Work Text:
Kim Dokja doesn’t look like someone who spreads his legs and fucks himself on a dildo for a living, but everyone should know better than to judge a book by its cover by now.
It’s not something Kim Dokja magically decided to pursue. When desperate times call for desperate measures, like Kim Dokja barely affording rent on top of his education and several weeks of cup noodles... Well, he took the plunge. Not without endless weeks–months, even–of deliberation, but being on your last cup noodle with 700 won to your name was a pretty harsh wake-up call.
To say he’d never looked back since would be a lie, but there was never a time where Kim Dokja would catch himself in the mirror getting ready for a stream and wonder when it would end.
He’d thought he could quit after graduating. Disappear off the face of porn internet forever after finding himself a stable job and a nice, comfortable new place to live in. Both of which he did manage to do, but with a better place came higher rent, and working a corporate job on a fixed salary wasn’t as glorious as he’d expected it—or hoped for it—to be.
So he continued.
Kim Dokja wasn’t that popular by any means; he didn’t have hundreds of thousands of followers, nor was he raking in six figures every month. But it was a steady audience, a steady following, and a somewhat steady or consistent stream of income, so he was fine with it. He had no complaints, nor did he have a desire to gain more attention from the “gooner audience”. This was fine, he thought—this was enough.
… It would have to be.
SP1864: I’d like to book a private room with you.
Tonight’s different from the rest.
“Sir?” Kim Dokja manages to eke out, breathless. He has to resist the urge to adjust the mask covering the top half of his face, something cheap he’d gotten from the store that just had to get the job done. There’s sweat beading at his temple, but he can’t dab at it—he’s too busy crawling towards his laptop.
The knotted dildo is still in his ass as he crawls, but he needs to make sure he caught that message. Not that it’s difficult; Kim Dokja doesn’t have that many people in his chat. A hundred-odd viewers, maybe closer to one-fifty, but certainly not enough to have a constant flow of texts.
“Are you sure?” Because barely anyone books a private room considering how expensive they are, even for Kim Doka—he knows his own prices well enough, and even a five-minute session is more than enough to buy him a full meal.
SP1864: Yes.
SP1864 has donated $50.
Kim Dokja knows this viewer. He’s known them for at least three years, maybe more. They don’t talk much, but they’re a consistent contributor to Kim Dokja’s channel, never lacking in money. They never donate too much, but it’s enough for Kim Dokja to notice, to know, that whoever this person is, they’re definitely comfortable. And the fact that this person’s donated 50 fucking dollars to prove his point?
Kim Dokja can only hope he isn’t some old creep.
Private rooms are a risk that camboys willingly take often. Kim Dokja, for one, has rarely had to do them, but he’s been confronted with old men, young women, or the kind of people that put a shiver down your spine with just the way they look at you. Get the wrong kind of client and you’ll be in deeper shit than you realise, so Kim Dokja’s always been cautious about accepting private room offers.
But, well. This person’s a mystery; a constant presence, but with little to say. Clearly a lot of money to spend, but that can be a lot of people.
He thinks about it for all of five seconds before he says, “Sure. Send me a private message and we can discuss further.”
Just not tonight. My ass needs to rest.
So Kim Dokja goes through his motions, gets his money, and ends the stream. He’s tired, he’s sweaty, he needs to eat dinner, and he has work tomorrow.
By the time he exits the shower and opens the app on his phone, he can see the bright red “1” above his mailbox.
SP1864: Hello.
SP1864: Is this time okay for tomorrow?
Who the hell types with punctuation nowadays?
This guy’s already looking like an old man.
Me: yep, that’s fine!
SP1864: OK. See you then.
All in a day’s work.
It’s tomorrow. Tomorrow is today.
Kim Dokja cancelled his stream for this. He’s dolled himself up, skin soft and smooth after a bath. Has something nicer on tonight, because damn it all, even if he’s not as rich as this guy, he should at least put what little he has on to make himself worth this person’s time.
Which… is his most expensive piece of lingerie.
He makes the room and sends the link to SP1864.
Me: Hi, here’s the room
SP1864 is typing…
SP1864: Give me a moment. I will join shortly.
What the hell is this… a business meeting or something?
Kim Dokja sets the angle, secures his mask. Has an array of toys for this man to pick from when he enters. There’s a soft little ding, an indication of what’s to come, and Kim Dokja sees his client for the night enter the room.
His camera is off.
Great, Kim Dokja thinks. So I don’t even get to know what he looks like.
Most of the time, Kim Dokja doesn’t care. What does a pervert’s face matter to him, right? But this guy’s a big shot on his channel. He’s been consistent in his presence and his money, and sure, he types like an old man, but so far he hasn’t overstepped any boundaries.
Hasn’t acted like a creep in any way, yet.
Key word being yet.
But Kim Dokja’s not really getting that vibe.
He adjusts himself so that he’s in frame. Curls his lips into a sweet smile that usually gains a reaction, leaning forward. His back is arched, ass out—this guy won’t see it, but he’ll get a view of his chest and his nipples in all of their pierced glory. “Good evening,” he says, voice a lilting drag. “How’s your day been…?” What do I say? SP? Ess pee?
There’s rustling on the other end. For a moment, Kim Dokja thinks the other won’t even deign to respond to a peasant like him. The smile on his face feels plastered on.
And then—
“Tiring.”
It’s like a slap to the face.
Kim Dokja doesn’t think he’s heard a voice that good in a long, long time.
Smooth like velvet, a soothing baritone that washes over his body and makes him melt a little. Words, clearly and slowly enunciated, relaxed albeit with some exhaustion. Kim Dokja’s jaw almost drops.
He swallows.
“That’s a pity,” he says, finally. “It’s a good thing you booked me for the night then, mm? To take that edge off?”
A chuckle. Slow, and deeper still. Then a breath. “Yes.”
…
Is that it?
Kim Dokja tries not to press his lips together. This guy types like he talks. Which is great when you’re not a very active texter, but damn, how’s Kim Dokja supposed to follow up on just one word?
Nevermind. He’ll just get straight to business then.
“I have a couple things here with me, depending on how you want to do this.” He leans back, angling the camera to show his assortment of toys laid out on the bed. And the towel he’s sitting on top of, too, because he can’t be assed to wash these sheets again. “Take your pick and let me know what you want me to do.” Take your time, though. It’s not like you have to pay for almost every minute you’re with me or anything.
“It’s alright. I’m not in the mood for all that tonight.”
Okay, so he’s rich, sounds hot, and difficult. “Oh, then what did you have in mind?” That smile on his face is going to go stale at any moment now at this rate.
“I wanted to…” The man on the other end pauses, as though contemplating his next words carefully. Or mulling over how difficult he wants to make Kim Dokja’s life for the next couple minutes or so, whenever he decides he’s had enough of spending his money today. “Just hear you talk, I suppose.”
Kim Dokja’s smile drops, along with his jaw. “What?”
“Mm. I just want to hear your voice.”
Well, it’s his money. Far be it from Kim Dokja to tell him how to spend it. “Are you sure?” He asks, just in case. Angles the camera back up to his face and leans back a bit. “How long do you want me to talk for? Is there anything you want me to talk about?”
Another soft, soft laugh. Feather-light, like the brush of a butterfly’s wings. “I’m sure, yes. Anything will do. You can tell me about how your day went, or what you like to eat.”
“... Anything I can’t talk about then?”
“Mm… I’ll let you know.”
“And I can ask you questions?’
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you one now?”
“Mm.”
“Why did you book a room with me just to talk? Also how should I refer to you?”
A huff. “That’s two questions.”
Kim Dokja bites back a retort. Smartass.
“I suppose… I don’t have much company to speak with normally these days. And you have a nice voice. It’s relaxing.” More rustling, like the other man’s in bed. “And you can just call me Mr S.”
“Mr S?”
“S, for a secret.” There’s amusement in the man’s voice now, albeit faint. “Like this room, and this interaction. My secret and yours.”
Kim Dokja tilts his head, but doesn’t stop the smile curling at the edges of his lips this time. “You’re a strange man, Mr S.”
“Really? That’s the first time I’ve heard someone say it to my face.”
“Well then, there you go. Can I at least get dressed before I start?”
“You can talk while you tidy up. I don’t particularly mind.”
“And you didn’t answer my question.” Kim Dokja reaches outside of the camera, tugging on a tattered old T-shirt. Gets up to gather all his toys and put them aside, “about how long you want me to talk for.”
“Until I tell you to stop.”
Kim Dokja glances over his shoulder at the camera. “You sure about that, Mr S?”
Another laugh. “Yes.”
And that’s how it starts.
It becomes a frequent thing.
They settle into a routine, of some sorts. Every Thursday night, after dinner, Kim Dokja dolls himself up after work and dinner to get ready for his private session with Mr S, the richest man he’s ever known and/or had the pleasure (or displeasure, depending on how one looks at it) of speaking to. It happens frequently enough that Kim Dokja’s formed an opinion on Mr S, coming to the ultimate conclusion that, though he definitely is a bit older than Kim Dokja, he’s not a creep.
In fact, he’s quite the opposite.
Mr S is the living, breathing definition of class. The way he speaks, his choice of words, the way he seems to command the room despite giving Kim Dokja all the freedom he needs—there’s just something about him that draws you in. With every hour Kim Dokja talks to him on those Thursday nights, his loneliness chased away by the baritone of Mr S’s voice, Kim Dokja finds himself wanting to know more and more about him with every passing moment.
He’s found comfort in the other man’s presence, even though he’s never met him.
Not to mention, these consistent meet-ups have helped Kim Dokja pay for no small amount of bills. Kim Dokja can’t remember the last time he was able to live so comfortably and lazily—ordering takeout without calculating his expenses down to the cent after a long day of work and finding that he’s run out of things of leftovers from cooking in bulk over the weekend. No more starving himself and feeling the weight of his exhaustion in the afternoons at work as a result. Kim Dokja is comfortable, and he’s starting to fear the day these meet-ups stop, because he knows the hole left in the wake of Mr S’s presence (and money) will be so tangible, so wide, that it would be impossible for him to fill it up himself.
But it’s okay, he tells himself. Just be prepared. Don’t keep your hopes up.
All good things come to an end.
He shouldn’t expect it to go long-term.
Although Mr S hasn’t claimed otherwise, he may very well be taken, after all.
Tonight is a little different than the rest, though. Kim Dokja finds himself naked in front of his camera, grinding against one of his dildos. Mr S’s camera is off, as it usually is, but Kim Dokja can hear the way he breathes: laboured, wanton. He’s jerking himself off, Kim Dokja knows it for sure, but god does this man sound like the fucking devil himself, tempting him with his grunts and groans and praise.
“That’s it,” he purrs. Kim Dokja fights back a whimper, lifting his hips and then sitting back down on the dildo. He shudders as its ridges rub against his walls, mouth falling open ever-so-slightly when the tapered tip rubs against his prostate.
“You’re gorgeous.”
“Mmh…”
“Let me hear you, love. Mmh? Let me hear your pretty voice.”
Kim Dokja shakes his head, lifting his hips slowly to feel every ridge on his dildo. “C-can’t,” he breathes, voice shaky. “My… aah… My neighbours will hear me.”
Mr S tsks from the other side of the screen. It’s so brusque, just slightly annoyed enough, that it makes Kim Dokja lower his head. He doesn’t want to disappoint this man—wants Mr S to praise him, call him good. Wants to hear the way his voice brightens, to let him know that he’s done well, that he’s a good boy.
“I’m… I’m sorryyy…” he whines, grinding. “My walls are thin, sir, I can’ttt.”
Mr S switches his tone—he must think Kim Dokja is so, so pitiful. That’s fine, Kim Dokja thinks. God knows he loves the way Mr S talks to him when he does.
“Aww, is that so?” His breathing gets a little heavier, and Kim Dokja hears something wet. He matches the pace of Mr S’s hand over his cock, speeding up, his knees shaking and mouth opening for a soundless moan he barely holds back. “That’s such a pity, love. You sound so pretty, all I want is to hear more of you.”
Kim Dokja braces his knees on the floor, fucking himself back on the dildo with a single-minded focus to follow Mr S’s quickening pace. He should turn around, he thinks. Give the other man a better view of his hole spread over the dildo he has inside him. For a delirious moment, he wonders about Mr S. He wonders if this man is as big as the dildo he’s using to fuck himself, wonders how big his hands would be around his waist. Would he be gentle? Would he be rough?
Would he fuck Kim Dokja senseless against the bed, until he loses his voice?
The thought itself is enough to send Kim Dokja over the edge. He turns around, ass facing the camera, spreading his cheeks before he sits back on his knees. Hears Mr S groan on the other end of the call. “Fuck,” he hisses. “You look so fucking good.”
“Yeah?” Kim Dokja lifts himself, pulling the tip out almost to the tip, then drops himself back down. The pleasure shoots straight to his brain, almost sending him over the edge. He does it again. And again. And again… ”Enjoy the view then.”
Kim Dokja’s not sure how many rounds he goes through for him. He only vaguely remembers being commanded—yes, because the way Mr S spoke, it was most definitely a command and not a request—being told not to stop. Even when his hole was gaping, and when he was overstimulated and shaking and nearly cumming dry—if Mr S said, “that’s it, good boy. What a good baby boy you are. Keep going for me, yeah? Let me see you cum again?”
Well… Kim Dokja thought, at least I’m getting paid for this.
“Man, fuck our CEO,” Kim Dokja grumbles. As if he doesn’t have enough work already. And, granted, his CEO probably doesn’t even know he exists and this workload is more from his manager than anything, but this project wouldn’t have existed without the CEO’s approval… so Kim Dokja’s going to fucking complain.
Han Sooyoung barks out a laugh. “Have you even seen the guy?” She asks. “Most people would pay to fuck him, you know.”
“He can get fucked, but I don’t want to do this. We have, like, three other projects in progress! Whose bright idea was it to pass this one to our team when we already have our hands full with other stuff?”
Han Sooyoung shrugs, swiping the project manifest from Kim Dokja’s hands and reading through it. “Seems like it’s our CEO’s very own passion project,” she says. “Guess our team’s been doing too well recently. We’ve caught his eye.”
Kim Dokja massages his temple. His back is killing him from last night; Mr S hadn’t allowed him much rest, and after the second hour of fucking himself on that dildo, Kim Dokja had pretty much clocked out mentally. The only things registering in his mind were Mr S’s voice, and the sensation of his dildo rubbing against his prostate every time he dropped down on it. “I feel like shit.”
”You look like shit.” Han Sooyoung tosses the papers back onto the table, leaning back in her chair and tilting her head back to cast her gaze skyward. “Says we’ll have to meet with the CEO once we’ve finished the draft for the project to get his approval since this is his personal project.”
“Oh, great,” grumbling. “Because that definitely makes me feel better.”
Han Sooyoung gives him a look he can’t quite decipher: raised eyebrows, the corners of her lips tilted upwards. There’s a look in her eyes, something mischievous. “Just you wait until you see him, Kim Dokja,” she says. “Because once you do, I’m willing to bet that you’ll change the tune you’re singing in a heartbeat.”
Kim Dokja doesn’t know how long they’ve been working on the draft for this project. His team had been juggling so many projects recently that he’s lost track of which one was which, for who, and for what purpose. They’ve all started to blur together at this point, but when he finds out a couple hours that the draft Han Sooyoung was talking about had already been sent out, he can only hope that this project won’t take ten years to finish.
Seriously, Kim Dokja doesn’t even know if he’ll still be here after ten years. Here, as in, alive. Or in this company. Either one works.
It takes another week or so before the draft is greenlit. And then another day or two before Kim Dokja finds himself gathering his files and cleaning up the presentation ten minutes before he and his colleagues are outside the meeting room. He’s been running on fumes these days, and Mr S had been particularly ruthless last night; something about shareholders breathing down his neck and stressing him out. Kim Dokja still doesn’t know how Mr S is, but he does know that whatever his position is, he’s a very, very powerful man.
And that call had started innocently enough. Small talk, as usual. Mr S sounded as though he was in bed—Kim Dokja would occasionally hear the rustle of sheets between the older man’s words. But then things went south, and Kim Dokja was fighting sleep back as he overstimulated himself with the dildo buried deep in his hole and the vibrator wrapped around his cock, and, well…
His eyebags look absolutely crazy today.
“Okay,” Han Sooyoung breathes out, interrupting Kim Dokja’s thoughts. She shakes her hands out and blows out another breath, then looks over at Kim Dokja before sweeping her gaze over the rest of the team. Her hand rests upon the doorknob. “I’m going to knock now.”
Kim Dokja runs a hand through his hair. He cannot wait to take a nap after all this is done. “Go ahead,” he grumbles. “The sooner we can get this overwith, the better.”
Han Sooyoung levels him with a look that says, just you wait. Kim Dokja can’t fathom why she’s so insistent on his attraction to the CEO when he sees him; as much as he wouldn’t admit it, the only way for Kim Dokja to be interested is if this CEO was Mr S himself.
Which is highly unlikely, and incredibly unrealistic. It’s not like Mr S would be interested in Kim Dokja if he truly saw him and knew him, anyway. He doesn’t know why he’s letting himself go down this train of thought.
Han Sooyoung raps her knuckles against the heavy wooden door. One, twice, thrice.
A beat.
And then– “Enter.”
His voice is deep, velvety…
And strikingly familiar.
Han Sooyoung opens the door before Kim Dokja can dwell on it.
The few of them pile into the room. Kim Dokja is the last to enter, and he gently shuts the door behind himself. He can feel someone’s eyes on him, which is all the more reason for him to take his time turning around to meet the owner of that gaze. And, fuck, Han Sooyoung was right about one thing:
That man looks like he descended down from the heavens. No wonder he’s No.1 on everyone’s “I want to fuck him if it came without consequences” list, because Kim Dokja’s never seen someone with a better looking visual than this. His looks are wasted on this corporate job.
Thick, dark brows, sword-straight. Obsidian eyes curtained by long lashes, and a perfectly straight nose. Thick lips, angular cheekbones. Salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled, neatly slicked back. His gaze is a heavy thing, and Kim Dokja feels like the CEO is seeing through him, somehow. Prying out all his dirty little secrets. The suit he wears betrays a built figure, a heavy, luxury watch bringing to attention the veins and prominent bones of his knuckles as he settles down a piece of paper.
Yoo Joonghyuk tilts his glasses up, thin-rimmed and rectangular, before rising to his full height. He towers over the rest of them easily, and Kim Dokja himself finds himself having to look up at him, just a little.
Han Sooyoung nudges Kim Dokja, breaking him out of his stupor. Right, he thinks to himself. I have a job to do.
Kim Dokja clears his throat and bows, team following suit. “Mr Yoo,” he starts. Doesn’t notice the tilt of Yoo Joonghyuk’s head as he gazes down at him, nor the way something in his eyes shifts. Kim Dokja’s gaze is fixed to the CEO’s polished leather shoes. “Thank you for having us.”
A beat of silence.
And then a hum. “Yes,” Yoo Joonghyuk responds, sitting back down. He gestures with his head, the movement minimal but intentional. “Make yourselves comfortable. Afterwards, we may begin.”
The meeting doesn’t take long to start, and finishes a lot faster than Kim Dokja anticipates. When everyone’s filing out of the room with new tasks buzzing around their head, a voice cuts through their whirlwind of thoughts like a hot knife through butter: “You.”
Everyone pauses and turns around.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes are on Kim Dokja.
“What’s your name?”
Kim Dokja blinks. Looks around, then finds that, no, Yoo Joonghyuk is definitely looking at him. Nevertheless, he points to himself. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“Uh…” Kim Dokja shifts in place, hands tightening around the files he holds closer to his chest now. He doesn’t know why he’s doing it; it’s not like it’s an effective barrier. Is he in danger? Is he in trouble? What did he do? He can’t think of any misconduct he would be responsible at work, and it’s not like he’s been parading himself on social media. He doubts Yoo Joonghyuk cares about camboys, and even then, Kim Dokja has taken steps to make sure no one would make the connection.
He swallows and looks up.
Yoo Joonghyuk is still looking at him, expectantly. Everyone’s looking at them now.
Fuck.
“... Kim Dokja,” he ekes out, voice steadier than he feels.
Yoo Joonghyuk hums and turns away, waving a hand. “You are dismissed.”
And, of course, Kim Dokja leaves with more questions than answers.
(And anxiety.)
… So then, of course, Kim Dokja’s called over to Yoo Joonghyuk’s office the following week. Not his team—just him. Kim Dokja and no one else.
When he’d heard the news, he didn’t have to look in the mirror to know that he was not unlike a ghost. He was, most likely, pale as a sheet of paper; he’d felt the blood drain out of his face before the guy even finished his sentence. Did he do something? He fucked up, didn’t he? Something slipped. Something definitely slipped. It’s Thursday, for gods’ sake. He was actually looking forward to finishing work today—the thought of ending the night with Mr S alone had been enough to give him a pep in his step. But whatever pipe dream he had of a smooth work day came crashing down the moment he heard those dreadful words: “Mr Yoo wants you in his office at your earliest convenience.”
Kim Dokja, midway through a snack he’d just bought from his vending machine, felt it go down the wrong hole in his throat and choked. He coughed, and felt Han Sooyoung’s hand on his back. It was a futile, but appreciated, attempt to soothe him.
“Why?”
The person shrugged. “Beats me. Good luck though.”
So, yeah. What a great start to the morning.
He procrastinates for as long as he’s able. Kim Dokja’s never been more productive with his pending projects in his life, but it’s amazing what the human mind (and body) can accomplish when it’s trying to stall for time this way. No one says anything, of course, but Han Sooyoung casts him a worried glance every time he decides to open up a new window on his computer to finish typing up… well, whatever.
It’s only when he crosses paths with that assistant again that he realises he can’t run from it any longer. He doesn’t really say anything; just casts him a glance with an urgency that says, if you don’t go now, he’s going to be really irritated with you.
Because the world can never have a patient, nice CEO.
He stalls in the bathroom. Brushes off imaginary lint, tidies up his hair. His nerves are making him so jittery that he can’t help but wipe his palms off his pants even if they’re not sweating; just a nervous tic to try and ease the anxiety. He’s thought all day about it, and he still doesn’t know what he might have done wrong. He can’t lose this job now—if he does, he’s going to have a hell of a time finding a new one considering the recent job market.
It’s another three minutes of anxiety-induced hand-washing before Kim Dokja blows out a breath and tidies his suit for the nth time. Just go in, he tells himself. Go in, get it over with, and then get the fuck out of there.
He really hopes he’ll still have his job in the next hour.
The lift is a lot faster than he’d like. He can feel his heartbeat in his ear, and hopes whoever’s standing next to him doesn’t hear it too. How’s he not sweating yet? He feels like it’s going to start soon. Then he’s going to stink, fuck, and whatever botched impression he’s made to Mr Yoo is going to get worse, isn’t it? It’s going to get worse, and then he’s going to get fired, and then he won’t pay rent and get kicked out and then he won’t even be able to make any more videos and—
Ding.
Ohhh, fuck me. Fuck me so fucking hard.
He swallows and steps out of the lift.
Has the hallway always been this long? And narrow? Why does it feel like someone’s talking about him? Why’s the door so fucking far away?
It feels like ages before he gets to the front of it.
Kim Dokja raises his hand. Hesitates, then wipes his palms off his pants again. Takes a deep breath.
Knock.
“Mmh, come in.”
That is one awfully fucking familiar voice. Why can’t Kim Dokja place it?
He opens the door to the CEO’s office. He’s never been here before, but it’s at the highest floor of the building. Apart from the wall where the door’s attached to, virtually everything is windows. It’s a vast, wide space, amply furnished with a large desk, bookshelves, a coffee table, and plush couches. For some reason, Kim Dokja had expected a lot more black, but the lighting from outside that filters in through those floor-to-ceiling windows gives rise to a comfortable, unexpected warmth.
And, of course, the man that is currently sucking the warmth out of the room (at least, for Kim Dokja): Yoo Joonghyuk, the CEO, leaning against his desk. By his hip is a steaming cup of, presumably, coffee.
“Kim Dokja.”
He feels himself go rigid. Shuts the door behind him and wonders if it’s too late to start praying. He was never religious before, but he can definitely see the appeal in believing in a god now.
Kim Dokja clears his throat. “... Yes. You called for me, sir?”
A tilt of the head. A dark, heavy gaze, slowly roving over Kim Dokja’s frame. He shifts, suddenly conscious of his worn shoes, the threads peeking out of his blazer. He blends in well enough, but if anyone looks close enough, they’ll know he doesn’t have much money.
Yoo Joonghyuk grabs something from behind him and places it next to the coffee mug. A black, iced coffee in a plastic takeaway cup. “Here.”
Kim Dokja blinks.
“Uh… what?”
“Your coffee.”
“Huh? What?”
Then Yoo Joonghyuk huffs out what has to be a laugh, and it’s like whatever warmth in the room he sucked out of earlier radiates off of him now. The crook of his lip, mischievous, and the dimple on the right side of his cheek—
Fuuckkk.
Somehow, this is so much worse.
Then, their eyes meet across the room, and it’s like electricity crackles in the air. Kim Dokja sucks in a breath and worries his lower lip, missing the way Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze follows the movement.
“Will you make me repeat myself?”
He jolts to attention. “No, I’m coming.” And he does. Scurries right across the room to take the cup from Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand. What the fuck is going on? It’s like that single question plays over and over in his head like a broken record, nonstop: what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthe—
“It’s from the cafe down the street,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, cutting through the cacophony of what the fuck’s in Kim Dokja’s mind. Raises a finger and taps the name of the cafe on the cup. “I hope it’s to your tastes.”
It’s his favourite cafe, so of course he does.
Kim Dokja only responds by taking a sip. Yoo Joonghyuk looks satisfied with himself, leaning back further against his desk and relaxing against his arms. Even through this suit, Kim Dokja can make out the muscles rippling beneath his frame. It’s not really hiding anything; in fact, all the black tuxedo does is cut a clearer figure. Yoo Joonghyuk definitely goes to the gym.
“Um,” Kim Dokja ekes out, hoping he doesn’t sound as confused and terrified as he feels. “What’s… going on?”
Then Yoo Joonghyuk quirks an eyebrow. “Will you be free tonight?”
…
WHAT THE FUCK?
When Kim Dokja texts SP about his newly informed unavailability, he doesn’t get a response until two hours later, when he’s about to head out.
Me: Hey, sorry, can’t call tonight… i have dinner with someone
SP1864: That’s okay. Tell me how it goes next time, or text me. You know I'll always listen to you.
And Kim Dokja knows this isn’t really the healthiest dynamic to have with a viewer (especially considering what he streams), but he can’t help the fact that that single text was enough to quell the churning storm of anxiety threatening to work its way up his stomach and make him throw up the pathetic remnants of his lunch and too-bitter coffee three hours ago.
Yoo Joonghyuk cuts a clear figure amongst the crowd of bustling people, even if whatever he’s wearing is the polar opposite of “flashy”. He’s in something more business casual; a dark turtleneck and straight, black pants. A thick coat hangs over his arm, neatly folded, and he has one long leg folded, foot propped against the wall he’s leaning against. The shoes he’s wearing are either freshly polished or very well-kept, with not a blemish on the shiny black leather. His hair has been carefully styled; not slicked back like earlier today, but a little looser. The streaks of grey marring the black of his hair fail to bring any attention to his age; if anything, they only add to the charm and allure of an older man confident in his own body, in himself. The watch on his wrist glints in the warm light of the restaurant’s entrance, and there’s no one who passes by that doesn’t cast a glance his way.
Kim Dokja’s actually about to throw up now. He wants to run. He feels so out of place, and he knows he is, because he doesn’t fucking belong here. Not on this street, not in front of this fancy ass restaurant, and certainly not in front of the Yoo Joonghyuk.
But then their eyes meet, and any hope of running away is lost into the wind, scattered like dust.
Yoo Joonghyuk offers a small smile and pushes himself off the wall. His movements are languid, deliberate, but without an ounce of hesitation. There’s something about the way he carries himself, how he holds his head up high, how he looks straight ahead, how each step is purposeful and unfaltering, that simply demands the attention of everyone around him. Each footfall is almost a stride from how long his legs are, and Kim Dokja finds himself so mesmerised that he’s locked in place.
And then Yoo Joonghyuk stops in front of Kim Dokja, head tilted, lips quirked ever-so-slightly.
“Good evening.”
It’s like Yoo Joonghyuk is a siren, and his voice is the spell. The smooth baritone wraps around Kim Dokja like a warm blanket draped over him on a cold winter’s night, and it makes Kim Dokja fall into a trance he didn’t even know he was in. He’s so dazed, so entranced, that he allows Yoo Joonghyuk to take his hand and guide him to the restaurant’s entrance, unbothered by his silence.
“Yoo Joonghyuk,” he says to the blushing waitress. They’re led into a private room, and Yoo Joonghyuk pulls the seat out for Kim Dokja. He takes a seat and wipes his sweaty palms on on the napkin in front of him almost immediately, subtleness be damned. He’s allowed to be this nervous considering their positions. He’s allowed to be confused and scared. He’s allowed to know what the fuck is going on right now.
It feels like a date.
It feels like a dream.
It feels like something that can’t be happening right now, but it is.
Kim Dokja snaps out of it after Yoo Joonghyuk sits down in front of him.
“What’s on your mind?”
… What’s on your mind? What’s on your mind? What’s on your mind? Why are you doing this? What the fuck is happening right now? What the fuck! We’ve never even spoken! What am I doing here? What are you doing here? What! Is! Happening!!!
And of course, Kim Dokja says none of that. He doesn't think he's ever maintained a poker face this stony in his life, and if people got awards for this kind of thing, he's got every right to one right about now. First place, gold medal, whatever—as long as it means he got the award for having the best poker face in the history of poker faces, he doesn't care. So he clears his throat instead, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
If Yoo Joonghyuk notices his discomfort, he makes no indication of it. The older man sits relaxed in his seat, hair perfectly messy, head perfectly tilted, lighting perfectly illuminating the planes of his face. If Kim Dokja is king of poker faces, then Yoo Joonghyuk is king of looking effortlessly, frustratingly, amazing at any given moment. Does he even have a bad angle? Even if Yoo Joonghyuk said he did, Kim Dokja wouldn't believe him.
He realises he's spacing out again.
"I, uh…" he croaks out, then pauses when his voice cracks a little. Is he red? He hopes not. This is so fucking embarassing. "I just… I'm a little confused, is all."
Yoo Joonghyuk hums. "And why is that?"
… Is he an idiot?
"Well, did I do something?" Kim Dokja finds himself wiping his palms on the fabric of his pants. It's the fanciest pair he owns, and god knows the amount of times he's soiled this pair doing roleplay videos for his account. "I mean, I don't think we've interacted before before the project meeting, and you're suddenly asking me out to have dinner at a really fancy restaurant. I'll pay you back, but, like… I dunno. I'm just confused."
Yoo Joonghyuk hums and leans forward, elbows on the table. Something brushes against Kim Dokja's foot and he nearly jumps out of his seat. Is he red? He must be red right now. How can he not be, when Yoo Joonghyuk looks so good?
And then a low, velvety chuckle. It reverberates in Kim Dokja's chest and goes straight down to his groin. If there was a way to cut off circulation around that area without dire consequences, Kim Dokja would have found it by now.
"You want to pay me back?" Yoo Joonghyuk hums. Drinks water out of a glass poured by their waiter when they entered. Then, the killer move: "Can you even afford that?"
… What the fuck?
What the actual fuck?
Maybe he is an asshole after all. Kim Dokja doesn't even know what to say to that; just keeps opening his mouth and closing it out of pure astonishment. Is he crazy? He has to be, surely. What kind of fucking nutcase just says that?
Thankfully, Yoo Joonghyuk doesn't seem like he expects an answer out of Kim Dokja. The ravenette leans back in his seat, hands clasped together. His gaze has changed—something more analytic, more calculating. He's analysing Kim Dokja now, and all it does is make him more self conscious than he already is. It's like his gaze burns, flicking from his styled hair to his brows, his neck, collar, hands, down, down, down…
Even when the waiter places their food in front of them (and Kim Dokja wasn't even aware food had been ordered, so now he's wondering just how far Yoo Joonghyuk has planned this night out), the CEO doesn't tear his gaze away.
Yoo Joonghyuk's foot brushes against the skin of Kim Dokja's inner ankle. He doesn't need a mirror to know he's blazing red.
Then, of course, a killer smirk. Yoo Joonghyuk is up to some trouble, and Kim Dokja's realising just how much he likes it. "You can pay me in other ways," the other man says, voice low. It's a drawl, really, a seductive purr. Kim Dokja feels like he's sinking into quicksand, or caught in a net. When had he stepped into this trap? How had he not noticed?
Or maybe he did, and had simply ignored the signs. Wilfully, ignorantly, knowing what it might lead to.
Yoo Joonghyuk's perfectly polished shoe lifts the bottom hem of his pants.
… Yeah, Kim Dokja thinks, swallowing nervously. I'm so fucked tonight.
Literally.
Not only is he fucked, he's getting fucked.
Face buried in his pillows, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream. Strong hands tangle in the short locks of his hair, tugging, pulling out another wanton moan. "Yoo Joonghyuk, I'm—"
Close, he thinks. I'm so close.
No fucking dildo could compare to this.
Yoo Joonghyuk leans down, pressing kisses up the length of Kim Dokja's exposed neck. He fills Kim Dokja so well, damn it, it's almost illegal. He's never felt so full before, and that's saying something considering his extensive collection of dildos, stashed somewhere in a box under his bed.
There's a sharp sting on Kim Dokja's earlobe. It's Yoo Joonghyuk's teeth, hot breath against his ear. "That's it," he purrs, spearing into him with another harsh thrust that has him seeing stars. "That's a good baby boy. You feel so good, mm?"
That deep, velvety voice. So strikingly familiar, and Kim Dokja thinks he's starting to know where he's heard it from. It's right there, just on the edge of his mind—
"Focus."
"Mmn—ah!" His mind blanks. Yoo Jonghyuk wraps his hand around his cock and thumbs the slit, rubbing a mix of cum and precum all over. Thrusts into him so hard that Kim Dokja feels his balls rub against his inner thighs, reaching so deep into him that he goes limp. Strong arms hold him still, hold him steady, hugging him in a tight embrace and lifting his torso from the bed. Kim Dokja scrambles for purchase, hands tangling in Yoo Joonghyuk's tousled hair while the older man buries his nose in his neck and bites.
"You smell so good," Yoo Joonghyuk purrs, licking apologetically at the mark. "Even better than I could have imagined, mm? Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?" Another thrust, angled upwards. Kim Dokja glances down in his delirium and nearly cums at the sight he sees: a bulge, where Yoo Joonghyuk has buried himself inside him. He's so far gone he doesn't register what Yoo Joonghyuk just said until ten seconds later.
"W-what? What do you mean you—mmgh—!" Yoo Joonghyuk wraps a hand around his throat and squeezes. Moans into his ear when he feels Kim Dokia tighten around him before flipping him and shoving him back down onto the bed. Yoo Joonghyuk grabs the back of Kim Dokja's knees and folds him in half, pulling a squeak out of the younger man when he realises what position Yoo Joonghyuk's manhandled him into.
Yoo Joonghyuk sucks a mark into the skin of his neck and presses his weight down, down. Like this, he's impossibly deep, and Kim Dokja cums without warning. How many times does that make it? He's lost count. He feels like he's locked in the mating press of his dreams right now.
Yoo Joonghyuk clasps his hands together above Kim Dokja's head, keeping him in place. "You still haven't figured it out?" He coos, voice laced with amusement.
Then he covers his eyes, filling Kim Dokja's world with darkness.
A single, low whisper: "How about now, DKOS?"
Yoo Joonghyuk shuts him up with a kiss before he can even answer.
And oh, he's fucked, Kim Dokja is so fucked…
In more ways than one.
(They go for round two in the morning before anyone decides to start The Talk.)