Work Text:
before you save me
just wait your turn
look at me now, steady as we burn
it was all for love
- Gunship, Tech Noir
———
Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t understand entirely how he got here — that’s a lie, he realizes as soon as he thinks it. He doesn’t even have to consider whether he’s telling the truth or not. His head isn’t a private space, not with Kim Dokja behind him, not with nimble, gloved fingers stroking down the sturdy length of his thighs like Yoo Joonghyuk is some powerful but unpredictable animal that he wants to soothe; the leather whispers against the crisp hairs and beneath his skin, his muscles twitch fruitlessly, firing mindlessly in a useless attempt at what wants to be self-defense.
(Yoo Joonghyuk has to remind himself he doesn’t need to defend himself from his companion’s hands, or from whatever might come after them. The only danger he’s in is the kind that comes from inside the walls of his skull.)
There are no ropes on him, though surely Kim Dokja could have found ropes that would have held him. The only binding that keeps him in place on hands and knees, his bare ass raised and his big scarred hands fisted tearing-tight in the cloth of the borrowed bed, is his own honor and iron will. He is bad at vulnerability. It does not come easy, not even now, months into whatever uneasy relationship they’ve carved out of the world. It feels like Yoo Joonghyuk has taken the beating heart from his chest and placed it, still wet and trembling, in Kim Dokja’s hands. Odds are evenly split, he figures, between it being treasured or being destroyed so utterly there’s nothing left of it to miss.
He’s angry about it — another lie, he reminds himself, as he lets out a harsh breath to hide a sound of unbridled want. Gloved fingers slide, feather-light, between his thighs, cradle the heavy, full purse of his balls in a loose, cupping shuffle of fingers, as if weighing them; beyond that, when Yoo Joonghyuk tenses, the fingertips quest along the thickening curve of his cock, all the way from root to tip. He feels himself stiffening further, and he swears, a hoarse and rasping word with sharp edges and points, as if it was pried from his jaw with roots still attached. For a moment, all of him tightens, the tension in his body all fight-or-flight, wound too tight. He wants to fight. He wants to twist in a single fluid motion, wrap his hands around Kim Dokja’s hips, and —
He imagines it so acutely that Kim Dokja laughs, the sound startled out of him. “Good boy, Joonghyuk-ah,” comes the voice, marveling and light. “I know you’re not used to this. Maybe I should take it slow?” The question is more rhetorical than anything else, and it is gratifying to feel the fingers tightening around his cock with surprise as Yoo Joonghyuk growls.
“If you take it any slower than this,” he bites out, the words precise and tight, “I will flip you onto the bed and fuck you until you beg me to stop.” He means it. The thought is appealing, but that’s not what he promised — what he asked for, in the end.
“You could do that, if you wanted to,” Kim Dokja agrees equitably, and his hand moves, the ring of his leather-clad fingers tightening around the base of Yoo Joonghyuk’s cock and stroking downward with a firm and confident pressure, his wrist flexing in an elegant motion as he comes at last to the end of that throbbing heat, and palms the head of him. The sound that escapes Yoo Joonghyuk is taut, fractured, bitten into shards between his teeth; he sounds like he’s been punched, an airless wheezing almost-moan that does not quite die somewhere between soft palate and tongue. He knows Kim Dokja can hear his every sound, clear in the quiet room where no hum of electric light or whir of fan exist to give him cover.
His body is honest, when it comes to pleasure. He has defenses in the face of pain; Yoo Joonghyuk does not bow, he does not bend, he does not cry out. But he has no defenses for the unexpected softness of leather stretched taut across Kim Dokja’s palm, for the way it feels as he palms the thick, red-flushed glans of his cock, working in a slow circle. It’s almost too sensitive, this dry. He wants to be angry about it. He wants to do violence, because violence is easy, to slip his skin like a molting snake and bare his teeth and assert himself, but another hand joins the first on his cock, and Kim Dokja strokes him again, purposeful, slow, two clever fingers firmly running up the ridge of him from base to tip, and then the feel of leather against his cockhead becomes slick as his own fluids ease the way.
His eyes roll back, his jaw drops open, and the moan that tears its way out of his chest is lewd, is loud in the quiet room. Yoo Joonghyuk’s control fractures, and his hips move, a jerky, abortive thrust that almost overbalances them both. He feels Kim Dokja’s hips, still damnably clothed, press the hot, straight line of his cock like an exclamation mark against his naked ass, and he snarls, a bestial sound.
“Kim Dokja,” he grits out, and all he does in response, damn him, is laugh, a high and winded sound. His hands are still. Yoo Joonghyuk wants to bite them, to cover them with the marks of his teeth, but god, they start moving again, and Kim Dokja is holding his cock in place as his hand works around the tip of him, spreading his own precome and using what drips out of him to slick his wretched, mocking little circles, and the blankets tear in his hands.
The pleasure is too intense — it makes it hard to see, to hear, to think, to keep his head on straight. He wanted this, he reminds himself. Wanted this and more: Kim Dokja is still pressed against his ass, and every time a harsh, scrambled, overstimulated sound escapes Yoo Joonghyuk, he can feel the answering pulse of Kim Dokja’s clothed cock against the crack of his ass. He wants it. He’s swallowed it into the tight heat of his throat before, taken it in both hands to wring Dokja’s pleasure out of it, opened his companion’s pale, trembling thighs to watch it uselessly drool the sticky proceeds of orgasm with Joonghyuk’s cock spearing him, stretching him wider than either of them had thought his hole could open. He’s done all that, but he’s never taken it inside him, and perversely, he wants to. He has claimed every inch of Kim Dokja, and his enigmatic, smiling companion has never tried to return the favor.
Orgasm catches Yoo Joonghyuk by surprise somehow: without a stroking hand to milk the come out of him, it feels less forceful, the thick spurts of it spattering messily into Kim Dokja’s palm. He shouts, hoarse and fierce, like a man betrayed. “Fuck,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, and now he is angry, this is not what he asked for — this is not what he wanted —
“Shut up,” comes Kim Dokja’s voice, more curt than usual with focus, and then the cheeks of his ass are parted, and —
— oh, fuck, his gloved fingers are curving into Yoo Joonghyuk’s exposed hole, two of them; they’re carrying the dripping mess of what was milked out of him, and Kim Dokja is methodically scraping the still-hot come from his long fingers into his spasming, clenching, unprepared opening. Gooseflesh raises every hair on Yoo Joonghyuk’s body. It isn’t all pleasure, not exactly. The ache of it makes it easier to think, and he grits his teeth, arching his back and presenting his ass more fully. One large, capable hand unwraps from the torn sheets and he pushes Kim Dokja’s away from where it’s holding the cheeks of his ass open, and he spreads himself, forces them apart and bares his hole for Dokja’s perusal. He thinks of come-stained black leather, of his companion’s slender fingers buried knuckle-deep in the unprepared opening of him, and he burns with something that would be shame, if he were capable of feeling such a thing. (He does not miss it.)
He hears the lust in the sound of Kim Dokja’s voice, hears the moan and the muffled “oh fuck” he doesn’t bother to stifle, and finds it immensely gratifying. His cock is flagging, but Yoo Joonghyuk is still desperately aroused. It’s a new experience for him — his experience of sex has been all physical, all instinct, the unquestioned balance of action and reaction without thought. But he’s already come now, and what his body wants matters less. It’s not about him: the clarity that comes post-orgasm is at war with the undeniable mental arousal of Kim Dokja working him open, of two fingers in so deep he feels them brush against his prostate, and it feels like his cock’s being stroked from the inside. It gives way to the impossible heat of three fingers, and the lewd sound of something slick being squeezed straight into the quivering, wrecked almost-gape of his hole.
This is what Kim Dokja wants: a Yoo Joonghyuk naked in soul and body both, and obedient, his mind already clear of the urgency of waiting for release when a pinky finger wedges in alongside the other three and squeezes a fat droplet of lubricant out of him — (it rolls down the curve of his ass like slick down a woman’s inner thigh) — and he finally breaks and rasps the word please, like a prayer to some obscene god more powerful and primal than any they have thus far met.
Once he has said it once, Yoo Joonghyuk cannot stop saying it. He finds himself begging, words tumbling over themselves in a ragged jumble of raw syllables as Dokja’s fingers slip wetly out of him and leave him empty. There is a moment where nothing fills that newly-opened space but the heavy throbbing pulse of his own heartbeat. A moment later, Kim Dokja pushes the first two fingers of each hand into Yoo Joonghyuk’s stretched hole, and he pulls them apart, opening him like he’s looking inside for a secret. He clenches around nothing — around nothing! — and he howls his frustration; he can feel the heavy weight of Kim Dokja’s gaze inside him like a tangible thing.
His shoulders and chest drop heavy to the sheets, his ass up and his knees wide, his newly freed hand fumbling toward his half-hard cock. He tugs at it uselessly, wanting to take some small control over the sensations wracking his body and brain, and Yoo Joonghyuk understands more clearly than he ever has: Kim Dokja doesn’t need to lay claim to this flesh as Yoo Joonghyuk does to his. His life-and-death companion already owns parts of him that no one else will ever see. Parts of him, he thinks in a delirium of sensation, that maybe Yoo Joonghyuk himself doesn’t know he has.
There is the soft sound of a zipper behind him, and then Kim Dokja’s cock is sliding, slick and easy, into his fucked-open hole. He only processes it dimly when, in a voice that suggests he knows the answer, Kim Dokja asks him, “is this what you wanted, Joonghyuk-ah?” Yes, he wants to say, and no, and fuck you, but instead he chokes on a moan that even he thinks sounds genuinely whorish. He turns his head, buries his clenched jaw and pinched lips in the sheets, but Kim Dokja’s hand is in the dark waves of his hair, fisting tightly into it and dragging his head back up so he cannot muffle his sounds. “Tell me,” Kim Dokja asks, voice trembling with effort, his hips pressed against Yoo Joonghyuk’s ass and every inch of him buried inside, “I want to hear it from your mouth.”
Yoo Joonghyuk is plenty strong — he could take what he wants, he is reasonably sure, even now. But with the hot fullness of Kim Dokja stuffed inside him, with the wet, squelching, filthy sounds emanating from the place where they are connected, he thinks he may have forgotten every word he ever knew. His body feels heavy, weighted in every limb and joint with a hot and liquid sensation, and he moves restlessly, suspended between Kim Dokja’s hand tight in his hair and the cock in his ass, as he shoves his body back in a wordless demand for more, gaining only half a thrust and a swear, high and giddy, from his companion’s mouth.
“Stop… stop playing with me,” Yoo Joonghyuk manages, winded, almost plaintive. “Fuck me!” It’s a demand and a plea rolled into one. And the best part is that it works, because when Kim Dokja starts thrusting in earnest, he can’t think of anything else. His mind goes suddenly, blessedly empty in a white-hot surge of sensation, and he does not — will not — god, he won’t moan, or beg again, but that’s another lie, isn’t it?
He will deny it if anyone asks, but Dokja’s rhythm is unbearably good. His thrusts might be cruel if it were anyone but Yoo Joonghyuk spread open beneath him, nasty sharp things with a grinding, lifting hook at the end that threatens to shove him bodily from his knees as the blankets bunch and twist beneath him, his face drowned in cheap cotton. The starved, stark angles of Dokja’s hipbones carve space for themselves against the flesh of his ass, and it feels like he is being neatly disassembled into his component parts: his heartbeat pounding like a drumbeat in his head, sweat-sticky skin plastered at chest and knees to the sheets, his sword-callused fingers wrapped hard and motionless around his mostly-soft, still-leaking cock, and the electric friction inside him, punctuated with starlight bursts of shattering pleasure as Kim Dokja grinds across his prostate.
He is unmoored from his thoughts, only a collection of feelings, a tangle of sensation, and he focuses on the sounds of Kim Dokja’s bliss. He is quiet at first, as if he is afraid of being caught making a sound, the noises stifled in his throat breathless and furtive — Yoo Joonghyuk knows without looking that Kim Dokja’s teeth are buried in his lower lip, that his brows are screwed tightly together in the center in an expression of pleasure so acute it’s almost pain. He knows, by the stuttering jerk of Dokja’s hips against his ass, that he didn’t expect this feeling, either, and he pictures the way Dokja’s jaw drops to let out a low, stunned moan as he pauses for breath, or to admire the sight beneath him. It doesn’t matter. Let him look; this body is his, isn’t it? The scars and the wounds and every mark that stripes his skin is proof of what they have worked for together. They may as well share one body. (They have shared names enough between them for it to feel like home.)
Yoo Joonghyuk has been on the giving side of this equation plenty of times. He knows intimately how good it feels from the angle Kim Dokja is viewing him from — but he realizes too late he is deeply unprepared for the intensity of the liquid, hot, melting pleasure that begins to build low in his belly from this side. The sensation is an order of magnitude larger than he is used to, ponderous and slow and enormous, and he tips his head forward in a calculated, restrained motion after long minutes listening to the slap of flesh between them, the noises his companion tries to swallow, the creak of the bed frame beneath them. The hand in his hair pulls taut. The stitches in the leather containing Kim Dokja’s fingers creak in protest where his hand is wrapped tight in the dark waves of his hair, but Yoo Joonghyuk ignores the burn of his scalp, his throat working. The long muscles of his thighs are trembling, the lean strength of his belly is tight, clenched, and he cannot stop himself from groaning.
Rasped, shuddering noises follow the moan out of him without his consent — his body twists, jerks back into Kim Dokja’s hips again and again and he hears himself saying, “don’t stop, don’t stop, fuck,” and he cannot even pretend it is a command. It sounds too needy, too desperate, as unexpected pleasure pushes greedy claws into the meat of him, wrapping tight as possession around the narrow cage of his hips, radiating up through his body. It pulses inside him like fuses laid for dynamite, looking for a stray spark to set the whole array ablaze.
Kim Dokja says something he barely hears which could be a swear, or a whine, or a command. It hardly matters, because the hand in his hair lets go and his head falls against the bed so hard his teeth click and Kim Dokja grips the cheeks of his ass, shoves into him like he’s trying to climb inside, the crisp curls at the base of his arousal grinding sopping-wet with lubricant against the stretched-open edges of him. His vision goes white, and even though his cock is soft in his gripping hand, he’s clenching and shuddering around an earth-shaking orgasm that has nothing to do with his cock and everything to do with the messy, rhythmic clench of his ruined hole around the desperate shoving thrusts that keep coming. Maybe Yoo Joonghyuk shouts something shaped like a name — maybe he moans — or maybe he chokes on the intensity of it and can’t say anything at all as his eyes fill with stars and his heart hammers like a trapped madman behind bars.
He comes down slowly to the sound of Kim Dokja’s strangled cry of pleasure, to the liquid rush of heat as Dokja spills inside him, and his whole body is subtly trembling. He is sweaty, winded, blowing as if he has run a marathon, and he turns his head, trying and failing to catch sight of Kim Dokja behind him until the man drapes himself across Yoo Joonghyuk, arranging himself along the long, muscled line of his back as if he is lounging on fine furniture. He smirks as his face comes into view. His face is flushed, his lips bitten red and hot and swollen, and his eyes are narrowed with exhaustion. His black hair sticks, wet with perspiration, at his temples and hairline, and he looks… satisfied.
Yoo Joonghyuk feels annoyance and affection settle, yoked inextricably into a pair, familiar as the handle of his sword, into the soft place in his chest that is reserved for only this one person. Their hands tangle, and by the time Kim Dokja feels the need to say something stupid again, Yoo Joonghyuk has enough energy to growl and roll them to the side and away from his mess, wrestling him into the broad shelter of his chest to bite and kiss him into submission to the sounds of his protesting laughter.