if they were in the same room, it was only a matter of time before Minho's hands found him. Sometimes it was as simple as pulling Jisung into his lap during the blood draws, his chin tucked over Jisung's shoulder while the medical band did its work. Other times, it was the slow creep of arms around his waist while he was sat at the writing desk, Minho murmuring edits into his ear while his thumbs traced circles against his hipbones. And more often than not, it was Minho dragging him toward the bed at the slightest provocation, and Jisung had discovered that "slightest" covered everything from a crooked smile to a single raised brow.

If not for whatever odd stamina his Aurelian blood afforded him, Jisung suspected he'd have been walking around in a permanent haze of exhaustion by now. Instead, he found himself... Fine. More than fine, if he was honest. Sated and raw all at once, though he'd never admit it out loud.

And yet, despite Minho's constant distractions, they'd somehow managed to make real progress on the memoir. Pages of clean script, dates and details nailed down, even a few sections edited to Minho's exacting standards. Enough, Jisung hoped, to make them look respectable.

Which was good. Because this morning, Minho had been informed he was expected to report their progress to the King and Queen.

Jisung wasn't sure whether that meant he should be nervous or quietly smug.

 

_____________

 

The past week had been... Different.

The bond between them felt stronger than ever, tight and thrumming beneath Minho's skin like a second pulse. Being away from Jisung was starting to feel almost physically painful, an ache that settled low and constant. And sometimes, somehow worse, was being near him and not actively touching him, to be close enough to see the fine line of his jaw, the way his lips quirked when he was trying not to smile, and not have his hands on him. It was maddening.

He wanted to knit Jisung into his soul. Keep him close enough that he could feel his breath, see the flicker of every thought cross his face. The idea of distance, of separation, had started to feel wrong on a level he couldn't quite name.

The urge to anchor him, to make their connection unshakable in the eyes of everyone else, had driven him back to pestering Seungmin about his research. Digging into anything that might allow him to legitimise Jisung as his partner in a way that even the most rigid palace politics couldn't undo. The progress was slow, frustratingly so, but Minho found himself unwilling to let the matter rest.

Which was why the summons from his parents irritated him more than it probably should have. Another audience. Another obligation pulling him away from where he wanted to be.

Between the planned weekly draws, the unscheduled ones, and the hours they spent on the memoir, Minho got to see Jisung nearly every day now. And he didn't want that to change. Not for court schedules, not for anything.

The familiar scent of jasmine clung to the audience room, sweet but heavy, like it was meant to mask something sharper beneath.

The herald's voice rang out. "His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Lee Minho."

Minho stepped inside, bowing low before his parents seated on their twin thrones. "Your Majesties."

"Rise," the King said, his voice measured.

Minho straightened, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

The Queen's gaze was steady, her words clipped but polite. "We have reviewed your last progress report. How fares the memoir?"

"It is proceeding well," Minho replied. "We've covered significant portions of my early years. The work has been focused and productive since our last discussion."

The King leaned forward slightly. "And was your earlier claim correct? That granting your scribe the... Indulgence of visiting his family would improve his motivation?"

"Yes," Minho said without hesitation. "It has. The visit has helped sharpen his focus."

The King's brows lifted, just barely. "Interesting. I recall when the boy first arrived, we spoke of his peculiar status. Generations of his bloodline tested D-Class. And then him... Suddenly S-Class. Curious, wouldn't you say?"

Minho kept his tone calm. "Seungmin's research suggests there may be S-Class blood further back in his lineage. Genetic traits sometimes re-emerge after skipping generations."

"Perhaps," the King said, his voice cool. "But the matter is... Odd. And so is your conduct."

Minho met his father's gaze squarely. "In what way?"

"Unscheduled draws," the King said flatly. "A family visit, a privilege I have rarely seen extended to donors. Assigning him as your scribe despite the fact there are candidates with greater skill. These are not the actions of a prince maintaining appropriate boundaries."

"I prefer to work closely with somebody entrusted to me," Minho replied evenly. "It ensures consistency in the memoir."

"That explanation is thin," the King countered. "Be careful, Minho. I caution you against becoming too attached to your donor."

The Queen's voice was softer, but no less firm. "You know what awaits. In less than forty years, he will retire from service. Just as Rina did."

The mention of Rina was deliberate, and Minho felt the bristle rise in him like a blade half-drawn.

"With respect," he said, keeping his tone neutral, "Rina and Jisung are not the same."

"No," the King agreed. "But the rules are the same. See that you remember them."

Minho bowed his head, the gesture controlled. "Of course, Your Majesty."

But inside, frustration burned, hot and sharp. What he wanted to say, that he loved Jisung, that he intended to make him his equal, not keep him as a temporary donor, lodged in his throat like an unspent arrow.

This wasn't the room to loose it. Not yet.

The King's voice was as level as ever. "Your coronation anniversary is upon us. One hundred and twenty-five years since your formal ascension as Crown Prince. As always, the quarter-century mark will be celebrated with due ceremony."

Minho's fingers flexed against his knee. He could already see it, the sprawling ballroom choked with guests, the cloying perfume of foreign courts, the endless speeches and obsequious bows. Nobles and royalty crossing seas and borders just to place gaudy gifts at his feet and reaffirm their loyalty, all while he smiled until his jaw ached.

He would rather spend the entire evening with Jisung, curled against him in the quiet, where no one else could intrude.

"At the last celebration," the King continued, "you were accompanied by Rina."

Minho inclined his head slightly. "I will speak with Jisung-"

"That will not be necessary," the King interrupted, sharp enough to cut the air between them. "Now would be an appropriate time to begin... Creating space. In light of our earlier conversation."

Minho stilled.

"Jisung will not attend," the King said. "Once the memoir is completed, I expect you to resume an appropriate relationship with your donor."

The words slid under Minho's skin like a blade. His jaw locked, the muscle ticking once before he forced it still.

Internally, the protest roared. No. He is mine. He belongs at my side. But his face remained the model of princely composure.

He inclined his head in silent acknowledgement, though every fibre of him seethed.

The King's final words still sat in Minho's ears like stones as they dismissed him.

"You may go," the Queen said, voice as smooth as still water.

Minho bowed low, the movement sharp with restraint, and turned on his heel. The heavy doors closed behind him with a hollow thud, sealing the scent of jasmine away.

He didn't go to his rooms. Didn't even think about it. His feet found their own path, carrying him through the corridors and down the wide stone steps that opened into the gardens.

The air was softer here, carrying the smell of fresh earth and early blossoms. He followed the winding path past manicured hedges and the budding rose bushes, heading for the fountain he knew by memory now.

And there he was.

Jisung sat on the fountain's edge, shoulders loose, his posture unguarded in a way Minho rarely saw indoors. His fingers drifted lazily through the cool water, tracing small circles that caught the afternoon light. The ripples distorted his reflection, turning it into a shifting mosaic of skin, silk, and shadow.

Minho slowed, letting himself stay just out of reach, exactly as he had the first time he'd followed Jisung here. For a moment, it was as though time folded in on itself, the same garden, the same quiet pull in his chest.

Jisung's head lifted. His gaze moved over the flower beds, the hedges, until it found Minho.

And this time, Minho didn't hide.

He stood there, letting himself be seen.

The reaction was immediate, a smile breaking across Jisung's face, bright and unguarded, chasing away every last remnant of the audience room's cold weight. It hit Minho like sunlight straight to the ribs.

Gods, he thought, not for the first time, I'd burn the whole world to keep that smile aimed at me.

Minho forced himself to approach at a pace that wouldn't draw the wrong kind of attention, measured, casual, like a crown prince simply taking in the gardens rather than seeking out the one person who occupied all of his thoughts.

When he reached the fountain, he stopped just short of brushing shoulders with him and sank down onto the cool stone edge. The sunlight pooled in the water, glinting off the ripples Jisung's fingertips made as they resumed their idle tracing.

Minho kept his eyes on the shifting patterns, because it was safer than watching the way Jisung's hair caught the light or how his mouth curved in the faint echo of that smile.

Respectable distance, he reminded himself, though every instinct screamed to close it.

The quiet stretched between them, filled only by the trickle of water and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Minho let his gaze flick down, following the languid movement of Jisung's hand in the water. The thought came unbidden, what it felt like when those fingers were sketching those same patterns across his skin, mapping lines only he could read.

It was Jisung's voice that broke the silence.
"How did it go? With your parents, I mean."

Minho's eyes lifted to meet his, catching the faint crease between his brows, concern, curiosity, maybe both.
"It went... As well as it could," Minho said after a beat. "They asked about the memoir's progress. Wanted to know if the visit to your family had... Motivated you."

Jisung's lips quirked. "And?"

"I told them it had. That we've made good progress." Minho's tone stayed deliberately steady, giving no hint of the other, sharper edges of that conversation. "They seemed... Satisfied enough."

Jisung turned back to the fountain, dipping his fingers under again, breaking the reflected sky into fragments. "So, no royal decrees to replace me as your scribe then?"

Minho let out a short laugh. "No, your position is safe."

Jisung's head tilted, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. "Which one?"

Minho wanted to tell him that any and every position Jisung could ever wish to hold with him was safe. Permanent. Irrevocable. But the words stuck, a truth he couldn't voice.

"Actually," he said instead, the shift in his tone enough to draw Jisung's full attention. "There is something I need to tell you."

Jisung's brows drew together slightly. "What is it?"

"My coronation anniversary is coming up. March twenty-fifth. It'll be a... Ceremony of sorts," Minho said, tone deliberately even. "It marks a hundred and twenty-five years since my official coronation as Crown Prince. They hold it every quarter century."

Jisung's face lit up, just as Minho knew it would. "So I'll need something formal? Like the New Year's ball?"

Minho's chest tightened. He hated what he had to say next.

"You won't need anything," he said quietly. "You're... Not permitted to attend."

The brightness in Jisung's expression faltered, disappointment sliding in to take its place. "Why not?"

Minho hesitated, but lying would have been worse. "Because my parents believe I'm holding an 'inappropriate' relationship with you." The word tasted bitter. "They don't know anything really, thank the gods, but they're displeased. They expect me to start... Pulling back."

For a moment, Jisung just watched him, the ripple of the fountain the only sound between them.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, even. "I see."

It wasn't anger. It wasn't hurt, not on the surface, at least. Just... Understanding, the sort that somehow made it worse.

Minho fought the urge to close the distance, to drag him in and tell him that nothing and no one could make him let go.

Minho's jaw tightened. "Jisung-"

But Jisung shook his head lightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well... I suppose that means I'll have time to finally finish that book I started."

Minho's brow arched. "The one you abandoned halfway through?"

"The one you've been distracting me from," Jisung corrected, his tone teasing but warm. "Every time I sit down to read, somehow you end up in the room. And then the book doesn't really stand a chance, does it?"

Despite himself, Minho felt his lips twitch in answer. "I'll take the blame for that."

"Good. You should." Jisung's fingers trailed lazily through the fountain again, catching the sunlight in small arcs of water. "Besides, it's only one evening."

Only one evening, Minho repeated inwardly, though the thought of walking into that hall without him felt far heavier than the words suggested.

 

________________

 

Seungmin had not intended to work that evening.
For once, the desk in his room was free of the teetering towers of parchment and brittle-bound books that usually claimed it. The archives were closed, his in-tray was mercifully empty, and he'd been telling himself for days he needed to stop breathing the same dust that clung to the records room for at least one night.

He'd made tea, kicked off his shoes, and was halfway into the armchair by the window when his gaze landed on the thick, dark-covered volume that had been sitting there for weeks. The vampiric folklore book. The one Jisung had bought for Minho months ago. The one he had insisted on borrowing from him, just in case he found anything "interesting" in there.

Seungmin hadn't. Not yet. It wasn't the kind of book that had ever been catalogued in the palace records, too much rumour and superstition, too little verifiable fact. But there was something in the weight of it, the way its pages still smelled faintly of rain and old leather, that kept it from being just another piece of courtly bric-a-brac.

He took it up now mostly out of curiosity, flipping through the early sections without much thought. The illustrations were dramatic, as these kinds of books tended to be, vampiric monarchs with scarlet eyes like smouldering coals, saints wreathed in impossible light, battles painted in broad, stylised strokes. Myths to keep fledglings in line and amuse old vampires in their drawing rooms.

It wasn't until he was nearly halfway through that his eye snagged on something that stopped him mid-page.

A heading, unassuming among the ornate borders, but the words beneath it made his pulse quicken.
He leaned closer, scanning the dense, curling script once.
Then again.
And a third time, more slowly, tracing the letters with his gaze as though the ink might rearrange itself if he looked away.

"No..." he murmured under his breath, the page catching the lamplight just so. "No, that can't..."
But there it was again, in black and white.

An account of a law older than any Seungmin had ever heard cited in modern court. A law that was not just tolerated, but... Something more. Something that, if still valid...

He sat back, exhaling sharply. "Well, I'll be damned..." His lips quirked, not quite a smile. "That... That might just work. If..."

If it was true. If it had never been repealed. If it wasn't simply a romantic embellishment some long-dead chronicler had slipped into a folklore anthology for drama's sake.

He closed the book slowly, resting his hands on the cover, but his mind didn't still.
Instead, it went straight to Jisung.

What would he think, if this was real? If the weight of this decision, a decision that could shift the shape of his entire life, was dropped into his hands?
Seungmin knew Minho's answer already. He'd known it for months. There was no question there. But Jisung...

Jisung had already given up so much to live inside the palace walls. To be bound by the expectations of an S-Class donor. And even if this... loophole was genuine, it would potentially mean giving up even more.

Was it right to even tell them? Was it fair?

He stared at the leather-bound cover for another long moment, then pushed to his feet, decision forming with each step toward the door.
He needed more than a romanticised account from a folklore volume. He needed proof.

The archives were silent when he unlocked them, the cool air inside still tinged with the scent of old paper and lamp oil. He set the folklore book down on his worktable and began pulling references, his movements brisk, methodical.

Scrolls, charters, legal codices so old their seals had to be handled with gloves, anything that might corroborate what he'd read.

Hours passed in near silence, save for the rustle of parchment and the occasional clink of a paperweight being moved aside.

And then, finally, buried in a bundle of royal decrees, he found it.

The wording was formal, archaic, but there was no mistaking the meaning. The account in the folklore book wasn't fiction. It was law. Law that had never been repealed.

He sat back slowly, heart still thudding from the chase.

It was real.
Which meant...

He closed his eyes briefly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He'd found their answer. The only answer, as far as he could see. But that didn't mean it was simple.

No. This had to go to Jisung first. Whatever came of it, whatever choice was made, it had to be his.
Because Minho's choice? That was already written in stone.

Notes:

Apologies for this chapter being a bit shorter ☹️

What do you think Seungmin has found? 🤔

Chapter 41: The Lost Decree

The hall glittered like a jewel box, every polished surface reflecting candlelight and gold. From his seat on the dais, Minho could see the entire sweep of the ballroom, the endless tide of silks and jewels, the careful choreography of nobles weaving their way toward him in neat procession.

His throne, smaller than the ones his parents occupied but still formidable in its carved edges and height, felt less like a seat of honour and more like a trap tonight.

Another name was announced. Another bow. Another gift, wrapped in the trappings of diplomacy. Carved ivory, antique bottles of wine, an ornate timepiece inlaid with lapis. Minho offered the expected smiles, the precise words of thanks, and watched the next petitioner step forward as though none of it touched him.

It didn't.

He was bored senseless.

His gaze slid past the glittering crowd, past the gilt columns, to the darkened archway beyond the ballroom doors. If he shut out the music and the murmur of voices, he could almost imagine that somewhere far away, beyond those doors, the garden paths lay quiet under the moonlight.

And that in the palace's donor wing, Jisung was there.

Was he curled in his chair, book in hand, brow furrowed the way it always was when he hit a particularly stubborn paragraph? Or had he given up entirely, the book abandoned on his lap while he let sleep claim him?

Minho found himself hoping for the latter. Hoping that instead of being awake and alone in those rooms, Jisung was already somewhere softer, in dreams lit by sunlight instead of lamplight, filled with the people and places he missed.

Better that than imagining him sitting in silence, aware of this endless, gaudy affair and the space beside Minho that he had been barred from.

Another gift was presented. Minho accepted it with the same careful politeness, but the weight of the velvet box in his hand felt meaningless. Every moment here was a moment not spent with him.

And gods, how he hated that.

 

Another round of applause rippled faintly through the crowd, marking the close of a particularly long-winded congratulatory speech from a visiting duke. Minho rose just enough to incline his head, the motion smooth from years of practice, before sinking back into the throne.

The music swelled again, pairs drifting onto the dance floor in glittering swirls. He let his gaze wander over them without real interest, scanning the familiar faces, lords, ladies, the high ministers of the court, foreign envoys, and noticed, with a faint hitch of awareness, one conspicuously absent.

Seungmin.

It wasn't just that his presence was expected at an event like this, though it was, it was that Seungmin was punctual to a fault. The sort of man who could set a clock by the time he arrived in a room.

Except when he wasn't.

Minho almost smirked to himself. There was only one thing in the world that could drag Seungmin so far out of step: research. Once he sank into the archives, time dissolved. The outside world, its schedules and ceremonies, could have been happening on the far side of the moon for all he noticed.

He could picture it clearly enough: Seungmin hunched over a table, a fortress of books and scrolls around him, a half-empty cup of tea long gone cold at his elbow. His hand moving in quick, precise lines across the page as he cross-referenced something obscure and stubborn.

That was the only explanation that made sense. He'd found some line of enquiry too promising to abandon, and the coronation anniversary of the Crown Prince had simply ceased to exist for him.

Minho shifted in his seat, tugging slightly at the cuff of his sleeve. It was odd, yes, but not alarming. If there was one thing Seungmin could be trusted with, it was the dogged pursuit of an answer. Whatever had kept him away tonight, it wasn't frivolous.

Still, Minho thought, as another lord bent into a low bow before him, it must be something worth finding if it could pull Seungmin away from this level of pomp and spectacle without a word.

And for the first time all night, Minho felt the faintest prickle of curiosity.

 

_______________

 

The book in his hands was warm from where it had been resting on his lap for the better part of an hour. The lamplight pooled across the page, catching on the gilt edge of the bookmark he'd been shifting aimlessly up and down the spine.

He'd promised himself he was going to read tonight, really read, properly sink into the story, but his attention kept splintering.

It had been his idea to downplay tonight. Only one evening, he'd told Minho, brushing it off like it was nothing. But now, sitting alone in his room with the quiet pressing against him, it felt anything but small.

He'd gotten used to Minho's voice threading through his evenings, whether it was reciting something for the memoir, whispering sweet words into Jisung's ear, or just talking. About his day, about the palace, about nothing at all. Without it, the air felt thin and uncoloured, like someone had drained all the warmth from it.

Jisung turned another page, read three lines, and realised he hadn't actually processed a single word. His mind slid away from the ink to where he knew Minho must be right now: seated in his imposing throne, spine straight, eyes politely engaged while guest after guest approached to offer their bows, gifts, and formalities.

He imagined Minho's mouth curving in that faint, wry way he got when he was bored but trying to be gracious. He imagined the heat of his hand resting over Jisung's own, the grounding weight of it.

And then he imagined the empty space beside him where he could be sitting, if things were different. If they were equals.

Jisung sighed and dragged his attention back to the page. It lasted for all of two sentences before his thoughts wandered again, this time to the very real possibility that Minho was wishing the evening away just as much as he was.

The knock came sharp and sudden, rattling through the stillness and making him start. Three firm raps, quick enough together to suggest urgency.

He frowned, slid his bookmark in place, and set the novel down beside him on the bed. Crossing the small distance to the door, he wondered if someone had come with a summons, unlikely, but not impossible.

When he opened it, Seungmin was standing there.

Not just standing, but with that peculiar look he sometimes got when he'd been buried in the archives for too long, half-absent, half-coiled with something he hadn't decided whether to share yet. His hair was a little out of place, his usual neatness smudged at the edges.

Before Jisung could get a word out, Seungmin stepped inside without hesitation, brushing past him like the room belonged to him.

Jisung let the door fall shut behind them, rolling his eyes. "Well yes, of course, please do come in, Seungmin," he said dryly.

The archivist ignored him completely. His gaze darted to the desk, landing on the neat stack of books waiting there. Two strides and he had them in his hands, sweeping them up and tossing them onto the bed with all the care one might show a pile of laundry.

"Hey!" Jisung's voice pitched up in protest, taking a half-step forward.

Seungmin didn't look at him. He simply lifted one finger in a silent, pointed command for quiet, his other hand already tugging his satchel around from where it hung at his shoulder.

What came out next was... Unexpected. First, a tightly bound bundle of scrolls, the wax seals dulled with age. Then, a sheaf of folded documents, their corners yellowed but still crisp. And finally, with deliberate care, a familiar book bound in worn, dark leather.

Jisung's eyes narrowed in recognition. "Wait a second, isn't that the book I bought for Minho? The folklore one?"

Seungmin placed it on top of the other items with a solid, deliberate thump. Only then did he look up, meeting Jisung's gaze.

There was something unreadable in his expression, calm on the surface, but with a tightness underneath that set Jisung's pulse humming in wary curiosity.

Seungmin didn't answer his question. He simply shifted the pile of books so they sat squarely at the corner of the bed, then straightened to his full height.

"Sit," he said simply, his voice flat but not unkind.

Jisung blinked at him. "Sit? On my own bed? In my own room?"

"Yes," Seungmin said, already moving a chair into position for himself. "We need to talk."

There was no mistaking the tone.

Jisung sat.

Seungmin sat opposite him, one ankle hooked over a knee, the leather satchel now resting against the chair leg. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his thighs, and tapped the cover of the folklore book once with a neatly kept fingernail.

"Did you ever read this?"

Jisung glanced down at it, brow furrowing. "Before I gave it to Minho?"

"That's the question."

Jisung shook his head after a beat. "No. I tried, but..." He gave a small shrug, looking faintly sheepish. "The prose was... Well, you've seen it. All flourishes and old-fashioned phrasing. Every time I picked it up, it felt like I needed a translator just to get through a paragraph."

Seungmin's mouth quirked, just barely, like he didn't quite have the energy for a full smirk. "That's fair. It's not exactly light reading."

"Why?" Jisung asked, narrowing his eyes a little. "What's in it?"

Instead of answering, Seungmin picked up the book and let it rest on his palms, almost as if weighing it. His gaze slid back to Jisung, measuring.

"Humour me for a moment. You bought it for him... Why?"

Jisung hesitated, then said, "Because it seemed like the sort of thing he'd enjoy. The history, the old stories. I thought it might give him something interesting to pick through when he had the time. And..." He paused, shifting slightly where he sat. "I thought it might... I don't know. Show that I was paying attention to the kinds of things he liked."

For a moment, Seungmin studied him in silence, the faint creases between his brows deepening. Then he set the book back down atop the pile of scrolls with a quiet thud.

"I'm going to tell you something," he said slowly, "but first I need you to understand that what happens with it is entirely your decision."

Jisung's head tilted. "My decision?"

"Yes." Seungmin's tone left no room for doubt. "Not mine. Not Minho's. Yours."

Seungmin's gaze didn't waver as he spoke again, slow and deliberate.
"I first came across what I'm about to tell you... In that."

He reached forward, plucked the vampiric folklore book off the pile of papers, and tossed it lightly toward him.
Jisung just barely managed to catch it against his chest, almost fumbling it onto the floor.

"Careful," he muttered, setting it on his lap. "It's your precious source material."

"I wouldn't call it precious," Seungmin said dryly. "But it was enough to make me curious. Curious enough to spend who knows how long in the archives."

Jisung arched a brow. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Digging through old law codices, royal decrees, anything that might corroborate what I read in there. I didn't want to come to you with nothing but a half-baked claim from a book that's half myth to begin with."

Jisung glanced down at the book, running his thumb along the edge of the pages. "And... What exactly did this book claim?"

"Page eight hundred and one," Seungmin replied without hesitation.

The precision of the answer made Jisung narrow his eyes at him. "You have that memorised?"

"After the number of times I went back to it? Yes. Read it."

Jisung gave him a look, part suspicion, part curiosity, but flipped the pages until the thick sheaf of them lay open on his lap. The scent of old leather and dust wafted up, mingling with the faintly musty tang that clung to all books old enough to have seen centuries pass.

The prose was just as he remembered it: dense, winding sentences choked with flourishes and odd word choices. He skimmed past an elaborate description of a long-dead court, half a page on some now-forgotten festival, until his eyes caught on a section about two-thirds down.

It took him a few passes to make sense of the shapes of the words. They were heavy, curling things, spelt in ways that would make modern scribes weep.

"And it was therein decreed by Hand and Seal, that whenso a Prince or Princesse of the Bloud Immortal should take to Spouse one of the Aurelyenne Kynde, by such Union shall the Mortal be bound in perpetuitie unto the Royall Line, bequeathed all Honours, Titles, and Safeguardes thereof, and counted not as Servant nor Thrall, but as Consort in true and equalle standing, unto Death..."

Jisung's brows furrowed. He read it again, stumbling slightly over the strange spellings and the rolling cadence of the words. He thought he knew what it was saying, but it couldn't possibly mean... Not like that. Could it?

He glanced up at Seungmin, the book still open in his hands.

Seungmin just looked back at him, expression giving away nothing at all.

Jisung's throat felt suddenly dry. His hands tightened around the heavy book as though it might steady him.
"Seungmin..." His voice was quieter than he intended, unsteady in a way he hated. "Please... Please explain this to me so I can understand, because I-"
He shook his head once, breath catching. "Please tell me exactly what this means."

Seungmin didn't answer immediately. He sat back in the chair, one arm resting along its edge, gaze shifting briefly to the scrolls and documents fanned across the desk like the pieces of some intricate puzzle. The air between them felt heavy.

Finally, he let out a slow, deliberate sigh. "Come and see for yourself."

Jisung's legs didn't seem entirely convinced of the idea, but he forced them to move. By the time he reached the desk, he found himself bracing both palms against its polished edge, grounding himself in the solid weight of the wood. His pulse drummed hard in his ears.

Seungmin didn't waste words. He reached for the first scroll, tugging it closer and flattening it under his hands.
"This," he said, tapping the faded crest at its head, "is a marriage charter from the late Fourth Dynasty. Not a noble marriage, royal. The seal is genuine, the signature, authenticated."

He slid it aside and pulled a smaller, brittle-edged decree forward. "This one is a legislative record from the same era, outlining rights afforded to the spouse. No mention of service terms. No mention of donor protocols. Instead-" he flicked the edge of the parchment lightly "-language on titles. Inheritance. Standing equal to the crown."

Jisung's eyes darted between each page as Seungmin went on, laying out references, annotations, citations with the same careful precision he applied to any problem. He traced the thread through each document until the pattern became unavoidable.

Finally, Seungmin leaned back slightly, resting his fingertips together. "We already knew," he said evenly, "that vampires had married Aurelians in the past. Theoretically. The history books skirt the specifics... 'Alliances,' 'unions'... But they're always vague."

He nodded toward the open folklore volume still clutched in Jisung's hand. "That law in your book proves it happened. And not just among nobility. Royalty."

Jisung's breath caught, chest tightening.

"And when they did," Seungmin continued, his tone as level as if he were delivering a simple archival fact, "the Aurelians became royalty by marriage. Absorbed into the royal line. No servitude. No expiration date. Equal."

The word seemed to land in Jisung's chest like a stone dropped into deep water, heavy, sinking, sending out ripples he couldn't yet measure.

Seungmin's words hung between them like the last toll of a bell, the echo carrying on in Jisung's head long after the sound itself was gone. The lamplight caught the edges of the parchment still spread across the desk, throwing the letters into sharper relief, as if they were daring him to deny their truth.

Jisung's mouth opened, but no sound came at first. His throat felt tight, the air in the room suddenly too heavy to pull all the way in. When he finally managed to force the words out, they were hoarse, uncertain.
"So you're telling me... That if I were to marry Minho, I'd..."

Seungmin didn't look away. "You'd become a prince of the Lee family. Royalty. Equals. Nobody would be able to remove you."

The sentence landed like a physical blow, a weight in his chest that he wasn't sure how to hold. For a moment, his mind rejected it outright.
"No," he breathed. "That's- That's not..." He shook his head sharply. "That can't be real. It's too..."
Too simple. Too much like a fairytale ending smuggled into the brutal logic of palace life.
Too good to be true.

But the documents were still there. The seals, the signatures, the lines of law written in archaic ink, proof that this wasn't some romanticised fiction from the pages of that folklore book.

His pulse quickened, pounding in his ears as the disbelief began to give way to something else. Something that felt dangerously like elation.
If it was true… Then the sword of Damocles that he had felt suspended above him since the moment he he'd first felt Minho's mouth on his skin would vanish. No inevitable separation. No cold countdown to the day Minho's life moved on without him.
He could stay. Always. At Minho's side, not as a donor bound by obligation, but as... As-

The thought made his breath hitch. His fingertips pressed harder into the desk, grounding himself against the sudden rush of it all.

But then, like a shadow crossing over sunlight, another thought stole in.
Minho.
What about Minho? Did he even-?

His gaze snapped back to Seungmin. "What did Minho say about-"

"I haven't told him," Seungmin cut in, his voice steady.

Jisung blinked, stunned into silence for a beat. "Why?" The word came out cracked, half a whisper, half an accusation.

"I already told you." Seungmin's tone was even, but there was no mistaking the weight in it. "This decision is yours and yours alone. This marriage would be binding. There’s no allowance for anything like divorce or separation."

He let that settle for a moment, watching the way the words hit.

"If you marry Minho," he continued, "you are choosing to bind yourself to him, irrevocably, for eternity."

Eternity. The word rang in Jisung's head like a tuning fork, humming and resonant, impossible to ignore. His hands curled into the desk's edge until the wood bit into his palms. It was the most freeing, terrifying, impossible, perfect thing he had ever heard.

Notes:

Apologies again for a shorter chapter, but there’s still important information here 😅

They’ll start to get longer again after this!

Chapter 42: The Agreement

Notes:

We’re back to longer chapters again now!

Seungmin stayed exactly where he was, fingers steepled loosely in front of him, watching Jisung.

He'd seen plenty of people receive life-changing news before. Some went very still, as if the weight of it pinned them in place, others blurted a dozen questions at once, tripping over their own urgency. But Jisung...

Jisung was something else entirely.

The emotions were plain as daylight on his face, shifting in quick succession. Disbelief, tentative hope, the flicker of fear, a distant what-if that seemed to hollow his breath. Seungmin had always thought of him as the expressive type, someone whose thoughts lived too close to the surface to hide for long. Right now, it was like watching a storm turn over itself in slow motion.

His eyes moved across the documents spread over the desk, catching on seals and signatures, then darting back to the section in the folklore book as though it might read differently this time.

Seungmin didn't speak.

There was no need. Anything he said now risked tilting Jisung toward one conclusion or the other, and that wasn't his place. He wanted the choice to be entirely Jisung's, uncoloured by persuasion, unclouded by anyone else's certainty.

So he simply waited.

Eventually, Jisung looked up. The air between them seemed to have grown heavier, but his voice, when it came, was surprisingly steady. Just one word.

"How."

Seungmin allowed himself the smallest smile. It was the right question. Practical, grounded, the kind that cut past all the tangled emotion to the core of the matter.

"As part of the law," he began, his tone measured, "the marriage must be officiated by a member of the royal family. A prince, princess, or one recognised by blood within the House's registry. As the witness, they must be royal, or the law doesn't hold."

Jisung blinked at him, then let out a short, incredulous sound. "So, impossible then."

"Impossible?"

"Yes," Jisung said, his voice tightening in frustration. "The entire reason this is even... On the table is because Minho's parents would rather die than accept me. You think they'd agree to take part in something like this?"

Seungmin's mouth curved just slightly, not quite a smirk, but close enough to make Jisung narrow his eyes.

He let the silence hang for a moment longer than necessary, purely out of habit. He'd learned long ago that a pause at the right time could do half the work for him.

Then, finally, he said, "You're assuming it would have to be them."

Jisung's brows knit together. "... Who else could possibly-"

"Me," Seungmin said simply.

The disbelief on Jisung's face was immediate. "You?"

"Yes," Seungmin replied, as if he'd just stated something as mundane as the time. "I am, technically, a member of the royal family."

Jisung just stared at him. "You're joking."

"I'm not," Seungmin said, the faintest trace of amusement threading into his voice now. "Very distant relation, far enough down the tree that my branch holds no position, no titles of real influence. But the blood connection is there, recognised in the House's genealogy. And that's all the law requires."

Jisung opened his mouth, then shut it again, clearly recalibrating his understanding of the man sat in front of him.

"So yes," Seungmin concluded, leaning back in his chair, "I am a suitable candidate to perform the ceremony."

He let that sink in, his gaze steady, giving Jisung room to absorb what it meant, that the one impossible requirement had, in fact, been sitting in front of him the entire time.

Seungmin could almost hear the machinery turning over in Jisung's head, faster now, sharper. The look on his face had shifted from disbelief to something more dangerous: possibility.

Jisung's gaze dropped briefly to the spread of parchment again before he spoke, the words coming haltingly at first, like he was testing them out loud.

"So... If you did it-if you performed the ceremony-then... That's it. I'd be royal. Untouchable. No one could-" He cut himself off, glancing up at Seungmin as if to confirm.

Seungmin gave a single, measured nod. "Correct."

Jisung exhaled, a sound halfway between wonder and a shaky laugh. "No more hiding. No more waiting for the day they... Take me away from him." He pressed a hand to the desk, fingers curling slightly. "I could... Stay. With him. Always."

Seungmin didn't move, letting the words settle in the air.

But Jisung was already spiralling forward, his tone turning thoughtful, almost hesitant. "But then... Gods, that means he'd be-he'd be bound to me too. For good. Forever. And what if-" He broke off again, his voice tightening with some unspoken fear. "What if I'm not... Enough? What if he-"

Seungmin interjected before the sentence could finish. "This is why I came to you first. It's not a step to take lightly."

"I know that," Jisung said quickly, but the crease in his brow deepened. "It's just... I can't even wrap my head around it. Yesterday, the future was-" He gave a helpless gesture, "-fixed. I knew how it ended. And now..."

"Now," Seungmin said quietly, "you know there's a way to change it. And only you can decide if it's worth the cost."

Jisung looked at him, and Seungmin could see the full tangle of his thoughts written plainly across his face. The want, the fear, the almost aching hope.

Seungmin didn't press. He knew better. He'd planted the seed; the rest had to grow on its own.

Seungmin didn't reply right away.
Jisung's words- ‘he'd be bound to me too... What if I'm not enough?’ -stuck in his mind like a burr. They looped, over and over, until the weight of what was missing in them became obvious.

And that was when it hit him.

Minho hadn't told him.

Of course he hadn't. Jisung's worry was genuine, untempered by the knowledge Seungmin had taken for granted they both shared, that the bond wasn't some sentimental metaphor, but a biological certainty. That for a vampire, especially an Aurelian's vampire, repeated physical closeness wasn't just habit or affection; it rewired the brain. Reshaped instinct. Deepened dependency into something primal and irrevocable.

Minho wasn't going to be bound to him. He already was.

Seungmin kept his expression still, masking the flicker of irritation curling in his chest. Not because it was any of his business, technically, but because it was exactly the kind of omission that could plant needless fears in Jisung's head. Fears he could have been spared with a single conversation.

He considered, briefly, telling him himself. Laying it out in plain words, what the bond meant, how it worked, how it had already taken root.

But the thought passed as quickly as it came.
No. Just like the marriage, this wasn't his choice to reveal. Minho had made his decision to keep that truth to himself so far, and however much Seungmin might disagree with it, stepping in wasn't his place.

Still, as Jisung leaned back slightly from the desk, lost in some deep and knotted thought, Seungmin found himself hoping Minho would get over his stubbornness soon. The boy deserved to know the truth about what already tied them together, before he started making decisions about adding another unbreakable chain.

Jisung was quiet for a long moment, his eyes dragging once more across the spread of parchment between them. Seungmin could almost see the tangle of thoughts shifting behind them, hope sparking, doubt crowding in to smother it, then the slow pull of uncertainty.

Finally, he let out a breath.
"... Would he even want that?"

The words were soft, but they carried. Enough for Seungmin to catch the subtle tightness in them, like he was already bracing for the answer to be no.

Seungmin's first instinct was to tell him the obvious. Yes, of course he would, you blind fool, the man is halfway feral about you already. But he bit it back. This wasn't the kind of reassurance he could offer without undermining what he'd just said about the decision being Jisung's alone.

Instead, he just said, evenly, "That's a question you'll have to ask him yourself."

Jisung's mouth pressed into a faint, thin line, but he nodded. Almost like he'd expected that answer.

Seungmin leaned back in his chair, letting the silence settle again. He didn't add that the only real risk here wasn't whether Minho wanted the marriage, it was how hard he'd push to make it happen once he knew it was possible.

 

_______________

 

The ballroom had begun to thin at last.

A slow ebb of silks and jewels drifted toward the great doors, courtiers and visiting dignitaries murmuring their goodbyes before vanishing into the corridors beyond. Those with the longest journeys ahead were already gone, their retinues trailing behind them like dead leaves in the wind.

On the table beside Minho's throne, the gifts had amassed into a glittering heap. Silverwork, rare wines, ornate trinkets, the sort of expensive excess that would be catalogued by the stewards and then, most likely, forgotten. He'd lost count of how many times he'd uttered the same measured words of gratitude tonight, the phrases worn to dust in his mouth.

His parents rose from their seats with the quiet dignity of people long accustomed to being observed. The King addressed the hall once more, a closing benediction for the assembled guests, before offering his arm to the Queen. She took it, and together they descended from the dais, disappearing through the high arch at the rear without a backward glance.

The murmured conversations rose again as the room adjusted to the absence of its monarchs. Minho leaned back slightly in his throne, letting out a slow breath. He'd have to remain until the last guest departed, but at least the worst of the night was over.

It was then, in a gap between two knots of people, that he saw him.

Seungmin, at last. Moving with his usual unhurried precision, but there was a faint edge to it tonight, like every step was purposeful. He came straight toward the dais, his eyes fixed on Minho.

When he reached the base of the steps, he bowed low and said, with perfect formality, "Your Majesty."

The title, delivered so flawlessly, tugged at the corner of Minho's mouth. If they'd been anywhere else, Seungmin wouldn't have bothered with such ceremony. But here, surrounded by watching eyes, decorum ruled.

"Seungmin," Minho returned evenly, the smallest flicker of amusement threading his tone.

Straightening, Seungmin clasped his hands neatly before him. "If I might... Have a word."

Minho's brow arched ever so slightly. Whatever had kept Seungmin away all evening, it seemed, hadn't dulled his focus.

Minho gave the faintest tilt of his head, permission enough.

Seungmin ascended the dais, his steps soundless on the thick carpet, and came to stand beside Minho's throne. He leaned in just enough for his words to be heard over the low hum of the ballroom.

"I've found something," he murmured, "in the vampiric folklore book."

That caught Minho's attention like a hook beneath the ribs. His eyes slid toward Seungmin. "What sort of something?"

Seungmin's expression remained unreadable. "Not for me to say." He straightened slightly, his tone pitched so only Minho could hear. "You should speak to Jisung."

A flicker of unease and anticipation shivered through him. Instantly, he wanted to leave the dais, the ballroom, the whole suffocating theatre of the evening. To go straight to Jisung's room and demand an answer, or at least the shape of the question.

But before he could rise, Seungmin's hand came to rest on his shoulder, light, but with the precision of someone who knew exactly when Minho was about to bolt.

"Call him for a draw tomorrow," Seungmin said, his voice steady as stone. "Blame the excesses and drain of the evening."

Minho's fingers tightened imperceptibly against the arm of his throne. Tomorrow felt far too long to wait, but something in Seungmin's composure told him that whatever this was, it would be worth the discipline of a single night's patience.

 

______________

 

Morning light spilled through the tall windows, catching on the gilt trim of the draw room's cabinets, but Minho hardly noticed. He'd been pacing the length of the carpet for what felt like hours, though his steward had been gone barely fifteen minutes, his thoughts a restless, circling current.

He'd told himself he wouldn't overthink it. That he'd simply call Jisung, take the draw, and see what, if anything, Seungmin's cryptic warning had been about. But the calm, measured patience he'd intended to summon was nowhere to be found.

Why tell Jisung first? Why not him?

Seungmin had always been deliberate with his words, but last night's sidestep had lodged under Minho's skin like a thorn. ‘It's not for me to say’. The answer had been precise and final, with that infuriating edge of certainty that meant Seungmin had already decided the sequence of events, and nothing short of a royal decree would shift him from it.

Minho's hands flexed uselessly at his sides. What had he told Jisung? And what if Jisung had taken it the wrong way?

The idea that Seungmin might have stirred up something and left Jisung alone with it made Minho's jaw clench. He'd seen the archivist keep dangerous truths under lock before, he'd also seen him wield them with the same precision as a blade.

The last twenty-four hours had already been enough of a strain, with his parents' pointed absence from the rest of the ceremony, their words still echoing in his head. Now, this. A mystery deliberately kept from him, handed straight into Jisung's hands.

The door at the far end of the room remained closed, stubbornly silent. Minho found himself crossing the room again, slow steps eating up the carpet. He didn't even know if he was more worried about what Seungmin had found, or about the look that might be waiting in Jisung's eyes when he finally walked through that door.

The latch clicked.

Minho stopped mid-step, the tension in his shoulders going taut as a bowstring. The door swung inward, and there he was, Jisung, stepping into the room with the easy grace Minho knew by heart.

Except... It wasn't easy, not today.

Something was different in the way he carried himself. Not withdrawn exactly, but his shoulders were straighter than usual, his chin a fraction higher, like he'd been bracing for this from the moment the summons reached him. His eyes met Minho's almost immediately, and though they held steady, there was a weight there, something unreadable, lurking just behind them.

Minho's breath stalled for a heartbeat. Whatever Seungmin had told him, it was there, sitting in the set of his mouth, the quiet firmness in his gaze.

He crossed the space between them in three strides, not touching, but close enough to catch the faint scent of his skin. "You’re here."

Jisung's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Your steward made it sound urgent."

"It is," Minho said, a little too quickly. He searched Jisung's face, trying to read it, to find some hint of what had passed between him and Seungmin.

Something flickered in Jisung's eyes, hesitation, or maybe anticipation, and Minho's pulse kicked harder. He didn't know yet whether he was about to be relieved or furious.

But either way, he was going to have the truth before he let Jisung walk out of this room again.

Jisung moved to the door without a word, the soft click of the lock sliding home as natural as breathing.

Minho half expected him to turn back with a wry comment, but instead Jisung crossed to him with quiet purpose, fingers curling around his hand. The warmth of his palm was steady, grounding, even as something in Minho's chest tightened further.

Jisung didn't speak, just tugged lightly until Minho let himself be guided to the chair Jisung usually claimed during their draws. The reversal wasn't lost on him. He sank into the seat, watching as Jisung positioned himself sideways across his lap, the line of his thigh pressing against Minho's, his scent surrounding him.

With a small roll of his shoulder, Jisung shrugged his jacket down his arms and let it slide away. Then, reaching for the medical band on the nearby table, he cradled it in one hand.

Minho parted his lips to speak, to demand the answers clawing at him, but the words caught. There was a subtle insistence in Jisung's movements, and something in Minho's gut told him that if he pushed now, he'd lose more than he'd gain.

So he held still.

He watched as the band encircled Jisung's arm, the quiet, precise movements of Jisung's fingers fastening it in place. Then Jisung leaned forward, closing the last few inches between them, and pressed a kiss to Minho's mouth. Soft. Not the hungry, claiming kind Minho had come to crave, but something gentler, like a hand smoothing the edge of a blade.

Minho exhaled slowly. Yes. Calming. Jisung knew exactly what he was doing.

Jisung didn't rush when he pulled back. His gaze stayed fixed on Minho's, steady and warm, like he was bracing both of them for what came next.

"Seungmin found something," he began, his tone measured. "In that vampiric folklore book I gave you."

Minho felt his pulse thrum harder, but he stayed silent, letting Jisung guide the conversation.

"At first, he thought it might just be myth. Old superstition written down with a dozen embellishments. But it... Wasn't." Jisung's eyes flicked briefly toward the floor, then back to Minho. "It was a law. An ancient one. Never repealed."

Minho's brows drew together, but Jisung lifted a hand, a small gesture for patience.

"You already know there were marriages between vampires and Aurelians in history. That's not new. But this..." He drew in a breath. "This law specifically says that if a member of the royal family marries an Aurelian, that Aurelian becomes part of the royal line. By marriage. Equal in title, rights... Everything."

The words landed like drops of molten metal in Minho's mind, searing in place.

Jisung went on, voice slow, careful. "It's not just symbolic. It's binding. Legally, politically... Permanently. If you married me, I'd be a prince of the Lee family. No donor protocols. No risk of being... Removed. I would be-" He hesitated, searching for the word, "-untouchable."

Minho's grip on his thigh tightened almost imperceptibly, his mind catching on the image, Jisung beside him in truth, in law, in oath. Not just here by stolen hours and fragile permission.

"There are conditions," Jisung added, and Minho caught the flicker of wariness in his tone. "The ceremony has to be performed by a member of the royal family. Which... I thought meant it was impossible. But Seungmin-" a faint, almost incredulous smile ghosted across his lips, "-told me he’s technically your cousin. Far enough removed that his branch has no real standing, but close enough to be legitimate. He could officiate."

Jisung's eyes searched Minho's face, something vulnerable just beneath the calm surface. "That's why he spoke to me first. He... Didn't want to put this in your hands before I'd decided what I wanted. Because once it's done, there's no undoing it. He told me that this kind of marriage isn't just for life, Minho-it's forever."

The words lingered between them, heavy with meaning, wrapping around Minho's thoughts like chains and wings all at once.

Forever.

The word lit something fierce in Minho's chest, and for a breath, all he wanted was to say yes. Yes, today. Yes, now. Yes, let's walk into the nearest chapel and bind ourselves so tightly that not even the weight of centuries could pry them apart.

The image came fast and unbidden, Jisung's hand in his, their vows spoken breathlessly to each other, the subtle shift in the air as the law wrapped around them like steel and silk. No more distance forced by others. No more fear of separation.

He could end it here. End the uncertainty. End the hollow hours apart.

But that wasn't the point.

Minho forced himself to breathe, to push down the sharp, aching urge to claim the decision for himself. This wasn't something he could take from Jisung by answering too quickly, too eagerly. This had to be Jisung's choice, without the weight of Minho's hunger pressing down on him.

He remembered the look in Jisung's eyes when he'd said forever, how it had trembled between wonder and fear. Minho couldn't let his own longing tip that balance.

So he sat still, feeling the ghost of Jisung's kiss on his mouth, the warmth of him across his lap, and swallowed the yes that was burning his tongue.

Instead, Minho let the silence stretch, the air between them thin as ice over deep water.

His fingers curled lightly around Jisung's hips, not to hold him there, just to anchor himself. His voice, when it came, was quieter than he expected, but it carried the weight of every restraint he'd just forced into place.

"What do you want?"

Jisung blinked, the question seeming to catch him off guard. For a moment, his mouth parted as though he had an answer ready, but nothing came out. His gaze flicked away, settling somewhere over Minho's shoulder, like the polished lamps or the wall might hold a safer truth.

Minho didn't press. He just waited, the steady, patient stillness of a predator who knew the prey wasn't something to chase, because it wasn't prey at all.

Jisung's fingers toyed absently with the edge of Minho's collar, his touch feather-light. When his eyes came back to Minho's, they were uncertain, almost raw.

"I..." He exhaled, and the sound was almost a laugh, but without any humour. "I want... Everything. I want what we have now, but without..." He hesitated, his voice tightening. "... Without knowing there's an end."

The words struck Minho in the chest like an explosion, sharp heat blooming in its wake, flooding his veins until he thought he might shake with it.

But before he could respond, Jisung went on, his tone quieter, more deliberate.
"It's not just me though, Minho. You'll be bound to me forever, too."

Minho drew in a breath, then let it out in a slow sigh, shaking his head faintly. "Jisung... I'm already bound to you."

Jisung's brows pulled together in confusion, but Minho didn't look away.
"There's something you don't know. Between a vampire and an Aurelian, if there's repeated physical contact, especially the kind we've shared, it creates a mating bond. It's not just a feeling, it's... Chemical, biological. Permanent." His voice dropped, lower and more raw. "I felt it from the first time I took you to my bed. And every day since, it's only grown stronger. Now... It physically hurts to be away from you."

Shock flickered across Jisung's face. "You've... You've felt that all this time?"

"Yes."

"Then why the hell didn't you tell me?"

Minho's gaze softened. "Because I didn't want you to feel pressured. Or worse, responsible for it. You deserved the freedom to choose what you wanted, without this hanging over you."

Jisung stared at him for a long, searching moment, then said, almost tentatively, "So... Are we doing this?"

Minho felt something shift inside him, like the tension of years giving way all at once. He met Jisung's gaze head-on, drawing a deep breath.
"Han Jisung... Will you make me the happiest being in this world, and marry me?"

A bright, unrestrained smile broke across Jisung's face, dazzling enough to steal the air from Minho's lungs. "Yes," he said, with a certainty that left no room for hesitation.

They kissed, the kind that was all laughter and relief tangled together, breaking apart only to laugh again, foreheads pressed close.

"Right," Minho murmured, still grinning. "Well, if we're doing this... We're doing it properly."

Jisung tilted his head. "Which means?"

"We're going to visit Corvin."

Notes:

Hopefully this discussion between them was satisfying for everybody.

So… Karma. Do we have any favourites yet? I feel cruel asking because it’s honestly like being asked to pick a favourite child.
I love each song in a different way. That said, In My Head is the pop punk vibe of my youth, and 0801 genuinely made me sob at 5:20 in the morning.

Apparently I wasn’t ready to hear Felix tell me “you’re doing great”, even if I really did need to hear that at the moment.
(Without going into too much detail, life as a single mum of two kids with medical issues is… Challenging. Especially right now with them on break for the summer holidays).

Much like Minho, I fear my brain chemistry has also been permanently altered by Han. The “kiss, muah” line has been on repeat in my head non stop for over 24 hours now. I might need help.

The wait for my 32 albums (yes I have more now) is actually torturous.
That said, I went out and treated myself to another yesterday. I pulled Minnie, and the 2KnowRacha unit card.
Who have you pulled so far if you’ve managed to get your hands on an album?
Any PCs you’re desperately hoping for?

Lastly… Back to the story… Do we have any predictions for the wedding fits?
(Discord folks please don’t spoil as we’ve obviously had some discussion on this over there!)

God this was a long ass note. Sorry. At least it’s still shorter than the chapter itself? Anybody who has me on Threads knows I can yap for hours, so really, this was quite restrained of me 😅

Chapter 43: The Roses

It had been some time since Jisung last visited Corvin's workroom, but it was exactly as he remembered. The morning light slanted across the cutting table, catching in the silver thimbles and lengths of silk ribbon scattered there like the spoils of a magpie's nest.

Jisung stood just inside the door, not entirely sure what to do with himself. Minho hadn't said much beyond "come with me", his tone giving nothing away.

Corvin looked up from where he was chalking a hemline onto a piece of emerald velvet, one brow lifting. "Your Highness. And... Jisung. This is unexpected."

"I'm tired of looking at him in the same clothes for every draw," Minho said, entirely matter-of-fact as he stripped off his gloves and set them on the nearest counter. "Especially lately, with the number of unscheduled draws." He glanced sideways at Jisung then, the faintest quirk to his mouth, half amusement, half challenge.

Jisung felt his ears warm. "I didn't realise my wardrobe was such a burden to you," he muttered.

"It's not a burden," Minho said, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that almost counted as a smile. "It's boring. And if I'm going to see you across from me that often, I'd rather not feel like I'm watching the same scene on repeat."

Corvin made a low sound that might have been a stifled laugh. "Very well, what are you imagining for him?"

"Ivory and gold," Minho said without hesitation, already stepping toward the heavy design ledger propped open on a stand. "Something cut close through the waist but with enough give in the shoulders for comfort. Here-" he flipped a few pages, his finger coming to rest on a sketch that Jisung couldn't quite see from where he stood. "Something along these lines. And here-" another page turn, "this patterning across the front. Maybe decorative chain."

Jisung tried to squint and see better and immediately felt out of his depth. All he saw was a series of elegant drawings and fabric swatches that looked like they belonged on someone far more comfortable in these rooms than he'd ever be.

Corvin was nodding though, already pulling a measuring tape from around his neck. "Stand still," he said, and before Jisung could protest, he was being turned this way and that while Corvin murmured numbers under his breath, the tape whispering over his shoulders, chest, and arms.

When Corvin was done, he straightened and turned to Minho. "And for you, Your Highness?"

"Black and silver," Minho said, his voice low and certain. "Structured, but not restrictive. Here-" he tapped on another page. "I want this collar, and the embroidery from this one-" he flipped to another page, "-to balance the lines."

Corvin's eyes gleamed in approval. "Classic. It will photograph well, if that's a concern."

"It's not," Minho said smoothly, "but I appreciate the thought."

Measurements followed for Minho, though far more briskly, Corvin clearly knew his dimensions by heart, only confirming the numbers with a practised efficiency.

As Corvin began making notes in his ledger, Minho said, "One more thing. Is there any possibility you can push these to the top of your priority list?"

Corvin's pen paused mid-stroke. "You have an event in mind?"

"Let's just say I'm in the mood for something new sooner rather than later," Minho replied, all polite nonchalance.

Corvin regarded him for a moment, then inclined his head. "Anything for the Crown Prince, of course. And as it happens, this season is quiet, no flood of new orders to slow me down. If I start today, I can have both ready within a fortnight."

"Perfect," Minho said, that faint smile ghosting across his face again. "We'll leave you to it."

They stepped out into the quieter corridor beyond Corvin's workroom, the heavy door closing shut behind them. The hum of fabric shears and the faint scent of pressed wool gave way to the cool, faintly perfumed air of the palace hall.

Jisung glanced sideways at Minho as they walked, lowering his voice to barely above a breath. "Is this really a good idea, Minho? Should we not just... Get on with it?"

Minho stopped mid-step, turning to him with a look like Jisung had just suggested they hold the ceremony in the kitchens between courses.

"Get on with it?" Minho repeated, incredulous. "What exactly are you imagining? That I haul you into the nearest empty chapel and recite vows while you're still in your draw outfit?"

Jisung bit back a laugh. "I'd marry you in my pyjamas if it came to it."

"I know," Minho said, and the edge of amusement in his voice softened into something warmer. He reached out, fingers brushing briefly against the back of Jisung's hand before falling away. "But if I'm going to marry you, I'm doing it properly. Not rushing you down the aisle in whatever you happen to be wearing. I want it to be-" he hesitated, searching for the right word, "-at least a little bit special."

The sincerity in his tone left Jisung without a retort. He just let himself smile, small, private, meant for Minho alone, and nodded once.

"Alright," he said quietly. "Special."

Minho's answering smile was the kind that curled low in Jisung's chest and stayed there long after they started walking again.

 

___________

 

Minho let his mind wander back over the sketches Corvin had laid out, the ones he'd lingered over longer than necessary, tracing a finger along the drawn seams as if he could already feel the fabric beneath his hands.

Jisung, in ivory and gold. The thought alone made something in his chest tighten. Corvin's existing sketches were perfect for what he envisioned, golden suns embroidered into the silk fabric, each one a quiet nod to the Aurelian name. Billowing sleeves, the kind that caught the light and the air alike, narrowing down to a cinched waist that would draw the eye and hold it there. He could already see how the colour would make Jisung's skin seem even warmer, how the gold would catch in his hair, how every movement would turn him into something luminous, impossible to look away from.

And then there was his own choice, black and silver, high-collared and cut close to the body, the severe lines softened only by the scatter of silver moons and stars embroidered into the fabric. He had seen similar work from Corvin before, the silver threads catching the light like frost under starlight. It would frame Jisung's brightness perfectly. Light and dark, sun and moon, each made more striking by the other's presence.

He thought of the way they'd look together, side by side. A statement in and of itself. Not just a pairing, but a declaration.

After all, the moon was nothing without the sun to set it alight.

Minho allowed himself a small smile.

It would be worth every second of waiting.

 

__________

 

The next week unfolded in a rhythm so steady, Jisung could almost pretend that the visit to Corvin's workshop, and what it signified, hadn't happened.
Almost.

The paranoia crept along his spine at all times, making him second guess every minute glance in his direction.

Breakfasts in the donors' hall were much the same as ever: the warm clink of silverware on porcelain, the smell of fresh bread and steeping tea, the hum of conversation drifting between tables. Jisung had long since fallen into the habit of joining a cluster of familiar faces, Hakyung with her wicked sense of humour, Bongchan with his dramatic storytelling, and Bomi, whose dry one-liners could floor a room in seconds.

They traded small scandals and harmless gossip, elbows leaning on the polished wood of the table, voices overlapping in the easy way that came with routine. At one point, Bongchan delivered a hopelessly exaggerated impression of a pompous courtier who'd been seen tripping over his own robes in the gallery. Hakyung snorted tea through her nose, Bomi doubled over clutching her stomach, and Jisung laughed until his ribs ached.

It was in the midst of that laughter, his cheeks warm, his chest light, that his gaze, by chance, swept the room.

One of the guards was watching them. Not just watching, the man's expression was cool, his mouth set in a line that hovered between disapproval and faint disgust. And his eyes, Jisung realised, were fixed not on their group as a whole, but on him.

The sound seemed to drain from Jisung's throat all at once. He reached for his cup, taking a long sip of tea as though to hide the sudden quiet in him. Bomi was still wiping her eyes, Bongchan still grinning, but Jisung let the laughter pass him by now, settling back into the chair with a smaller smile.

Better not to draw too much attention.

After meals, he made his usual stop at the gymnasium. The air there always held a faint tang of polished wood and oiled equipment. He liked the clean lines of the place, the mirrored walls that caught movement and light, the steady rhythm of footsteps on the indoor track.

The donors' gym was rarely crowded, most preferred the gardens or media rooms for their leisure time, but Jisung had always liked the quiet focus here. He started with his usual warm-up, the stretch of muscle and the satisfying click of joints loosening. Then he moved to the free weights, working through his normal set of lifts.

Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was a faint, restless energy he couldn't quite burn off. Whatever the reason, when he reached the deadlift station, he slid a little more weight onto the bar than usual. Just enough to feel like a challenge.

The first lift came up slowly, his shoulders trembling with the extra strain. The second was harder, his grip slipping fractionally. By the third, his back screamed in protest. He gritted his teeth, determined to finish the set, but when he tried to lower the bar in control, his arms gave out.

The weight hit the floor with a thud that reverberated through the room.

He straightened too fast, breath caught in his throat, and felt rather than saw the attention turn his way. From the corner of his eye, he caught the dark figure of a palace guard posted near the far wall.

"You should know your limits," the guard said, voice carrying easily across the space. "That weight is beyond yours. Dropping it like that risks damage to the floor and the bar. Not to mention yourself."

The tone was flat, almost bored, but the reprimand still landed like a cold stone in Jisung's gut. He swallowed hard, nodding quickly.
"Sorry," he said, his voice a little too quick, a little too light. "Won't happen again."

The guard didn't reply, just resumed his silent post, eyes still faintly tracking him in the mirror.

Jisung took the hint, stripping the extra plates off the bar and replacing them neatly on the rack. The room felt different now, as though every move he made was being measured.

He found himself longing for the days when the guards barely seemed to register his presence at all. When he could move through the palace without feeling the prickle of someone's eyes on the back of his neck.

The medical checks still happened once a week, like clockwork. Always the same sterile room, the same whitewashed walls and faint antiseptic tang that clung to the air no matter how many times the windows were opened.

Jisung still thought they were utterly pointless. He'd been through them enough times to know the script by heart, blood pressure, temperature, a quick examination of his pulse, other tests followed by a few questions about his energy levels and appetite. He answered, they nodded, they scribbled something on their chart, and then it was over.

He wondered, as the nurse tightened the cuff around his arm, if that would change after the wedding. Surely, if he wasn't technically a donor anymore, these weekly appointments would stop.

The thought unlocked a cascade of questions in his mind. What else would change? Would he still be lodged in the donor wing, or would he move into Minho's rooms? Surely that would make more sense. The idea of walking down those corridors every night to a bed that wasn't his... Well, it wouldn't feel like much of a marriage.

But if he did move in...

The image came unbidden, sliding into bed beside Minho, feeling the weight and warmth of him there every night. And in the mornings, waking up to the sound of his breathing, his face softened in sleep. No more waiting for the steward's knock, no more leaving at the end of a draw. Just the quiet, constant presence of him.

He felt the corners of his mouth lift without permission, the thought sending a warmth curling through his chest.

"Mr. Han?"

He blinked, realising the nurse had been looking at him expectantly. She had a hand poised above her clipboard, pen ready. "You didn't answer me," she said, her tone polite but clipped.

"Ah-sorry. What was the question?"

Her eyes lingered on him for a beat longer than seemed necessary before she repeated it, and he couldn't shake the faint, uncomfortable sense that she was noting more than just his answer.

Afternoons often saw him in the palace garden, particularly now that the weather was kind enough to spend an hour among the roses and early blossoms. The air carried the faint sweetness of early spring, tempered by the sharper scent of turned soil. The gardeners worked quietly around him, green aprons brushing against hedges and flowerbeds, their tools making soft, deliberate sounds, snipping, raking, the low crunch of boots on gravel.

Jisung had been wandering along the winding path near the east fountain when one of them, a man stooped slightly with age, straightened from where he'd been pruning a rose bush. His face was lined in a way that spoke more of sun and wind than years, though the streaks of silver in his hair said he'd seen plenty of both.

"You look like you've got time to spare," the man said, his voice warm but dry.

Jisung gave a small shrug. "I suppose I do."

"Good. Then maybe you'll let me talk your ear off for a bit. Always nicer to work with company."

It was an easy offer to accept. Within minutes, Jisung found himself following the man along a curving border of flower beds, listening as he pointed out different plants with an affection that was almost palpable.

"Camellias there," he said, nodding toward a mass of glossy leaves studded with red blooms. "Good strong flowers, don't mind the cool nights. Though, these particular ones are coming towards the end of their flowering period. Those lilacs, ah, you'll want to come back in a month. Best scent in the gardens when they're in full bloom."

The man spoke like each plant was an old friend, sharing not just facts but small histories, moments of pride and failure alike.

"Irises," he said at last, coming to a narrow bed where the green blades thrust up in elegant fans. He crouched, running a calloused fingertip along one leaf as though smoothing the fabric of a fine coat. "These are my favourites. They'll bloom soon, violet and gold, bright as a painter's brush. But they never last long. A week, maybe less. That's all they get."

"Doesn't that bother you?" Jisung asked, leaning closer.

The man shook his head. "No. The shortness of it makes them sweeter. You can't take them for granted. Every time they open, you know you're looking at something you won't see again for a whole year. Fleeting beauty is the truest kind, I think."

Jisung considered that in silence for a moment, letting the thought settle. He found he liked the idea, that something could be all the more precious because it didn't last forever. It was the opposite of what he wanted with Minho... Yet it resonated in a way he couldn't quite explain.

Somewhere between tying up a drooping peony stem and moving on to the iris bed, the gardener mentioned a tradition Jisung hadn't heard before, that each monarch, upon coronation, chose a new flower breed to add to the royal gardens. "A mark of their reign," he explained, "something that grows alongside their rule." Jisung, intrigued, immediately asked which ones the Crown Prince had chosen, then quickly added, "And the King and Queen's too, if you don't mind."

The gardener's eyes crinkled faintly as he led him toward a series of rose beds. On the way, he explained that the coronation roses were cared for differently from the rest of the garden’s flowers. Rather than being left to follow nature’s course, they were nurtured with special fertilisers and techniques, ensuring that they bloomed for nearly the entire year.

He stopped before a patch of deep, velvety blooms so dark they were almost black. "His Majesty chose the 'Black Baccara.' Petals like silk at midnight, and they hold their shape well even in heat." A few steps away, the Queen's roses flared in softer colours, pale lavender edges fading into pink. "The 'Paradise Rose,'" the gardener said, with a faint note of fondness. "It shifts its colours through the season, never quite the same bloom twice."

Then he brought Jisung to a trellised section where blush-coloured flowers opened in perfect, layered cups. "The Crown Prince's choice, the 'Juliet Rose.' Bred by David Austin. Took years to cultivate properly. They're famed for the number of petals and their peachy hue."

"They're beautiful," Jisung said honestly.

The gardener inclined his head. "Thank you. He's got a good eye for roses."

When Jisung asked what he would choose if given the honour, the man rubbed the back of his neck, thinking, before finally saying, "The 'Abracadabra.'" At Jisung's curious look, he went on, "Red and yellow stripes, bold as you like. A bit like a boiled rhubarb and custard sweet."

The mental image made Jisung laugh. "That actually sounds very pretty."

The man smiled faintly, then turned the question back on him. Jisung hesitated, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "It's... Perhaps rather common in comparison," he admitted, "but I'd choose cosmos. There was a little patch that used to grow by my home. I'd pick them on my way back from school and give them to my mother. So they remind me of her."

"Nothing wrong with common," the gardener said. "Cosmos bloom for months and keep coming back year after year if you treat them right. Hardy things. That's a fine choice."

Before long, the conversation had loosened into something easy. Jisung asked questions, about planting schedules, about the strange-looking metal stakes by the rose bushes, about the best way to keep soil from drying out, and the man answered them all with patient enthusiasm. Somewhere between moving a potted hydrangea into better light and pulling weeds from the edge of a bed, Jisung found himself kneeling beside him, hands in the earth.

It was different from anything he normally did. Simple. Grounded. There was a quiet satisfaction in freeing the roots of a stubborn weed or firming the soil around a young shoot, the slow transformation of a space under careful hands.

They worked together for nearly an hour, the man's voice weaving in and out of the sound of birdsong and distant fountain spray. Every so often, Jisung thought he felt eyes on him, one of the other gardeners, maybe, or a passing servant lingering a little too long before moving on. When he glanced up, there was never anything to see but bent backs and moving hands.

By the time he left, brushing dirt from his palms, he realised he felt lighter than he had all week.

 

______________

 

The quiet between them was a comfortable one, broken only by the scratch of Jisung's pen and the faint pop of the fire in the grate. Minho dictated when needed, then watched Jisung translate the words to the page with his usual quick precision.

"I saw your roses, by the way," Jisung said suddenly, without looking up from his work.

Minho made a low sound of acknowledgment, not quite a word. "Hm?"

"The Juliet roses," Jisung clarified, his tone still casual, but there was a flicker of interest in his eyes when he glanced up briefly. "Out in the gardens. The gardener told me they were yours."

That earned his full attention. "They are."

"Why did you choose them?" Jisung asked, curiosity softened with that small, unguarded tilt of his head.

"Partly because they're beautiful," Minho answered, and then let a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "And partly because I enjoyed the play. Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare may have been human, but he had a hell of a way with words."

Something flickered across Jisung's face, thoughtful, almost warm, but he didn't offer any opinion on the flowers themselves. If anything, it felt as though he were deliberately keeping something back.

Instead, he tapped his pen against the margin of the page. "Should we include that in the memoir? The rose choice?"

Minho's smile deepened just slightly. "Why not?"

Jisung nodded once and bent back over his notes, the steady rhythm of his pen resuming. Minho leaned back in his chair, letting the crackle of the fire and the scratch of ink on paper fill the quiet. His gaze lingered on the curve of Jisung's hand, the way his brow furrowed just slightly when he was focused, and for a moment the memoir didn't matter.

What stayed with him was the memory of pale blush petals in the garden, layered with sunlight and the faint scent of roses drifting in warm air. The image sat in his mind, stubborn and soft all at once.

Almost without thinking, he spoke.
"When we marry... Would you like to choose a flower for the garden?"

Jisung's pen paused mid-word, his head tilting just slightly toward Minho. A flush rose to his cheeks, faint but unmistakable.
"You've already thought about that?"

"I'm thinking about it now," Minho said evenly, watching him. "Well? Would you?"

Jisung hesitated, then ducked his head. "I... Already had that conversation, actually. With the gardener. About what we would pick, given the choice."

Minho's brows lifted. "Oh?"

Jisung nodded. "He told me he would choose the 'abracadabra' rose. Said it looked like a boiled rhubarb and custard sweet." His mouth twitched with the memory. "I thought it sounded beautiful."

Minho hummed, a note of recognition in his tone. "I know the one." Then he leaned forward slightly. "And what about yours?"

Jisung's gaze lingered on the page in front of him, as though he could pretend to still be focused on his writing. Finally, he said, "Cosmos flowers."

The name pulled Minho up short. He'd expected something striking, rare, maybe even difficult to cultivate. Cosmos were... Unassuming. Simple.
"Why?"

Jisung's eyes softened, his voice lowering in that way it sometimes did when he reached back into memory. "There used to be a small patch near my childhood home. Every summer, during the last week of school, I'd pick them on my way home to give to my mother. They always made her smile."

Minho's chest tightened, not painfully, but with something deep and certain. He reached over, brushing the back of his fingers along Jisung's arm.
"Then you shall have armfuls of cosmos."

Notes:

Okay, so I’m actually a MASSIVE flower/ plant fan.

Especially roses. I have 4 different ones in my mini “garden” outside my block of flats, and I always have to stop myself from buying more.
If you have any interest in the roses mentioned here, do look them up because they are absolutely stunning.

I added some basic information about the Juliet rose in this chapter, but there’s so much more. It took 15 YEARS of breeding, and has been called the “£3 million rose” as a result.

I think maybe one day, when I have an actual garden, I might have to see if I can get some.

For the time being, I’ll have to settle for my petunias, hydrangeas and basic red/pink/yellow roses 😂

For the most part, I tried to be realistic about which flowers would be blooming at this time of year in the story, but obviously I had to take liberties with the nonsense about the roses being treated differently, otherwise we wouldn’t be able to see them in bloom 🙃

I STILL haven’t picked a favourite track off Karma yet. I think it’s actually impossible.

Chapter 44: The Ceremony

When Jisung stepped into Corvin's workroom, the familiar scent of pressed fabric and cedar polish greeted him first, clean and faintly sweet. Sunlight poured in through the tall arched windows, catching on motes of dust and gleaming over the polished wood floor. The room had the same sense of orderly precision it always did, rolls of fabric arranged by colour and texture along the back wall, mannequins frozen mid-measurement, pins bristling from their padded forms like strange metallic flowers.

Today, though, his gaze went immediately to the long garment bag lying on the table beside the raised measuring platform. Corvin was bent over it, un-fastening the zip with the kind of care most people reserved for handling priceless relics.

"Ah, good," Corvin said without looking up. His voice was warm, almost indulgent. "You're right on time." He smoothed a palm over the bag, then glanced at Jisung with a faint, self-satisfied smile.
"I'll admit, this has been... A pleasure. Years of making garments for His Highness means I can cut, shape, and stitch on instinct. I could probably do it blindfolded by now. But this-" his hand pressed lightly against the bag's surface, "-this is different. This may be one of the most beautiful things I've ever made."

Jisung's mouth went dry. He didn't know if it was nerves or anticipation that tightened in his chest.

Corvin stepped back, gesturing toward the raised platform. "Go on-let's get you into it. Undress, please."

Jisung did as instructed, trying to keep his movements brisk and casual, though it was hard to shake the faint vulnerability of standing there in nothing but his underwear under the bright spill of daylight. The cool air prickled along his bare skin, and for a fleeting moment he was acutely aware of how exposed he was. Corvin, of course, seemed utterly unfazed, already turning to the table and lifting the first piece from within the bag.

He returned holding a pair of pants in a shade of ivory so pure it almost glowed in the light. The fabric felt cool and buttery beneath Jisung's fingertips as Corvin passed them over.
"They'll mould to you," the tailor said with quiet pride. "Ivory wool blend, light enough for comfort but structured enough to hold the line. Gold fastenings, nothing ostentatious, just enough to catch the light."

Jisung stepped into them carefully, feeling the fabric whisper along his legs. They hugged his frame like they'd been poured onto him, every seam perfectly aligned.

Corvin didn't waste a moment before presenting the next piece, a shirt of fluid, luminous fabric that seemed to shift between cream and pearl as it moved. He guided it over Jisung's head, the material sliding down over his shoulders like water. The collar was high but soft against his throat, gathered with precise pleating, and at its centre sat a golden sun brooch, each ray picked out in delicate diamond chips that winked as he breathed.

"Perfect," Corvin murmured, fussing over the fall of the fabric, tucking it loosely into the waistband so it billowed just enough to give the silhouette life. Then, with an almost ceremonial air, he turned back to the table.

"And now," he said, glancing over his shoulder with a grin that was almost boyish, "the pièce de résistance."

Jisung's breath caught as Corvin lifted it free. It was a corset, but not like any he'd ever seen, ivory silk so smooth it seemed almost unreal, its edges bound in gleaming gold ribbing that traced the top and bottom in perfect lines. The back was laced with a ribbon the colour of spun sunlight, and across the front, dozens of tiny golden metal suns gleamed, each one delicately hammered and etched, linked together by fine golden chains that draped in graceful arcs. When Corvin turned it slightly, the whole piece shimmered as though it were lit from within.

It was breathtaking. Not just a garment, but a statement, one that spoke of care, of craftsmanship, and of the fact that someone had imagined him in it, had thought about how it would fit his frame, how it would shine against his skin.

For a moment, Jisung didn't move. Then, quietly, he said, "It's... Beautiful."

Corvin's smile deepened, as if he'd been waiting for that exact reaction. "Wait until you see it on."

Corvin motioned for Jisung to step closer, and the weight of the corset settled into his hands as he took it. Up close, it was even more exquisite, the chainwork fine as spider silk, the tiny suns so perfectly detailed that he could see the minute etching of each ray.

"Arms up, if you please."

Jisung obeyed, and Corvin guided the corset around his torso, the silk cool against his thin shirt. The tailor's hands were deft, precise, drawing the back panels together without tugging, threading the ribbon through the eyelets with a practised flick of the wrist. The faint rasp of the silk ribbon pulling through was the only sound for a moment, until the garment began to tighten.

The pressure was gentle at first, then firm, settling him into a posture that was both upright and strangely regal. The cool silk settled snugly against his shirt, the top edge coming to rest right at the base of his lowest ribs, firm enough to make him aware of every breath, but not so tight as to bite. It wasn't uncomfortable, if anything, it felt like being held, the steady embrace of fabric and craftsmanship shaping him into something sharper, surer.

"Breathe normally," Corvin said quietly, adjusting the tension until it was perfect. "You should feel supported, not restricted."

Jisung nodded, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest as the final knot was tied, the ends of the ribbon falling in a neat cascade down his back.

Corvin stepped back to survey his work with the air of a man inspecting a masterpiece. He made a thoughtful sound low in his throat, then arched a brow at Jisung.

“Well,” he said dryly, “at least now His Highness might stop harassing me with hourly updates on my progress. You’d think I was sewing with my teeth, the way he’s been demanding to know if it was finished.”

Heat flared instantly across Jisung’s cheeks, his ears going hot as he ducked his head. “He-he did what?”

“Oh, several times,” Corvin replied, fussing needlessly at the fall of a chain to disguise his smirk. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think the crown prince had less patience than a boy waiting for his first royal gala suit.”

Jisung sputtered a laugh, half-embarrassed, half-buoyed by the image. He could already picture Minho, all clipped dignity in council, pestering the court tailor like a restless child. The thought left his chest warm, even as his blush deepened.

"Now," Corvin said, stepping around him to check the front. He smoothed the silk over Jisung's stomach, letting the chains settle into their natural drape. The golden suns caught the light with every movement, casting tiny, warm glints across the pale fabric of the shirt beneath.

"Step down," Corvin instructed, gesturing toward the tall cheval mirror by the window.

Jisung obeyed, descending the platform slowly, his pulse picking up as his reflection came into view. For a heartbeat, he didn't quite recognise himself. The ivory pants elongated his frame, the flowing shirt softened his shoulders, and the corset, gold and sunlit, pulled the whole thing together into something undeniably striking. The brooch at his throat caught the light in harmony with the tiny suns on the corset, and for the first time in a long time, he thought he looked... Worthy.

Corvin came to stand beside him, eyes flicking critically over every seam, every line, before nodding once in approval. "It fits as it should. No adjustments needed."

Jisung let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding and managed a small smile. "It's... Perfect."

"Good." Corvin began carefully packing away the spare pieces of the set, each movement unhurried, meticulous.

“Prince Minho has already visited to check his. Naturally, there are no issues with his either. The two suits… Well, they really do make a perfect pair”.
A small smile crossed his face before he added, "I'll have both pressed and ready for collection by tomorrow morning. Wear them well.”

Jisung gave one last glance at himself in the mirror, committing the image to memory before stepping away. The fabric whispered softly with each movement, and the faint scent of the new silk clung to him as he dressed again in his everyday clothes.

Corvin's voice lingered in his ears long after he'd changed back into his ordinary clothes. 'pressed and ready for collection tomorrow. Wear them well.'

Tomorrow.

The word seemed to pulse in his mind with every step he took down the corridor, as if the palace itself were whispering it back to him in the hush of its vaulted ceilings. Tomorrow meant more than picking up a finished garment. Tomorrow meant he would be putting it on for the last time as just Minho's scribe.

Tomorrow meant he would be a husband.

The thought nearly made him stumble. His chest felt light, almost buoyant, the corners of his mouth tugging upward no matter how hard he tried to keep his composure. It was absurd, really, he'd faced months of uncertainty, of rules and threats and careful half-measures... And yet here he was, practically giddy at the knowledge that in twenty-four hours, all of it would change.

Tomorrow, he thought again, and this time it came with the vivid image of Minho waiting for him, dressed in black and silver, the two of them side by side. A declaration. A promise. Forever.

 

___________

 

The palace was at its quietest in that hour before dawn, the air still heavy with sleep. Seungmin padded through the donor wing, the weight of the garment bag from Corvin's workshop balanced over his shoulder. His steps made no sound against the carpeted corridor, but the enormity of the morning felt loud in his chest.

Jisung's door opened almost immediately after Seungmin knocked, he was already awake, hair mussed but eyes sharp, as if the same restless anticipation had kept him from sleep.

"We need to move quickly," Seungmin murmured by way of greeting. "He's already in position, a quiet room off the kitchens. Delivery entrance."

Jisung nodded, a little too quickly, and Seungmin stepped inside, closing the door behind them. Without a word, he laid the garment bag across the bed and unzipped it. The fabric inside seemed to catch even the dim lamplight, ivory and gold blooming into the room like dawn itself.

Seungmin didn't say much, compliments were never his style, but he did take an extra second before passing each piece over, committing the sight to memory. The tailored trousers moulded to Jisung's frame as if they'd been sewn in place; the shirt spilled in light folds around him, a beautiful golden sun winking across the brooch at his throat.

When the corset came last, Seungmin held it open for him, guiding it carefully around his torso until the silk rested snug against his ribs. The faint scent of the fabric, warm from Seungmin's hands, seemed to cling in the air. Stepping behind, he began to thread the golden ribbon through the lacing, the tiny suns at the front chiming softly with each pull. He drew the ribbons tighter in measured increments, adjusting the tension so it shaped rather than squeezed, until the panels sat flush and perfect. With a final, decisive tug, he tied it off, the knot neat and secure at the centre of the laces.

Only when he was dressed did Seungmin reach for the final piece, a long, dark hooded coat, heavy enough to hide the gleam of gold beneath. "Put this on," he said quietly.

Jisung shrugged into it, pulling the hood up, and they slipped from the room. The route Seungmin took was longer, but every turn and stairwell was calculated. Servants' passages over grand corridors, side halls over main galleries. The palace felt like a sleeping beast they had to step around carefully, its eyes half-shut but still watchful.

By the time they reached the kitchens, Seungmin's pulse had settled into that strange, deliberate calm that came just before risk. He led them past the scullery doors into the storage area, and there Minho stood, his own dark coat shadowing his features, though nothing could dim the way his eyes lit at the sight of Jisung.

Jisung crossed the space in three long strides, hands finding Minho's and holding on as though he'd never let go. Minho's gaze searched his face, a silent question hanging there.

Jisung nodded once.

That was enough.

They moved together toward the delivery door, the same one Jisung had first stepped through on his very first day here, and Seungmin felt a flicker of quiet amusement at the symmetry of it. Full circle, but in a way none of them could have imagined back then.

The car waited just beyond the courtyard, its back windows darkened to perfect opacity. Seungmin ushered them into the rear seats and closed the door, taking his own place behind the wheel.

At the gates, the guard leaned in slightly, brow raised. "Early start for you, Seungmin?"

Seungmin huffed a put-upon sigh. "Prince Minho's errands don't keep palace hours. If it were up to me, I'd still be in bed."

The guard chuckled, trading a few lines of harmless banter before waving them through.

The road to the chapel wasn't especially long, but in the car it felt endless. None of them spoke. It was as if they were all holding the same breath, the same thought, just a little further. Just until we get there.

The chapel loomed ahead, pale stone washed in the soft grey of predawn. As Seungmin pulled into the narrow side lane, a flicker of irritation threaded through him. The law's insistence on a place of worship for the binding ceremony had always struck him as archaic. He'd never been one for gods or saints, only facts, records, the truths you could hold in your hands. All this pomp could have been handled far more quietly, efficiently, in Minho's own rooms. But no, tradition demanded an altar.

He cut the engine. "We're here," he said, though the words felt unnecessary. The three of them stepped out into the cool morning, their breath ghosting in the early-morning air.

The chapel doors creaked faintly as they pushed them open, and Seungmin's shoulders loosened when he saw the interior empty. Expected, given the hour, but still a calculated risk. Rows of pews stretched in clean lines toward the altar, the air faintly scented with beeswax and old incense.

Minho and Jisung shed their coats, folding them over the back of the last pew. Without the concealing fabric, Jisung's outfit caught the light, ivory and gold gleaming softly, the tiny suns winking with each movement.

"You look beautiful," Minho said, voice low but certain. His eyes shone, unguarded.

Seungmin almost rolled his eyes at the sentimentality of it, but stopped short. He had never seen Minho look this happy, open, without the edges court life demanded. That, he decided, was worth preserving.

The three of them walked the length of the aisle, Minho and Jisung's fingers intertwined the entire way, until they reached the altar.

Seungmin had the absurd thought that this felt less like officiating a binding ceremony and more like shepherding accomplices through a heist. Everything had been timed, hidden, calculated. The coats to hide their finery, the side passages, the quiet knock at the delivery door. Not a soul in the palace could know what was happening here, not yet.

And here he was, Seungmin, archivist, sworn devotee of brittle scrolls and obscure charters, standing at the altar of all places, guiding two people into forever. It should have felt ridiculous. In some ways, it did.

He almost smiled, a thin flicker of irony. For once, he wasn’t unearthing forgotten laws or piecing together half-rotted decrees in the archives. He wasn’t hunting through dust for answers to keep the court from tearing itself apart. No, this time he was here for them, Minho, his prince who had finally stopped pretending not to care, and Jisung, the boy who had stumbled into the palace as a donor and somehow changed everything.

Seungmin thought, dryly, that it was the strangest assignment he’d ever taken on. And, though he’d never admit it aloud, perhaps the most important.

 

_____________

 

They stopped before the raised stone step, and Minho turned fully toward him. Jisung mirrored the movement, both of them taking each other's hands in both of their own. The weight of it, the warmth, felt almost enough to hold him steady.

It was only then that Jisung truly looked at him, really saw him. The black fabric of Minho's high-collared jacket was deep as midnight, the cut sharp and regal, silver thread catching the pale light in constellations that swept across the shoulders and sleeves. Tiny stars winked in delicate arcs over the tailored lines, anchored by the soft gleam of a crescent moon at his breast. It was the perfect opposite to Jisung's own ivory and gold, like the night sky facing the sun, distinct, yet bound to one another. Together, they looked like two halves of the same vow, already joined before a word had been spoken.

Seungmin set his satchel down on the edge of the altar and withdrew a slim leather-bound book, the pages marked with neat slips of parchment. He opened to the one he wanted and glanced between them.

"The words you will speak are old," he said, his voice carrying a soft authority. "Older than this kingdom. Repeat them after me, and mean each one."

He began.

"By the blood that flows in my veins,
By the breath that carries my voice,
By the shadow and the sun,
I take thee into my life and into my name."

They repeated it, Minho's tone steady and rich, Jisung's quieter but no less sure.

"Let no law nor blade divide us,
Let no hunger nor fear unmake us,
From the rising of the first light,
Until the last star falls from the sky."

Jisung’s voice sounded strange to his own ears, too loud in the hush of the chapel, bouncing off the stone and circling back toward him. Each word carried a weight he hadn’t expected, and when Minho’s voice overlapped his, low and steady, it pressed against him like a physical touch. Their hands were clasped tight, so tight his knuckles ached, but it grounded him, tethered him to the moment. The words weren’t just spoken; they lived in the heat of Minho’s palm against his, in the faint tremor that ran through their joined fingers when their voices moved in unison.

"By the seal of our bodies and the joining of our blood,
I bind my life to yours,
Now, and for all the ages to come."

The final words felt heavier, carrying with them the shape of forever.

Seungmin closed the book. "Then seal it."

The words still hung in the air, their weight settling over him like a cloak, warm, unyielding, and inescapable. Jisung's heart was loud in his ears, a steady drum that seemed to fill the stillness of the chapel.

'Then seal it.'

The phrase pulled at a memory, sitting in his room, Seungmin's voice low and deliberate as he'd explained what would come at the end of this. Not a kiss, not the gentle press of lips that tied two humans together before their witnesses, but something older, deeper. A bond carved into the flesh as well as the spirit.

"Vampiric marriage," Seungmin had said, "is sealed by blood. One gives, one takes, and then they reverse. It's not merely symbolic, it's binding. Physical. You're carrying each other in you from that moment on."

At the time, Jisung had nodded, trying to look as if the idea didn't unnerve him. But it had. The intimacy of it, the rawness. A kiss was something you could share with anyone. Blood was different. Blood was life. Blood was him.

He remembered asking what it would feel like, and Seungmin had hesitated, as if unsure whether to answer truthfully or spare him. "For you?" he'd said finally. "It'll be like every time he's fed from you, but magnified. You'll know it's more than hunger. And when it's your turn..." He'd left the rest unsaid, but the faint crease between his brows had been enough for Jisung to imagine it.

Now, standing at the altar, Minho's hands wrapped around his, the truth of it was here. The vows were spoken. There was no rehearsal left, no space to think of what-ifs. This was the moment Seungmin had prepared him for.

Jisung braced himself, not in fear, but in the quiet, taut way one might before a plunge into deep water. He drew in a slow breath, feeling the press of Minho's fingers, the cool air of the chapel, the soft glint of dawn breaking through the stained glass at their backs.

Minho stepped closer, and Jisung knew exactly what was coming next.

Minho released one of Jisung's hands only to lift the other with deliberate care. He slid back the cuff of the ivory shirt, baring the skin at his wrist.

The bite was gentle, precise, but the sensation still made Jisung's breath catch. The weightlessness bloomed instantly, a familiar rush of sound and colour. The dawn light filtering through the stained glass fractured into prisms, scattering across Minho's form until he seemed wrapped in a halo of varied colours. It was almost too beautiful to look at.

When Minho withdrew, crimson welling in the neat twin punctures, he raised his own wrist and bit down, quick and sure. Then he offered it forward.

Jisung took it gingerly, almost reverently, and pressed his mouth to the skin. The taste was immediate and overwhelming, sweet vanilla, fragrant cardamom, and a grounding note like cedar wood, deep and rich. It was Minho, distilled into flavour, and it set every nerve alight.

Minho's wrist gave the slightest jolt, and the motion snapped Jisung from the haze. He pulled back, lips tingling, only realising there was a trace of blood at the corner of his mouth when Minho stepped in.

Minho caught it with the tip of his tongue, then leaned in and kissed him, deep, sealing the human way. Cherries, vanilla, and spice mingled between them, the taste and the vow inseparable.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing beyond the two of them. No throne, no palace, no looming shadow of disapproval, only Minho’s hands in his, their blood mingled, their vows echoing softly in the stone vaults above. Jisung felt… Whole. As if the jagged pieces of him, scattered across months of fear and uncertainty, had finally locked into place. The world outside the chapel seemed to fall away, leaving only this, warmth, breath, the certainty of forever.

From the shadowed back of the chapel, a voice cut through the air-sharp as a blade and thrumming with authority.

"Donor Han. Step away from the Crown Prince at once, or you will be struck down where you stand."

Notes:

Oop.

Now seems like a good time to remind you that I only do happy endings.

Also, if you’re late to the party and binge-reading, now would be a good time to take care of your flesh bag. Sleep. Eat. Drink some water ❤️

Chapter 45: The Test

Notes:

TW: Mild gore tag is relevant in this chapter. Details in the end notes!

Minho turned his head slowly toward the sound, fingers closing tighter around Jisung's without conscious thought. The long nave of the chapel framed the advancing line of guards like a painting: six of them, palace livery stark against the muted colours of dawn spilling through the stained glass. Their boots rang against the stone, perfectly in step, each movement precise and deliberate.

Weapons weren't drawn, but every hand rested close to a hilt or holster, the promise of speed and force hanging in the air.

Minho stepped forward just enough to put himself fractionally ahead of Jisung. "Explain yourselves," he said, his tone cool as winter water.

The lead guard, a broad-shouldered man Minho recognised from the palace watch rotations, stopped two paces short of the first pew. His gaze flicked over Minho briefly before settling on Jisung, hard and assessing. "Your Highness, palace security has been monitoring Donor Han for several weeks. His movements have been... Irregular. Out of keeping with his station. We were ordered to maintain surveillance. The vehicle you departed in was fitted with a tracker. We followed it here."

Jisung's posture was still, but Minho could feel the faint tremor in the hand he held.

The guard went on. "We now have confirmation that your relationship with him exceeds the limits permitted by the donor contract." His voice sharpened slightly on the last words, as if the phrase itself were an accusation.

It was meant to rattle him. Minho didn't so much as blink.

"You will not touch him," he said, voice low but cutting through the chapel's stillness like a bell. "You will not threaten him. You will not so much as breathe in his direction without my permission. He is my husband."

The word landed like a crack in glass. The fracture passed visibly through the line of guards, an exchanged glance here, a stiffening spine there, but not one of them spoke.

"Your Highness," the lead guard said carefully, "our orders are to return you both to the palace immediately. Questions will be answered there."

"Then you will return us," Minho replied. "And you will remember that if a single mark is left on him between here and the palace, I will see to it that the one responsible loses more than their commission."

For a moment, the two men held each other's gaze. Then the guard inclined his head, barely more than a fraction, and gestured toward the door.

The walk to the car was conducted in a silence so taut Minho could almost hear the strain of it. Jisung stayed close at his side, their joined hands a quiet anchor against the weight pressing in from all directions. Two guards flanked them, another pair leading the way, the rest closing in behind.

The convoy swept out of the chapel grounds in one smooth motion, the tinted glass turning the world outside into vague shapes and pale light. No one spoke during the drive. It felt as if they were all waiting for whatever came next.

It came quickly.

At the palace gates, the guards on duty waved them through without ceremony, the iron bars parting to admit them into the inner courtyard. They were escorted straight to the high audience chamber, no stops, no chance to divert.

Inside, the space was exactly as it had been every rare occasion Minho had been summoned before: vast and echoing, polished marble underfoot, the high windows casting pale morning light across the dais where the King and Queen sat side by side.

His father's gaze found him instantly, pinning him in place. "You have involved yourself with a lowly human."

The Queen's voice followed, sharp enough to draw blood. "He must be removed from the palace immediately. Sent to a secure location far from here, where he will no longer endanger your position or your dignity."

Jisung's hand twitched in his, but Minho didn't give them time to move forward with their decree.

"No." The single word landed flat and unyielding.

"You forget yourself," the King snapped, leaning forward in his seat.

Minho's voice was even, but it carried through the hall like a thrown gauntlet. "I forget nothing. Jisung is not human."

That earned a brief, startled pause. His father's eyes narrowed. "Then what is he, Minho?"

"He is Aurelian," Minho said, every syllable deliberate. "He is my husband. And by the decree set down generations ago, law you yourself swore to uphold, he is now a prince of the Lee family. Equal to me in title, and untouchable by your hand or anyone else's."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. The King's voice came back low and dangerous. "Do you have any idea what you have done?"

"Yes!" The word ripped out of him, louder than he'd intended, ringing against the stone walls. "I have married the man I love. And even if you could take him from me, which you cannot, it would not give you what you want. I was bound to him long before today. Heart and soul."

He stepped forward, the guards in the room shifting subtly at the movement, but he didn't care. "The pain of that shattered heartroot would be nothing, nothing, compared to what I'd feel if you took him from me now."

Silence followed, deep and brittle, as if the entire palace were holding its breath.

The Queen's eyes flickered at his words, a flinch so small most would miss it, but Minho saw it. She remembered. She had been there when he lay on the edge of death from the shattered heartroot, her composure cracked as the healers worked. She had been the one to insist he remain on bedrest until he was fully recovered.

His father, however, was unmoved. "That law does not exist," the King said flatly. "And if it ever did, it was repealed when the Aurelians were wiped out."

Minho's breath caught, sharp, dangerous, and when he exhaled, it was like releasing steam from a kettle about to boil over. "So you did know about them," he said, voice low, a thread of steel running through it. Anger painted itself hot in his veins.

"Of course I knew about them." The King's reply was immediate, laced with contempt. "They were a threat to our entire world. You speak of them like some blessing, but you forget the damage they caused. They left us vulnerable! For all the power and ability they brought the vampire race, the weakness left in their wake was far too dangerous to allow."

Minho took a step forward, his voice a knife. "Then it's a good thing I'll die of grief if you take him away. Because I'd rather die than be without him."

"Minho!" Jisung gasped, the shock in his voice cutting through Minho's rage for a fraction of a second, but not enough to make him take it back. He meant every word.

The King's face hardened further. "I will not accept this union without proof of the law, or even of his supposed status as an Aurelian." His eyes shifted like a hawk's to Seungmin, standing at the side of the chamber. "And I want to know your part in this. You disappoint me, Seungmin. Deeply. I thought you above such deceit, yet you lied to us when you were questioned before."

Seungmin did not flinch. His voice, when it came, was smooth and steady. "At the time I was summoned, I truly was not aware of the extent of their relationship."

Minho hid a smile in the corner of his mouth. That was Seungmin all over, finding the precise shape of a loophole, threading the needle between truth and duplicity, and doing it without blinking.

Seungmin continued, unhurried, as though giving a lecture in the archives. "From the moment Donor Han arrived at the palace, I began looking into his status. At first, it was simple curiosity, his file was... Inconclusive. Then I dug deeper. I traced his genealogy, generation after generation, through branches of his family tree most would overlook."

The King's frown deepened, but Seungmin pressed on, unbothered.

"My research into Aurelians began then in earnest. I found scattered evidence of their existence in records your own historians had long since deemed irrelevant. And eventually, I found the decree, an ancient royal mandate, unrepealed, that explicitly grants royal title to an Aurelian who marries into the crown line. The very law enacted today."

He reached into his satchel and withdrew a tightly rolled scroll, bound in faded red ribbon. "It is here," Seungmin said simply, as if producing the answer to a question on an exam. "If you require proof, you shall have it."

Seungmin's tone was calm, almost clinical, as he stepped forward and laid the scroll across the arms of the king's throne. The faded red ribbon came loose under the king's fingers, the parchment unfurling with a whisper of age. Minho watched his father's eyes move over the curling script, the initial flicker of disinterest giving way to something sharper, recognition.

The king read the passage twice, then a third time, his jaw tightening. For all his restraint, Minho caught the faint shift in his father's breathing, just enough to know the truth had struck home. The law existed. And worse, for him, it had never been repealed.

The king's voice, when it came, was clipped. "This decree... It is genuine?"

"It bears the seal of your ancestor, King Daewon," Seungmin said evenly. "Cross-referenced with every royal archive I could access. Its authenticity is not in question. And as it was never rescinded, its power remains."

The queen's fingers were white against the carved wood of her throne, her eyes darting between her husband and the neat, damning lines of ink.

For a moment, silence stretched across the chamber, heavy with inevitability. Then the king's gaze slid to Jisung, sharp as the sword still at his hip. "If the law stands, then the only remaining question is this-prove to me that he is what you claim."

Minho's pulse kicked, the quiet triumph he'd felt a heartbeat ago twisting into something colder. He knew the trap in those words. There was no straightforward test, no convenient blotting paper that bloomed at the touch of Aurelian skin. That was the point, they'd hidden, assimilated, survived by becoming unremarkable.

Seungmin hesitated. "That..." he said finally, the word soft in the vaulted chamber, "... I don't know how to prove beyond all shadow of doubt."

The king leaned back, a satisfied curve tugging at his mouth, as though he'd already won. "Then why," he drawled, "should I believe you? The Aurelians were wiped from the face of this earth. Hunted to the ends of it."

"Ah, your majesty," Seungmin interjected smoothly, "that isn't entirely accurate."

The king's eyes narrowed.

"They did not all die," Seungmin continued. "Some sought refuge among humans. They concealed their bloodlines, married outside their kind, and over centuries their traits were diluted, but not erased. Among the right lineages, the traits persist."

He stepped aside, his hand gesturing toward Jisung. "There are... Certain anomalies. His recovery time after a feed, far beyond human limits. And..." Seungmin's gaze flicked to Minho.

Minho inclined his head.

"... He can taste blood, as a vampire does, after a direct feed. That is not possible for a human."

The king's stare locked on Minho, his voice suddenly a blade in itself, the force of his gaze enough to bring a lesser man to his knees grovelling. "You've been direct feeding from him?"

"I have," Minho said without flinching. "Almost every day. And as you can see, he is no worse for wear. That alone should tell you what he is."

The queen gasped softly, the sound quick and sharp in the tense air.

Still, his father shook his head. "A convenient tale. But I will not take it on faith. If he is Aurelian, prove it. Not with stories. With fact."

And then Minho saw it. This was not disbelief. This was refusal. His father didn't want proof to exist. He wanted this to end here.

The king rose from the throne, the scrape of steel ringing as he drew the ceremonial sword from his side. He stepped forward, each measured pace an unspoken threat, the polished blade catching the light.

Jisung froze, his eyes flicking to Minho.

Minho moved. One sharp step and he was in front of Jisung, teeth bared, the quiet snarl in his throat more dangerous than any shout. "You will not touch him."

The point of the sword halted, the distance between them charged with old power and older grudges.

"I presume you know as well as I do," the king said, voice like cold iron, "that if he is truly an Aurelian, then unless I take off his head and burn the remnants, he will survive any injury." His gaze slid to Jisung like a blade being drawn. "If you're so certain of what he is, why not allow me to prove it?"

Minho's hands curled into fists. "Because I will not see him harmed!" The words tore out of him before he could temper them, raw and loud enough to echo off the vaulted ceiling.

"My love!" the queen's voice cut in, urgent and shaking, she was leaning forward in her throne, eyes darting between her son and the man he shielded. Whether she spoke to Minho or the king, he didn't know, but the break in the king's attention was all it gave him.

A hand settled gently on Minho's shoulder. Warm, steady.
"It's okay," Jisung said quietly, like they were alone and not standing in front of the court, the guards, and his parents. "I think... This is the only way."

Minho's head snapped toward him. "No, Jisung. I can't let him hurt you."

Jisung's eyes held his, steady in a way that made something twist in Minho's chest. "If this is what it takes for him to believe... Then let him see. I'll survive it. You know I will."

Minho shook his head sharply, breath tight in his throat. He could feel the king's eyes on them, could feel the weight of the room waiting for him to step aside. Every instinct in him screamed to dig in, to bare his teeth until they dragged him away in chains before they so much as laid a finger on Jisung.

But Jisung's fingers pressed into his shoulder, not hard, but grounding.
"Minho," he said, softer now, "trust me."

 

_____________

 

A strange calm settled over Jisung, heavier than fear but steadier than courage.
He saw the anguish etched into Minho's face, the wide, wet eyes, the tightness in his mouth, and for a moment, that was almost enough to stop him. But no matter how much it tore at him to see Minho like this, he couldn't see another path forward. Not one that didn't end with him being dragged from this room in chains.

Before he could change his mind, Jisung stepped around Minho, moving into the king's direct line of sight. He straightened his back, lifted his chin, and met the monarch's gaze without wavering.

The Queen’s hands had clenched around the carved arms of her throne so tightly Jisung thought she might splinter the gilded wood. Her lips parted more than once, a protest half-formed, but each time she swallowed it back, torn between two loyalties.

The king's eyes, sharp and assessing, locked on him. Whatever concern the queen voiced was brushed aside without so much as a glance.

"Choose," the king said, flat-voiced but edged in command.

Jisung hesitated only long enough to think through the possibilities, how much damage, how long it might take to heal, before extending his left arm. Not the right, still bearing the ghost of Minho's teeth from the ceremony.

The king's mouth curved, but it wasn't a smile. It was cold, mechanical approval, the look of a man given leave to test a theory he already believed would fail.

Jisung inhaled and held the breath as the king drew back the sword. Dimly, he was half aware of the Queen almost rising out of her throne at the same time. The polished steel caught the light in a brief, cold flare, and then it moved. Too fast to follow, a silvered arc slicing down.

The pain hit like lightning. White-hot, immediate, all-consuming. His knees buckled, and he crumpled before he even realised the arm was gone. Instinct made him clutch what remained against his chest, the heat of his own blood soaking into the ivory silk, turning golden suns and their fine chains a spreading crimson.

For a heartbeat, an absurd thought pushed through the agony, Corvin's painstaking stitches, the pride in his work, and how utterly ruined it all was now. The distraction lasted only a second before the full weight of the pain roared through him. It was worse than hurt, it was the unnatural wrongness of absence, the shock of a body no longer whole.

Minho was suddenly on the floor beside him, gathering him into his arms with a desperate tenderness. His hands pressed over Jisung's own in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding, his voice breaking with ragged sobs against Jisung's hair.

Several of the guards recoiled, one muttering something half-formed before silencing himself with a clenched jaw. Another shifted his grip on the hilt at his side, knuckles pale, though whether from readiness or revulsion, Minho couldn’t tell. The King alone remained unmoved, as though the chamber had not just become a butcher’s hall.

He stood over them, impassive, like a man checking the time. Only the faintest flicker of something, anticipation, perhaps, lit his gaze as the blood pooled at their feet. But already, the pain had begun to recede. Jisung drew his bloodied arm forward, and all three of them watched as the flesh began to knit together, slowly at first, then with steady, grotesque precision, the length of the forearm reforming, the wrist, the tendons of the hand, the fingers, down to the very tips.

Every nerve screamed as heat surged up his shoulder and down the ghost of the limb. It wasn’t just pain, it was the uncanny sensation of his body pulling itself together, sinew and skin stitching in jerks and spasms. He could feel it, like threads drawn taut under his skin, dragging bone into place, tendons latching, fingers blooming one by one. The silence of the hall pressed against him, suffocating, every pair of eyes watching his body remake itself as though he were some grotesque miracle.

The throne room was silent except for the faint, sickening sound of flesh knitting over fresh bone. Jisung's breathing came fast, shallow, though the pain was already ebbing from his face. Minho's arm was locked firmly around him, holding him upright as though sheer force alone could shield him from everything else in the room.

When the final threads of skin pulled shut, Jisung flexed his new fingers experimentally. They obeyed, smooth and whole, but the phantom ache lingered, ghostly pulses where the absence had been. Around them, the guards stood in stunned silence, some with wide eyes, some with faces carefully blank, as though witnessing blasphemy.

A single sound broke the hush, a quiet, deliberate exhale, not of shock but of satisfaction. Seungmin.

He stood off to the side, arms loosely folded across his chest, expression composed to the point of boredom. But there was something in the set of his mouth, a fractional curl at the corner of his lips, that spoke of vindication. He had not so much as flinched when the blade fell, nor when the blood had spread like a tide across the floor. Now, having watched the last fleck of skin smooth itself into place, he tilted his head slightly, as though marking a point on an internal ledger.

“I did try to tell you,” he said lightly, his tone just shy of smug. “Painstaking genealogical research, written decrees, physiological anomalies, apparently none of that was enough. But an impromptu dismemberment seems to have satisfied the matter.”

The words carried an edge of irony, but underneath it lay the steel of someone who had staked his reputation on what others had dismissed as myth. For a fleeting moment, his gaze met the King’s, and there was no need for words: see?

Minho turned his head toward his father, his expression carved from stone. His voice came sharp, without hesitation.
"There's your proof. Are you satisfied now?"

The king's eyes, dark as onyx, fixed on his son. That earlier gleam of smugness, of control, was gone, replaced with something colder. His jaw worked once before he spoke.
"You have made a choice," he said slowly, every syllable heavy, "that will bind this house for eternity."

Minho did not look away, did not so much as blink. "I know," he answered, his tone flat, almost calm, but carrying an iron edge that no one in the room could mistake.

The king studied him for a beat longer, then drew in a breath through his nose and turned away. "So be it." The words fell like a gavel, final and sharp. He sheathed his ceremonial sword with deliberate precision, the metal ringing as it slid into place, and without another word, strode from the room.

The queen remained where she was. Her gaze flicked between Minho and the closing door, her body tense, as if some invisible thread pulled her in both directions. She didn't move, not even when the echo of her husband's boots faded entirely.

Minho lifted his head to watch her. "You've heard him," he said, voice still rough from anger. "Now I'd like to hear your position."

She hesitated, lips parting only to press together again. For a long moment she seemed to search for something, words, perhaps, or the courage to voice them. Her eyes slid briefly to Jisung, then back to Minho.

Finally, she exhaled, her voice quieter than before but steady. "I will support you in this. And your husband." The word hung in the air, deliberate. "Your father..." She faltered, then continued, "He will require time."

Minho's mouth curved, not in a smile, but in a shape that might have been one if there had been even a scrap of humour behind it. "Good thing we have plenty of that to go around."

Notes:

TW: A main character suffers a temporary case of limb loss.

In my original draft, they didn’t actually make it to the wedding before being discovered. Jisung would have been carted off to the palace dungeon, whilst Seungmin desperately tried to find a way to help, eventually finding the marriage law, then he and Minho stealing Jisung out of the dungeon for them to marry (still in secret).
In the meantime, the King and Queen were preparing to have Jisung taken away, already knowing that he was an Aurelian.

My concern was that it was too similar to some of the events in TCC, so I decided I needed to change it.

I’m still not sure which is the better storyline, but this is where I ended up.

Chapter 46: The Captive Audience

Notes:

A longer chapter today :)

Jisung surfaced slowly, as though dragging himself out of deep water. For a moment, the heaviness in his limbs made him think he was still dreaming, until the faint shift of weight against his side drew him fully awake. He blinked, eyes gritty, and found Minho there, pressed against him beneath the sheets. His head was propped up on one arm, watching him.

The look on Minho's face stilled him more than the intimacy of the position. It wasn't simply fondness, or even the softened warmth Jisung had grown used to stealing in private moments. No, this expression was sharp with something else, something closer to terror. As if Minho had spent the entire night willing him to stay, terrified that if he looked away, even for a second, Jisung might vanish.

Jisung swallowed, his throat dry, and turned his gaze away. He didn't need Minho to explain it. He knew. He would have nightmares of yesterday for the rest of his life.

It came back in flashes, unbidden: the king's voice commanding that he 'choose'; the silver blur of the ceremonial sword arcing down; the instant of white-hot pain that had ripped a scream from his chest before he could choke it back. And worse, far worse than his own agony, the expression on Minho's face as he fell beside him, trying to cradle what was left of his arm. The anguish, raw and unguarded, like the strike had cut through him too.

The king's frustration after, his face tightening with fury when Jisung had survived. The test had not failed Jisung. It had failed him.

The queen's parting words echoed faintly, 'I will support you in this. And your husband'. Her gaze lingering, conflicted, before she followed her husband out. The chamber had seemed cavernous after that, too large and too empty, save for the jagged sound of Minho's breathing and Jisung's blood still pooling across the floor.

And Minho-Minho hadn't let him go. Not once.

Jisung glanced at him now, saw the same stubborn refusal in his eyes. He didn't ask if Minho had slept. He knew the answer.

Instead, his memory drifted to the hours between. To the way Minho's hands had trembled as he stripped the shredded, blood-soaked clothes from his body, each button or fastener worked with a careful reverence, as though afraid Jisung might break all over again if handled too roughly. To the moment Minho had lifted him, ignoring his weak protests, and carried him into the adjoining bathroom, where the great claw-foot tub waited, steam curling faintly from its surface.

The water was already drawn, Jisung dimly remembered, though he hadn't the strength to wonder when Minho had ordered it. He only remembered the gentleness with which Minho lowered him in, the gasp that tore itself from his lungs as the warmth seeped into him, stinging as it touched dried blood and the still-sensitive skin of his newly knitted arm.

Minho hadn't spoken much. Just murmurs, barely words at all, as he dipped a cloth into the water and wiped carefully at Jisung's skin. The dried blood came away in dark streaks, smearing before it cleared, staining the water a faint reddish-brown. Minho worked with painstaking care, his jaw set, every stroke of the cloth deliberate, as if he were scrubbing away his own helplessness more than Jisung's blood.

Jisung had tried to make a joke at one point, something weak and half-formed about Minho fussing over him like a nursemaid, but the words had caught in his throat at the sight of Minho's expression. He'd never seen his prince look so fragile. Minho's hands had stilled only for a moment, his knuckles white around the damp cloth, before he carried on in silence.

When he'd finally lifted him from the bath, wrapping him in towels as thick and soft as blankets, Jisung had been too exhausted to resist. Too exhausted to do anything but let himself be led back to bed, Minho's arm steadying him until he collapsed onto the mattress. His eyelids had been too heavy, his thoughts too scattered, to fight the pull of sleep.

The last thing he remembered before slipping under was the warmth of Minho settling beside him, curling himself protectively around him as though to guard him even in dreams.

And now, awake again, Jisung had the distinct, bone-deep certainty that Minho hadn't moved all night. That he'd spent every hour watching him, counting every breath, desperate for proof that he was still there.

Jisung exhaled slowly, shifting slightly against the pillow. "You didn't sleep," he murmured, though it wasn't a question.

Minho's gaze didn't waver. "I couldn't."

Jisung's chest tightened. He reached up, brushing his fingers lightly against Minho's cheek. He leaned into the touch, just barely, but enough. And Jisung thought, not for the first time, that whatever nightmares haunted him now, Minho's were worse.

Minho's words hung in the air, simple and stark: I couldn't.

Jisung's heart squeezed. He pushed himself up slowly, ignoring the faint ache that lingered through his body, not pain, not anymore, but the ghost of it. He shifted until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Minho, until he could feel the brush of his breath. One hand slid down Minho's jaw, tracing the hard line of bone, the other pressed firmly to his chest where his heart beat fluttered erratically.

"I'm here," Jisung whispered, the words a steady anchor. His thumb stroked across Minho's cheekbone, then down to the corner of his mouth, tracing the lips that were set in too-hard lines. "I'm here. I'm okay."

Minho's eyes flickered closed for a moment, lashes trembling against his skin. "You weren't," he said roughly. His voice caught, breaking apart in the middle. "You were bleeding out in front of me, and I-" He cut himself off, teeth clenched, throat working like the words might choke him if he let them out.

Jisung leaned forward, brushing his lips softly across Minho's temple. "But I'm not anymore," he murmured. He pressed another kiss to the corner of Minho's eye, then another to his cheek, scattering them as if each one were proof, each one a reminder. "You didn't lose me."

Minho's hands finally moved, clutching at Jisung's waist as though afraid he might slip away if he didn't hold on. "I could have," he said into the hollow of Jisung's throat, his voice muffled, almost broken. "If he'd struck your neck instead and-"

"He didn't," Jisung interrupted gently, threading his fingers into Minho's hair, grounding him. He tugged lightly until Minho was forced to look up at him. Their foreheads pressed together, the contact warm and certain. "He didn't. And I'm here. I chose this. I chose you."

Minho's breath shuddered out against his skin. Jisung kissed him again, softer this time, just a brush of lips, his hands cupping Minho's face. "I'm here," he repeated. He kept saying it because Minho needed to hear it, because maybe he needed to hear it too.

They stayed like that for a long time, Jisung tracing patterns over Minho's skin, thumb across his jaw, fingers curling at the nape of his neck, palm pressed flat against his chest as if to brand reassurance into him. Every touch said the same thing: still here, still yours.

Jisung shifted, his hand still smoothing over Minho's jaw as though afraid to let go, his thumb brushing the sharp angle of bone. "Minho," he said quietly, hesitant. "What do you think she meant? Your mother. When she said she'd support us."

For the first time since waking, Minho's gaze faltered, sliding off to the side as if the question carried more weight than he was ready to face. His fingers tightened fractionally at Jisung's waist, holding him closer.

"I don't know," he admitted at last. His voice was rough but steady. "My mother, she's always been... Practical. Careful with her words. She wouldn't have said it if she didn't mean it."

Jisung frowned faintly, searching his face. "But will it matter? Against him?"

Minho's mouth pressed into a thin line, thoughtful, almost reluctant. Then he sighed, brushing his knuckles against Jisung's hip in a small, absent motion, like he needed the reassurance of contact as much as Jisung did. "For all their faults, for all their grandstanding, my parents are... Still very much a pair. More than rulers, they've always been husband and wife first. He's a stubborn, prideful man, but when it comes to her... He's softer. Always has been."

Jisung blinked at him, hope a dangerous flicker in his chest that he wasn't sure he should let himself feel. "Do you really think she could change his mind?" His voice was careful, quiet, as though voicing the thought too loudly would make it vanish. "That things could... Actually get easier?"

Minho's hand rose, cupping the back of Jisung's neck, pulling him in until their foreheads touched. "Given time," he said firmly. "Maybe she won't make him see sense, not fully. But she could make him accept it. Us. He loves her. If anyone can break through that pride of his..." Minho's thumb swept over the curve of Jisung's ear, grounding them both. "... It's her."

The words settled between them like a fragile promise, not certainty, but enough for Jisung to cling to for now.

 

____________

 

Minho had turned the question over and over in his head through the long, sleepless hours. What support could he expect from his mother, really? What weight did her word hold against his father's fury?

He knew her well enough to guess where she would begin. With the inevitability of it all. She would remind his father that he and Jisung were already bound, body and soul, in a way no decree could undo. The law was absolute, older than their reign, and ironclad enough to resist pride or rage. No matter what his father might desire, no matter what schemes he might hatch, the bond and the marriage law could never be torn apart. To fight it would be fruitless.

And if inevitability was not enough, perhaps she would guide him toward pragmatism. She could speak to him of politics, of optics, of what centuries of stability meant to a kingdom that looked always to its rulers as the unshakable axis of the world. He had wed an Aurelian, an impossibility come to life. To acknowledge Jisung as his consort and equal would be revolutionary, yes, but it would also be unassailable. If his father valued his crown, he would eventually see the necessity of allowing it to stand.

Maybe he would never be kind. Maybe he would never soften his heart to Jisung, would never look at him as anything other than the boy who had ruined his plans for his heir. But Minho found that the thought no longer frightened him as it once might have. He had more than enough love to make up for that absence, enough to wrap around Jisung and shield him from the sharpest edges of palace life.

And Jisung... Jisung would not be as alone as Minho had once feared. Not anymore. With his new status, nothing stopped him from seeing his family whenever he wished. Minho had smiled faintly into the half-dark, memory pulling him back to the day of Jun's birthday, the unbridled joy he'd witnessed between Jisung and his family. And later, the confession that he had started writing to them again, knowing his messages now reached their destination, even if sanitised by the palace staff.

That, too, was something his mother would understand: the strength that came from roots, from family, from love.

Minho let his smile linger as he looked down at the man tangled against him, still alive, still here. Whatever storms still lay ahead, the inevitability of this, their bond, their marriage, their future, was stronger than any king.

 

For the next few weeks, Minho saw very little of his parents. The king and queen seemed to spend most of their hours locked away in their private quarters, only emerging when protocol absolutely demanded it, or not at all. Their absence was conspicuous, and the work they left behind even more so. Minho had always carried a share of court duties as crown prince, but now he found the weight nearly doubled, sometimes tripled.

Where before, he had spent such hours gnawing on impatience, his thoughts straying ceaselessly to Jisung, wishing he could abandon the tedium for the quiet of the donor wing... Now things were different. Because Jisung was at his side.

It was new to him, of course, these council meetings, audiences, formal negotiations, the endless trickle of complaints and petitions from the aristocracy. Jisung had grown up far from the stifling grandeur of the palace, and Minho had wondered, privately, how he might weather the transition. But the worry had proven unnecessary. Jisung slipped into the role as though it had been waiting for him all along.

At first he was quiet, observant, but Minho could see his mind turning behind his eyes, the way he absorbed each word, catalogued it. He listened with a sharpness Minho himself often lacked, leaning in when others might drift. And slowly, inevitably, he began to speak. At first it was tentative, questions asked in the lulls of conversation, suggestions phrased as possibilities. But with time, and with Minho's unflinching support, those tentative words grew steadier. His ideas carried weight, and even the most recalcitrant lords, the most set-in-their-ways advisors, learned quickly to treat him with respect.

If anyone forgot themselves, offered a dismissive glance or a scoff under their breath, all it took was a single sharp look from Minho across the table to silence them. He would tolerate many things in the council chamber, but not disrespect toward his husband.

And Jisung-he seemed to blossom under the challenge. Minho found himself watching him often in those hours, far more interested in the curve of his brow as he considered an argument than the words spilling around the room. It struck him, over and over again, how natural Jisung looked here, seated beside him at the long tables, dressed in the finery that marked him as a Lee prince.

By day, he wore the clothes of his new station. Ivory and gold, rich fabrics cut to flatter him without overwhelming, the designs Corvin had so carefully tailored for him before, now only the beginning of a whole new wardrobe. Minho could hardly deny the pride that swelled in him each time Jisung entered a room dressed as he deserved, a living declaration of who he was and what he meant.

But the evenings were theirs alone, untouched by pomp or formality. As soon as they could retreat, Jisung would shed the weight of brocade and silk in favour of the softer garments Minho loved him in, loose jumpers, soft sweatpants, fabrics that clung and fell with comforting familiarity. They would curl together on the couches in Minho's chambers, or by the wide windows where moonlight pooled across the floor, speaking in low tones as the night wore on.

Sometimes they read aloud to one another, trading chapters back and forth until Minho's voice grew hoarse and Jisung's laughter filled the spaces between. Other nights, they talked of the days past, of what the week ahead might bring, of the small, fragile hopes that had taken root in the wake of their marriage. They dreamed together, about change, about freedom, about the kind of kingdom they might one day help to shape.

And then there were the nights when words were unnecessary. When they spoke instead in touches, in shared breaths, in the kind of silence that said more than speech could hold. Yet even then, the words found their way between them, soft and insistent, over and over, as if saying I love you a hundred times, a thousand, could anchor the truth more firmly into the world. They forgot everything beyond the press of skin, the thrum of heartbeat, the simple miracle of being together. Again and again, they lost themselves in each other, and every time Minho found himself marveling that this was real, that he had been allowed such a thing.

For all the strain of his parents' absence, all the uncertainty of what might come next, Minho felt a steadiness he had never known before. Jisung at his side in the council by day, Jisung in his arms by night, whatever storms lay ahead, this foundation was unshakable.

 

____________

 

Jisung found himself adjusting to a life he had never expected to live, much less so soon. The palace had always been vast, intimidating, something to be navigated carefully, quietly, as a donor... But now he walked it beside Minho, no longer shadow but partner. At first it had felt strange, the weight of gazes turning toward him in council halls and meeting chambers, courtiers murmuring at his presence.

They knew now what he was, what he carried in his blood, and though no one dared speak openly, he could feel it in the way their eyes lingered. Deference, yes, but laced with thinly veiled curiosity, the sharp-edged kind that bordered on suspicion. Not human. Not vampire. Something in between, long thought extinct. An Aurelian.

But Minho's hand would always brush his, or Minho would glance toward them as if silently daring anyone to object. That had been enough, at least at first. And then, as days passed, Jisung noticed a subtle shift. The courtiers stopped staring at him and began listening instead. Minho rarely cared for the details of policy or supply routes or disputes over trade tariffs, his mind always wandering elsewhere, but Jisung listened. He absorbed. He asked careful questions in the margins of meetings, and when Minho coaxed him into speaking aloud, his words carried weight. Sometimes he saw the surprise flicker across the faces at the table, this unknown boy, speaking with clarity where they had expected silence. Dismissive looks faded after only a few sessions, especially when Minho's acerbic glare followed any hint of disrespect.

The clothes were another adjustment. No longer did he wear the muted, practical garments of the donor wing; each morning he was dressed in silks or brocade, shirts cut to flatter him, trousers fitted perfectly. At first it had been suffocating, the weight of all that fabric and formality pressing down on him, but Minho's quiet satisfaction whenever he emerged, his smile tugging crooked at the corner, made it worthwhile.

But the evenings were what Jisung craved most. When the formality dropped away, when he could slip back into the soft cotton and loose pants that made him feel like himself.

Still, the memory of the test lingered. When Jisung closed his eyes, he could still feel the ghost-pain in his arm, the phantom ache of bone knitting itself back together. Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night to find Minho watching him, eyes shadowed, as if making sure he was still whole. On those nights, Jisung reached for him instinctively, grounding them both with touch, pressing his palm to Minho's cheek, lacing their fingers together, whispering reassurances until Minho finally slept.

Beyond the chambers and the meetings, Jisung also wrote. The memoir had become more than a project now, it was an anchor. He filled page after page with careful notes, not only about Minho's life but about their present: the quiet reforms Minho had started to consider trying to push, the vision of something gentler, better. He wasn't sure how much of it would ever be made public, but it mattered that it was written. That someone had seen it.

And through it all, Jisung tried not to think too much about the king. He still hadn't seen him since the day of the test, and he wasn't sure if that was a reprieve or a storm waiting on the horizon. The queen, too, kept her distance, though her promise of support still echoed in Jisung's memory. He clung to that when the uncertainty felt too heavy.

When three weeks had passed since the King's test, Jisung found himself once again arching beneath Minho's touch. It was maddening, almost laughable, how little had changed despite the countless nights they had shared. No matter how often Minho's hands found his skin, his body betrayed him the same way, his pulse quickening, breath stuttering, nerves sparking alive as if it were the first time all over again. Every brush, every press, left him aching, desperate, hungry for more, more, always more.

Minho's mouth traced a slow path along Jisung's jaw, each kiss a spark that made his breath hitch, his pulse stumble. Heat coiled low in Jisung's stomach, rising with every press of lips against skin, with every shiver that followed. When Minho rolled his hips forward, deliberate and unyielding, Jisung gasped softly, his fingers clutching at Minho's shoulders for something solid to hold on to.

Minho's hand clamped firmer at his waist, fingers digging into the curve of his hip as though to stake a claim, as though to remind him, you're mine, only mine. The gesture was almost rough, possessive, but paired with the tender scatter of kisses it made Jisung's chest ache in the best possible way, caught between being cherished and being utterly undone.

Maybe this was why it never grew too familiar, why every time felt like the first time. Because sometimes it was almost brutal, punishing, as they both attacked each other with a desperation bordering on violent.
And other times it was... This. A slow, deep rocking of hips as Minho sank into him over and over, pulling soft moans and gasps out of him with every stroke.

Jisung's fingers dug into Minho's shoulders, nails catching against skin as though he needed the anchor, as though he might slip away if he didn't hold on tight enough. Minho caught his wrist and pressed it down into the sheets, not harshly but firmly, pinning him there as he leaned down to steal another kiss.

It was languid, almost tender, nothing like the consuming fire of their more desperate nights. Minho kissed him as though he had all the time in the world, mouth coaxing rather than demanding, tasting every sound that spilled from Jisung's lips.

The hand at Jisung's hip slid up slowly, mapping familiar ground, fingertips brushing across ribs, chest, throat, pausing there, pressing just enough for Jisung's breath to hitch. Minho pulled back just far enough to look at him, their gazes locking, and in that instant Jisung felt bare in a way no amount of undressing could ever reach.

The rhythm deepened, steady and consuming, and Jisung could feel every deliberate drag of Minho's body against his own. Every nerve in him lit like fire, every sound torn out of his throat too easily.

Minho's hand slid back down, gripping hard at his hip to keep him pinned to the mattress, holding him exactly where he wanted him. Every push, every pull felt like it reached into the marrow of Jisung's bones, unmaking him, remaking him, leaving him trembling and strung out under the weight of Minho's focus.

The tension in his stomach wound tighter, pulling taut like a string about to snap. Minho knew it too, Jisung could tell by the way his pace shifted, his free hand finding Jisung's and threading their fingers together, squeezing in time with the thrust of his hips. The sound Jisung made at that broke apart into something helpless, his eyes fluttering shut as heat rushed through him.

And then-

A sharp knock at the door.

Jisung's eyes flew open, breath stalling, the moment fracturing around him. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it, except his body was trembling too much, caught between the edge of bliss and the intrusion of reality.

Minho growled low in his throat, teeth flashing as he bit down against Jisung's shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but suggestive all the same. "Ignore it," he ordered, voice rough and strained, hips driving harder as though to prove his point.

Jisung gasped, back arching, but the distraction lingered, keeping him hovering on the precipice without tipping over. He whined, frustrated, and Minho only tightened his grip on his hand, relentless, coaxing him back toward that sweet, unbearable edge.

The knock came again, more insistent this time, followed by a muffled voice that seeped through the heavy door. "Your Majesties?"

Jisung let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, muffled against Minho's shoulder, the sound cracking under the weight of pleasure and disbelief. He managed to choke out, "They won't-stop-" before Minho cut him off with another thrust, harsher this time, making him cry out.

"I don't care," Minho ground out against his skin, low and certain, his body bearing down with a pace that made Jisung forget the world outside the door entirely.

And then Minho's mouth was at his throat, lips dragging over the rapid thrum of his pulse before his teeth slid home in a sharp, perfect sting.

Jisung shattered.

His whole body jolted, bowing up against Minho's chest as a strangled cry tore out of him. The bite dragged him under, away from the knock, away from the voice beyond the door, leaving only the weight of Minho above him, the burn and sweetness of being pierced, claimed, tethered. Light burst behind his eyes, fractals and prisms spilling like glass shattered into colour, glittering across Minho's dark hair. He swore he could feel it too, radiant threads of brightness flickering over his own skin, like he was burning from the inside out.

His release ripped through him, fierce and uncontrollable, spilling hot and sticky across his stomach as his body clenched tight around Minho. Every pulse of pleasure was magnified, echoed by the pull at his neck, the steady rhythm of Minho's mouth drinking him down.

He collapsed back onto the sheets with a broken gasp, trembling, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. And still, through the haze, all he could feel was Minho, inside him, over him, wrapped around him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Minho tore his mouth from Jisung's throat with a low growl but his hips didn't slow, only drove harder, desperate now, chasing his own undoing. Jisung, still shuddering from his climax, clung to him with everything he had, legs locked tight around his waist, fingers digging into his back, nails scoring faint lines down smooth skin.

"Minho," he gasped, the name breaking into fragments, more plea than word.

That was enough. Minho shuddered violently above him, a thrust burying deep one final time as his breath hitched, body going taut. The sound he made, half-snarl, half-cry, trembled against Jisung's ear as he spilled inside him, heat flooding, pulse after pulse marking his release.

Jisung's vision was still a scatter of colourful sparkles, his pulse refusing to slow, when the knocking came again, relentless, sharp against the carved wood. He groaned, burying his face against the pillow as if he could pretend it wasn't real, but then came the shout: meek and muted by the thick wooden door, yet unyielding.

"Your Majesties, I'm sorry, but I really must insist."

The words cut through the haze like ice water. Minho's answering groan was darker, edged with a snarl as he pushed himself upright. Jisung watched him drag a hand down his face before he swung off the bed with the kind of simmering fury that made his movements sharp, decisive.

He stalked toward the door, shoulders squared, every inch of him vibrating with irritation. And when he wrenched it open, he didn't bother with the dignity of a robe. He stood there naked, unashamed, glaring daggers at the poor soul on the other side.

The steward's face went scarlet in an instant, eyes darting to the far wall as if it might swallow him whole. He had already been flushed, cheeks mottled with the obvious embarrassment of hearing what had been happening behind the door, but now he looked positively stricken, his words stumbling over themselves.

"Y-Your Majesties, forgive me, I... I wouldn't interrupt if it weren't urgent. You are summoned-both of you-before Their Majesties, the King and Queen. At once."

Behind Minho, Jisung sat up, tugging the sheet around his waist as his stomach sank. The bliss of moments ago dissolved into a hollow tightness in his chest. An audience, summoned now, could only mean one thing: the reprieve they'd been living in these past weeks was over.

Minho's jaw worked, muscles jumping with restrained fury, but his voice when he finally spoke was deceptively calm, each word measured like the edge of a blade.

"Tell them we'll be there shortly."

The steward nodded too quickly, still refusing to meet Minho's eyes, or anything else, for that matter, and all but fled down the corridor, leaving Minho standing in the doorway, tension radiating off him.

When he finally closed the door again, Jisung asked softly, "Do you think this is it?"

Minho turned, eyes still storm-dark, but his voice gentled for him alone. "Whatever it is, we face it together."

Notes:

So, how do we think this is going to go? Has the Queen been successful? 🤔

Also, as a heads up for anybody who has bought the Karma album with the 9 PCs and the plastic sleeve jobby to put them in…

🚨DO NOT USE IT🚨

The plastic sleeve holder is made of PVC, and over time will damage the PCs!
You are best off sleeving them in acid-free sleeves, then keeping them in a binder ❤️

Chapter 47: The Queen’s Hand

Notes:

You’ll like this chapter, I think.

Minho shut the door with more force than was necessary, the sound echoing sharp through the chamber. He stood there for a moment, back pressed against the wood, jaw tight, until the tension drained out in a long, steadying exhale. When he turned back, Jisung was still perched on the edge of the bed, sheet draped haphazardly around his waist, eyes wide and uncertain.

It made Minho's chest ache.

"We'll give him no excuse," Minho said at last, voice clipped with resolve. He strode back across the room, tugging Jisung to his feet with gentle insistence. "No reason for him to twist this into something it isn't. We'll be formally dressed, presentable. Untouchable."

Jisung nodded, though his throat visibly bobbed with the effort. He didn't speak, but Minho didn't need words to feel the weight of his nerves pressing down between them.

Minho tilted his chin, coaxing him to look up, then bent and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another, softer, at the line of his jaw. And another, quick and light, to his temple. "You're with me," he murmured between each press of lips, "and I'm with you. That's all that matters."

A faint laugh broke out of Jisung, thin but real. "You'll kiss me into being late," he whispered.

"Good," Minho shot back, though he pulled away reluctantly, catching Jisung's hand before he could retreat to gather his clothes. "If he makes us wait, it's strategy. If we make him wait, it's scandal."

Together, they cleaned up and dressed quickly, helping one another fasten buttons, tug sleeves smooth, straighten collars. Minho chose deep navy, austere and sharp, a contrast to Jisung's lighter silks, ivory threaded through with pale gold that caught the light as he moved. By the time they stood side by side in the mirror, the earlier chaos of their bodies tangled in bed seemed a different world entirely.

Jisung smoothed his hands nervously down the front of his jacket. Minho caught them before he could fuss again, threading their fingers together firmly. "No sense letting him see fear," he said. Then, quieter, so only Jisung could hear: "And no sense giving him reason to think I'll ever let you stand alone."

They walked the corridors hand in hand, steps echoing off marble and stone. Guards bowed low as they passed; servants paused, eyes darting curiously after them. The palace was alive with whispers, and Minho knew every murmur would race ahead of them to the throne room. But he didn't care. Let them talk.

By the time the great carved doors of the audience of chamber loomed before them, Minho's grip around Jisung's hand had only tightened, an anchor for them both. Whatever waited on the other side, his father's fury, his mother's composure, another test, another game, they would face it together.

Minho leaned just close enough for his lips to brush Jisung's ear as the guards reached for the handles. "Head high," he whispered. "We belong here."

And with that, the doors swung open.

The great carved doors opened on a tide of silence. Not the bustling murmur of courtiers, not the layered voices of advisors, but the still, breathless quiet that marked a private audience. Only two figures occupied the dais at the far end of the room: the king and queen.

The throne room was colder than Minho remembered it, or perhaps it was simply the memory of the past weeks that chilled him now. His hand tightened briefly around Jisung's as the heavy doors swung shut behind them, the echo reverberating off the high stone arches above.

His father sat as ever on the imposingly large throne, posture impeccable, his face a mask carved from stone. But Minho noticed at once, because he knew him, because he had spent a lifetime trying to read him, that something in that expression had shifted. It wasn't triumph, nor the tightly leashed fury Minho had braced himself to meet. No, what sat in his father's eyes was... Resignation. A bitter one, yes, but resignation all the same.

It gave Minho the smallest flicker of confidence, a spark that straightened his shoulders. Until his gaze slid to the other throne.

His mother was quiet, but not passive. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her back straight, her crown gleaming beneath the light from the great chandeliers above. But her eyes, her eyes were faintly narrowed, watchful, and there was a current of tension in her stillness. Apprehension, Minho realised, and though he could not tell yet whether it was directed toward him, toward Jisung, or toward the man seated beside her, it was enough to temper the spark that had lit inside him.

They approached together, hand in hand, the long carpet swallowing the sound of their footsteps until at last they stopped before the dais. The weight of tradition pressed down as Minho bent into a shallow bow; Jisung followed his lead a moment later, graceful but faintly hesitant.

"Father. Mother."

The king inclined his head a fraction, then let out a breath that sounded more like a growl. "Over the past weeks," he began, voice low, gravelled with discontent, "your mother and I have been... In discussion."

Minho nearly smiled at the way his father's mouth twisted around the word, as though it had personally offended him. When he glanced sidelong at his wife, the discomfort in his expression was almost comical, and Minho felt a sudden, dangerous flicker of amusement.

Still, he kept his face carefully neutral.

"The law," the king continued, his gaze snapping back to Minho, "stands. That much cannot be denied. Jisung is recognised formally as Aurelian, and therefore his marriage to you is legitimate under the royal mandate. He is-" the words caught for the briefest moment, as though scraping his throat raw on their way out, "-your equal, as a Lee prince. With all that entails."

Beside him, Minho felt Jisung stiffen faintly, the faintest tremor of surprise running through him. Minho squeezed his hand in silent reassurance, though his eyes never left his father's.

The king drew in another breath as though bracing himself. His gaze dropped to the floor for the briefest moment, and then he said, "Which is why-" and stopped. His jaw worked, the muscles clenching tight, before he tried again. "Which is why I will ab—"

But here the words snagged hard, caught like a fishhook in the flesh of his pride. He choked on them, his mouth twisting as if the mere thought tasted foul. His eyes darted once more to his wife, as if searching for an escape.

The queen's gaze sharpened instantly, narrowing just enough to make Minho think of steel drawn across stone. And with that subtle but unmistakeable warning, the king fell silent.

It was the queen who spoke next.

"What your father means," she said smoothly, her voice quiet but carrying, the voice of a ruler who had been listened to for centuries, "is that we have agreed this monarchy cannot continue as it has. The law is absolute. It was written in an age when Aurelians stood as partners to the crown, not adversaries. If Jisung is Aurelian, and the proof has been given, whether we desired it or not, then to deny his place here would not only defy tradition, it would break it. And that we cannot allow."

Her eyes flicked to Jisung for the briefest of moments, assessing, then returned to Minho. "This is not rebellion against our history, Minho. It is continuity. It is, in its way, honouring the past. Your father and I... We have ruled long enough to know when the world demands change. And the return of an Aurelian demands it."

Minho's chest tightened faintly at her words, the clarity with which she framed them, transforming inevitability into inevitability dressed as reverence. He wondered how many hours it had taken to turn his father's stubbornness into something that could even approach concession.

The king cleared his throat and added, as though desperate to regain some measure of control, "Therefore, it is decided. Minho, you will take the throne. Effective upon my abdication. And your-" a pause, a twitch of the mouth, "-husband shall stand at your side, as consort."

It was a compromise, perhaps even a generous one by his father's standards. For anyone else, it might have sufficed. But for Minho, it was not enough.

He turned, letting his hand slip into Jisung's again, grounding himself in the steady warmth there. His voice, when it came, was steady, even. But it carried the weight of unflinching finality.

"No."

The word hung in the air, reverberating. His father's eyes flared, his mother's brow lifted, but Minho pressed on before either could interrupt.

"I will not take the crown alone. Jisung is my husband. My equal, as the law recognises. As I recognise. If I am to rule, then he will rule with me. Not beneath me. Not behind me. With me. As king."

Jisung's fingers tightened around his, the smallest tremor of shock rippling through his body, but Minho kept his eyes locked firmly on the throne above him.

"Either you accept us both," he said, each word sharp as a blade striking stone, "or you deny me altogether."

The silence that followed was so taut it might have snapped.

The king's nostrils flared, rage sparking hot in his gaze, but beneath it Minho saw the flicker of something else: cornered calculation. He knew, as Minho did, that the choice was no longer his alone to make.

Because beyond the walls of this throne room, the court already whispered. The nobles already speculated. If word spread, and it would, that an Aurelian had returned, had bound himself by law and by blood to the heir of the crown, the demand for acknowledgement would be relentless. To suppress it, to try and circumvent the law itself would not only make him look weak, it would fracture the authority he had guarded so jealously.

The queen shifted slightly, and when she spoke, it was with a precision that made it clear she had anticipated this very moment.

"He is correct," she said softly. Her gaze cut to her husband, not unkind, but utterly unyielding. "The world will not accept anything less. If you deny their union, you invite division. If you accept only one, you create weakness. But if you crown them both..." Her voice dropped into steel. "You retain authority. You prevent upheaval. And you show the court that the crown remains indivisible, unassailable. As it always has."

Her words settled like stones cast into still water, rippling outward, undeniable.

"In truth," she said, "they have already begun."

Minho stiffened. He had expected his mother to soften her husband's fury, to temper it with quiet pleas. But her tone was not gentle. It was fact.

"For weeks now," she continued, gaze locked firmly on the King, "you and I have kept to our chambers, speaking of law and tradition while the court went on without us. And in that space, our son and his husband have stepped forward. They have heard the petitions. They have weighed disputes. They have spoken with lords and ministers alike, not as prince and consort, but as equals."

Her chin lifted, her eyes narrowing as she pinned her husband with the weight of her stare. "You may deny it if you wish, but the truth will not vanish for your denial. They have ruled already. Together."

Minho felt Jisung's hand tighten in his, the faint tremor betraying how those words landed on him. But Minho's own chest filled with a cautious, almost reckless pride.

The Queen did not stop. Her voice sharpened, precise as a blade slipping between armour plates. "This court has seen it. The lords have seen it. The servants whisper of it in the halls. They speak not of weakness, but of unity. Not of scandal, but of strength. You cannot erase what has been witnessed with your silence."

The King's jaw clenched, his eyes flashing, but the Queen leaned forward on her throne, her every movement a deliberate challenge. "You think to preserve dignity by resisting, but it is resistance that makes you appear weak. To deny what is plain, to cling to pride when the truth already walks among your people... What message does that send? That you would blind yourself to your own heir's capability? That you would scorn the law that has bound our kind since before our reign began?"

Her voice softened, but the edge in it only deepened. "They have proven themselves already, my love. More capable, more united, than most who have ever worn crowns. The strength does not lie in one of them alone, it lies in both. To deny them is to deny the very laws and traditions you claim to uphold."

She let the words hang, the silence that followed not empty but suffocating, pressing down on the King like a weight. Minho could almost see the moment his father realised he was being cornered, by reason, by inevitability, by his wife's unwavering will.

Minho's chest ached, pride swelling alongside relief. Jisung's eyes, wide with disbelief, flicked to him, and Minho answered with the smallest, crooked smile. See? it said. She's already winning.

The king's hands tightened on the arms of his throne, the gold creaking faintly beneath his grip. His jaw flexed once, twice. And then, finally, he exhaled, a long, slow release of a battle he had lost before it ever began.

"So be it," he ground out.

Minho felt Jisung's breath stutter beside him, and for the first time since they had entered the room, he allowed himself the smallest smile.

The silence stretched until his mother cleared her throat gently, her voice poised, deliberate. "Then there remains the matter of transition."

The King's head snapped towards her, but she pressed on before he could find objection. "Your father and I will take an extended leave of court," she announced, her words carrying the weight of decree. "We will begin a diplomatic tour of the allied kingdoms and courts, to announce this change of succession in person. Such news should not be carried by letter, it must be delivered face to face, with proper ceremony. And," she added, eyes narrowing just slightly, "it will be an opportunity to reaffirm and strengthen the bonds that hold our allies to us."

Minho's brows lifted, though he schooled his face before either parent could read too much from it. He heard the subtext as clearly as if she had spoken it aloud. This was not simply duty, it was strategy. By binding the King to the endless rituals of foreign courts, she was removing him from the centre of power here, placing oceans and months of travel between him and the throne.

Clever. Ruthless, in its own way. And merciful to them both.

"Given the breadth of our alliances," the Queen continued smoothly, "and the ceremonial courtesies demanded at each destination, it may take years before we return. How long depends, of course, on how swiftly we choose to travel."

Her words dropped into the chamber like pebbles into still water, the ripples spreading wide. Minho caught the faint flicker of realisation that crossed his father's face, that this was no temporary exile, no brief retreat. This was removal, soft-edged but absolute.

Minho almost pitied him. Almost.

"And in our absence," the Queen finished, "it will fall to you both to rule as one." Her gaze moved to Minho, then Jisung, her eyes bright, clear, and unflinching. "You have already shown that you are capable of doing so. Consider this the beginning of your reign."

The words stole Minho's breath for a moment. To hear them spoken aloud, not as possibility or promise, but as fact. He turned, just enough to catch Jisung's profile, the disbelief, the awe, the sudden weight settling on his shoulders. His husband's lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came.

Minho brushed their joined hands with his thumb, silently grounding him.

The King shifted, uncomfortable, as though he had swallowed something bitter. "If it must be so," he said curtly. But he did not contradict her.

And that, Minho thought with quiet satisfaction, was victory enough.

"Then the next matter," the Queen went on, her tone brisk, as though moving them all along before her husband could gather himself for protest, "is your coronation. It must be arranged quickly, before uncertainty has time to spread."

Minho inclined his head. "How quickly?"

Her gaze softened faintly at his composure, though her words were measured. "Within the fortnight, if possible. The court will need preparation, the regalia restored, proclamations sent to the provinces. But haste is necessary. Once it is done, there will be no room for doubt."

Jisung finally found his voice, quiet but steady. "Within the fortnight," he repeated, as though testing the shape of the words.

The Queen's eyes met his, and Minho swore there was the faintest glimmer of something almost maternal in her expression, quickly smoothed away. "Yes," she confirmed. "The sooner the world sees you crowned together, the sooner they will understand what cannot be undone."

The King said nothing, but Minho noticed the way his fingers still curled tight against the throne, knuckles white with restrained fury. His mother, as ever, had spoken for them both.

Minho drew in a breath, straightening his spine. "Then let us begin."

 

______________

 

Jisung felt the doors close behind them with a resonant boom, the sound rattling through his bones. His hand was still clasped firmly in Minho's, warm and unyielding, but his mind struggled to catch up. The marble floor stretched ahead, the long corridor lined with tall windows pouring in pale daylight, yet everything around him felt distant, muffled, as though he were moving through a dream.

Only half an hour ago he had been in their chambers, Minho's mouth against his throat, his body writhing helplessly under the kind of intimacy that made the world fall away. Then the steward's urgent knock. The summons. The sharp switch from desire to dread. And now, this. A decree that he was to be crowned. That he was to be King.

His pulse thundered in his ears, louder than their steps echoing on the stone. He felt almost dizzy with the whiplash of it, as though his body couldn't contain the speed at which everything had shifted.

"Minho..." His voice came out softer than he meant, unsteady. He squeezed the hand in his own as though to prove it was real, that Minho was still beside him. "Tell me I'm not dreaming."

Minho halted at once. He turned, catching Jisung with that sharp, unyielding gaze that could silence entire council halls, but now was softened, warmed only for him. Without a word, he tugged Jisung closer, holding both of his hands between them. Then he lifted them slowly, deliberately, to his lips.

He pressed one kiss across the ridge of Jisung's knuckles. Then another. Then another. Each one punctuated by a single word, spoken low, like an oath.

"Not." Kiss.
"Dreaming." Kiss.

Jisung's breath caught, heat prickling behind his eyes. Minho didn't even spare the guards stationed by the throne room doors a glance, didn't care about their presence, didn't care who saw. There was no reason to hide anymore, not after what had just been declared. The entire world was to know, and Minho wore that truth as proudly as armour.

It sent a shiver down Jisung's spine, equal parts awe and fear. This was his life now. He, who had once been a donor in the shadows of this palace, was to wear a crown.

Minho's lips lingered against his skin for a moment longer before he pulled back just enough to study him. His brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of doubt breaking the surface of his usual certainty.

"Was I wrong?" Minho asked abruptly, the words quiet but raw. His grip tightened as though bracing for an answer he didn't want to hear. "Did I do the wrong thing? By demanding you be crowned with me?"

Jisung's eyes widened. "What? No!" His answer came too fast, too vehement, but he didn't care. He tugged his hands free just enough to cradle Minho's face between them, forcing him to look at him directly. "Minho, no. You weren't wrong."

His chest clenched at the thought that Minho could doubt himself, could even for a second regret the act of defiance that had changed everything. "I want to be by your side. Always. Do you understand? This-this is all I've ever wanted. You. Us. Together."

Minho's throat bobbed as he swallowed, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally under Jisung's touch.

"It's just..." Jisung admitted, his voice softening, the words trembling out of him. "... All so unexpected. After everything we've been through, after everything I thought my life was going to be, it feels... Impossible. Like I stepped into someone else's story."

He let out a shaky laugh, pressing his forehead briefly to Minho's. "But it's ours, isn't it? Somehow, it's ours."

Minho didn't speak right away. He simply closed his eyes, exhaling as if Jisung's words had finally released the breath he'd been holding since they entered the throne room. His hands came to rest against Jisung's waist, grounding him, pulling him closer in the middle of the long corridor where the sunlight painted them in gold.

"Not someone else's story," Minho said at last, his voice low, certain again. "Ours. Always ours."

Jisung let himself breathe then, let the certainty of those words seep into him, steadying the whirlwind still spinning in his chest. And for the first time since the summons had dragged them from their bed, he allowed himself to believe it might be true.

Notes:

So… Did you expect this?

Chapter 48: The Preparations

The days that followed blurred into one another, a rush of activity so constant that Jisung sometimes went to bed unsure whether he had truly lived the hours he remembered or dreamt them.

A fortnight. That was all the time the Queen had decreed, and so the palace had bent itself around the demand, gears whirring into furious motion. Courtiers scurried like ants across the marble corridors; cooks, jewellers, scribes, heralds, all summoned at once, all set to work.

And through it all, Jisung walked at Minho's side.

The first summons had been to Corvin. Jisung had scarcely stepped through the atelier's heavy doors before the man was circling him like a bird, muttering to himself as his fingers flicked at seams, tugged at fabric, measuring and re-measuring as though his eyes alone could not be trusted. Jisung had thought he knew what it meant to be fussed over, his donor's silks had been tailored to perfection, after all, but this was another world entirely.

"You are to be seen by nations, not merely courtiers," Corvin had said, voice sharp as his scissors. "Every stitch must tell them exactly what you are."

Minho had smirked at that, seated with infuriating ease in a velvet chair while Jisung stood stiff and self-conscious on a platform, arms outstretched as pins flew dangerously close to his skin. "Careful," Minho drawled, "if you prick him, he'll pout at me for hours."

Corvin had only sniffed, unfazed, though Jisung had nearly lost his balance in his effort not to laugh.

Fittings followed fittings, bolts of cloth unfurled across polished tables. Deep hues for Minho, threaded with silver, to accentuate his sharpness, his gravity. Lighter shades for Jisung, though no less regal: ivory, pale gold, touched always with a shimmer that caught the light as he moved. "You are the contrast," Corvin explained, fingers brushing reverently over fabric. "Together you will be harmony."

It wasn't just clothing. Jewellers were summoned to design new crowns, crafted not as replicas of the King and Queen's but as their own, unique and undeniable. The first sketches had left Jisung breathless: Minho's crown sleek, angular, wrought in dark silver and glittering black diamonds, while his own curved softer, delicate filigree blooming outward like rays of light. When set side by side, the designs echoed one another, different, yet unmistakably a pair.

"Two halves of a whole," one of the artisans murmured, and Jisung had felt his throat tighten, unable to deny the truth of it.

The Queen oversaw much of this herself. She appeared at fittings, gave quiet but decisive suggestions, steered discussions with ministers who seemed uncertain how to address Jisung at all. Her presence smoothed over awkward silences, her certainty forcing others to follow. Once, as Jisung stood awkwardly still while attendants draped yet another mantle across his shoulders, she had caught his gaze in the mirror. "Do not shrink," she said, not unkindly. "The weight you feel is real, but it will only settle if you wear it without flinching."

He had carried those words with him through every meeting since.

Meanwhile, the King was almost entirely absent. He stalked the halls rarely, his expression darker than storm clouds, and when he did appear it was only to bark orders to his secretaries, overseeing arrangements for the long diplomatic tour that would spirit him away. It was the Queen who presided over the palace now, and though she seldom spoke of it, Jisung saw the subtle satisfaction in her gaze each time her husband passed into the background.

Preparations rippled outward, beyond fabric and gold. Proclamations were drafted and dispatched to every province, sealed with the royal crest. Messengers travelled day and night to ensure no town or village was left uninformed of the impending coronation. The cathedral was scoured and adorned with banners; musicians were summoned to rehearse the processional hymns; kitchens began planning feasts of a scale Jisung had never imagined. The scent of roasting meats and spiced breads seemed to cling to the very air of the palace as test after test filled the ovens.

And then there was the choreography of the ceremony itself. Hours were spent rehearsing the coronation procession, attendants instructing Jisung and Minho where to stand, when to kneel, how to turn their heads to the assembled crowd. Jisung stumbled through the first attempts, cheeks burning, but Minho only squeezed his hand discreetly each time, a silent reminder that they were learning together. By the third day, the movements had begun to feel less alien, more like muscle memory.

Through all of it, whispers followed Jisung wherever he went. Some deferential, bowing deeper than he had ever been bowed to in his life. Others tinged with curiosity, eyes lingering just a moment too long, searching for some mark of his Aurelian blood. He bore it as best he could, reminding himself of Minho's steady presence at his side, of the law that had carved a place for him here centuries before he was even born.

Nights were the only reprieve. When the doors closed behind them, the palace noise fell away, and Jisung could breathe again. Minho would pull him close on the couch, or into the bath where the scent of lavender clung to the steam, or simply into bed where words became unnecessary. And Jisung, who had once fallen asleep alone in a donor's narrow chamber, now drifted into dreams with Minho's arms around him every night, murmuring promises against his hair.

The days raced by, but each night reminded him why it was worth enduring, why he did not crumble under the weight of expectation. Because every crown, every mantle, every proclamation, none of it mattered if Minho's hand wasn't in his.

 

The room was thick with warmth, the sheets tangled around their bodies, skin still slick with the aftermath of what Minho had so thoroughly drawn out of him. Jisung lay sprawled against his chest, his breathing slowing gradually, though his body still thrummed with the echoes of pleasure. Minho's hand traced idle, soothing patterns along the ridge of his spine, grounding him, anchoring him in the quiet.

For a long moment they said nothing, listening only to the sound of their breaths mingling, hearts thudding against one another. Then Minho shifted, brushing his lips across Jisung's damp hair. His voice came low, softer than the steady beat beneath Jisung's ear.

"When we're crowned," Minho murmured, "things are going to change."

Jisung tilted his head, blinking heavy-lidded up at him. There was a look in Minho's eyes, still fierce, but gentled by something vulnerable underneath. A rare glimpse of hope laid bare.

"The donor system," Minho began, his fingers still drawing circles along Jisung's back. "It's going to be overhauled. No more living here unless they choose to. No more being tethered to this palace like livestock. If they want the walls and routine, fine. But if they don't, if they want their homes, their own lives, they'll have them."

Jisung blinked at him, caught off guard by the conviction in his tone. He'd dreamed of such a thing, but dreaming was all it had ever been. "You'd really do that?"

"I will," Minho said, no hesitation. His eyes sharpened, the way they always did when his mind fixed firmly on a goal. "The only mandatory draw will be the formal weekly one. Even then, they'll have choices. Palace, a formal location closer to their homes... Hell, if they want, they can host it themselves. But never again will they be at the beck and call of whoever they're matched to."

Jisung exhaled slowly, something tight in his chest unravelling. He thought of Rina’s forty years here, of the endless waiting, the way her world had been reduced to these walls. The thought of others spared from that fate made his throat ache.

"And D-Class?" he asked, his voice quieter.

Minho's jaw tightened. "I want to strip the taboo of it from the root. It won't be easy, not when centuries of prejudice have rotted into the foundation, but..." His hand stilled, pressing firm at Jisung's back, like a promise. "I want to begin. To improve their lives. And maybe one day..."

His eyes lifted, staring at the ceiling as though he could already see it. "Maybe we can abolish the screenings altogether."

Jisung's breath hitched. "You mean... No classes at all?"

"Not unless someone volunteers," Minho said. "Let it be a choice. You want to be screened, you are. You don't, you live your life untouched. The system should never own you. People deserve agency. Control."

Jisung swallowed, his heart pounding anew for reasons that had nothing to do with the ache still humming low in his body. "It sounds almost... Impossible."

"Doesn't it?" Minho's lips curved, though there was no humour in it. "But impossible is just another word for 'not yet done.'"

Jisung stared at him, overwhelmed not by the enormity of what he promised, but by the quiet certainty in his voice. He wanted to believe it. Wanted it so badly his chest ached with it.

He curled closer, brushing his lips softly against Minho's shoulder. "You'd change the whole world, if you could."

"For you," Minho said simply. His hand threaded into Jisung's hair, tugging gently until their foreheads pressed together. "For us."

The silence between them swelled, thick with things neither of them needed to say aloud.

Then, Minho shifted again, his expression turning thoughtful, more grounded. "Tomorrow," he said, "we'll go to your family."

Jisung blinked, startled from the haze of promises. "Tomorrow?"

"There's less than a week until the coronation," Minho reminded him. "The messengers are already out. They'll hear of it soon, if they haven't already. But it should come from us, not some faceless envoy."

Jisung's lips parted, his pulse skipping. His family had already met Minho once, of course, had welcomed him into their home, sat him at their table, laughing and sharing food, believing him nothing more than a palace escort sent to supervise Jisung. They hadn't known then. Not truly. But tomorrow, they would. Tomorrow they would see him not as some nameless guard, but as the crown prince himself, soon to be a king, and more than that, Jisung's husband. The weight of what that revelation meant, the shift it would bring to their lives, pressed hard against his chest, twisting somewhere between awe and fear.

"You'd do that?" he whispered.

Minho's thumb stroked across his cheek, firm, steady. "They're your family. Which makes them mine." His voice softened, but lost none of its conviction. "They deserve to hear it from us. From you."

Jisung's throat closed, too full to speak. He only nodded, pressing into the hand that cupped his face, the hand that had undone him in so many ways.

He didn't know if Minho could change the world. But lying here, tangled in him, hearing the certainty in his voice, Jisung believed he might just try.

 

The following morning dawned bright and sharp, sunlight cutting across the courtyard as Jisung and Minho left the palace. Jisung had half-expected Seungmin to be waiting for them by the car, keys in hand, the ever-capable archivist quietly efficient as always. It startled him, then, when Minho had simply opened the driver side door himself with a faint, amused quirk of his mouth and slid easily behind the wheel.

For some reason Jisung had never considered Minho driving, as though princes were somehow exempt from something so ordinary. He'd assumed, without even realising it, that palace staff always ferried him where he needed to go. But the moment the engine rumbled to life beneath Minho's hands, steady and sure, and the car slipped smoothly into motion down the long drive, Jisung realised how wrong he had been.

Minho was perfectly competent, more than competent. His hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, movements precise but relaxed, his profile calm in the morning light. He looked as though he belonged here, in this quiet, mundane act as much as he did on a throne or in a council hall.

Jisung leaned back in his seat, watching him, struck by the thought that even now, after everything, there was still so much he didn't know. For all the intensity of their bond, the nights spent tangled together, the countless words whispered between them, there would always be more to uncover. More pieces of Minho he hadn't yet seen.

The realisation sent a ripple of something warm through his chest. They had eternity, after all. Eternity to learn each other, to discover every hidden detail, every unexpected facet. If something as simple as Minho driving could catch him off guard, what else lay ahead? What else would he discover, and marvel at, and fall in love with all over again?

Jisung's lips curved faintly, his gaze lingering on Minho's steady hands, the sunlight brushing through his hair. Eternity suddenly didn't feel like enough.

The last time Minho had sat in his family's home, he'd been just "Minho." A palace escort, kind and careful, a presence that set Jisung at ease even as he burned with the effort of keeping his two worlds separate. His family had welcomed him without hesitation, never guessing the reality: that the man who had visited with their son was not simply a guard, not simply anyone, but the heir to the throne.

And today... Today they would know.

He couldn't decide which revelation was heavier, that Minho was Crown Prince Lee Minho, or that Jisung himself was to be crowned king at his side in less than a week's time. How could his parents look at him and see their son, the one who used to run barefoot through the narrow streets, who tripped over his own feet, crying until his mother held him close? Would they believe he was still that boy, or would they look at him now and see only something distant, untouchable?

Jisung turned his head, studying Minho's profile as the car followed the winding road out of the city. He looked composed as ever, but Jisung knew him well enough to see the subtle crease in his brow, the extra caution in his driving. Minho wasn't unbothered; he was focused. Careful. For Jisung's sake.

The sight made Jisung's chest ache.

This was the part that unsettled him most, the fact that his family would finally understand who Minho was. That the man who had sat quietly at their table, who had complimented his mother's cooking, ensured that he brought a gift for Jun, was so important to him.

And yet Jisung knew, with the deepest certainty, that Minho would treat them no differently now than he had then. He would walk through their doorway with the same ease, speak to them as though he were no higher than the ground beneath their feet, and in doing so prove that every crown, every title, was secondary to what they meant to Jisung.

It made him both tremble with awe and ache with fear.

Would they see it, though? Would his parents, his siblings, be able to reconcile the Minho they had once met with the truth that was about to walk into their home? Would they believe that he was not just a prince, not just a ruler-to-be, but Jisung's?

The car door shut behind him with a weighty thud, and Jisung's heart thumped hard enough to echo it.

He and Minho walked side by side, hands linked, the moss on the stone path muting their footsteps somewhat. Jisung's palm was slick with sweat, but Minho's grip never loosened, steady as a vow. Jisung tried to steady his breathing, but every step seemed to wind the tension tighter, until by the time they reached the door his chest ached with it.

He froze, nerves pressing like a weight against his ribs. He wanted to knock, he should knock, but his hand refused to lift.

Before the silence could grow unbearable, Minho leaned past him, calm and deliberate, and rapped gently on the surface. A soft, polite knock, the sound of someone with infinite patience.

"I'll get it!" came a voice from inside, quick and familiar. Jisung's throat clenched, the sound hitting him with a pang of homesickness despite how little time had actually passed since he was last here.

The latch clicked, the door swung open, and there was Jun, exactly as he remembered from his birthday, hair sticking up like he'd run his hands through it a dozen times already that morning, grin wide and effortless.

"Jisung!" he blurted, shock lighting his face, and then joy followed so fast it nearly bowled him over. He launched forward, throwing his arms around his older brother with such force that Jisung stumbled back a step, Minho's hand tightening against his in quiet support.

Jun's voice rang through the house as he yelled over his shoulder. "Mum! Dad! He's here-Jisung's here again!"

The words cracked something open in Jisung's chest, raw and tender. For a fleeting second, he wanted nothing more than to stay like this, frozen in his brother's arms, the world no bigger than the warm space they shared.

But then movement came from within, hurried footsteps, voices overlapping, and suddenly his mother and father were there in the doorway, faces alight with shock, relief, and something sharper.

Jisung felt Minho straighten beside him, quiet and watchful. And though Jun had yet to notice, still clinging to his brother's shoulders, Jisung saw the exact moment his mother's eyes flicked downward and caught on their joined hands.

She froze for half a breath, her lips parting. Jisung's pulse stuttered hard in his throat. But she said nothing, not yet. Her gaze rose again, skimming between her son's face and the man beside him, and Jisung thought he caught the faintest narrowing of her eyes, sharp with understanding.

"You should come in," she said finally, her voice measured but not unkind. She stepped back from the doorway, pulling it wide enough to grant them passage.

Her words settled heavy in the air. Not a demand, not a dismissal, an invitation. Yet it carried weight, a line drawn.

Jisung glanced at Minho, who gave his hand a firm squeeze before nodding toward the threshold.

They stepped inside together, Minho's steady presence beside him the only thing keeping Jisung's nerves from boiling over. Jun all but dragged him by the wrist toward the living room, firing off a stream of words so fast Jisung could barely keep up.

Jisung couldn't stop smiling, even as his heart twisted at the new rush of things he had missed. He squeezed Jun's shoulder affectionately as they entered the room, where his parents followed more slowly behind them.

His father moved to settle into an armchair in the corner, posture controlled, expression measured, but Jisung caught the way his gaze flicked between him and Minho, assessing, weighing. His mother stayed standing, one hand resting lightly against the back of the armchair, her eyes still fixed on their joined hands with quiet intensity.

Minho, for his part, was composed as ever, a calm counterpoint to Jun's bubbling energy and Jisung's own restless nerves. He met their gazes politely, but his thumb brushed over the back of Jisung's hand in subtle reassurance, a touch Jisung clung to.

Jun plopped onto the couch, his grin wide and unrestrained, but his words came out in a rush that tumbled over itself. "Why didn't you tell us you were coming? How long can you stay this time? Is it just for today? You didn't write about this at all, I thought-"

"Jun." Jisung's voice was gentle, but firm enough to still his brother's torrent of words. He sank down onto the edge of the couch, Minho lowering himself beside him, their hands still twined together. The weight of his family's attention pressed heavy, his pulse drumming in his throat.

"I need to tell you all something."

The words landed heavily in the quiet that followed, and even Jun, ever excitable, fell silent, his wide eyes fixed on his brother's face.

Jisung drew in a breath, feeling Minho's thumb brush lightly across the back of his hand, a small anchor. "First of all... Minho isn't just my escort." His voice trembled faintly, though he forced it steady. "He's Crown Prince Lee Minho."

The silence that followed was absolute. His father's brows lifted sharply, his mouth parting without words. His mother's eyes flicked to Minho at once, sharp and assessing, while Jun simply gaped, caught between awe and disbelief.

Jisung pressed on, because if he stopped now, he might not start again. "When I was first moved into the palace, I was assigned to him. As his formal match." He swallowed, heat burning in his cheeks though he fought to keep his voice calm. "I was his donor."

His father's face twitched, just a flicker, but enough for Jisung to see the disgust buried there, however quickly he tried to smother it. His mother's gaze didn't shift from Minho, suspicion written plain in the tight line of her mouth.

Jisung's chest tightened. He glanced to Minho, and Minho gave the faintest nod, an unspoken reminder: truth was their only shield.

"And then... We discovered something." His voice softened, though the words seemed to hang heavier for it. "That I wasn't just S-Class. That I'm..." He faltered, then squared his shoulders, meeting his mother's unflinching gaze. "... An Aurelian."

The silence stretched until at last his mother spoke, her voice quiet but edged with confusion. "What do you mean?"

Jisung opened his mouth, but the words stuck fast in his throat. How did you explain something so impossible, something he had only recently come to accept himself, to the people who had raised you? His tongue felt heavy, useless, his chest tight with the effort of trying.

Minho's hand tightened around his, warm and steady. Then, with a calm Jisung envied, he leaned forward slightly, meeting his mother's sharp gaze head-on.

"What he means," Minho said evenly, "is that Jisung is not human."

Jun's brow furrowed, his lips parting in confusion, but his mother's eyes narrowed, suspicion deepening.

Minho continued, his voice clear, deliberate, carrying the weight of centuries. "The Aurelians were another bloodline. Another species, if you wish to call it that. They were believed lost, extinct, for generations, remembered only in fragments of history and ancient records. But they were real. And your son is proof of it. Their blood, their strength, their very DNA... It lives in him."

Jisung's breath stuttered, his heart hammering as the words filled the room. He still couldn't tell if his mother's silence was disbelief or calculation.

Minho continued to explain the painstaking research that Seungmin had conducted. The fact that Jisung was effectively immortal. His enhanced regenerative abilities. And the rest of the palatable information that was necessary.

His mother was the first to break the silence, drawing in a slow breath, her eyes locked on him with something far softer than suspicion now. "You're saying..." Her voice faltered, as though even forming the words felt unreal. "... My son is one of them. An Aurelian. A being history thought gone from the world."

Her hands folded tightly in front of her, but there was no anger in her face. Only wonder.

"Yes," Minho said gently, stepping into the silence Jisung couldn't seem to break. "It was long believed they were extinct. Lost to time and memory. But Jisung, your son, he is proof they are not. He carries their blood, their strength. He regenerates. He endures."

Jisung's father leaned forward slowly, his brows drawn in thought rather than distaste. "Immortal," he murmured, as though testing the shape of the word. Not bitter, curious. Quietly awed.

Jun, wide-eyed, gasped. "So, you're like the heroes, Jisung? The ones who can't be killed?"

"Not... Quite that," Jisung said at last, his voice shaky, but a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "But... Close enough."

His mother's eyes softened, glassy with something between disbelief and pride. "And all this time," she whispered, as if speaking to herself, "you've been something greater than even we knew."

Minho nodded once, slow and deliberate, as though gathering the weight of his own words before letting them fall. Then he drew in a breath, shoulders squaring, his fingers tightening fractionally around Jisung's hand.

"There's more," he said, careful but steady.

The room shifted with the words, air drawn taut as a bowstring. Three pairs of eyes, his mother's sharp and searching, his father's narrowed in measured thought, Jun's wide with unfiltered curiosity, snapped back to him at once.

But Minho didn't falter beneath the press of their attention. He held it, calm and unyielding, the steadiness of a man used to carrying the weight of thrones and nations.

Jisung felt the faintest tremor run through his own chest, but Minho's hand in his was a lifeline. Anchoring. Steady.

And with that, silence fell again, waiting for what came next.

Notes:

How do you think they’ll react to the rest of the news? 🙃

Chapter 49: The Prince

Minho's hand remained steady in Jisung's, though he could feel the tension radiating from his husband like a bowstring pulled taut. The air in the small room seemed thick with expectation, Jisung's family perched across from them, waiting for the next blow to fall. Minho could almost hear the rush of their hearts in the silence that followed his words.

He drew in a breath, forced the regal mask he had worn in countless council chambers to soften. This wasn't court. This wasn't politics. This was family, Jisung's family, and they deserved something truer than cold pronouncement.

"There's more," Minho repeated, his tone gentler now, quieter. "And you deserve to hear it from me, not as a decree from the crown, but as the man who loves your son."

At once, Jisung's father stiffened, his eyes flickering sharply between them. His mother leaned forward ever so slightly, still cautious, still measuring. And Jun, Jun looked as though he might burst, his curiosity practically vibrating out of him.

Minho let his thumb brush across the back of Jisung's hand before he continued. "Jisung is not simply my assigned donor. He never was, not truly. But as of a few weeks ago... He is my husband."

The words seemed to hit like a wave. Jisung's father's brows jerked upwards, his mouth opening in a silent startle. His mother's lips parted, her gaze cutting to her son with something between shock and dawning comprehension. And Jun-Jun's jaw dropped comically wide, only for his grin to spread until it nearly split his face.

"You-married?" Jisung's mother breathed, her voice thin, as though she could barely shape the word.

"Yes." Minho didn't flinch. He would not make this sound like shame, nor accident. His voice was low, deliberate and firm. "Because I love him with everything I am. Because he is my equal. Because I could not imagine, will not imagine, this life without him."

Beside him, Jisung made a faint sound, caught between laughter and a choked sob, his grip tightening on Minho's hand. His mother's expression wavered, softening almost imperceptibly at the unguarded honesty between them.

"And that," Minho continued, straightening just a fraction, "makes him not only my husband, but a prince. By law, by tradition, and by right."

A stunned silence followed. Even Jisung's father, who had twitched in disgust at the mention of donors before, sat frozen now, eyes sharp but uncertain. His mother's breath drew in slow, deliberate, as though testing the truth of the words against her son's quiet, steady presence at Minho's side.

It was Jun who shattered the silence, blurting out with all the blunt force of youth: "So I was right!"

Jisung barked a laugh before he could stop himself, the sound loud and incredulous in the stillness. Minho turned to him, confused, but his husband was already grinning, shaking his head as if at some private joke.

"What?" Minho demanded, baffled.

"The day of my screening," Jisung explained, still laughing, his voice warm with memory. "When I made the choice to go to the palace, Jun asked me if I'd be a prince."

Jun puffed up instantly, smug delight written all over his face. "See? I knew it."

Minho's lips curved despite himself, affection and faint amusement breaking through his composure. He inclined his head towards Jun, regal even here in this small living room. "You were right. Your brother is a prince." His smile sharpened just slightly, the faintest gleam of pride in his eyes. "But not for long."

That pulled every gaze in the room back to him, wide-eyed and startled. Even Jisung's laughter stilled, his breath catching.

Minho didn't falter. His voice carried a new weight now, not softer truths but the immovable reality that would soon reshape all of their lives.

"In less than a week," he said, "we will be crowned. Not as princes, but as kings. Both of us, together, ruling in my parents' place following their abdication."

The truth surfaced like a tide, steady and unstoppable, flooding every corner of the room. Jisung's father inhaled sharply, colour draining from his face as though he struggled to comprehend the enormity. His mother's hand rose slowly to her mouth, eyes wide with a shock that was part disbelief, part awe.

And Jun, Jun simply stared, wide-eyed and awed, his voice breaking with wonder. "Kings?"

Minho inclined his head once, solemnly. "Kings."

For a moment, no one spoke. The weight of it pressed down heavy, the truth reshaping the space between them. Then Jisung's mother lowered her hand, her gaze softening as it moved to her son.

"You..." She swallowed hard, her voice thick. "You'll be king."

Jisung's chest rose and fell quickly, his eyes darting between his family and Minho, as though still trying to believe it himself.

And Minho-Minho only tightened his grip on his husband's hand, his voice dropping to something low and certain, steady as the ground beneath them.

"We'll be kings," he said. "Together."

 

____________

 

Jisung's father hadn't spoken, but his expression shifted in small, telling ways, the tightness around his mouth easing, the furrow in his brow smoothing into something like solemnity. He looked at Minho then, really looked at him, as though seeing not the crown prince, not the palace figurehead, but the man sitting with his son's hand entwined firmly in his. And when he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured, but not unkind.

"You love him," he said simply. Not a question.

"Yes," Minho replied, his tone immediate, unwavering. His fingers tightened around Jisung's hand for emphasis. "With everything I am. And I will not rule without him."

Something in Jisung's father seemed to shift, a weight loosening from his shoulders. He gave a single, small nod, as though that vow, spoken aloud, was enough.

Jun, still brimming with excitement, couldn't sit still. He practically bounced on the sofa beside Jisung, eyes darting between his brother and Minho with unabashed pride. "Kings," he repeated, as though testing the word on his tongue. "That means-you'll actually be in charge of everything. People will listen to you. To both of you." He said it with awe, but also with a child's simple certainty, as though it were the most natural conclusion in the world.

Jisung's mother reached across the space between them then, laying a hand gently over Jisung's where it rested on his knee. Her palm was warm, familiar, and the tenderness in her eyes made Jisung's throat tighten. "It will not be easy," she said softly, her gaze flicking briefly to Minho before returning to her son. "But I believe you can do it. Both of you. And I will be proud, every step of the way."

Jisung's father gave another quiet nod, his approval not effusive, but no less real for its restraint. "You will have much to prove," he said. "But you have our support."

The contrast to the throne room struck Jisung so hard he nearly laughed again, though this time with relief. Where Minho's father had offered resistance and scorn, here there was acceptance, even pride. His chest felt tight with it, his eyes stinging as he leaned subtly into Minho's side, overwhelmed by the weight and the lightness of it all at once.

Minho's arm slipped easily around him, steady and sure. For the first time since the throne room, Jisung felt the fear begin to ease, replaced by something steadier. Hope.

Jun, irrepressible as ever, was already grinning again. "So... When do we get to call you Your Majesty?"

This time, Jisung did laugh, a helpless, breathless sound that broke the tension in the room entirely.

Jisung shook his head quickly, still laughing, though the sound softened into something more earnest as he turned to all three of them.
"You don't have to call me that. Any of you. I'm still your Jisung. That's not ever going to change."

The words seemed to steady him as much as them, and for a moment silence held, fragile but warm. His father's expression eased, the tension in his jaw loosening, while his mother's eyes softened with something like relief. Even Jun, ever dramatic, gave a solemn nod, though the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him.

"But things will change," Jisung admitted after a beat. His thumb brushed absently over the back of Minho's hand, drawing strength from the quiet anchor there. "The difference is that now... I'll have choices. I'll be able to come visit you whenever I like, not just when I'm permitted. Or-" he glanced up, almost shy, "-you could visit me at the palace. If you wanted."

Jun looked like he might vibrate off the sofa, already leaning forward. "The palace?" he blurted, eyes round. "Like actually inside? Not just outside the gates?"

Jisung laughed again, the sound freer this time. "Yes, inside. Though it's not nearly as glamorous as you're imagining."

Jun gave a scandalised gasp that earned him an indulgent smile from Minho.

His parents exchanged a glance at that, quiet passing between them. His mother's lips pressed together, faintly hesitant, though not rejecting the idea outright. His father folded his hands against his knee, slow and deliberate. "We would need to think about that," he said at last. His tone was cautious, but not closed.

Jisung nodded. He had expected nothing else. The palace was not an easy place, and for his parents, who had only ever imagined its splendour, the thought of stepping into its halls as family to a king might feel more daunting than exciting.

"It's an offer," Jisung said gently. "Not an obligation."

Jun, however, was already nodding vigorously, clearly plotting in his head which rooms he wanted to see first.

It was Minho who spoke next, his voice even but carrying with it the kind of certainty that seemed to quiet the room. "You should also know that you are formally invited to the coronation. All of you. You'll have pride of place at the front of the cathedral, if you wish to attend."

The announcement landed heavy, even though Jisung had expected it. His parents' eyes widened, both at the sheer enormity of the invitation and at the fact it had come from Minho directly, as though they were not merely tolerated but honoured.

"The coronation?" his mother echoed quietly, almost as though tasting the word.

"Yes." Minho's fingers tightened faintly around Jisung's, a subtle reassurance. "In less than a week, the crown will pass to us. And it would mean much-" he glanced toward Jisung with a small, softened smile, "-to have Jisung's family there to witness it."

Jun's jaw dropped, uncharacteristically silent for half a beat before he burst out, "Front row seats at a coronation?! That's like, like history books, like legends!"

His father, still quieter, frowned slightly, though not unkindly. "It is... A great deal to take in."

Jisung nodded quickly. "I know. And you don't have to decide right this second. But the invitation is there. No matter what you choose, I'll understand."

His mother's gaze lingered on him, searching his face as though she might see the boy who had once sat at her kitchen table instead of the man seated beside a future king. Finally, she inclined her head, slow but deliberate. "We will think on it," she said.

And Jisung, for the first time since the audience with Minho's parents, felt the knot in his chest loosen.

 

______________

 

The palace was quiet when they returned, the sort of quiet that pressed close rather than comforted. Their attendants had melted away for the evening, leaving only the faint tick of the clock and the occasional rustle of curtains shifting in the draught.

Jisung hadn't sat down since they entered the room. He moved restlessly from one side to the other, fingers brushing along the spines of books on the shelf, pausing to fidget with the clasp of his cuff, then drifting toward the window before veering back again. Minho watched him from the bed, chin resting on his hand, taking in the tightness of his shoulders, the way his brow pinched every few seconds as though he were fighting off a headache.

Finally, Jisung turned, his mouth pressing thin before he spoke. "It's too much," he admitted. "The coronation, the meetings, the... All of it. My head feels stuffed with noise." He hesitated, then added, almost shyly, "What if we worked on the memoir? Just for a while. I think I need something... Smaller. Something that's just ours."

Minho blinked, caught off guard. He'd expected Jisung to collapse into bed, maybe curl against him in silence until sleep claimed him. But of course this made sense. The memoir wasn't a duty tonight, it was a refuge. Something private amid the tidal wave of expectation.

"Alright," Minho said easily, though warmth curled in his chest at the request. He rose, crossing to the desk and lighting the tall lamp, its golden glow pushing back the heavy shadows of the chamber. "Come on. Let's do it properly."

Jisung settled into the chair, sliding a fresh page onto the ledger, fountain pen poised, eyes bright in the lamplight despite the weariness clinging to his frame. Minho leaned against the edge of the desk at first, arms folded, watching him. Gods, he looked beautiful like this, ink-stained fingers, hair falling forward in loose strands, lips parted in anticipation of whatever words Minho would give him to record.

"Tell me about something from when you were young," Jisung prompted. "Not politics or lessons. Something real."

Minho arched a brow. "Real?"

"Yes," Jisung said firmly, quill tip ready. "No polished version. No heroic tale. Just you."

He thought for a moment, then huffed out a laugh. "Fine. When I was nine, I begged to be allowed into the council chamber during one of my father's meetings. I thought I'd be brilliant, of course. That I'd sit there, say something clever, and impress them all."

Jisung's eyes lit up, the corners of his mouth twitching. "And?"

"And I fell asleep."

The pen scratched quickly across the page, but Jisung was already grinning. "Asleep? In front of everyone?"

"I'd hidden a book under the table," Minho admitted. "History of the western provinces. I thought it would help me understand the discussions better. Instead, I read three pages and woke to my father's hand on my shoulder, the chamber laughing as the book slid to the floor."

Jisung's laugh rang bright in the quiet, head tipping back, and for a moment the whole room seemed lighter. "That's perfect," he said, still chuckling as he scribbled down the words. "Exactly the kind of thing people should know. Not just the perfect crown prince, but the boy who nodded off at council."

Minho watched him write, watched the way his tongue poked out slightly between his teeth in concentration, and something in his chest tightened, almost painfully. This, this was what eternity meant. Not just coronations or battles of will with his father. Not just politics and endless ceremony. But nights like this, the two of them bent over a desk, writing their story together.

He leaned closer, letting his hand brush over Jisung's where it hovered on the page. "You'll make me sound far too human."

"Maybe," Jisung said simply, glancing up with a smile that cut through Minho like sunlight. "But that's what makes the story worth telling."

They worked for another hour, Minho pacing the room as he recalled small details, early sword training sessions that ended in bruises more than triumph, the first time he'd snuck out of the palace, the scolding he'd received after returning covered in mud. Jisung recorded it all, laughing softly, occasionally nudging him for more detail, coaxing confessions with the ease of someone who knew exactly how to disarm him.

When at last Minho declared it enough for the night, Jisung set down the pen with a small sigh of relief, flexing ink-stained fingers. Minho caught his wrist before he could reach for the cloth, lifting it instead to his lips. He kissed the faint smudge of ink there, lingering just long enough to feel Jisung's pulse flutter against his mouth.

Jisung leaned into him instantly, head finding the curve of his shoulder, breath warm against his collar. "I do feel lighter," he murmured. "Thank you."

Minho's hand cupped the back of his neck, thumb brushing slowly across his skin. He pressed a kiss into Jisung's hair, letting his own eyes close.

The crown, the sceptre, the weight of the future, they could wait. For now, this was enough.

 

The air in Corvin's workroom was different this time, not the crisp order Minho was used to, but a faintly frantic clutter. Rolls of fabric leaned precariously against the wall, open drawers spilled threads in every shade, and sketches littered every surface in uneven stacks. Corvin himself looked as if he'd been living inside the room for days; his hair was in disarray, his sleeves rolled back to the elbows, and a smudge of chalk ran the length of one cheekbone.

Still, when they entered, he straightened at once, a flash of pride piercing through the exhaustion. "Highnesses. Just in time. I haven't slept more than three hours in as many days, but-" he gestured toward the mannequins draped in fabric and the long garment bags folded across the table "-they are finished. Ready for final fitting."

Minho couldn't help the small curl of his mouth at the man's sheer stubborn perfectionism. "If anyone else had been tasked with it, we'd be wearing scraps of linen."

"Flattery," Corvin muttered, but the pleased twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

The Queen was already seated on a velvet-backed chair in the corner, poised as though this were a private audience rather than a tailoring session. Her presence was unusual, she rarely attended the fittings, preferring to leave matters of appearance to chamberlains and dressers, but now her gaze was sharp, unblinking, and Minho felt the weight of it even before the first cloak was revealed.

"I'll begin with you, your Highness," Corvin said, beckoning him toward the platform.

Minho stepped up, unbuttoning his coat, and allowed Corvin to begin layering the ceremonial garb piece by piece. The trousers were jet black, cut to perfect precision, the shirt deep navy threaded with silver so fine it shimmered like frost when the light struck it. Over this came the formal jacket, its shoulders worked in constellations, each tiny star painstakingly stitched from beads of diamond and polished moonstone.

And then the cloak. Heavy velvet the colour of midnight, lined with ermine fur so white it almost glowed, and fastened at the right shoulder with a crescent moon clasp cast in silver. When Corvin stepped back, Minho felt the weight of it settle over him like a mantle of night itself.

"Majestic," Corvin murmured, not without pride.

Minho caught his mother's faint nod of approval out of the corner of his eye, but his focus had already shifted.

Because Corvin was gesturing for Jisung now.

Jisung mounted the platform with a hint of nervousness in his step, but when Corvin drew out the layers of ivory and gold, all Minho could do was stare as his mother politely averted her eyes.

The trousers were pale as bone, tailored razor-sharp to his frame, the seams pressed so precisely they looked carved rather than stitched. Over them, he wore a long jacket of ivory silk-wool, falling clean to his mid-calf, its shape sleek but undeniably regal. The lining and lapels gleamed with golden fabric, every stitch precise, catching the light in deliberate flashes as he moved.

Beneath, his shirt was a soft, luminous ivory, high-collared at the throat and fastened with a small golden clasp shaped like a sunburst. The cut of the shirt echoed Minho's own darker silhouette, but where Minho's was midnight and silver, Jisung's shone in dawnlight shades of bone and gold, a quiet mirror to his partner.

The jacket's lines were finished with delicate gold piping, tracing the hems and cuffs, and the shoulders bore subtle embroidery in thread-of-gold, each stitch forming faint rays that spread outward like light breaking through cloud. When he turned, the light glanced off them so that the embroidery seemed to flare, living fire hidden in fabric.

Corvin had cinched the whole look with a narrow belt of gilded leather, understated but strong, the buckle a square of brushed gold that gleamed against the ivory.

Finally came the cloak: ivory velvet, trimmed in gold braid, lined with white ermine, heavy and radiant. It fastened at the left shoulder with a golden sun clasp, the perfect echo to Minho's moon. It spilled down behind him in a weighty river, completing the transformation from boy in silk to a king about to be crowned.

Together, they were day and night, sun and shadow, two halves of a whole. Minho felt it like a blow to the chest, that Corvin had always known, had seen what they were and had shaped it into fabric and thread.

"Perfect," Corvin said simply, stepping back.

The Queen rose then, moving with unhurried grace toward the platform. For a heartbeat, Minho tensed, uncertain. But instead of sharp critique, she reached out, hands steady as she adjusted the drape of Jisung's cloak at his shoulder. Her fingers brushed the shirt, settled the fabric so it fell in a perfect line.

When she was satisfied, she looked up at him, not at Minho, but at Jisung, and a small, unmistakably warm smile touched her lips.

"You look perfect together," she said softly.

The words stole Minho's breath. He had not realised how tightly he'd been holding himself until that moment, waiting for censure, for silence, for the measured distance his mother so often held between herself and the world. Hearing her speak those words, not grudging, not political, but almost tender, set something loose in him.

He looked at Jisung, who stood blinking, clearly as startled as he was. And then back at his mother, who held his gaze for the briefest second before turning back toward her seat.

It wasn't much. Just words, a smile, a simple adjustment of cloth. But to Minho, it was monumental.

For the first time, his mother had not only acknowledged Jisung but affirmed him. Affirmed them.

And gods, Minho thought, swallowing hard against the sudden tightness in his throat, it meant everything.

Notes:

Are we ready for the final chapter tomorrow? 🙃

I ended up basing Jisung’s jacket (loosely) on the one he wore for the KWDA.

Chapter 50: The King

Notes:

I really hope that this is a satisfying conclusion for you, because endings scare me 😭

The night before the coronation, the palace felt strangely hushed, as though the walls themselves were bracing for the tide of ceremony and expectation about to sweep through them. Most of the servants had been dismissed early, preparations laid aside until morning, leaving the dining chamber quiet save for the gentle crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Minho had insisted they take their evening meal not in the great hall but in one of the smaller private rooms, just the three of them. The table was modestly set, roasted meats, bowls of steaming rice, a scattering of seasonal vegetables, nothing ostentatious, nothing that spoke of the vastness of the kitchens or the pomp of a state banquet. It felt more like family.

Jisung was laughing at something Seungmin had muttered about Corvin's fussing over the coronation cloaks, head tipped back, cheeks faintly flushed from the wine. The sound settled into Minho like a balm, soothing the knots that had gathered across his shoulders all day. He found himself simply watching for a while, the light catching in Jisung's hair, the warmth in Seungmin's usually sharp eyes, and thought, not for the first time, that this was what mattered more than all the gilded ceremony tomorrow.

When there was a lull in the chatter, Minho set his cup down and leaned forward, folding his hands together on the table. "Seungmin," he began, his voice quieter than usual, but no less certain.

Seungmin raised a brow, instantly wary of the change in tone. "That sounded serious."

"It is." Minho let the silence linger a beat before continuing. "I owe you more than I can say. Both of us do." His eyes flicked briefly to Jisung, whose smile softened, before returning to Seungmin. "If not for your research, your persistence, your... Infuriating precision, we would not be here now. Not preparing to take the crown together. Not... Whole."

Seungmin looked as though he might deflect, the beginning of a dry retort flickering at the edge of his mouth. But Minho pressed on before he could.

"When I am king, I intend to change things. The donor system. The class divisions. The way our laws crush the people they should protect. We cannot do it alone, and I will not. I need someone I can trust. Someone whose knowledge runs deeper than memory, whose loyalty is not to power, but to truth."

He drew in a breath, then spoke the words he had been turning over in his mind for days. "I would have you serve as our High Chancellor. The crown's chief advisor. Not just keeper of records, but keeper of the future we're going to build. You will sit at our side as we shape law, as we reshape this kingdom. And your voice will carry the weight of that title."

For once, Seungmin's composure faltered. His eyes widened just slightly, his usually sharp tongue caught still in his mouth. He blinked once, twice, then huffed out a short laugh that sounded half-stunned. "You can't be serious."

"I've never been more serious in my life," Minho said simply.

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. Jisung's hand had slipped into Minho's under the table, warm and sure, lending him quiet strength.

Finally, Seungmin exhaled slowly, shaking his head as though trying to clear it. "High Chancellor." He tested the words, dry amusement curling at the edge of them, though his eyes shone with something warmer. "That's... Absurd." His lips twitched. "And I would be honoured."

Jisung grinned, raising his cup at once. "To our High Chancellor then."

Minho followed suit, lifting his own. For the first time all evening, Seungmin allowed a real smile to slip free, small but genuine, as he touched his cup to theirs.

The wine tasted sweeter for it.

Of course, Minho thought, he shouldn't have expected the conversation to move on after that.

The toast had barely been drunk before Seungmin was leaning forward, eyes sharpened by curiosity, mind already spinning. "If you're serious about changing the donor system, we need to talk logistics. Where would you even begin? The entire structure is written into the royal code, amended over centuries. Do you intend a full repeal, or piecemeal reform?"

Minho exchanged a faintly bemused glance with Jisung. He had thought the matter settled for tonight, gratitude spoken, honour granted, wine shared. But no, Seungmin was already in motion, his thoughts spilling into questions and possibilities with the unstoppable energy of a river freed from a dam.

And, Minho realised with a flicker of quiet satisfaction, it was exactly what they needed.

What followed was two solid hours of Seungmin peppering them with questions. The donor registry: how much of it could be dissolved outright without leaving chaos in its wake? Blood class screenings: should they be abolished immediately, or shifted toward a voluntary system first? Could donors who wished to stay in residence at the palace do so, or would that undermine the reforms entirely?

Jisung sat forward in his chair, engaged despite himself, his brows furrowed in concentration as he weighed the options. "If it's voluntary, it gives people choice," he said, "but doesn't it risk people being coerced into it by nobles or families in debt? There would need to be safeguards."

"Exactly," Seungmin said at once, snapping his fingers as if Jisung had proven his point. "We'd need a council of oversight. Independent from the crown, but empowered by it."

"And who would sit on such a council?" Minho asked, half-challenging, half-intrigued.

"Representatives from every class," Seungmin replied without hesitation. "Human and vampire alike. If you want legitimacy, it has to be more than nobles arguing in their own interests."

It was strange, Minho thought as the debate unspooled, how natural it felt. Here they were, hours before a coronation, presiding over empty dishes and half-drunk cups of wine, verbally sketching the blueprint of a future kingdom between them.

Seungmin was tireless, darting from one subject to the next. Tax levies that bled the lower districts dry, trade agreements that left smaller provinces beholden to larger ones, even the weight of ceremonial pageantry itself. "Half these traditions are meaningless," he muttered at one point, waving a hand dismissively. "Empty spectacle to make the crown look untouchable. Better to scrap the excess, keep what people actually value."

Jisung laughed, soft but genuine. "Corvin would faint dead away if he heard you say that."

"Corvin will survive," Seungmin replied dryly, but his eyes warmed as he glanced at Jisung. "The crown will too, if you're bold enough to let it."

By the time the plates had been cleared and the fire had burned down to embers, Minho found himself leaning back in his chair, watching them both. Jisung, animated and glowing in the lamplight, arguing for compassion even in the driest corners of policy. Seungmin, sharp and relentless, refusing to let sentiment cloud the hard edges of practicality.

Two voices, so different and yet so essential, and both of them his. His husband. His High Chancellor. His future.

Minho felt the heavy weight of tomorrow lift, replaced by something steadier. A certainty that whatever trials came, the throne, the court, even his father's shadow, they would not be met alone.

Jisung's jaw cracked wide with a sudden, unrestrained yawn before he clapped a hand hastily over his mouth, eyes wide in horror. "Sorry," he mumbled through his fingers, ears reddening. "Gods, that was-sorry."

Minho couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. Aurelian or not, there were some elements of Jisung that would always be painfully, achingly human. The kind of things that made him feel real in a way no crown, no law, no title could ever touch.

He reached over, brushing Jisung's wrist down gently, and let his hand linger against his cheek. "I think that's my cue to take my husband to bed, Minnie," he said, using the childhood nickname with deliberate fondness. "We've got a long day ahead of us."

Seungmin arched a brow, though the faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement. "Yes," he said simply, voice dry but not unkind. "We all do. Go on-I'll see you both in the morning." He hesitated for just a fraction, then added more softly, "Rest well. You'll need your strength tomorrow."

Minho inclined his head, a small gesture of thanks that carried more weight than words. Jisung, still faintly pink with embarrassment but smiling sheepishly, rose from his chair and stretched, jacket slipping down his shoulders. Minho's hand found his immediately, steady and warm, grounding him as easily as breathing.

As they moved toward the door, Minho glanced back once. Seungmin hadn't moved from his chair, his gaze distant, as though he were still turning over every thread of their conversation in his mind. The firelight caught the sharp angles of his face, burnishing them in gold, and for a moment Minho felt a flicker of reassurance. For all his dry wit and endless pragmatism, Seungmin was also unwavering, a man who would shoulder their burden with them without hesitation.

Then Jisung tugged gently at his hand, drawing his focus back where it belonged. To the here and now. To the soft weight of tomorrow pressing down, and the comfort of knowing they would face it together.

 

By the time they reached the corridor that led to their rooms, Jisung yawned again, eyes watering faintly as he tried, and failed, to stifle it behind his hand. Minho chuckled under his breath, the sound low and indulgent, before simply bending and scooping him up in his arms.

Jisung gave only the briefest noise of protest before melting into it, looping his arms easily around Minho's shoulders and tucking his face into the curve of his neck. The warmth of his breath spilled over Minho's collarbone, and Minho felt a fierce, ridiculous fondness surge in him. It was a mirror reflection of months ago, when he had wanted to carry him after the New Year's Eve ball and hadn't dared to.

This time, nothing held him back.

He shifted Jisung's weight against him with effortless strength, steadying him with one arm while the other reached for the handle. The door swung open at his touch, and he stepped inside, the chamber dim and hushed, scented faintly with beeswax and the lingering trace of lavender.

Without ceremony, Minho carried him straight to the bed and laid him down, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. For a moment he lingered, watching Jisung stretch languidly against the coverlet, his hair mussed, eyes already half-lidded with sleep.

Minho eased Jisung back against the pillows and began with the buttons of his jacket, deft fingers working one after another until the garment slipped loose from his shoulders. Jisung hummed faintly in contentment, pliant beneath his touch as Minho worked him down to his shirt and pants, tugging them away with careful efficiency. Soon enough, Jisung was sliding under the covers, his face soft with the kind of tiredness that pulled at the heart as much as it did the body.

Satisfied, Minho straightened and turned away from the bed, fingers already at his collar. But before he could take a step, a quiet noise of protest came from behind him, followed by the tug of a hand on his wrist.

Minho looked back to find Jisung sitting up against the headboard, hair a dark halo in the lamplight, his eyes heavy but intent. "No," Jisung said softly, voice thick with sleep but stubborn all the same. "Come here."

Bemused, Minho allowed himself to be pulled closer. Jisung's fingers went straight to the fastenings of his jacket, clumsy with fatigue but determined.

"Jisung-" Minho began, only to fall quiet when Jisung's brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue caught lightly between his teeth as he worried the next button free. He wasn't fast, wasn't neat, but he was persistent. Piece by piece, he peeled the layers away: the jacket, the shirt, the belt tugged loose with a decisive pull. Each time Minho moved to help, Jisung stilled him with a look, silently insisting on doing it himself.

When at last the final layer slipped free, Jisung sat back with a tired but triumphant little huff. "There," he murmured. "Fair's fair."

Minho's throat tightened at the simplicity of it, at the way something so ordinary felt heavier, more intimate, than the grandest vows. He bent, pressing a kiss to Jisung's temple, before letting himself be guided to join him.

The bed dipped as Minho slid in beside him, and at once Jisung curled into his side, tucking his face against Minho's shoulder with a sleepy sigh. Minho smiled faintly, his hand smoothing along the line of Jisung's back, fully expecting that within minutes his husband would be asleep.

He turned his head, pressing a soft kiss into Jisung's hair, just a simple, goodnight kiss. But Jisung shifted, tilting up to catch his mouth instead. The kiss was warm, languid, and Minho returned it easily, indulgently, certain it would be the last before sleep claimed him.

Except Jisung didn't stop. His mouth lingered, his lips parting slightly against Minho's, coaxing a deeper response. A small hum of insistence vibrated through him as his hand slid up Minho's chest, palm flat against the skin there.

Minho pulled back just enough to murmur against his lips, "I thought you were exhausted."

"I am," Jisung admitted, breath brushing warm across his skin, "but I don't want to sleep yet." His voice was soft, but his kisses grew bolder, almost searching, as though he was trying to brand this night into memory before tomorrow swept them into ceremony, crowns and history.

Minho's pulse stuttered. He hadn't expected this, not tonight, not when Jisung's yawns had been tugging tears from the corners of his eyes only minutes ago. But the way Jisung pressed closer now, the heat of him, the urgency threading through his lips, it burned through every last scrap of Minho's restraint.

He let himself sink into it, their mouths tangling, slow at first but quickly turning sharp, insistent. Jisung shifted into his lap with surprising determination, his arms looping around Minho's neck, and Minho could do nothing but hold him closer, kissing back with the kind of hunger that felt inevitable.

By the time Jisung took him to the hilt, Minho was gone, every thought eclipsed by the fire wrapped tight around him.

He rolled his hips up as Jisung met him, gasping into Minho's mouth with every thrust.

The sound of Jisung's breath, broken, desperate, shot straight through him, each gasp stoking the blaze already devouring Minho from the inside out. He tightened his grip, one hand spanning the narrow line of Jisung's waist, the other sliding up his back to anchor him closer, as if he could fuse them together and never let him go.

Their rhythm found itself quickly, urgent and unrelenting, every thrust dragging another choked sound from Jisung's throat. Minho swallowed each one hungrily, kissing him deeper, harder, until their mouths were nothing but shared gasps and bitten-off groans.

Jisung clung tighter, nails catching on Minho's shoulders, and Minho only drove upward harder, sharper, the world narrowing to heat and skin and the dizzying way Jisung trembled around him.

"Minho," Jisung breathed against his mouth, the word fractured, pleading, and it undid him completely. He thrust up again, raw and reckless, answering not with words but with every ounce of fire in his body.

Jisung's body rocked against him, his gasps breaking into shuddering cries as their rhythm grew sharper, more desperate. Minho held him fast, teeth gritted, the fire climbing higher with every pulse of heat around him.

Then Jisung pulled back just enough to breathe against his mouth, voice wrecked but clear:
"Wanna taste you again."

Minho stilled for half a heartbeat, gaze darting down, assuming, expecting Jisung meant to slide from his lap, to take him with his mouth. He shifted, ready to ease him down.

But Jisung shook his head, hair damp against his flushed cheeks. His eyes burned, dark and certain, as he gripped Minho's wrist with one hand and drew it toward his mouth. The meaning was unmistakable.

Blood.

The rush of heat that ripped through Minho was immediate and primal. His body tightened almost painfully, every instinct flaring. He met Jisung's gaze, searching, and when his husband nodded once, steady, deliberate, Minho felt his restraint snap.

He caught Jisung's wrist in his mouth, his fangs sliding in clean. Jisung gasped, his whole frame jolting, the sharpness of the pain tangled instantly with pleasure. Minho drank deep, pulling just enough to taste, to prompt Jisung’s borrowed senses, before stopping with a low groan.

Then he lifted his own wrist, bit down until the blood welled rich and hot, and held it out.

Jisung didn't hesitate. He pressed his mouth to Minho's skin, lips sealing over the wound. The first pull nearly undid Minho, the heat of it, the intimate violence of giving himself over so completely. His head fell back, a guttural sound tearing from his throat before he latched back on to Jisung's wrist.

And then Jisung cried out, sharp and broken, as his climax ripped through him. The pulse of him clenching tight, trembling, the sight of him drinking deep at Minho's wrist, it shattered Minho's last thread of control. He surged up hard, spilling into him with a ragged groan, his whole body bowing as he came apart with him.

They clung to each other through it, mouths and wrists and bodies locked, until the world fractured into nothing but heat, taste, and the overwhelming certainty that they were bound-in every way that mattered.

They kissed through the fading tremors, mouths slow now but no less consuming. Minho tasted it again, that impossible blend of cherries, vanilla, and spice, something wholly theirs, created only in the press of their blood and breath together. It lingered on his tongue, rich and heady, sweeter than anything he'd ever known.

When Jisung finally drew back, his lips were swollen, his lashes heavy as they fluttered against his cheeks. He slumped into Minho's chest with a satisfied sigh, voice soft and drowsy.
"Now we can sleep," he murmured, the words blurred with exhaustion but edged with contentment.

 

____________

 

The morning passed in a blur of hands smoothing fabrics, attendants murmuring final reminders, the weight of gold and ivory settling across Jisung's shoulders until he felt as though he were carrying the whole palace on his back. He kept his head high, his breath measured, but inside, the nerves thrummed like plucked violin strings.

Of course, Minho saw straight through him. He always did. A steady hand brushed across Jisung's back, warm even through the heavy cloak, grounding him. "Breathe," Minho murmured low enough that no one else could hear. "It's only forever."

Jisung huffed a breath that was half a laugh, half an exhale of nerves, and leaned into the pressure just enough to let himself settle.

Before they could step into the cathedral, a soft voice called behind them.
"Wait."

The Queen approached, her steps unhurried, her bearing as regal as ever, though her eyes held something warmer than ceremony. She looked between them briefly, then reached for Jisung's hands, holding them firmly in her own.

"This," she said quietly, slipping a small box from her sleeve, "should have been yours the moment Minho proposed. Tradition demands it." She opened it to reveal a ring, a delicate braided brand of shining gold. "It has been in the family for centuries. And though circumstances... Altered the path, it is yours now. Better late than never, hm?"

Jisung's throat tightened, the words catching somewhere between his chest and mouth. The weight of the ring in his palm seemed impossibly heavy, history itself pressed into the curve of his hand. He swallowed hard, a warmth blooming through him so intense it almost ached. "I-thank you," he managed, voice thick.

The Queen only smiled softly, closing his fingers around the heirloom before lifting his hands to press them between hers. Her touch was firm, almost fierce, a blessing carried in the quiet strength of her hold. "Wear it well," she said. Then, with a final squeeze, she turned and swept into the cathedral, her cloak trailing in her wake.

For a moment, Jisung just stood there, staring down at his closed fist, at the weight of a family and a future he had never once imagined could be his. Minho's hand at his back nudged him gently forward, and together they stepped into the cathedral.

The great doors swung wide, and a hush fell. The vaulted space glowed with candlelight and stained glass, colours pouring over marble floors in fractured rainbows. Courtiers, nobles, and dignitaries filled the pews, but Jisung barely saw them. His gaze caught at once on the front row, his mother's proud, shining eyes, his father's solemn nod, and Jun, wide-eyed and dazzled, his mouth ajar as though he'd stumbled into the middle of a legend.

They walked the length of the aisle side by side, every step a hammer beat in Jisung's chest. At the dais, the High Priest raised his arms, his voice ringing through the chamber.

 

"Do you, Crown Prince Lee Minho, swear by blood and by crown to guard this realm, its people, and its laws, and to rule in unity with your equal, from this day until eternity?"

"I do," Minho answered, steady and resonant.

"And do you, Crown Prince Han Jisung, swear by blood and by crown to guard this realm, its people, and its laws, and to rule in unity with your equal, from this day until eternity?"

The words seemed to vibrate in Jisung's bones, ancient and binding. He lifted his chin, his voice clear despite the tremor in his chest. "I do."

Other vows and proclamations followed, the cadence of them solemn and heavy, but if pressed later Jisung knew he would never be able to repeat the words exactly. They blurred together in his memory, eclipsed by the weight of the moment itself—the warmth of Minho's hand in his, the resounding echo of their promises, and the knowledge that nothing could ever unmake what had just been bound.

The two crowns, dark silver and bright gold, were lifted from their velvet cushions. They were heavy when they came to rest upon their brows, yet the weight was oddly right, like a mantle finally claimed.

"Then rise," the High Priest proclaimed, voice echoing across the hall, "King Minho. King Jisung."

The cathedral erupted, cheers, applause, the tolling of bells from above, but Jisung's eyes sought only one thing: his family. His mother's tears, his father's steady nod, Jun's awestruck grin. For the first time, he let himself smile fully, openly, his hand finding Minho's without hesitation.

Together, they turned to face their people. Together, they were crowned.

 

The feast blurred together. Faces, so many faces, smiling, bowing, congratulating. Goblets raised, words of loyalty repeated until they lost meaning, courtiers leaning too close with their endless murmured promises and schemes. Jisung smiled until his cheeks ached, nodded until his neck felt stiff, let himself be moved from one table to another like a tide-washed stone.

He wasn't unhappy. Far from it. Something deep in him still hummed with joy, a warmth that refused to dim no matter how many hands clasped his or how many eyes followed him. But it was overwhelming, too, a blur of colour and sound that left him feeling almost untethered. As though if he closed his eyes, he might wake and find it was all a dream after all.

It was Minho who steadied him. Minho, who leaned close during yet another toast, brushing his lips against Jisung's ear just enough to make him shiver. "Enough," he murmured, voice pitched low so only Jisung could hear. "Let's take a breather."

Relief washed through him like a tide. He didn't protest when Minho drew him gently from the hall, down the quieter corridors, out through the tall glass doors and into the night air.

The gardens welcomed them with silence. Not the heavy kind of the throne room, but something softer, crickets singing unseen, leaves whispering under the touch of a passing breeze. Moonlight pooled over the paths, silvering the edges of every leaf and petal.

And there-there they were.

Jisung stopped short, his breath catching. The cosmos flowers, planted only that day, stretched in pale clusters along the beds nearest Minho's Juliet roses. They glowed faintly in the moonlight, delicate heads nodding as though in greeting, their simple beauty a perfect foil to the lavish roses blooming rich and heady beside them.

He moved closer, reaching out without thinking, fingertips brushing the feathery leaves. His chest ached, though with what he couldn't quite name, gratitude, disbelief, joy so sharp it almost hurt.

"They're yours," Minho said quietly, coming to stand beside him. "Planted to celebrate your coronation. Beside mine, so they'll always grow together."

The symbolism was almost too much. Minho's roses: bred and cultivated, a legacy carried in their very petals. His own cosmos: humble, unassuming, yet radiant all the same. Different, but side by side they thrived, not competing but completing the space between them.

Jisung turned to him, and Minho was already watching, eyes soft in the moonlight. No words felt big enough, not for this. So he didn't try. He simply leaned in, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that tasted of night air and relief, of love so steady it no longer surprised him.

When they finally drew apart, Jisung found his hand already twined with Minho's, their fingers locking easily, naturally. He let their joined hands fall between them, over the blooms at their feet, roses and cosmos, rich and delicate, different but bound by the same soil.

And Jisung thought, as the night stretched eternal around them, that this was how it should always be. Two kings. Two loves. Two lives, thriving together.

Notes:

Thank you all so much for sticking through with this story until the end.

When I started, I had zero expectation that this would turn out to be my longest fic to date. I truly didn’t think I would get much past 30 chapters. But clearly, it got away from me 🙃

Reading your comments every day has given me a crazy amount of dopamine, and I’m going to miss them whilst I take a mini break.

I won’t be gone for too long though. I’m planning on participating in Kinktober, so I’m going to spend the next few weeks writing rough plans for that as I’ve never done something like this before.
For the prompts it makes sense for, I’ll be revisiting pairings from my other fics (so now would be a good time to read those if you haven’t already 😉), but I will also be doing some new pairings.

It there’s any in particular you would like to see/ settings etc, I am more than open to ideas.

Otherwise, the next main fic to come will be Seungbin, following on in the TGK universe.

Again, thank you so much for reading, your comments truly mean everything to me 🥹

Notes:

Feel free to come find me on Threads to natter, same username!