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The soldiers’ requests for the month include a pleasure house, filled with warm baths and agile hands. Jongseong obliges, sending a scout ahead to the next village to request them to honour the Emperor’s army, of which he heads on their way to the next battle point.
They receive word when the scout returns three days later, flushed triumphantly before he gives personal news to Sunghoon and Jongseong that their presences will be honoured at the noble’s residence that holds land there, and they will be provided with the finest entertainment.
Jongseong can only imagine what that might contain.
Sunghoon has none of this similar mortal wariness, however; he anticipates only the incredulity of having a bed warmed by a proper fire and a refuge from the cold snow at night.
“It was not this kind of cold wetness where I grew up,” Sunghoon defends hotly when Jongseong points out his childhood spent in similar conditions. “I did not heave me and my horse through mountains of snow for eight hours a day.”
So they ride into town, a mild divergence of the route Jongseong had been planning on taking, but just so; he receives news close to noon that a storm seemed to be forming on the paths he had planned to take, and if his troops could be happy, so be it.
The pleasure house is quaint, though small. And yet the town is a frenzy, having not received so many soldiers since the original conquest. It is a great thing to be able to serve your empire—or so it is told like this.
The soldiers are free to do as they wish, on the constraint they behave properly. Jongseong had only selected the best on this journey, and so it shall only be the best that are rewarded. He dutifully accepts this and chooses freely to ride alongside Sunghoon as they make their way on a well-trodden path to a manor off to the side of the town.
The greeting banquet is nothing fancy. The baron, his wife, and two young sons. A chat about the frightening weather. Jongseong smiles into the alcohol. The wife is enchanted by Sunghoon—but who isn’t?
“We cannot promise you an evening of dancing and singing, my lord,” the baron finally says, once the children have withdrawn, just as Jongseong feels the toll of a warm meal settling into his gut, with a comfortable buzzing from the alcohol. “All the finest courtesans have been sent to serve your men!”
His laugh is grating, amplified by the alcohol. Sunghoon laughs along politely; he’d always been better at faffing along with strangers.
“Quite alright,” Jongseong says, feeling quite relieved. To put up with such attention feels like a farce. “It’s been a long way. It’s good to rest.” Alone.
“Ah, but we’ve handpicked company for you tonight, to be delivered on behalf of our very knowledgeable Madam who runs the business,” the baron continues, seemingly not knowing when to rest. “They’re absolutely remarkable, so I’ve been told.”
Sunghoon is a quiet, judgmental presence beside him. Jongseong takes the reins. “There is no need—”
“For the light of the empire!” the baroness cheers loudly. She has not had a single drop of alcohol tonight; Jongseong can see it in her eyes. But her intentions ring clear.
“For the light of the empire,” Sunghoon says, not nearly as graciously as he could be sounding. Jongseong watches his hand twitch in his lap.
“For the light, indeed,” Jongseong echoes flatly. “The empire commends its subjects’ thoughtfulness.”
He spots his company when he removes himself from the bath he’d soaked at least half an hour in, the water turning tepid. The moonlight outside was calming. Jongseong had ordered the maids to stay out, unused to this fettering about since he’d moved away from home to join Heeseung in the palace as a child, training to be part of the then-prince’s private guard.
He’d never been this alone, not for a long time. In his childhood, he’d been accompanied mostly by maids and servants who followed him around as the young heir to the family title, and then in his teenage years, he trained with his fellow soldiers.
It’s nice; the water slopes down his back when he draws fingers through his hair. The manor is delightfully heated for the fact that it is surrounded by snow-capped mountains and a brilliant, white landscape.
The courtesan they’d given him is a quaint thing; Jongseong can tell by the broad line of his shoulders that it’s a man, head bent despite the veil covering his face, with his hands folded in his lap. If Jongseong were to touch him, he thinks he’d likely find no tenderness at all. He hardly expects courtesans to have as many audiences here as they do in the capital; they likely have other talents.
The red and gold silk adorning his body is fine, gossamer. It carries a sheen that seems nearly too new, like it’s been only brought out recently for this occasion. Jongseong can’t imagine he’s too experienced. He shudders at the thought of what these nobles think might interest him.
“What is your name?” Jongseong asks, keeping his tone as uninterested as possible. It is not hard; he’s seen more precious things in the capital. The entertainers here could not possibly hold a torch to those that parade in the streets back home, though he’d always been too righteous—and frankly uninterested—to dabble.
The courtesan does not speak.
There is not a soul who does not know Jongseong’s name in the empire. He is Heeseung’s right-hand man, the now-Emperor’s childhood companion who has been decorated for both bravery and accomplishment alike. He is capable, strategic, and an army general, highly intelligent and passionate.
His victories for the empire are endless. The conquest containing this kingdom has been fruitful; the empire knows no losses in the eye of the war. Alongside Sunghoon’s genius intellect, their ability to further the Emperor’s reach knows no end.
“I asked you a question,” Jongseong says, though his voice is softer.
“My lord,” the courtesan finally says, his hands shifting as he folds his palms upwards. “I am here to serve you as you like for the night.”
“Start with your name.” Jongseong takes a seat on the sofa furthest from where the courtesan kneels. He crosses a leg over the other, leaning back with his arm on the edge of the sofa. The bath has tired him; he’s unwilling to play these mind games.
The courtesan hesitates, then speaks: “Jungwon, my lord.”
It is a beautiful name that curls on his tongue. Endearing, maybe. He is curious as to what this courtesan may look like; what the baron and this aforementioned Madam thinks he will enjoy.
Jongseong clicks his tongue. “Is this what you do?”
“My lord… I… What do you mean?”
“Pleasure,” Jongseong says. “Tell me about your daily life.”
Jungwon breathes out. Jongseong can see his veil twitch. “Yes,” he says. “My lord. This is all that I do.”
The salutation is an afterthought. Intentional. A slight, clearly. Amused, Jongseong looks away from him to the stacks of books by the sofa’s armrest, taking the first one. “Ah, I left my glasses. Will you fetch them for me?”
The courtesan—Jungwon—doesn’t move at first, then he stands slowly, hands on his legs. He moves quietly—no, entirely silently—to the nightstand by the bed. He moves with purpose, intention clear in his strides, picking up Jongseong’s glasses.
Jungwon passes them over wordlessly, a brief moment where he holds them delicately in the air in his pale palm, fingers outstretched, every movement rather slow, though not unsure. Jongseong takes them from him, slipping them onto the bridge of his nose. Jungwon hovers, as if hesitant of his next action. Inexperienced, Jongseong’s mind supplies. Thoughtful, his heart provides.
“Kneel,” Jongseong says, voice raspier than he’d intended it to be, feeling something swirl in his gut at the image painted in his mind at Jungwon kneeling again, demure and obedient.
Jungwon drops to his knees. He’s closer than he was before, hands on his lap. The veil flutters as he lets out a shaky exhale. Speaking of the veil—Jongseong reaches forward, taking the edge of it, running his fingers over the lace. Soft. Delicate. And yet not the highest quality of imports that they could’ve gotten, with the new trade routes. Clearly a town impoverished by the cost of the war.
He pulls it off in a singular moment, letting go of the veil as it pools to the floor, falling like feathers, a pile of red lace on the ground. Jongseong takes in Jungwon’s expression: the flash of being caught off-guard, the reddening of his cheeks, and the indent from his lip as he lets go of his bottom lip, tongue escaping to wet his lips.
Worry and fear swim in his eyes for a singular moment before being quelled. Jongseong wonders briefly what Jungwon thinks of him. The thought is so ridiculous he almost laughs, the corners of his lips lifting. He sees the shadow of a scowl flutter across Jungwon’s face. Sensitive, then.
“You’re beautiful, you know,” Jongseong says, thumb tracing Jungwon’s jaw. He is almost devilishly pretty, the corners of his eyes catlike, coupled with the sharp edges of his face, a dash of red on his pale skin. He seems like he would bruise easily, the kind with skin that smarts. He looks strong too, the sculpt of a muscle disappearing under the sleeves and the layers of fabric on his pale body, unblemished as far as the eye can see. He’s wrapped in such a way that is entrancing to the eye, like a pretty present waiting to be unwrapped.
Jongseong’s only human. It does seem like the aforementioned Madam knows him well. Jungwon is truly, in a word, beautiful.
Jungwon doesn’t respond. He lets Jongseong slip his thumb into his mouth, finger pressing down on his tongue. He lets Jongseong lean forward to touch him, leaning into it like he’s meant to be touched. Aware, controlled. Every movement deliberate, though sharp with the edge of something unfamiliar—like he hadn’t done this before.
It’s all very paradoxical, if Jongseong can say anything about it.
Seduction is a game, and Jongseong knows Jungwon plays it well. The look on his face is one of servitude, of respect, eyes holding Jongseong’s gaze, though not nearly so demurely as a courtesan in the capital would. In an errant thought, Jongseong wonders how Jungwon would fare in the capital’s courtesan business, with its cutthroat competition vying for the nobility’s attention.
It only further elevates his prominence, if Jongseong gives it more reflection. His lips are pink around his finger as Jongseong pulls his hand back, leaving a trail of saliva that drips down Jungwon’s bottom lip, adorning his chin. “Undress yourself.”
Jungwon moves like it’s rehearsed, both eyes still watching Jongseong, his fingers slipping into the top of the robe, in front of his chest. It’s folded like a flower and unveils as such, fabric pooling like petals on the floor. Yet he is not bare, another simple, sheer layer underneath. Jungwon shudders involuntarily at the cold in the room.
“Keep going.”
Jungwon’s fingers twitch. He moves to stand, the fabric slipping off his hips. He’s left in the sheer remnants of a robe, hands unfurled and flat against his own body to prevent himself from hugging his own body to keep warm.
Jongseong just… waits.
Jungwon hesitates, and hesitates, the reluctance ebbing through. Jongseong catalogues every twitch, voluntary or involuntary, from the cold biting through the thin layer or from the general interest. Courtesans in the capital like to take a courage shot. Some might call it an aphrodisiac. Jongseong doesn’t doubt that this simple town does not have the frilly funds to spend on such a thing.
“Come here,” Jongseong finally beckons, sitting up. Jungwon is not far; he presses so close his knees touch his. He moves like a deer; measured, though nimble, with an underlying pressure. He is suddenly too dressed for all of this, tugging at his own robe, which is notably more plush and warm than Jungwon’s.
It’s easy to slip his cock out, curling his hand around it so pleasantly, so familiarly. Days of rest and relaxation are rare on the battlefield. He finds himself pent-up with the stress and the stringent days of strategy, poring over maps in the cold of the night and the warmth of the day alike. It’s so easy to let the image of pleasure wash over him.
Jungwon reaches down, without being prompted to, slipping his fingers over Jongseong’s. This close, Jongseong can see Jungwon’s chest, nipples hard from the cold. He’s lithe, with framed shoulders, but they taper down into a small waist. Jungwon strokes him to hardness, then entirely unordered, slips back down to his knees between Jongseong’s legs, and takes him into his mouth.
Jongseong bites the inside of his cheek to not react like a teenage boy. He doesn’t particularly think about fucking, about the softness or the roughness of pleasure. He doesn’t take spoils of war; he’s above it, above the image of depravity so many of his allies and his adversaries fall victim to.
But this—this is a sharp reminder at what he’s missed. Teenage years of days and nights spent training instead of slipping away with a maid or a servant or a stablehand, fooling around with eager hands and even more eager mouths. His pulse jackrabbits as Jungwon attempts to fit more into his own mouth, jolting him back into the present, tongue wet and warm and purposeful against the underside of his cock.
Jungwon fits his own hand around what he can’t reach with his mouth, a master of Jongseong’s entire pleasure. Jongseong slips a hand into Jungwon’s hair, reveling in how it curls around his own fingers, before pressing harder at the nape of his neck, pushing him down.
“Mmm—” Jungwon chokes, makes a cute noise when his throat seizes and he gasps, trying to find air and finding nothing. The feeling of panic overtakes him, if only for a moment, before Jongseong can see the mild daze take over in his eyes, half-lidded eyes blinking. Jongseong takes over the movement then, letting Jungwon turn pliant, fingers back on his lap as he lets Jongseong control him.
In the end, it could have taken seconds or hours. Jungwon makes an effort to swallow, face tinged pink, all teary-eyed from the lack of reprieve. Jungwon raises a hand, moving to wipe at his mouth and the wetness all around his lips and chin as it starts to drip, but Jongseong reaches it first, smearing it more than cleaning it up.
Jungwon holds no reproach in his eyes. Jongseong wishes he were better at reading people, but all his life he has known to predict an enemy’s move before it occurs, lost in the physicality of it rather than focusing on the words they speak. Jungwon’s eyes hold no meaning to it, but in a peculiar, eerie way—Jongseong almost wishes they did.
It might’ve made it easier.
He tugs Jungwon out of his kneeling position, the other steady on his feet as he all but leans into Jongseong. His hands are nimble—though cold and sticky—on Jongseong’s chest and shoulders, warm breath ghosting over Jongseong’s ear as he shifts their positions so that Jungwon is pulled flush to him, where Jongseong can feel the perk of Jungwon’s own interest.
He doesn’t bother to undress him fully, simply tugging the fabric away at the bottom. If it rips, he’s uninterested; Jungwon’s cock is wet at the tip in Jongseong’s fingers, warm to the touch as Jungwon makes an unfettered noise, loud in his ear. He smells good, Jongseong notes, sprayed with rosewater or something akin to it, a flowery touch he can’t place.
Jungwon shifts on his lap before quelling it. His hand tightens from where he’s holding Jongseong’s shoulder, almost as if trying to keep some distance between them as Jongseong touches lower, and lower, fingers skating around his perineum. Jongseong, attuned to every fiber of Jungwon’s movement, feels it before it happens: Jungwon readies himself, a temporary lapse as he inhales, chest heaving with the exertion of being teased.
He’s stretched and oiled, truly a little present that had fallen into his lap. Jongseong is suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of gratitude: gratitude for the decisions made by his men to stop by the town, gratitude for the Empire for having sent him out here in the first place.
It’s easy to slip one finger in, the fit of it tight as Jungwon tenses around him. Jongseong leans forward, tonguing at the junction where his neck meets his torso. He fingers him slowly, taking in the pleasure of Jungwon’s body twitching with his own enjoyment, before he decides enough, slipping in a second alongside the first.
“Ah, ah,” Jungwon makes a noise, mumbled and held back, as Jongseong crooks his fingers to search for that pleasurable spot. It’s near methodical, the same way he’d go about dissecting his enemies’ front lines for vulnerabilities, and Jungwon crumbles much like the same: attempting not to, then all at once, still muffling his own sounds. It’s lewd, the sound that echoes in the empty room, with Jungwon writhing on his lap.
Jongseong shrugs the rest of his clothing off, holding Jungwon in his arms as he stands, hastily taking the few steps to the bed, before shoving Jungwon down on it. Jungwon’s body trembles in the cold when Jongseong tears the rest of the fabric covering him, leaving him bare in the candlelight.
He’s beautiful, a true painting to be reckoned with; he’s pink all over, skin dotted with goosebumps from the cold as he shivers. His skin is pale, and he’s lithe, with muscles like a statue’s. Jungwon bites his lower lip: Jongseong can’t tell if it’s meant to seduce him or not.
He doesn’t seem fearful, only vaguely hesitant. For someone who had his cock down his throat not long ago and two fingers up his ass, Jungwon still seems… shy.
But maybe shy is not the right way to put it.
His cock is hard, still, leaking at the tip. Jongseong wonders hazily if he’d taken any aphrodisiac—if that might make it better. If he’d been told how barbaric he might be. He wondered if Jungwon prepared himself, bathing in rosewater with floating petals, dressing himself in his finest attire. He wonders, and wonders, and oh, it’s a beautiful image that has him stirring in interest once more.
Jongseong gets low, lets Jungwon sprawl out on the bed, getting on his chest and his elbows in between Jungwon’s legs. He makes a pretty noise, something like curiosity that descends into surprise as Jongseong presses his lips to his inner thigh, spreading his legs apart more. Jongseong nibbles, biting, before he takes his cock into his lips, fingers tracing around his hole before sinking into him again, tongue swirling around the precum.
“Oh!” Jungwon jerks, pushing himself up on his elbows. Jongseong grants no mercy, wanting to give him only pleasure before he has his way with him. Jungwon shakes, moans, and inhales, eyes wide at the exertion. He makes small movements like he’s simultaneously trying to get away and to stay within this little bubble of gratification. Jongseong drinks it all up, wanting to consecrate this image in his mind forever. The next time he closes his eyes, wraps a hand around himself in the dead of night, hopefully back in his home in the capital, he knows he’ll see this.
Jungwon seems to want to make it difficult for him, refusing to go boneless and to just let the pleasure take him. Fine; if he wants to play this game, he can. He pulls off, spitting a mixture of spit and precum onto Jungwon’s stomach. Jungwon even twitches at this. Jongseong wipes the hand that had been toying with him on his inner thigh, moving to sit at the head of the bed.
Jungwon’s still dazed, coming down from a high of pleasure and the higher feeling at being denied it. He’s still hard, red and flushed, chest still heaving. Jongseong hauls him up to put him in his lap. If this pretty thing is here, he might as well not do any of the work.
Jungwon takes his cock easily, if not with a little complaint. Jongseong lets him control how quickly he seats himself, almost erotically romantic with the way Jungwon’s head lolls back, revealing the enticing strip of bare skin on his neck and throat. Jongseong takes the image in, leaning forward and swirling a tongue around his left nipple, feeling the bud of it against his tongue.
Jungwon fights a noise, a little “mmm—” that tapers off, squirming as Jongseong presses a hand to the small of his back, forcing him to either stay where he is or continue. He presses a gentle kiss to the nipple, before trailing his mouth up, leaving kisses and tiny bites. He’ll leave a mark later, maybe when Jungwon is a little more supple after the first round. He likes his partners to be dazed with pleasure, to enjoy it as much as he does.
Finally, he leans back, satisfied with the future he’s curated in his mind. Jungwon breathes heavily, ass meeting Jongseong’s upper thighs, chest trembling with the effort.
“What are you waiting for?” Jongseong prompts lazily, knowing he sounds sleazy and leaning into it. He’s allowed a night of pleasure and enjoyment, especially with such a pretty thing that’s been delivered into his lap. He wonders how much it would be to request to take Jungwon with him—then instantly shelves that thought. The idea of keeping a foreign courtesan at home to play wife is ridiculous.
Jungwon is coquettish at the attention; his skin jumps when Jongseong touches him, gentle in the dark night. He leans into his fingertips, squirming a little to adjust on his cock.
Jongseong wishes he was the littlest bit creative, in the same way Riki is, able to capture radiance and vibrancy at the touch of a paintbrush. He could paint this image of Jungwon forever.
It’s easy to pinpoint when their dynamic shifts. He stares into Jungwon’s eyes: they no longer have a dark haze, pupils unfocused; rather, Jungwon’s eyes are watching. Waiting. Clearly someone who’s trained, then.
Jongseong wishes he could care. It’s experimental, the way he lifts his hips, watching the way Jungwon’s mouth parts as he inhales. “Go on, then. What are you waiting for?” he repeats, though this time meaning something quite different.
The blade on his neck doesn’t surprise him, nor is it particularly welcome; it’s uncomfortably warm, not cold, as expected with the way it’s been pressed up against Jungwon’s warm body all night, waiting to be unsheathed. Jongseong’s hand is on his in an instant, unwavering in strength. Jungwon cannot overpower him, not like this.
Jongseong grips Jungwon’s wrist tighter. The other is still breathing heavily, though his grip is unfaltering. Experienced, then, though clearly not immune to pressure. Jongseong rolls his hips, Jungwon’s lips twitch in response to the movement, though the blade still does not slip.
Jongseong wonders if he’s crazy or stupid for still being able to stay hard in this situation. Maybe it’s the crazy circumstance of the situation: the soft, subtle enticement of something new. Something enthralling. Something dressed in fine silks that had snuck into his bedchambers, clearly meant to slice his throat open.
“When did you know?” Jungwon rasps. If Jongseong looks hard enough, he can see where his hands have been on his throat, the fresh marks bruising.
“Since you knew where to get my glasses,” Jongseong comments, blasé. “Slit my throat, then.”
He can feel Jungwon’s heart rate on his wrist. It’s steady, though faster. He doesn’t move his hand. Or maybe he tries, but Jongseong knows his grip is strong enough to withstand it.
No one’s gotten this close to him before in all previous attempts, though. “Go on,” he whispers lowly, his other hand loosening on Jungwon’s free wrist, moving instead to his waist again. He slides his grip down to his hip and thrusts up, inciting a pretty moan from Jungwon’s lips.
He’s a sight to be had now, bitten and pink in the dim, flickering remnants of the fire. His skin is marked, his lips open as he pants for breath. He is not immune. It keeps Jongseong going despite the threat to his life, entranced by the way Jungwon’s unable to mask the most mortal of his desires.
“You are beautiful,” he tells him honestly. “This mutiny of yours is quaint. Creative, even.”
“Don’t patronise me,” Jungwon spits, but it carries no weight as Jongseong starts to touch him: a gentle, lingering touch.
“You should wait until the third time,” Jongseong advises him, ignoring the soft whimpers that spill out from Jungwon as he digs a thumb into his cock’s slit. “It’ll be easier to slice his throat open once he’s come inside of you at least twice. It’s an unbeatable distraction.”
Jongseong can feel Jungwon’s pulse jackrabbit in his grip, still, knife to his neck. It’s a different level of crazy to be so turned-on that he’s willing to continue with a knife to his throat, but perhaps it’s Jungwon himself making him like this; bedding partners have always been miserable and boring, but this has only proven to be intriguing and mysterious, even. “I don’t kill people for fun.”
“Am I special, then?” Jongseong plants his weight and thrusts up. The knife finally dislodges, and Jongseong feels the sharp pain in his neck, though he instinctively knows it’s not deep enough to cause any permanent damage. It makes his heart race anyways, watching as Jungwon shudders above him, body bowing as Jongseong thrusts, free hand digging into the other’s hip again, still holding Jungwon’s now-slack wrist in the other.
“The empire has no, ah, bearing here,” Jungwon hisses, the edge of his teeth digging into his lip. Like a painting to be admired. A statue to be touched. Jongseong’s inner instinct is to conquer. To keep.
He adjusts their positions, flipping Jungwon over so his back presses flush with the sheets, Jongseong looming over him. It’s crude, but he’s done with playing the game now; he’s only human, after all, and spending countless months with only alcohol-fueled evenings with Sunghoon and his own hand to keep him company have made him restless. Sharp, and seeking. “You’re right,” Jongseong says easily. “This is my bedroom.”
Jungwon squirms underneath him, a victim to his own pleasure as well. He’s not particularly loud, but that’s a thing that can be learned, sculpted. And they have all night, Jongseong reminds himself, slowing down his pace slightly to aim with purpose.
Jongseong kisses the junction of Jungwon’s jaw and his neck, laying attention to his pale skin, nibbling at the flesh. He sees the knife in his periphery. Jungwon has not even reached for it. Jongseong wonders if he’s really taken his advice. He doubts that he’s given up. He hopes that he hasn’t given up.
He busies one hand to stroke Jungwon at the same rhythm he thrusts. Jungwon’s body thrums at his touch, even bowing into it, as he begins to writhe, moaning little pants of incomprehensible utterances.
His eyes flutter closed on every thrust, eyelashes fluttering with the whites of his eyes visible.
“Go on,” Jongseong rasps. He’s a madman now, mad with the idea of a blissed-out Jungwon in front of him. On his back, on his front, on his side, in the bath, over the table, over the armrest. His mouth, his lips, his eyes, his clavicle, the smoothness of his stomach, the sculpt of his legs. The ideas are countless, the combinations infinite. He wants to breathe Jungwon in, to keep him like lightning in a bottle, forever a memento engraved in his mind.
He speeds up, removing his hand from Jungwon’s cock as he presses closer, feeling it between their bodies. One hand at Jungwon’s hip and the other on the bed, he keeps his thrusts shallow though rapid, more enticed by the idea of his own pleasure than Jungwon’s.
“Say it,” he says, voice hoarse even to his own ears, as Jungwon closes his eyes and turns his head to the side. He’s unable to keep his own sounds from escaping though—and yet he tries, teeth burrowing into his bottom lip as he keens, hands twisting to get a grip in the sheets. Jongseong nips at his earlobe, tongues at the outer shell of the auricle, before laving kisses behind Jungwon’s ear, all the way down to his jawline.
He noses right underneath, unable to stop the fantasies forming. Jungwon twists on his cock, one hand flying to Jongseong’s shoulder, as if trying to move him off, to push him away. The little minx, Jongseong thinks, feeling crazed, he can’t tell at all if the grip is meant to deter him or to pull him back in.
“You failed,” Jongseong says sharply. His thoughts, though many, still seem to be vaguely coherent. “Little assassin.”
“Mmm—” Jungwon keens, gasping as Jongseong’s attention focuses entirely on pinning his hips down enough to continue to pound into him, his eyes flying open. He’s at the mercy of his own pleasure now, squirming, all pink from the cold and the attention. “My lord—”
“Jongseong,” Jongseong says sharply. It sounds like an order, even to himself.
“Jongseong-hyung,” Jungwon gasps, and oh, that’s truly something. He’s just the type to assume, maybe the right kind of cheeky if provoked enough. Jongseong commits that to memory, swearing to utilise it later. But tonight, right now—he only thrusts in deeper, feeling the twist in his own balls, Jungwon twisting his upper body as if to try and escape still.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is. Something crazed churns in his gut; Jongseong wonders blankly if Jungwon is like this to all his targets. Is he a master of seduction or assassination? Or both? He wonders if all assassins are trained to withstand some sort of distraction, whether it be sexual pleasure or not. He has a pretty face. Wasted with a knife. Better with an objective.
Jongseong does not want to die. He wants Jungwon to be his, to be by his side, leashed like an exotic pet, draped in furs and spoils won from Jongseong’s conquest. He’s long known himself to be indifferent to the pleasure houses he knows his men frequent. He’s uncaring of what a possible brief night could give him. He wants every inch of someone’s skin to be meaningful, rather than a temporary moment.
Jongseong wants to own this encounter, in the same way he wants to own a battle. Park Jongseong’s victory, they might say. Over a bloodstained battlefield. Over Jungwon’s writhing, alluring, pale body.
He doesn’t think he is a good person. But he certainly likes feeling like it.
He wants Jungwon to come first, and he does, the feeling of the moment so sudden and so sharp that Jungwon’s chest heaves with the exertion, shame and desire flushing alike in his face, swirling as Jongseong wraps a hand around him to tug him through it. He looks utterly pathetic, fingers twitching on the sheets with every force of a breath tugged out of him as his cock spurts, twitching, shaking as Jongseong works him through it, ragged breaths echoing in the air around them.
It’s so vile, so evil, so twisted—and in some shape, way, or form, Jongseong knows it too. This battle isn’t fought in the same way his conquests are, ordained by the Emperor, his path so easily etched out in front of him. This feels instead like a desecration, an entire consumption of his soul. At the very wicked base of his being, he can’t tell if this is some kind of divine blessing or punishment for the crimes he’s committed in this life.
It’s a thankful, beautiful thing he’s never been particularly religious.
Jungwon struggles, attempting to overpower Jongseong now, whimpering and making sounds alike. Jongseong pushes him past the brink of it, mindlessly thinking of his own pleasure as he continues to thrust messily. Jungwon tightens around him, and Jongseong comes back down enough to hear him say—
“Hyung, please, ah, hyung, General—” and it’s so fucking over as Jongseong feels his own climax hit him, sending him into a full-body shiver as everything in his mind goes white. He doesn’t know if anything feels as good as this—not since the first time a maid accosted him when he was younger to take her into his mouth, not since his ceremony of honours, not even since they united the most westward kingdom under the Empire’s rule.
It’s so euphoric to pull out slowly, mind hazy as he watches his own release drip out of Jungwon, still twitching and panting.
Jungwon moves, reaching, and Jongseong has half a mind to incapacitate him while he still can, lest he end up with a blade buried in his windpipe by the morning. But Jungwon—almost like he is seeking comfort—is teary-eyed, and so Jongseong lets Jungwon kiss him, kissing him through it, for the first time that night, finding such a lovely home in his mouth. Jungwon still tastes like him, lips dry, and he is still twitching through the aftershocks.
“Oh—” Jungwon moans into his mouth as his fingers cradle onto the nape of Jongseong’s neck, threading through the hair there. Jongseong doesn’t particularly care about his hair, but he does loathe it when it grows long, long enough to be particularly irritating, but he finds himself reveling in how Jungwon finds a grip there. Jongseong’s fingers circle his hole, scooping what had fallen out and pushing it back in, the feeling warm and tight as Jungwon borderline thrashes around him.
“A little inexperienced for a courtesan, aren’t you?” he says, voice tinged with mirth. Jungwon is so fascinating—ever walking the line between whore and killer. He knows now that Jungwon is strong from his experience in murder, and not pleasure. He is a victim yet to his human desires, too. “Do you seduce people for fun, then?”
Jungwon makes a noise, overwhelmed and pushed past his limit, squirming on the sheets. And yet Jongseong won’t let him move, feeling himself grow interested again. Once more—and maybe then Jungwon will kill him. Too bad he can only try. “No—ah, but—” Jungwon fights back as Jongseong’s fingers pick up speed, muscles spasming and halfheartedly fighting Jongseong off. “You—ah, please!”
Jongseong sucks a bite into Jungwon’s skin. It takes effort, a kind of purposeful effort that has his cheekbones aching by the end of it. But the bruise blooms, a pretty colour that’ll only fade to something more permanent in the morning. It’s the first of many Jongseong intends to leave.
He feels himself growing hard, but it’ll be a long time until his third. He fully intends on letting Jungwon go, first.
It is awful in the morning to wake in the cold. He feels the dampness of the cold set into his bones. It’s a miserable, wet kind of cold—the one Sunghoon had been so wary of—and it is awful. The fire had stopped burning sometime into the night; maids likely had been instructed to avoid his chambers. Probably to keep the body from smelling as much should Jungwon have succeeded.
Jongseong’s first instinct is to draw the blanket around Jungwon, who shivers in his sleep. As he rises from the bed, Jungwon stirs even at the minute amount of sound. So classically trained. It is admirable. Jongseong wonders if he had grown up in the capital, would his abilities be different? He has no doubts that Jungwon would have surpassed him in fighting. Could probably still, if Jungwon were to return with him.
The thought is tantalising. To keep a pretty weapon beside him in bed.
“Are you going to leave now, then?” Jungwon’s voice is soft in the morning light. He has only been awake for a while, it seems, but his thoughts are already so sharp.
“Mmm,” Jongseong hums, slipping out of bed to start digging for his pants. He finds them easily, draped with Jungwon’s robe. He slips them on, buckling his belt with his back to Jungwon. He hears the other man shift on the bed, quiet, though he seems to make no move to get up. “We have a few more days of traveling before we return to the capital.”
Jongseong finally looks back at Jungwon. There are the telltale bruises on his neck, and Jongseong can see shadows and prints from where his fingers and mouth had been all night. Something streaks in his gut. Something heavy, possessive. Alluringly so, almost. To imagine Jungwon back in the comfort of his own home, where the weather is warmer and the climate more docile. Where he is a celebrated man, sunny with honours and affordances unlike, with his name engraved in history.
“And where are you headed now?” Jongseong asks, fixated on where a scratch on Jungwon’s previously unmarred body disappears under the sheets.
Jungwon shivers under his gaze, though his eyes seem so distant. “Nowhere.”
“Nowhere?”
“I can’t leave this room with you alive.” A whisper. The threat of the situation shatters Jongseong’s odd daydream of a blossoming future with a pretty thing like Jungwon in his bed, in his arms.
“And why is that?”
“They will know I have failed.”
“Your partner has also failed his mission,” Jongseong says, knowing that somewhere, despite his most irritating grievances, Sunghoon is likely still breathing, much in the same situation.
“You don’t know about that,” Jungwon says stubbornly.
Jongseong snorts. “If your friend has managed to kill off Park Sunghoon, then all the snow outside would melt. To kill off me is one thing—but to kill off a Duke as strong as him? It is a crime and an even greater feat.”
Jungwon shakes his head. “It is… not the same. I have no home here.”
“Would you have proved your worthiness by delivering my head on a spike?”
Jungwon fiddles with the edge of the sheet. “I don’t know. I don’t know what they would have planned. But I was ready to leave once I finished my task.”
Jongseong should feel slighted that he’s been reduced to only a task. But even a footnote in Jungwon’s book seems tantalising enough.
It doesn’t take long to come to a decision, staring at the way Jungwon’s face seems so sharp, yet his features are so soft.
“Come with me, then,” Jongseong says abruptly.
Jungwon’s lips part, forming a pleasant o-shape. It would be awfully erotic and likely provoking if Jongseong didn’t think he’d shrivel up from the cold if he tried to take off his clothes now. He looks up from where he’s cuddled in the bed, sitting up. “I… cannot.”
“Well,” Jongseong drawls. “Why?”
Jungwon seems weirdly paler now, in the morning light. “I can’t come. You will have me executed. Everyone knew the depth of the mission when we’d first agreed to complete it.”
“You are so sure about things you can’t even control,” Jongseong says, with no heat behind his words. “I would not. Had I wanted to kill you, I would’ve killed you last night.” Plus, he has no decree over executions, on a technicality, but Heeseung would not need to know that. He’s entitled to his share of the technical spoils of war.
Jungwon looks down at his hands. His palms are towards the sky once more. Jongseong thinks briefly of those same pink-tinged hands last night on his cock, and despite the cold, it’s an image that has his blood rushing down south. “You can’t promise that.”
“What I can do is what I do,” Jongseong hums. He looks at the knife on the nightstand and tosses it to Jungwon. “There.”
Jungwon startles, but picks up the blade regardless. The silver glow of the primly-polished weapon looks at home in his pale palms.
“If you feel like you are in danger at any given moment, you may slice my throat open in my sleep,” Jongseong orders, tugging his collar closed. The uniform jacket helps with the cold. He gives up on buttoning, attempting to obtain some feeling back into his fingertips.
Jungwon looks at the blade in his hands, running his fingers alongside the flat edge. Then he looks up at Jongseong. “You would have me in your bed every night?”
“It’s not much of a bed,” Jongseong corrects. “But it will be warmer if you share it.”
Something flickers in Jungwon’s face, like a veil of understanding and decision that has washed over him. It is not hesitance nor fear that cripples him from agreeing, Jongseong knows. His decision has been made long ago.
“It will be good for you,” Jongseong says softly. “I can make it good for you.” Something uncurls his heart, a softening that has not been unveiled before. It is a tender admittance. If Heeseung had been here, he might have told Jongseong flatly that this had been a long time coming.
Jungwon’s head tilts a little, the tips of his hair long enough to pool on his shoulder. Almost like he’s thoughtful, like a bystander watching prey being hunted. Jongseong doesn’t think he is weak in any way, but to this particularly, he may be. “You trust me. When did you start trusting me?”
“Since you knew where to get my glasses,” Jongseong says easily, repeating his same words from last night. That memory has him growing more than a little minorly interested, feeling warmth pool in his fingertips. “Since I saw you, maybe.”
There is a ghost of something powerful over Jungwon’s lips. Wry. Coy. “Okay. I will come with you.”
Jongseong—for the first time ever in his life, maybe—feels relieved. Perhaps he should feel worried at having invited a killer into his bed. But it’s a sudden rush of something new, unfamiliar, a gravity at which he hadn’t released he’d been feeling. It must appear on his face. He has never been one to glamourise or attempt to mask his emotions. “Good,” he says. “You have no life here, anyways.”
Jungwon doesn’t break his gaze. “I never have.” He takes a breath, the air coiling in front of him temporarily like a wisp.
“You can have one,” Jongseong says promisingly. “If you want.”
Jungwon doesn’t respond, his eyes fixed on Jongseong’s.
Jongseong presses forward: “I will give you one. You can get away from the snow.”
Jungwon breaks his gaze only to look out the window, where the pane has frosted over. The land outside is gleamingly white, covered in a blanket of snow: an odd contrast to the somber stillness of the manor’s rooms. “Okay. If… if you’ll have me.”
“I will have you,” Jongseong says, tenderly, and for once in his life, he truly feels like he means it. This is something that is not just the Empire’s, but his. His alone. Not something that might belong to Heeseung just as equally, if not more.
He will always be a dog at the feet of something greater; a hound to be bartered for and commanded by the nobility. But there is still greatness in the little things, a pretty flower in every garden, and Jongseong thinks he may have just found his own.