Work Text:
1
Camera picking up the shift in lighting, Dokja positioned himself in the centre of the screen.
Pale skin spilled over the breadth of the viewfinder, the legs spread open, and propped up by the balls of his feet. Dokja’s skin glowed in the lowlight, dipped in molten honey. He tugged at the lace garter on his right thigh, just enough to show his distinctive beauty mark.
And then, he shifted again.
A muted sigh. Dokja slowly traced his rim, red and abused by his own fingers, glistening with lube. A subscriber had gifted him a glass dildo — eight inches long, as comical as it was — which he was earning 10,000 coins by the hour to use. That was roughly equivalent to 500,000 won per hour, 1,500,000 won per night.
It was one of the primary reasons why he started camming. The other…was because he had a thing for being watched. He wouldn’t say it was strictly exhibitionism, per se, but more so curiosity.
At present, his streams attracted much too great of an attention to be considered a small endeavour.
Dokja arched a brow at the familiar user — a stranger who had, since joining one of his lives many months ago, been donating far too many coins for the average viewer. Normally, his top patrons tended to send gifts alongside monetary donations. But this user, who continued to elude him, treated him like a mistress.
Toys, lingerie, and machinery Dokja was far too frightened to operate. By now, he had spent a considerable amount of time debating his identity, settling on one of two possibilities: either a start-up billionaire, or the disillusioned husband of a failing marriage.
Or, in humbler terms, a sugar daddy.
Gratification washed over. Dokja mewled into one of the mics; the other aimed much, much lower, picking up the soft, wet squelching of his fingers dipping in and out of his hole.
There was the telltale ping of donations. Dokja rubbed the cold, bulbous head of the toy against his perineum, his cock left untouched. And then, he plunged it in, stretching his warm, pliable walls almost to the brink. Just the sound of it was wet and wet and filthy.
His wrist picked up the pace
“Ah, ah, ah—”
He dragged the dildo against his insides, catching onto his prostrate. Dokja’s other hand came up to pinch a hardened nipple, squeezing in tandem with the steady thrusts of an imaginary, eight-inch cock.
“Oh my god!”
Pleasurable waves lapped at the tips of his toes, rendering his limbs numb. Stomach thrown into a knot, all blood, mind and soul rushed to bring him to the heights of pleasure. Dokja’s hand moved faster, harder, rougher, the pull of the glass surface — now warmed from his insides — a low-simmering ache screaming for more, more, more.
“I’m so close—”
The sounds were first — the loud gushing of fluids as he spurted across the camera, the lens painted blurry. Dokja fucked himself through the high, shivering as another wave crested. Once more, his breath stuttered with the collapse of his lungs.
It was mind-numbing orgasm after mind-numbing orgasm — his back near-permanently arched.
Electricity burst through his veins, running through his overwound nerves. It was a shotgun gut-punch that stirred him to his core. Endless tears dripped down his lashes, no different from the leaves plucked from a wilted tree.
The third time, Dokja nearly screamed. The fourth time, his mind blanked out.
Amidst the haze, Dokja gathered the come on his stomach, and brought his hand to his lips. His tongue swirled around the digits, eating his spend clean. Smirking to the camera right after, he tipped his head just so the camera focused on his glossy lips.
“Ah, I’ve made a mess of myself.”
A whirlwind of messages rushed past.
Moments later, Dokja shifted onto his hands and knees. There was the slow movement of limbs as he curled up, one last tease, before gifting his viewers a devastating smile. With a wave of his hand and the perfunctory Goodbye, see you next time, he ended the stream.
The black screen greeted him soon after. With a click of his tongue, Dokja skimmed through his metrics.
59,850 coins.
That was almost ₩3,000,000 in one stream, an amount he’d usually earn after 1 week of camming. In one night. Dokja gasped.
There hadn’t been a particular reason as to why he’d postponed the stream by two weeks. In truth, it was a social experiment. He’d only wanted to see how far he could push his subscribers before their minds unravelled and pockets emptied. Tonight, however, had been proof of his hypothesis — the results more a sinking realisation than an academic enlightenment.
…Do I have that much power over them?
The bright, white font blinked from the monitor:
Dokja took in a shaky breath as his eyes roamed over the numbers.
2
Life proceeded as usual.
Despite having earned more than 300 times the minimum daily wage of an average citizen in one night, Dokja assumed a semblance of normalcy — which meant showing up to work on time, a tray of iced americanos propped on one hand as a means of bribery.
“What’s the occasion?” asked Heewon, but not before taking a cup for herself.
Beside her, Sooyoung’s eyes slid to the tray, then Dokja, and back to the tray. “Did you win the lottery, or something?”
“No,” Dokja lied through his teeth.
“You got a sugar daddy?”
“No—”
“A sugar mommy?”
“No, I just got my work allowance in advance. From the business trip.” Which wasn’t entirely a lie; but it wasn’t the full truth either.
”The business trip you were so loudly against because you have to stick around as Manager Han’s chaperone?” stated Heewon.
“I believe he said 'glorified babysitter',” Sangah amended. “Dokja-ssi is truly too kind. He knows Manager Han can’t handle his liquor, and is willing to fall on the blade.”
At this, Heewon shrugged. “He can only bully the newbies so much before HR calls.” And then, she clapped Dokja on the back. “Take care of your liver, Dokja-ssi. You only get one of it.”
It was at that point when Sooyoung found the topic of conversation too dreadful. “It doesn’t matter where he gets the money from, or—” she gave another look, “—the inclination to treat his friends. If Kim Dokja wants to give out free drinks, Kim Dokja will.”
“Thank you, Dokja-ssi.” Sangah beamed. “That reminds me, Senior Manager Jung sent a company-wide invite for a team-building exercise planned for next week.”
Heewon cursed under breath. “Damn, another one?”
Sangah nodded, somewhat gravely. “Unfortunately. but this time, it’s different. I overhead that the new budget allocation meant increased bonuses — and, naturally, the ability to finally afford company retreats.”
“How auspicious...” sighed Heewon. “Well, as long as we get to leave the office, and with pay, I’m not one to complain.”
“Me too. Rumour has it the higher-ups are still debating the venue. As of today, they’re leaning towards the beach. Something about rising temperatures, I wager?”
“Fancy. Judging by the suddenness of the trip, I have an inkling that HR got a hold of some disgruntled employee’s report about a certain senior manager.” Sooyoung snorted, eyeing Dokja suspiciously.
A beat of silence.
“So, Dokja, are you coming?”
Before Dokja could get another word in, a sudden warmth pressed against his back. It extended an arm over his shoulder, grabbing a cup off the tray and disappearing past his periphery. Dokja could not help but suppress the glacial chill that ran down his spine.
Speak of the fucking devil.
“Kim Dokja,” a voice, low and rough, grumbled into his ear.
“Yoo Joonghyuk,” Dokja spat, in equal fervour. “That last one’s mine.”
There was something to be said about Yoo Joonghyuk. In Dokja’s eyes, Joonghyuk was the ideal man — handsome, unfairly so, whose voice was a low timbre, and who was chiseled in all the right places. He was tall, had a great career, and appeared to be a gentleman to the ladies in Dokja’s circle. Everyday, Dokja lamented the cruel reality that God had taken great care in crafting Joonghyuk, who much rather resembled a model who ran off the runway, rather than his manager from hell.
Except, no man could have everything. Despite his looks, Joonghyuk suffered from a chronic case of assholery. God must have known that having a warm and affable personality would spell the end of the human race, so Joonghyuk’s face was often paralysed into a frown. To this day, Dokja had never seen the man crack once. Not a slight up-tilt of his lips, much less a smile.
Needless to say, Joonghyuk was Dokja’s innocent workplace crush. If only in name.
“Ah, Manager Yoo, good morning…”
Joonghyuk nodded at the women, before turning to stare at Dokja as he sipped his coffee.
Dokja’s eye twitched. There was actually one other thing to point out about Joonghyuk.
During his internship, Dokja was once dragged out by his supervisors for a drink at a local bar. He was told that complying to their demands was common workplace ethics. It went without saying that, a dastardly amount of drinks later, Dokja ended up in the restroom, emptying out his stomach in a pathetic slump. At that time, a senior colleague had walked in; who, instead of lending a hand, had promptly left while spitting right within earshot, What an idiot.
Dokja had never been on good terms with Joonghyuk since.
“You owe me.”
Joonghyuk had the gall to feign nonchalance. “What do I owe you?”
Oh? Pick a reason, any reason—
“The meeting starts in 5 minutes.” Joonghyuk assumed his authoritative voice. “What are you all still loitering around for?”
“Waiting for you, of course.” Sooyoung smiled, awfully corporate. “After you, Manager Yoo.”
Joonghyuk looked unimpressed. Sangah took the initiative to herd the group through the door anyway, sensing the tension that had inexplicably settled over the air.
Dokja, however, remained rooted in place. He struggled to recall the breathing methods he learned on week two of working across Joonghyuk. For some unexplained reason, God had taken Dokja’s unwitting attraction to Joonghyuk’s face as consent to torturing him with various instances of corporate sabotage.
He could list it in his head: from hoarding all the muffins at the breakfast table, to dumping a shitload of work 10 minutes before getting off just to persuade him into working overtime. At this point, it was only the pay that tethered Dokja to his job. After all, rent was not cheap. Even if he fucked himself a hundred times over on stream, he couldn’t feasibly make ends meet.
Unless, of course, his anonymous patron chose to condescend Dokja with a visit — in his bank account, and then his ass.
But that was a far-flung dream.
“Kim Dokja, daydreaming during office hours again?”
Dokja gave a start. “Again?”
Joonghyuk turned around with a soft chuckle. It utterly devastated Dokja’s resolve. Swallowing emptily, Dokja trailed after the others into the conference room, heart caught in his throat.
3
28 years ago, Dokja wasn’t so much in tune with his sexuality as he was now.
Traumatic childhood aside, Dokja had always developed — and quickly dropped — meaningless crushes on the pretty girls in his vicinity, who had crushes on the pretty boys in his class. So, he ended up liking them too. As a product of morbid curiosity, a dodgy link he’d thought would lead to a webnovel brought him to a porn site — and the rest was history.
Something about those atrocious, flashy ads that promised hot women in his area had intrigued his teenage self; and like any other, hormone-addled boy, Dokja had learned to touch himself. And then, he fell hard for a guy in his class and learned to touch himself even lower and deeper.
Dokja could not recall much from his first time. In short, it was over as soon as it started. His partner was a two-pump chump; but Dokja digressed. It was his first time, and it had hurt more than anything, but it could’ve been so much better.
The only thing he could remember, however, was that they were almost walked into. They’d been careless, fooling around at the back of the gym because Dokja was too pretty for his own good. In that moment, his heart dropped. And then, it kicked up again, mind running wild with the filthiest of revelations.
He’d liked it — the split-second fear of being caught, and then watched, mouths open, as Dokja was fucked within an inch of his life.
It turned out Dokja had a previously-undiscovered kink — and one that could earn him money, if he put himself online. And as fate would have it, his taste remained the same a decade later. Dokja chased taller, older men behind the security of his screen, legs spread open and tongue lolling so as to draw them in. Salvation, born out of the desire to be seen, to be wanted, was Dokja’s answer to his own, self-made plight.
And the fat bank he made was a nice cherry on top of the proverbial sundae.
Of course, it was a job he kept privy to himself.
That Friday, for the second live of the week, Dokja propped a suction dildo onto the see-through plastic chair. Curtains drawn, with the city nightlife splayed over the floor-to-ceiling windows, Dokja made himself pretty. He wore a tiny schoolgirl ensemble — pleated skirts, knee-high socks, and all — and he pitched his voice higher and higher with each drop of his hips onto the toy, tightening as it dragged along his walls, and relaxing as he bottomed out.
The burn was delicious. “Ah, ah, ah — ah, sunbae! It feels so good, s—so big.”
His face remained cut-off from view, but the occasional slip of his plush, bitten lips was a tantalising sight. Predictably, the donations came in in droves; steady ping, ping, pings as the coins deposited right into Dokja’s new spring wardrobe.
For some unknown reason, Dokja’s eyes zeroed in on that one donation from his most devoted subscriber. He bounced faster and faster on that fake cock, fucking into his fist with each hit of his prostate. Imaginary encircled his neck, rough and large, trailing down his body to wrap around his cock.
To claim him. Make him his. And then, lap up the slick and drool from both his holes.
This unseen, unvoiced viewer, with pockets so deep he could tip Dokja half a night’s worth in one donation had, in a way he had yet to comprehend, complete control over his body and soul. He wanted so badly to meet the man behind that handle; wanted so badly to be held by him, and then pampered with gifts. Maybe he was as good as he sounded, and Dokja was as gullible as they went. But he could only hold onto his make-believes, and hope that they were true.
“Ahn, sunbae, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna — ahhh!”
Dokja came in strips across his chest, the skirt, and the mole on his thigh, like he’d made himself dirty. He fucked himself one, two more times, till his orgasms ran dry, and his voice cracked with the intensity of it all, and his breaths came out ragged, and his mind was wiped completely.
Dazedly, Dokja sank into bed, exhausted to the bones. His eyes absentmindedly wandered across the high ceiling till they landed on the glass. He squinted at the building next to his, counting the lights one-by-one before stopping on an open window.
Standing in the opposite apartment, facing Dokja directly, was the vague silhouette of a man. On any other day, he would simply roll his eyes and close the blinds — but something about this stranger, who looked at once familiar and foreign, urged Dokja to look closer.
Face shrouded by his hair, his tall frame was dressed in a simple black button-up. The very picture of business casual. Still, there was no denying the stare he was shooting his way, as if he’d been watching Dokja all this time, and had gotten himself a free show.
Was he watching me?
Ignoring the very glaring, very obvious stranger danger, Dokja slinked up to the glass, movements languid and deliberate, before greeting the man with a coquettish wave of his hand. And then, he pulled the curtains closed.
Weird, he thought, but also weirdly hot.
What were the odds that the man living across from him seemed to fit the highly-specific vision he had of his top contributor? And what were the odds that Dokja was perfectly fine with that possibility? As a matter of fact, he was thrilled.
So maybe he had a voyeurism kink after all — if only, for that single man in black.
4
“Watch out!”
A loud splash, and Dokja was taken under the waves. Somewhere along the way, their team had lost the ball, now speeding ferociously towards their goal.
The end was in sight. There were only 2 minutes left on the clock, and the score was tight. Dokja’s team led by only 1 point, and it was clear that Lee Hyunsung’s team was aiming for a tie. Heewon pulled Dokja from down under, her grip deathly. Through her eyes, she reminded him that if they won, dinner was compensated.
Free wagyu, Dokja thought to himself. It was worth putting in the extra mile.
Hyunsung weaved expertly through their defence, ball in hand. In a split second, Dokja leapt to push it out of his grip. However, he was easily evaded, crashing back into the water. The meek intern they assigned as the goalkeeper stood no chance against Hyunsung’s full-frontal assault, as he surfaced right upon the goal post. The speed with which he shot the ball was too quick, it was impossible to track with the naked eye.
It successfully landed in their goal. All the way on the shore, lounging by the water, Sooyoung blew the whistle. It was the end of their match.
“It’s a tie!”
There was a moment of deliberation as both teams recuperated, no doubt itching for a rematch. Dokja was pulled to the shore by the concerted effort of both Heewon and Hyunsung, who fetched him a bottle of water.
“Please, Heewon. It’s just a game!” pleaded Hyunsung, in a feeble attempt to mend his ties. “You’re not seriously mad at me, are you?”
Heewon tipped her head back, and retorted, “Of course not — if you weren’t playing so seriously.”
Dokja let out a chuckle. He swept his eyes across his teammates, who were in varying stages of defeat, before landing on Joonghyuk. He stood by Sooyoung, a beachball in the crook of his arm, his hand to his waist. Surprisingly, Joonghyuk was already looking at him, and sheepishly retracted his gaze as soon as Dokja caught him.
Hyunsung turned to Dokja. “Sorry for the tumble, Dokja-ssi.”
Dokja suddenly felt inadequate, and pulled on the ends of his swimming trunks. “It’s all good, Hyunsung-ssi. I’ll repay you next time.”
“Listen up, teams!”
It was Sooyoung who called, speaking through a megaphone. She patted Joonghyuk’s shoulder with a knowing look, before announcing—
“In view of a tie, the board of executives has agreed to give both teams 15 minutes of overtime. Additionally, because both sides have suffered losses, we’re allowing each captain to pick a manager of your choice to play for your team!”
Upon hearing this, the crowd erupted into a cacophony. The managers, who had been standing on the sidelines, were immediately swarmed by the players, with a greater proportion circling around a miffed Joonghyuk. The man was still dry, as no one dared to pull him into the ocean with them, yet he looked gorgeous. It was only due to a certain degree of foresight — or perhaps, over concern for certain weak-willed individuals not unlike Dokja — that his shirt was still on. Had it been off, Dokja doubted either team could have scored a goal.
...Or maybe that’s just me?
Before the crowd could swallow them whole, Sooyoung belatedly announced an additional clause, “Only team captains can go up and choose a manager! The rest of the players, do take care not to suffocate your superiors!”
“Great, we’re taking Manager Yoo,” stated Heewon, before anyone could protest.
As it stood, Dokja could not have prepared himself for such a situation. As Joonghyuk ambled over for pre-match deliberations, he casually took off his shirt, tossing it at the referees’ general direction. It was at that exact moment when the sun decided to rise above the clouds, kissing the hardened lines of his abdominals, and drawing Dokja’s eyes, inevitably, to his body. And pecs. And arms. And the harsh V-line dipping beneath his waistband.
Dokja had never turned away so quickly, it was as if his sight had been spurned.
Although Joonghyuk had always appeared smart and sleek in businesswear, Dokja had never actually seen him outside of it. Joonghyuk had a taller and larger build than the average salaryman, and it was only now that Dokja had the chance to ogle it. In the flesh. And he had scars along his torso, for God’s sake. Who casually has healed scars on their body?
“Eyes on the ball, Dokja. Focus.” Joonghyuk leaned down and spoke near Dokja’s ear, right after Heewon made the team disperse.
They were both assigned on the offence, near the opposite team’s goal. With Joonghyuk’s stature, and Dokja’s speed, they made a surprisingly good match. This was only natural.
“You’re right, Yoo Joonghyuk.” Dokja slinked up to Joonghyuk, closing in the distance. “We only have 15 minutes after all. Now, watch my back, and I’ll watch yours.” He punctuated this with a smile, sickeningly sweet, before retreating and putting a chasm between himself and the other man.
As the referee blew the whistle, Joonghyuk quirked a brow, and said, “That’s not how you should address your superiors, Kim Dokja.”
The first 10 minutes of overtime were tense.
Neither side was willing to lose their lead. For all of those 10 minutes, there were countless attempts by both teams to score a goal, as even 1 point could make a difference. Dokja’s team ended up raking another 2 points, which Hyunsung’s team matched almost immediately. They were still at an impasse, and as time went on, desperation was evident. Even their movements had turned sloppy, with many accidentally tumbling underwater in a bid to lunge for the ball.
Currently, Heewon was hot on Hyunsung’s tail. Hyunsung once again had the ball, rushing to their goal to clinch the win. It was only Heewon who stood in his way, and, uncharacteristically, he wavered. He paused in the water as though he was facing his greatest conundrum yet — would he risk getting the free wagyu at the expense of his wife’s ire?
“Get the ball!”
In an instant, the defence honed in on Hyunsung. They clambered to grab the ball out of his hands; and, after a momentary scuffle, one player managed to snatch it completely from a stupefied Hyunsung. She made an impressive throw, lobbing the ball halfway across the water into the hands of a defending player. Dokja immediately lunged from the back, swiping the ball and turning to face the goal.
“2 minutes!”
Dokja was met with another player of the opposing team. Behind him, he could see Joonghyuk, raising his arm to motion for the ball. Distantly, he heard the splashing of water as more and more players began to encircle him like hawks.
However, as Dokja arched his body to aim the throw, the burly player chose to tackle him at that exact moment. Elbow hitting his stomach, Dokja was plunged deep into the water. Still, he kept a tight grip on the ball, hugging it to his chest even as he was taken undertow. As it was a surprise tackle, Dokja hadn’t managed to take in adequate air, and he was beginning to feel the burn in his lungs as he attempted to resurface.
But there were too many hands grabbing at him. Dokja’s senses were numbed by the muffled voices of other players, drifting in and out of hearing. For an eternity, he struggled underwater, his chance to escape dimming by the second.
“1 minute!”
“Someone get the ball!”
“Where is he?!”
Suddenly, the crowd of bodies around Dokja parted, and an ironlike grip wrapped around his arm. As if pushing through a thick haze, Dokja felt the rush of blood through his ears as he was pulled to the surface.
“10, 9, 8—!”
The hand that gripped his arm moved to wrap around his waist, and he was propped against a sturdy body.
“7, 6, 5—!”
The weight of the body shifted, and Dokja felt the taut pull of muscle.
“4, 3, 2—!”
An explosion of cheers. Dokja’s team had won.
“...Do we need a medic...?”
“...Who asked him to go underwater...!”
“...Dokja-ssi—”
“Look, he’s coming to.”
Dokja sputtered awake, feeling an indescribable itch in his throat. A rush of air filled his lungs, vision clearing. In a matter of moments, the ringing in his ear dissipated too, leaving him gasping for breath. His wrist was clasped in a large hand, as another supported his lower back. By now, a small crowd had gathered; and it took Dokja a great while to adjust to the sudden sensorial assault.
The first face that greeted him was Joonghyuk’s. “There you are.”
“Our fair maiden, finally awake from the dead.”
“It was a great dive you took, Kim Dokja!”
“Dokja-ssi, are you alright?!”
Sangah rushed forth. Hand rubbing up and down Dokja’s back, her face was wrought with worry. “What a relief! We thought we lost you to the currents,” she breathed, and then glanced at Joonghyuk.
It was only then when Joonghyuk released his grip around Dokja’s wrist. His arm was draped across his stomach, already smarting with a purplish bruise. Joonghyuk appeared to stare at it for a moment, gaze tinged with regret.
“You’re lucky Manager Yoo was there to save you,” pitched Sooyoung from the back.
Joonghyuk, who was retracting his hand halfway, paused, and moved to rest it over Dokja’s thigh.
“And what a hero he was! He had one arm around you, and the other hand on the ball. With 10 seconds left on the clock, he scored the winning goal!”
A thumb brushed against the side of Dokja’s thigh, before pulling away completely.
Distractedly, Dokja croaked, “But did we win?”
Sangah almost smacked him upside the head.
Dinner that night was uneventful.
There was a barbecue restaurant attached to the resort, which served the premium, grade A wagyu promised to them. After a long day, the winning team slumped into the booth, exhausted beyond belief. This was naturally followed by the groaning and creaking of bones.
Almost embarrassingly so.
“A toast to the best water polo players in South Korea!”
A round of toasts passed through their table. Before long, the meat was set to grill, and the pleasantries soon devolved into rudimentary topics of conversation.
Heewon was a renowned heavyweight, and so she took it upon herself to refill each of her teammates’ glasses before they even had the time to empty. Perhaps, out of gratitude for Dokja’s sacrifice, she piled a steadily-growing mound of grilled beef on his plate, claiming that, since the bosses were paying, they should make the most out of this free meal.
Dokja would rather stuff his face with beef than beer. Since the last time he was dragged out for drinks, he could not trust himself with the restroom. Or any form of public utility, for that matter.
“Jung Heewon-ssi.”
It just so happened that a pair of managers deigned to visit their lively table. The one who spoke was Sun Wukong, a bright-faced, loud-mouthed favourite of the women in his department. His arm was slung over Joonghyuk’s shoulder, appearing as if they were bosom friends.
“Your excellent skills in leading your team to victory is absolutely commendable. I have never seen a turnover so intense, I was nearly ripping my hair out!” He gesticulated wildly, inadvertently bumping into a bemused Joonghyuk. “Even we’re hard-pressed to treat you all for a meal!”
Joonghyuk casually lifted Wukong’s arm off his shoulder. “Not at all.”
“Oh, it’s nothing much. You can say it’s a natural instinct.” Heewon grinned, and then winked. “Manager Yoo, you’re a part of the team too. In fact, you’re the MVP! Why not join us at our table?”
After saying so, Heewon lifted up a glass as an offering.
“No thanks, I’ve had enough to drink for the night. But…” he trailed off, eyes darting towards Dokja acutely, “…I don’t mind joining for a while. It’s gotten a little too stuffy at the other table, anyway.”
Wukong shot Joonghyuk a somewhat incredulous look. And then, he followed Joonghyuk’s gaze.
When he next spoke, it was with clarity, “Please, enjoy your meal. And, Kim Dokja-ssi, we apologise for the mishap. According to company guidelines, HR would have to compensate you for any workplace accidents, but your direct superior insisted otherwise.”
Having been brought into the conversation, Dokja blinked between his two superiors, innocent as can be. “There is such a policy?”
With a huff, Joonghyuk waved the blond away, answering, “Yes. However, only in cases requiring hospitalisation. In my opinion, my paying for your dinner is compensation enough.”
Wukong was shooed away eventually, but not without taking a few of Dokja’s female colleagues with him. The number at their table reduced over time, and the conversations lulled into more intimate matters. People came and went, filtering out of the restaurant as the night grew. With the alcohol now seeping into their bones, sleep began to tug at Dokja’s eyelids.
Sometime later, Dokja found himself in Joonghyuk’s quiet company. He sat on a stone bench a little ways off the hotel, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. Joonghyuk opted to sit on the sand, resting his back against the bench. Despite refusing any more drinks the whole night, he was nursing a half-finished bottle of soju — which, if Dokja was in a more sober state of mind, would consider clever.
No one dared to approach them with drinks any longer.
“Hey.”
Dokja hoped he wasn’t slurring his words. I only had a few shots…I think.
“Thanks for saving me today.”
It took a moment before Joonghyuk replied, “It’s no big deal.”
“I can’t imagine drowning during a company retreat.” A pause, and then Dokja added, “I would cast shame on my ancestors.”
“And that would be the thing to cast shame on your ancestors?”
A finger reached out, and poked the crown of Joonghyuk’s head. “Would it kill you to be civil, for once?”
Joonghyuk let Dokja prod a few more times, before grasping his wrist. The movement was too natural, it was as if Joonghyuk was made to hold him. “Had enough of touching your superior yet, Dokja? Quite the workplace etiquette you have there.”
Dokja inclined his head; though he neither pulled nor pushed. “Well, maybe if your hair wasn’t so soft.”
Slowly, Joonghyuk turned to gaze up at Dokja, eyes inscrutable.
“And maybe if you weren’t so kind…”
Joonghyuk’s lips twitched. “So you do think I’m kind?”
What semblance of sobriety was dredged up from the pits of Dokja’s guts then. His heart began to race, and every inch of skin that Joonghyuk held burnt to the touch.
“Only today,” Dokja answered, deliberate. “You’re also too good-looking. It’s unfair, Joonghyuk-ah.”
Not even the full moon could contend with the look on Joonghyuk’s face. When the corners of his lips lifted, Joonghyuk graced Dokja with the briefest, most fleeting of smiles. It curved his eyes into endearing moon-crescents, his brows furrowing almost as if in disbelief.
Joonghyuk had dimples, carved lightly into either of his cheeks. A mere glance and it was as devastating as all the rest of him, and — Shit, is this the first time I’ve seen him smiling?
“I suggest you work on your manners, Dokja. If we were in the office, I’d write you up for misconduct.”
Dokja hummed. “What should I call you then? Manager Yoo? No, that’s too formal.” He began to contemplate seriously. “Yoo Joonghyuk? Well, I already call you that anyway.”
There was a short chuckle, the sound low and deep, as Joonghyuk rested his chin on the plush of Dokja’s thigh. When he exhaled, his warm breath curled over the bare skin. Joonghyuk’s hand that was holding his wrist did not let go even once; instead, he brought it so that it rested on Dokja’s knee, his lips barely grazing the knuckles.
Dokja’s mind short-circuited. “Then, since you’re my senior, should I call you sunbae?”
Joonghyuk appeared to still.
“Or…Joonghyuk-hyung?”
The silence that consumed them was poignant.
Nearly a century later, Joonghyuk finally moved. His gaze dropped from Dokja’s face to the hem of his shorts, before dipping lower. From where he sat, he could see the mole on Dokja’s right thigh.
“You have a mole here,” Joonghyuk said, pointedly.
Dokja blanched.
“That’s interesting,” he supplied, unhelpfully. Joonghyuk tapped on the mole with his forefinger, once, before letting go of Dokja completely.
There was an undercurrent of panic thrumming beneath his pulse. Rather than it being interesting that Dokja had a mole on his thigh, it was more interesting for Joonghyuk to have noticed and pointed it out. Decidedly. As though he was simply remarking on the weather.
The only person known for having a unique beauty mark on their thigh was Salvation, who was Nebula’s highest-earning camboy. Who had a mole on his thigh. Who Dokja moonlighted as.
And whose true identity Dokja strove to keep under wraps, unknown to his coworkers, and even more so his boss.
“It’s getting late. We should head back.”
Joonghyuk rose to his feet, shamelessly brushing over the fact that they had been so close, his head was resting on his subordinate’s lap. God, the scandal. If anyone were to catch them tonight, Dokja would run the risk of unemployment. He would even deport himself to another continent if he could.
The latter hadn’t realised it yet, but Dokja was shooting proverbial daggers at the back of his head.
He wouldn’t know, right?
“Oh, and I’d prefer if you don’t call me that.” Joonghyuk coughed, lightly. From where Dokja sat, he could see the reddening tips of his ears. “Whatever you said earlier is fine.”
5
The intervention came early.
The morning after the company retreat, Dokja was cornered in the break-room. It just so happened that both Sooyoung and Sangah were having their morning coffee-slash-debrief session by the water cooler, and, having spotted Dokja who had inadvertently stumbled into their private corner, instantly turned their attention to him.
“Are you seeing someone?”
Dokja was halfway through reaching for his mug. “...What led you to that conclusion?”
Sooyoung levelled him with a discerning look. “I have my sources.”
“And are they credible?”
“Yes. In fact, they’re my eyes.” Sooyoung brought her mug to her lips. “Unless I’ve developed a sudden onset of facial blindness, I saw you cozying up with a stranger after supper. By the beach. In the dark.”
Beside her, Sangah wore a semi-apologetic smile. She explained, “We saw you from afar, and we didn’t dare approach.”
A glimpse of a smile flashed past Dokja’s mind — and with it came the palpitations, the nerves, and the heat rising up his cheeks. The warmth of Joonghyuk’s chin propped on his knee. The fan of his breath against bare skin. The dimples, marked so deeply into his cheeks, the grooves could catch pools of moonlight.
Dokja fumbled with the instant coffee packet, and let out a knowing ah. “How charitable. Next time, maybe start hollering and jumping into the conversation yourself instead of respecting your coworker’s privacy.”
The glare exchanged between Dokja and Sooyoung was palpable.
He pretended to root around the cabinets, and said, “They’ve run out of sugar. I’ll check out the other floors—”
The mug was slammed against the countertop.
“Really, Dokja?”
Oh, if only she knew. Dokja considered himself a bonafide expert at dodging rumours. If there was such a category in the Olympics, he’d ascend the podium thrice. If there was space to run, he’d run the mile. If there was a getaway car, he’d be the driver. So on and so forth.
That was the extent of his stubbornness. He knew that, with a careless slip of the tongue, Dokja could put his mild reputation to rest.
It was Sangah who spoke next. She almost hit the mark on sounding sympathetic, if it weren’t for Sooyoung visibly bristling in place. “We’re sorry for offending you, Dokja-ssi—”
“No, we aren’t.”
“—but it’s just that, as your good friends, we were just curious. Well, pleasantly surprised, more like.”
Such good friends you are.
“Regardless, if you are seeing someone in private, we’re very happy for you!”
Sooyoung raised a hand, and lightly patted Sangah on her shoulder. “But if not, just let us know one thing.”
“What is it?”
“That it isn't Yoo Joonghyuk.”
They sported twin smiles, affable as can be.
Dokja stewed on it for a while, burying the torrent of emotions down his gut. He couldn’t tell them that it was Yoo Joonghyuk, and that his crush on him had, in fact, worsened overnight. At dawn, Dokja was carried on one arm back to his room, after which Joonghyuk had wished him goodnight at his doorstep. That had watered the sprouts in his chest, blooming into overwhelming affection.
And it was something he just didn't have the heart to say.
Dokja lifted his lips, a little bitterly. “I assure you, it's not him.”
Dokja tended to tell lies that were proven to be true.
That afternoon, a brand new cup of iced americano was deposited on his table, courtesy of Manager Yoo, who walked away as soon as Dokja startled in surprise.
He was on a phone call. When Dokja raised a brow at him, Joonghyuk merely glanced down, grabbing a pen and a sticky pad. He seemed to be taking notes, so Dokja decided to let it go, and accepted the fact that Joonghyuk had probably only needed a cupholder.
That was, until he swung by again, and pasted the sticky note onto Dokja’s hand. His large fingers rubbed one side of the paper against the back of his palm, faintly squeezing, before exiting the office entirely.
Dokja was baffled. Slowly, he brought his hand to his face, and read the hasty scrawl—
I owe you one.
And written below that—
Stop drinking coffee from the break-room. Too much caffeine.
Dokja glanced at his mug, untouched since the morning. He promptly left to throw it out before the coffee could stain the tabletop.
For a while, Dokja had thoroughly believed that nothing would come out of Joonghyuk’s unspoken treat that afternoon. After all, he was simply returning a favour, and so Dokja expected little else after.
That said, Dokja had a propensity to will the opposite into reality. Later that evening, whilst studying the subway lines and calculating the shortest ETA home, a sleek car came to a crawl beside him, keeping pace, before finally stopping when Dokja paused in his steps.
“Get in.”
Dokja feigned a gasp. “Is this an attempted kidnapping?”
Joonghyuk scoffed. “You wish. Get in now, or else.”
Dokja wished he had the will to say no, but Joonghyuk had ordered him so decisively, it was almost a foregone conclusion.
“Or else what?”
“Get drenched in the rain.” He glanced down. “I don’t see you carrying an umbrella.”
Once Dokja settled into the passenger seat, he realised that it might have been a mistake. He was now surrounded by Joonghyuk’s scent, so masculine and so, so strong, like the lines of his hands as he gripped the steering wheel, one-handed. Joonghyuk was dressed in a form-fitting button-up, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. An expensive watch donned his left wrist, perhaps costing more than Dokja’s entire studio.
He looked away. “So polite of you to extend your chauffeur services as well, Joonghyuk-ah.”
Joonghyuk, predictably, ignored him. Instead, he asked, “Where do you live? I’ll drop you off.”
When Dokja answered, a faint hint of recognition flashed in Joonghyuk’s eyes. “It can’t be where you’re headed, so you might as well just drop me off at the nearest stop.”
“No need, I also live in the neighbourhood.”
Well. Dokja was only being courteous. “Huh, small world.”
Joonghyuk’s lip twitched into a smirk, and a single dimple carved itself into his right cheek. “You live in quite the wealthy neighbourhood, Dokja.”
If Dokja’s three seasons-old hand-me-downs were anything to go by, his innately frugal lifestyle would otherwise surprise the common man. Yes, he made enough to sustain himself, and yes, he sought pleasure in material things, but he couldn’t just pull up to work in a luxury car and a bespoke suit. It was, above all else, a matter of pretences, and he much rather enjoyed living in humility.
He could only keep up the façade for so long; and one of these days, Sooyoung was going to walk into the corner store and not find Dokja working the night shift.
“You have such little faith in me. Is it so hard to believe that I could afford to be your neighbour?”
Joonghyuk was silent for a moment, before answering, “Not necessarily.”
Not necessarily?
“Maybe I’m just really good at saving money.”
“Maybe.” As Joonghyuk took a left turn, the sky turned overcast. “Do you do anything on the side?”
Dokja was hesitant. He struggled to find the right combination of words that gave very little away, before settling on sounding vague. “In a way.”
“Figures. Is it streaming?”
If Joonghyuk hadn’t pressed on the accelerator then, Dokja would have flung himself out the window right as the light turned green.
Dubiously, Dokja asked back, “Why do you think so?”
“You have the voice for it,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Don’t feel ashamed, it’s decent money.”
Ignoring the first half of Joonghyuk’s answer, Dokja insisted on questioning him, “You seem to know a lot about streaming.”
“My sister’s a fan of those video game streamers. I used to dabble in it as well, back in college when I needed the extra income.”
It was at this point when Dokja huffed a laugh. “Since when do you need extra income?”
“Since I wrote myself out of my family’s will.”
Silence unfurled.
As much as Dokja was intent on digging through more of Joonghyuk’s intrafamilial politics, he did have the mind to think otherwise. For a good while after, Joonghyuk drove with the absence of small talk, accompanied only by the muted sounds of the rain. Dokja took great pains to defuse the tension by commenting on something or other, and redirecting the conversation onto pointless gossip about their office.
Somehow, Joonghyuk appeared pleased. By the time he drove up to the entrance, the crease between his brows had eased.
“Thanks for the ride.”
Dokja reached out for the door handle; but before he could touch it, a hand came over to clasp his leg, stilling him in place. He couldn’t help but look down at Joonghyuk’s firm grip, tracing the veins along his forearm. His thumb stroked the side of Dokja’s thigh.
“It’ll continue to rain for the next couple of days. Will you still be commuting by train?”
Dokja was only peripherally aware of the weather forecast. These were things he didn’t have the time nor concern for, so on most days, he usually left the house to deal with the elements as they came.
He smiled, plaintive. “Naturally.”
“Then I can give you a ride. For this week.”
Was this Joonghyuk’s blunt way of asking to spend more time with me?
“Consider it additional compensation.”
Although Dokja was especially suspicious of just how much Joonghyuk knew, if at all, it did not take much to read his intentions. At the moment, Dokja had gathered enough about Joonghyuk to verify that the man had a fixation on his thighs. In fact, he had a greater, possibly crippling fixation on his mole; and was this close to simply biting it the last time he had his head on his lap.
In all honesty, if Joonghyuk asked to come up to his place, he would let him.
“Hmm, that depends,” Dokja fluttered his long lashes, “do I have to pay for gas?”
Something seemed to crack in Joonghyuk’s gaze.
“Of course not. You can pay me in other ways.”
6
It became something of a routine.
Every morning, Joonghyuk would pick Dokja up for work. Their 30-minute commute was often spent in silence, until, halfway through, the caffeine would kick in, and he would bore Joonghyuk with various anecdotes of his day-to-day life. By 7 AM, Dokja would insist they stagger their entry into office — for reasons known, but unvoiced — and they would go their separate ways.
At lunchtime, Joonghyuk would drop by his cubicle with a cup of iced coffee, and a handwritten note. Dokja kept these sticky notes in the middle drawer, banished to a corner where they wouldn’t take up space. As Joonghyuk was often out past noon, Dokja did not run the risk of being seen with him by his colleagues.
By 5.30 PM, Dokja would then wait in the underground parking lot, keeping a distance from Joonghyuk’s car that was both far enough to not appear conspicuous, and short enough for him to make a mad dash for. Initially, Joonghyuk had only raised a brow at Dokja’s covertness, seemingly unable to grasp the optics of their arrangement. Over time, however, he began to understand Dokja’s growing hesitance.
Instead, he would pacify Dokja with a bag of warm pastry — one for breakfast, and another in the afternoon, which came with the coffee and notes. Vaguely, Dokja recognised this as Joonghyuk’s special brand of care — and one he was entirely undeserving of, especially so with how he’d tuck away these brief spells of intimacy only to bring them out when he was knuckles deep in himself.
Dokja was irredeemably torn.
He felt as though he was seeing 3 men at once: Joonghyuk, who fed his daydreams, and s.plotter, who was basically paying all his bills. Dokja had yet to find a place to fit the third party in his dilemma, his mysterious neighbour, whom he occasionally caught watching him when he went live. Yet, all 3 men ran circles around his head, as though each would prostrate at his feet and beg for mercy.
He felt like he was cheating on all 3 of them, too.
Much, much later, during another live where he wore nothing but a see-through, lacy number, Dokja broke himself.
He had a remote vibrator in his ass, the intensity of which was being controlled by the amount of coins gifted to him. Splayed on the bed, flushed pink and cock oversensitive, Dokja was pulled tauter and tauter like an overwound string. The vibrations cruelly alternated between high and low, and lower again, as if to drag his orgasm longer, and ruin his body deeper.
Dokja was panting, moaning incomprehensible sounds into the warm air — and as his head lolled to the side, he made eye contact with his one, singular viewer.
“Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck — hyung, let me come. Please, p—please,” he squeaked, helpless.
The vibrator racked up several settings till it crested the highest one yet — one that had Dokja closing his legs on instinct, rutting into his hand as he stared, glassy-eyed, at the stranger’s shrouded silhouette through the window. Those large, toned arms reminded him so much of Joonghyuk’s, the tousled black hair even more so. If he could just close his eyes and fill in the spaces in between, he could imagine Joonghyuk standing at the foot of his bed, watching him fuck himself, forever at his mercy.
Joonghyuk would tease him for so long, that godforsaken smirk plastered on his face as he drank in his body from sight alone. He wouldn’t touch him, so he’d only call him names that had Dokja slipping past the threshold of control.
The build-up finally toppled over; and with each press of the toy against his prostate, Dokja spilled onto himself, painting the skimpy, black garment pearly white. He screamed when he came.
“Ahhhhhn! Joonghyuk-ah!” He hiccuped, and managed in between exhales, “H—Hyuk-ah, it feels so good...”
It took him a long while to recollect himself. The incessant ringing that usually came with the afterglow stayed, intermittently spliced with the familiar pings of his chat, now in more frequent intervals than ever.
It rang, one after the other, and rudely dragged Dokja back to his senses as he squinted at the messages that came flying in.
Eyes refocusing, the words slowly separated from each other, forming sentences he’d always feared of reading during a live—
Dokja ended the stream right then and there. The numbers stared back at him when he closed the window—
Shit. He’d unconsciously let slip Joonghyuk’s name, during a live, where hundreds of thousands of subscribers had watched him, as the top creator on Nebula. On live. Shit.
I’m so fucked. A lump was caught in Dokja’s throat, and it was hard to swallow. If Joonghyuk finds out, it’s over. He’s too smart to not put two and two together, I mean he’s already suspecting that I stream.
There were only so many Joonghyuks in Seoul, and Salvation lived in Seoul. With Joonghyuk’s deep connections, how long did he have before he was caught? And before Dokja would know it, a letter of termination would be delivered his way, and he would be sent packing, never to be seen again.
At this harrowing thought, Dokja deleted the VOP before it could be uploaded, and asked for his mods to clean up any mentions of it on social media.
He was in near hysterics. An hour later, the inevitable backlash reached Dokja, with several thousand mentions posting an edited clip of that damnable live, appended with the question, Who is Joonghyuk?
But it’s fine, he convinced himself. He’ll shut down his P.O. box and his socials, and go into complete radio silence until it all blew over. Sooner or later, a saucier, more scandalous affair would take his place on Nebula’s top trending, and Dokja’s little mistake would be swallowed up like any other minor blunder on the internet.
7
Except, it didn’t.
Who could’ve expected the devil himself to approach Dokja, phone in hand, asking, “Do you know Salvation?”
“Huh?”
It was already Friday, and — supposedly — Joonghyuk’s last day of commuting with Dokja. He had just gotten in the car, strapping in, before cornering Dokja with the greatest philosophical query of the century: Who are you?
“My phone has been pinging with texts all day about a streamer who apparently knows me,” Joonghyuk explained as they pulled out of the parking lot. “I thought you would know, since you’re on the platform.”
Dokja affected a semblance of innocence. “He’s an adult streamer.” And then, he quickly added, “I think.”
“You know him?”
“No.” Do you? — Dokja left unsaid.
The topic was swiftly dropped.
There was a shift in the air today, as though they both knew that their little agreement was coming to an end. A part of Dokja was relieved at this, and yet a part of him still craved Joonghyuk’s company. He hadn’t been treated this well in so long, that vines had begun to grow in his lungs, uprooting his heart and making space for Joonghyuk to take.
He had mixed feelings.
“Sorry I couldn’t make it for lunch today,” Joonghyuk said, later, once the low rumble of the engine was deemed insufficient to occupy the silence.
“No worries.” Dokja smiled. “I’m just looking forward to the long weekend.”
Joonghyuk’s expression mirrored his. “Are you going anywhere?”
Dokja tapped a finger on his chin. “No. I’m planning on catching up with some rest. You?”
They were stopped at a red light. Joonghyuk drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel, before turning to glance at Dokja. “Only dinner plans. My sister was supposed to visit, but she’s off on a staycation with some friends.”
“Mm.”
“It would be a waste to throw out her portion of the food,” he continued.
Slowly, Dokja tilted his head. “Are you inviting me for a meal, Joonghyuk?”
The corner of Joonghyuk’s lips lifted, and he reached out a hand, slotting firmly and comfortably around Dokja’s left thigh. “Yes. Dinner at my place tonight?”
The sheer contact, despite a layer of clothes, seared through skin. Joonghyuk’s hand sat warm and heavy on his thigh, fingers massaging the meat of it so imperceptibly, it almost went unnoticed.
This was the longest red light of his life.
Dokja couldn’t bite down his grin. “If you insist.”
And then, he crossed his legs, sandwiching Joonghyuk’s hand between his thighs. Joonghyuk drove the whole way home one-handed.
Once at home, Joonghyuk shooed Dokja into his bedroom, before busying himself in the kitchen, insisting that he didn’t need the extra pair of hands.
“Go make yourself useful somewhere else,” Joonghyuk had scolded him.
So Dokja obliged.
He took his time perusing the bottles propped up on the sink — an impressive array of skincare, haircare and colognes that would probably cost twice as much as Dokja’s wardrobe alone. When he hopped into the shower, he used a generous amount of Joonghyuk’s body lotion that made him smell effortlessly clean, and selected the most expensive shampoo on the rack.
Dokja re-entered the bedroom to Joonghyuk digging through his drawers, before finally pulling out a plain shirt. “I don’t know if I have pants that would fit you. Let me look through the guest bedroom.”
“There’s a guest bedroom?”
Joonghyuk looked askance. “It’s a mess right now. Wait here,” he instructed.
Putting on the loose shirt, Dokja eyed himself in the wall-length mirror, finding the sight of him drowning in everything Yoo Joonghyuk, awfully and embarrassingly domestic. Like he was made to fit perfectly in Joonghyuk’s hold. Like he was meant to be home.
When Joonghyuk returned, he had a pair of sweats in hand; but before Dokja could say anything, his gaze fell onto his exposed collarbones, slipping over the hem, before travelling low, low, low past the ends of his shirt to stop at his exposed thighs. He stepped closer then, breaths mingling in the breadth of air they shared, and traced a cold fingertip around the beauty mark on Dokja’s right thigh.
He looked up, his lips drawn into a long-withering smirk that dimpled his cheek. “Cute.”
“Pervert,” Dokja spat.
Joonghyuk let his gaze linger for longer than it needed to be, before plopping the sweats onto Dokja’s head. “Go dry up and help me set up the table.”
The butterflies were quickly buried in his stomach. Dokja grabbed the offending garment, and called after Joonghyuk’s retreating back, “Your hospitality is beyond saving.”
Joonghyuk cooked like a dream.
He’d somehow perfected Dokja’s favourite comfort meal — a hearty pot of soft tofu stew made entirely without tomatoes — and with twice the portion for him alone. With pink in his cheeks, Dokja thanked Joonghyuk, and then sent a separate prayer to the heavens for blessing him with the perfect man, who’d somehow strolled into his life, called him an idiot one moment, and then cute the next./p>
Cute. Cute, cute, cute, cute.
It almost made him forget about Salvation.
“All good?” Joonghyuk asked when he began cleaning up the table, and Dokja scrambled to his feet to occupy his hands with something.
“It was great, Joonghyuk-ah. You really know the way to my heart.”
A small clang was heard when Joonghyuk dropped their plates into the dishwasher. He then turned to Dokja and leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed and expression shrouded by the dim lighting. “And you know mine.”
Dokja tipped his head. “And what's that?”
With a low chuckle, Joonghyuk crossed the distance, and leaned into Dokja’s personal space. From here, mere breaths apart, Dokja could see each individual lash that framed his dark, bottomless eyes. He traced the slope of Joonghyuk’s nose, marble-esque, down to the curve of his lips. Instinctively, he poked at the dimple on his cheek, and watched as it grew deeper as Joonghyuk breathed a laugh right into his mouth.
Rough-hewn fingers grabbed Dokja’s chin, gently pulling his face sideways. “That.”
Dokja followed Joonghyuk’s line of sight as it peered through the windows, seeing nothing in particular.
“I don’t know how I held out for so long, considering how much you’ve tested my patience. You’re temptation on legs. Did you know that, Dokja?”
Dokja’s head spun. “What are you talking about?”
“Look closer,” Joonghyuk whispered — and the sound went straight to Dokja’s loins.
Soft light emanated from the opposite window, illuminating a room occupied by a familiar, white leather chair facing a set of monitors. Even further behind it, there was a queen-sized bed with cream-coloured sheets, soft and downy, and the exact place he filmed his lives.
That’s my studio, he thought — and then, That’s my apartment.
“What—?”
A million and one thoughts raced through Dokja’s head — of shock, then denial, and then a lingering sense of betrayal at having been kept in the dark about this; until finally, settling into complete and utter mortification. The knowledge of Joonghyuk figuring out who he was, who Salvation was, and what Salvation had done, swept the ground from beneath his feet. Without realising it, his legs began to tremble, and Dokja nearly backed away — if not for Joonghyuk holding him steady by his waist, grip strong and domineering and so very hot.
“You knew all along?”
“Of course I knew. You stream with your curtains drawn.”
“Yes, but, I hadn’t expected my neighbour to be you.”
Joonghyuk tilted his head, and pouted slightly. “Would you rather it be someone else?”
“No,” God, of course no, “I wanted it to be you. How long have you known? Hell—how did you figure it out?”
“Your voice,” and Joonghyuk reached down to lift Dokja’s right leg, pinching at the skin, “and this. I saw you a couple months ago, fucking yourself open right by the window, as if you wanted to be seen. Out of curiosity, I looked you up on Nebula, and I haven’t gotten you out of my head since.”
Dokja lowered his head. “I’m that memorable?”
There was a slight twitch in Joonghyuk’s brow, a sign of his control wearing thin. “So memorable. Each time you called me in the office with that voice, I could almost get hard.”
A shot of pride surged through Dokja’s veins, toppling his insecurities down in an instant. A devilish grin split his face, and he moved to wrap his right leg fully around Joonghyuk’s waist. As though conditioned to do so, Joonghyuk’s hands moved to his hipbones, lifting him onto the countertop where he could nose up Dokja’s collarbone, his neck and the line of his jaw.
“Why put up the act?”
Joonghyuk buried his nose in the groove between neck and shoulder, breathing in sharply. “Wanted to tease you one last time.”
“You knew you were gonna bed me tonight? So confident, Joonghyuk-ah.”
“Mm. You smell like me.”
Dokja bit his bottom lip. He sweetened the lilt of his voice almost to a drawl, “So, which one did you like most? The white bridal lingerie, or the black, lacy set? Wife-play, or me playing the hoobae getting railed by his sunbae?” He leaned up to graze Joonghyuk’s lips with his breath. “Which is it, Joonghyuk-ah?”
“Fuck,” Joonghyuk cursed under his breath. “I want you, all of you. I’ve wanted you since the day I laid eyes on you. Will you let me fuck you, Dokja-yah?”
“Right here?”
“Yes. Please?”
Dokja met Joonghyuk on the lips, and mouthed, Yes.
It was as if something inside him broke. Without a moment’s hesitation, Joonghyuk met him halfway — and it was the exact opposite of what Dokja had expected. Joonghyuk’s touches were a soft, wet caress on his own, and they moved as if in tune with each other. He tipped his head back as Joonghyuk licked his lips open, tongue prodding. With a hitched breath Dokja let him in, feeling the man dip into his mouth, laughing, before biting his bottom lip swollen.
When they pulled apart, centuries later, the oxygen had left the room, and Dokja was left to only breathe in Joonghyuk’s masculine scent — delirious to his core, and aching for more.
“You cook well, and you’re a good fucking kisser, too. What else are you good at, Hyuk-ah?”
““Pleasuring you.” Joonghyuk grinned, all teeth and no bite. He nipped at Dokja’s bottom lip again, before murmuring, “Actually, there is something you haven’t done yet which I’d really, really like.”
Dokja was pressed against that very window in nothing but Joonghyuk’s black dress shirt — the same one he always wore when he watched Dokja fuck himself — held up by nothing but sheer willpower and Joonghyuk’s greedy hands.
Joonghyuk grasped at every square inch of exposed skin, as if wary of losing him, and kissed down Dokja’s neck, his nape, down each vertebra and the spaces in between. Dokja all but melted against the glass — revelled in every sinking kiss into his marrow, through his bones, till where Joonghyuk laid claim to his skin, and he was nothing but putty in Joonghyuk’s arms.
Gripping onto a long, supple leg, Joonghyuk hiked it up and pressed deep. His clothed cock slotted onto Dokja’s ass.
It was either a third leg, or a separate appendage entirely, because there was no way Dokja could fit that inside himself — and he’d fit eight inch-long dildos, double headed vibrators, and his entire first in his ass before.
“What is that?”
Of course, Joonghyuk ignored him, grinding squarely into the cleft of Dokja’s ass. It did nothing to scratch the animalistic itch lapping at his limbs.
“You’ve taken me before, haven’t you?” Joonghyuk groaned into his ear. “That eight-inch dildo.”
“That was from you? Ah!” A hand came bearing down onto Dokja’s ass, turning it red and sore. Joonghyuk rubbed at the stinging skin, peppering kisses along his nape as if to soothe the burn.
It only made sense that Joonghyuk was s.plotter too, because fuck, could Dokja’s life get any more ridiculous?
“I’m almost sad how you couldn’t recognise me right away, bunny.”
Dokja recognised the slick lube circling his rim, before thick fingers breached, stretching him open with practised ease. He moaned onto the glass, condensation fogging up the surface. Head bowed, Dokja couldn’t bear to see Joonghyuk where he had him pinned, but he could feel him — his breath tickling the back of his neck, the rumbling of his voice as it travelled up his chest to spit dirty, dirty things into Dokja’s ear.
“TThat was a gift, from me to you. I was even caring enough to let you practise on a fake cock before taking the real one. Shouldn’t you be grateful, Dokjayah?”
Dokja was at his wits’ end. “You…get so mouthy when you’re horny. Just fuck me already.”
He felt the chuckle pressed against his back. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes. Please, yes.”
“Yes, oh God! Fuck, yes!”
There was something so ruthless, so bestial in the way Joonghyuk fucked him, pushing him further and further up the glass, Dokja was now flush against the window, nipples rubbing against the smooth surface. Joonghyuk’s needlessly strong arms were the only things holding him together, his toes curling with the mercilessness of his thrusts. Feet left dangling over the floor, Dokja was left to kick the air each time Joonghyuk hit his prostate dead-on, planting stars at the back of his vision, and drawing another caress around the syllables of Joonghyuk’s name.
“Fuck, Dokja. You’re so tight.” Joonghyuk sounded less like a human, ramming in so deep he was practically carving himself into Dokja’s insides. “So good for me, so fffucking good.”
“Hyuk-ah, harder, please,” Dokja begged, wanton, even as Joonghyuk had him crying onto the glass, spluttering with each punishing piston of his hips. “Harder, faster, harder, please.”
“Fuck—”
Joonghyuk’s free hand snaked up Dokja’s front, pumping his cock in cadence. Stimulated beyond what he could handle, Dokja could only squeeze around the throbbing intrusion as he dragged himself out to the hilt, before slamming back in with reckless abandon. Dokja was close, so, so close, and his voice pitched higher and higher as he chanted Joonghyuk’s name like a prayer, like he was the only God he knew.
Dokja threw his head back, his back arched beautifully as he was rearranged, limb by shaking limb, like a doll for Joonghyuk’s taking.
“Joonghyuk, Joonghyuk, Joonghyuk — ah, ahn! I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m come—!”
Dokja was pretty sure he blacked out.
Ever so slowly, his vision returned in fragmented pieces, dark patches dissipating from the corners of his eyes. Distantly, he could feel his ass being pounded into, despite momentarily falling unconscious, with Joonghyuk’s raspy voice coming in and out like waves undulating. And then, his senses fully returned, all-consuming; and Dokja was brought back to life in the form of a cock drilling into his hale at a pace unforgiving, it had Dokja choking on his sobs.
“H—Hyuk-ah, slow down,” he hiccupped, reaching out behind him to grab at Joonghyuk’s hair. “I’m t—too sensitive.”
“So?” Joonghyuk bit where his mouth hovered over glistening, overused skin, and he pulled out of a Dokja for a second before turning them around and hoisting him onto the dining table. He parted Dokja’s legs like a gift.
At this angle, he fucked Dokja face-to-face, so he could trace his blown-out pupils, the single drop of sweat running down his chin, and his charmingly-tousled hair. This position was entirely too intimate, entirely too much for Dokja, who had already came once, and was being fucked into another orgasm.
Joonghyuk folded Dokja’s legs over his torso, his tongue lapping at the delicate curve of Dokja’s ankle. He bit into it, before mauling Dokja’s right leg the entire way down. If Dokja could see through his tears, he wouldn’t even recognise the state of his inner thighs — red and purple, stained with bruises marked in the shape of Joonghyuk’s possession.
It wasn’t long before his orgasm began to crest. Joonghyuk sealed Dokja’s mouth with a sloppy kiss, as if to silence him. But his moans were loud and too obscene, and slipped past his lips anyway. Interwoven with the harsh slap of skin against skin, the shaky exhales of breaths coming in short, and the tight, tight grip Dokja had on Joonghyuk’s cock, Joonghyuk found himself drawing close, too.
“You’re so pretty, Dokja-yah. So, so pretty, and you feel so good,” Joonghyuk half-panted, half-groaned into Dokja’s mouth, his thrusts frantic and quick.
“All for you, Joonghyuk-ah,” Dokja breathed, with as much energy he had left. “You were made for me. I can feel you, here,” he curled a hand over his stomach, slightly distended, “and all around me. I want you to come in me.”
Joonghyuk groaned, sounding almost pained. “Hyung, call me hyung.”
You’re insane.
But Dokja entertained him, anyway. “Hyung? Come in me, please? I want you, I want to feel you inside me, hyung.”
“Fuck, Dokja—!”
“I want your come in me, hyung. Want you to fill me up—”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
“—till I’m leaking. Till I break, Joonghyuk-hyung.”
“Fffuck, Dokja!”
Finally reaching a fever pitch, Joonghyuk spilled inside Dokja raw, hips never once ceasing as he fucked them both through their orgasms, one after the other. It felt so good, it was almost addictive — the barely-there brush of his cockhead against Dokja’s prostate as he thrust clumsily in the final dredges of his high, and the numbness that took space after. Dokja stirred his hips, squeezing one last time before Joonghyuk slipped out, his cock dripping with spend.
Suddenly, Joonghyuk bent down, and swirled his tongue around the mole on Dokja’s thigh. He bit down harshly, as if wanting to draw blood. Dokja’s other leg kicked in retaliation, but Joonghyuk was quick to snatch him at his ankle, pinning him to the table completely. Once he was done, the mole couldn’t even be seen anymore, drowned in a hideous bruise that would take days to heal.
“Let me go, you beast,” Dokja more so lamented than pleaded, his voice dipping inaudibly.
“No,” the other murmured, from where his lips remained attached to the inside of his thighs. He looked up at Dokja, begging silently with his eyes. “One more time, please?”
Dokja propped himself up by his elbows, and assessed the damage to his legs. His eyes bulged in shock. “...You’re sick!”
This time, Joonghyuk’s bare hint of a pout lasted long enough to feasibly stir Dokja’s heart. “I’ll be gentle. I promise.”
There was no fight to be had. Dokja acquiesced, but only because Joonghyuk looked too pretty when he was sad. “One more time — and no biting.”
Joonghyuk sank to his knees, burying his head between Dokja’s thigh. He rubbed his cheek against the plump flesh, before leaving featherlight kisses along the seam of his perineum.
He looked like he’d found himself home.
“Oh,” he pulled a silk necktie from some corner of the room, “and wear this around your eyes, too.”
“What the fuck, Joonghyuk.”
They ended up going for three more rounds, plus another half as Dokja was made to kneel between Joonghyuk’s legs, and was fed, inch by aggravating inch, his ridiculous cock. Joonghyuk fucked Dokja’s mouth, and face, and then his throat, till Dokja was gurgling on his come from both holes.
They may or may not have broken the decorative vases. And the table runner, as well as the utensils. Perhaps even the table itself. They refused to talk about it.
It was only later when Dokja learned that Joonghyuk, as his biggest sponsor and most dedicated fan, was positively insatiable. He also later discovered that Joonghyuk had a box of gifts he’d been meaning to send his way — all of which he’d like to try in one night. Dokja’s knees buckled at the thought.
He took home the garter belt though — slipped it into his bag as Joonghyuk finally tucked him in, after midnight, and way past the point of conversation.