Chapter Text
Kim Dokja gasped, his trembling hands futilely trying to stave off the ichor dripping from his abdomen. He could already feel the fatigue clouding his head, and before long, he wouldn’t be able to hover if he kept losing his life force.
His fingertips were starting to get colder, and the flap of his wings gradually slowed as he carefully descended to the nearest building. He’s losing too much ichor, and if he doesn't find any source of energy soon, the hunters will close in on him and kill him.
He needs to feed, and soon.
With the last dreg of his energy, Kim Dokja gave a few powerful flaps of his wings, trying to aim for the rooftop of his favorite condo, and landed roughly on his sides. Kim Dokja whimpered when one of his wings bent into an unnatural angle, twisting in its socket and sending a jolt of pain through his already damaged body.
Damn hunters… just because he belongs to one of the deadly sins doesn’t mean they have to actively try to kill him. He’s just trying to mind his own business as all living beings are. Feeding on the desires of those who were wrapped in the cold embrace of loneliness.
He's never taken more than he needs, careful to leave humans he preyed upon with enough to survive the other day.
His kin had said he was too kind; that he takes too little, that Kim Dokja was practically inviting hunters into his doorstep by leaving so many witnesses, that it was only a matter of time that he would die by the hands of his food, and honestly; Kim Dokja had seen no problem with any of this. His life had been set in stone anyway; he's a demon with his days numbered.
Everywhere he goes, everyone is trying to kill him; from the hunters who swore they would eradicate evil from the Earth, demons who wanted to get rid of him just because of his former status, and angels who saw him as a stain in their heavenly court by daring to question the higher being.
Well, if there's no place for a half-breed like him, he might as well go down fighting.
But first, he'd bid his favorite human farewell. Then… only then will Kim Dokja face his own hell.
Kim Dokja didn't bother to be discreet as he slid the glass door leading into the outdoor pool open, nor did he bother to check into the surrounding area as he stepped into the carpeted room; and zeroed into the warm, mahogany door that would lead into the bedroom of his cherished human; the man who yearn so strongly for a being who no longer existed, the man Kim Dokja comforts every night as the he dreamt of life he would never attain, the one who kept Kim Dokja alive with just a chaste kiss of his lips alone.
Kim Dokja grunted as his dislocated wing jostled with every bit of movement he made.
"Just a little bit more," He grits his teeth, turning the doorknob to unlock the door before his finger slips from the metal, the ichor staining his hands making everything he touches slippery and gross. Kim Dokja mentally apologized for ruining the man's interior, before pushing the door with his uninjured shoulder.
He was greeted with the sight of the man lying on his back, shirtless with his blanket tangled on his toned legs, (no doubt the result of having another nightmare Kim Dokja would have to fix) his hair tousled haphazardly, as sweat drenched his upper body, making it glisten in the dim-light.
Kim Dokja inched closer to the man and notes the furrow on his eyebrows, noticing the minute twitch of his fingers and the way his eyes moved below his eyelids — Kim Dokja had arrived at a good time, the man was deep in REM that it was easy to manipulate his dreams into something that could sustain Kim Dokja thoroughly — the way his forehead crinkles, the tightening of his jaw where Kim Dokja could almost hear the man grit his teeth harshly in his sleep. And he wonders; what kind of nightmare would Kim Dokja have to soothe the man from?
Injuries forgotten, Kim Dokja hurries to the man's side; he hovers his hand above the furrowed brow, stained hand aglow with power easily found a wedge to dig into the man's dream, and with an ease as natural as breathing, Kim Dokja entwined his finger around a sliver of the man's subconscious, and twists.