But shit— shit, does that awaken something in him. A lot of things, actually, with an eerie bloom of content settling low in his chest, fluffing the edges of his consciousness as the warmth fills him like a blanket, heady and tired and comforting. He is too far past the coherency where he can properly register them, but he knows that the feeling of Yoo Joonghyuk's teeth on his skin, every twitch of his cock as it empties out thickly into him—it's something he'll be thinking about for a long, long while.
It's possibly made worse, amplified, by the knowledge that it'd drip down his thighs, when his body alone isn't enough to hold it in; that the bite wounds would bruise and leave his skin tender, a reminder in every waking moment. For him. For anyone who sees. A weak moan goes muffled into Joonghyuk's collarbone, at that, puffed out hotly against his neck.
(And, perhaps, Joonghyuk isn't much better, nails digging into his waist and along the small of his beloved's back, teeth itching to bite again. He knows he could go for longer than this, much longer. But he tries, not to grind his hips up, because he's not an animal; even as a constellation, there's a fine line of endurance, and he's toeing right along the edge of morbid injury for the other.)
(He won't do that, for all he feels insatiable in Kim Dokja's presence. It's his safety and wellbeing that stakes priority above all else, and for now, this much is enough. So he takes to distracting his star from his head-spinning tiredness by peppering his tear stained cheeks with kisses.)
Softly, he murmurs, "Oh, I'm sorry, my dear," when the clarity hits him that he'd broken the skin on Kim Dokja's shoulder in his lust-filled haze. Nuzzling his nose against Dokja's cheek apologetically, Joonghyuk asks, "Did that hurt terribly?"
The only response he's granted is a grumbling noise from the other, and he chuckles softly, burying his nose in Dokja's hair. Whatever sadistic desire that'd crept up on him before has receded, now, satisfied for the time being. Right now, he's perfectly content to just hold Dokja in his embrace, feel the pulsing warmth of his body pressed flush against his.
(But he can't guarantee that it won't resurface soon. And again, and again, and again, when the hunger strikes and leaves him craving.)
Tenderly, he brushes Dokja's hair out of his eyes as he tries to gently nudge him enough to pull out, move him into a more comfortable position for him to rest. but Dokja remains heavy-limbed and limp.
Joonghyuk looks to see his eyes shut, breathing evening out as he leans on his shoulder.
There's a slight furrow in Dokja's eyebrows, the barest hint of a pout on his protruding lips. It makes Yoo Joonghyuk sighs fondly, satiated like a particularly smug cat who got the cream, curling up around Dokja to cuddle him peacefully, indulgently. For just a bit more.
The minutes stretch on lazily as the sun streams through his windows, and he's begrudgingly forced to acknowledge that though he'd sealed off the throne room doors with probability, they can't stay there like that forever. Outer gods will get restless, the kkomas can only do so much to keep them at bay, and he can only ignore his responsibilities for so long before they inevitably end up in front of the doors—for all he's like to stay like this, he is not keen on letting them set eyes on Kim Dokja. Especially in this state.
(Particularly not that outer god, who sprouts flowers in joy everytime it lays its eyes on his lover.)
So, he places his hands on the bend of Dokja's lithe hips to lift him up, reluctantly pulling his softening cock out. Even in his sleep, Dokja makes a sound of protest, and Joonghyuk kisses his head as an apology, leaning over to pull the other's discarded clothes from the floor with a hand curved over his waist and settled at his butt, a bit possessively.
(He feels the thick cum drip out, subconsciously squeezing Dokja's ass, trying to fight back the urge to fuck it so deep into him that it has no chance of leaving his body.)
Kim Dokja's shorts are ripped, and Yoo Joonghyuk realises he must've accidentally clawed through them in his haste to pull them off, choosing to use it as a rag instead. Carefully, he cleans up the streaks of his cum dripping down Dokja's thighs, and the ropes of it splattered across his stomach, mindful to avoid the more sensitive areas of his skin as to not disturb his beloved.
It'd take more than a simple wipe down to rid the stains on his own clothes, but he supposes that Dokja's figure would obscure it from sight anyway, dropping the tattered rag. A wave of his hands, and sparks of probability eat at it until it's no more. He'll replace it with something else later.
Something more comfortable, or durable—but there's no need for this; Kim Dokja's options are as endless and infinite as they come. It doesn't matter how quickly they tear, it just means that the outer god king can dress him up as much as he'd like, a new look every time; his own doll. To keep, and pamper, and spoil.
Picking up the robe Dokja had tied around his waist when he'd initially barged in, Yoo Joonghyuk shakes the dirt off of it before draping it over Dokja's shoulders, wrapping him up.
(Like a present, for him and only him to know what lay underneath.)
He spends a few moments wiping away the drying tears on his star's face, combing his fingers through his hair to smooth it down, and adjusting his own clothes once he deems Dokja presentable. Tucking himself back into his underwear and trousers, Joonghyuk straightens the collar of his shirt—that's all he does because he will immediately retreat for a shower after this, and change his clothes, nose wrinkling.
Unlike some people, he can't jump from fucking to sleeping in an instant. He has standards, and some decorum.
Yet, it's not a complain, and it's lovingly that he secures an arm behind Dokja's back, one under his bum to support his weight when Joonghyuk stands up, tucking Dokja's face into the crook of his neck; hidden from the world and in the arms of his beloved, where he should be.
Dokja's pale, bare legs dangle off of either side of Joonghyuk's waist limply, but anyone in their right mind would find it in themselves to neither look nor question it, should they ever cross paths with their king.
It's relatively quiet as they walk back, altering the interior pathways for minimal disturbance from anyone else. He only comes across a few kkomas too, who exchange brief glances with him, eyes flickering to Dokja before going back to what they were doing.
Perhaps they'd sought him out to report their complains about the restless outer gods who've been demanding an audience for a while, but as his dependents and fragments of his very being, they're well aware that nothing could rank higher in priority than Kim Dokja, who's sleeping soundly in his arms.
The walk back to his room is undisturbed with that, and he takes a contented fascination to the faint, warm scent of soap, tea, and perfume in Dokja's hair, under all the sweat. Everything from ngai, from their little world.
There's no end to the maze, and Dokja has willingly given himself to him. Joonghyuk does not have to refrain from tucking him into his bed, into his arms, as he sorts through his paperwork at night, never leaving the other's side.
And he doesn't have to hold back from spoiling his lovely star with affection, peppering adoring kisses on him everywhere. He doesn't have to worry if it'll frighten him off, if he'll utilise it as a means of escape, and there's so much he wants to do, so much he wants, that it makes his chest ache.
(If he were in another form, his tail would've flicked slowly, side to side, to display his feelings. At peace, slow with the weight of his feelings.)
(Dokja tries to nuzzle deeper into his neck in his sleep, and the feeling in his chest threatens to burst.)
"Joonghyuk-ah," Dokja mumbles sleepily, face half buried into the crook of his neck, lips ghosting along skin.
He'd thought the other was entirely asleep—no matter, "Yes?"
As usual, the reply he gets is unlike what he expects; he can never seem to predict what'd come out of his soft mouth, "I want murim dumplings." It's a drowsy mumble, slurring at the edges. Joonghyuk doesn't think that Dokja would even be awake by then. He'll have them made regardless, but it makes him want to laugh. something small and so irrevocably fond.
" Lots of them," Dokja adds after a moment, muffled against his shirt. It's not even a proper measurement of how much, and Joonghyuk chuckles softly into his hair.
"Of course," he promises.
He thinks that Kim Dokja falls back asleep after that, when it becomes quiet again and he feels the even breathing of the other against his neck. He's quickly proven wrong.
"Joonghyuk-ah," Dokja speaks up again a moment later, quietly into his shoulder. He notes that the smaller man becomes particularly chatty post-coitus, when he's not entirely unconscious. Maybe it's born from the lack of walls he has up, too tired to be anything but vulnerable. Or perhaps, he's come to understand and accept that, with Yoo Joonghyuk, he's allowed to be so.
(There won't be broken bottles or swords aimed at him if he does, no risk of faltering and falling into a casket built for him under the scrutiny of the divine. He won't have to laugh his feelings off as a joke)
(Because he will be held tenderly, and treated as he deserves.)
Yoo Joonghyuk decides he likes this facet of Dokja quite a bit—perhaps the most, out of every one he's witnessed. The underside to his snarky, witty attitude. Of course, he loves that side just as much, but this part, hidden from everyone else, is special; it's a side only for Yoo Joonghyuk.
(It is his heart, his soul, bared open; whether for a knife to sink into, or for loving lips to gently graze.)
He hums into Dokja's hair when he notices that the other hadn't continued what he was going to say, running a hand down his back absentmindedly, comforting and sweet, as Joonghyuk catches sight of his room.
The clicks of his shoes echo in the empty halls, and though the moment is anything but that as he's warmly nestled against his person, Dokja can't help but think back to the other 1862 lifetimes, and how lonely they must've been. A terrible skill that seems to not want to leave him, despite everything; finding the worst in any situation.
When he doesn't say anything, Joonghyuk hums again in encouragement, twisting the knob to his room.
"In those lifetimes..." Dokja mumbles, and hates how sulky it sounds. Hates how the situation isn't even related to those times, to that sadness, but he can't help it. "Were you ever happy?"
Joonghyuk pauses, not exactly expecting that after an innocent, sleepy request for dumplings. much less after sex —but it is Kim Dokja, overthinking extraordinaire. Someone with enough doubt to quietly lurk in the corners of every moment, suspicious in the face of joy and fulfilment; fester his anxieties at the worst times, until it overrides the mood and plagues him, driving off everyone and everything because of his own destructive habits.
It's not that Yoo Joonghyuk takes a while out of surprise, or disappointment, but rather because it's been such a long time since he's even thought about the word happy; there's so many years to count in each life, in between the seconds that felt like peace. He doesn't want to rush it and brush over something, miss another. He can't let that lack of assurance assist in the fear he's trying to disperse and soothe.
He thinks about the countless years he's spent shedding his humanity when he wasn't ready to sacrifice his mental state to the star stream. Thinks about all the memories he'd carried with him, and how, no matter how hard he wished, his comrades wouldn't feel an ounce of the depth in the relationships that they'd built in the cumulative world lines; that though their names and faces were the same, they were not. He thinks about the hellscape that was being The Regressor.
And then he thinks back to the 0th turn.
Before the scenarios, before the star stream. When he was just a pro-gamer looking after his sister, wondering where he came from.
The 0th turn, which he'd cleared without a sponsor. All because of a particularly insistent, chatty constellation who didn't even have as many coins as he did by the first scenario. A strangely protective one, who always had his best interest in mind; who always advised him, led him through the hardships, helped him rebuild seoul from scratch, comforted him.
Eased the knots in his heart, in a way that no one else could.
Not even the woman he had briefly married, nor his comrades, his disciples, the lost children he had helped to raise.
It was a constellation that made him curious of the world, rather than scared. It was a star that felt closer than any friend, despite being so far. One strangely fixated with all the stories of the world, that Demon King of Salvation was; no matter their status, from the newest to oldest, he'd treated them with nothing but the purest love to ever exist.
The constellation he'd longed to meet; his reason to reach the final wall, to regress. To live through suffering for. Just for that one constellation. Joonghyuk thinks about it fondly—Dokja doesn't even remember, but he'd asked the same question so, so long ago.
( Are you unhappy? He'd asked warily, voice unsure, terrified that in his attempts to grant him the best world line, he'd still failed in his main goal.)
(What a silly star in the sky, Yoo Joonghyuk had thought then; how strange for a god to be so unsure, voice meek as if he's not absolute. As if he's not the conviction that drives the man into completing their contract.)
So it's with all the care in the world, he sets his fallen star down on the bed for a gentle landing. Dokja's already half asleep, but still looks up at him for answers, like it'd plague his nightmares if he doesn't know—the same very way he had, at the beginning of it all. And, surely, Joonghyuk can't let that happen, can't let his worries go unsoothed, so he brushes Dokja's hair off of his forehead and presses a gentle, loving kiss there.
He pulls away to smile reassuringly—because that's what it is, really. All that suffering could never compare to how brightly this star lit up his endless darkness and gave him answers for his own woes.
Kim Dokja, the Demon King of Salvation, the Most Ancient Dream. For him, his protagonist would do it all over again, without hesitation.
"Of course."
You were there. You are here.
(He was happy. He is happy. He will continue to feel this way.)
(Because Kim Dokja's his beginning, his end, his ◼️◼️.)