Archive of Our Own

“Your five o’clock, Yoo Joonghyuk.” Dokja calls out in a bored voice, perched atop a thick tree root a little far off in the distance.

Yoo Joonghyuk ignores him, hacking his way through the mass of barbed vines currently shooting out from the bushes. The last of them falls limp at his feet and he quickly swings his sword over his shoulder, killing a venom bloom sneaking its way down with a clean cut.

A soft whistle cuts through the air that he turns a deaf ear to, wrenching the blade out of the corpse before pausing to wipe the sweat dripping into his eyes. Low ranked as the assigned task may be, the high noon sun remains unforgiving over their heads. It’s an unfortunate necessity; the forest beasts only awaken within the brief window of time when the sun is at its highest peak—exactly how the abnormality had gone unnoticed for so long.

Judging from his progress, it should take him less than a quarter of an hour to wrap this up entirely, a full week ahead of the allotted time. One of the abysmally few merits of taking on outsourced commissions; the end results are all that matter, no questions further asked.

He strides deeper into the forest with quick swings of his sword, fluid strikes borne from a mix of instinct and heightened senses. The blade trembles as it collides with a charging treant and he frowns, readjusting his grip over the poorly crafted hilt.

It’s the one notable drawback of his line of work; the less than desirable standards of the equipment supplied by the run-of-the-mill guilds he frequents. The new world order built atop the ashes of the old carried over a lot of the same cause and effects, the shift of ranked weaponry to underground markets following iron-fisted regulations being one of them—albeit an unfortunate development for the lamentable coin in his pockets.

His eyes narrow as he recalls the confiscation of his own swords, the swings of his blade growing more ruthless as he tears through the mycelium webs protecting a poison spewing mushroom close to eruption. The metal groans weakly as he pierces a hole through its swollen head, yanking it back out and chopping it off by the stem with a frustrated blow.

“Hey, easy with the sword. Any damages are coming out of our pockets, in case you forgot.” A cheerful voice remarks from afar, and Yoo Joonghyuk’s jaw tenses in annoyance as he slashes off the legs of a twig blight rushing towards him. The sword clangs noisily as he blocks an attack from the back before swinging it in a quick semi-arc, killing the conspirators in one stroke.

It’s not much of a riddle why the damned lunatic keeps tagging along on these missions – the enigma lies within the fact that he keeps allowing it. Perhaps it stems from a vague sense of empathy; he’d witnessed firsthand all of Kim Dokja’s frustrations through his prolonged recovery period—and before, when his eyes had gleamed with that crazed wildness, poorly concealed as it was, as they’d slain their way through the scenarios as fellow companions.

Kim Dokja himself insists it’s to keep him in check, though Yoo Joonghyuk can see right through that piss-poor of an excuse. The end of the world as they once knew it had changed the both of them. He’s unfamiliar with the Kim Dokja from before the scenarios, but even he’s able to recognize this much—a case of pot calling the kettle black, perhaps, but it takes one to know one.

It’s a begrudgingly admitted thought; Kim Dokja may be more suited to a life of battle than even he himself.

Now, browbeaten and confined to a simple dagger for self-protection, he seems to have accustomed himself to his status as an aggravating bystander with the sole purpose of ticking him off through unwarranted battle counsel, more noisome than of any actual help. The tasks he usually attends to are lightweight enough that their completion remains untested—his patience, less so.

At least he gets to keep a direct eye on him through this arrangement, he tells himself as he slashes through another onslaught of carnivorous vines, readjusting his stance to make sure Kim Dokja remains in his field of view.

“A hoard of corpse flowers on your—”

“I have eyes, Kim Dokja.” He interjects irately, taking care of them right away.

“Right. Must have skipped out on the part where you grew them at the back of your head.”

Always with the last damned word—he resumes the silent treatment.

The forest beasts are easy work, low-ranking enough to fall at the tip of his sword without even the need for him to pull out his skills. The end of the scenarios hadn’t miraculously brought the world back to its original state. Traces of the apocalypse continue to linger like a stubborn ink stain, whether it be the ruins of cities once revered, or the beasts that have since quietly assimilated to their new environments, lying in wait for those unfortunate enough to cross their paths. Regulated guilds became a necessary countermeasure, tasked with clearing designated areas in humanity’s efforts of reclamation.

Yoo Joonghyuk himself, with all his infamy and the shiny bounty on his head, could only turn towards the more dubious leagues that worked under the radar, insignificant enough not to warrant unnecessary attention. It’s not out of a necessity as much as an outlet; the years may have passed in the blink of an eye, but finding an identity of his own without the hilt of a sword in his fist is not something he wishes to dwell on, not any time soon.

He’d achieved the ending that they’d all worked for. The abundance of leisure time spent at the side of a sickbed finally brought him heads-on with the unsettling emotion stirred by the man lying within, and above everything, Yoo Joonghyuk is no fool. The stretched out years spent dwelling and seeking, he’d be blind not to have seen it for what it is.

However;

A lesson learnt through trial and error – not all things are meant to be coveted.

There’s no answer to be sought in this particular instance; a wall can only be broken through if it exists in the first place. This much is enough for him, he reminds himself as he swings his sword down, staggering lightly from the recoil.

“You’re getting distracted,” Kim Dokja calls out right on cue, and his lips thin into a grimace as he deflects the attack of a crawler, ducking down as a treant sends its branches flying towards his head. A side-step and a jab with the hilt of his sword, followed by a clean stab to its core, and its rotting remains fall at his feet in a heap.

“Stay quiet.” He grits out as he slices the blade through the air, cutting down another wave of beasts. The frequency of their attacks has increased; they should be closing in on the center of the forest by now, which means the source of the corruptive energy fueling it must be somewhere nearby.

In an ironic turn of events, he finds himself wishing to be done with this quickly; suddenly craving the solitude of his room, the quiet respite away from the endless combat. Perhaps the years are finally catching up on him.

“Your form’s off.” He hears the frown in Kim Dokja’s voice, trying to steady his focus on the new mob of twig blights swarming the area. He charges forward, hacking through them two at a time, reducing the flock to the single digits until he glimpses something between their figures; a vague shape covered in moss and budding flowers, its upper body protruding from the trunk of a weathered tree in the distance. A tree nymph—half-dead, by the looks of it. That should be it, then.

“Hey, careful, over your head—”

He ducks while swinging his sword, neatly slicing through the branches descending overhead before turning back to the twig blights, knocking his way through three more. Sweat dripping down his nape, he looks over his shoulder irritably. “You—”

The scathing retort dies on his tongue as something shoots past his vision—a thick tangle of vines, rushing towards Kim Dokja at breakneck speed. Compulsion all but explodes through his senses, his left hand racing to the short dagger strapped to his belt and sending it flying through the air. The blade finds its mark as it pierces straight through its core bulb, pinning it to the trunk above Kim Dokja’s head.

Within that fraction of split attention, a plant cryptid is able to bloom its flowers before Yoo Joonghyuk manages to cut it down, the air around him instantly turning sickly sweet.

The rest of the beasts are easily vanquished under his renewed strikes, though his heart continues to pound erratically, the short scare having created a small dent in his composure. Kim Dokja’s commentary has fallen silent, much to his relief. Within the span of a minute, he’s finally able to stab through the feeble core of the hibernating nymph, and the remaining beasts crumble into decay, returning the forest back to the serene stillness belonging to nature’s realm.

Kim Dokja looks rightfully apologetic as Yoo Joonghyuk walks back to his side, wiping the blade on a broad leaf before sheathing it back in his belt. He tries to take back his dagger from Dokja’s waiting hands, but he only tightens his grip over the hilt, stubbornly persisting until Joonghyuk resignedly meets him in the eye.

“I’ll apologize for getting in your way this time.” He declares in an awkward tone, still holding on to the dagger.

Yoo Joonghyuk gives him a long look. “Great. My dagger, Kim Dokja.”

“But—” Dokja continues quickly, tugging the dagger closer to himself. “I could have protected myself just now. I don’t need you to be preoccupied on my behalf, I thought I should mention that.”

He lets go of the dagger. Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand hovers mid-air for a pause before he returns it to its sheath, eyeing the vine carcass fallen to the ground just ahead of them.

“I know. But it happened because I was distracted.” He finally responds in a quiet voice, leaving the rest of it unsaid.

Kim Dokja looks as if he’s about to argue, but ruffles through his hair in the end, giving him a sheepish smile. “Kind of brought this on myself, didn’t I.”

“So you’re aware of that.” Joonghyuk replies in a sarcastic tone.

There’s a playful shove to his shoulder. “Reckon there’s a deadline to my mandated suspension, by any chance?”

He gives Kim Dokja a moody look. “There’s still talk about installing a lock on your room.”

“Hm?”

“On the outside.”

Dokja blanches.

“Heewon-ssi?”

Joonghyuk gives him an indifferent shrug. A satisfied expression flickers over his face as he watches Kim Dokja rub his neck in an uneasy manner, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath.

Dokja turns towards him, then pauses as he looks over Yoo Joonghyuk’s face. “You alright? You’re sweating a lot.”

Yoo Joonghyuk shrugs, brushing past him towards the forest entrance. “It’s hot.”

It is hot. A stifling, humid heat; the sort that has the shirt under his robes damp with sweat and sticking uncomfortably to his skin, leaving no room for air to breeze through. He accepts the canteen that Dokja offers him with grace, but even the cool rush of water isn’t enough to parch his throat, sweat continuing to trickle in rivulets down his temples.

He hands it back after chugging it halfway down, quietly recounting the events of the mission as he slips on his mask, hiding away his face. Just then, the brief glimpse of broad, indigo petals crosses his mind, and his hands come to a standstill, frozen over the hood of his robe.

Kim Dokja looks at him questioningly, currently in the middle of donning his own mask. Yoo Joonghyuk shakes his head, quickly pulling the hood over his hair.

“Let’s go back.”

***

It’s not until they’re crossing through a ghost town that Kim Dokja surmises something may be wrong.

“Yoo Joonghyuk.” He catches him by the wrist, tipping his mask back to get a better look. The heat that instantly transfers to his palm sends his brows arching high, alarm sharpening his voice. “I knew it, something’s wrong with you. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” Yoo Joonghyuk snaps as he wrenches his arm out of the grip, a touch more forcefully than intended. His mind had been preoccupied; his chest burns hot, skin smarting as if it might melt off at a moment’s notice. The light contact, brief as it was, feels as if it’s rekindled the flames, adding to the white-hot pain that’s been steadily pulsing through his body over the past hour.

“It’s not nothing when you’re radiating more heat than a stovetop. Come here, show me your face—”

“Kim Dokja, stop—”

His mask falls off, and then it’s his worst fears realized; their eyes come into contact.

Haze covers his vision all at once, dreamlike, otherworldly. The figure before him transforms through a myriad of images; the soft smile of Lee Seolhwa, her white hair cascading through the air. A kind face, cruel and cold in the next moment. Her arm extended, just out of reach and as he watches, her locks darken to a golden blonde, the mirage simmering furiously before revealing the deadly contempt held within the eyes of a prophet. It staggers his breath, every cell in his body flinching away from the sight. She’s a beautiful nightmare.

And then terribly, crushingly, the illusion shifts yet again—this time melting away to reveal the concern painting Kim Dokja’s face, centering back to reality within the cusps of a forbidden perception. Something unspeakable, the taboo he’d crossed laid bare in front of his eyes and he freezes in place, feeling the familiar sense of oppression when faced with this burdensome truth.

“You’re completely red.” Kim Dokja frowns as he reaches towards his face. Yoo Joonghyuk flinches away from the touch, swaying back. The shared gaze is broken, yet any respite evades him as he feels the rush of raw adrenaline that hits his veins and staggers his breath, that small moment enough to accelerate the progression of his current blight by a dozenfold.

“Don’t touch me,” He manages to hiss out over the pulse ringing in his ears, biting down on his lips as another wave of torment rips through his spine. The acrid taste of metal hits his tongue and he tries to ground himself in its bitter tang, wrapping an arm around his waist as he staggers forward. He’s powered through worse, he tries to tell himself. He can’t let it overtake him, not right now, not here. “Keep going.”

“Are you out of your mind? Hey, Yoo Joonghyuk—”

“Don’t!” He snarls as he lurches away from the outstretched hand, his shoulder colliding harshly with a wall. A muffled grunt leaves his lips as another stab of pain makes him hunch into himself, eyes clenching shut tight.

Even that doesn’t stop the pollen from spreading its influence; it’s latched onto a person now, an object of desire, in close proximity no less. The back of his lids gets painted with their images in rapid succession; on a rooftop overlooking the ruins of Seoul, in the mouth of an Outer God. Teetering between being by his side and somewhere far out of his reach, a torment more agonizing than a festering wound, long hours of torture.

He’s right there, it whispers to him enticingly. Why won’t you just reach out?

He wrenches his eyes open, chest heaving with shallow breaths. The cobblestones paving the road fill his vision, and he lets out a staggered exhale as he tries to collect his wits, digging his nails into his thighs in the hopes that the sharp pain will act as a distraction. It’s futile; the fever is rapidly storming through every nerve ending in its path, building into a needling pain akin to a nest of hornets buzzing angrily under his skin.

Perspiration soaks through his underclothes, creating damp patches through his robe. It drips down the tip of his nose and splashes hot, soaking into the cracks between the bricked roads.

The arousal will come next. Just under an hour, if he’s lucky—and then it’ll be out of his hands, an unchecked descent into a pitiful state that only seeks release at the hands of another.

“Find your way back by yourself.” He forces out after a struggle, leaning against the wall for support. They’re still some hours away from their destination, and he’s willing to put his trust in Kim Dokja to take care of himself, if only just this once. He’ll take shelter in one of the houses, one with running water, if possible. Ride it out until the toxin takes its course, and everything will be back to normal. “Don’t ask questions. I’ll be fine. Leave.”

In an abandoned recess of his mind, he’s willing to admit it to himself—he’s afraid. Showing his vulnerability is no longer something foreign to him, but this, stripped of his resilience, bound to the whims of a foreign will; it’s something that hits too close to home and once again, he finds himself with something important to lose.

These feelings never had a place in their relationship, not once. As of this moment, the idea of Kim Dokja’s presence—it’s terrifying.

It’s quiet for a long time, enough that Yoo Joonghyuk begins to believe that his words of persuasion may have actually worked. A strange sensation weighs in his chest, relief tinged in an acrid tone, something bitter.

The glare of the sun reflects off the cobblestones, ingraining their patterns onto his vision – and then a pair of worn shoes enters his field of view, one after the other.

“I won’t touch you.”

He stiffens as he hears the words, hands clenching into fists. Too close—he should have known Kim Dokja would never heed his words. When has he ever?

“I won’t touch you, alright? But here’s some friendly advice, stop wasting your energy on trying to make me leave. What do you take me for?”

He sounds angry, Joonghyuk realizes, caught off guard.

The next words are softly spoken, in a tone so familiar that it makes his teeth ache. “Spit it out, Yoo Joonghyuk. What’s wrong with you?”

He stays quiet. Dokja curses under his breath, running a frustrated hand through his hair, sending it to disarray. He takes out his phone and taps the screen, then curses again, lifting his head to quickly gaze through the neighborhood before turning back to Yoo Joonghyuk.

“Stay here, you hear me? I’ll be right back, just stay put. Don’t move.” He barks out before rushing off, not waiting for a response.

A sense of déjà vu envelops him as in spite of it all, he waits.

Time wears on agonizingly slow, seconds dragged into long, endless minutes. The fire in his veins runs hotter, and his vision keeps blurring in and out of focus, his immediate surroundings thrown into shimmery distortions. The voice of reason within him recognizes these as signs of the pollen’s effects advancing; he’s experienced it before, after all – though not to this level, nowhere close.

He’d been alone in that regression. Found a sanctuary to hole himself up in and wasted three days and nights rubbing his dick raw to no avail until it left his system of its own accord, unsated and conceding defeat. Having no one by his side had been both a blessing and a curse; the symptoms hadn’t escalated, with only his memories to feed off of and use as fodder for torment. Yet his body had endlessly burned with the ache for another’s touch, the warmth of another’s skin pressed against his own.

The incident hadn’t registered beyond a minor inconvenience back then, his initial scrutiny in its aftermath fading into an afterthought that hadn’t even taken hold within his memories, but he remembers it clearly now—the thirst, the hunger, the stench of depravity that had devoured his senses. A singular thought takes root, a fear so raw that it punches him in the gut; he can’t let Kim Dokja see him in that state.

“Can you get up on your own?”

He raises his head slowly, trying to chase away the hazy film disrupting his vision through sheer will. He must have lost time while in his thoughts; the sun has moved a little further across the sky, casting Kim Dokja’s shadow over the narrow road. For a frozen moment, he drinks in the sight with abandon, greedily running over the silhouette with reddened eyes before he manages to snap himself out of the stupor.

He looks down, realizing that he’s crouched down at some point; legs hunched, his back pressed against the wall, thighs aching from the exertion of holding himself up. Slowly, he wills his limbs back into action, movements stiff as he forces himself upright.

He’s uncomfortably aware of the eyes that follow his every move, trying to collect the scraps of whatever composure he has left as he holds himself up, discreetly leaning against the wall for support.

“You—” He swallows thickly, humiliated by the crack in his voice. “What are you up to now.”

Dokja clicks his tongue, lips pressed into a frown as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I can’t get a signal. And I can’t help you until you tell me what’s wrong with you, so first things first, we need to get your temperature down.” He nods towards the back. “C’mon. I found a place we can stay.”

Yoo Joonghyuk struggles to come up with a counter-argument, short of much of a leg to stand on, quite literally if he’s being realistic. He weighs his options in his head, trying to plan his next steps. He'll have to find a place to stay at any rate; the quicker the better, judging from his current state of unraveling affairs. Following Kim Dokja will be the easiest way to that—getting rid of him can come after, though he can hazard a guess that it won’t be an easy task.

In the end, he follows him mutely, dragging his feet over the uneven roads. Aged signs of a disaster struck accompany their footpath; partially collapsed buildings overgrown with wild plants and moss, glass shards glittering amidst the rubble strewn across the streets. Abandoned vehicles litter the streets, some overturned, a few crushed beneath fallen masonry, their initial sheen lost to time and rust.

He averts his eyes from the sight, instead focusing on something equally familiar; Kim Dokja’s back, that habitual slouch to his shoulders that’s clear as day even through his foggy vision.

He can’t remember when that had changed; the shift from leading ahead to following after, always a step behind.

A sudden burst of pain makes him wince lightly, steps faltering to a halt as he tries to ride it out while leaning against a crooked utility box. His breaths are coming out faster now – his body’s fervent attempts to keep up with the spike in his heart rate. He tries to guide it back to something stable, shivering through each deep breath, wincing from the hot air that leaves his lips. Damn it, he can’t even remember what happened to his mask—did he lose it on the way?

“Deep breaths.” A hand guides his arm around something solid and he flinches, trying to reel away from the contact. His strength must have dwindled; he’s snatched back just as quickly, forcefully maneuvered back into place. “Ease up, Yoo Joonghyuk. Does this hurt too?”

“I can walk on my own.” He manages to grit out, and hears a snort in response.

“Take it as humoring me, then. Answer the question, does this hurt?”

Anger flares hot for a brief moment, then flickers feebly as his eyes fall on gloved hands; the careful positioning so that their skin doesn’t come into direct contact. It comes with no surprise that Kim Dokja has picked up on some things—less so that he’s stopped badgering him for answers. Consideration is an awkward fit on Kim Dokja, the twisted mass of contradictions that he is.

To hell with your kindness, he wants to bite out, but instead settles on an irritable shrug.

“It’s just around the corner.” Kim Dokja says in a calm voice, that familiar indifference that’s as much grounding as it’s aggravating. “Your temperature’s gotten higher. Do you feel dizzy?”

An impaired vision is the last of Yoo Joonghyuk’s concerns right now; the pollen seems to have detected his renewed proximity with Kim Dokja, the piercing aches transforming into a different kind of pain, turning his blood into boiling hot syrup. His ears ring with the thick sound of his pulse, a sickening pressure that makes him equal parts nauseous and something else, a terrifying sensation.

Damn it, he might have been too generous with his estimation—he’ll be lucky if he makes it to the end of this road, let alone the promised shelter.

“Stop talking.”

“Right. Try not to throw up on me.” Dokja replies drily, helping him over a collapsed beam.

He bites back a scathing response, letting himself be guided through the debris. He’s not left with much of a choice – his entire body has started trembling at some point, all of his strength poured into placing his feet one after the other. They round the corner, and finally, they’re stepping through a fallen gate into a house that looks relatively undamaged, if one were to disregard the quarter of the roof caved in from the back.

“We got lucky. The bedrooms are still intact, and the water’s still running. No electricity though, that’s a given.” Kim Dokja murmurs as he helps Yoo Joonghyuk through a broken down door; probable souvenirs of past looters looking for junk to trade with. Joonghyuk only grunts, fighting to keep his senses. He couldn’t care less about the state of the house, too distracted by the warmth he can feel emanating from Kim Dokja’s body, the throbbing discomfort that’s rapidly gathering in his loins.

Beads of sweat trickle into his eyes as he’s guided through the house, stumbling through more steps than not. His senses have grown more muddled – a heavy weight blankets his mind, dulling his senses. Every now and then, soft noises filter through his ears without registering; low creaks from under his feet, and a faint trickling noise, muted splashes that grow in volume with passing time.

He’s so uncomfortable. The rough fabric of his clothes chafes against his skin, a newfound sensitivity taking root that feels like fingernails on chalkboard, an itch that can’t be scratched. His palms are clammy with sweat, and his tongue feels foreign in his mouth as he tries to swallow dryly, feeling the lump in his throat as he does. A restless energy settles in. The hood over his eyes morphs into something suffocating and he almost groans with relief as it’s pushed back, the cool air that hits his nape quickly growing lukewarm from his body heat. Something tugs the knot at his neck loose, and it doesn’t quite register that he’s being disrobed until a hand rests over his belt, startling him out of the foggy state.

“What the hell are you—” he hisses, lurching back clumsily.

“Calm down.” Kim Dokja raises his hands, then nods towards his pants. Mortification turns his face red, but then he hears him say, “Your weapons. Can’t get them wet, can we?”

He looks down apprehensively, finding his sword pulled halfway out of its sheath. They’re in a bathroom, he discovers, a long hose extending from the wall and dunked into a bathtub at the corner that’s already filled to halfway height. It’s evident that Kim Dokja had prepared it beforehand, the clean insides in stark contrast to the thick coating of dust covering its exterior.

He falters for a moment, then exhales roughly, taking off his weapons one at a time. The violent tremble to his hands makes it a challenging task, but his pride won’t allow the alternative.

“I can do it myself.”

“Nobody’s saying otherwise,” Dokja murmurs as he leans back against a wall, Joonghyuk’s outer robe folded over his arms. “You looked a little out of it just then, that’s all.”

“I’m fine.” he snaps, depositing the last of his equipment on the counter. A sudden longing for his old coat flashes through his thoughts as he limps his way across the space, stumbling into the bathtub and sinking himself within, the rest of his clothes be damned.

A sigh threatens to break past his lips; the water feels refreshingly cool, soaking through his attire and replacing the sticky heat of his sweat. It’s not of much help with the sensations wrecking hell through his body—though not much will be, beyond the sole remedy for this damned affliction, that is.

“At least take the shoes off…” Dokja mutters helplessly, crossing over to his side.

“You can get out now.”

“Anyone ever mentioned you have a slight problem with your attitude?” Dokja quirks a brow, squatting down at his side. There’s the sound of something ripping, and then a small rag is doused in the water and held up to his forehead. “A thank you won’t hurt every once in a while.”

“Thank you. Get out.” Yoo Joonghyuk retorts in the same breath.

Even now, his body yearns to lean into the touch, greedy for that small grant of contact. It’s dangerous; he’s already almost slipped once, and he doesn’t plan on finding out what could happen the next time.

“Touching. See, I’d almost consider it if you didn’t look like you could give a ghost a run for their money right now. You think I did all this work just for you to drown in this tub?” Dokja snorts, sliding the rag down his sideburns, wiping the sweat pouring down to his neck. Yoo Joonghyuk glares daggers but Dokja steadily ignores him, continuing to wipe him down while a thoughtful look dawns on his face.

“I think I already have an idea of what’s wrong with you,” he muses softly, and Joonghyuk’s entire body tenses up.

The cloth is soaked in the tub, then pressed to his nape; thin streams drip down his collar, trickling down his back.

“But I’d like to hear it from you all the same. Don’t tell me you can’t trust me with even that much, hm?”

Joonghyuk sits still as he lets the words sink in; shoulders forming a straight line, spine rigid, nails biting into his thighs hard enough to leave marks. A whirligig of jumbled thoughts race through his mind, heart racing some miles per minute.

It’s to be expected—of course it is. Kim Dokja wouldn’t be Kim Dokja without faithfully maintaining his role as an insufferable wisenheimer, whether with that blasted skill of his or otherwise. He should at least be grateful that his unnaturally strong sense of perception didn’t extend to matters involving himself – at least some things can forever remain buried under sand.

“Is that important now?” He finally mutters in an exhausted voice. A sense of defeat sweeps through him as he slumps to a side, letting his temple rest against the tiled wall.

“It’s not?” Dokja questions, a single brow raised.

He grinds his teeth, shifting his legs in a restless manner. The initial relief brought about by the tub water has long lost its charm; he can already feel the faint stirring in his pants, the telltale signs of what’s to come.

Knowing Kim Dokja, he’s not likely to let go of this any time soon. Perhaps admitting it outright would bring forth some tact in the man—enough, at least, to get him to leave the damned room and give him the privacy to handle this himself.

“Blooms of Agdistis.” He finally breathes out, looking anywhere but in his direction.

There’s a knowing hum, and then a significant pause.

“But isn’t that at least a tier 5 monster? How was that—”

A sudden stab of pain makes Yoo Joonghyuk’s face contort into a rough grimace, his arm tightening around his waist to keep himself upright.

“…Right.” Dokja mutters under his breath. He appears to struggle for a moment before asking, “How are you holding up?”

“Great.” Joonghyuk snaps, eyes watering, burning holes through the tub. The water’s up to his waist now, overlapping waves forming doubles in his swimming vision. It’s evident that it’s clear enough that it should start posing problems if he waits any longer. “So get out.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Yoo Joonghyuk repeats in a tight voice, bewildered. “Do I need to spell it out for you?”

Dokja’s hand pauses over his neck, a contemplative look flitting across his face. A heavy sense of foreboding looms close as Joonghyuk tries to inch away from his touch, feeling the resistance within his body to the small movement.

“I can help.”

“No.” The refusal bursts out of him like a gunshot, his insides twisting with dread.

It’s a crushing culmination, the predictability of this outcome. Of course Kim Dokja would offer to help; it’s the most logical conclusion to arrive at, one that he himself might have considered entertaining if he were in any other position.

But even the flower’s influence doesn’t stop the thought of receiving Kim Dokja’s caresses, aloof and impersonal, from sending knives twisting into his stomach. Perhaps there was a time when he wouldn’t have thought much of it, but now—

“Why? Does it bother you that I’m a man?”

He wants to laugh. What kind of a sick development was this?

“Right, you mentioned it once,” Dokja mutters thoughtfully, straightening up. He leaves the rag slung over Joonghyuk’s shoulders, the thin fabric burning hot on his skin as if still containing his phantom warmth. “Would it be so bad? It’s supposed to have a hallucinogenic effect, isn’t it? You can just close your eyes, take it as part of your fantasies.”

“Stop—” Joonghyuk explodes, then reigns it in, gripping himself harder over his waist. “That’s enough, Kim Dokja.”

Of course, that only spurs him on.

“Back then, when I touched you,” he says while leaning back into a crouched position, propping his head against the wall. Nausea churns in his stomach, a strong premonition telling Yoo Joonghyuk that he isn’t going to like whatever comes out of his mouth next. “…You didn’t just feel pain, did you?”

Bad. This is bad. They’re wading straight into damning waters, and he knows the consequences will be his alone to bear.

And yet—

“It might be a little embarrassing, but,” Dokja continues, his gaze directed up towards the ceiling. “You know you don’t have to face everything on your own anymore. It’s admirable, but unnecessary, really.”

“That’s unrelated.” He bites back resentfully.

“How?” Dokja gives him a blank look. Yoo Joonghyuk turns his head away, chagrin clogging up his throat. “Granted, you might not find me the most desirable—”

“That’s not what this is about.” The words burst out of his lips before he’s able to stop them, shaky with emotion.

“What the hell is it about, then?” Dokja shoots back.

A deafening silence falls between them, tension slowly growing from simmer to rolling boil.

And then;

“Oh.” Kim Dokja finally breathes out, and Yoo Joonghyuk’s heart drops to his stomach.

The humiliation chokes him, has him fruitlessly wishing to be anywhere else; home, in the middle of a battlefield, anywhere but in this cursed bathroom with its cramped walls and its low ceiling where moving his face by so much as an inch would put him in the direct path of locking eyes with the last person he wants to see right now.

“I might be wrong, but Yoo Joonghyuk…” Dokja murmurs slowly, and Joonghyuk tries to brace himself, whole body tensing up like a stretched string on the verge of snapping.

“…You want me.” Kim Dokja says it bluntly, surprise reflected in his eyes.

Ah.

“Get out.” A defeated whisper.

The irony of it all doesn’t fail to dawn on him. Within that split second, in spite of what it would have meant, he’d almost thought—

Well, it doesn’t matter what he thought.

“You do.” Dokja presses on, oblivious to the massive blow he’d landed with his words. “Right now, at least—you do. Do you think I’m blind?”

“Hah!” The dry laugh spills out of his lips unbidden, bitter and unnatural. Self-mockery curls his mouth into an ugly sneer as he throws caution to the winds, turning sharply to meet Dokja in the eye. “Get out, Kim Dokja.”

The blood that instantly rushes to his groin feels like a betrayal from his own body, the intense arousal mixing in with the ugly, twisted emotions clogging up his insides and adding to the weight pressing down on his chest, turning his eyes bloodshot. What’s considerably worse are the traces of pity and understanding that flits across Kim Dokja’s face—as if the bastard knew anything. As if he knew a damned thing.

“Look at yourself,” he says calmly, reaching out to brush a sweat-drenched lock away from his eyes. Joonghyuk tries to fight the shudder that runs down his spine, the lump lodged in his throat growing into something intolerable.

Dokja’s eyes flit down, a knowing look passing through them as he murmurs, “See that? You’re reacting like that just to this much.”

Denying it will only make him look all the more pathetic—hell, he’s morbidly aware of his own body’s reactions. He doesn’t need a narration on top of it all, for fuck’s sake.

In the end he can only glare daggers, shaking pathetically like a leaf caught in strong winds.

“Do you hate the thought of it that much? That you’re aroused by me?” Dokja continues to prod in that infuriating manner of his. “Why? Are you embarrassed?”

“Fuck you.” He hisses through his teeth.

“Just listen to me for a second,” Dokja pushes on helplessly, withdrawing his hand halfway. “I’m a bit behind on the details but, well—you look like shit, Yoo Joonghyuk, I’ll be honest. You need release, don’t you? And I’m guessing you need some help with that.”

“I don’t need your help.” Joonghyuk shuts his eyes, trying his best to ignore the burning ache that’s kindled to life between his legs. “I just need some—time.” The feeble excuse sounds pathetic even to his own ears.

“Yeah? And how long’s that gonna be? What, you expect me to stand guard at the door while you spasm around in here and hope for an orgasm to fall in your lap?”

He bristles at the spot-on accusation. Dokja huffs exasperatedly, sweeping his hair back in a frustrated manner. He sighs, then draws closer, too close for Yoo Joonghyuk’s comfort.

“Listen. I’m offering my help. My help. That’s all this has to be.” There’s a small pause, and then, “It’s only a big deal if you make it out to be, you know that right?”

Joonghyuk’s eyes fall open, unintentionally colliding with Dokja’s. A renewed surge of lust crashes just within the peripheries of his control, threatening to spill over at a moment’s distraction. It’s a terrifying sensation – he’s never been one to cower and retreat but now, backed into this corner, it only adds to his fury; an unkindled rage that makes him want to crush something, to rampage wild.

Because who gave Kim Dokja the right?

The stillness within the bathroom grows into something heavy, almost palpable, magnifying the sounds of his ragged breaths, resonating them off the tiled walls in muted echoes. His chest aches, knotted into a twisted mix of anger, indignance, that damning, begrudgingly unmasked desire—and something else, something that tears his lungs into ribbons, leaves him feeling pathetic, miserable.

He’s a coward. He’s always known that, underneath it all.

“Yoo Joonghyuk,” Dokja starts again, and he thinks, shut up. Shut the hell up.

“It doesn’t need to mean anything.”

Something shatters, then snaps.

He fists the front of Dokja’s cloak and yanks him forward, forcing their lips together in an aggressive kiss.

It’s cool; the first thought that registers. Kim Dokja’s lips are ice cool against his and makes his brain sizzle like a hot grease pan plunged under a running tap as he kisses him hard enough to bruise, all of his long suppressed desires unleashed. It’s frantic, clumsy to the point of being sloppy; their noses crash and pain sparks but Yoo Joonghyuk remains uncaring, thoughts and caution long left to dust.

He forces Dokja’s head lower as he licks over his mouth, biting into the soft flesh before molding their lips together over and again, a low rumble running through his chest from the taste of his skin. He feels as his wound reopens, his blood that smears on Dokja’s lips that he swallows like a starved man—the hesitation in their tensed shoulders that only adds fuel to dying ember and has him cursing, damn you, you fucking bastard. Kiss me back.

Calloused palms press over his cheeks and his wishes are answered; Kim Dokja finally returns the kiss.

Lips move over his, slowly at first, then growing to match his pace. Teeth that scrape not so gently over the cut on his lip that has him inhaling a sharp hiss; a hot pressure that presses over the seam of his lips and demands entry that he gives into without second thought. Their tongues clash, his fingers twisting harsher into rough hemp, wrinkling it to the point of no return as he licks impatiently into Dokja’s mouth and swallows, crushing his nose into his skin hard enough to feel the bones underneath.

Blood roars in his ears as Kim Dokja receives it all and returns it twofold, his own erection growing painfully strained in his trousers. Water splashes over the side of the tub, spilling over the floor as Dokja coerces his head to an angle and deepens the kiss, roughening their exchange in a mess of teeth and tongue that has him choking on the mouthful of air his lungs hold, wrists going limp.

It’s between long kisses that tug at his lower lip that Dokja’s hands begin to move; fingertips that ghost over his jawline and caress the lines of his cheekbones—gentle touches, achingly tender. The delayed shock of it hits him like a douse of cold water as he jerks his head back and pulls away, gasping for breath.

“Are you okay?” Kim Dokja asks before he’s able to take the third breath in, voice hoarse.

He continues to pant for some time, head lowered, heart pounding against his ribs as he tries to frantically reestablish that boundary line that had been dangerously close to being crossed.

(It doesn’t need to mean anything.)

Slowly, he raises his head, pinning Kim Dokja with a conflicted gaze. The legitimate concern painting his features feels like a direct strike to his conscience—which leaves him all the more resentful, left with no other outlet for his tangled emotions.

“…You said it,” he latches onto his collar this time, yanking him close enough that their breaths overlap, mingling into one. Restraint be damned—Kim Dokja asked for this, did he not? “So shut up and kiss me.”

“A little dramatic, don’t you think?” Dokja’s mouth quirks up in a smile in the moments before their lips crash together. There’s nothing gentle about it this time; it’s sloppier, more teeth than tongue, a reckless exchange bordering on savagery. Joonghyuk groans at a particularly vicious bite, returning the favor as he tugs harshly at his collar, urging him forward. Dokja seems to catch on, following him in clumsy shuffles until he stumbles into the tub after him, more water spilling out in turbulent splashes, disturbed waves slapping agitatedly against their hips.

Groans get muffled between their mouths as Dokja succeeds in tugging his shirt out of his pants, hands finding their way up along his sides in a rough caress. They squeeze harshly over sweat-slicked muscles before Dokja backs away with a sudden expletive on his tongue, ripping off his gloves before looking up, giving Yoo Joonghyuk a searching look.

“Can I?”

Joonghyuk wordlessly catches his hands and drags them back to his waist, clenching his eyes shut from the bone-deep shudder that drips down his spine. Lips descend over his in a frenzied kiss while Dokja shifts over him, climbing further up his thighs, hands feeling up his muscles and imprinting their marks onto his skin. A gasp wrangles its way out as their hips jut together; sweet pressure like an electric shock that has his gut tightening, hips stuttering up.

“Easy,” Dokja whispers hoarsely into his lips, swallowing his moans with slow nibbles. He loosens his belts in swift movements, readjusting their position while undoing the button, pulling the fly down. “I’ll give you what you want, just be patient.”

A hand wraps around his cock and he makes a guttural noise at the back of his throat, shoulders digging back painfully into cold tiles. Kim Dokja doesn’t ease him into it; he pumps him with a loose grip, water splattering between them as he twists his palm over the head, fingers slipping over the pre that dribbles out. His legs strain against the walls of the tub as the strokes alternate, going from fast to slow, then back again at dizzying speed. Another hand ducks lower to play with his balls, fondling the loose skin while a thumb glides from his slit to the front, rubbing over a spot that sends him into deep shudders, hips jutting back and forth to follow the motion.

It doesn’t take long. Between the light squeezes and the alternating strokes, he comes with a hoarse moan, spurting a thick load that spills messily around Dokja’s clenched fist.

He pants in low wheezes in the aftermath, stray shudders wrecking through his frame as Dokja gives him a few loose tugs, squeezing him to the last drop. He’s guided into a sloppy kiss, a tongue sliding over his jaw, licking over the sweat beading over his upper lip before diving into his mouth and dragging along his inner cheeks; long, lazy strokes that draw out the pleasure enough to make his thoughts go numb.

Salt on his tongue, his body slumps back weakly as Dokja’s lips break away.

A few sluggish blinks and the world comes back into focus, revealing the deep flush that colors Dokja’s face, eyes that are somewhat blown wide that rake through his face with an inscrutable expression, though nowhere close to disgust.

Good—he’s not put off by this, at the very least. Feeling uncomfortable, Yoo Joonghyuk averts his eyes, instead resting them over the sticky mess painting his shirt and murking the tub water; his cock hanging half-limp between his fly, already throbbing back to life.

Dokja follows his gaze, then wipes his hand on his sleeve before staggering up, leaning against the wall as he climbs out of the tub. Water seeps from his clothes in endless streams as he undoes his cloak, dropping it in a wet heap at a corner before turning towards the door. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” The question slips out before he can stop himself, his voice as good as a rasp.

Kim Dokja looks over his shoulder. “There’s a bathroom next door. I’ll go prepare—it won’t take too long.”

“Prepare?” Yoo Joonghyuk echoes, somewhat confused.

Dokja’s brows furrow as he turns around slowly. “Do you know how it works between two men?”

“I’m familiar.” Joonghyuk snaps, somewhat affronted.

“So you’re aware that… preparation is required.”

Joonghyuk gives him a blank stare, and a strange look flits across Kim Dokja’s face in return.

“Just to be clear,” he asks slowly, approaching him with hesitant steps. “Between the two of us—who’s fucking who, exactly?”

Heat floods Yoo Joonghyuk’s face as he catches on to the source of the misunderstanding. The bathroom falls into an awkward silence, and comprehension quickly dawns on Kim Dokja’s face.

“Huh.” He mumbles under his breath, surprise written all over his face.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s face darkens.

“Don’t get me wrong–” Dokja stresses quickly, an embarrassed look passing over his face. He shrugs towards him, rubbing the side of his face as he rocks awkwardly on his heels. “But you’re, well—you.”

“Is there a problem?” Joonghyuk strangles out, clenching his fists tight.

“What? No, no problems here.” Dokja quickly refutes, removing his belt and slinging it towards the vanity, sheathed dagger and all. It makes a clattering noise as it lands, and Dokja clears his throat as he stands in place, giving him a pointed look.

“I can do it myself.” He grits out slowly, enunciating each word.

“Let me help with your shoes, at least.” Dokja persists, his voice leaving no room for refusal. He crouches down towards the end of the tub, undoing his laces in familiarized motions.

Yoo Joonghyuk tries not to stare, having earlier glimpsed the faint smears of blood smudged along his jaw, undeniable proof of their entanglement. His gaze gets repeatedly drawn back despite his best efforts—skimming over the flat, black hair that falls just over Kim Dokja’s brows; his prominent lower lids, faintly wrinkled at the corners, only just so.

Nothing about the man stands out, conventionally ordinary in every sense of the word, but put him on the busiest street in the middle of rush hour on a Friday evening and Yoo Joonghyuk is certain he can pick him out of the crowds without hesitation. It’s an intuition, something instinctive. Like a smudge on a mirror, a faint presence that’s easy to ignore but once you’re aware of its existence, you see it in every reflection.

Dokja turns his head while in the middle of tugging off his second boot, and their eyes cross paths. He should look away now, he thinks as he feels the silent gaze that runs over his face, a light tremor returning to his fingertips as the flower’s influence gets triggered.

Right then, Dokja leans forward. He’s too startled to react as he holds him by the chin, a thumb pressing over his cut lip; what had become a dull ache sharpening to a sting.

“Does it hurt?”

“Hurry up and be done with it.” Joonghyuk replies stoically, shrugging his face away from the touch.

“Hm.” Kim Dokja frowns as he studies his face, then leans closer, delivering a kiss that could be called chaste if it didn’t linger just so.

“Sorry,” he gives him an apologetic smile as he backs away. “You just looked like—”

Yoo Joonghyuk gives him an apprehensive look. Dokja coughs lightly, then stands up.

“I’ll get some things prepared. Call me when you’re done, don’t be shy.”

He leaves quickly, hasty footsteps echoing within the enclosed room. The door clicks shut, and Yoo Joonghyuk remains seated until he feels the slow pressure that begins to rise again in his stomach, staggering up on shaky legs as he walks unsteadily in the direction of the toilet.

Pulling his pants the rest of the way down reveals yet another unsavory development in the form of a slick sensation residing in a place it doesn’t belong. He throws all of his focus into that, the disgust and revulsion in stead of the unwelcome discovery that Kim Dokja kisses like a lover; with all the intensity of fire and ice, and the gentle caress of a soft summer mist.

***

He’s been careful over the years; has perfected it to a fine art, all things said. Call it an unexpected gain from his past trials, but detaching his feelings from the objective at hand is now as instinctive to him as breathing, no matter the number of walls that have been coerced down since. The exceptions here and there should be irrelevant; it stands to reason that he should stick to his strengths now that it’s already come down to this—the only problem being that it’s Kim Dokja, an outlier in every sense of the word. Making sense of his actions holds no meaning when there’s nothing to be gained, no conclusion ever coveted beyond what already is. This is only an outlier, a digression that will be forgotten as quick as it’s seen through.

It builds again as would a creeping fire; smoldering, pace slow but never drawing to a close. Lying in quiet wait for the chance to reignite into chaos. Faster than he’d anticipated, but then again, the temporary relief is just that—temporary. There’s a form of solace to be found in it, nonetheless; that his actions will be interpreted as bound to his circumstances rather than to himself, a simple case of cause and effect.

Desire and lust; shallow emotions that are not bound to reason, not always. That’s all this has to be.

***

Clothes stripped, skin to skin, a trail of water and discarded garments tracing their footpath across the room. They fall to the bed in a tangle of limbs, his legs falling open to allow Kim Dokja to settle between as the man sucks bruises along his neck, teeth biting over the marks left behind, threatening to break skin.

Hands explore his body with little kindness, roughly pawing over his waist and squeezing over tensed muscles that draw out muffled grunts. He likes it this way; the pain that anchors his conscience, sweeps away any delusions that this is anything more than what it is.

“You’re tense,” Kim Dokja murmurs as he glides a hand over his midriff, pressing down hard just over his navel and making his muscles quiver. “Relax a little. I’ll make you feel good.”

“Just—get on with it.” Yoo Joonghyuk bites out between ragged breaths, tightening his grip over Dokja’s hair. It’s smoother than he’d expected, threatening to slip through if he loosens his hold by a fraction.

“What’s the rush? We can take our time—or do you like it like that? Rough and quick, a fast fuck?” His hand slides up to Joonghyuk’s chest, rubbing his nipple into a tight nub and giving it a harsh tug that sends his hips jerking up.

“Oh.” Dokja pauses, then gives it a sharp flick before pinching it, rolling it between his fingers while watching his reactions. “You’re sensitive here. Or do you just like the pain? Which is it?”

“Stop fucking—analyzing everything, will you?” His words end on a gasp as Dokja ducks lower and sucks it into his mouth, teeth scraping over the bud, biting down hard. A tongue attempts to soothe the sting that lingers, then rolls it between closed lips that has him squirming against the sheets – finally releasing it with a wet pop.

“Both, then.” Dokja mutters as he eyes his chest, breathing heavily. He looks up, giving Yoo Joonghyuk a lopsided smile. “Sorry, I’m learning as we go. Can only find out for myself if you’re not going to tell me anything, you get it right? Ow, ow, hey—”

Yoo Joonghyuk had dragged him up by his hair, sinking his teeth into the flesh of his lips hard enough to draw blood. Dokja grows slack just as quickly, allowing the gnawing bites that are nothing close to a kiss, the hand that wraps around his throat – shivering lightly as they close over his windpipe. Sick freak, Joonghyuk thinks as he hoists him off and eyes the swollen mess left behind from his efforts, fighting down the flare of satisfaction that rears its head at the sight.

“I’m telling you—” He hisses slowly, digging his nails into skin. “To fuck me.”

Kim Dokja simply grins, eyes twinkling, an aggravating sight. He traces over the hand Joonghyuk has clenched over his throat, lightly pressing over his fingers. “Not big on foreplay, then. Are you even ready to take it? Cleaned yourself well? You came out a lot faster than I thought you would.”

His knees nudge Joonghyuk’s legs further apart as he speaks, and Joonghyuk’s grip on him momentarily loosens. Dokja slips away quickly, taking advantage of the moment to lean across the cramped bed, searching over the side for something until Yoo Joonghyuk catches him by the arm.

“No need.” He grits out forcefully, refusing to elaborate further. Dokja’s brow quirks up.

“Was there anything in the bathroom? I had to look through…” his words trail off as his hand slots itself between Joonghyuk’s legs, fingers grazing over something that’s…wet. Very wet. He brings it back to eye level, and Yoo Joonghyuk has to go through the utter humiliation of watching him part his fingers, the generous coating of slick webbing between catching the faint light seeping in through the drawn curtains.

“Huh.” Kim Dokja breathes out as he rubs it slowly over his fingers, bringing it to his nose, sniffing lightly. Yoo Joonghyuk is thrown into a quandary; the carnal urges to chase his own pleasure coming to heads with the equally urgent need to punch Kim Dokja in the face, lest he opens that damned mouth with some snarky comment. Judging from the calculative glint that’s quickly entering Kim Dokja’s eyes—he should choose the latter.

Dokja’s eyes flit down, meeting his as he quietly remarks, “Flowery.”

He swings his fist.

He’s caught by the wrist just before it lands but he doesn’t let that stop him, hooking a leg over Dokja’s and bucking hard, twisting his torso at the same time to flip them over. Dokja fights back, and the two grapple over the sheets, the mattress creaking under their weights as they struggle for leverage, wrestling for the upper hand.

Fists fly, regardless of an opening. He lands a solid punch to the ribs that’s retaliated with a twist to his arm and a powerful kick that sends him back down on his stomach, pinned underneath Kim Dokja’s weight. Cursing himself for the rehabilitation sessions he’d personally overseen, he’s about to use his weight to throw Dokja off when the pollen’s effects suddenly flare in full bloom, sending him collapsing into the mattress like a marionette with its strings cut.

A sensory overload; the hot breaths that splay over his neck, an elbow that digs into his shoulder blade, pain transforming into pleasure. He’s morbidly aware of the hard-on that’s pressed to his ass, his own hips bucking back that’s countered with a sharp grind down that has him muffling a groan into the pillows, shudders running down the length of his spine.

“…Have you calmed down?” Dokja pants into his ear, gradually reducing the pressure on his shoulder.

“Fuck you.”

Dokja laughs breathlessly. “This might come as news to you but believe me, I’m trying to.” He nips him behind his ear, bearing more of his weight down as he asks, “I’m getting some mixed signals here so I have to ask—do you want to keep going?”

Yoo Joonghyuk turns his head, cheek pressed into the pillow as he gives him a murderous glare.

“That’s really not…” Dokja sighs, pushing his hair out of his face. “Right, how about this. Choose a safe word, use it if you really want me to stop.”

Fuck a safe word—where was that option when he’d actually wanted it? He’s horny as hell, rock-hard to the point where he might come from a simple grind down into the sheets under any other circumstance, but his shit hand of cards demands Kim Dokja’s hands on his, the reins left in that goddamn cock branding its heat between his thighs.

“Can you just get to the fucking point?” He spits out while twisting up, a useless struggle. Stripped of his strength, he’s no more than a ragdoll as Kim Dokja climbs off him and gathers his wrists in one hand, pinning them to his back, pulling his thighs apart with the other. A surge of disappointment wells in him at the loss of Kim Dokja’s weight, an involuntary reaction that’s as disturbing as it is unwelcome.

“You can chew me out for this later,” Dokja says while smoothing his palm over his ass, slipping his fingers between his cheeks to circle his rim. Joonghyuk’s hands thrash about wildly and the grip around his wrists tightens; a finger breaches him, easing its way in with slow nudges. “But anal fissures are very real, and I’m guessing neither of us wants to have to explain that to anyone. This isn’t lube, is it?” He adds casually while slipping another finger in, thumb brushing over his sac as he buries them in to the last knuckle and holds. “I smelled it on you earlier, in the bathroom. Is it a side effect?”

His legs flex back instinctively as Dokja parts his fingers, spreading his flesh with a wet noise. They start moving in slow strokes; he stiffens as his senses center on each thrust, on the fluids that he can feel spilling out with each outstroke and dripping down his taint, soaking the sheets.

“It’s making a mess of your thighs,” Dokja observes quietly, adding a third finger. The change in pace catches the breath in his throat; short thrusts switching to slow, pivoting grinds over the walls that test its give, stretching him wide. A nauseating intrusion, but the agitation is vastly overshadowed by the pressure that builds rapidly in his lower back, his hips jutting down automatically as he ruts against the sheets to chase the burn, the molten friction.

The sheets get drenched in his sweat, the extra layers rendered useless. Dokja’s thumb digs into his tailbone as he shoves his fingers in as far as they can go, holding them in place before pulling them out abruptly with a resounding noise that burns his ears.

“I think you’re ready,” he murmurs as he drags his cheeks apart, thumbing over his rim. A low curse cuts through the air followed by the heel of a palm that roughly cups and glides over his taint, running over the spilled mess before finally pulling away.

His face burns as he feels Dokja shuffle behind him, knees digging into his inner thighs as he rocks back and forth over the sheets. It takes all of his willpower to lie still, seething from the fingers that periodically drag between his legs and the knowledge that the damned bastard is using that to jerk himself off over him, slick sounds overlaying the labored breaths that fill the room. He wonders what his face looks like at the moment. If his eyes are closed, on what thoughts currently run through his mind—if the hand he’s using to hold down his wrists dispels the illusion somewhat.

Envy dripping with shame; a crack in his ego from the unbidden, perturbing thoughts. His chest surges with low trembles as Kim Dokja shifts to lean over him, pinning him down with his weight as he grinds into him with eager rolls of his hips.

“Just so we’re on the same page,” Dokja mutters shakily, hot breaths tickling his nape. “Either the previous owners didn’t stock up on condoms, or they had the foresight to pack it with them when they hit the road.”

“Can you just say it like a fucking—normal person?” Joonghyuk’s voice cracks as arms slip under his pits, hoisting him up until they’re plastered back to chest. Dokja laughs breathlessly and his movements grow more urgent, rocking him right into the sheets with his thrusts and the friction hurts, it’s supposed to hurt, but that anxious tension sitting at the bottom of his gut is sent sloshing all the way up to his throat instead. An intense, breathless longing; he feels fidgety, ants under his skin and a deep ache in his balls like he could bust a nut at any moment.

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Kim Dokja gasps out as he grinds into the crack of his ass, hips stuttering to a stop as he buries his face in the crook of Yoo Joonghyuk’s neck. He catches his breath for a moment, then mouths along his skin, dragging his teeth over the ridge of his ear.

“What I’m trying to say is,” he breathes into his ear, making the hair at his nape stand on end. “I’ll pull out if that’s what you want. What do you want?”

What does he want?

A loaded question, its meaning entirely lost on the enquiring party. What he wants—that’s a pandora’s box, too ominous to even consider dwelling into but this—he’d never wanted this. He can tell himself that, comfort himself within the irony of the half-truth that all he’s ever wanted out of Kim Dokja is for the man to not leave.

(Not for his sake, never just. He won’t make that mistake again; presume the weight of his own importance under the guise of trust and a false safe harbor built on matchsticks for all it had been worth.)

He’s never dared to want. Isn’t that the truth?

Head slumped forward, he eyes the pillows stacked beneath him while panting shallowly, feeling the nose that brushes over his shoulder blades—still waiting for his response. That makes it worse somehow, that cautious patience that waits for his assent at each step; a reminder that the choice to move forward remains in his control alone.

Kindness unknowingly doused in cruelty; how on brand for this person.

“I don’t care.” He replies, voice hoarse. Sweat drips down the curls falling over his eyes, dangling at the ends, poised to fall at any moment. He counts the passing seconds in his head, then drags his hand back, biting his nails into Dokja’s thigh. “You said you’ll help me.”

He has to stop this – assigning meaning where it doesn’t belong. When has he ever been the sentimental sort?

Kim Dokja hums.

“So help me.”

There’s a weighted pause, finally broken by lips that press to his nape. Dokja’s arms slip lower to wrap around his chest, flipping them both over to their sides. He hugs him close, a sturdy warmth that envelops him from the back and it’s an alien sensation; he’s evidently more built between the two of them, but the embrace makes him feel—small.

“It’s supposed to be easier like this.” Dokja explains while drawing one of his knees to his chest. The hell would you know about it, Joonghyuk almost bites back but their hips slot together in that moment and he feels it; the blunt head that presses snug to his rim, rubbing over the slick before nudging forward ever so lightly.

His body tenses up instantly, and Kim Dokja stops moving.

“Relax.” The arm wedged underneath him moves to caress his hair, and the grip behind his knee falls away. His cheek gets pulled to a side, skin burning where it’s gripped tight.

Dokja shuffles impossibly close as he lines himself up again, lips pressed over the hollow of his back as he murmurs, “I’ll make this good for you. Just trust me, alright?”

Muffled words that are easy to ignore as he rubs and prods over his hole, almost teasing. The world grows quiet, only a rapid pulse thrumming in his ears as Dokja finally slides in; a slow, insistent pressure that saws through him an inch at a time. Pulling back ever so often only to lodge in a little deeper, the slide eased by the secretions but even then, he’s aggravatingly patient, as if Joonghyuk would fall apart with one wrong thrust.

He tries to keep still, shoulders drawn tight as he tries to breathe through his lips. The sensations are both familiar and foreign all at once; he recognizes the resistance that flares on instinct, the discomfort of his walls having to accommodate the intrusion but it’s the relief that throws him off, a distant feeling that blooms like a spring tide, trickling down to his very fingertips. His spine is strained taut, periodic conjectures of surely he must have hilted by now proven wrong as Dokja drives in deeper each time, defying expectations.

“You okay?” Dokja’s hand moves back to keep his leg hoisted up, pulling him tighter to his chest. It’s only then that Yoo Joonghyuk realizes he’s trembling, dick at half mast trapped under the weight of his thigh but still leaking an embarrassing amount, staining the sheets.

A final push forward, and Kim Dokja stops moving. Strained breaths reach his ears, barely audible over the sound of his own heartbeat.

He feels full. Uncomfortably so, still adjusting to the feeling of being stretched open but it’s accompanied by a dull undertone of satisfaction. Not pleasure, not quite there yet, but with the promise of it being in the works—the pollen’s effect, a voice in his head provides. A fucked up thrill that he tries to push down, but dissonance becomes an impossible feat as he gets swept up by the tides, senses sent into overdrive as they hone in on a singular existence.

Kim Dokja—behind him, inside of him, his lips brushing over his skin. His hand, curled over the back of his knees, holding him. Caressing his face.

At what point does an illusion stop being an illusion?

Kim Dokja’s warmth—this much, at least, is real.

“Does it hurt?” A hand slides over his, coercing the fingers loose from his ironclad grip around the sheets.

He shakes his head after a pause, flinching when Dokja pulls him closer, the small movement shifting him deeper inside of him.

“Are you doing that on purpose?” Dokja winces, drawing his hips back. Joonghyuk’s mouth falls open on a pained gasp as he feels the heavy drag over his walls, clenching tight out of reflex. It’s moreso shock than anything else—it doesn’t seem to matter that this isn’t his first time, no more adept to the feeling than as a young adult discovering his sexuality from an exercise video bought at 90% off on a sale festa. The rare lay since has usually been accompanied by pain but fuck, he feels battered already, overwhelmed by just the stretch alone. If not for the tight feeling behind his balls, he’d almost forget that he’s aroused near to his breaking point.

He licks his lips, swallowing dryly before trying to readjust his hips, but Dokja holds him in place quickly.

“Don’t move.”

“How the hell are you planning on fucking me without moving?” Yoo Joonghyuk snaps testily, overwhelmed and on edge.

A soft snicker travels to his ears, and Kim Dokja’s arms around him tightens. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m going to finish in three seconds tops if we don’t pull on the brakes. You’re clenching too tight.” His palm slides over his stomach, locking over the center of his chest. Yoo Joonghyuk flushes dark, morbidly aware of the erratic heartbeat that can be felt through his ribs. “Didn’t I tell you to loosen up a bit? Take a few deep breaths. Get used to it first, I’ll keep still.”

It’s a little satisfying to hear the pinched voice that’s muffled into his shoulders, giving away that Kim Dokja isn’t as calm and collected as he’s showing. The ever rapid thumps of a heartbeat against his lower back reaffirms that, though it comes with the added unfortunate effect of sending goosebumps racing down his thighs.

He feels heady, all too conscious of how their bodies are entwined. The air feels thick on his tongue as he swallows it in lungfuls, trying to will his body into relaxing. It’s not an easy task – he’s too stimulated, clamping down with the slightest shift of their bodies, an ache in his neck from straining his head into the pillow for so long.

“Do you want me to pull out for now?” Kim Dokja suddenly asks.

He shakes his head after deliberating it for a moment.

Dokja’s arm searches around the bed until he finds Joonghyuk’s hand, pulling it together to his chest.

“Try pushing out. It’ll feel a little weird but it should help.” He murmurs, playing with his fingers. “Yeah, like that. Now take a deep breath. No, not so fast—hold it in for a while. Follow my rhythm. You can feel it, right?”

Listening to the low timber of his voice, Joonghyuk tries to follow the movements of Dokja’s chest. Breathes deeply – in, then out. Rinse and repeat.

Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eases, his muscles relaxing under Dokja’s guidance. His ears grow hot as he hears the occasional noises of slick frothing out of him, subtle but unmistakable. Kim Dokja doesn’t say anything to address it—a minute victory.

“You’re doing good. Just a little longer, okay?”

Lips press to his back that’s accompanied by a pleasant chill that runs down the length of his spine. He tries not to think about the implications of that, instead focusing on keeping all of his muscles relaxed.

In and out. Easy enough.

“Think you’re ready for me to move?” Kim Dokja whispers, giving his hand a light squeeze.

A sense of unease slowly stirs back to life. Concern is simple enough to mistake for something else in the throes of intimacy, and there’s a reckless part of him that wants to do just that; to drown within the lie, no matter how shortlived.

“I’m not going to break.” He finally mutters under his breath, pulling his hand away.

A sigh caresses his back.

“Doesn’t it get tiring, keeping your claws out all the time?”

Dokja pulls his hips back, barely withdrawing before grinding back in. A grunt gets trapped in Yoo Joonghyuk’s throat as he repeats the action—a smooth glide that presses over his walls, never pulling back for more than a few inches. Over and over, a slow claiming that flips a switch somewhere and has him gushing, growing embarrassingly wet in record time.

The stutter to Dokja’s hips tells Joonghyuk that he’s more than aware of the fact, hands squeezing over his waist as he pulls back just enough to rest the tip inside of him. Joonghyuk’s pulse thickens, a restless energy taking hold as he counts down the seconds, trying not to think about how his body clings onto him tight, refusing to let it slip out.

“Tell me if it gets too much, okay?” Kim Dokja murmurs, waiting for him to nod before snapping his hips forward, hard.

His back snaps straight instantly, a garbled gasp forcing its way out of his lips.

“Joonghyuk—” Dokja moans brokenly, his grip tightening into a vice. Yoo Joonghyuk barely registers any of it over the deafening buzz in his ears, the quivers to his thighs that flares into a full-body spasm and has him shaking in Dokja’s embrace.

Whispered words drift in and out of coherence, disjointed syllables that he’s not granted the grace to make sense of as Dokja starts to move; long thrusts that steadily build in rhythm, jostling him into the sheets. He’s tucked into a tighter embrace, arms wrapping around his torso and using it as leverage to pull him down on each upstroke, any air in his lungs forced out as quick as he’s able to gulp down the rare breath.

It’s too hot, stifling to the point of suffocation. The little air between where their bodies are flushed together is warm and humid with their sweat, the wet smacks of Dokja’s hips driving into him echoing through the room.

Somewhere between, a building wave of vertigo sends him slumping further over the sheets. Dokja readjusts his grip before continuing to pound into him, his rhythm quickly growing into something relentless, erratic. Joonghyuk can only pant, open-mouthed and stuttered as his dick is sent rubbing into a wet puddle of his own spent, jolting in shock as teeth sink into his back. He moans, reedy and broken, the wet glides over his prostate reaching peak pleasure and crossing over to pain.

A sense of delirium washes over him. As if he’s both here and not here, overwhelmed but—wanting. Agitated, he tries to escape from the sensations only for Dokja to easily pull him back, blunt fingertips sinking into his skin hard enough to bruise.

A sense of panic descends. He tries voicing it out but his mouth just hangs open, excess drool seeping over sweat-soaked covers, drenching the side of his face. Dokja picks up pace and it’s like he’s been bludgeoned, like his prostate has tripled in size and spread through the rest of his body. He’s trembling down to his toes, his fingertips. His vision blurs. He feels like he’s about to pass out, like he might piss himself at each thrust, disgustingly wet to the point of growing creamy as Dokja ruts into him without hesitation, the mattress groaning under the force of his thrusts.

Moans travel into his ears, a rough symphony of both of their voices. It’s too intense—he can feel it everywhere, in every inch of his body, and it feels inescapable. Like he’s melting into the sheets; butter on a stovetop sizzling into char.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on. His senses have numbed, colors exploding behind closed eyes with each thrust. He’s shaking, toes curled and breathless, as close to hyperventilating as he can get—and then a hand curls over his cock, tugging it back to hardness with quick pumps and he’s convulsing, choking on his own spit as pleasure gushes out, oozing in thick trickles in rhythm to each punch of Dokja’s dick to his innermost depths.

It doesn’t feel like there’s an end in sight. His throat feels strained—he must be letting out some variant of a noise but he can’t hear any of it, only the thundering pulse that pounds within his ears, in his cock. Shockwaves make a playground of his spine, ripping down its length one after the other. He’s soaked in his own sweat and spent, damp sheets sticking to his skin, chafing, causing it to smart. To burn. He’s burning.

The thrusts grow stuttered, uneven, and Dokja finally slams into him with a breathy moan, holding him by the hips as he buries himself deep. It shudders inside of him and he writhes, feeling his legs go numb as the waves of heat inside his ass catapults into something searing, a feverish ecstasy. He’s too swollen, too tight—clenching desperately around Dokja as he rocks forward in lazy grinds, his sighs transmitted through skin rather than air. Plastered to his back, clutching onto Joonghyuk’s ribs like he’s his lifeline.

He crumples onto the bed as soon as Dokja pulls out, shivering as he feels the warmth that immediately trickles down his balls. Dokja’s head sags into his back while both of their wheezing pants fill the room, the air thick with the scent of arousal and sweat.

He feels boneless, limbs flopping lamely as he’s turned over and pulled into a kiss, too exhausted to even protest. Fingers press over his nape, tilting his head back as Kim Dokja licks over the wound that’s reopened somewhere between, mouthing down his cheek, along the hard line of his chin. Mapping his face as if to commit it to memory, as if it means something.

It makes him feel like shit.

“Want to take a shower before the next round?” Dokja eventually breathes out. Joonghyuk stiffens, chest still heaving unsteadily as he tries to pull away, but Dokja’s weight keeps him pinned in place.

“—next round?” He eventually croaks out.

Dokja looks down, and he follows his gaze.

He’s still hard.

“Shower?”

***

They barely make it out of the bathroom when Dokja corners him at the dresser, mouthing filthy kisses down his chest before dropping down to his knees. Joonghyuk feels like he should stop it—an unnecessary intimacy, his mind tells him—but the first swirl of his tongue over the head makes him feel like his soul has been pulled down to his cock, and it’s a losing battle from then on. He comes to the sight of stretched lips and hollowed cheeks, the sharp edges of the dresser biting into his back as he bucks his hips with a hoarse moan on his tongue.

They fuck on top of the dresser, his legs pulled over Dokja’s shoulders. His skin chafes as it’s dragged over the rough wood, and Dokja makes it up to him by pounding him into the mattress not long after. Face to face, it’s harder to ignore that it’s Kim Dokja who’s sending him to his peak, that it’s his hands grasped within his, their fingers that are laced together.

They fuck, make half-baked attempts at cleaning up, and entwine their bodies all over again. Soon enough, decorum ceases to matter. He learns the taste of Kim Dokja’s sweat, the moans he lets out when he’s getting close, the shape of his fingertips as they brand themselves onto his skin.

He realizes it too late; nothing about it is cold and aloof. Kim Dokja fucks like a rabid animal but there’s warmth in his every touch, within the light squeezes that periodically check if he’s alright. And Yoo Joonghyuk—he lies. He lies through his affirmations, he lies with his kisses, and he lies and lies again.

Won’t a lie come close to the truth if he repeats it long enough?

He has half a mind to believe that as Dokja rocks into him on the bathroom floor, arms hugging his waist, panting into each other’s lips. Long kisses that break on a shudder each time he takes the lead and bounces over his lap, thighs trembling, pliant, willing. He’s willing. He’s willing. If the pleasure that pulls down Kim Dokja’s brows and makes his breath scarce right now is because of him, then doesn’t that amount to something? It has to mean something.

So why does he feel so—terrible.

***

A phone lights up on the nightstand. The display reveals the time to be a little past dawn, and Yoo Joonghyuk turns it off before making his way to the bathroom, closing the door shut behind him.

Dim blues seep in through a small window at the corner, casting a soft, muted glow over the dusty walls. Wet footsteps lead through the damp patches on the floor that haven’t quite dried yet, until Yoo Joonghyuk finds himself standing before the bathroom cabinet, gazing at his own reflection.

It doesn’t reveal a lot; faint lines of his haggard silhouette, the contrast of love bites and marks that scatter down his skin. Disheveled hair and torn lips. An unfamiliar appearance that he himself struggles to recognize.

Face thrown into shadows, hiding emotions that are thick and viscous, a storm lurking on the horizon. But trying to dissect them at the moment would mean looking the devil in the eye, so he steers clear of that, trying to lay it all down in layman’s terms instead.

An unfortunate accident led to one thing and the other. Come tomorrow, they’ll go back to how things have always been.

That’s all it has to be.

He walks back to the bedroom, treading softly to prevent waking Kim Dokja up. His efforts appear to be wasted; groggy eyes blink back at him as Dokja slowly hoists himself up by his elbows, a confused frown on his lips.

“Yoo Joonghyuk?” He mutters, voice still raspy with sleep. He rubs his eyes tiredly, letting his head fall back onto the pillow with a soft thump. “Why are you up? It’s barely morning.”

“I needed to take a shit.” Joonghyuk replies tersely, walking around to his side of the bed.

Sliding under the covers, he’s about to turn over onto his side when he glimpses Kim Dokja staring his way.

“What.” He mutters, extremely uncomfortable.

“Feeling okay?” Dokja asks, a hesitant look crossing over his face. “Are you hurting anywhere?”

Really, it’s good that the bastard is remorseful but—fucking hell. He sighs loudly, adjusting the covers over his legs. “Stop concerning yourself with my business.”

“Kind of our business, if you really think about it.”

“Go to sleep, Kim Dokja.”

“I was, until you woke me up.”

He exhales roughly, finally deciding on just ignoring him.

“Hey, Yoo Joonghyuk.”

“What.” He snaps, turning sharply towards him.

Kim Dokja pats the spot next to him, nodding his head towards it. “C’mere.”

He gives him an incredulous look. “…I’d rather not.”

“We’ve already done everything—this is where you draw the line? It’s cold as hell in here.” He grumbles under his breath, then adds, “C’mon. It’s just for tonight.”

He snorts quietly.

He’ll admit it—the reminder stings.

Seconds pass in silence, until Yoo Joonghyuk finally turns over, bridging the small gap between them as he settles in next to Dokja’s side.

“G’night.”

He doesn’t respond. Within a few minutes, soft snores fill the room. Yoo Joonghyuk stares into the distance, looking anywhere and nowhere at once.

It doesn’t need to mean anything.

He tilts his head lower, resting his cheek over the round of a shoulder and closes his eyes.

<Species Summary>

Name: Blooms of Agdistis/Agdistis’s Revenge

Category: Hidden

Difficulty: Tier ⍰

Abilities:「 Forest’s Awakening: Stirs wildlife into an aggressive state.
‣Trigger Condition: Midday

   Abyss of the Heart: ⍰⍰⍰  ⍰ ⍰⍰   ⍰⍰⍰⍰
‣Trigger Condition: Pollen exposure, a ⍰⍰⍰ love (Hidden)」

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