Chapter Text
Part VIII
Perhaps an omniscient onlooker to their plight would observe the course of the evening and say that everything is proceeding a little too well.
Yoo Joonghyuk would disagree. A plan that follows its plotter’s intent is one of fine make. The pace at which their plot is unfolding only surprises him for how his mind is preoccupied with the numerous alternatives he is prepared to set in motion if need be.
Not once are they required. His accomplice assures it.
There is still a moment when he truly feels the weight of their undertaking, when his stomach drops well below his feet. The King calls for his presence at his table. Joonghyuk thinks hard then on which of his actions might have provoked it. What is best said to whichever accusation he might face, how to best salvage their scheme from what might have been a grave mistake on his part. Fortunately, his momentary peril is misplaced. The King’s gesture is unrelated to his quiet observations, and for better or worse he is given a prime seat to the performance he has, until then, only spied in glimpses.
Better, for how he can immediately confirm the proceedings.
Worse, for precisely the same reason.
From his seat to the King’s left, he bears witness to every glance, every word and every breath: to how masterfully their plot is conducted under Kim Dokja’s steady hand and carefully crafted smiles. That this seduction so cleanly aligns with everything about his lover that appeals to his own eagerness for him is a cruel coincidence. For while he knows very well that this is all a farce, has himself composed many of the sweet words Kim Dokja quotes to ensnare the King’s attentions, the beast in his veins is not so easily convinced.
He owes it his sincerest empathies, for his sound mind, too, struggles to reconcile with it. With seeing Kim Dokja like so, dressed up in unfamiliar fineries that somehow easily become him, all the things Joonghyuk already finds so titillating about him enhanced by shimmering fabric and the touch of a brush, put on display for another man’s pleasure before Joonghyuk has even had the chance to privately admire him with his own praise, with his hands—with his mouth, with his cock.
His hands clench at his thighs, well out of sight, lest he be clutching the edge of the table. Only his quiet fury deafens the arousal that simmers beneath it. Only his battlefield experience helps maintain his calm in the storm of his own traitorous emotions. So he retains his silence when he can, spares his focus for observing, watching, discerning, and calming his alpha as it trashes and burns under his skin, wills for him to take action against the intruder who’s been left free to lavish attentions on its mate—to best the King right then and there, and show the room another display entirely, of whom Lord Kim truly belongs to, that would surely scandalise the court for decades to come.
He sups on his drink, if only to dispel the images conjured by his instincts to spur him on. They’re a distraction he cannot afford, not when there is so much at stake, so much yet to be done.
Which might be why Joonghyuk is a bit slow in perceiving that while everyone else has been watching the King’s retreat—sharing in whispers about the enigmatic Lord Kim who had sat at his Majesty’s table all evening and earned his favour through wit and conversation alone—one other person has been watching the Third Prince instead.
Only when the doors close and they are out of sight does Joonghyuk turn and find brown eyes fixed unflinchingly on his own. Lady Yoo Sangah. His far-removed cousin, and Kim Dokja’s friend—the one he had solicited tonight for her keen eye and fashionable sense. On that account, she has outdone herself, but it’s a compliment he is not at liberty to pay.
“Your Highness,” she bows, as court conventions dictate, the delicate shape of her hanbok folding with her, and although she has most certainly been flustered by the evening’s events, not a single hair is left out of place as she straightens her neck. “It’s been a while since we last spoke.”
“So it has.”
His greeting is returned stiffly. Appearing rude is not his intent, but the content of his reply is true: he cannot recall having ever spoken with her at all, certainly not over the last year. Being caught so off guard by her allows him no respite from his already tremulous thoughts. Yet, his stiffness does not appear to deter her; nor does his superiority of rank impair her inquiry. “I beg you allow me to ask. Are you previously acquainted with Lord Kim?”
It is not a question he expects. “I am not.”
“I see.” Lady Sangah folds her hands across her skirt, stands tall with the posture her palace education has surely instilled in her. “I only wondered, because you spoke of him so familiarly.”
Ah. She had caught him then. A slip he hadn’t meant to make, and that he’d hoped only Dokja would have taken note of. But he will afford her no cause for further pursuit of the matter.
“I harboured no familiar sentiments towards Lord Kim until we were recently introduced. Although I did learn what I could from whoever had words to share of him over the course of the evening.” He glances out into the slowly emptying hall. “Of which there were rather many.”
Lady Sangah, too, takes a moment to observe their gradually quieting surroundings. Now that the King has taken leave, there is no reason to linger: only a few uninterested or overindulged parties are yet preoccupied in their own merriment.
“Oh. I understand.” Despite her confessed insight, she frowns, clearly unhappy with some aspect of their conversation. It’s not ideal, he admits, not understanding just how much she had seen and what conclusions she might later draw from their conversation here. A loose thread easily made dangerous if pulled on hard enough, ready to unravel the fabric from which it originates. He has no choice but to perceive her as what she now is: a potential threat. Even if she is Kim Dokja’s friend.
He observes her for a moment longer. “And yourself?”
“Pardon?”
“You give the impression of being close, yet you do not seem happy for your friend. Or our King.” The remark is designed to turn the conversation on her, occupy her with composing answers for the questions instead of asking them.
Lady Sangah pauses, ponders, and finally says: “Happy for them? I suppose that remains to be seen. Don’t you think so, your Highness?”
She bows and leaves him be soon after. He can only hope she has not gleaned from his answering silence just how loud this sentiment echoes in the tight chambers of his growingly anxious heart.
-
The King’s Palace are the most extravagant quarters Kim Dokja has witnessed in his life. Any descriptions he has ever heard from a lucky voyeur fall utterly short.
His eyes long linger on the storied tapestries and the elegant paintings that under other circumstances would take his thoughts away for hours, curious to apply his mind and uncover just what tales and personages are in so high esteem with the King as to have a place upon his walls. Surely, only the King himself spends enough time in here to afford such wondering. In the future, perhaps his Queen would as well. Dokja admires them for a moment longer, but there is so much else to see and wonder on. He passes over various objects that lowly nobles like Dokja’s father could only hope to possess through a royal match. Gold and jewel encrusted eggs that serve only ornate purposes; similarly ornamental swords, meant for walls and displays rather than battlefields, where surely their gemstone and jade handles are more cumbersome than useful. They are all highly functional for the purpose of a dowry, a symbol of union between two clans, as per longstanding tradition—though the King has not yet married. Nor has he promoted a royal consort among his high-ranking and titled concubines. For the time being, it appears the repossession of such trinkets is to remain many a noble family’s dream.
The elaborate and neat orderliness is only betrayed by other, more personal artefacts nestling in bookshelves or littering the King’s desks. Plural, for it appears one alone could not house all his pursuits. Maps and journals cover one, pinned and marked and well used; stacks of reports and state secrets that no one outside the King is allowed to peruse have their home on another.
Dokja is not the first to have seen them. Nor is he the first concubine who has been invited here for reasons that have little to do with royal tapestries and state documents.
The King turns to him then, the regalia of his room a halo rising behind him as he studies Dokja with a near predatory intensity that catches him unaware, sends small shocks tingling through him.
“How have I not seen you before?”
Dokja regains a hold on himself, moulds his expression as he sees best. Eyes downcast, somewhat demure: befitting the role of a concubine called to serve his liege for the first time. “We have met, your Majesty. Though you cannot be expected to recall every subject to whom you must grant your attention.”
“They’re hardly deserving of it.” A hand catches his chin, the pad of a thumb pressing on his lips as his face is turned. “How peculiar,” hums the King, eyes fixated on his own digit where it pulls down on damp flesh. “But hours ago, I hadn’t thought you handsome enough to tempt me so. I see now I was gravely mistaken.”
Dokja’s chest fills with ice. His veins are already thrumming with gradually rising fear. They’ve only just moved behind closed doors, but this is a pace he’s woefully unprepared for. They’re already too close, moving too fast, and he needs to find reason to stall. He turns away just in time; the kiss brushes his cheek instead.
The King pauses. His fingers remain on Dokja’s neck, sliding down his sweltering skin until they reach his collar and toy with the edge of the fabric there. “Has my admittance offended you?”
“You have not,” Dokja quickly amends. “I am not so deluded I believe my countenance affords me the luxury of idleness. Your Majesty has made it clear that my being here has cause in other devices. I only ask you understand that there are certain areas of expertise where I find myself… lacking in relevant experience.”
He shares with him another modest glance, and slowly spins out of the King’s grasp, relieved that he lets him go when it’s in his full right to pull him right back to resume his pursuit. It’s an allowance he must use to his advantage.
The suddenness of the King’s mounting desire has caught Dokja off guard, but if he can still this aggression from behind the shield of his supposed inexperience, he might yet keep the game afloat. Here, in the King’s chambers, he only has an audience of one to beguile, but that also means there is no respite to be found in distractions. The King’s full attention will be on him, on his every move. Hesitation might become his greatest hinderance moving forward. His eyes quickly dart around and find a lounging area further in, a little past the two desks. He makes for the table there, wraps his fingers around the neck of a decanter.
“I propose a game.”
“I see.” The King follows him there but keeps their distance more respectable for now. “As you are correct in your assertions, I shall indulge you.”
“This is a rather tricky one,” Dokja admits slyly. “As we’re both students of history, I think we shall enjoy it all the same. The rules are as follows—based on a personage or event of our choosing, we will each tell one obscure fact and one falsehood. Then the other shall argue which is which.”
“No.”
Dokja is taken aback by the sharp reply. He has not expected such a strong rejection—or any rejection at all. The game is clever enough, thought out to require equal measures of knowledge and wit, in which a winner might be declared if they’re able to suss out either the correct context, or their opponents tell. It’s exactly the sort of challenge Joonghyuk had agreed would entertain his eldest brother for a long while, given someone like Dokja as his opponent. So why is he not taking the bait?
“I tire of these impersonal topics. We have spent the whole evening discussing them,” the King answers his silent question, warm fingers slowly prying the decanter from Dokja’s frozen hand, stroking over his knuckles upon their retreat. This truly is a setback, although not one he is wholly unprepared for. His mind is already making considerations for the next best step to take, but the King is not yet done speaking. “However, the idea is not a bad one. I quite enjoy learning the characters of other people.” He places out two cups on the table, tilts the decanted with practiced ease. They are both filled generously. “We shall play, but we will use my rules instead. We will each tell one truth and one falsehood about ourselves. Then the other shall make a guess.”
Kim Dokja stills the urge to swallow. This turn of events is not part of any of his ploys, but in a situation as this, he is not at liberty to refuse. Perhaps there is still a way to turn the tide. He smiles, plays into his role. “Of course. I’d be delighted.”
The decision made, they settle on the mats, cups steady in their hands. The King, Dokja knows, has had far more to drink this evening than he has himself, but it’s almost unnerving how little it shows. Perhaps he burns through regular wine like the god kings of the old legends. Dokja prays his current selection is particularly potent.
The King begins.
“I ordered my father’s murder. And I, like you, were never a very filial son.”
It’s Kim Dokja’s turn to be surprised. He scarcely hears the second claim, because the first catches him so off guard he’s surprised his mouth has not fallen open. It’s not just a truth or falsehood: it’s possibly an admittance.
The King’s eyes linger expectantly on his face. He cannot stall for long.
“I am of the notion that your Majesty is daring me to make an accusation.” He pauses briefly, borrows the time to mull over his reply before he presses on. “Does one option here not beget the other? Patricide surely is not an action of filiality.”
The King’s gaze lingers on him and makes no attempt to conceal his glee. “Is it not?”
Dokja doesn’t frowns, but it’s a near thing. He wonders if he is truly being toyed with. “You’ll find that most people will agree.”
The King hums, as if he’s considering his next words with care. Perhaps Dokja is lucky he isn’t pressing him to make the guess right away. Or perhaps, that’s what the King wants him to believe. He’s struck by the sudden suspicion that this is no longer a game where his opponent is unaware that they’re playing.
Dokja waits, and the King rewards his patience.
“Then let’s say that a father is very ill, struggling to make right from wrong, truths from falsehoods. If such a father’s inability to retain his hold on reality causes continuous harm and fear to his closest relations, without him knowing it or understanding it… is it not, then, a filial son’s duty to ease his suffering?”
A scenario. Or perhaps a riddle. Dokja is unable to decide whether there is truth in it, if this is indeed a confession of the King’s past doings that led him to the throne, and he certainly does not know what to answer—yet answer he must.
“I don’t make it a habit to speak so leniently of hypotheses when dealing with truths… but such a decision is a terrible one for any son to have to make.” His response is spoken a touch too genuine. They’re moving into a territory that is too close for comfort, and he desperately needs to regain control of the conversation. “That aside, what makes your Majesty assume I was never a filial son?”
“Be at ease, Lord Kim. Were they not your own words?”
His jest from earlier, yes. “Perhaps I was telling falsehoods.”
He doesn’t mean to rise to the bait and deliver the quip, but it slips out of him anyway. The King’s eyes glint, crinkling with intrigue. “I confess you’ve roused my curiosity. Will you tell me your meaning?”
“Are we done playing the game?” The King’s hum is not one that allows for more quips, it seems. He’s expecting a tale, has heard Dokja tell many… but not one about himself. Not one like this. It irks him. “Whether I was obedient or not towards my father… well, I suppose the truth of it would depend on whom you posed the question to.” Dokja pauses, contemplates just how to tell the story. Or rather, what parts he can afford to leave out. “We had a servant boy. He was my playmate and would fetch me water in the mornings. If I had been too lax in my lessons, my father would have another servant beat him. He would make me watch. He never really wanted to play with me after.”
“How cruel,” is the simple remark he receives for his efforts. If nothing else, the King has enjoyed his story enough to take languid sips of wine as he listens.
Dokja meets his eyes, holds his gaze. “And as for my answer, the truth is that Your majesty, like I, were never much of a filial son.”
A smirk graces the King’s lips, and he raises his cup. “To all the unfilial sons of this country.”
He drinks, and Dokja nearly raises his own cup with him, forgetting that he has just won the round.
Once his cup is empty, overturned to prove the fact, the King’s eyes bear into him again, their zeal reawakened.
“Your turn.”
Only then, staring at the empty cup left on the table, does Dokja recall the aim at hand. He almost curses himself for having been made so flustered, caught so unawares. He has missed his first chance, so he must create another. For that to happen, he needs to be clever and interesting… distracting enough to find an opening to exploit. If he wins again, he can slip the drug in as he refills the King’s cup.
Carefully, he considers his choices. He takes a breath, sucks it in greedily, build his audience’s anticipation.
“I have never seen a dead person. And I do not know how to swim.”
“They are both lies.”
Dokja laughs but is suddenly unnerved by the King’s certainty. “I do not believe this is how the game works.”
“Then we are both not very good at playing.”
It’s a tone that implies an ending, one which Dokja cannot afford just yet.
“I grew up by the river.” Dokja smiles as if recalling memories. “Make of that what you will.”
“Splashing water in the summer heat does not necessitate such a skill as swimming.” The King’s argument stands unfazed by the herring he has thrown his way. “I stand by my answer. Tell me about the body you saw.”
Dokja’s throat is dry. He chances a sip at the wine to wet his mouth—it’s sweet, but surprisingly strong. It doesn’t help much. Can he end the game now? The King has, for what it’s worth, given him an answer. He could refuse to explain further, claim his victory instead. But is this now part of the game, too? The stories the King seems so intent on wheedling out of him? He is suddenly unsure. The rules say he’s supposed to lie anyways, as long as it convinces his adversary. So the question becomes: does he dare to?
“My mother’s,” he finally concedes.
“Oh?” The King observes him, unyielding.
“Hypothetically… when a father, ill or not, cannot make right from wrong…” Dokja’s head is spinning, his breathing staggered. “…to the point where he harms those closest to him… what would be the filial thing to do?”
“In such a case, few would blame a son for taking the matters… into his own hands.” The hand on his cheek turns him, insistently. The King’s sharp eyes rove over him with all-consuming interest, like Dokja is the most intriguing creature to ever have fallen into his path. They have a bit of a blur to them now, so the drinks might truly be having its effect… but Dokja’s head is equally cloudy. Perhaps he’s had more than he’s kept track of. Perhaps the King’s personal wine is stronger than he’d thought. The only certainties are the sweet alcohol on his tongue and the incense wafting through the air; the warmth of the hand on his skin rubbing circles into his nape, and the tingling he feels at his core; the sudden need insisting that he finds his mate.
Only then does a stray thought remind him that there was never any incense lit in the quarters when they arrived. The cloud that’s hazing his mind, the pleasant smoke filling his nose—are pheromones. They’re filling up the room—abundant, potent alpha pheromones, intended to kindle him, to calm him, to seduce him.
And Dokja has almost fallen for them. He stands up as quickly has his swaying body allows him, once again escaping from the King’s grasp, but he cannot keep this up in perpetuity. He is here for a reason, and he can only rely on his own assumed chastity to escape it for so long. Time’s almost up, and there is certainly none left for thinking of elaborate plots and convoluted games when his opponent has him tied at every turn, forcing him to open up memories he’s long since buried and hoped to forget. Dokja takes the King’s empty cup and pours the wine into it, fiddles for longer than he should and can feel the insistent gaze raking down his back. He can only hope his stalling has not irritated him too much.
He turns, feigns a confidence he’s not really practiced.
“I win. Drink.” Dokja says—commands. But when the King only looks amusedly at the cup in his hand…
He has to end this. Now. He settles over his Majesty’s lap and tips the cup back, takes the whole of it into his mouth, then pushes his closed lips against the King’s. He accepts him, accepts being pushed back and accepts the wine from Dokja’s mouth into his own. A little spills, travels messily down his neck, but he swallows all the rest, and kisses back with a practiced ease that Kim Dokja simply doesn’t possess, in spite of all his acquired experience.
“Mm… It does taste better like this.” The King’s remark is pleased; arousal spiking in his pheromones reflects it.
Dokja’s head keeps churning and spinning. He’s done it—he’s delivered the drug. The method was perhaps more unrefined than he had hoped, but he had done it. However, the elation is short lived; panic rises in its stead. He does not know how much of the drug had made it down his throat. As such, he has no way to know when will take effect… if the dose had been enough for it to be soon. There are already eager hands moving to undo his robes, and he shivers as they pass over his chest to find the ties on his sides. “W-Wait, slow down, please.”
The King listens. It surprises him so much he hardly knows what to do next but sit and stare at the man underneath him, feel the warmth of him against him, the insistent flesh pressed to his thigh. The King looks at him, and then softly, more slowly, resumes their kiss. There’s an almost askance quality to it now, but firm and decisive hands cradle him, tilts him down to the floor, and Dokja knows deep inside that he no longer has any intention to stop.
The mouth on his relaxes, and the hands on him slow. The body on his feels heavier, no longer upheld with ay conceivable effort. The breathing against his neck steadies before even his outer robes have been shed.
The King is fast asleep.
“Your… Majesty…?”
There is no reply.
Dokja puts his head down on the floor and breathes.
-
The hour has grown late. Dokja is too nervous for rest, and it’s not a luxury he can afford. He cannot close his eyes, and he cannot fall asleep. There’s still much work to be done. Once he’s escaped the limp cage of his Majesty’s unconscious form, he goes about his task.
He rubs his wrists raw on the King’s bedding, spreads his scent from the glands there as much as he can. Once that is done, he unfastens his robes and reaches down behind him, grits his teeth through the guilt that stabs at him upon finding he’s grown wet. The natural response to an alpha’s potent pheromones, of course. Dokja doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, leaves behind his concerns as a lover. In its place, he wears the mask of a professional building a stage. The scene needs to be as convincing as he can make it: he’s long decided that this much humiliation is part of the design, although he will not wish to speak of his actions here for the duration of his lifetime.
He closes his eyes and gets to work.
When the deed is done, he surveys the King, yet fast asleep where he had left him. Undignified with his limbs thrown about him. Surely, that alone is a crime equal to treason.
In the silence, the events of the past few hours return to him. He admits, in the quiet of the room, that he had come close. Too close. He’s made to entertain the thought. Would he have done it if need be? If the drug could not have been administered, and the King’s advances became too urgent to avoid? Perhaps, he ponders. They had already decided that it would have been the most certain way. But for both their sakes, he feels immensely relieved that it never came to pass, in the end.
With great difficulty, he heaves his limp body onto the bedding, just to the side of the spot he’s thoroughly debauched. There is probably more that could be done, but he stops at the undoing of the King’s robes. Leaving him exposed and surrounded by the lingering scent of an omega’s arousal should be enough.
Then, he waits.
In the early hours, long before any servant would dare disturb the peace, Dokja exits the King’s chambers.
He almost leaps for the wildness that elates him, bouldering like a waterfall in his ears despite the quietness of the night around him. He pulls the outer robes over his head as he passes the King’s guards, feels their curious eyes on him, though they’ve surely seen this sight many times before. He meets the eyes of one of them, just long enough that there will be no mistaking who’s passed them.
The sun is not yet rising, but his feet burn as if he’s walked for long hours by the time he enters the boundaries of the library. He breathes out in relief as he finds his conspirator waiting.
Yoo Joonghyuk, as deprived of sleep as he, watches him with both caution and alleviation as he approaches, and Dokja wastes not a second to throw himself around him. He is embraced in turn, held tight for long moments in the morning chill, Joonghyuk’s warm body flush against is, and almost laughs at how unsubtle his lover is in his following examination.
“Bruise my lips,” Dokja says then, and his wish is fulfilled before the syllable leaves his tongue. It’s harder to end the kiss than begin it, and it takes him several attempts—although he does not go unwilling each time Joonghyuk pulls him back and claims his mouth anew. When they finally do part, he observes his lover’s mouth and knows that his is equally swollen, surely just as red.
“Good.” He guides his lover to his collar with one hand as he unfastens it with another, relishes in the soft gasp that escapes him then. “Now, here.”
When Dokja enters the Harem at first light, his slight limp well and truly earned against the library’s wall, there are several curious spectators awake to meet him. He feigns no modesty then, relishes in the fantasy he has constructed for them.
Joonghyuk’s bites and bruises bloom on his naked throat for the world to see. Never mind that the theatre is written so that the audience believes they belong to someone else.
Because for the next days, for as long as they last, Dokja will find them there, press his fingers into the bruises until they ache, and know.