Chapter Text
The year is 3000, and the world is a strange patchwork of high-frequency data chips and mud-caked stirrups. After the "Great Reset" of the 25th century, the silicon survived, but the gunpowder didn’t. Now, the Empire of Wisteria is run on horse-mounted cavalry and tactical brilliance, where a well-placed firewall is as lethal as a lance.
In the glittering, neon-lit ballrooms of the capital, Dunk Natachai was widely considered the most beautiful piece of furniture in existence.
---
The grand ballroom of the Wisteria Imperial Palace smelled of expensive lilies, desperation, and the faint, metallic tang of social warfare. To the glittering masses of the High Society, the event was a celebration of the Empire’s recent border victory. To Dunk Natachai, it was a very long, very itchy performance.
Dunk stood by the chocolate fountain, blinking his long, doll-like lashes at a plate of strawberries. He was wearing a suit of pale cream silk that made his skin look like polished marble and his lips look like crushed cherries. He looked exactly like what everyone said he was: a masterpiece with the lights turned off upstairs.
"Oh look," a Duchess whispered loudly enough for the entire West Wing to hear. "The Porcelain Pawn is hungry again. It’s a mercy General Archen keeps him fed; I doubt the boy could find the kitchen on his own."
Dunk didn't flinch. Internally, he was calculating the exact trajectory of the Duchess’s wine glass if he were to 'accidentally' trip, and more importantly, he was mentally refining the flank-maneuver critique he’d sent to the Imperial War Office’s anonymous tip line two nights ago.
Joong’s 4th Battalion is over-extended, Dunk thought, popping a strawberry into his mouth. If the Northern rebels use a pincer movement, his 'invincible' line will fold like a cheap napkin.
"Dunk."
The voice was deep, vibrating against the small of Dunk’s back before the man even touched him. Joong Archen stepped out of the crowd, his black military dress uniform sharp enough to draw blood. He was the Empire’s Golden Boy now—the strategist who had risen from a family outcast to the Emperor’s right hand.
Dunk turned, widening his eyes into a gaze of vacuous adoration. "Joong Joong! Look, the fountain has three tiers! Is that because you won three battles?"
A few nearby nobles snickered. Joong’s expression remained stony, but his hand came to rest firmly on the curve of Dunk’s waist. It was a possessive, heavy weight.
"It’s just gravity, Dunk," Joong said, his voice clipped. He turned to the snickering nobles, his gaze turning icy. The laughter died instantly. "Is there something amusing about my fiancé’s curiosity?"
"No, General! Of course not," the Duchess stammered, scurrying away.
Once they were alone—or as alone as one can be in a room of five hundred spies—Joong leaned in. His breath hitched against Dunk’s ear. "You have chocolate on your lip. Try to keep the clueless act to a minimum tonight. The Emperor wants to speak with us."
"Is the Emperor nice? Does he have a big crown?" Dunk chirped, while internally he was screaming. If you don't adjust the supply lines in the Western Pass by Tuesday, Joong, the Emperor is going to have your head, not your hand. And I don't want to become lonely without you Joong.
"Just stay behind me and look pretty," Joong muttered. "You’re good at that."
Dunk smile wide at Joong. Who can't help but smile fondly at him. Joong hug Dunk waist and kiss Dunk's hair just to feel content. They stand like that behind the decoration, away from prying eyes for the entire event.
Two hours later, the 'performance' moved from the palace to Joong’s private carriage. The moment the door clicked shut and the horses began to trot, the atmosphere shifted from cold duty to simmering heat.
In the dark of the carriage, Dunk dropped the wide-eyed stare. He leaned his head back against the velvet cushions, exhaustion seeping into his bones. He was rich—vastly so, thanks to a grandfather who had trusted Dunk’s hidden wit more than the rest of the greedy clan—but that wealth required him to remain a 'harmless' idiot. If the family knew he was the one leaking tactical corrections to the military, they’d have him institutionalized, maybe they will try to compete favor from him, or worse an assassination.
Joong was watching him. He always watched him in the dark.
"The Marquis of Valois asked if our engagement was still... 'functional' tonight," Joong said, his voice raspy. He began unbuttoning his high collar. "He has a daughter with a PhD in Logistics. He thinks I need a partner who can understand my maps."
Dunk felt a pang of genuine spite. Logistics? I literally rewrote your logistics manual under the pseudonym 'Ghost_Strategist_99' last month.
"And?" Dunk asked, his voice slipping from the high, airy tone of the ballroom to something lower, more melodic. "Do you want a girl who talks about maps, Joong? Or do you want your protection fee from me?"
Joong lunged. It wasn't a romantic movement; it was a tactical takeover. He pinned Dunk against the carriage wall, his hands gripping Dunk’s wrists.
"Don't talk like that," Joong growled, his face inches from Dunk’s. "You know why I keep you around."
"Because I'm easy to manage?" Dunk teased, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Because I don't ask questions? Because I'm the only thing in this Empire that doesn't want something from your brain?"
Joong’s eyes darkened. He didn't know that Dunk was his greatest critic. He didn't know that the "Ghost" he’d been desperately trying to track down—the one person whose intellect he actually respected—was currently pinned under his body, pretending to be a bird-brained socialite.
"I keep you because you're mine," Joong said, and then he kissed him.
It was a clash of teeth and tongue, a desperate, hungry thing. Joong tasted like expensive scotch and suppressed frustration. He treated Dunk’s body like a territory he had to defend—fierce, unyielding, and obsessive.
Dunk arched into him, his fingers tangling in Joong’s dark hair. He hated how much he liked this. He hated that the "Genius of the Empire" was so blind he couldn't see the man right in front of him, yet so protective he’d ruin anyone who dared insult Dunk’s feigned stupidity.
Later that night, after Joong had dropped him off at the Natachai manor with a lingering, bruising kiss and a stern "Don't see your cousins tomorrow," Dunk sat at his mahogany desk.
He opened his secure comms device of Ghost_Strategist_99. There were three new messages from User: AJ_Archen.
AJ_Archen: Your critique of the 4th Battalion was... insightful. Infuriating, but insightful.
AJ_Archen: Who are you? How do you know about the pincer weakness? That information is Class 5 Classified.
AJ_Archen: Meet me. Name the place. I'll pay whatever you want for a consultation.
Dunk smirked, his "porcelain doll" face transforming into that of a predator. He typed back with lightning speed.
Ghost_Strategist_99: I don't want your money, General. I want you to admit that your 'invincible' line is a fantasy. You're thinking like a soldier. Try thinking like a person who actually wants to come home alive.
He hit send and closed the device.
Outside, the wind howled through the wisteria trees. Dunk knew the stakes were rising. Joong was becoming too famous, too sought after. The high society sharks were circling, trying to tear their engagement apart to install a "smarter" spouse by the General's side.
Dunk looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked soft. Harmless.
"You want a strategist, Joong?" Dunk whispered to the empty room. "You've been sleeping with one for three years. Too bad you're too 'genius' to notice."
---
The next day, Joong come to Dunk with a bouquet of wild sunflowers.
Dunk blinked at him. Joong said happy anniversary. Dunk tilted his head because it was not the anniversary of their engagement day or first meet day, not even the day Dunk nodded to Joong "Do you want to become my fiancé?" or worse not even the day they accidently had slept.
Joong smiled, "The day I said you are so beautiful out loud, anniversary of that"
Dunk can't help but hide his smile and follow Joong to his estate. Joong said it was for dinner but Dunk knew it will be more than that.
The bedroom in Joong’s private estate was a fortress of dark wood and heavy velvet, a stark contrast to the airy, floral pretension of the Wisteria manor where Dunk grew up. Here, the air smelled of sandalwood and the faint, sharp scent of gun oil—and right now, the heady, salt-sweet tang of skin on skin.
Joong had Dunk pinned into the silk sheets, his large, calloused hands framing Dunk’s face like he was holding a priceless artifact. But the way Joong looked at him wasn't how a collector looks at a vase. It was how a starving man looks at a miracle.
"You’re so beautiful, Dunk," Joong whispered, his voice a low vibration that skipped across Dunk's collarbone. "Sometimes I think you aren't real. Just a dream I’m having between the wars."
Dunk's heart did a traitorous little flip. He looked up, his red lips parted, eyes wide and shimmering with that practiced, docile innocence. "I'm real, Joong. Touch me and see."
Joong didn't need to be told twice. He trailed his lips down the column of Dunk’s throat, hovering over the pulse point that was hammering a frantic rhythm. Joong’s worship was thorough. He kissed every inch of Dunk’s shoulder, murmuring praises that would have made the Imperial Court gasp. To the world, Joong Archen was a cold, calculating machine of war. To Dunk, in the dark, he was a man who seemed to find his only peace in the curve of Dunk’s waist.
He loves me, Dunk thought, his fingers curling into the sheets. He loves the doll. He loves the safety of someone who doesn't challenge him. But would he love the man who told him his logistics were 'laughable' three hours ago?
Dunk felt a surge of reckless frustration. He reached up, his arms wrapping around Joong’s neck, pulling him down until their chests collided.
"Joong," Dunk breathed, his voice dropping an octave, losing its high-pitched fluff. "Do you... do you ever wish I was different? Smarter? Like those ladies at the palace?"
Joong froze. He pulled back just enough to look Dunk in the eye. His gaze was intense, searching. For a terrifying second, Dunk wondered if his brain had leaked out through his eyes.
"No," Joong said firmly. He brushed a stray hair from Dunk’s forehead. "The world is full of people trying to be clever, Dunk. My family, the Emperor, the generals... they all have schemes. They all have brains that only know how to take. You’re the only thing that’s simple. The only thing that’s pure."
Dunk’s grip on Joong’s neck tightened, half-affectionate, half-stranglehold. Simple? Pure? I have three offshore accounts and a tactical map of the Southern Border hidden in my 'coloring book,' you idiot.
"You're too good for this world," Joong continued, unaware of the internal monologue. "That’s why I have to protect you. If people knew how much money you actually had, or how vulnerable you are... they’d destroy you. I won’t let them."
Joong leaned down, capturing Dunk’s lips in a kiss that was possessive and devastatingly sweet. He moved with a slow, deliberate heat, worshiping Dunk’s body with the precision of a man mapping out his favorite territory.
Dunk let out a shaky breath, his head hitting the pillow as he gave in to the sensation. He decided, right then, that he couldn't risk it. Not yet. Being the "Beauty without a Brain" was a lonely lie, but it kept Joong’s arms around him. It kept Joong believing he was the only shield Dunk had.
But as Joong moved against him, whispering more "beautifuls" into his skin, Dunk’s mind was already drifting back to the tactical error he’d spotted in Joong’s latest report.
I'll tell him through the anonymous account tomorrow, Dunk thought, a small, secret smile playing on his lips even as he arched under Joong’s touch. I’ll save his life as 'Ghost,' and then I’ll let him cuddle the Doll. It’s a perfect strategy.
The Morning After: The sun hadn't even fully cleared the horizon when the peace was shattered. Dunk was lounging in one of Joong’s oversized silk robes, picking at a plate of grapes, when Joong burst into the breakfast nook.
He wasn't dressed for a lazy morning. He was in full uniform, and he looked livid.
"He did it again," Joong growled, slamming a tablet onto the table.
Dunk blinked, putting on his best confused kitten face. "Who did what, Joong joong? Did the baker run out of the chocolate croissants?"
Joong try hard not to laugh but he smile at Dunk's words. "The Ghost. He replied. He called my formation a 'fantasy with no tactic.' He told me to think like a human being." Joong began pacing the room, his boots clicking sharply on the marble. "He’s right. That’s the worst part. I stayed up all night re-simulating the battle, and the Ghost is right. If I don't move the 4th Battalion, we lose the ridge."
Dunk hid a smirk behind a apple slice. "Maybe this Ghost person is just a very good guesser?"
Joong stopped pacing and looked at Dunk. "No. This is someone with access to high-level intel and a mind like a steel trap. I’ve ordered the Imperial Secret Service to trace the signal. I’m going to find him, Dunk. And when I do, I’m going to make him work for me."
Dunk nearly choked. "Work for you? What if he’s... old and grumpy? Or a spy?"
"I don't care," Joong said, his eyes flashing with a competitive fire Dunk rarely saw. "I’ve never met anyone who can see through my blind spots like this. I’m obsessed with finding him."
He walked over, leaning down to kiss Dunk’s forehead. "I have to go to the War Office. Stay inside today, okay? I heard some of your cousins are in town, and I don't want them bothering you for their 'loans'."
"Okay, Joong Joong! Be careful with your maps!" Dunk waved a cheerful goodbye.
The moment the front door slammed, Dunk’s face went cold. He pulled a hidden smartphone from the pocket of his robe—a device encrypted with three layers of black-market security.
"Obsessed, are you?" Dunk muttered, his fingers flying across the screen. "Well, General, let’s see how obsessed you get when the Ghost starts playing hard to get."
He typed out a new message:
Ghost_Strategist_99: You’re tracing me, Joong Archen? Bold. But your digital encryption is as sloppy as your Western flank. Try harder.
---
The transition from Long-Term Fiancé to Imperial Spouse had happened with the dizzying speed of a cavalry charge. Tired of the vultures at court suggesting he trade his Porcelain Doll for a Strategic Asset, Joong had simply marched Dunk to the Imperial Registry, signed the papers with a flourish of aggressive ink, and declared the matter closed.
Now, instead of a fiancé who protected him from afar, Dunk had a husband who treated him like a human weighted blanket. A very clingy one, indeed.
"He hasn't replied in forty-eight hours, Dunk. Forty. Eight. Hours," Joong groaned, burying his face in the crook of Dunk’s neck.
They were tangled together on a plush velvet sofa in their new shared estate. To any outsider, Joong Archen was the Iron Strategist, a man of terrifying intellect and zero patience. To Dunk, he was currently a 186cm muscular toddler who refused to let go of his waist.
"Maybe the Ghost is busy?" Dunk suggested, his voice light and airy as he absentmindedly stroked Joong’s thick, dark hair. "Maybe he has a hobby? Like... knitting? Or looking at pretty flowers?"
Joong lifted his head, his eyes narrowed in genuine distress. "Knitting? Dunk, the man who deconstructed my triple-threat formation in six sentences does not knit. He’s probably out there, mocking me. He’s probably working for the Northern Alliance just to spite me."
"I'm sure he's not that mean to you," Dunk chirped, hiding a smirk. Actually, I was just catching up on my favorite drama series, eating spicy noodles and also busy being your husband, but sure, let’s go with international espionage.
Joong sighed, a heavy, dramatic sound, and squeezed Dunk tighter. "I don't care about the Northern Alliance right now. I care that he thinks I'm sloppy. Me! The highest-ranked strategist in three generations!"
"You're not sloppy to me, Joong Joong," Dunk said, leaning down to press a sweet, brainless kiss to Joong’s nose. "You're very organized. You even color-code your socks."
Joong’s expression softened instantly. The fire of professional indignation died out, replaced by that molten, protective warmth that always made Dunk’s stomach flip. Joong reached up, cupping Dunk’s cheek with a hand that could snap a sword but chose to be incredibly gentle.
"You're the only one who doesn't give me a headache," Joong whispered, pulling Dunk down for a deep, lingering kiss. "I love you, baby. Thank God I have you to come home to, or I’d lose my mind chasing shadows."
Dunk melted into the kiss, his heart aching with a mix of guilt and affection. He loved this man—this big, brilliant, stubborn idiot who thought he was the only one doing the protecting.
An hour later, Joong had finally fallen asleep on the couch, his head resting in Dunk’s lap. He looked peaceful, the stress of the Empire finally drained from his face.
Dunk waited until Joong’s breathing was deep and rhythmic before reaching for his clueless tablet—the one filled with bright games and cartoon themes. With a few swipes, he bypassed the child-lock interface and entered the Ghost’s encrypted server.
His inbox was flooded. Joong had sent twelve messages in the last three hours.
AJ_Archen: I’ve implemented the supply line changes you suggested.
AJ_Archen: You were right. Efficiency went up by 14%.
AJ_Archen: Why won't you meet me? I can offer you a rank, a salary, anything. The empire need people like you.
AJ_Archen: Are you ignoring me on purpose?
Dunk looked down at the Genius Strategist currently drooling slightly on his expensive silk trousers. A wicked spark of humor lit up his eyes. He began to type.
Ghost_Strategist_99: Twelve messages, General? You’re sounding needy. Is the Great Archen so lonely that he has to beg a stranger for attention? Go spend time with your new husband. I heard he’s quite the beauty.
Dunk hit send and watched the notification light on Joong’s phone—discarded on the floor—blink once.
Joong stirred in his sleep, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, "I'll catch you, you arrogant bastard..." Dunk chuckled softly, brushing a thumb over Joong’s lower lip. "You already caught me, Joong. You just don't know what you caught yet."
--
The following evening, the new "Mr. Aydin" had to make his debut. The gala was a 'Who’s Who' of people who hated Dunk’s guts for 'trapping' the Empire’s prize bachelor.
"Just stay close to me," Joong murmured as they stepped out of the carriage. He adjusted Dunk’s diamond lapel pin, his eyes scanning the crowd like he was looking for snipers. "If anyone says anything rude, tell me. I’ll have their trade permits revoked by morning."
"Oh, Joong Joong! You're so protective!" Dunk giggled, clinging to Joong’s arm.
As they entered the hall, the whispers started immediately.
"Look at him... like a doll on a shelf."
"How long until Joong realizes he can't have a conversation with a statue?"
But Dunk wasn't listening to the insults. His eyes were locked on a map displayed in the corner of the room—a decorative historical map of the Wisteria borders for showing the real life battle front, which the people in Gala happily socializing couldn't care less about. He noticed a geographical inaccuracy in the mountain passes that could be exploited if the current peace treaty failed.
If I were the Ghost, Dunk thought, his brain whirring at a hundred miles an hour, I'd suggest a fortified outpost at the Three-Fingers Peak. Dunk can't help took out his phone from the pocket to message Joong as Ghost.
Joong’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, his face going pale.
"He just messaged," Joong hissed to Dunk, his grip tightening on Dunk’s hand. "The Ghost. He criticized the map. Also he just told me to 'go spend time with my beautiful husband.' Dunk... he’s watching us. He’s here."
Dunk froze. Crap. I forgot about the Map is only seemed at here. "Oh! A ghost is here?" Dunk squeaked, looking around with wide, frightened eyes. "Is he scary? Does he have a sheet over his head?"
Joong didn't answer. He was scanning the room with the predatory gaze of a hunter, his eyes landing on every intellectual, every scholar, every rival strategist. He looked everywhere—except at the beautiful, clueless man trembling on his arm. But he still didn't let go of the waist of his beloved husband.