#kdj x male reader

[slowd1ving]

Hello can u write a Dokja x Medusa!male!reader please

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR GORGON ゜゜・KIM DOKJA

'You listening, Dokja? Maybe if you followed the guides for dealing with intelligent species like this one, you wouldn't be in such a stupid mess.' yall think aegis can be used as a different sort of barrier?!?! sorry anon this is less mythology centric than i planned icl art by @ 1L9l2Aa8UCL0IGJ (blackbox) on x! pairing: kim dokja + male reader warnings: canon typical danger, mentions of self-sacrifice wc: 2.9k

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

There exist several unspoken rules when interacting with the particularly volatile species integrated onto Planetary System 8612. Most ‘monsters’ are unable to effectively communicate with the main intelligent species in the domes, thus are doomed for imminent slaughter. However, exceptions like the catalyst behind these reports must be treated with particular regard. 

Guidelines will serve you well in the coming days, reader. If you’ve accessed these reports, it probably means the days are bleak and you’ve encountered one of these species. One thing is for certain; if you are reading this, you will survive your encounter with a gorgon. 

< Observation log, section 1 > (Relative Earth time 21/◼◼/20◼◼)TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDING

‘Rule number one: if possible, do not engage with a gorgon. Though, considering your perusal of these records, it seems this was not successful on your end. Better luck next time!’

‘Sooyoung-ah, don’t be ru—’

Avoidance was always a good policy when it came to the apocalypse. It saved time, toil, and lives—much like a vaccine helped one bypass a virus. But one couldn’t rely on it entirely; neither vaccine nor evasion was infallible after all. 

‘If they were, these records would not need to exist.’

And for humans, their biggest hamartia was their ignorance. Nerve cells could only do so much to detect dangerous stimuli and trigger a reflex for flight. If the hazard was less obvious, much more innocuous, then the poor human would only be wading into quicksand if they weren’t smart enough. Right before getting devoured. 

‘Of course that squid was the blind one who got us into this mess.’

Just like these unspoken rules, it was de facto that Kim Dokja was unlucky. Unfortunate. Ill-destined. However you chose to put it, the man was born under a cursed star, which meant that the stranger sitting across from him in the park was naturally part of his jinx as well. 

“What are you staring at?” Unlike the squid wearing his stupidly pristine coat, the man sitting on the bench facing him appeared to be a student: civilian wear and a lanyard still around your neck, like you’d frozen in time these past few months. Glasses rested on your nose, which you pushed up each time they slipped—even if they moved only minutely. 

Perhaps you were nervous, but the caustic indifference in your tone suggested it was an unlikely possibility. 

“Ah, sorry. I have a habit of looking at interesting people,” he laughed your question off, but the lack of information on you, coupled with the fact he didn’t recognise who you were, gave him the answer he needed. You weren’t a part of the original novel. “Uh, it’s a nice park, isn’t it? Lovely statues.”

You glanced at the reader, unimpressed. Just like that handsome bastard, there was that same impassive scowl plastered on your face. But as soon as he’d mentioned the sculptures scattered around this surprisingly lush pocket of Seoul, your face had softened somewhat. 

“Art major?” he probed, for there was something about your gaze that drew words from his mouth. Or perhaps it was just how surreal this scene was: someone enjoying the park like anyone before the paid service began, just some guy taking a breather from classes with a thick, bound book beside him. 

A ballpoint pen, rather than a sword or any other weapon. Blue ink, instead of bloody atrament. 

You were a part of this world, yet detached from it all. 

“No, chemistry,” you said. Deadpan, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m specialising in geochemistry. Rocks, soil, minerals. Humans do so underappreciate what goes on beneath their feet.”

Specialising. Present tense. Not specialised. 

Humans: like you were utterly detached from anyone and everyone. 

His breath caught in his throat.

The urging of constellations reminded him of just the situation he was in—about to run out of time in this sub-scenario, where hordes of monsters would soon swarm. Right in this very park. 

“Listen, you’ll need to get out of here soon—there’s going to be swarms of insect-like creatures here in, uh, five minutes give or take. You’ll be in danger if you can’t fight,” he swallowed. A look of disdain flickered in your eyes, and his head throbbed with how much your expressions resembled that sunfish bastard’s. You’re the idiot, your brows indicated, while the set of your mouth held only one question: who said I couldn’t fight? In the same strand of thinking, the sudden curdle of your shoulders—hunched, guarded—seemed to gesture and who are you to tell me that?

‘If only you knew back then.’

In short, you could fight. You could fight, and you were absolutely terrifying to watch. 

“Aegis,” you whispered, and the statues seemed to continue in susurration with you as the air warped in on itself. Dokja was thrown back by the shockwave as the space rippled—all in time for the main guests of the sub-scenario to arrive. 

Insect mutations. 

They crashed right into the distortions. A barrier. You’d set up an impenetrable defence in less time it took for him to draw breath, only for him to keel over behind you instead. Wow. Okay. He could still work with that. 

“What are you—”

“Silence.” It would’ve stung less if you just told him to shut up instead, but from the very get-go you were never particularly nice. Kind? Somewhat, in the sense you’d viewed him as some useless, bumbling fool that would be better off behind the translucent shield you’d conjured. But nice? No, from the very beginning, you were never nice. 

‘Deserved.’

That was fine. Bearable. Still in the realms of believability. 

For Kim Dokja, the shock came after watching your hand raise to your face to slip your glasses off. From the back, he could no longer see the stern expression you no doubt wore. But he wasn’t focused on your face, but rather the warmth of the day instantly seeping from the molecules. 

Time itself froze, and the insects did too. 

No one breathed, and not a singular sound rang out—save something hissing. A tire, perhaps, but nobody was fool enough to simply drive cars during the apocalypse. 

Then came the stirring of your clothes. It was a breeze only you felt, rippling and undulating until your hair moved too. Except it wasn’t the wind that hissed, nor was it the wind that wafted the coils. No, they twisted into thicker, scaly locks—snake-like, except these were snakes suddenly attached to your head. It was no longer a simile, nor was it a metaphor. 

You had fucking snakes in your hair. 

His breathing was shallow; in the sudden frigid climate, those puffs crystallised and condensed in small white clouds. 

And what of those insects?

His eyes flicked back to the ground shakily, to where the arthropods lay crumbling. Statues, like the ones he’d complimented brief minutes ago. Pearlescent marble—no, stone. Your glasses were still grasped tight in your hand, and he knew if you turned to meet his wide-eyed stare he’d be next. But, alas—

“Who… are you?” 

‘And this is how Kim Dokja put his foot in his mouth and demonstrated his exceptionally poor luck.’

< Observation log, section 2 > (Relative Earth time 24/◼◼/20◼◼)TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDING

‘Rule number two: do not stare into the eyes of a gorgon. Don’t even look, except for when there are protective measures in place. Case one: a blindfold. Case two: glasses, which he literally wears every minute of the day save for when he’s sleeping. Dokja, do not sneak up on the man when he’s sleeping.’

‘Dokja, you suck.’

It wasn’t often you let down your guard, with writhing, clawing humans nonetheless. Pointing fingers to find the monsters under their beds and threatening their cities—when in fact it was their bellicose faults that doomed them. A self-made end, a fitting conclusion for the snake that bites its own tail. If you had ever been human once, these people shared more blood with the beasts than they thought. 

Point was: you didn’t particularly care for those who appeared to be like you. Bodies, soft and squishy from a life coddled in cities; smiles duplicitous and more monstrous than any snarl; and their thoughts, often more heinous than any demon. And despite their sins, they’d meander in life wrapped in the bliss of self-ignorance. Dead in their varying morals like shrouds of far-too different cloths. 

In this, no human was the same. This was the philosophy that alienated yourself from your sisters. 

This was also the philosophy that landed you in a warm, damp place—completely dark with something poking at your cheeks. Correction—even through the thin membrane and slightly thicker skin that covered your eyes, there appeared to be a dim redness seeping into the edges of blackness. It seemed your blood vessels were alit by some foolish beastling. Almost like the golden chariot was prancing afore your eyes, except only Aeos of the Dawn was trotting along your lash line with a proud toss of his shrunken head. 

Your fingers twitched inside your sleeping bag, but you forced a deep breath in before you could hear any hissing. 

Actually, you knew exactly who was prodding at your cheek with a frigid index finger; the faint brush of his scent gave him away almost instantaneously. 

“Kim Dokja. Are you an idiot?” you ground out, eyes still tightly shut to avoid turning this fool to stone. “I’ve already agreed to travelling with your circus, so I’d prefer you refrain from getting petrified.”

“You really do sound like him when you’re irritated,” he let out with a suppressed snort. 

“Aegis,” you whispered, and the impertinent hand ceased its movements. 

The barrier was not, in fact, activated. 

“Gave me a bit of a fright there,” he swallowed. “I just wanted to say, it’s fine if you open your eyes.”

“No,” you deadpanned. Though you couldn’t see the expression, you could feel your facial muscles twitch into an impassive wall. “Don’t involve me with your stupid plans to kill yourself off.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he corrected himself. Were all humans like this when you lived as one? “It just won’t work on me. Me alone, which is why I locked the door so no one could come in.”

“Why?” He was a fool like the rest of them—risking peril for a glimpse of cursed eyes. Like all of man, his hubris rested heavy on his shoulders. 

“I just want to see your smug face without any glasses.”

“You’re looking at it presently,” you argued. Though your ire was evident with your furrowed brows, he didn’t relent. Where was that puny man who’d trembled behind you at the sight of insects? More importantly, how had he changed so quickly?

“With your eyes open,” he clarified. He was more insane than anyone you’d ever met. 

“Does it really make a difference?” you stalled. “How can you be sure you won’t suffer the effects as every other human and beast does?”

“You care about me that much?” 

It was a quiet question. A tentative venture into teasing, yet strangely vulnerable. 

“You worried?” he echoed. It was a weak aegis of his own, already prepared to accept your scoff and firm no. 

“Fool.” Both the skin eyelids and the thin membrane unsheathed haunting irises. You already knew what you’d see in them—a milky sort of quality to their natural colouring, even without the extra membrane. Slit pupils dilated minutely at the sight of him, and his breath caught in his throat as you gazed upwards, unblinking. 

Fool. The word echoed in his mind, an answer to his question but not at the same time. 

I’m not worried. 

Peering, your claws gently grazed his face: almost a kiss, if a kiss left a slight sting behind.

“I’m always worried about you, Kim Dokja,” you murmured, and it was perhaps then that his heartbeat grew erratic. Staring into those pretty eyes of yours with your thumb tenderly swiping across his flushed cheekbones, it was no wonder he could taste his very pulse. “Remember our first meeting?”

“How could I forget?”

A back facing his hunched form, more dependable than the shield spreading and curling beneath your mighty palms. Snakes coiling down your back, but there was nothing scary about how they swayed like ribbons in the sunset. And finally those eyes, directly protecting him from the swarms of insects. 

No, perhaps it was then when the thrum of the organ grew somewhat more rapid. 

‘Glad you realised.’

< Observation log, section 3 > (Relative Earth time 03/◼◼/20◼◼)TRANSCRIPTION OF RECORDING

‘Rule number three: do not feed the snakes. Do not feed the snakes, Dokja. DO NOT FEED THE GODDAMN SNAKES.’

“Is Kim Dokja a masochist?”

The question, like most questions, came out of the blue. Such an innocuous, casual tone veiled your usual clipped syllables that Han Sooyoung found herself seriously internalising your words, before—

“What— koff— huh?” she spluttered against the sudden taste of her lemon candy, expression turning troubled, then incredulous. 

“Does he take pleasure in torturing himself?” you clarified, as though it were a matter of comprehension rather than tact. 

‘I knew what a masochist was! Why would he ask that?’

“If it’s Dokja, probably,” she coughed finally. Honestly, she’d pondered this very question herself—staring deadpan at the numerous deaths he’d experienced by his own plans. “Uh, just so we’re clear, why do you ask?”

“Is it normal to try to feed my snakes?” Definitely not.

“That… idiot did what?” she stared at the resident gorgon with quite the perplexed expression, but soon regained her composure. “No, not particularly. Are they… venomous?”

“Yes. Very much so. Please tell him to quit.”

Yet, despite all the half-hearted chidings of you and Sooyoung alike, your little snakes were beginning to grow fat and affectionate towards the man. You could feel something fundamental begin to shift, and it wasn’t a particularly pleasant feeling. 

< Observation log, section 4 > (Relative Earth time 14/◼◼/20◼◼)TRANSCRIPTION OF RECORDING

‘Rule number four: gorgon venom should not be ingested. If you are Kim Dokja, this applies perhaps most poignantly to you. You may be immune to its effects for whatever reason, but the venom is a nightmare to get out of clothing. Thanks.’

“An experiment?” 

Kim Dokja’s face didn’t change from his usual, vaguely blurred visage; but it wasn’t like snakes had particularly good eyesight regardless. “Yes. Would you be up for it?”

You’d agreed on a whim. Why the experiment was to take place in a closed room, you didn’t particularly know. Maybe humans encountering an apocalypse had special customs to adhere to. “I am familiar with experimental protocol in laboratories and practicals.”

“Would you like to help me upgrade my poison-immunity skill?”

You’d initially refused outright—struck dumb at how recklessly he treated his life. Every time you thought he was a fool, he proved himself even more foolish—a crazed endeavour if you ever saw it. 

Gorgon poison. Released in more diluted doses from the snakes on you, concentrated particularly in the bone-white fangs in your mouth. Like a vampire, Yoo Sangah had excitedly noted: much too excitedly for your liking. 

Bite me, he asked you. 

A pale wrist was held out cautiously in front of him. The air was no longer mere air, but an ancient altar dedicated to this sacrifice. Thus, you were the priest for this rite once more, but this time the ram carried the bronze knife itself. 

He’s an idiot, you seethed, yet you were too. 

For you suggested a less painful way of transferring venom, but he agreed. For you gently clasped his chin with razor sharp talons skimming the dermis of his throat, but he melted pliantly in your hands. For you leaned in with softened eyes, but his own simply fluttered shut in anticipation. 

You surged, pressing him against the cold cement of the wall. Air was robbed from his lungs as he gasped, but rather than pulling back his warm, human hands merely wrapped around your nape to meld your body against his. 

Why did his hands shake so? Was this not just an experimental procedure dedicated to strengthening a human? 

Despite your analytical mind, your eyes closed too—both membrane and skin—and you savoured the lingering taste of the meaty dinner he’d eaten, and the underlying flavour of him. Hot blood pumped beneath his fragile oral mucosa; your greedy, long tongue prodded his own to find just where his pulse thrummed the strongest. 

Ah, fuck, he thought dumbly; sloppily making out with you in a forgotten room was not how he’d envisioned this night, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

Even as he winced with sharp pain when your fangs cut his lips, he couldn’t pull back—objective achieved but long forgotten. Those pesky, wandering hands of his clung onto your body when his head canted: deepening the kiss rather than wrapping up his poison exposure. 

Iron tainted his mouth. Dripping past the seams of desperate lips was the crimson mixture of blood and venom, dripping onto his sweater and corroding the very threads—yet Kim Dokja both did not notice and did not particularly care. 

But all good things came to an end. The two of you were met with an extremely exasperated Han Sooyoung at the door as she gave you a look, one that implied I expected better from you. For Dokja, the reserved expression was I expected this, to be honest. 

‘PDA is not appreciated during the apocalypse. Take that shit elsewhere.’

‘Thus, these reports can be summarily concluded in two points of advice: 

1. Unless you are Kim Dokja, do not attempt any of these activities with a gorgon. 

2. Simply don’t do what Kim Dokja does.’

[erosiism]

I really love your works and they inspire me so much, your writing is beautiful man. Idk if you’ve already done it, but can I request a kdj x yoo joonghyuk fanfic? I understand if you don’t want to because it’s not really male reader! :3

Sure! Might take a while, though :) takes be back to 2022 where all I would post was joongdok on a03 lol…

[secretivemessenger]

A three-way with KDJ , YJH

CW: Face sitting! Rimming! Riding! OOC! Them holding hands while being played w by you! <3

Heaven’s could not describe how lucky you are, having two pretty boys right on your dick.

Yo jonghyuk seated perfectly on your face, as you drill your tongue past his ring of muscles. Holding his trembling thighs tightly, digging your nails in, drawing out blood. His body couldn’t stop twitching around as he can feel his hole being abused by your swift tongue.

His low and shameful cries as he pushes back against your tongue almost unheard because of the loudness of Kim Dokja. He took your cock like an absolute Whore. Riding it with admirable determination, with the thought of milking you dry. Having you fill him up to the brim.

His hips quickly moved up and down on your cock, his hands on your abdomen supporting him up. his mind feeling dizzy as another orgasm was pulled outta him painting his bulged tummy white for a third time. Throwing his head back as an even louder set of moans leave him as he continues to fuck himself against you.

He absolutely loves overstimulating himself on your cock, slamming himself repeatedly even after he just came.

The mixed moans of both was such an amazing sound to hear, you could just relax up and sleep with just hearing all their cute whimpering because of you.

It made you so soo cocky by getting someone as fierce like YJH in such state, and even more cocky by having a constellation riding you like a desperate slut. Everyone would be soo jealous of you.

With the way you were eating YJH out he almost lost his balance if not for sweet Dokja taking him by his hands, both staring at eachother, as you glance down at them with the side of your eye in aww

It turned you on even more if that was possible. Their intense staring cut short as both clinged tightly against eachother as your body got to moving again. Wanting nothing other than to completely mess them up <3.

Almost forgot this- 🏷: @gaybitchfx @vyloy

[3smos]

warning: drabble. dom reader. sub character. drabble. gender neutral. hand job. overstimulation.

kim dokja curls into himself, his fingers gripping at your freshly cleaned clothes as if that'll bring him back to his senses.

his entire body burns but he holds himself down from removing your hand.

"fuck, fuck... hn..." dokja pants loudly, his hips bucking and fucking himself in your hand wrapped loosely around his throbbing cock.

you asked the man to show you how much of a good boy he could be. it surprising how far he'll go to prove himself.

dokja's hand shoots out to grip your forearm as you dig your thumb in his slit, beads of precum rolling out and helping you in the process. you used it as lube.

"ah waitwaitwait!!" you quickly remove your hand, watching his squirm in your lap. he whines loudly, dropping his head in the crook of your neck.

he gulps, swallowing the little saliva he had in his mouth. he licks his red, and bruised lips, planting a gentle kiss to your neck.

"i never said to s-stop..." you rub his back, trying to soothe him through his denied orgasm. dokja grinds against you, panting into your ear as his sensitivity heightens once again.

"you don't have a choice."

...

[euhla]

A thought about the sub!Kim Dokja. If you don't like this content, DNI. Also, English is not my first language

Sub!Kim Dokja x top!male reader : hc/scenario

kim dokja will whine if you tease him, like you touch his sensitive body parts, and you suddenly stop.

kim dokja will cry messy when you play rough. his soft voice calls out your name, moaning and wanting more.

“a- ngh .. n- no! don't stop, please!” You tease him a lot, because his expression is so adorable to you, and makes you want him even more.

“oh? you don't want me to stop? if so, beg.”

the next thing that will happen, he will say, “i- i have been a good boy today. so please give me a gift! I will always be a good boy for you.”

kim dokja always wanted your cock to be in it, and filled him. so he'll beg for it.

look at his slim waist! move with your thurst becomes fast.

his white hands will holding the bed sheet tightly. his mind is empty, there's only you who's fucking him.

no matter how many times you've done it, he just keeps wanting more. he wants you to fill him.

[3smo]

hcs for kim dokja !

warning: dom reader. sub characters. gender neutral. sex hcs. virgin kdj. corruption kink. mind breaking. whether you prefer a strap or dick, i use 'dick/cock' doesn't mean the reader has a gender. dumbification. fingering.

✿ disclaimer — I only write for characters 18+. if you don't like my content, please block me.

@lvyino this is for you 😩😳

yoo jonghyuk.

dokja is most likely a virgin. in all his life, he's never even touched someone in a way so intimately nor has someone done the same to him.

poor baby gets so nervous when he wanted to have his first time, he automatically thought he was suppose to go on top since between the two of you, you were the most gentle one. he assumed you've never had sex before and he wanted you to be comfortable.

but he's also competitive and prideful, he'll try his best to please you. please don't laugh at him when he tries to praise you, it's awkward and even he knows it.

so grab his face and smash your lips together, he also whimpers into them which makes it much hotter.

as soon as he found out who was way more experienced, he gave his body and mind to you. i think he felt relieved too, and being on top just made him uncomfortable.

absolutely loves when you mark him up. he'd be moaning and gasping if you do. the next morning he'll get super embarrassed, even though he was the one who asked for it. i think he likes how it contrasts against his skin color. sensitive spots are his inner thighs and collarbones, so make sure to leave as much as you can.

so the first time he received head, he thought it was going to be easy to just get what he wants. especially since you're very gentle with him, kissing down his body and whispering praises to him. he was feeling confident.

then suddenly that gentleness was replace with something else. no matter how many times he whines for you to please let him finish, you never gave in. only until you felt the need to.

probably cries and sobs when nearing his orgasm.

he cries out loud and squirms around to push you off, although, he's gripping any part of you he can to keep you on him. his body quivers a lot during sex, even having many after shocks.

being corrupted was probably a hidden fantasy of his, though he automatically knew he liked it when you kept getting rougher with him. he liked the change and the challenge.

so dokja wants to keep up with you, he wants to turn it into a game to see who can break first, he probably becomes very bratty, talks back and shit but i don't think you'd mind, seeing how comfortable enough he was to act like that.

or it was just an act to cover up how shy he really was. which is true.

the easiest way to break him; fucking him at a slow pace, make sure you're looming over him and he can barely move. it makes him feel small and so good. all he can do is cry and grip at the bed sheets.

"pleasepleaseplease!!" he'd repeat, eyes shut tightly and head thrown back. you kept your slow, agonizing pace. he would try to move back on your dick but due to the position he was in, he couldn't.

"gah! i- please! im sorry!" he'd beg and sob for forgiveness, wanting to cum so badly, but it just wouldn't happen. he's gotten so used to be fucked roughly, he can't handle when you're being slow.

you simply coo at him, wiping the tears from his face and left a lingering kiss to his lips. he tries to chase after it.

"we're going at this pace, or we're stopping." kim dokja was already too turned on from this, it couldn't stop now!

another way is through humiliation - imagine how surprised everyone would be if they found out how he acted in bed. how a little feathery touch to his nipples gets him hard. or how much he loves to get filled up.

he also has very sensitive nipples. they get swollen very easily, and if you play with them too much, he could barely wear a shirt without his nipples rubbing against the fabric.

"you look so dumb!" you laugh at his face, he can't help but tear up. anyone would've thought he hated it, but he keep leaking even more everytime you spoke to him like this!

"bet you can barely even think, can you darling?"

he tries his best to keep his composure, you find it adorable. his cheeks were flushed, his body was bruised with bite marks and hickeys. its obvious to anyone what was going on inside your room. he's so loud.

he'll try prove to you that he can still think, and the attempt is so pathetic and whiny.

kim dokja would think you were very easy.

seeing as you love to touch him. it's so easy to get you to kiss him or cuddle with him. but he was so easy to give in to every little thing you did to him.

was he the easy one?

another head cannon that i can't stop thinking about is wet dreams. dokja has lots of them, he fantasies about lots of things he wants you to do with him. they will either come from his own mouth, or someone will expose him for it.

it always happens.

when dokja wakes up from one, he immediately tries to shake it off. his heart is beating rapidly and he's sweating all over.

he dreams of lots of things.

you in a garter belt. being tied up at your mercy. getting spanked.

dokja would never think of getting spanked before but when you slap his hand away from... anything (ex: when he tries to touch himself or you.) he'll let out a loud whine at the sting but it felt good... he imagined how it would feel on his ass.

uuhh getting choked with your thighs, hands. dokja has a wild imagination. so imagine what would happen if they were exposed?!

do you know how embarrassed dokja would get! so he better get to telling you about them before they burst out.

moving on from that topic.

have you seen his waist?! grip it, doesn't matter if its bruising or he gets ticklish, dokja finds it so hot when you're holding onto his waist and fucking him from behind.

i honestly think dokja would be embarrassed about getting fingered. but not by having your dick inside him?

he hides his face a lot, and tries to close his legs, maybe its cause his sensitivity gets really high from humiliation.

so restricting him with bondage will help. his legs are set apart, the rope from his ankle is keeping him from squirming away.

now he's even more embarrassed about it. his legs are wide open and you can see everything. from his twitching cock to his shy expressions.

there's something dokja can't live without and that's being touched.

it doesn't matter whether you're degrading him or being mean to him. physical contact is something he yearns for behind closed doors. just hold him and he'll melt, he will try to bring you closer whenever he can, even if its impossible.

so not touching him would be punishment for him.

i don't think he'll liked to be punish either, he'll try his best to be a good boy, but he has a little tinge of brattiness to him. poor baby doesn't like it when you're mad at him :((

· · ·

[xkseii]

Hi! Do you take ORV requests? If so can I request KDJ or YJH x Dom Male reader and they’re fwbs or just a very fluffy scenario with them?? If you don’t, sorry for wasting your time and have a nice day :D

⎮We meet again⎮

⏤ Characters: Dokja⎮reader

⏤ Including: nsfw (-17) & sfw

⏤ Warnings: sub! Dokja, top! Male reader, size kink, belly bulge, overstimulation, dacryphilia, mind-breaking, mention of blood, creampie

⏤ 2.500 words

You have known Dokja for a long while, since the seventh grade, actually. You had always been the popular guy while Dokja was just considered as less than a support character. He had always been bullied and ignored by everyone, nobody would talk to him and if they do, it would be to make fun of him. You felt pity for him many times but never tried to do anything, like anyone else, you would let it happen since you did not want to lose your status.

One night, after school, you discovered an interesting web novel, surprisingly, before the first 100th chapter, all readers stopped reading and only one continued to. You spend days and nights reading it, in class, at home, before going to sleep till you would nearly pass out and early in the morning. As you were reading one of what seems like the most recent chapter, you unknowingly sat next to Dokja and were forced to put your phone down when the teacher arrived.

As you push your phone to the side to get your notebook out of your bag, you hear a gasp next to you. You turn around with a frown, noticing how Dokja was looking at you with stars in his eyes. It was the first time you saw him make a face like this.

“You read it too?!”

Your eyes widen as you see him point out the novel still open on your phone. And for the first time, your eyes really met, and you see an unmistakable passion in his eyes for this story. And that's how you end up talking for the entire hour, not caring about anything but this passion in common. Slowly by surely you became friends, spending more and more time together, he would still avoid you at school, so you don't get in trouble because of him, but you would see each other outside.

This friendship blossomed over a year, and at some point, the line between this friendship, sexual relation and love blurred, making you unable to see its real limit. What should be innocent meetings to go shopping and have fun, was always ending up in Dokja being bent over some furniture. Whenever someone would get too close to you, it would end up with Dokja being jealous and annoying you so badly till you would fuck him out of frustration. If he ever felt bad, he would knock at your door, ignoring the hour, and spend the night here, watching series and eating snacks before living the next morning after kissing you on the lips.

In your last year of school, your friendship has changed a bit, in a way you never thought was possible, everything turned into something more intimate. Sadly, you got separated after the entrance exam that he failed, as he got into a third-rate college, and you got into the college you dreamed of for years.

You tried to stay close, but it was difficult. After some time, you stopped talking, but you kept sending him messages in the hope he would reply, he never did. You kept trying, texting mostly about the only thing you had in common, that story, you did not care if he was not going to reply, you just wanted to show him you were still there.

You could still see him comment after each chapter was published, always at that same hour, which you understood was when he finished his work. After some time, you started to do the same, but always one hour before him, so he could see them at the end of each chapter.

-----

This day was supposed to be the end of TWSA. And it was with this inexplicable anxiety that you opened the chapter, reading it with so much joy and also pain as if a chapter of your life just ended with this novel. And finally, you were on the last panel. As you close the app, you received a message from whom you think was the author, which was thanking you, and at the same time sends you an attached file, the novel.

And that's how the nightmare started, in this car, the 3707th. The man in front of you, who seemed familiar, was Junghyeok Yu. You were shivering, was it already your end? The nightmare has just started, but it was already your turn, or you thought so. Before the main scenario starts, you run away, the door of the car in front of you half-opened. As you escape, you turn your head before leaving, your eyes meeting with dark black eyes, looking at you suspiciously. But before he could attack you, the main scenario started, and you were already out of his reach.

Surprisingly, you still felt his eyes on you as you hide in the crowd, you look back and see him standing behind the half-opened door, observing you. You can't help but offer him a big smile before giving him the finger, snickering as you run away.

Thankfully as you were panicking, you noticed a fly on a seat, and quickly, you crush it with your hand. It was disgusting, but you were alive, and you had completed the task.

-----

The first time you saw Dokja again, was on that bridge, you were hiding from Junghyeok. But you never thought you would see Dokja being grabbed by the neck, as his legs were swaying over a blank space. There was no need for you to scream as it seems they both sensed your presence, turning their head in sync, one looking at you in hatred and the other in shock, a single tear sliding down his cheek. Suddenly, he tries to escape from Junghyeok's grip, choking out your name with a desperate smile as he cries.

Too focused on Dokja, you missed the other man's expression and all of a sudden, Junghyeok lets go of him, and Dokja falls into the river, without thinking, you run to him, passing Junghyeok and jumped. Before Junghyeok could grab you, you were already falling down with Dokja, and he felt a terrible feeling take over his heart, but it was too late.

This decision would be dumb in any other situation, but you were a reader, and you knew what would happen and how to prevent it. So, before Dokja could drown, you grab his hands, pulling him up to the surface. Together, you got out of this giant sea commander, unscathed or at least, not dead.

-----

As you were resting at the Geumho station with the others, you're suddenly aware of how the feeling that you suppressed for years came back, and at full force. Your thoughts started to get mixed up, fortunately, you walked away before it could happen, so the others would not worry about you. As you lose your calm, you feel a hand run through your hair, you raise your head, eyes meeting Dokja's.

It was impossible for you to ignore the tenderness in them, it was too obvious, too powerful, and with this discreet and sincere smile of his that was making your heart warm up. And after so many years without seeing each other, he just kisses you calmly, without saying a word as if it was natural.

A gasp was heard from behind you, Huiwon was there, with her hand over her mouth, but you could still see the dark blush on her cheeks and ears. She giggles before doing a thumbs up, running away from the two of you. You stand there, as you process the information before you start to panic, you could feel your cheeks warming up as you cover them with your hands.

“Ah. I thought I left without them noticing… Whatever.

I missed you.”

His words moved you, but you came back to the others like nothing happened. You see Huiwon smirks at you but does not say anything. You send her a playful glare before sitting next to Hyeonseong, yawning as you rest your head on his shoulder, you should leave the station soon so why not take a little nap before.

-----

You had already passed the sub scenario with the illusory prison, and you were now much closer to the next station. Thankfully you knew how to get out of this zone, but it still took you some minutes, and it affected you greatly. Without you noticing, instead of Dokja walking in front of all of you, he was staying beside you, walking at your pace.

Huiwon who was behind Dokja nudged him, pointing at you with her finger and after, linked her hands together with an amused smile. As you were oblivious to what was happening, conversing with Hyeonseong, you suddenly feel something warm engulfing your hand. You did not need to look to see what it was as you just tighten your hold back, a discreet smile taking over your face as you continue to converse with Hyeonseong.

You were finally able to have a rest at Chungmuro station, the atmosphere was strange. There was this tension in the air that you could not ignore but could not identify either. The others were searching for a nice place to sit down and relax, and you also left with Dokja to do the same. But nothing looked fine, either there were too many people or it was just a disgusting place filled with rubbish.

You continue to take random turns, Dokja following closing behind you in silence, as you hope to find somewhere at least proper to rest when you stop in front of a dead-end, you sign and ruffle your hair in frustration. It felt like hours passed, and you were getting annoyed, but before you could turn around and leave, an arm wrapped itself around your waist. You feel a head nuzzling against your back, the other free hand sliding down your torso to your crotch.

Your eyes widened, body tensing up under Dokja's touch. You look around in panic, what if someone could see you?

“There is nobody here. We are all alone.

I was getting frustrated. We haven't seen each other for years…

Haven't touched each other for years… And you don't even look at me.”

You wanted to reply something, at least to calm his urges but nothing came out of your mouth. It was as if he stole your breath away at the same instant he stole your heart.

“Don't push me away. We weren't lovers before, but you loved me, right?

Ever since we started playing around…

So, why can't we be lovers now? Nothing can separate us.”

And that's you ended up with a naked Dokja, as you pushed him against the wall. Hoisting him up, and let him wrap his legs around your waist before you slid your cock into him. Your larger body hides him from possible prying eyes, beside you, he looked ridiculously small but deliciously tempting. When your cock entered him, you could only admire how his body tightened around you, slutty moans being ripped from his throat, and how you could see a lump in his stomach, becoming more pronounced as you push yourself deeper into him. What could have been a lovely reunion between old friends turned out to be a more sexual one driven by lust.

With each thrust, you would hit his prostate dead-on, not caring about how loud he was being. His tears and screams turn you on ever more as you destroyed his inside. His nails that were dragging up your back were starting to dig into your skin, and drops of blood were falling on the floor. But it was as if nothing could reach your mind right now, the pain subdued by the pleasure coursing through your veins, the only thing you wanted to do was to make Dokja forget his name. You roughly grab his face, observing how his eyes looked dazed and cloudy, seems like he would not come back to his normal state for a while.

You wanted to take revenge for all the years he left you behind, not trying to contact you again. And now he was coming back like nothing happened? You could not accept it, he had to pay. But you loved him too much to hurt him, so you did what you could do best, make his mind go blank and force him to submit to you. That thought alone made your body react on its own, you grabbed one of his legs, holding it up before plunging as deep as you could. The loud moan you received confirmed he did not mind that one bit.

You were filling him so nicely, Dokja could feel himself go dumb on your cock, he only wanted to be filled to the brim, marked by you as if he was just your plaything. Why hasn't he contacted you before? How could he let someone like you get away from him, you that he loved so dearly? He was glad you never forgot him because now, he could become yours again, and this time, he won't leave.

The next thrust made him moan out loud, he was not able to stop crying, the tears drying on his cheeks immediately being replaced by new ones. His head was blank, he could only see you, hear you and smell you. Your scent, either it was a perfume or your natural smell filled his nostril, it was suffocating him. Each thrust forced the air out of his lungs, mouth wide open to let out noises he would be embarrassed about after.

As you continued to fuck him, his eyes lulled to the back of his head, his body was on fire, and he could not think or breathe. Everything was blurry around him as came for the first time, his cum landing on his stomach, but you did not stop moving. Even after he begged you to slow down.

Some time has passed, and you had already came once in him, but it did not stop you. You could feel your legs giving out, but you refused to give up now, you were too far lost in your pleasure to notice how you had already broken him completely.

He was a mess, his body marked from his legs to his jaw, blood dripping out from the bites, the view made heat pool to your crotch. You feel your body tense up before you pump your cum deep into him, reaching places both of you never thought possible. Another load followed quickly, the previous bulge that was showing through his stomach now inflated with your cum.

His stomach was covered in a watery fluid, he cummed so many times that he was not able to orgasm correctly anymore. Only some drops would get out of his cock. The only way you knew he was cumming was the scream ripping out of his throat and how he would tighten around you as if he was trying to coax your orgasms out of you.

And suddenly, Dokja passed out, he never had enough stamina to endure you till the end. Thankfully, you were also exhausted, and so, you managed to pull out before you fall on your knees, Dokja sleeping in your arms. You clean him with the tissues that he had in his pocket before dressing him back up. You replace your clothes correctly, covering the best you could the stains of cum Dokja left on your shirt and pants before picking him up.

You lay down on the first bench you see, placing Dokja on top of you. You sigh and decide to kiss him gently before you fall asleep. Unbeknown to you, he woke up some moments before, and as you were sleeping while holding him close to you, he watches your face with a lovesick expression. He moves the collar of your shirt out of the way before biting down hard on your neck, making sure it would be a mark that will not disappear for a long while. And now, with a small smile, he kisses you once or twice, or maybe more before snuggling into your hold. Your body's warmth envelops him and coaxes him into falling asleep.

When the others came back, they were greeted with the sight of you and Dokja cuddling up on the bench. As Sangah and Gilyoung were looking at the two of you with stars in their eyes, murmuring to each other about how cute you were; Hyeonseong would just stare in jealousy on the side, him who thought you had something for him from the way you were acting. He turns around and leaves in heavy silence.

Huiwon was looking fondly at you at first before noticing something… How your hair was dishevelled, the collar of your shirt had been pulled down to expose bite marks and also the wet patch on Dokja's pants that she could see from here. With a sigh, she forced the others to let you have your privacy. When you will wake up, she plans to scold the two of you so badly you will cry.

⏤ Thank you for reading! I wish you a great day.

⏤ here is my masterlist & ko-fi ⏤

[slowd1ving]

Hiiiii can u write Kim Dokja x Goth!Male!reader this sponsor constellation is Apollo and The reader is a simp for Dokja ( I love this man )

LOVE LIKE BLOOD ・゜゜KIM DOKJA

“The life is short, and I’m running faster all the time, Strength and beauty destined to decay, So cut the rose in full bloom.” By chance you meet him, by chance you become his friend, by chance you stay by his side; until it cannot be called fickle, capricious chance any longer, but an example of the inevitable law of universal attraction between two starving masses. art by @ 1L9l2Aa8UCL0IGJ (blackbox) on x! also thank you anon this ask was so big brained I yapped on for like 5k words (very sorry if you wanted headcanon/drabble form I got the most profound inspiration for this at like 3am :3) also damn you have no idea how many song titles I was perusing trying to find a suitable one for this... pairing: kim dokja + male goth reader warnings: pretty graphic metaphors, child abandonment/implied parental death, child neglect + abuse, alcohol, smoking, depression + bullying, hurt/comfort, injury, violence (as it's orv), does 10+ year long pining and oddly tense homoeroticism need a warning, anon I hope you ENJOY reading because I enjoyed writing wc: 5.6k (YAP because i love this silly man, I've never written so much for a request before lmao)

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Fundamentally, you and him are the same. 

There’s a sense of loss that’s too heavy for either of your bodies to comprehend. Rather than a heart, there’s a black hole right where the organ lies; so greedy, so hungry for acknowledgement. Born blue into this world—deprived of oxygen yet wailing, screaming for your voice to be heard—it’s little wonder you’ve always been avaricious for the love your parents could never give. The hands cradling the babe were never loving; they were clinical, they were covered in sterile blue gloves and they smelled only of caustic antiseptic. There was no kiss on your slimy, puckered forehead. There was only the sting of alcoholic sanitiser. 

Kim Dokja is similar, yet his parents wouldn’t (rather than couldn’t, for in your embittered mind the two concepts were so different as to be alien) spare him scraps of care. Rather than press a kiss to their son’s awaiting cheek, only bruises blossomed where the love should’ve been. No flowers were given for Children’s Day—only oily blood spilling and macerating against his chubby hands as a last, vibrant gift for their son. 

These two black holes sputtered on their axes while they spun round each other: gluttonous, esurient for care that didn’t come with bruises and wailing grief. 

Seoul had been unusually cold; blue afternoons spanned across the school rooftops. They were frigid and foggy—perfect for avoiding detection. Thus, the boy without kisses (only contused skin) encountered another like him on the rooftop that day. Against the haze, your own cigarette smoke had dulled the edges of what he saw—a boy canted against the railing with rippling earphones and a head tilted so far back he could taste the polluted mist. 

A merger had occurred. 

And though neither of you said it, there was an unspoken recognition of each other’s greed in that moment. Your eyes, ghosting over his injuries while the heavy bass played and the prussic wisps trailed around him: deep reverberations sounding a bit too like his careening heartbeat—as he made sure no one had followed him up here, that he was safe. And his umbrous eyes—honed in on the cigarette wedged between your lips, now stained black from the gloss decorating your humourless smile.

Maybe it was just that inherent feeling of kinship that came with avariciousness: a snarling sort of camaraderie that snagged at your skin with its claws. The wounds left behind were tender, but tender was precisely the adjective you were looking for—as was he. 

And so, Kim Dokja found himself coming to this particular rooftop the next day. When his breathing came ragged and his vision began to swim, he instinctively sought the numbness the frigid azurine firmament would bring. Like a wounded animal, he sought safety. Flight over fight—a lesson he’d learnt too late. Bruised fists would never save him. 

There you sat—eyes closed and lips still glossed in modest black. There were silver rings on your hands; rings he’d seen flashing before his eyes before he was hit, that those people no longer sported. Quietly, he matched up the scrapes on your own knuckles to the ones decorating their faces: to their unusual sullenness today. They’d furtively sequestered themselves in a club room all break, touching their swollen lips and eyes with bruised fists. Bruised fists. Like trophies, the achromatic metal glinted against the cobalt haze, and for once, his heart didn’t skip any beats at the sight of the gleaming metal. Neither did you acknowledge his presence nor their sins, but still, he sat on the same bench you were sprawled upon: hugging his bag to his chest while he scrolled the hallowed pixels of Ways of Survival. 

There was no grand exchange of words, no heartfelt conversations between Kim Dokja and the boy with a messed-up uniform. 

This was how tentative company was kept for a fragile week. 

Tuesday was the day that fragility finally shattered. He still remembers every detail about it—down to the particular cigarette brand you’d purchased that morning, down to the chips in your dark nail polish, down to just how many rings you’d worn on your left hand (three—it was three rings). Tears had spilled down his cheeks that afternoon; they warped and distorted the words that had saved him thus far, evoked from the pain in his purple ribs and his empty stomach. Somehow, the salt he’d kept tightly bound had been coaxed by your cold presence—perhaps, knowing your indifference made it easier to cry pathetically in front of you. 

You still didn’t speak, but you did hand him a tissue. You still didn’t speak, but you did press your shoulder to his own trembling one: smelling of caustic smoke, and something rich and sweet lingering beneath the plumes. You still didn’t speak, but your rings clinked on your left hand as you unhooked the earbud in your pierced ear and offered it to him: fingers brushed against his palm as he was forcibly shocked out of crying any further, like a blubbering child faced with such a conundrum that their little brains focused entirely on that rather than the reason for their tears. 

Melancholy had streamed out of the device. Doleful chords twined against threnetic voices—which he could not translate nor understand but could feel in pulsing waves. 

In that short whorl in the great machine of time, in the chill of the blue hour, he could not help but feel warm.

And thus, that Tuesday changed the trajectory of this merger somewhat. A deafening hum had finally blossomed from the gargantuan event; your presence could no longer be described as distant. 

When he went to class the next day, you were in the seat next to him: a mirage brought on by his lack of food, no doubt. He limped to his desk, but there your corporeal form remained: this time with silver chains lining the base of your throat and a dry, sharp grin decorating your face. Sure, he knew there was a student that never showed up in his class, but he wasn’t expecting it to be you: your name now a permanent fixture in his mind. 

There was a new name for this phenomenon: friendship. 

The boy, with the pensive music and trophies stolen from Dokja’s tormentors, smiled up at the reader staring at him. It was an inviting gesture: the proverbial hand reaching out, the hand which he took.

You weren’t a particularly talkative friend at first: preferring to simply share your music rather than speak much. That was fine with him—it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to reading alone. Then, you started bringing boxes of food alongside your cigarettes: containers that lacked the refinement of store bought meals. One for you, and one sheepishly thrust out to him with a smile bright as burst yolk and as messy as it too. Consequently, he returned a wobbly, unsure smile back at you—not mentioning that the vegetables were slightly burnt, slightly too salty. But that was fine. The more lunches you brought, the more skilled your hands became—until he never felt truly full unless he was eating what you gave him. 

In return, he cracked open his soul: pried its rusted walls with bleeding fingernails in a gesture never before seen, not since his childhood when he still knew what hope meant. Dokja for once didn’t blubber apologies and pleas for mercy—but became a teenager rather than a groveller. He complained about teachers, he discussed Ways of Survival at length (noting how you listened even when you showed no particular interest in reading it), he finally developed his own, modest aspirations for his own life. Lying in his bed in his lonely apartament, it suddenly didn’t feel so claustrophobic (yet somehow far too big for one) when you were there with your shoulder just brushing his own. 

You were not as cold as you seemed: though this was always obvious from that fateful Tuesday. You made fun of and empathised with the eternal regressor; you diligently stood at his half-broken stove frying meat and vegetables; and you talked at length about whatever band you were currently into—“I’ll take you to one of their concerts when we’re older,” leaving your lips, for your dense black-hole hearts did not conceptualise a future where the other was not present. He saw your loneliness—heard the rumours of you bouncing around from orphanage to orphanage, roaming the streets and working nights rather than return to that boreal home. 

So, more nights than not, he woke up from his nightmares to see you sleeping on the small couch in his home—legs just about peeking over the armrest, for your avarice didn’t only cover the abstract but the heaps of food you swiped from the canteen (and over the past two years he’d known you, you got your growth spurt far more obviously than he had). It partly contributed to almost skittish aversion his tormentors had of him—one you never did acknowledge, and so he learnt quickly to not mention it either. In this way, he too never mentioned why he invited you to sleep over more nights than not. And so, neither of your selfish hearts ever spoke a word of pity, but rather conveyed an unspoken understanding that bound the two of you in this merger. 

This routine continued.

He enlisted after graduating from the local university, and so did you—suffering the eighteen months of hazing with the smoke lingering on your skin and that same, humourless smile he first saw on your face. Frigid mornings turned his own lips as blue as the sky, yet he found it was harder to feel the chill when he saw you. Just like back then, you wore the same smile that brimmed with such colour it was practically incandescent with its heat. 

Two outcasts. It was hilariously terrible. Two outcasts, still sharing a pair of earbuds that had seen better days—blaring out the dolorous music that had grown on him, that described this situation perfectly. Stars were strewn in the fabric enveloped around you: memories that would continue to shine even after the world slowly marched towards its apocalypse. 

In that cramped bunkroom, it had been just like school—blue nights with the moon just barely peeking through the window, with your leg still hanging off the side of the bunk and within his field of vision. And he still found the steady rise and fall of your breathing far more comforting than any white noise: like a guard dog, almost, you still shielded him by his proximity to you throughout the brutal eighteen months of mandated service. 

Adulthood had crept up unbidden. In his single-room apartment, he sat on his couch with your legs sprawled just as lazy as they had been eight years prior. Though, your appearance certainly had changed—beneath the loose material of your tank top, he could see the ink seeping and decorating your skin. He’d gone with you to the underground artists right after the discharge: worriedly biting his lip while you simply grinned at him as if there wasn’t a needle pressing into you. And despite his initial concern, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away—sneaking glances even as he browsed through job sites since the winding patterns under the fabric and silver jewellery was oddly entrancing to the eye. 

In the end, he applied to the same company you had done on a whim: Minosoft, where you carefully wiped off the black residue on your lips and the smudged pencil round your eyes. You still shared your earbud with him on the subway (though you’d sent him your playlist aeons ago), you still smoked the same brand you did eight years ago, you still occasionally put on those rings you’d kept as prized trophies, you still made two sets of lunches for work. You still listened over drinks while hammered Dokja updated you on the latest update of Ways of Survival. You still angled your body just so, so that you would bear the brunt of Han Myungoh’s scolding rather than him. 

You hadn’t changed. 

But in some ways, he could no longer see the same boyish guy who’d awkwardly offered him his earbuds nine years ago. The look in your eyes was far more intense, the messy smiles splitting your cheeks were sharper, more overwhelming, and there was no longer any clumsiness in your movements from your sudden growth spurt from years prior. Even the very hand that occasionally clasped his shoulder, even the legs that you still casually flung over his on his beaten old couch, were far more scorching than he remembered. 

You had changed. 

And in the end, it was him who was left behind. 

Eternal loser, Kim Dokja. 

Though, he could never find fault with you for that. Not when you leaned over the tangle of limbs on his couch, not when he caught the thread of oud lingering beneath the smoke on your throat, and not when you thrust your phone screen at his face with that stupidly boyish grin that only peeked out when you brimmed with excitement—with a “look, I finally got us tickets for this festival!”. And he knew at that moment that you weren’t leaving him behind: stretching out your rough palm just like you had more than a decade ago. 

He let you tousle his hair to give it more spikes. He let you dress him up in your clothes—they sat too large on his frame, but he found himself unconsciously burying his body in the fabric that smelled like your laundry. He let you slip your rings onto his fingers: slender digits jolting at the sensation of the cool metal and the action itself. 

Finally, he let you rub your dark pencil on his lashline—lids fluttering up at yours while he did his best to not avert his stare. His gaze traced the bold lines of your brows and eyes, and finally onto the dark stain on your lips as you bit them in concentration. “There,” you’d murmured, gently grasping his chin. “That looks pretty.” 

And just like the loser he was, he felt his chest tighten at the casual compliment, for seemingly no reason. 

Over the din of the hall, he could barely hear the ebb and flow of music. Goth chords jostled him, weaving past the throes of post-punk and metal as band after band took the stage. In this crush of people, he was more focused on how your index finger threaded through his left-most belt loop; linking the two of you just enough that he wouldn’t get thrown into the mosh pit. No doubt the buzz of cheap liquor contributed to his distracted train of thoughts—he never was the best at handling alcohol. His hazy gaze distorted his view of your side profile; in the dim lights, obviously the wide smile (yolk-like, as was your grin years back) couldn’t possibly be that bright. 

It was at this moment that sentimentality got to him. He was thankful that his friend had stuck by his side for so long: gazing so softly at your happy expression he was unaware of his look himself. 

This was the night before the apocalypse began. 

When the crowds trickled out, when the reverb of bass still played through the club, you hugged him tight for coming with you. Outcast with the outcast, you’d thought introspectively. There were cheap spirits clouding your mind that night—a hangover would surely strike you come morning—which was why you weren’t as reserved as you usually were. As you leaned down to press the man into your arms, your lips had brushed past his cheek accidentally, and you could feel the black hole in the centre of your chest constrict. 

Profanities had whirled through your mind when the dark smudge remained on his cheek, and especially so as he made no move to wipe the umbrous gloss off on the subway back. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed—not with the flush on his cheeks from the alcohol in his system. There was a terrible, discordant crescendo to your pulse as you gazed at him. The gloss, from where it smeared slightly past the boundaries of your lips, burned your skin. But you made no moves to wipe the corners either—for this night only, there was something linking Kim Dokja to you. 

Thus, for the first time since he was a mere babe cradled in his mother’s arms, there was a kiss planted on his cheek that wasn’t from a fist. An accidental one, but one that could not be considered devoid of affection. And though neither of you remembered it after the hazy stupor faded, it did not change the fact that it happened nonetheless. 

A small snippet of joy in the bleak landscape. A caesura found within the long, winding elegy of this world. A reprieve before tragedy. 

It was a fitting conclusion for the night before the end. 

✦ . 　⁺ 

[The free service has now been terminated.]

Back in the carriage, wedged between Yoo Sangah and Kim Dokja, the two of you had shared a glance confirming the unspoken truth. Minds intrinsically linked together—he did not need to speak for you to understand his thoughts immediately. And Yoo Sangah had recognised this—as did she remember the devoted gleam in your eyes whenever you spoke to or of the man seated adjacent to you. Yet ultimately, her lips would remain closed. 

When the scenarios began, it was Kim Dokja’s turn to repay you. He would be your shield moving forward—protecting your messy smile even as the world burned away. He vowed this to himself, and though the promise was heard only by him, it did not change the fact that the constellations watching him and his companions could see the oath brimming from him as he put you first. 

[Almighty Sun has sponsored you.]

Even when Apollo chose you as his incarnation, even when you were just as capable as you had been before the cataclysm occurred—he could not help but feel his fists clench as you put yourself in danger. 

“Hold on,” you’d murmured, rings flashing as you’d caught his wrist in your firm grasp. Even with his coins improving his stats, he still felt so much weaker than you—still the boy who ran to the rooftops while your fists bruised against the faces of those who tormented him. 

Had your touch always been so scalding?

Privately, he thought Apollo had chosen the right person—smile bright as the sun, skilled fingers deft enough to play the electric guitar you’d bought on a whim, presence practically a healing balm for his soul. 

“You’re injured, Dokja-ya.” And the words had made him shiver as the syllables ghosted over his flesh—your face was too close to his chest where he’d been slashed by a monster, while the affectionate tone added to his name made this situation far worse than it was. Secluded like this, in an abandoned corner of the station, it was easy to misread the situation; this was the only reason his face flushed red. His friend was far too close. When those aforementioned fingertips brushed over the wound—just grazing the wounded flesh—he jolted. From the pain, of course. 

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire has sponsored 200 coins.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire would like to see more action.]

“Steady.” You eased him against a pillar while ignoring the message—ignoring how your pulse was now leaden in your mouth, how the golden gleam stitching flesh back together seemed far more shaky than usual. Though, you couldn’t ignore the pain you felt as you saw the rise and fall of his torso grow shallow; you were useless when it counted—arrows meeting their target far too late. 

“Dokja-ya,” you breathed, sweeping the hair that plastered to his clammy forehead. He didn’t meet your eyes, and the heavy feeling in your chest grew more burdensome. He was supposed to tell you what was wrong; as his best friend, you duly heard his complaints and dealt with them where you could. More often than not, you could intuitively tell what bothered him; much like you had from the very first day you saw him all those years ago. And as time passed, the object of your adoration only grew easier to read. 

But he was never avoidant like this. 

What happened? As you watched him leave with heavy steps and not a glance spared back, you could feel the crushing weight of the sky drop back down on your shoulders. Fuck. Burying your face in your hands, you barely registered the message that popped up. 

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire expresses her sympathy.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire says she knows how the two of you can make up.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire sponsors 69 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun tells the Demon-like Judge of Fire to not be stingy.]

[The Almighty Sun sponsors 6969 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun empathises with a lover’s quarrel.]

“Shut up,” you seethed, and the bad mood carried on late into the night. It was obvious to anyone with eyes; the conjured lamps lining the perimeter of camp had seethed with you. Gold had been interspersed with bleeding red—crackling like true fire, though it was anything but. Even the tattoos that lined your skin had begun eroding into ember-like patterns, as though lava was breaking through the dermis of your skin. 

Unsurprisingly, it was Yoo Sangah that had approached first: past the harsh glow of your lamps, gracefully weaving through the brightness with the light steps that belied her nebula. She’d taken a glance at the incandescent splintering of your body, your hands furiously working away at the guitar plugged into your practically-bulletproof earphones, and finally the imposing frame of Yoo Joonghyuk only a few metres away as he stood guard tonight. 

But when you paused, when you hastily yanked the buds from your ears, she could also see the wobble in your lip. The furrow in your brows wasn’t angry, it was anguished, while the fearsome glare in your eyes contained only pain. If she was being honest, it was hard to approach you at work and even nowadays—with ease, you picked off enemies from a distance and your longbow conveniently morphed into two curved daggers when it came down to it. You were a maelstrom with the capacity to take lives—stained with blood as you bared your proverbial teeth at any threats to Dokja. But it was precisely that that allowed her to see your stupidly blind adoration of this man. 

(“Your devotion will only hurt you,” she says, as if that will dissuade you. You’ll take whatever feeling he gives you: greedily swallowing each and every morsel of emotion. Tender is your heart, but tender is good. It means you aren’t going mad over the situation you’re in.

“Yoo Sangah, I appreciate the advice,” you reply politely—you do respect her, after all. “But I do not mind that.”)

Yoo Joonghyuk had bemusedly watched as she left: staring the the dim red tattoos strewn across your body as if they could possibly help him decipher the fool in front of him. His Sage’s Eye flashed as golden as your lamps for a brief moment—detecting that your statement had, in fact, been true. 

Fool, he’d said as your hands flew over the fretboard once more. Fool, as you disappeared up the stairs to the rooftop. Fool, when your lips had pressed together tightly against one another. 

You did mind, even when you thought it was the unequivocal truth that you didn’t. 

Maybe it was futile to even think it, but he thought that idiot didn’t deserve the long-standing care in your hands, and the veneration in the timbres of your voice. It was pointless to get attached to someone like that—especially when the end of the world was upon you. 

But you wouldn’t know that, since you could not read his mind. But you wouldn’t know that, since he would never explicitly say it. But you wouldn’t know that, since you’d long-since accepted your self-torture as perfectly and utterly a part of what came with knowing Kim Dokja for as long as you did. 

The rooftop was like all other rooftops. Similar. The same. Azurine fog was at your fingertips: just like that day all those years ago. Except this time, Kim Dokja was not in your sights, and you were left alone with wisps of smoke trailing from your lips and no other company save the glowing stick in your fingers. Just like it had been; before you met the boy with a heart as greedy and all-consuming as yours. Before the merger between two black holes occurred. Before he ran up to the rooftops with bruises on his face and placed new stars in the endless vacuum of your universe. 

There was no charge in your phone, but the song that played that day still rested heavy in your neurons as you sprawled out on the bench. Mindlessly, you summoned the lyre-turned-guitar: doleful chords germinated, flourished and withered away once more under distressed fingertips. It was a night between scenarios; another caesura in this ceaseless tragedy. Though those days were filled with an empty stomach and an endless struggle, they were your halcyon days. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, it was a blue Monday once more. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, you didn’t hear the heavy run of footsteps through the heavy burr of music. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, Kim Dokja’s black hole heart pulsed with each discordant twang of chords—though this time the link was acutely clear to him. 

The boy who once tasted the mist and tilted his body into oblivion was no longer there: replaced by a man who’d faithfully stayed by him for more than a decade. Though you hadn’t changed, not at all; not when he could still see the rings you took off his bullies, gracing your fingers just as they had back then. A trophy, dedicated to his protection. When his plans involved his sacrifice, you were the first to reach him. Your face was the first he saw, tears brimming from your lash line. For despite how you’d grown into your looks, you wore your emotions clear on your face. Your heart had been taken from the cavity in your chest and replaced with a dense core that greedily always wanted; yet it had been sewn messily onto your sleeve rather than discarded. 

Kim Dokja suddenly remembered another interlude. A club, where the amorphous ebb and flow of bodies could not sweep him away from your side—since you kept him there, treasured his presence enough that you hooked your finger firmly into his belt loop and rooted him there. An anchor: you’ve always been the rock beneath his shaky feet, after all. He remembered that, and not the endless churn of music that made your face glow with happiness. 

(A black smear of gloss left on his cheek. His hands, carefully wiping eye pencil away yet not touching the remnants of your lips—not until it smudged away on its own, forgotten for all of time but this day.)

A sun of his own. The reader trod his slow orbit around you long before he could conceptualise the gravity that drew two masses towards each other. Newton’s theory of universal gravitation be damned; you were the only centre of the universe, the only body that ever existed to draw others towards your brilliant light. 

His eyes flickered over the smoke in your lips: the dim embers of a glow from the lines in your skin made it seem as though you were alight yourself. Instinctively, physically, he was compelled towards the patterns just like he had been all those years ago: your music, your stupid piercings and your stupid discussions about bands and the stupid way you listened attentively to his yapping about Ways of Survival. Stupid, because why did you do that? Why did you convince him to make a shrine for you in his heart? Stupid, because why is it only now that he can see what exactly lays atop the stone altar?

“Kim Dokja,” you spoke through your plumes, formal in the way he knew you spoke when you were upset and trying to keep it together. He swallowed, and he could feel the same pitter-patter of his pulse as he did all those years ago—heartbeat colliding loudly in his ear drums while he steps towards you, unsure. You didn’t let up with the strum of strings: electric in the drizzle of rain and wind and cold Seoul air. 

For once, he was the one looking down at your impassive face. He was the one brushing his fingers through your hair, he was the one whose hands made themselves comfortable on shoulders—for it’s always been you wrapped around him, you whose legs wedge on top of his domestically on his shitty couch in his shitty studio flat. 

“It’s Dokja-ya,” he corrected: tongue thick and leaden. It constricted his larynx and made his cadence oh so small at this moment. Tentative. Because he was your close friend and you his. He was the one who knows all your expressions—even the ones you deliberately tried to hide from everyone. He was the one who’s been with you the longest: always staring up at the muscle of your back while you act as his shield. He was the one who’s been blind. 

Your fingers halted against the strings and the instrument dissolved into the wind; the concert for two had reached its conclusion, just like it had all those months ago. For despite being packed full of people, the club only ever had two people in it for him. 

Lazily, those same hands that have bruised for him—but somehow had a touch that was far more painful than any torment that was physically inflicted on him—wrapped round his own that rested neatly on your shoulders. 

“Dokja-ya,” you answered, and the axis the world tilted on is finally righted. This man, Dokja thought—and his umbrous eyes traced down the warm lines of your face, stopping on your lips. Bittersweet. 

“Don’t leave me,” he all but begged—voice only a whisper. Don’t die on me, the black hole wanted to say instead; selfishly wishing for you to always be by his side so he doesn’t see you depart this world first. That would end him more than anything else. 

“I can’t leave you,” you murmured, and oh, the hand brushing his tear-stained cheek suddenly made more sense. “Dokja-ya, I should be telling you that.”

He pressed his face into your warm palm—scorching even with the boreal damp settling over his skin. There was something twisted within him that revels in your admission: that you, too, feared him abandoning you just as he feared you leaving him behind. 

“Idiot.” And he twined his fingers in yours, seeing the surprise on your face bloom—for he’s already established that you’re ever so easy to read. Idiot, because it’s ludicrous to even think that he’d ever willingly walk away from you like that. 

“You’re the idiot,” you whispered as your phantasmal hand ghosted from his cheek to his collar, yanking him so he fell onto the firm sprawl of your legs—in a way he’s never felt. So warm, he thought through the haze as he straddled your languid body—fit so right against you that there was none of the tension nor the anticipation that he might’ve felt. His hands splayed out onto your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart, tracing the glowing lines he adored on your body. 

So warm, he thought as your hands gently cupped his face—for you’ve never been anything but soft with this stupid man perched on your lap. 

So warm, as your lips met his and he melted into your body. He could taste the acrid smoke on your tongue, but he could also taste the food you’d prepared earlier for him, and the traces of whiskey you’d scavenged. All traces of you; his insatiable heart could not help but want to merge into you. 

So warm, as your tongue melded against his and he could feel the seam of his mouth against yours grow ever more ragged and messy. His hands desperately curled into your shirt, and he could feel your palms pressing harshly against his waist and canting his torso into yours more—something which his avaricious heart eagerly swallowed. 

On a blue Monday just like this one, two boys met for the first time once more on a rooftop just like this one. 

Again. Like and like created a merger for the second time, or perhaps it was already the third. Or fourth. Or the thousand-eight-hundred-and-sixty-third time this has happened—over and over and over and over. 

Fate has a funny way of bringing people together, or maybe it’s just the intrinsic law of gravitation that binds two black holes in a binary system. 

Blue Monday. What a silly notion, when the man beneath Kim Dokja is as warm as the brilliant sun. 

✦ . 　⁺ 

Fellas is it gay to pine after your best friend for over ten years and have oddly homoerotic moments with them

✦ . 　⁺ 

EXTRAS

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire returns from her work and asks what she missed.]

[The Almighty Sun keeps his lips shut.]

[The Abyssal Flame Black Dragon stays silent.]

[The Prisoner of the Golden Headband, perhaps not fearing his imminent hair loss, opens his mouth.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire promptly goes catatonic and explodes.]

[slowd1ving]

・゜・OMNISCIENT READER'S VIEWPOINT MASTERLIST

if you haven't read this already then what are you doing smh (jk but seriously it's so good).. I still cry over these silly orv edits this is NOT funny

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

KIM DOKJA

FICS

love like blood

→ and when it truly comes down to it, who else has been by his side since the very beginning if not you? male goth reader (REQUEST)

how to train your gorgon

→ 'You listening, Dokja? Maybe if you followed the guides for dealing with intelligent species like this one, you wouldn't be in such a stupid mess.' male reader (REQUEST)

bakht

→ "An existence as lonely as yours... chance has not been kind to you, it seems." gn sung jinwoo! reader (REQUEST)

house of cards

→ In which a gambler finally pays the price for his bet. gn reader (REQUEST) angst

[slowd1ving]

[LOVE LIKE BLOOD] ✧ ゜SNIPPET

request I'm currently working onnn anon if you see this I hope you know what a big brain you have I had inspiration for this particular request at like 3 am

OMNISCIENT READER'S VIEWPOINT MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION