Really, it must be so nice to wield such status and power. Dokja would almost be jealous if it wasn't an opportunity to bother the Plotter on every occasion that he wanted something; because he gets bored quickly from sitting around, and annoying the man—or at least, a version of him—who he knows like the back of his hand is ten times more entertaining when said man doesn't ( can't ) threaten to kill him.
There's something strange in the way that his eyebrows twitch in annoyance, and unlike Joonghyuk, keeps his mouth closed and looks away, without a condescending insult thrown at him. Or, he just gives Dokja a long, exasperated look reserved for fools. But if Dokja was able to meddle with the Yoo Joonghyuk he was closest to—or at least, one of them?—without the possibility of being thrown around like a rag doll, it's fine by him.
An insufferable con to it was the fact that they both liked to stare. Without saying anything—did they take him for a mind reader? And to a person like Kim Dokja, who'd much rather squeeze into the smallest crevice available in the shadows, it's maddening.
Eyebrow twitching, because he can't keep his focus and has been reading the same paragraph at least nine times now, because he can feel the Plotter bore holes at him through the book that Dokja's put up as an attempted wall between them, he puts the book down on his lap.
As if Yoo Joonghyuk staring at him for almost an hour silently in the demon world wasn't bad enough .
"What?" He asks, trying to sound snappy in an attempt to subdue the urge to squirm under the (slightly) stressful, intense way that the King of the outer gods is staring at him.
To his chagrin, Secretive Plotter doesn't reply to him (but really, when does any version of Yoo Joonghyuk listen to someone instead of going off to do his own thing?). Not about to make small talk with this brick wall of a conversationalist, he flips the book back open to the page he was on and continues reading. Angrily. Forcing himself to digest the lines because like hell was he going to let this man get in the way of him doing what he loves the most.
He watches the Plotter get up from his peripheral vision, clothes rustling, and thinks that the strange man's going to leave after his daily-dose-of-staring-at-kim-Dokja-with-indecipherable-expressions; it's something Yoo Joonghyuk does, and Dokja usually engages in conversation with the company members or rounds up the kids to play in an attempt to ignore it. But here, there was no escape; the Yoo Joonghyuk who'd become the Secretive Plotter and his kkoma's were the only occupants of this great palace, for some odd reason.
Really, what's with these regressors and their behavioral patterns? Did they never learn to socialize? Did the lack of proper parenting make them inept at it?
The man moves to stand right in front of him, to Kim Dokja's inapt horror. for a moment, he wonders if Secretive Plotter read his mind and wanted to patronize him for the sarcasm. He feels his pulse pick up, and then asks another, "What?"
What do you want, now, bastard? Say it.
"May I kiss you?"
Nevermind. What the fuck.
Unintelligently, Dokja half coughs, half squawks, fingers pressing so hard into the book that they shake. He's suddenly filled with an urge to bolt out of the room, maybe run towards the edge of the forests, even, because what the fuck.
(Maybe the tentacled outer god likes him enough to not rat him out, should Kim Dokja really attempt to run away. It's a good option. Because Dokja really feels like he's very close to dying—it's a sensation he's very much familiar with at this point.)
Catching the way his eyes dart around, looking for an escape route, Secretive Plotter just has to do one, manual move to nullify all of it's probability. He leans forward and braces his hands on the armrests on either side of Kim Dokja and viola; he's trapped in place, right under him.
Like a squeaky, noisy mouse, under the claws of a very tired cat.
(It's a nice look on him, caged under the Plotter's arms. A little fine tuning to Dokja's expression, from nervous fear to avid want, and everything would be perfect.)
He watches in deep fascination as Dokja's pale skin colours a bright red from the collar of his neck upwards to the tips of his ears (and wonders if the rest of him was just as flushed under his clothes.) He looks mortified, and starts sputtering. "W-wait a second? Ahat about Lee Seolhwa?—"
(There are many things about Kim Dokja that irritate him, but this ranks very, very high on the list. And isn't doused with admiration. Twice out of 1863 lifetimes, he'd loved the woman, and Kim Dokja thinks that he'll love her forever.)
With all the patience that he can muster, Secretive Plotter tells him, "I haven't pursued her since the third round."
Kim Dokja, in all his infuriating glory, blurts out a, "But why?—"
The other just leans his head closer to Dokja's until it's painfully clear to the man that he is not here to joke or make idle chatter, firmly telling him, "She's not you."
The most eloquent response he gets is a pathetic wheeze that verges on a disbelieving laugh as Dokja presses himself against the chair's backrest, flustering and looking everywhere else; absolutely refusing to meet the Plotter's gaze, and it's with equal exasperation that he realizes this man is about to attempt to bullshit his way out of this.
(On another day, maybe, Secretive Plotter would entertain this game of cat-and-mouse, letting Dokja slip away from him and boast a sense of security as the Plotter watches from afar knowing fully well that the silly rat would be back between his claws soon enough.
But he is getting very tired of letting his toy go all the time. Getting very hungry.)
So, he speaks up, and watches Kim Dokja's attention unwillingly, automatically return to him like he's wired to follow the man's every move. "Do not try to change the subject, it's either yes or no." Dokja is very, very tense—he looks like he's swallowed a golf ball whole. "…we can continue with things from there." Secretive Plotter's adds, as an afterthought, and watches with pure exasperation as Kim Dokja balks.
At the implication of talking about something that's regarding himself in a desirable way, at the terrifying ordeal of being known, Dokja implodes and blabbers like he's losing his mind , "Why me? " He's gripping the cushion under him, all instinct telling him to kick the Plotter in the face and run for it, because his heart is beating so fast that he can't even think, and the damn 4th wall is horrifyingly unresponsive in this time of dire need.
Extremely vexed, like it's taking everything in him not to hit the other's head, Secretive Plotter grips a cold, gloved hand under Dokja's chin, fingers pressing into his cheeks. Like the air's been knocked out of him, he ceases all movement.
So you can behave and sit still.
"Yes," he grits out, using his hand to tilt Dokja's head up and down in a nod, slowly articulating the word in an attempt to drill it into the other's head. "Or no?" he moves Dokja's head from side to side in a slow shake, and waits, frowning.
Kim Dokja gapes at him, in a mix of pure terror and awe, eyes round and wide. The visage of his pale, smooth skin under the Plotter's dark, shiny gloves is gorgeous . Another time, he'll properly admire the view. Right now, he's seconds away from snapping the nearest tree because such matters shouldn't be so difficult.
The feelings were mutual, and very much aware of. Why is Kim Dokja stalling this any further, the Plotter has no idea. Nor does he wish to know, if he has to go through all the reasoning that his lovely, awful star hops through in order to come to his conclusions about his relationships with anyone and everyone.
It settles in, and Dokja makes a horrifying sound, like the dying honk of a goose, and Secretive Plotter just flexes his fingers on the armrest and glares sharply at him.
A few moments pass, but Dokja ducks his head and nods ever so slightly, so stiffly that Secretive Plotter stares and almost wonders if it's his own hallucination—but then Dokja nods again, deeper, flush returning to his cheeks and fingers pressing so hard into the poor book in his lap that his knuckles turn white.
Yes.
You may kiss me, if you wish.
He wastes no time in sliding his hand from under Dokja's chin to grasp his nape (he doesn't miss the way Dokja's breath hitches, when his fingers brush past his throat; makes a mental note for it later) and pulls him in.
Dokja makes a quiet, surprised noise somewhere in the back of his throat at the searing press of lips. Now that he's got his answer, Secretive Plotter returns the favour, answering the question: why me?
He pulls away just enough that his lips ghost over Dokja's, and lists his reasons off.
"You are extremely hypocritical."
He accentuates his point with a kiss, fingers tangling into the fine strands of Dokja's hair, chasing warm, plush lips.
"You are single handedly, the most infuriating person I have ever had the displeasure of meeting and forming a covenant with."
And another.
"Your selfless veers on stupidity."
And another.
"You think too little of yourself."
He watches, eyes dark and transfixed, as Dokja's expression slowly morphs into confusion, eyes still screwed shut, face flaming. He's almost beginning to look offended, and Secretive Plotter wants to reward him for that, too; for catching on so quickly. Another kiss. "Your intelligence is deplorable," he adds, voice softening, and presses one final kiss to Dokja's impossibly soft lips before pulling away. "You're also an utter fool. "
Kim Dokja looks so, so confused.
Secretive Plotter's listed insults as his reasons for choosing Dokja. And he'd made them sound warm, loving, gentle. Hell, it makes his heart soar. That's terrifying, what the fuck. He doesn't think his brain has ever felt so scattered and all over the place. Maybe this was some grand scheme to take down the most powerful incarnation in the star stream. It makes more sense.
This is so absurd, he wants to laugh.
"Huh? You—? Me?—" He manages to point at the Plotter, very unintelligently. "—you?" He points back to himself, the hoarseness in his voice doesn't help in making him sound any more collected. He sounds like a caveman speaking for the first time, parroting unfamiliar word from the first civilized person to cross his path.
His mouth hangs partially open, gaping as he points back and forth at the gap between them like a broken record. Maybe this was the day his one weapon, his brain, finally died. Secretive Plotter's eyebrow twitches in annoyance, and he just grabs Dokja's hand tightly, in warning. The latter almost squeaks.
" We ," he supplies helpfully, irked. "Have kissed, just now. I ," he points a finger to himself, only partially sarcastic. "Want you, adore you."
He tries to remain calm, but like with all things; Kim Dokja lives to make it a very, very difficult feat. He's spent ages waiting for this moment, but suddenly his patience is running thinner than it's ever been. Dokja gains his scattered thoughts quickly enough, and holds his free hand up between them with a sheepish smile (as if he knows his next words will get him beaten up).
"I...I don't think you're considering all of this properly—"
(It will.)
"You're overthinking this. Stop." It's almost like he can physically see the little gears in Kim Dokja's brain rattle into overdrive, heating up and melting down. But because he knows why Dokja has to think so much, he adds in reassurance, tone softening, but never wavering. "O know what I want." and that's you.
At being so blatantly sought after, Kim Dokja flushes a solid three shades darker, skin burning. " but— "
Beyond annoyed, Secretive Plotter decides to shut him up by sealing their lips together. He bites at Dokja's mouth hard, teeth digging into the plush skin, and Dokja gasps—or maybe it's a wince. As an insincere apology (because he did tell himself that he would treat this man with all the gentleness in the world, but that was before personally experiencing the hell of Kim Dokja's emotional intelligence processability), he runs his tongue over the wound and shoves it into Dokja's mouth.
Fingers clench around the lapels of his jacket, and Kim Dokja whines. A quiet, needy noise, and it's taking everything in him to not do anything more; taking his other hand off of the armrest to splay flat against the small of Dokja's back (has his waist always been so thin? ) and press him closer into the Plotter's arms.
It escalates until it can hardly be called a kiss; lips haphazardly, barely slotting together, slipping from one another and sinfully slick. At the slightest, lightest touch, Dokja shivers. It's a divine taste in the Plotter's mouth, and he revels in how he barely has to do anything before Dokja's panting, too immersed to even realise he's doing it.
He tries to take control; sloppily, messily licking at Secretive Plotter's lips in an endearing way that reeks of inexperience, and it makes the Plotter frustrated beyond measure; self constraint near impossible now, because all he wants to do is press Kim Dokja down on the couch and make him scream.
(Until his expressions haze over with lust, and shy, tentative hands clutch at him with wanton need. )
Against every complaining cell in his body, Secretive Plotter pulls away to regain the ropes of self control.
(It really, truly does not help that even if for a split second, Kim Dokja's lips chased his own.)
Secretive Plotter moves his hand from Dokja's back and braces it on the armrest again (lest he's tempted otherwise), and watches as Dokja slumps in his seat without the other's hand to keep him upright. Watches as Dokja's fingers slip from his lapels, face burning and scrunched up, trying to even out his breathing. Watches short puffs of air come out of slicked, red lips (finds that red is a good colour on him, when it isn't from the after effects of an apocalyptic battle field; thinks that familiar, wine coloured stains would suit the tragically blank canvas that is Kim Dokja's neck).
Watches the way Dokja's throat bobs when he swallows, weighted hand still on his nape (another thought that he'll tuck elsewhere for later, because there's just something about it) and trails his eyes down to the rise and fall of his chest, nonchalantly taking him in as he calms down.
Haughty, smug pride settles in where frustration was—after all, Secretive Plotter's fairly certain that a simple kiss wouldn't usually get someone so worked up. But his favourite anomaly always proves things wrong, and he's found that Kim Dokja's oddly responsive to being touched.
(The reason's fairly obvious; living a life full of solitude and independence would make even the smallest actions foreign and impactful. Secretive Plotter's most certainly going to take advantage of it—until sharp, defensive eyes soften and glaze over, and the only words he knows are more, more, and more. )
Content, he trails his eyes lower, wondering if he could envelope both his hands around Dokja's waist and have his fingers meet (wonders if the skin there would bruise as easily as the skin on his neck). It smooths out into the slender curve of his hips (that Secretive Plotter is fairly certain would fit like a puzzle piece against the dip of his palms), and— oh .
Oh starstream give him strength.
Maybe it should've been obvious, considering all of Dokja's reactions, but, really.
For the umpteenth time, Secretive Plotter clenches his jaw and presses his lips into a firm line, letting his fingers grip around the armrest, and takes a deep breath. Patience is virtue, but this fool is making it far harder to believe than all his regression turns combined . What a skilled bastard.
"Kim Dokja." he says after a moment, trying to keep his voice stable.
He takes both extreme satisfaction and great anguish in the way that Kim Dokja's eyes flutter open at his name being called. Because he still looks very, very dazed (very, very debauched . Secretive Plotter wants to see the full extent that it'll go), and so very — obliviously confused.
Very calmly—or at least, as calm as one can be in such a time, Secretive Plotter tells him, "The only thing I did was kiss you. The only thing we did was kiss."
When Kim Dokja's eyebrows scrunch in confusion, trying to piece together the Plotter's obscure words as if it's another language, said Plotter is so, so tempted to just snap the wooden armrest under his palm and fuck it into the man. The armrest creaks weakly under his grip, as if to beg for mercy when he presses down on it slightly.
Instead, he raises an eyebrow back at Dokja, with the same peculiar expression reserved for fools.
You're Kim Dokja and you know me more than anyone else, you should be able to figure this out; it goes unsaid, but understood. Dokja thinks for a moment, and then his expression turns into a sardonic, indignant one.
Woefully, the Plotter realises that the man is an unreliable translator for human emotion and body language the moment he opens his mouth.
" This — " Dokja gestures to the way he's still struggling to breathe properly, with the crankiness of a cat dunked into cold water. "—is a perfectly normal reaction when someone shoves their tongue down your throat? Do you expect me to breathe when you pull something like tha —" he immediately clamps his mouth shut, hand flying over it, but a muffled mnfhnm slips through his fingers. The confusion that he'd made such a noise is quickly replaced by pure horror, face reddening when he realises why.
The culprit stares back at him, having hiked up a knee on the seat, right where Dokja's legs are split open, pressed up right against the unfairly obvious tent in his pants. It takes a moment for the gears in his head to process all of it--that Secretive Plotter's knee is between his legs. Spread open, around the Plotter's knee. Fabric straining, bunched up because he's—he resorts to his default settings; hitting the Plotter in the chest repeatedly (without any of the force it'd take to hurt, because he isn't exactly very functional right now) and barking out, "What the hell, you bastard?!"
(His voice does not, in fact, crack in the slightest. not at all.)
Resorting to basic instincts in the face of emotional onslaught, Kim Dokja attempts to kick Secretive Plotter—whether in the face or torso, he doesn't know. Doesn't care. he needs to escape.
But of course, the universe has never been particularly fond of him, so he doesn't succeed; the Plotter catches his leg in a firm grip and sends him a flat, unimpressed look. Then pulls him in by the leg from where Dokja's tried to press himself up against the backrest. He slides down the seat looking like he doesn't know whether to be terrified or turned on, a little pathetically, and the Plotter uses his stupefaction to deflect the question back at him, "That's what I should be asking you ."
And then, graced with the standard protagonist poker face, he adds, sounding miffed, "My intentions were pure. I simply wanted to kiss you." But it seems that you are still a lustful fool who gives into sexual desire too easily.
Kim Dokja looks like he's going to cry, unable to tell whether that was a lie or not; he's so mortified he can't even see straight, can't even think. He reaches for the book on his stomach as a weapon, while gawking, "Th-that's!" he doesn't even remember what he was going to say, so he gets offensive instead, attempting to ignore how his skin burns under Secretive Plotter's touch.
"Of course I'm pent up!" He exclaims, voice pitching higher in all the ways that don't favour him. "Do you know how much stress you put me through for all those years?!" He doesn't even know if he's referring to the novel he's read or the scenarios he's lived through, but dammit it's one of them. His accusatory, hissy tone has none of the effects he thought it would, because the Plotter smiles. He's terrified.
Spewing all the problems that the protagonist's put him through in an attempt to deviate from his predicament, Dokja points a finger at the other man and squabbles, "I lost hair because of you!" like it's a heinous crime.
(It should be.)
(Did N'gai even have laws?)
(It should, because what Secretive Plotter's doing would, very much, fall under the category of manslaughter. Stab him with a sword, it'd hurt less .)
"It's my fault?" he asks, and light from one of the windows makes the gold in his eyes gleam. He doesn't even sound bothered, mouth curling up slyly. He leans in closer, enjoying this too much. "That won't do, now would it?"
He looks ready to pounce.
In one swift motion, Secretive Plotter slides his hands up and under the bend of Dokja's knee, pulling it over his shoulder. Dokja isn't sure if the human body should even bend like that, thigh pressing to his chest. He isn't sure that the human body is meant to function with such a high heart rate. People die like this, don't they?
With a voice as smooth and rich as velvet, the Plotter says, "Let me handle it, as reimbursement."
A part of Kim Dokja is, very willing to just hand over the reins and let him do what he wants—and that horrifies him. this has never, in his 28 years of existence before the scenarios, happened in his life.
(This has got to be a trap to get rid of the strongest incarnation in the star stream. There's no other variable that makes sense.)
(Or maybe it makes too much sense, and Dokja wants it so much that it terrifies him because he doesn't know what'll happen if he doesn't get it, so he instead resorts to bullshitting to himself to calm down.)
Secretive Plotter leans in again, and their noses almost brush. His eyes are dark, but warm in the deceptive way that they hide what's burning underneath, smile predatory. Dokja holds his breath, lightheaded—it's so unfair. How could tls123 make him so, so—
The slightest shift interrupts his train of thought; Secretive Plotter doesn't press his knee further between Dokja's legs, just shifting his weight, and the muscle flexes. Dokja's throat is uncomfortably dry, and the Plotter's thigh looks so, so firm. When the slightest shiver goes down his spine, his brain kicks up back into overdrive, eyes widening as what Secretive Plotter said clicks in his head, and he wheezes out a pitififul, " Hah?!"
In one last, vain attempt to survive, Dokja wields the book in his hand as a weapon and attempts to hit the Plotter on the head with some hope that it'll slap some sense into him. Or at the very least, disarm and disorient him as Dokja makes his escape.
A gloved hand grabs his wrist before he has the chance to do either.
(Because this is a being who's lived for eons, far quicker and sharper than a person who's barely been alive for the smallest fraction of it—constellation or not.)
the grip is gentle, but firm. Loose enough to wiggle out of if Dokja tries hard enough.
( Run as far as you'd like, there's only one ending for this maze. )
Secretive Plotter moves so that his lips brush Dokja's ear; a slow, stealthy, ravenous motion. It makes heat coil up in Dokja's guts, tension building in his stomach, and makes his heartbeat falter. "I'd be more than happy to," he murmurs, voice steady and low and promising, in regards to his offer. There's a lilt of amusement in his voice when he continues, "But you seem like you want to deal with this alone, so I'll leave you be for the day."
Dokja moves his mouth, trying to string together words, a response. But his train of thought gets drowned out by his own deafening pulse in his ears, staccato beating like its spasming. He's so conflicted, devastated by it; wants to be annoyed and offended at the audacity of Secretive Plotter—he's not going to shove his hands into his pants the moment the other leaves like an insatiable, horny teenager just because of a kiss.
(A small, quiet part of him wants to hold onto those lapels again, ask him to stay because it's his fault that Dokja's in such a state.)
And when the Plotter stands up straight and looks down at him with a subdued glint to his eyes, satisfied, Dokja realises, familiar heat curling in his stomach, heart dropping, that the word he's been trying to form on his tongue is please.
It takes a grand total of fifteen minutes for him to come back to his senses (according to the grand clock on the wall), to function, and by that time, Secretive Plotter's already left, and Kim Dokja's alone in an endless library.
It takes him ten more minutes to realise that the Plotter took his book with him.
Walking through one of the long hallways leading to the throne room, Secretive Plotter stares at the words engraved on the leather cover in gold lettering.
Yoo Joonghyuk, 3rd regression.
He sees 41 in the distance, huffing as though he's been looking for the Plotter all day. He has. Apparently some higher ranking outer gods demand an audience with him, and Secretive Plotter brushes past him with a short hum. He pauses in his tracks, and 41 scurries to catch up during the pause, watching him with narrowed eyes.
Secretive Plotter tosses the book at him and continues walking. They were similar enough for the kkoma to know what he means.