Chapter 16: Honeymoon Claiming
The villa bedroom was silent except for the distant, rhythmic sigh of the sea. Hyukjae woke not to an alarm, but to the gentle weight of Donghae’s arm draped across his waist, the soft puff of breath against the back of his neck. Dawn light, thin and blue, seeped around the edges of the curtains.
He lay perfectly still, savoring the warmth. The previous night felt like a dream painted in bold, visceral strokes—the water, the stone, the raw claiming. His body ached in a dozen sweet, specific ways. A memory surfaced: Donghae, hours later, whispering into his hair as they finally collapsed into this bed, “I’ve never seen you like that. You were…” He’d kissed Hyukjae’s shoulder. “Uninhibited.”
The word hung in the quiet room now. Uninhibited. Hyukjae let it settle in his bones. He carefully shifted onto his back, Donghae’s arm following as if magnetized. He studied his husband’s sleeping face in the low light—the fan of his lashes, the relaxed line of his mouth, the faint scar on his temple from a childhood tumble. A wave of fierce, protective tenderness washed over him so powerfully it stung his eyes.
Donghae’s eyes fluttered open. A slow, sleep-soft smile spread across his face. “Morning,” he rasped.
“Morning.” Hyukjae’s voice was rough with sleep.
Donghae’s hand slid from his waist to his hip, squeezing gently. “Sore?”
“A little.”
“Good.”
Hyukjae huffed a laugh. The simplicity of it, the unspoken understanding, was a blanket around them. Sunlight strengthened, turning the room gauzy and golden. Dust motes danced in the beams slicing through the window.
“What do you want to do today?” Donghae murmured, his thumb tracing idle circles on Hyukjae’s skin.
“Nothing. Everything.” Hyukjae stared at the ceiling. “Stay right here.”
“We can do that.” Donghae shifted, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at him. His hair was a mess, his cheek creased from the pillow. He was the most beautiful thing Hyukjae had ever seen. “But we should eat at some point. And I seem to remember promising to clean up a certain mess we left last night.”
Hyukjae felt a flush creep up his neck. He’d forgotten about their clothes, the sarong, scattered like breadcrumbs leading to their bed. His clean-freak nature twinged, but the feeling was distant, secondary to the lazy contentment in his limbs. “Later.”
“Later,” Donghae agreed. He leaned down and kissed Hyukjae, slow and deep, tasting of sleep. It was unhurried, a lazy exploration that quickly stoked a familiar, low heat in Hyukjae’s belly. When Donghae pulled back, his eyes were dark, intent. “Unless you’re too sore.”
It was a question, and a challenge, and an offering all at once.
Hyukjae didn’t answer with words. Instead, he pushed the sheets down, exposing their bodies to the warm, honeyed light. He turned onto his stomach, then moved, with a deliberate slowness that made his own pulse thunder in his ears, to his hands and knees. He felt the cool air on his skin, the stretch of muscles tender from the night before. He looked back over his shoulder, meeting Donghae’s now-blazing gaze.
Donghae’s breath caught audibly.
Hyukjae lowered his chest to the sheets, presenting himself, his face turned to the side, watching. He’d never initiated like this, never offered himself so shamelessly, so blatantly. A frisson of vulnerability shot through him, but it was smothered by a hotter, stronger current of want.
“Fuck,” Donghae breathed out, the word full of reverence and raw need. He scrambled for the bedside drawer, the bottle of lube clattering as he grabbed it.
The sound of the cap snapping open was loud in the quiet room. Hyukjae listened, every sense heightened. He heard the wet, slick squelch as Donghae coated his fingers, then his cock. The sound was obscene. It made Hyukjae’s mouth go dry and his own erection ache against the sheets.
“You look…” Donghae’s voice was a ragged thing. He knelt behind Hyukjae, one hand coming to rest on the small of his back. “Christ, Hyukjae. You have no idea.”
His thumb swept down the curve of Hyukjae’s ass, a possessive, appreciative stroke. Then a single, lubed finger pressed against him, not entering yet, just circling, teasing the sensitive ring of muscle. Hyukjae pushed back against it, a silent plea.
Donghae’s finger slipped inside, easy and deep from the night’s activities. A low groan tore from Hyukjae’s throat. He buried his face in the pillow. Donghae worked him open with efficient, knowing strokes, a second finger joining the first, stretching him with a burn that was pure pleasure.
“Donghae—” Hyukjae gasped.
“I know. I’ve got you.” The fingers withdrew. Hyukjae felt the blunt, solid pressure of Donghae’s cockhead nudging against him. Donghae’s hands gripped his hips, his thumbs digging in.
“Look at me,” Donghae ordered, his voice thick.
Hyukjae turned his head, meeting the reflection of Donghae’s desperate, worshipful eyes in the darkened television screen across the room. It was a fractured, ghostly image, but he could see him.
“Gonna fill you up so good, husband,” Donghae growled. “Gonna make you feel me for days.”
Then he pushed. Not slow, not tentative, but one brutal, perfect thrust that buried him to the hilt.
Hyukjae screamed. The sound was muffled by the pillow, then torn free as Donghae withdrew almost completely and slammed back in. There was no gentleness, no preamble. It was pure, unadulterated possession. Each thrust drove Hyukjae forward on the bed, the sheets tangling in his fists. Donghae’s pace was relentless, a punishing, beautiful rhythm that stole the air from Hyukjae’s lungs.
“That’s it, take it,” Donghae chanted, his voice a broken string of praise and filth. “Your perfect fucking ass, mine, all mine—”
Hyukjae could only grunt with each impact, his vision swimming. The pain bled into a pleasure so intense it was terrifying. He was laid bare, split open, completely at Donghae’s mercy and it was the most liberating feeling he’d ever known. Donghae leaned over him, his chest hot against Hyukjae’s back, one hand snaking around to fist Hyukjae’s dripping cock.
The dual sensation—the deep, reaming thrusts and the tight, slick friction on his cock—coiled the tension in his gut to a breaking point. “I’m—I’m gonna—”
“Come,” Donghae snarled in his ear, biting down on the lobe. “Come on my cock while I fuck you.”
The command shattered him. Hyukjae came with a wordless cry, his body convulsing, clamping down hard around Donghae’s length. The intense pulses seemed to go on forever, milking Donghae through his own climax. Donghae drove into him one final, shuddering time, burying himself deep as he emptied with a guttural moan, his hips stuttering against Hyukjae’s ass.
They collapsed together, a sweaty, tangled heap of limbs and spent breath. Donghae’s weight was crushing and perfect. Hyukjae could feel Donghae’s heart hammering against his back, in time with his own.
Hyukjae could feel Donghae’s heart hammering against his back, in time with his own. The room was quiet again, save for their ragged breaths and the rustle of sheets as Donghae carefully pulled out and collapsed beside him. Sticky warmth spread between Hyukjae’s thighs, a stark contrast to the crisp morning air on his skin.
He kept his face buried in the pillow for a long moment, the scent of sex and Donghae’s sweat filling his lungs. A hand, gentle now, swept the damp hair from his forehead.
“Hey.” Donghae’s voice was shot through with gravel. “You okay?”
Hyukjae nodded against the fabric, not trusting his own voice. He was more than okay. He was unraveled, reassembled, utterly claimed. He finally turned his head. Donghae was looking at him with such open awe it was almost difficult to hold his gaze.
“I mean it,” Donghae whispered, tracing the line of Hyukjae’s jaw. “You were…fuck. You are breathtaking.”
A weak smile touched Hyukjae’s lips. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He shifted, wincing slightly at the tender ache. “Definitely feeling that for days.”
Donghae grinned, that cheeky, luminous grin that always made Hyukjae’s chest tighten. “Good.” He leaned in and kissed him, soft and lingering. “Regrets?”
“Shut up.” Hyukjae pushed at his shoulder half-heartedly. “Not a single one.”
They lay there for a while, limbs tangled, listening to the world wake up outside. A bird called from a palm tree. The soft drone of a distant boat engine filtered in. Hyukjae’s mind, usually a whirlwind of past anxieties and future worries, was perfectly, preciously still.
“I need water,” Donghae announced, detangling himself. “You look dehydrated.” He padded naked to the kitchen, his movements loose and easy.
Hyukjae watched him go, the play of muscle under skin, the faint red marks from Hyukjae’s own fingers on his hips. He felt a strange, proprietary pride. He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling fan. His body thrummed with a deep, satiated fatigue. The mess between his legs was beginning to feel uncomfortable, a sticky reminder that his clean-freak nature was reasserting itself.
Donghae returned with two glasses of cold water. He handed one to Hyukjae, who drank greedily. Donghae watched his throat work, his eyes darkening again.
“Stop,” Hyukjae laughed, setting the glass on the nightstand. “I’m an empty shell.”
“A very beautiful empty shell.” Donghae climbed back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged facing him. “Seriously, though. Look at me.”
Hyukjae met his eyes.
“Next time,” Donghae said, his tone shifting into something more serious, more intent. “I want to see you.”
“You see me.”
“No.” Donghae reached out, his thumb stroking Hyukjae’s lower lip. “When you come. Just now, you had your face in the pillow. It was incredible, feeling you fall apart like that.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “But I want your eyes. I want to watch it happen inside you. I want to see your face when you reach your bliss, baby.”
The raw want in the words, the specific, visual hunger, sent a fresh jolt straight through Hyukjae’s spent nerves. A blush heated his chest and neck. He’d always hidden his face at the peak, ashamed of the loss of control, the unguarded grimace of pleasure. Donghae was asking for that surrender too.
“That’s…” Hyukjae trailed off, his throat tight.
“A lot,” Donghae finished for him, his expression softening. “I know. You don’t have to promise anything.” He kissed Hyukjae’s forehead. “Just something I want. When you’re ready.”
The concept lodged itself in Hyukjae’s mind, a seed planted. He changed the subject. “We really should clean up. The sarong…”
“Is currently being digested by a seagull, probably,” Donghae joked, but he slid off the bed. “I’ll grab a shower first, then I’ll go gather the evidence.” He stretched, his body a long, elegant line in the sunlight. “You should soak. Epsom salts. My medical recommendation.”
After Donghae left the room, Hyukjae lay still. He replayed the words. I want to see your face. He imagined it, letting his head fall back, keeping his eyes open, letting Donghae watch every spasm, every flicker of ecstasy. The thought alone was profoundly vulnerable. It felt like the last fortress gate, rusty and rarely used, groaning open.
He finally pushed himself up, his muscles protesting. He walked to the bathroom, where steam was already curling from the shower stall. Through the fogged glass, he could see the blurry shape of Donghae under the water. Hyukjae’s own reflection in the large mirror caught him by surprise. He looked wrecked—hair wild, love bites blooming on his neck and chest, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark.
He looked well-fucked. He looked owned.
A slow smile spread across his face. He turned on the tap in the large soaking tub, pouring in a generous amount of scented salts. As the bath filled, he leaned against the vanity, listening to the shower. His eyes drifted to Donghae’s toiletry bag, open beside the sink. Next to the expected items—razor, toothpaste—lay a small, familiar blue bottle of lube, half-empty.
It was such a mundane object, sitting there so casually. Yet the sight of it, here in the clear light of morning, sent a thrill through him. This was their life now. Not just the passion, but the aftermath. The shared space, the domestic intimacy, the evidence of their hunger left out in the open. He didn’t feel the urge to hide it or tidy it away.
He was still smiling when Donghae stepped out of the shower, a towel slung low on his hips, water beading on his skin.
“Your turn,” Donghae said, wiping the steam from the mirror. He caught Hyukjae’s expression. “What’s that smile for?”
“Nothing.” Hyukjae pushed off the vanity. “Just thinking about evidence.”
Donghae followed his gaze to the bottle on the counter. He chuckled, a warm, rich sound. “Oh, that evidence.” He stepped closer, his damp body radiating heat. He cupped Hyukjae’s face, his thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones. “Get in the bath. I’ll be back before the water gets cold.”
He left then, pulling on a pair of shorts and heading outside to the terrace. Hyukjae sank into the steaming, fragrant water with a deep groan of relief. The heat soothed his sore muscles, the salts stinging pleasantly in the fresh bites and marks. He closed his eyes, listening to the distant sound of Donghae gathering their discarded clothes from the pool area, whistling a tune.
This was it, he thought. This peace, this uncomplicated warmth. The fear that usually lingered at the edges of his mind, the fear of this ending, of being left, was quiet. It wasn’t gone—he knew its shape too well for it to vanish completely—but it was muted, drowned out by the sound of Donghae’s whistling and the memory of his voice, rough with promise.
I want to see your face.
Hyukjae opened his eyes, staring at the bathroom door. He took a deep breath, sinking a little deeper into the water, the decision settling in his chest like a smooth, warm stone. When Donghae returned, the worn sarong in his hands, Hyukjae would be ready. Not with words, but with a look. A silent answer.