Secretive Plotter decides that like this, Kim Dokja is gorgeous.
(And suspects that he'd be even prettier with a tongue on his own and a hand between his legs.)
—— ❈ ——
"Ahjussi didn't abandon us!" Yoosung cries, glaring at Jihye, who huffs in turn.
She clenches her jaw and grits out, "Ahjussi abandoned us before, so it's stupid to think he wouldn't do it again ." She opens the fridge with too much force, jostling the contents and roughly grabs the butter her master asked for, slamming it on the kitchen island. He pays no mind to their arguing, chopping his vegetables, accustomed to it after previous years of experience.
"Instead of collecting dumb pets," Jihye grumbles in reference to the old, dusty room full of things that Yoosung insisted were their ajhussi—but that was a long time ago, she was a young girl, they let her cope. But she's old enough to know that a coin toss won't keep him alive, so Jihye won't indulge in the bullshit, and coldly states, "You should grow up and deal with it."
In Yoosung's defense, Gilyoung sends her a nasty look, but before he can open his mouth, Jihye turns towards Joonghyuk for approval, "Right, master?"
Like he's been unceremoniously shaken from his thoughts, Joonghyuk blinks in surprise, and his sword slices his finger, to the kids' horror. In the background, he registers Jihye scrambling for the first aid box, tearing open the shelves behind him, but the sound feels…muted. Blood splatters onto the counter, in tandem with the seconds of his heart ticking, and he watches it numbly pool; contemptuous of the colour against pale marble.
All his senses feel muted.
A worried Yoosung quietly hands him tissues, pausing for a moment before tentatively pressing them against his finger to stop the bleeding. He lets her, watching the careful frown on her face; worry and frustration blending under the care. It's in moments like these that it becomes glaringly, painfully obvious, that Kim Dokja is her father.
Jihye returns to his side soon enough, like the scabbard hanging on his waist. She peels back a plaster as Yoosung takes off the tissue, working synchronously, and before he knows it, the red is gone from his fingertips, replaced with shiny white.
They've been around each other too much, and Joonghyuk recognizes guilt in the way that Jihye crumples the wrapper and swipes the countertop clean, tossing the tissues into the trash can. He wants to open his mouth, chide her for not sanitising the surface, but it stays closed; too heavy for words, weighted with far too much to condense into them–built up on feelings that can't be conveyed.
A few instances have passed like that, where he wants to speak, but despairs when he can't. Depression isn't a stranger to him, existences intertwined together for as long as he's stuck in the time loop of regressing, but he's noticed that whenever it's related to Kim Dokja, the edge of it stings particularly hard.
The quiet moment breaks when Gilyoung, arms crossed, huffs out a, "Damn sooty bastard."
And, really, it's pitiful how every one of them has a trace of Dokja in them.
Gilyoung glares at him dead in the eyes, taller with age and still so, so angry; full of wounds on his heart that'd festered and left behind unsightly scars. Joonghyuk doesn't blame him; he grew up watching the only one who cared for him, his salvation, his home, get ripped from his grasp, and the cause almost always linked back to Joonghyuk.
So, when the boy darkly mumbles that, "Dokja hyung would still be here if it were me instead." Joonghyuk doesn't find it in himself to refute. Can't. After all, how can he be certain? He was the only one who went, the only one who failed.
As if he can't stand to be around him, Gilyoung storms off with a click of his tongue, and Jihye screams after him. The only two left in the kitchen are Yoosung and Joonghyuk. If she also chooses to awkwardly tread out, he won't blame her either.
(The only person who'd stayed by him was Kim Dokja, after all.)
(Yet, he's also the one that Yoo Joonghyuk can never seem to keep. )
Another moment passes with them staring at the open door that the two stormed out of, and Yoosung looks up at him tentatively, gingerly asking.
"Captain, can i help?"
On auto, Joonghyuk steps to the side enough for Yoosung's small frame to squeeze into the countertop area. She stands next to him, head barely reaching his chest, still so young.
There's a certain wiseness beyond her years in the way she gathers the soiled vegetables, discarding them into the bin with deftness and efficiency; maneuvering her way to the tap, rinsing a towel under hot water to wipe down the counter, before pulling out a knife from the drawers to chop up the remaining vegetables the way he'd taught her.
He wonders if he'd ripped away her childhood, also. Wonders if it was also inevitable.
Before he knows it, he raises his hand and places it on her head in a pat.
Under the touch, Yoosung stiffens for a moment in surprise, but continues to chop the vegetables with precision; fingers tucked into themselves, side of the knife against the tendons, moving carefully. There's an unspoken understanding and condolence hanging in the air; because Shin Yoosung is Kim Dokja's incarnation, and the closest thing Yoo Joonghyuk has to him. Because Yoo Joonghyuk is Kim Dokja's companion in life and death, and the closest thing Shin Yoosung has to him.
(And maybe, the only thing that either of them will have of him, for all time.)
(It's a scary thought that hangs in the shadows of the rooms, of the folds in everyone's clothes; a suffocating part of all their beings that they try to ignore, but can't.)
Though their interactions are brief and far inbetween, he thinks she understands his pain; quiet and reserved but so much like Dokja all the same. In the sense that she's intelligent, perceptive, and so bright. Joonghyuk thinks about how in another life, maybe Dokja would be here, so that they could raise her and the children together. So that they could grow up with wider smiles on their faces and laughter warming their cheeks, rather than empty eyes flickering towards an abandoned room and tensions too much to subdue.
Another life, he says, because he knows deep in his heart that the N'gai is an anomaly unlike the Demon World, unlike Olympus, unlike Eden, where return and exit were possible with enough force. It hurts.
They're the last fragments of his existence in this world line, tainted by his presence and it's so painful, because even if they put all those things together, they couldn't bring back Kim Dokja. Because he was just a person, just a constellation, the world could forget him as they rebuilt it.
But to them, he's so much more; existence and purpose all in one.
So, with all the false hope of rose glasses tinted with blood, they wait for Dokja, because he's a shooting star out of their reach; as much as they try, they can never catch him. They won't be the hands to cradle him when he falls. He's a language that they'll never understand, a comet that they can never predict, so they can't do anything but wait for their paths to cross by the path of fate again.
Just as they always have.
Wait, as they grow taller, grow older, as grey streaks Joonghyuk's hair and as Sooyoung's unpublished novel becomes dustier in the corner of her room. As Hyunsung and Heewon never get married, because the celebration would never be complete without him.
As Gilyoung and Yoosung finally get to go to school, get to drink, get to drive.
As Jihye gets the heavenly demon sword when Joonghyuk decides he can no longer wield it.
As Yoo Joonghyuk falls into a pitiful tandem that evades all of their lives, a regressor without an end, and they know that they can never understand each other enough to fit.
Wait, as the wound never closes. Wait, as it aches.
—— ❈ ——
It's not that Secretive Plotter feels inferior to Yoo Joonghyuk, but he was Yoo Joonghyuk, so there's a little —something under his skin, thrumming wildly to see Kim Dokja, to reaffirm that he's truly here. He knows that it's theoretically impossible to escape from the N'gai Forest, much less survive outside the mercy of the castle walls. But there's a difference between knowing that Kim Dokja exists somewhere within these walls, visible from their private channel, and seeing him with his eyes, feeling him with his hands.
It's not panic, per se, but it's not a need either; he could stand not having Kim Dokja in his sight, in his arms—he has, for ages.
He'd just rather not go through it all again.
But, after cancelling an audience with an outer god (that one, pesky mass of tentacles that liked to procure courting presents towards Dokja a little too much) and seeing the reason in the hallways, that rough, uncomfortable feeling melts away. Akin to snow seeping into flower petals on the first day of spring; light, calming, grounding.
Kim Dokja doesn't take notice of him, too engrossed into his phone. It's a miracle that he doesn't have to wear glasses, like this. Secretive Plotter doesn't understand why he still uses his phone when there's a grand library brimmed with all the stories he loves so dearly and more. A grand library just for him.
It's a little annoying.
So he calls out, "Kim Dokja."
Kim Dokja raises his head, pausing in his tracks, an indication for Secretive Plotter to continue––he notes that, conveniently enough, they're next to Dokja's room. Which he briefly ignores, because at that moment, he notices that Dokja's shirt has a very wide neckline. His teeth itch to bite the exposed, milky skin. He's been patient, hasn't he?
When he walks closer without a response, Dokja sends him a look —one usually reserved for Yoo Joonghyuk; informal and... close, maybe. An expression that says wah, look at this guy, always doing as he pleases. A wry, almost exasperated look. One he wears when he can't figure out Yoo Joonghyuk's next action and hides behind witty humor. He almost expects Dokja to shake his head and click his tongue, too.
(He's a bit curious on how to tear that particular layer down; the thing that masks both Kim Dokja and Yoo Joonghyuk's mutual longing with wit and sarcasm, until honesty gleams through like a particularly polished gemstone.)
Dokja looks like he's about to roll his eyes, when Secretive Plotter raises a hand to the side of his face, cupping the slope of his jaw in the dip of the Plotter's palm. It's amusing how quickly he pauses, stilling in the face of unfamiliar touches. It's a shame that all the Plotter truly wants to do is touch him. Endlessly. At all times.
Logically, he can't read the Plotter's thoughts, that particular theory's been addressed and, woefully, debunked. But the flush creeping up his neck just from the proximity, from the weight of Secretive Plotter's stare, is so entertaining that he wants to see how the constellation would react to his actual intentions in all its indecent glory.
He feels the thrum of a heartbeat pick up in speed under his fingers, and lets the corners of his lips curl up into a prideful smile. Kim Dokja flusters, "What are you doing?" the tone of his voice is an attempt of a bite, trying to be sharp and rip out his intentions, but it just amounts to a small nip at his fingertips, hardly anything through thick leather gloves.
Secretive Plotter leans in closer, taking note of every little fidget and movement, even with his stare fixed on Dokja's own, "Reimbursement," he reminds, and watches, captivated, as the memories flicker through Dokja's eyes while he tries to recall. He can't really blame him, can he? It's his own fault for just letting things be, so he'll take on that responsibility as well, and helpfully adds, "The library."
Secretive Plotter's fingers slide to curl around his nape when Dokja flushes furiously, indignantly trying to squawk out something, palms pressing to the Plotter's chest, when he pulls the starry reader into a kiss. Whatever Dokja tries to say gets muffled to a mhfmn between their lips when Secretive Plotter pulls him impossibly close with a hand on his back.
(The shudder that goes down his spine doesn't go unnoticed. The Plotter smiles into the kiss.)
A tease, an appetiser of what's to come, a promise in the way that Secretive Plotter expertly moves his mouth over Dokja's, as if it's a precise theory he's just got the opportunity to test out; sinking sharp teeth into soft lips, coaxing them open with a gentle tongue.
(It is.)
When Secretive Plotter pulls away from Dokja's mouth to turn the doorknob—
He doesn't expect Dokja to pant out a hah , grabbing him by the collar and smashing their mouths back together into a haphazard slot at best. Their teeth almost clack, lips barely staying in contact through the movement as they stumble into the room, effectively catching Secretive Plotter off guard. He almost loses his balance when Kim Dokja tries to pull him down, lean over him to insistently—clumsily—bite at his mouth, death grip wringing his collar.
His pent up frustration is evident, from the crease between his eyebrows to how his fingers threaten to burn through the Plotter's shirt, clenched so tightly into the fabric that they almost tremble.
(The fact that Kim Dokja wants , brands a very slow, satisfied curl in Secretive Plotter's chest when it settles in. He wraps a hand around Dokja's wrist and tugs at his hair to commemorate.)
Dokja's hand turns out to be more pliant than his tongue, making a low noise from the back of his throat when he doesn't want to pull away from the kiss. It takes Secretive Plotter a rougher, more insistent tug by the hair to pull the man away.
(The little noise he makes gives the Plotter a dizzying high of his own.)
In the millisecond that it takes to part, his eyes flicker down to the string of saliva connecting his own lips to a pair of swollen, cherry red ones. And it's with rapt fascination he watches it break when he splays a long, wide hand against Dokja's chest, and pushes.
With a surprised, offended grunt, Kim Dokja topples on the bed with little grace, raising himself up on his elbows to glare back with a, "You bastar—"
Secretive Plotter grabs him by the back of his neck and pulls him into another searing kiss before he can finish, knee slotting between Dokja's legs. The fingers that'd reached out to grab him falter, and he watches from his peripherals as they drop to the bedding when he presses Kim Dokja back down, where he wants him.
The sound of their parting mouths is nothing short of obscene.
He's not particularly reactive, or loud, but Secretive Plotter has always been more interested in the finer details. He finds what he's looking for in the way that Dokja's eyebrows knot, the way the tips of his fingers twitch, in the fastening pulse under the Plotter's own.
In the way his breath shortens when Secretive Plotter sucks on his tongue.
In the way Kim Dokja's jaw goes slack, letting him do as he pleases with his eyes fluttering. Pliant .
Experimentally, the Plotter lightly runs the pad of his thumb down against the unblemished neck in his hold, pressing against Dokja's jugular. To which he lets out the softest, sweetest sound that the outer god had ever heard.
(It makes another piece of Secretive Plotter's puzzle fit into place, putting a finger to an earlier thought he'd stowed away. That dark, looming thing that he's tucked into a deep crevice crawls out, tendrils prying open careful thoughts hidden under lock and key, and it feels— dangerous , almost.)
(Of course, he would never hurt Kim Dokja the way the subjects of the star stream did— never . But it's a very curious discovery that this is a reaction he can elicit out of the star; it's only natural to be intrigued by the way the skin reddens, to wonder how long he can make it last.)
So he does it again, and Dokja keens; thighs subconsciously clenching around the Plotter's own, ankles locking behind his knees to pull him closer. He pulls away, smile curling.
(If only to burn the full image of a Kim Dokja sprawled out under him, into his memories like a permanent branding.)
He doesn't chase after the Plotter this time, instead dazedly blinking up at him from where he's sunken into and cradled by plush pillows, breathing heavily. His hair sprawls under him, haloing his face, and there's something about it that makes the unknown feeling in Secretive Plotters chest ache even more.
(Because Kim Dokja is an untouched, blank canvas hidden in the back of the shelf, and Secretive Plotter is a particularly finicky artist with a less than gentle hand and a passion to colour that burns in its wake.)
Secretive Plotter smiles—an exultant thing that doesn't reach his shadowed eyes, twinging at his lips as he gazes at Kim Dokja as if the man were his last meal. He wouldn't mind that, actually.
(He doesn't know whether the look that flickers briefly in Dokja's hazy eyes is fear or anticipation, but he's ready to accommodate both of it. All of it.)
When Secretive Plotter drops his head to Dokja's neck, nosing over where he'd squeezed before, Dokja's breath hitches. He takes the moment to latch his lips over the spot, grazing teeth over the sensitive skin, laving his tongue over it soothingly. He doesn't bite down ( yet ), caressing Kim Dokja's silky skin with feather light touches. Teasing, almost.
A hand curls over the fabric on his forearms, tightening with a stuttered, squirmy mmnm .
Stiff. And a bit awkward.
He doesn't take offence, because he's fought so many monsters, forced even more constellations to bow at his feet, undid enough bounty attempts to bind him to the scenarios, that he knows exactly how to get something slack and docile.
The entertainment lies in getting there, after all.
"You're acting like you've never been touched before," he muses, muffled, but distinctive enough to pick up on.
Dokja's eyes widen as embarrassment colours his face, and he looks away, hiding behind his arm. Another faint click, and something else falls into place.
(First and only begins to have a much more charming tune to it.)
Secretive Plotter just needs to sand down Kim Dokja's edges and mold him to fit so perfectly against him that he's ruined for anyone else, to ensure that he truly does remain the first and last. The only one that can have his dear star like this; fit him so precisely that his reader can't be satisfied, even with what's essentially a modified version of himself, unless it's the Plotter specifically.
So he pushes Dokja's arm away, finds it an utter shame to hide such a visage. At his canopy being taken away, the man bites down particularly hard on his lips to keep any noise from slipping out. Secretive Plotter fights the urge to click his tongue and tsk.
(After all, he might split his lips open, injure himself. Secretive Plotter certainly doesn't want that to happen.)
(Not without it being his own doing, that is.)
He thumbs at Dokja's lips, leather against skin, and watches how easily he lets his mouth fall open; watches, fixated by the obscenely slick pink of his lips, the white of his skin, under the dark shine of the Plotter's gloves. Dokja's expression is dazed, and his mouth looks soft. So, with the obvious fascination he's harbored towards that snarky mouth, Secretive Plotter presses his finger inside. It's hot, even through the leather.
Not enough to burn or scald, just unbearably warm enough that he wants to peel off the gloves and feel it on his own skin.
Experimentally, Dokja pushes his tongue against it, licking at the finger—confusedly, sloppily, but that only seems to add fuel to the fire when the other meets his eyes and he bites at the material. As if he too, wants this off.
(As if he too, wants this just as much.)
The Plotter smiles in appraisal, lightly biting the sensitive patch of skin under Kim Dokja's jaw, sliding the buttons off of his shirt with his other hand.
(He thinks some praise is due.)
"Good boy."
Around his thumb, Dokja lets out a lovely sound—embarrassed, perhaps; the tips of his ears burn, and his legs try to close on reflex, halted by Secretive Plotter's bulking frame nestled between them. He prides himself in holding off for so long, for patience is a virtue; no matter how many riches he wanted to shower the star in, waiting for the right moment always provided heftier rewards. Whether within the scenarios and strategising their plans, or in matters of seduction.
And when he's found a glimmer of what he's looking for, it's all a matter of pushing against that weak point until it cracks and breaks.
After all, he hadn't earned the title of Conquering King by idling about and doing nothing. He's simply following in its path.
When he pulls away from Dokja's neck, a bright flush splotches across his face, high on his cheeks and terribly endearing. They almost match the smaller marks scattered across his neck and chest like constellations. But even like this, he still meets Secretive Plotter's gaze head on—it's not an unwelcoming expression. Confused, tentative, maybe.
But it's also one that's curious of what he'll do next. Trusting, if he's wishful enough to think that.
Smiling, accomplished, the Plotter merely wipes his thumb of excess spit on Dokja's cheek, and locks his lips with the readers own. Hands curve around his collar, pulling needily, and it makes his smile widen until it becomes a grin—until Dokja makes a wounded noise when his tongue laps at empty air, frowning.
The Plotter is about to atone for that, give Kim Dokja all the kisses that he could ever possibly want, but as he shifts himself into a more comfortable position—Dokja's breath hitches as the bulge in his pants twitches against the Plotter's stomach; already hard and sensitive.
Curling a hand over one of Dokja's thighs, curiously, he grips the soft flesh and promptly tugs the other closer, lessening the gap and pressing their bodies flush. He watches as the muscles of Dokja's clothed thighs flex around him, as the smooth planes of his stomach flinch, as his breath stutters out of swollen lips. The very picture of debauched.
(And to think he's barely even started .)
Teasingly, the Plotter raises an eyebrow, "Are you really going to come so soon?"
He doesn't expect Dokja to nod his head.
The fingers of Dokja's hands curl in mortification over his face, digging crescents into his palms. He makes a small, confused noise when Secretive Plotter doesn't do anything more.
But the outer god takes a moment to calculate his actions; tempted to take his time and fuck Kim Dokja properly, but—he's been waiting so long; he can indulge in a few things, can't he? He drops his head down to catch a hard, perky nipple between his teeth the moment his fingers slip under Dokja's waistband, pushing his pants and underwear down with an almost practiced ease.
Dokja's back arches off the bed with a choked, wet gasp; as if the touch ripped the air out from his lungs. The tips of Secretive Plotter's fingers brush against his cock, mouth on his chest, too much to process at once. The Plotter licks at the nub, and it makes Dokja scramble to get away, shaky hands against sturdy shoulders, legs unsteady, heart in his throat.
It does— something. An unusual, wet sensation that's—scary? Dokja doesn't like that it almost melts his brain off. He likes to have his thoughts together, and not like scrambled eggs thankyo uverymuch .
"H-hey," he stutters out hoarsely, and Secretive Plotter looks up at him with dark eyes, Dokja's own skin reddening between his teeth. It—it does something that goes directly to his cock as his throat goes dry. He doesn't even remember what he was about to say. Before he can even think about it, Secretive Plotter pumps his fist; slow and almost painful, burning him dry, but it's sogood and Dokja's head falls back against the pillow with a whimper.
(He's touched himself before—but it never made his nerves feel like they were on fire, never made him react like this. He doesn't know why it's happening, wonders if it's some ridiculous protagonist skill, but it feels too good to care about, and that's terrifying .)
(At the same time, he feels like he's going to die at any given second; throat too dry, pulse too quick, brain too loose, like a rusting clasp holding too many things together that's seconds away from snapping—that's only happened in the minutes after coming that he spends stuck to his bed until he can breathe again and peel himself off of his pillow, sluggishly dragging himself off to a bath with his legs feeling like jelly. He doesn't know why it's happening now, with a person, before the orgasmic bliss.)
In agreement, probably, his cock throbs— so close soclose j ust a bit—
And Secretive Plotter halts his movements completely.
Dokja looks up in betrayal, in complaint of the pause in ministrations; eyebrows upturned in visible upset. It makes that feeling Secretive Plotter's been attempting to subdue creep up tenfold, and he drops his sharp gaze from Dokja's face to watch the leaking tip of his cock flinch between the Plotter's fingers, crying.
He wonders how Dokja's pretty little face would look doing the same thing.
So, he gently grasps Dokja's chin, tilting his face to see the mess he's made out of himself so quickly, and asks; in a low, lulling voice, "You're so wet, are you sure you didn't come already?"
As if to nail the point in place (even if he knows that Dokja hasn't, it's a sadistic curiosity that makes him wonder what would happen if he pushed a certain set of buttons accordingly), he makes the move to slide his hands out, edge him for a bit, maybe, but Dokja grabs his arm with a death grip, and whines.
" No ," Secretive Plotter realizes with morbid satisfaction that it's Dokja's first word in a while — words , and not small, little noises of pleasure—and watches his eyes pool with unshed tears, face flushing even more. An insistent string of nononono' s stumble out of his mouth, and when he sniffles, the Plotter's tempted to give him what he wants.
But he waits another second, just to see how far he can push it.
Dokja begs, then, " Please ," fingers digging into his skin, voice broken, hot tears slipping down his cheeks. He's so close.
And, really, who's Secretive Plotter to deny such a bright and pure star anything ?
(He'll have to save that particular plan for another time, then. because he finds himself particularly irresistible to how sweetly Dokja begs.)
With a silent of course, he kisses Dokja's wet cheek and properly wraps his hands around the slippery length. Dokja muffles his moan into Secretive Plotter's shoulder, trying to hug him even closer —how adorable.
(He's taken a high liking to his clingy, needy Kim Dokja. He'll have to figure out a way to turn this into a constant state of being.)
It barely takes anything more before Dokja's legs tremble on either side of the Plotter, quietly going ah, ahngh, the—theeere, before the heat coiling in his stomach snaps like a rubber band pulled too taut. If he were in a more composed state of mind, he'd find it in himself to be embarrassed at how quickly he finishes, spurting into Secretive Plotters hand, hips jerking.
(But because this isn't a cruel world where he has to rely on the 4th wall to keep his sanity, because this is a place exempt from the terrors of survival, Dokja just lets himself be; sagging into soft sheets and sturdy arms.)
He buries his face into Secretive Plotter's neck, warm and dazed as the Plotter strokes him through his high. Dokja expects him to let go at some point, and then return the favour—with his hands? With his mouth? But—it takes him a moment to register that Secretive Plotter's picking up his pace, obscene shlick ringing in his ears, and—
They have to be probability sparks, Dokja thinks deliriously, tongue too heavy in his mouth to form words. It stings, pricks at his skin—he's too familiar with the sensation for it to be something else.
He weakly paws at Secretive Plotter with a small mewl—he just came. It's too much at once. But the Plotter pulls away with a kiss to the side of his head, and gives him a look—one that he can't dissect, mind whirring—and digs his nail into the slit. Dokja's skin doesn't physically spark into the too-familiar little bursts of starfire, but he feels it, breath choking out of his lungs, pulse jumping. What the hell.
It—it hurts, he manages to intelligently piece together, squirming; hips pressing against the sheets in an attempt to create some distance, get away from torturous, unrelenting fingers. He makes a sound of protest against the pillow, he sees stars behind his eyes—he's breathing too hard, dizzy. The universe isn't particularly fond of him, so it paves the way for the Plotter to lessen the gap between them, pinning him in place with his own hips.
Dokja's going to pass out, he's sure of it. So, with all his nonexistent energy, he shakes his head and croaks out, " Can't ,"
(He can't take anymore, can't come again. )
With each stroke, his cock gets even redder, angry from the constant pressure; oversensitive and begging for mercy.
Secretive Plotter leans in enough for the strands of his hair to brush against Dokja's sweaty forehead, encouragingly telling him, "You can." —coos it, somehow sweet and condescending at the same time. He emphasises it with a set of quick, hard strokes that makes Dokja's blood rush —somewhere. To his dick. To his ears. He doesn't know. He can't breathe, world spinning. Even his ears ring.
In the haze, he doesn't register Secretive Plotter moving away from his face until he feels sharp teeth tug at his nipple, and when a shiver goes down Dokja's spine, he can't tell if it's—something that makes him scared because it hurts, dammit! Or if it's something that feels good.
Insanity, he fearfully concludes. He's never—he's never been particularly good at differentiating pain and pleasure, just knows that they're things that make him feel too aware of being alive.
When the Plotter takes his hand off of Dokja's aching cock, he's milliseconds away from praising the heavens, but he feels fear drop to his guts again when slicked, long fingers trail lower, past his balls, thumb teasingly pressing against his taint as fingers press to his rim. His thighs tense. There's no way that the Plotter will fuck him open with his own come as lube, right?
In betrayal, his stomach clenches, wanting. Very much wanting. To be ruined.
(He'd be lying if he hasn't thought of it before; as a pathetic, horny teenager jealous beyond compare when Lee Seolhwa threw up during a scenario and the Pacheonmang found out she was pregnant. )
But it's—a bit terrifying. So he does what he does best, and tries to divert the situation, about to raise a hoarse complaint that hey, you're still fully clothed—
All thought gets cut off when Secretive Plotter circles a finger at his entrance, thumb massaging up his taint, right below his balls, and a low, breathy moan falls from Dokja's lips before he even realizes it. His eyes widen, too tired to clamp a hand over his mouth, when the mortification that he'd made such a noise properly sets in.
A coaxing finger prods in, but because Dokja knows that he'll make a lot more embarrassing sounds if the Plotter continues, he reaches out to grab the man's sleeve and gives him the most pleading look he can muster.
Unfortunately, his body doesn't translate the message well, and in uncharacteristical softness, Secretive Plotter assures him, "I'll do it gently."
Hey, hasn't he heard that line before?
Before he can laugh at the uncanniness and dwell on it, a long, slick finger pushes in and —oh, that feels—it's not, uncomfortable, but—
Secretive Plotter curls his finger and Dokja's head drops back against the pillow, eyes rolling, mouth open in an attempt to form words—but all he manages is a garbled sound sliding from his tongue, mouth suddenly too wet. Taking it as incentive, the Plotter slides another finger in before he can swallow down the excess saliva and —too tight, it makes Dokja choke, head spinning.
His fingers clench around the pillow under his head when Secretive Plotter picks up a rhythm—a maddening speed, too fast, knocking the air out of Dokja's lungs when he thrusts his fingers in, opening him up, and it's—the Plotter clearly doesn't care for his oversensitivity, and the sound—it's so lewd. It makes an all too familiar heat curl up in his guts, and Dokja presses his lips together to stifle a whimper.
But Secretive Plotter doesn't like giving him the dignity to do even that, he pries Dokja's jaw open; an unbecoming ahng slips out soon enough, gasped and wet and too loud. His body betrays himself, brain fuzzing, clenching around Secretive Plotter's fingers even tighter as a result of himself. What the fuck? The embarrassment of it pulls another needy noise from him, pooling at his guts, when the Plotter fucks his fingers in particularly hard—
Never in his life will Kim Dokja admit that he almost screams, tears rushing to his eyes, frantically grabbing at what was once a very sleek, pressed shirt. Secretive Plotter looks particularly pleased with himself, and Dokja wants to cry. From the embarrassment, from how it hurts, from how good it hurts—from how he can't even think of words besides good and whatever garbled mess that makes its way out of his mouth.
"Found it." the Plotter muses, more to himself than anything, and looks back at Dokja with almost lazy amusement as he grinds the tip of his fingers against that particular spot, leisurely yet unrelenting, and watches as Dokja crumbles; legs thrashing, crying, gasping out his sobs as he's pinned in place with a hand on his hip.
He doesn't know why —why Secretive Plotter's doing this, why it's making him react like this; nerves too heightened and sensitive to everything, fuck—but it's sends a jostle of pleasure-pain throughout his entire body, good in the sense that it's too much —he's losing his mind.
Toomuchtoom uchtoomuch —"Please," Dokja gasps for air, begs, " stop ," he shakes his head fervently; there's a tremble in all his limbs that make him feel dizzy and weightless and it's —scary —never felt this— please—
With careful consideration, Secretive Plotter actually stops. He doesn't take his fingers out, but he stops, and Dokja can finally breathe, can see, can think, head clearing just the slightest. the burn on his skin fizzes down, and he looks up at the Plotter, who leans in close enough for their noses to almost brush, and blinks slowly, tiredly.
"Kim Dokja," it takes a second for it to register that—right, that's his name. His tongue's stuck to the roof of his mouth, so he just tiredly bumps his nose against Secretive Plotter's. "Do you really want me to stop?"
(He coos it as if he knows the answer.)
(He does.)
He definitely doesn't want to stop doing ––this to Dokja, and it's really 4th-wall-swallowing-worthy how Dokja's body misses the feeling already, hips instinctively shifting up on their own accord like its addicted. He doesn't think he can ever face another human being again from the sheer embarrassment of it, but he wants— so he buries his face into the pillow and shakes his head. No, keep going.
(Dokja will worry about the mortifying ordeal of being exposed like this after everything's done with; because right now he wants nothing more than those fingers fucking him so hard that his insides bruise, wants Secretive Plotter to fuck him so hard he can't walk. Wants to come so hard he gets knocked out, maybe.)
Secretive Plotter presses his lips to a reddening, sensitive spot on Dokja's throat—it's a featherlight touch, something that makes Dokja shiver—and smiles. "You're finally being honest." and, in appraisal, wraps his other hand over the heavy, hard cock that's dripping on Dokja's stomach, looking at him through his lashes as the other flinches, biting down on the pillow to muffle a particularly wanton moan.
it slips out anyway, because Secretive Plotter bites over an already-bruising patch of skin on his neck, and Dokja's mouth drops open with a whine, hole clenching. The Plotter grunts against his neck, and shoves in a third finger.
Tightightight—too hot—sogood sogoodso —
A line of drool drips down from the corner of Dokja's mouth, and at his state, Secretive Plotter gives him a look of contemplation.
He knows there's often a name on Dokja's tongue, in his thoughts; barely kept from slipping out, even in their usual conversations—because that name was once his own. The prospect of being called that again doesn't bother him as much as it used to.
(Of course, he's still adamant that he's nothing like the protagonist of the 1864th world-line. But he's still the protagonist of the other 1863 world-lines, and it's him that Kim Dokja loves so much more than life.)
So, he lifts his head up and looks at Dokja's face, twisted in the same way his fingers curl into the pillow under his head, a wet patch forming under his mouth from where he's —trying to bite the pillow. An endearing sight. One he greatly prefers over the others. He leans until his hair brushes Dokja's sweaty forehead, until there's a hairsbreadth between them. His fingers pause. "Kim Dokja."
It's an unusual request to make. Something he didn't think he'd ever do; something he hasn't thought about in eons. But when Kim Dokja's eyebrows pull together, a small, confused noise coming from the back of his throat, the words come out.
"Call my name."
Dokja's eyes flutter open; teary and hazy and so, so confused. It must be hard to think—to put his brain into use right now. But this is Dokja; smart, wonderful Kim Dokja who will surely understand, even with his body trembling from overstimulation. He curls his fingers again for good measure, pressing up against the soft patch of nerves.
(He's willing to wait for however long.)
It takes a few moments; eyes scanning through unclear vision, through sudden, small gasps when his fingers hit a spot just right, through little whines when he curves his palm over the oversensitive tip. But the little gears in Dokja's head turns—" Joo— " and he grasps onto the shirt over the outer god's shoulders the moment his lips seal over a sensitive nipple; teeth grazing flesh, and Dokja's head tips back, arching into the touch. " —ngh ."
Encouragingly, he laves his tongue over the sensitive bud, hoisting Dokja's leg over his shoulder to reach deeper. Fingers twist into his hair, and a strangled, loud moan makes its way past Dokja's lips, body trembling from the ministrations. He's close; they both know it. Even if his body isn't used to coming so often, they could just train it to. From every stroke to his heavy, hard cock to every thrust, every curl of the fingers in him, to every bite on his skin. Another ahngh, and the fingers in his hair tighten,
" Joonghyuk-ah ,"
It tumbles out high-strung and breathy; and then, shaky, needy arms wrap around Joonghyuk's neck, pulling him down into a wet kiss. One that breaks, because Dokja can't breathe, heartbeat too fast for his brain to keep up with—delirious, he repeats; Joonghyuk-ah, like it's a prayer, like it's the only word he knows, pressing their foreheads together like he can't afford to let go.
His fingers keep scrambling to get a grip on the shirt covering Joonghyuk's back (as if he'd ever leave), gasping, crying— something he hates doing, despises the vulnerability that comes with it, but, right now—with him— it feels so good. The lightheadedness, the lack of control over himself—over his feelings—
(Something he painfully lacked with the 4th wall in the scenarios, so when the floodgates open he feels like he's burning alive.)
He can't say it, wound too tight, so he stammers out a string of joonghyukahjoonghyukahjoonghyukah in hopes that the feeling's conveyed; because his skin's aflame, and his heart aches, and his tears stream because it's too much and thank you and I love you all at once; around haphazard syllables he tries to properly put together.
As if to say I know, Joonghyuk captures his lips and presses him back into the mattress; pumps his hand faster and faster until Dokja's sobbing wearily against his mouth as he comes again, muscles turning to jelly. Joonghyuk still has his hands on him; maybe it's a bit cruel, with how the man squirms but—
Tearful is a gorgeous look on Kim Dokja.
When his eyes glimmer like the universe runs down his face, when his skin flushes deeply, sensitive to the touch. When his lips shine, puffy and slick; unable to hide behind a wry remark. When his expression's clear, walls nowhere to be found; when he's so much of a mess that his thoughts can't run further than where he is right now, grabbing onto his Yoo Joonghyuk's shoulders and crying out because everything feels so overwhelmingly good.
And maybe, the name doesn't feel so foreign anymore.
(Because Secretive Plotter was an alias for the star stream, a title, a disguise. Underneath the divinity, there's something human; minuscule, and just for that one star to call.)
(It makes his heart feel warm, as if things have finally set into place the way they're meant to be.)
Smiling, he presses his lips to Dokja's wet cheek, and praises, "Well done, Kim Dokja. Very good. "
At that, a stream of choked whimpers flood out of Dokja's mouth when the Yoo Joonghyuk of his novel decides to have mercy on him and slide his fingers out of him, taking his other hand off of Dokja's sore cock. Even the way it flops down on his stomach makes his skin flinch, and his heartbeat drums so loudly in his ears that he barely hears the low timbre of Joonghyuk's voice.
Dokja's brain feels—liquid, slow. Like warm honey and molten lava. Everything slurs together; words, sound. He can't tell what Joonghyuk's saying, barely even realizes he's talking. His vision swims when he tries to open his eyes, so he keeps them closed; entirely spent, feeling like he has feathers for brains. He's breathing heavily, sinking into the sheets. He can't move his fingers, or—anything, really.
There's a pleasant, sweet haze at the edges of his consciousness, like a reward for his troubles; as if someone took the age-old knots in his brain and gently threaded them loose, as if the grime of constant worrying—over survival, over work, over the scenarios—of constant existing, got washed away.
He feels...light. Refreshed.
Tired, exhausted, sore, but it's like a particularly heavy weight's been graciously taken off of his back. And for once, he can just be. Without the worry that he'll hear shattering glass if he breathes too loudly, without the worry of what tomorrow would bring, without worrying whether he would be able to eat, have a mattress to rest on, a phone to read on, without the worry of appeasing constellations for his survival.
(He hopes this feeling of finality—that he can just rest, that he doesn't have to worry, never goes away.)
He feels the press of Yoo Joonghyuk's lips on his skin, soft and warm, and registers the sensation melt into contentment in his bones; wants to properly kiss him, until his mouth doesn't know how to do anything else. But even his eyelashes are too heavy for him to bear, so he makes a silent promise to make up for it later.
—— ❈ ——
Yoo Joonghyuk hates white; it stains. But when he pulls away from a softly panting Kim Dokja, and white trails down the expanse of his gloves, he finds that he doesn't mind it as much.
He could just clean them up with just the thought of it, but it's been so long that he's become curious. He slips a finger underneath the hem, and tugs it off. Tanned hands, lined with all the scars he'd acquired in the 1863 world-lines stare back at him. Calloused, and— human. He turns his hand over, flexing his fingers, and stares. He tugs the other one off, and examines the warmth when they touch. Unfamiliar to even himself after so long.
(Though the finest of silks and leathers could show wealth, show status, they were cold. Something reflective of his views on the world.)
He looks back at Dokja, exhaustion lining every slope of his face, and extends a palm to curve against his cheek with all the care, all the curiousness of the universe. His reader's skin is soft, more than velvet, more than silk.
Dokja stirs, long eyelashes fluttering, and nestles against his hand. Joonghyuk laughs, softly; fondly —a thing he doesn't recall doing much, if at all, even before the scenarios; but with Kim Dokja, it's as natural as breathing—and uses his other to wipe away the tear tracks on Dokja's face before they dry.
(He had the touch of an outer god in the sense that, with a single motion, the world could crumble into stardust if he so pleased. But it's with warm, unguarded hands that he'll cradle Kim Dokja till the end of time.)
Gently kisses where the tears once were, Yoo Joonghyuk carefully leans back to properly slide Dokja's pants and underwear off from where they'd been bunched at his thighs. The skin's red, from the waistline straining against legs spread around Joonghyuk's hips, and perhaps he admits to getting a bit too carried away. It's his fault for assuming that toying with Kim Dokja's body was merely foreplay.
In apology, he presses another featherlight kiss to the marks and sits up, thumbing slow, sweet circles into Dokja's hips.
(A bit greedy, maybe. But Kim Dokja is something his entire being aches for, an addiction he doesn't want to be free from.)
(He wouldn't have Dokja do a single thing, either; just lean against the softest of pillows, taking everything that's given to him, and Yoo Joonghyuk will take care of the rest; pamper Dokja, fuck him so well that he can't think of anything more, and give him everything he desires.)
Experimentally—because he thinks that such a long time to understand someone, to adore them, warrants something closer than just their names—he calls out, "Dokja-yah,"
He expects a little flustered noise, maybe a petulant glare, but Dokja doesn't even react; breathing softly against the pillow, as if he's asleep —ah.
Joonghyuk sighs. It's his own doing, after all, and while frustration sizzles under his skin, it could never be exasperation. No, he'd rather have Dokja conscious when he prints his fingers onto Dokja's slender waist like a mark of ownership, and stuff him full, gasping prettily against Joonghyuk's own mouth.
(At least, the first time.)
Without putting the thought away (he's been plotting so many ways to take Kim Dokja, and now that he knows the details of how he'd react, he can filter through them as Dokja sleeps), he brushes away the sweaty hair sticking to Dokja's forehead before they can poke him in the eyes, and his hair shines like a dark sea under the light.
Joonghyuk keeps his hand there, sifting through the strands, because he finds that he's truly unable to keep his hands off of the other, and muses, "I've tired you out too much, haven't I?"
It's—amusement, by Dokja's lack of stamina. Definitely not satisfied, because he certainly planned to do more. The uncomfortable tightness in his pants is the frustrating evidence of that. But it's...endearing, in its own way. It's Dokja's first time even being touched by another, after all; he has time to adjust to much, much more. In fact, joonghyuk would even utilize the present opportunity, start early, but he doesn't want to risk breaking Dokja.
Yet, at least.
They're on the stepping stones for that; it's a plan that he will accomplish, because unlike the fool in the 1864th world-line, he wouldn't fail.