When Kim Dokja wakes up, he's dizzy. Like someone took a chunk of his brain out and replaced it with cotton, fluffy and cozy in the ways he's never felt; sluggish in the sense that it makes him want to close his eyes and go back to sleep, snuggled under warm blankets. Think about nothing. When he rolls over, something's out of place. He doesn't know what.
So he rolls over again to bury his face in the cool silk pillows, and his muscles sing an achey song. He stretches his legs out, a bit cattish, and winces when his hamstrings burn in protest. It alerts something in his brain, forcing his senses into awakeness. Curling up his sore, sore legs, Dokja wraps his arms around his pillow to ignore it in favour of more sleep with an annoyed frown.
It then hits him like the surface of a frozen lake cracking open, and he bolts up as if he's been doused with its icy water, face flaming. Secretive Plotter pushed him down, kissed him, and—
The mortification that he came so hard that he fell asleep of all things almost outweighs the mortification that he'd come twice and all the Plotter did was touch him. With his hands . He didn't even—Dokja hadn't even returned the favour. Was that a favour? Was that rude? Was Secretive Plotter bothered?
Dokja drags his hands down his face and groans, pausing when he sees his sleeves. That wasn't the shirt he was wearing; too big, and much softer than the flimsy, cotton one he'd been donning almost every day. It's only then that he belatedly notices: he isn't as sweaty—as sticky as he should be. It takes another second for him to realise that Secretive Plotter had cleaned him up and changed his clothes, the bedding, for him while he was knocked out cold.
What a gentleman. Dokja buries his face in his hands, wishing for the world to open under him and swallow him up in the mortification of it all, curling up with a miserable sound.
What's he supposed to do now? Say thanks? Ask the Plotter if he'd like a handjob? A blowjob? Pretend that nothing happened?
There's a reason why his sex life pre-scenarios (and, painfully enough, during ) was painfully barren.
All the anonymous forums on the internet said drunken hookups were the least awkward, but what stopped him was what the hell is he supposed to do the next morning? Greet the stranger in his bed and make breakfast? Wake up in a bed that's not his own and just leave ?—how would he brush his teeth? Is he allowed to shower before going? What if he used a soap that they were strangely possessive over? What if he messed up their water bill?
What if he woke up in a hotel with no knowledge of if the room was paid for and accidentally committed fraud? What if he was an embarrassing drunk and overshared too much to the point where his sober partner stews in regret?
Is there even an instruction manual for that? Waking up together and eating breakfast together sound a little too...intimate for a stranger. Too close and open for the events that lead to it.
Kim Dokja doesn't like being open, like a book to read with his pages carrying the traces of fingertips, memories and critiques being the only evidence of his existence once he's closed by his reader and left to stow away on a shelf.
It's just mildly more awful that Secretive Plotter isn't a stranger, because he can't just run away from things—which is one of very few things he does well, if not what he does best. Sure, he drank around the Plotter; enough to black out of all things. Sure, he let the Plotter kiss him, hold him. Sure, he let the Plotter push him down into bed and cried about it, called him Joonghyuk-ah, but—
It's nice, wonderful, even, to let his guard down around someone who's hands he can assuredly put his life in. His skin burns, flushing, and he hides behind his hands even if no one would see him.
It's just equally distressing to confront that side of him, even more awkward when it's not just him who knows it anymore. That even if they don't talk about it, it's a fact that Secretive Plotter—Yoo Joonghyuk?—knows what got him off, pulls him so deep into whatever that was, could think things of him that Dokja doesn't know, doesn't want to know, and could use it against him anytime—
He doesn't know how to label the swooping feeling in his stomach, so he pretends it doesn't exist and looks around the room to clear his head, clenching his fists.
When he concludes that absolutely nothing has changed with the interior of the room he's come to recognise as uniquely his, he looks back at the state he's in. The sleeves cover his hands, and the neckline hangs down his collarbones, too big. Enough for him to peer down at his chest and—his face reddens even more seeing the scattered marks. Well, at least the shirt's soft, not scratching against his bruises. And he's not waking up in sticky, wet sheets that he'll have to wash.
There's a cramp in his neck, and he hisses when he brings a hand up to it, pressing against a very tender bruise. Not the reason for the pain (because he's fairly sure that that's got to do with him squirming about with every part of him tightly tensed and wound up), but it's a new contributor, Dokja supposes.
He lowers his hand and looks around his room for any trace of the cause, of the outer god King, trying to plan his next course of action.
(Unfortunately, he's only skillful when it's a requirement of survival. With anything regarding intimacy, he's hopeless.)
Maybe if he bursts into the throne room, adamant on getting the Plotter off without saying anything, things will work out—if he isn't having an audience with the other outer gods. Or if the kkoma's aren't present. Being vehemently headstrong and pushy worked with the other Yoo Joonghyuk's so far, so, technically, it should be the same regarding Secretive Plotter.
Hence, finding his theory immaculate and his bullshit brimming with confidence, he storms into the throne room after making himself presentable with a robe wrapped around him—for some reason, the Plotter decided not to give him any fucking pants, and he'd like to preserve some of his dignity instead of parading around in his underwear.
Not that he's religious, but he doesn't even know which deity to get on his knees for and thank when the only occupant in the dimly lit room is the Plotter himself; lazily lounging on his throne. He waves off the blue display screen in front of him when he sees Dokja barge in, and looks at him with an innocent sort of curiosity.
(The latter was watching him, actually, through the private channel he'd been more or less forced to set up after the reckless fool had gotten himself involved with the nameless ones.)
He's been wondering when this particular star would rise from the horizon of sleep, dismissing his attendants and dependents when dawn had finally come, with Kim Dokja storming his way here.
But he doesn't need to know that, does he?
With a concealed smile, Secretive Plotter's eyes flicker to the scattered marks adorning Dokja's neck like a branding, "Kim Dokja." He greets, pointedly ignoring the determined strides in his direction.
No, showing indifference would be better; because he is, in fact, very curious of this new development.
(In this world, he knows the enigma named Kim Dokja best.)
(But even then, there are things so private that it's kept from even him, and it's one of those things that he managed to crack open just the tiniest bit. It paints his curiosity a cruel shade of insatiable, despite how patient he is to watch it unfold.)
"Did you sleep well?"
There's just the slightest teasing lilt to it. He thinks he sees Dokja's ears burn bright red under his hair.
He says nothing, lips tightly sealed. There's a cute frown on his face, without any bite; the one he wears when he's embarrassed. The Plotter's prepared to tease him a bit when he draws close enough to properly talk, reaching a hand out for Dokja to take.
It surprises him when instead, Dokja grabs it and uses it to hoist up a knee on either side of Secretive Plotter's thighs—effectively seating himself on his lap, face flaming. The Plotter's just a bit too caught off guard to realize what's happening until Dokja's hands are already on his belt.
(He takes a moment to boast that he was right, and those smooth legs look divine from where the shirt hikes up, bracketing him between them.)
(Yoo Joonghyuk finds that Kim Dokja is a very comfortable weight on his lap, and wouldn't mind doing his ever-continuous work at all if he would keep him company like this.)
He feigns ignorance to Dokja's very obvious advance, because he's found that it's addictive to get the star squirming. Getting Dokja flustered is almost more satisfying than getting Dokja undone; seeing the flush creep up his neck, slow and steady, burning him inside out until his eyes glaze and his voice shakes.
That's exactly what happens to him, fumbling with his hands when he deems the Plotter's gaze too intense, and looks away.
He loves all sides of Kim Dokja, because he wouldn't be complete without them, but he finds himself taking a particular liking to shy Kim Dokja; who can't meet his eyes and fizzles down like melting cotton candy.
(It's a side of him hidden from his companions, from the rest of the world; a side that only he can know.)
Taking note of his faux obliviousness, Dokja grumbles (— mumbles, really) that he didn't get to come.
Schooling his face into an unfazed expression lest he cracks an endeared smile, Yoo Joonghyuk asks, "So?"
Immediately, Dokja looks back at him with a look of incredulousness. Warranted, in all honestly, because Dokja's being as bold and straightforward as he can get. But the Plotter's particularly greedy when it comes to matters like these; nothing's ever just right, and he takes great satisfaction in perfecting that craft; winding things up, reaching and surpassing their limit. He is the ruler of amusement, after all.
There's no way Dokja could realistically make his motives of getting him off any more obvious without actually getting him off right then and there—but because he can never settle for something, he wants more. Wants to hear every obvious intention in the air tumble out of Kim Dokja's pretty mouth, for the sole purpose of getting to reduce the man into nothing but a flustered mess as he attempts to articulate every single thing he's going to do to the Plotter in detail —just to humor him, entice him.
(Because he knows it strikes a deeper reaction in Dokja than just letting him do what he wants.)
Dokja opens his mouth to speak and closes it just as quick, looking around (and maybe Joonghyuk's pushing it a bit by staring at him with casual expectance, even if the tension between them is anything but casual—he's feeling a bit sadistic; taking satisfaction at Kim Dokja's misfortunes, watching him scramble hopelessly.)
A moment later, Dokja looks back—not at him, because his head bows and his eyes stay fixed on his hands (the Plotter's only just tempted to grab Dokja's chin and make the other look at him, under the guise that it's poor manners to look away when you're talking to someone ), and then he quietly, uncertainty goes, "So...it'll...make you feel good...?"
It's more of an unsure question than a response.
(Adorable; how foreign he is to all of it. Secretive Plotter can't wait to ruin that innocence until Dokja's body becomes so used to, so addicted to his touch, his voice, to the point of ruin.)
When Joonghyuk says nothing, Dokja wishes that an unanimous black hole, portal, whatever, would summon out of thin air as if he's back on earth and swallow him up. Chuck him into another dimension so far away that the embarrassment gets overwritten by that. Wants to dissipate into nothingness.
There's a reason why there's a book in the 4th wall's library titled Kim Dokja and the mysteries of sex .
In the few videos he'd watched (because Yoo Joonghyuk in ways of survival was always far more enthralling), didn't they just...get to it? Rubbing it a lot or just sticking it in. Hell, he doesn't know the process of how he'd been shoved on his own bed but the next thing he knew was that he was desperate and hard. It felt good when Yoo Joonghyuk touched him, and he doesn't—know the mechanics of it, but he knows that he wants to make him feel good too.
(He could try—he learns quickly. Wants to, like he wants everything that has to do with Yoo Joonghyuk.)
He's fairly certain that he's just responsive because he's not used to it, so everything that's stimulating feels good, but—the Plotter— Joonghyuk ? What if he had preferences? In hindsight, maybe Dokja should've planned properly; he hasn't thought that far yet.
(The fact that things don't just automatically get erotic after certain proximities is a little humiliating.)
His train of thought short-circuits when Joonghyuk slides his hand up Dokja's thighs. "Penny for your thoughts?" He asks, voice humoured. "Or rather, should I say coin?"
But Dokja's brain merely circles around the merry-go-round of the Plotter sliding his bare hands over Dokja's bare thighs, skin on skin. "Uh," is all he's able to intelligently reply, mouth dry.
Without the usual gloves. the hem of his shorts ride up, and the Plotter's calloused, sturdy palms settle comfortably over his hips. The weight, the press of heat—it's just a little— scorching. It manages to kick up his thought process, somehow, and an awkward, "I'll make you feel good," comes stumbling out his mouth with as much confidence and certainty as Han Myung-Oh using words he doesn't know the meaning of to woo the female staff at Minosoft.
"Oh?" Joonghyuk asks, seemingly unaffected as Dokja unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants with hands that nearly tremble. He brushes his thumb over cold, soft skin, and now Dokja's hands really tremble. "And how will you do that?"
Because fate really does not favour him, Dokja's arrogance of things going well if he just gets to it all goes down the drain. He makes a noise similar to a deflating balloon and tries to think of the options he has—only mismatched porn references. He internally curses the protagonist halo, because Yoo Joonghyuk made sexy look easy. He has no idea what to do.
(He doesn't think that his own bare minimum, dry jerk off routine would be an award winning performance on someone else, much less Yoo Joonghyuk, king of the outer gods.)
As if he knows, almost like he's guiding Dokja, Joonghyuk slides his hands under Dokja's thighs and tugs him closer, pressing their hips flush.
(Dokja pretends that his heart doesn't stutter, that his nerves don't light on fire under his skin, because oh, that feels—)
Smiling, the Plotter brushes a strand of hair away from Dokja's eyes, fingertips ghosting over skin and lingering just a bit too long. "You've read about all my life," he says, voice a velvet smooth lull, and leans in until his lips brush the shell of Dokja's ear.
"Tell me, Kim Dokja, what would entice me?"
Oh, that makes something curl in his stomach, makes him shiver. When he doesn't get a reply, Joonghyuk peers up at him through dark eyelashes and darker eyes that Dokja tries to evade, and—
And that— that goes straight to Dokja's dick. The Plotter serves to constantly make things harder for him than need be, because this is torment. It has to be. Like he's caught a mouse in his trap, lazily playing along until he decides to feast.
There's no way in hell that he actually expects Dokja to give him an answer, not when he slides his hand up Dokja's stomach, rough hands burning in his wake. Not when it makes his shirt bunch up, buttons sliding off way too easily for it to be unplanned.
Dokja's body flinches against the slightest brush of fingers, and it feels too hot. As if there's fire under his skin, the ability to think melts off; like he's suffocating in smoke and all his thoughts become washed out by a thick heat so strong it makes him dizzy.
(He isn't usually this sensitive to touch, but fuck —he has to bite back an embarrassing sound when Joonghyuk's fingers brush against the bruises on his throat.)
(Everything goes downhill from there, really. Because his plan—did he have a plan?—disappears from his head. Everything does.)
Those fingers press against his sternum, and it takes everything in Dokja not to whimper, biting down on his tongue. He's already humiliated himself once, and he'll scramble to keep the rest of his dignity intact or he'll die trying. He's particularly good at that last part.
Dokja's dick twitches in his shorts, and Joonghyuk is truly playing a cruel game, because he emphasises the lack of verbal response he's gotten, "Kim Dokja."
(Everything disappears except the overpowered, handsome protagonist, apparently.)
Amidst trying to grasp a sense of something within his scrambled emotions, Dokja indignantly realises that that'd been the Plotter's plan all along; there was never a set answer in the first place, it was just to toy with him. "You—" he tries to glare, accuse, but it falters when Joonghyuk smiles at him for figuring it out, genuine brightness in his eyes as he strokes his thumb against Dokja's cheek, tips of his fingers running through short hairs at his nape.
It's deceptively sweet, and he swallows thickly, eyebrows furrowing as he places his palms on the Plotter's chest. "There—" he clears his throat, stumbling through his words when Secretive Plotter brushes his fingertips on the exposed skin of his neck, but gets the words out nonetheless, "There was never an answer."
"Good boy. " Secretive Plotter praises, crooning. Dokja's face flames; it's an embarrassing way to be referred to, even more so when he remembers what happened just hours ago. So he brings up a hand to cover his bashful expression, and looks away, ignoring the heat immediately simmering in his stomach.
(Still, there's a small, tiny corner of his heart that glows warm from it. A small, minuscule amber that makes his pulse skip under his skin, that makes him feel like he's done something right. A foreign feeling, one he doesn't know how to label.)
He doesn't get time to dwell on it, because the Plotter cups him through his shorts with his other hand and squeezes. It's meant to be light, teasing his appetite for more, but it rips a wet gasp from Dokja's throat; fingers clenching on waistcoat, head dropping as an unbecoming noise slips from his mouth. What the fuck. In interest, his dick jerks, leaking.
Kim Dokja's about to beg the traitorous thing to please comply with his brain.
Joonghyuk takes notice, and thumbs the crying tip, watching in fascination as the wet patch grows, a sweet whine dripping from Dokja's lips. He lightly scratches the scruff of Dokja's neck with his other hand as if he were but a spoiled cat, and smiles. "Good behaviour deserves a reward, don't you agree?"
At that, Dokja looks at him confusedly. No worries, the Plotter thinks. He tilts his head, and the chandelier makes the gold in his eyes gleam, sharp; casts a shadow on the contours of his face, darkens it. Dramatises his expression into that of one befitting the status of someone with his level of chaos, in spite of all the loving gentleness that Dokja's seen.
(It's at that moment, that he realises how long that Joonghyuk has truly been patiently waiting.)
Before he can think about it, the outer god digs his nails into the sensitive skin of Dokja's thighs, and smiles. His stomach gives a weak, stuttery swoop, realising the look on the Plotter's face.
"Go on, get on your knees for me."
There's something very appealing about Kim Dokja on the floor, caged between Secretive Plotter's legs. With his face in the Plotter's grasp; cute, wet tongue lolled out.
(He'd tried to pull down the Plotter's underwear, and then the thin, fraying string of self restraint of his almost snapped. Because if that happened, the only option would be to fuck Kim Dokja's throat until it's sore and bruised.)
(Maybe something that Yoo Joonghyuk would do, urgent and needy with the scenarios and no guarantee of a future, or togetherness. But the Plotter's a bit more composed, a bit more refined, and a lot more assured than that.)
(He has plenty intentions on fucking that throat sore and bruised, but he will hold off if only with the excuse of keeping their first time simple.)
So, he lets Dokja suck on his fingers; presses them down on his tongue to watch his pretty eyelashes flutter. And something cracks, just the tiniest bit, when Dokja grasps his wrist with his own hand, and pushes the fingers deeper into his mouth, looking up at Joonghyuk. A bit indignant, a little cocky. He doesn't gag.
And then, he bites.
Give me more, it goes unsaid.
Technically, the Plotter knows and acknowledges that Dokja is, in fact, a grown man. A grown man who hasn't been touched by people other than himself, but the question burns his mind anyway;
Who taught you this?
Who's seen you like this?
He reasons that he's more composed and refined, but still Yoo Joonghyuk nonetheless, so he shoves his fingers in a bit too hard; the grip on his wrist tightens, and Dokja chokes. The Plotter lets him; pushes his fingers apart, forces Dokja's jaw open, and watches the rapid, stuttery rise and fall of the smaller man's chest as he struggles for air.
When the fingers around his wrist dig in and tremble with urgency, he pulls away. The Plotter draws his eyes away from Kim Dokja's heaving chest, up his face, and fights off a smug, contented smile when the defiance is gone; successfully replaced with something a little lost, a bit more broken down. Struggling.
(The string of saliva connecting Kim Dokja's slick, sinful lips to Secretive Plotter's fingers, miraculously, does not snap.)
He taps his fingers against Dokja's mouth again, "Open." and Kim Dokja does so obediently. The Plotter doesn't slide his fingers back in (no matter how tempted he is to pinch and play with that cute clumsy tongue for hours), wiping his hand on Dokja's cheek, grasping his chin with his other hand.
"Do as you're told, and you'll get what you want." he says, as assurance, almost leaning on tender if not for the edge in his tone. A silent warning. Kim Dokja can test it, if he wants.
(And face the repercussions for it afterwards, even if it has him crying out.)
His mouth hangs open as he's been told, tongue flat, well behaved; he's not trying to playfully nip at him again—nor does he lick back the excess saliva pooling in his mouth. Inevitably, it drips off of his chin and into the Plotter's palm. He still doesn't look away, stubbornly ready to accept whatever comes his way.
(And it's so, so amusing to watch the minutely flicker of reconsideration when the Plotter pulls his cock out from the confines of his briefs and Dokja's eyes latch onto the sheer size of it.)
Doe eyes flicker back up to the Plotter's— begging for pity, and he feels the drawn-out, invorigating burn of his sanity come to a slow snap.
As gently as he can, Joonghyuk moves his hands to the back of Dokja's head and guides him to his cock. "Suck, and don't use your teeth."
(He feels the hot shudder of Dokja's breath against it before obediently sinking all the way down in one go.)
He doesn't gag, doesn't choke; it hits the back of his throat with liquid smooth ease.
Secretive Plotter raises an eyebrow. "Oh?" he traces Dokja's lips, stretched taut around him. "How talented." he comments, and then snaps his hips into Dokja's throat, pulling an alarmed noise from the star, who immediately scrambles for purchase on his legs, grabbing onto his pants.
See where that cocky mouth takes you.
(It's cute, in all honesty, akin to a small pet pawing at its owner to stay upright.)
His hand moves from the back of Dokja's head to his throat, putting a finger to a previous thought; squeezing slightly with the next roll of his hips. The reaction he gets is immediate and obscene. Dokja moans around him, loud (in a chain reaction, Plotter's hand tightens in his hair with a grunt), eyes fluttering up to look at him, upturned in an unspoken plea, glassy with unshed tears.
I'll give you everything you want.
He pulls Kim Dokja back until the cockhead slips out of his mouth, smearing against his lip. Dokja lets out a sad whine, and the Plotter pulls him back so deep that Dokja's nose brushes against his stomach, choking from the force. His throat constricts around Joonghyuk's cock and it feels heavenly. He holds Dokja there to draw it out until it'll verge on too much for the poor star, then pulls Dokja off again to let him breathe.
Dizzy and short on breath, he just let's Secretive Plotter pull and push him however he wants, panting for breath.
The taste isn't pleasant, but the slide of it down his tongue and throat like the Plotter's fucking him makes his insides feel molten.
(He could live like this, he reasons; as his beloved protagonist's personal fleshlight to pull out and use whenever he wants, wherever he wants. It makes perfect sense, he's practically been worshipping the other since his childhood, and this could definitely fall under that category.)
It doesn't even occur to him how hard he is, until a thrust to his throat jostles one of his hands from the Plotter's pants and onto his own lap, against his own cock—it's painful. He wants, but it hurts even more to touch, bringing another round of tears to prickle at his eyes with a muffled mewl.
Secretive Plotter groans from the vibration and sudden tightness, head tipping back, and fuck if that isn't the hottest thing that Dokja's ever witnessed in his entire life, moaning as more heat coils in his stomach. He feels himself drip in his shorts and oh, this is getting dangerous. He thinks he might go insane, or explode straight up, unconsciously pressing his palm against his own aching cock.
A terrible hurt throbs through it, but the maddening kind where he can convince himself that the sharp tang feels good.
Plotter notices after a few seconds, but Dokja doesn't realise until a polished leather shoe nudges his hand away and he whimpers in protest. "No touching," Secretive Plotter tells ( warns ) him, voice raspy. That alone, the fact that he got Yoo Joonghyuk's voice to sound so affected, sends another zing down his spine.
A hand cards through his hair, "Just wait, I'll give you what you want soon."
It's an assurance, well meant and breathless, not another meaningless promise in the heat of the moment, and it makes another warm thing curl up his insides, a muffled whine high in his throat.
From his spot on the floor, mouth gagged, he can't respond or nod, but Dokja gives him the most hopeful eyes to convey that he's waiting. The promise of it makes him ache even more, heat bubbling in his chest at being caged between Secretive Plotters legs, mouth stuffed. That does something to his brain, melts it all like sweet candy to be kneaded and shaped however the other would like—just like the last time Plotter got his hands on him.
(The memory of that shoots more electricity down his spine, nape tingling.)
(He came here to repay that too, so he doesn't mind Yoo Joonghyuk using him whichever way he wants.)
(He thinks he could get off from being of use alone.)
It's too much. It's maddening. It holds him in place; like he's locked in, secure. And that drags him so deep, so down somewhere that even his own thoughts get muddled, delirious like it's his lungs and he can't breathe, like he might fall in on himself if Secretive Plotter wasn't there to hold him.
(If his cock wasn't heavy in his mouth, holding him down.)
Sounds all blur together, but touches feel amplified. The Plotter strokes his thumb over Dokja's face, carding fingers through his hair, and the most pitiful, wounded noise comes from the back of his throat because it feels like it'll burn him alive.
(And he would be a liar, a sinner, if he said that he didn't want it to.)
Secretive Plotter must like the vibrations from that, his fingers tightening at the hairs on Dokja's nape, pulling. It stings, and makes a full body shudder wreck through Dokja. A thumb caresses his cheek, wiping away the stray tears. His eyes feel so hot, trapped in a feverish daze.
"…?"
He thinks he hears the shape of his name from Joonghyuk's lips but he's not sure, he'll deal with it later.
And then two hands grasp his face and pull him off of the Plotter's cock.
It draws a noise of betrayal from his mouth immediately, voice hoarse and cracked. Dokja paws weekly at his leg as Secretive Plotter pauses in surprise, then says his name again, thumb smoothing over the curve of his cheek. Dokja presses his face against the Plotter's thigh and dazedly watches as his face softens.
"I'm the one with my cock in your mouth, but it looks like you're the one who's about to cum." he muses, an almost teasing lull in the edges of his voice. Terribly fond.
(He thinks about what a lovely darling Dokja is, and how a collar around his pretty little neck would be the finishing touch on this ensemble.)
(Collared and caged at his feet, mewling for his attention—wouldn't that be so sweet?)
Plotter caresses his cheek again, brushing away his hair. "Can you stand?"
The answer is a no, when Dokja tries to pull himself up by holding onto his pants and is ultimately unable to do more than sit up. That's fine, Joonghyuk thinks, leaning down to pull Dokja up himself, setting him down on his lap. Practically melting against him, Dokja nuzzles into his neck. Overstimulated, maybe, Plotter muses, when the slightest touch makes him shiver and flinch away. A bit too much on edge.
(It's a slight miscalculation on his part; he'll amend it next time and apologise with the gentlest of kisses.)
So, he just takes a moment to hold his star, run his hands down Dokja's sides; work him down from this state. He lightly massages his hands against warm flesh and just familiarises, trying to print the feel of Dokja into his memory. Bask in the rare moment where Kim Dokja does not flee or hide from him in his prideful embarrassment.
His actions also have merit, because Dokja's shivery, erratic panting evens out into calmer breaths, tremors subsiding.
Secretive Plotter feels just slightly guilty for that, presses a kiss to the side of his head as an unspoken apology, and murmurs,
"You're still loose from earlier, right? Why don't you open yourself up for me."
It's a gentle encouragement, because he's been doing all the work so far—he thinks this is entirely reasonable; they need to train Dokja's stamina somehow. This is a good place to start.
He doesn't respond, but shifts to move on Yoo Joonghyuk's lap.
Clumsily standing on unsteady knees, Dokja almost sways like a newborn deer—it's on the list of the most endearing things that the Plotter has ever witnessed. Maybe his affixed stare makes Dokja fluster, so he leans on Secretive Plotter's shoulder for support, and the Plotter places a hand at the base of his spine for balance.
(And more self indulgence, perhaps.)
(He's just partially upset about not seeing his dear's face when Dokja presses a finger into himself.)
But, if anything, Dokja leaning against his shoulder and out of view just means that he gets to hear and feel his reactions better, in compromise of sight. The little gasps that escape through clenched teeth brush against his hair and Dokja's fingers press into his shoulders, twisting the fabric of his shirt. He runs his hand over Dokja's back, murmuring in encouragement.
Poor thing, he thinks to himself as he traces Dokja's taut, strained muscles; the slight tremor in his body as he adds another finger. He looks uncomfortable, arm awkwardly angled back—almost there but not quite. Secretive Plotter lowers his palm until it's curved over Dokja's ass.
"Let me help."
(He's learnt that he caves in to his own desires quickly on matters regarding Kim Dokja.)
He gently nudges his fingers in alongside Dokja's, and the effect is immediate.
Secretive Plotter moves his fingers with finely honed experience from bedding countless incarnations and constellations alike; it takes seconds before Dokja turns into putty in his hands. Just in the vicinity of his sweet spot, close enough for a taste but far enough to leave him craving.
It only takes another moment to press there directly, and Dokja's stomach quivers, a high-strung, needy whine muffled into Secretive Plotter's shoulder as his hands twist around the man's shirt. His cock is close enough that the Plotter could just lean forward and let Dokja rut into his chest, but that just makes him hold Dokja's hips tighter to keep him from moving.
Dokja's other hand comes to grab at his forearm and he hisses out a strained, " Enough ," obviously pent up, frustrated, and very, very needy.
He gets chided in return, sweet saccharine dripping from the Plotter's lips telling him to be patient and hold still; look at how fidgety he's being, squirming under his hands, breath stuttering in his ear. Secretive Plotter finds he enjoys this position, with how he doesn't have to mask his smile to make sure Dokja can't see.
( How cute. )
" Please ." it's supposed to be a demand, but it's breathless, panted out; cloying and sticky with need. The outer god feels a bit devious.
"You need to be stretched properly," he continues, if only to hear the impatient, annoyed little noise Dokja makes before it crumbles into an obscene moan when Secretive Plotter grinds his fingertips against Dokja's prostate. The Plotter looks at him, dulcet, and runs a comforting palm over Dokja's backside.
He presses a kiss to his star's wet, feverish cheek. "We wouldn't want you to get hurt, now would we, my dear?"
Kim Dokja almost becomes petulant at that, but then Joonghyuk spreads his fingers and all train of thought cuts off as Dokja tightens around the digits instantly, his nails digging into Secretive Plotter's back and shoulders with a choke.
(Plotter's own cock throbs, wanting to be back in Dokja— wherever he'll let him, in a heady sense of lust he didn't know he could feel again. He wants to bite at the smooth expanse of Dokja's skin, bury his nose in his neck and fill him whole .)
The poor star's knees almost give out when Secretive Plotter bullies his hole for too long, caught up in his thoughts. Dokja's precum smears against the Plotter's shirt when he realises, and he quickly takes his fingers out, setting them on Dokja's hips to steady him before manoeuvring him down, until he's seated in the Plotter's lap with the tip of his cock kissing the other's hole.
(He can't help it if his patience runs thin now, after thousands of years of laying in wait. He deserves this much.)
It snaps Kim Dokja out of whatever sex-drunk state he's in, immediately grabbing onto Secretive Plotter's forearms, a worried look on his face.
( Star stream help him, if this ends up as a repeat of the library the Plotter doesn't know what he'll do— )
"I," Dokja stumbles over his words, "I don't think it'll fit..."
Oh.
(We'll make it fit.)
He's barely aware of it when his nails dig crescents into Dokja's hips, tugging him down enough for the head to budge in. It draws a hitched breath from Dokja, who's fingers start to tremble on the Plotter's arms. As if in a trance, Secretive Plotter pulls him down again to hear the way Dokja keens, eyes fluttering and thighs squeezing around his hips.
(This time, he's not entirely able to fight off the dark coils of desire in his head. Slam him down, they croon. Make him scream. )
Dokja sniffles, then, breaking the train of thought. His grip loosens slightly, caving in. He aches, terribly, but he has to take a moment to remember that Kim Dokja was a very lonely, and equally inexperienced man. He looks up to press a comforting kiss to the curve of Dokja's mouth and sees his uneasy expression.
Realisation dawns on the Plotter that Kim Dokja genuinely thinks he might get split apart on his dick.
(He files that thought for later, as a being with numerous forms.)
(Of course, he won't ever actually rip him apart, just the thought that he could be bigger, impossibility so, and indent Dokja so deeply that he'll have trouble pleasuring himself without his assistance...it does things to him, to say the least.)
(He's been so patient, after all, for the period of their courtship. Dokja's run around and had his fun, found that there's no end to the maze that is N'gai's limitless labyrinth, and returned back to him. There's nothing left separating them; the want makes him feel on the cusp of insanity, burning brighter than any fire.)
But for now, he rubs a hand up and down his star's back, gently petting his flank with the other as he presses a kiss to Dokja's chest. "Easy, easy," he murmurs against the erratic pulse under his lips. "I won't hurt you." he promises.
Dokja's breath peters out of him, still far far too tightly wound up to relax and properly loosen up. He looks away, fingers curling around the Plotter's shirt. "Sorry," it's a quiet mumble, the tips of his ears colouring in self consciousness.
Yoo Joonghyuk presses another kiss to his chest. " Nonsense ."
(He knows that in comparison to the average man, most of him is fairly big .)
(So he takes to distracting Kim Dokja from the burn of being stretched, the nervousness of all the firsts, working down the knots and creases in his hesitancy.)
It starts with a featherlight kiss to one of the healing bruises on his neck, the pulse stuttering under skin. Secretive Plotter drags his lips lower, ghosting over a nipple as Dokja shudders, and rubs slow, soothing circles into his hips with the hand already there.
Dokja's eyes sweetly glaze over by the time the Plotter bottoms out, sheathed in completely with Dokja in his lap.
(There's a slight bulge that protrudes from Dokja's flat stomach, and he stares with an unreasonable amount of desire.)
(He wants to see how far it can go if he rearranges Dokja and pushes in deeper, he wants to press his palm against it and feel the space in Dokja's body carved out for him.)
Joonghyuk lifts him up slightly before pulling him down again, and Dokja's hit with all the sensations of it being too big and too deep —feels chaos crawling in his veins when that only makes the heat in his stomach burn even hotter with need.
This has never happened before—and he knows it, having held his shirt up with his mouth while trying to stuff three fingers in himself, some time in his early adulthood, before tearing up because he felt full in the most painful way possible. It's too much and he's a coward that hasn't gone above two since then. And yet.
Feeling the drag of Secretive Plotter's dick in him makes him lose his reasoning, instinctively squeezing around it like he's scared of it slipping out—despite the unlikeliness of that actually happening; it feels long enough to punch the air out of his lungs for space, and the girth of it so wide that the tightness made him dizzy.
The Plotter must like that, how greedily Dokja's sucking him in, because he leans forward to curve an arm around his waist, pull them closer together and tip his chin down for a kiss.
It hardly suffices as one, Dokja's eyes screwing shut as he rocks his hips and frantically licks into Joonghyuk's mouth, trying to get his cock to hit the spot and make him see stars—
Secretive Plotter lifts him up with far too much ease for one hand— that has Dokja's insides fluttering again, realising how much strength is restrained in those sculpted curves of the Plotter's body—and drops him down, letting gravity take him. Dokja's mouth drops into a low moan as he lifts himself up, trying to make the cockhead hit his prostate either on the way in or on the way out as if it's the only thing keeping him together.
He feels a chuff of breath against his cheek and vaguely registers the Plotter's laugh before his free hand smooths under Dokja's thigh, pulling both him and a gasp from his pretty mouth when, oh —he didn't know it could go that far. The look on his face is moony, dazed, and fucked silly.
With the next roll of his hips, keeping Kim Dokja in place, the Plotter asks, "Is this what you wanted?"
Tongue too heavy and about to trip over every syllable, Dokja just lets his head fall on Joonghyuk's shoulder with a whimper in lieu of an answer, clenching desperately when he lifts him up—he knows he's going to be filled in again, that the movement is part of why it feels so good, but he wants beyond the point of reason, chasing after the little sparks of probability that light his nerves on fire.
The Plotter is so warm wrapped around him, in him, it feels so nice when he's constantly feeling so cold. His cologne smells so nice, like spices heated up on a stove with the scent clinging on his skin and clothes.
Dokja briefly, deliriously, wonders if perfume was meant to make him feel so lightheaded—he remembers people smelling good when he'd walked by them on the street, but never in a way that made him feel like this; so hard he feels like he'll die, precum dripping pathetically against Secretive Plotter's waistcoat. So heady and irrational.
(The realisation hits him then; how he's mostly naked except for the sleeves of his shirt hanging off of his arms, while the other's still fully clothed. It somehow works to make him feel shyer and more desperate at the same time.)
(He wants to shrivel up and hide in Secretive Plotter's chest; he wants everything of the Plotter displayed on his body—from his teeth marks, to his hands, to his dick, in a way that shows off to anyone lucky or unlucky enough to see, that he belongs to the other.)
The arm around his waist turns into two hands pressing just below his ribs—he thinks that the Plotter's hands are big enough to almost encircle his waist completely, and that makes another pathetic sound crumble out of him, forehead pressing into Joonghyuk's shoulder as he pants. He's lifted up and pulled down just as quickly, made to bounce on the other's lap.
He's going to come soon, and wraps a hand around his poor, sore, slippery dick. Probability sparks at the contact, cock twitching and oozing. He tries to tighten his hand and pump it, relieve the pain, but a nose nudges under his chin. "Kim Dokja," Secretive Plotter murmurs his name, voice curling into a grunt at the edges. A hand grasps his wrist again and he mewls pathetically, desperately, more fever hot tears slipping down his cheek.
"No, no, no, no," it's a quiet, wobbly plea pulled from Dokja's mouth. He's been so hard for so long, please.
The Plotter mouths over his clavicle, sharp teeth grazing and reddening the skin. "Wait just a bit more," he promises, voice all smooth silk, kissing against a fading bruise. "It will feel better. Can you do that for me?"
It should be embarrassing how much he wants to try, for his Yoo Joonghyuk, even though all his senses scream at him and beg for release. "…I'll try," he says, not a promise, mumbled into the other's chest, reluctantly letting go. Joonghyuk has to tug Dokja's hand away and he feels his heart break.
A kiss is pressed to the side of his head. "Thank you, my star." he praises, and oh. Before he has any time to register the pet name, the drag of the other's cock against Dokja's walls like that is— maddening , Dokja bites down on Secretive Plotter's collar to muffle the wanton moan it rips out of him. The Plotter presses his hand where Dokja's stomach bulges from his cock, and the pressure on both ends makes sparks dance in his vision, thighs trembling with a moan he can't bite down.
The cotton on his tongue is wet, and the shame of whimpering and slobbering all over the other like a bitch in heat sends more fire to his groin, coiling up and ready to snap.
"Joo—" his voice cuts off with a gasp. " Joonghyuk-ah ..." it trails off into a whine when the Plotter pulls him up to tug at his nipple with teeth, tongue lapping over it. He's still not used to the wet sensation of having his chest sucked at, but it sparks at his skin all the same, low keen bubbling in his throat when the Plotter tugs at the other one with his hand, pinching the sensitive bud to an angry red.
It hurts like a bitch. It gets him unnecessarily right back on the edge of release.
(He didn't even know his body could respond like that.)
He feels a bit insane. His head swims and he needs, tingling all over. "I'm—" he starts, brain short circuiting, "I'm close—gonna—" he's babbling, tripping over his words. "Gonna- gonna —" pure nonsense falls from his lips, brain malfunctioning when Secretive Plotter's cock hits just right and shoots pure electricity up his spine.
"No."
Motherfucker.
"You're here to please me, and you're going to finish thrice before I do?" Plotter raises an eyebrow at him, referring to earlier, and Dokja's mad that he's right. But fuck him and fuck his stupid godly stamina. He's actually going to go insane and chew someone's arm off if he doesn't get to come now. He's so hard.
The deprivation-tinged rage builds up quickly. "No, no, no you don't understand, " he shakes his head, stammering, vision swimming when Secretive Plotter pulls him back down on his dick without a care. His nerve endings throb in protest, in encouragement. He's never been this horny angry in his entire life, heartbeat erratic and on the verge of bursting, "I'm gonna—"
Plotter squeezes his fingers around Dokja's cock, eyes flickering up to his with a dark, " Don't. "
"I can't ," is all Dokja manages to gasp out before his body freezes and locks up, vision whiting out and crumbling pathetically. Fuck . Plotter groans at the sudden tightness, and the slightest movement from that adds onto whatever's temporarily paralyzed Dokja. He can hear ringing in his ears, and for a peaceful few seconds, he registers absolutely nothing; a blank slate of a person, slouched on a pillowy chest.
Nothing remains, and maybe he was wiped out of existence. Maybe his existence only started with that blankness. He feels no recollection of anything besides his insides feeling churned to hell and back, brain crosswired.
" Kim Dokja… "
It takes a few foggy seconds to register that right, that's his name. That he has a name.
It sounds somewhat threatening.
Maybe if he were in a more conscious state of mind, he would have found it in himself to register it as scary (or really, really hot)—if his head wasn't swimming like a crowd of fish in a too-small glass bowl. His throat feels so dry. He feels delirious. Plotter pulls him back—he feels the probability sparks on his skin again at the contact and hiccups—he must really look like a stupid fool—he feels like one—and the Plotter looks down at Dokja's dick in confusion. Dumbly, he does the same.
Absolutely nothing besides the dribbles of precum from way earlier.
No familiar, sticky white streaks.
What the fuck. He's horrified and whatever noise clambers out of his mouth just proves it. How on earth. He didn't come. But it feels like he did. But Plotter squeezes his cock and it's hard and angry-red and it wrangles another blubbery noise from his mouth and brings tears to his eyes because it hurts like the oversensitivity when he comes but he didn't and—
Secretive Plotter seems to understand what's happened, mumbling under his breath, "Ah, so your body can do something like this."
Huh?
Before Dokja can get out a bleary what? a hand moves from his hip to his ass. "Kim Dokja…" the Plotter starts, displeased tone gone from his voice, replaced with something terrifyingly sardonic as he lightly traces Dokja's swollen rim. "Did you come with this?" he shifts his hips slightly, and the feel of his cockhead against Dokja's prostate again is too much, too soon, and brings more tears to his eyes.
Huh? What?
Dokja's head reels in confusion as the tears pathetically drip down his cheeks. Was that possible? How could he?—but the evidence is there. It makes sense. He definitely felt the orgasm hit. He's still feeling it, reeling from the effects as every slight move sparks at his skin. He sniffles.
"Then," Plotter starts, jerking Dokja's cock to hear him whimper. "What's the use of this thing?"
That should not have sent a wave of heat back down his body. If he were more sane in that moment, he would've found it in himself to be embarrassed—more embarrassed than he is now, at least. Because his face flames. There's a dizziness in his head that makes him feel choked up, burning through his veins in a way he doesn't know what to do with it. Makes him feel a bit rabid, maybe, because he can't find it in himself to hold back from showing how much more, more, more he wants.
As if to drive his point home, Secretive Plotter pulls him close with the next lazy grind of his hips, and whispers against the shell of his ear, "It's not like you know how to use it, anyway."
Oh. That definitely does something to Dokja—makes his heartbeat stutter in his chest; turns his insides turn into liquid heat, subconsciously pushing his hips down.
It's too much— for real this time.
(But Secretive Plotter has the stamina of an outer god king, and he's beginning to fear that he's going to pass out before the Plotter fucks him full.)
(And that certainly can't happen.)
It's a futile attempt; how he tries to pull himself up by holding onto the Plotter's arms, leaning up to loop them around his neck for a kiss to try and regain some leverage. Not that he really had any, Dokja realises, when Joonghyuk just looks at him with something ravenous, just millimetres from where Dokja has his lips pursed.
Secretive Plotter's claws pause slightly from where they're clutched possessively at the bend of his hips, but he still grinds up into him lightly. Not enough to send him over the edge again just yet, but enough to drive him insane all the same. His pulse thunders in his ears, eyes fixed on the lines of his beloved protagonist's face, his lips. The claws dig in, and he's sure the way he's staring counts as indecent.
They're a hairsbreadth away now, every exhale ghosting against skin. Joonghyuk must like the unfocused look in Dokja's eyes, thumb absentmindedly swiping over where his waist tapers in. "Well?" he whispers into the distance between them, unsure if the other even registers it. "Something you want?" he asks, tone light as of he knows Dokja doesn't hear the words properly, a hand coming to play with the ends of his hair.
A small hum is the only answer he gets before Dokja presses his lips against the Plotter's, trying to lick his mouth open as he grinds down on his lap, writhing in place.
(It's cute, how quickly he starts to pant against the Plotters mouth when dexteral hands start to move him again, eyes screwing shut and gasping prettily.)
Secretive Plotter watches the shift in expression with fascination, through half lidded eyes as he bites down on the swell of Dokja's lips, smearing the red of blood between their mouths. Watches, with fascination, as the twinge of pain makes Dokja whimper, flinching.
(Tightening.)
He sucks harder on the wound, teeth scraping, to make Dokja's whimper escalate into a louder moan, frame shivering, pulse drumming in his ears.
Moving lower to an unmarked spot under his jaw—to watch the way his frame shakes, to hear the waver in Dokja's voice as he tries to tell him— pleading —to slow down—the Plotter dips his head down to suck at Dokja's bruised, sensitive chest.
Something cruel curls in his own, preening in satisfaction at the keen Dokja gives, head dropping. It pools in his abdomen when he sees Dokja's thighs tremble and clench on either side of him, stream of whimpers falling from his lips as his body's played with in so many ways to drive him insane. As his red cock throbs and twitches from all the stimulation, unable to do anything more than angrily flinch.
(He wants to ruin Dokja.)
" Joonghyuk-ah ," his star pleads prettily, voice shaking through a hiccup. A tear drips to his nose, from where he's imprinting his teeth around a nipple, and Secretive Plotter bites harder to hear the sob Dokja let's out, jostling in his lap.
With a disgruntled ngh , he pulls at the Plotter's sleeves until the latter's looking up at Dokja's frowning face—that's trying very hard to not let the traces of his pleasure show. "Stop that teasing and fuck me properly ."
He's not able to hide the distress in his tone, or maybe it's intentional—get the Plotter to cave. He looks at Dokja sulkily, resting his chin on the other's chest and pulling Dokja closer. it draws a hitched breath from him when Joonghyuk's cock scrapes against that spot just right. His fingers curve into the dip of Dokja's spine, just savoring his meal.
"I thought I'd take my time with you, ravage you properly." he says easily, sincerely, not trying to hide the arousal-heavy rasp in his voice.
It makes Dokja's face flush again, and his next words tumble out before he can even think, "I don't want to pass out again before you come in me, so please ,"
Maybe that's the wrong thing to say, because Joonghyuk's eyes light up.
(A happy thing purrs in his chest, coiling up in warm satisfaction.)
Secretive Plotter's lips curve up when he says, a bit too delighted at Dokja's unfiltered honesty, purring, "That's filthy, darling," and then way too quickly, adds,
"You wouldn't need to worry about that if you were able to hold off from finishing yourself ,"
There's an indignant response in Dokja's throat, but it never makes its way out of his mouth when the Plotter flicks Dokja's angry, red, over sensitive cock to watch him jolt, and offhandedly says, "But you don't even need this to come, do you?" before digging his nail into the tip.
It makes Dokja's body freeze up, and he's not able to answer besides whatever unbecoming noise slips out of his mouth. The Plotter pumps him a cruel one time before letting go and repositioning his hands around Dokja's waist, looking up at him adoringly like he'd hung the stars in the sky and made the flowers bloom.
"Don't worry," he says, taking one of Dokja's hands and pressing a tender kiss to the fluttering pulse at his inner wrist. "I'll make sure you last until then," he promises, peering up at the other through dark lashes. "I'll make sure that you don't pass out before I fill you up."
Dokja's only able to whine out an unintelligent, "Uh.." in response, flush high on his cheek. He seems to like that a little too much, slumping against the Plotter's shoulder to hide.
How obscene.
How can he not fulfil that wish?
Taking that as a yes, he runs a soothing hand over Dokja's back again.
—who chokes when he's abruptly slammed down on Secretive Plotter's cock, balls against his ass, in so deep he's convinced that that's what he choked on. The Plotter fucks him—not roughly, but not gently, either. He's holding Dokja with a grip that'll leave him sore for days, mouthing and biting at his shoulders, his neck, his chest, his face. His arms.
Almost like a beast, but there's a softness to it, in his affection, that makes it not quite that.
He fucks with more purpose, at the very least, determined to stuff him full while his consciousness remains; claim him. Dokja would laugh or find it cute, in remembrance of his actual beastly traits in the 1863rd worldline, if he wasn't losing his grasp on his sanity; pulse stuttering and flecks of probability sparking at his skin, as if the slightest shift of the monster in him wasn't rearranging everything of him, cutting off any thought he could possibly have until they all mould to fit around the cock splitting him open and the man it belongs to—making his thoughts dumbly just consist of Joonghyuk-ah, Joonghyuk-ah, Joonghyuk-ah.
Being made to move like this makes him feel a cocktail of things; dizzy, and overwhelmed, and grateful for the coarse, strong palms holding him up because he knows he doesn't have any strength in his shaking limbs to do it himself. And all those thoughts cut off like his very existence short-circuits with every press into his abused hole. He tries to squirm away enough so that it doesn't leave him shaking, burying his face in the Plotter's neck with a stuttered breath, fingers squeezing on firm muscle to ground himself with every snap, roll, and grind of Secretive Plotter's hips against his puffy, swollen rim; against his sore, sore prostate.
Kim Dokja feels delirious, throat drying from how hoarsely he screams when another orgasm is ripped from him, streaks of sticky white come splattering across their stomachs—he didn't even know it would, that he was about to—almost knocking out with the force as he scrambles for purchase on Joonghyuk's shoulders, black spots dancing across his vision as the Plotter grunts against his shoulder, biting down when he squeezes too tight.
(If it were him before, if it were him even yesterday; he would have been writhing in pain and sobbing, begging for it to stop, not built to endure something like this. It's so much, it's too much. He's not used to this. He feels insane at the next rush of heat coiling through his body when Secretive Plotter lifts up one of his legs, thick fingers gripping his thigh, and fucks up to him just right. )
(He wants it until he passes out, wants it even when he's passed out.)
(He wants to be good , make him feel good. He can put his own state of being on hold for another time, an aching grasp seizing his ability to think straight when all he wants to do is make Yoo Joonghyuk feel just as good as he does.)
(The only way he's able to vocalise it, now, is through broken, stuttery mewls.)
It feels almost forever, endless, until the Plotter grabs his hips and buries his cock in deeply, sinking his teeth into the junction between Dokja's neck and shoulder with a loud groan, face twisting—and fuck does Dokja almost die from the multitude of sensations crashing into him. He's unable to do more than let whatever barrage of pathetic noises slip from his mouth, limp as the Plotter rides his peak out, tenderly mouthing at the newly formed wound on his skin.