Chapter 5: Marked in Mirrors
The air in the practice room was sterile and thick with the smell of polished floorboards and stale sweat. The only light came from the harsh fluorescent strips above, bleaching their faces and casting long, dramatic shadows against the mirrored walls. They were alone, a rare pocket of silence in their manic schedule. The tour loomed, a beast of its own, and with it came the pressure of solo stages.
“Okay, let’s run them in order,” Hongjoong said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. He leaned against the sound system, arms crossed. The leader was back in place, crisp and in control. But his eyes, sharp and tracking, missed nothing. The calm was a thin veneer. The dragon beneath was restless, possessive, its attention a laser fixated on one figure. “Seonghwa. You’re first.”
Seonghwa nodded, moving to the center of the room. He looked ethereal even in simple black sweatpants and a damp white tank top. His solo was a piece of art—a melancholic, contemporary number that required fluid, agonizingly controlled movement. It told a story of longing. To the others, it was performance. To Hongjoong, it was a mirror held up to the last week, to the secret weight Seonghwa now carried invisibly inside him.
The opening notes, a haunting piano melody, filtered through the speakers. Seonghwa breathed in, and his body softened into the first pose.He was breathtaking. Every extension of his arm was a whisper, every tilt of his head a question. He moved like water, like something that wasn’t entirely bound by gravity. The others watched, transfixed. Wooyoung chewed his thumbnail, studying the choreography. Yunho’s head bobbed slightly with the rhythm. Mingi mouthed the counts.
Hongjoong just watched Seonghwa. He saw the minute tremble in a sustained balance, the slight catch of breath after a rolling floor sequence. His senses, hyper-acute, could almost smell the unique, sweet-metallic scent of Seonghwa’s pregnancy beneath the sweat. It drove the dragon quietly mad.
The song built, and the movements grew more powerful, demanding sharp releases of energy. Seonghwa spun, his body a perfect line, then launched into a series of rapid, locking isolations. On the third repetition, his foot placement on a sudden lateral slide was a fraction off. The slick sole of his sneaker skidded on the polished wood.
He didn’t fall. He caught himself, a graceful stumble that anyone else would have brushed off. A mere hiccup in an otherwise flawless run.
But Hongjoong was moving before the stumble was complete.
A blur of black fabric and controlled fury. He crossed the room in a heartbeat, his hand closing around Seonghwa’s upper arm with enough force to bruise. The music cut off as Yunho, startled, hit the remote. The sudden silence was deafening.
“What was that?” Hongjoong’s voice was a low, guttural thing, completely unlike his usual tone. It vibrated with a sub-audible growl.
“Joong, it was nothing, I just slipped—” Seonghwa tried, his pulse hammering under Hongjoong’s grip.
“You slipped.” Hongjoong shoved him, not hard, but with definitive force, turning him and pinning his chest against the cool mirror. The impact made a dull thud. Seonghwa’s breath fogged the glass. Hongjoong’s body pressed against his back, a solid, unyielding wall of heat. “You can’t slip. You can’t afford to slip.” His mouth was against Seonghwa’s ear, the words for him alone, yet they echoed in the still room. “You’re carrying my clutch. You think I don’t know what that does to your balance? To your center?”
The other members froze. The words hung in the air, a dangerous, explicit confession. They all knew, of course, but to hear it voiced here, in the clinical light of practice, was different.
“Hongjoong, let him go,” Yunho said, his voice cautious, stepping forward.
Hongjoong ignored him. He rutted his hips forward once, a crude, possessive grind against Seonghwa’s ass. The drag of his sweatpants against the thin fabric of Seonghwa’s was obscenely loud. “You need to be careful.” His hand slid from Seonghwa’s arm down to his flat stomach, splaying possessively over it. “This is everything.You are everything. And you’re dancing like you’re alone in here.”
Seonghwa was trembling, but not from fear. Arousal, sharp and immediate, pooled hot in his gut. The dragon’s proximity, its raw, unfiltered claim, short-circuited his siren senses. He pushed back against Hongjoong, a subtle roll of his hips. “I am careful,” he whispered back, his voice choked.
“Doesn’t look like it.” Hongjoong’s other hand came up, fingers digging into the sweat-damp hair at the nape of Seonghwa’s neck, not gentle. He yanked Seonghwa’s head back, exposing the long line of his throat. Hongjoong’s lips brushed the pounding pulse there. “Looks like you need a reminder.”
Yeosang watched from the corner, his own stomach tightening with a sympathetic curl of heat. He saw the flicker of gold in Hongjoong’s irises. He knew this dance. The post-rut possessiveness was a volatile thing, a lingering need to reassert ownership, to touch and taste and verify. He stayed silent, his gaze locked on the scene, a familiar ache stirring low in his own belly.
“Out,” Hongjoong snarled, not lifting his head from Seonghwa’s throat.
The others didn’t need to be told twice. Wooyoung grabbed Mingi’s sleeve, pulling him toward the door. Jongho followed, his expression unreadable. Yunho hesitated, his healer’s instinct warring with the primal warning screaming in his brain. “Hongjoong…”
“Get the fuck out, Yunho!” The roar was barely human, a crack of thunder in the enclosed space.
Yunho left, closing the door softly behind him. The click of the lock was deafening.
Alone, the energy shifted, condensed, turned feverish. Hongjoong spun Seonghwa around to face him. His kiss was a devouring thing, all teeth and desperate tongue. Seonghwa met it with equal hunger, his hands fisting in Hongjoong’s shirt. The taste was salt and want and a darker, ozone-edged fury.
“Against the mirror,” Hongjoong ordered, tearing his mouth away. “I want to watch. I want to see you take it.”
He shoved Seonghwa back against the glass. The mirror chilled his shoulder blades. Hongjoong dropped to his knees, his hands rough on the waistband of Seonghwa’s sweatpants and briefs, dragging them down to his thighs in one violent pull. Seonghwa’s cock sprang free, already half-hard and leaking.
Hongjoong didn’t hesitate. He took Seonghwa into his mouth, swallowing him down to the root in one wet, deep glide. Seonghwa cried out, his head thumping back against the mirror. Hongjoong’s mouth was scorching hot, his tongue a ruthless, flat pressure along the sensitive underside. He bobbed his head, a savage, sucking rhythm, his throat working around the length. Saliva dripped down onto Seonghwa’s balls.
“Fuck, Joong—!” Seonghwa gasped, his fingers tangling in Hongjoong’s hair, not pushing him away but holding him there, forcing himself deeper.
Hongjoong pulled off with a wet pop, his lips swollen and slick.“You like that? You like my mouth on your cock when you’re full of my eggs?” he growled, his breath hot on Seonghwa’s throbbing flesh. He didn’t wait for an answer. He leaned in again, his tongue dipping lower, licking a brutal stripe over Seonghwa’s perineum before pressing against his cunt.
Seonghwa jolted, a sharp, shocked sound escaping him. Hongjoong’s tongue was insistent, probing, violating in its intimacy. It wasn’t about preparation; it was about marking, tasting a part of Seonghwa that was fundamentally his. He fucked into him with his tongue, shallow, dirty thrusts that made Seonghwa’s legs shake.
“Please,” Seonghwa begged, voice shattered. “Please, I need you inside me. Now.”
Hongjoong stood up, his own erection straining painfully against his pants. He pushed them down just enough to free himself. His cock was thick, angry red, already weeping pre-cum. He spat into his palm, slicking himself roughly. He lined up, the blunt head pressing against Seonghwa’s resisting entrance.
“Look,” Hongjoong commanded, grabbing Seonghwa’s chin, forcing his head to turn toward their reflection. Seonghwa’s eyes were glazed, his lips kiss-swollen, his pants around his thighs. Hongjoong behind him, a study in predatory intent. “Watch me fuck my pregnant mate.”
He pushed in.
The breach was brutal, a burning, stretching fullness. Seonghwa screamed, his nails scraping against the mirror. Hongjoong buried himself to the hilt in one relentless thrust, sheathing himself completely in the tight, clutching heat. He didn’t pause, didn’t let Seonghwa adjust. He set a punishing pace from the start, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in, the sound of skin slapping skin and the wet, rhythmic squelch filling the silent room.
“See?” Hongjoong panted, his eyes locked on their reflection, on where their bodies joined. “See how you take it? Your body was made for this. Made for my cock.” He hammered into him, each drive jolting Seonghwa against the cold glass. “You can feel it, can’t you? Deep inside where I put them? Where my children are growing?”
“Yes!” Seonghwa sobbed, the overstimulation tipping into blinding pleasure. “I feel it, I feel you, I feel them—!”
Hongjoong’s rhythm grew erratic, more frantic. One hand stayed on Seonghwa’s hip, fingers digging in, the other wrapped around his throat, not squeezing, just holding, a dominant claim. He was chasing his peak, a beast in its final, glorious hunt.
“Gonna come,” Hongjoong grunted, his voice ragged. “Gonna fill you up again. Seal you. Mark you from the inside.”
His orgasm ripped through him with a roar he couldn’t suppress. He pistoned into Seonghwa twice more, then held deep, shuddering as he emptied himself in hot, pulsing jets. Seonghwa felt the scalding flood, the intimate claim, and it tipped him over the edge. His own release striped the mirror in front of him, white and obscene, his body clenching tight around Hongjoong’s still-spurting cock.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing fogging the glass. Hongjoong slowly loosened his grip, his forehead dropping to Seonghwa’s sweaty shoulder. The gold faded from his eyes, leaving behind a dull, trembling exhaustion.
Seonghwa went boneless against the mirror, held up only by Hongjoong’s body still pinning him. He looked at their reflection—a mess of sweat, spend, and possessed desperation. His eyes, hazy and sated, drifted past Hongjoong’s shoulder.
To where Yeosang still sat, silent and unmoving in the corner. He hadn’t left. He’d watched the entire thing, his expression unreadable, his own hand subtly tucked in the waistband of his pants. Their eyes met in the glass. A flicker of understanding, of shared, complicated history, passed between them.
Hongjoong finally pulled out, his softening cock dragging a mix of their fluids from Seonghwa’s well-used cunt. He gently tugged Seonghwa’s clothes back up, his movements now tender, almost apologetic. He pressed a kiss to the nape of Seonghwa’s neck.
“Your solo is perfect,” Hongjoong murmured, his voice hoarse. “Just… be careful.”
He stepped back, adjusting his own clothes, avoiding everyone’s eyes—Seonghwa’s in the mirror, Yeosang’s in the corner. The dragon had been sated, for now. But the room felt charged, cracked open. The tour, the world, waited outside. And the secrets they carried felt heavier than ever.
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The silence in the van ride back to the dorm was a physical weight, thick with unsaid things and the scent of sex still clinging to Hongjoong and Seonghwa’s skin. Yeosang stared out the window at the passing city lights, his jaw tight. Wooyoung flicked glances between everyone, vibrating with nervous energy he didn’t dare release. The practiced choreography of their group dynamic had fractures in it now, fine cracks only they could see.
Hongjoong sat apart, his knee bouncing. The dragon in him was not calm. The claiming in the practice room had been a temporary vent for a pressure that was already rebuilding, deeper and more systemic. It wasn’t just about Seonghwa anymore. The rut was past, but the instinct was clear, primal: his pack, his mates, all needed to be marked, bound, settled. Their scents were wrong.They felt separate. The flight back to the nest had only heightened the dissonance buzzing under his skin.
The dorm door hadn’t even clicked shut behind Jongho, the last one in, before Hongjoong spoke. His voice was low, stripped of all performative charm. “We’re not done.”
Seonghwa, who was toeing off his shoes by the entryway, went very still. He knew that tone. It was the same one from before the eggs, a harmonic of impending possession.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mingi asked, his voice wary as he dropped his bag. The living room felt suddenly small, claustrophobic.
Hongjoong turned to face them all, his back against the door. His eyes held that unsettling, metallic sheen. “The bonds are thin. I can feel it. You all can feel it.” He looked at Yeosang, who met his gaze unflinchingly. “It’s unstable. The nesting instinct… it’s not satisfied.”
“We just did this
“We just did this,” Seonghwa said, his voice quiet but firm. He stepped forward, placing himself between Hongjoong and the others. The gesture was protective, but it made Hongjoong’s pupils dilate, a fresh wave of territorial heat flashing through him.
“Not like this,” Hongjoong said, the words leaving his mouth like smoke. “Not all of you. The scent is wrong. It’s disjointed.” His gaze swept over them—Yunho, tense by the kitchen; Mingi, looking lost; Wooyoung, unusually still; Jongho, a statue of observation; Yeosang, a silent challenge; and San, whose fox-like eyes were wide with a mix of fear and fascination. “You smell like separate things. My nest smells of only two.” He meant Seonghwa and Yeosang. “That leaves gaps. Weaknesses.”
“So what, you’re going to fuck us all into smelling right?” Wooyoung blurted out, a hysterical edge to his laugh. “Is that the master plan?”
Hongjoong’s silence was the answer. It wasn’t about pleasure. It was about topology, about pulling them into his gravitational field until their individual orbits decayed and they all fell into the same relentless, central pull. Yeosang understood first. He stood up from the armchair, his movements deliberate. He began pulling his shirt over his head, his expression resigned, almost analytical. “He won’t be able to stop until it’s done. The instinct is geometric. It needs points of connection to stabilize.”
“You can’t be serious,” Yunho breathed, his healer’s mind racing through the violating implications.
“He’s a dragon in nesting mode, not a debate club president,” Yeosang said flatly, dropping his shirt. His chest was pale in the low light. “You can say no. He probably won’t force you. But the tension will remain. It’ll fester. And when the next stress comes…” He let the sentence hang. The threat of the upcoming tour, of the world’s eyes, was stress enough.
Hongjoong’s eyes were on San. The dancer was the most physically expressive of them, his energy a tangible, sparkling thing. Right now, it tasted like anxiety and a sharp, peppery curiosity. “San-ah,” Hongjoong said, his voice dropping into that seductive, honeyed register that wasn’t entirely human.
San flinched. He took a step back, hit the wall. “Hyung…”
“Come here.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a magnetic pull, an aura Hongjoong emitted that seemed to thicken the air. San’s body moved before his mind could catch up, drawn across the room like iron to a lodestone. Hongjoong caught his face in both hands, his thumbs brushing San’s cheekbones. “You’re part of my pack,” Hongjoong murmured, his face inches away. “But you don’t bear the mark. It leaves a hole.”
Then Hongjoong kissed him. It wasn’t like the desperate, biting kiss he’d given Seonghwa. This was softer, more insidious, a slow poison of persuasion. San made a muffled sound of protest that died in his throat, his body going pliant. Hongjoong’s tongue swept into his mouth, and San’s knees buckled. Hongjoong held him up, one hand sliding down to the small of San’s back, pulling their hips together. They could all see the obvious, hard line of Hongjoong’s renewed arousal pressed against San’s stomach.
When Hongjoong broke the kiss, San was dazed, lips slick and parted. “See?” Hongjoong whispered, not to San, but to the room. “It doesn’t have to hurt.” His hand slipped down, cupping San through his sweats, palming the hardening length there. San gasped, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. “He wants the connection. They all do. They just don’t know how to ask.”
That was the crack. The first surrender. Hongjoong guided San to his knees right there in the center of the living room rug. The others were frozen, aghast, riveted. Fingers trembling, San fumbled with Hongjoong’s zipper, pulling out his cock. It was fully erect, flushed and heavy. San looked up at Hongjoong, a silent question in his dark eyes.
“Yes,” Hongjoong said, his voice thick.
San leaned forward and took him into his mouth. He was unpracticed, too eager, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. Hongjoong groaned, a deep, rattling sound, and fisted a hand in San’s hair. He didn’t thrust, not yet. He just held San’s head there, letting him adjust, letting the others watch. The wet, sucking sounds were obscenely loud. Pre-cum beaded on the tip, and San licked it off, a shy, seeking glance upwards.
“Good,” Hongjoong praised, and the word seemed to ignite San. He took more, bobbing his head with newfound courage, hollowing his cheeks. Hongjoong’s head fell back, his throat working. “So good for me. Taking my cock so well.”
Seonghwa watched, his own body humming with a confused resonance. This was his mate, claiming another. It should have sparked jealousy, but instead, a terrible, fascinated warmth spread through him. Yeosang’s gaze was clinical, dissecting. Wooyoung’s breath was coming in short, sharp pants. Mingi had looked away, but his ears were bright red.
Hongjoong’s patience frayed. His hips began to move, shallow thrusts that pushed his cock deeper into San’s throat. San gagged, tears springing to his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. He took it, his own hand sneaking into his pants to stroke himself in time with the rhythm. The vulgar, slick sounds of his hand on his own cock mixed with the wet noises of his mouth.
“That’s it, take it all,” Hongjoong gritted out, his control slipping. The dragon was ascending, pleasure eroding the last of his civility. He fucked into San’s mouth in earnest now, a brutal, face-fucking pace that had San choking and drooling around the length. Spit dripped from his chin onto the rug. “Swallow it. Take my mark.”
With a final, harsh groan, Hongjoong came. His release pulsed down San’s throat in hot, bitter waves. San swallowed convulsively, his own orgasm ripping through him silently, staining the front of his sweatpants with a dark, damp patch. Hongjoong held him there until he was soft, then gently pulled out. San slumped back on his heels, coughing, his lips raw and glistening.
Hongjoong turned, his eyes landing on Wooyoung next. Wooyoung, who was already backing toward the hallway. “No, no, no, hyung, come on—”
“You’re next,” Hongjoong said, advancing. There was no cruelty in his voice, just a terrifying, absolute certainty. “You’re the loudest.Your energy is everywhere. It needs to be tied down.”
He caught Wooyoung in three strides, spinning him and pushing him face-first against the wall. Wooyoung yelped, his cheek pressed to the cool paint. Hongjoong yanked Wooyoung’s pants and briefs down to his knees in one rough motion. He didn’t bother with preparation, just spat into his palm, slicked his own still-wet cock, and pressed the broad head against Wooyoung’s tight, unprepared hole.
“Hongjoong, wait, it’s too dry—!” Wooyoung cried out, genuine fear spiking his scent.
Hongjoong paused. He looked over his shoulder. “Yunho.Lube. Now.”
Yunho stared, horrified. This was a perversion of his healing, of his care. But the command in Hongjoong’s voice was elemental. He moved to the bathroom on autopilot, returning with a half-empty bottle. He couldn’t look at Wooyoung’s face as he handed it over.
Hongjoong poured a generous amount, coating himself and pushing cold, slick fingers against Wooyoung’s entrance. One finger pushed in, then two, a rushed, brutal stretching. Wooyoung whimpered, his fingers scrabbling against the wall. “Please.”
“You’ll take it,” Hongjoong said, and he sheathed himself inside in one relentless, tearing thrust.
Wooyoung screamed. The sound was raw, shredded. Hongjoong set a brutal pace immediately, each snap of his hips slamming Wooyoung’s body into the wall. It was punishment and possession intertwined. Wooyoung sobbed, the pain vivid on his face, but soon, choked gasps interspersed the cries. His body, traitorously, began to relax, to accommodate, to slick itself in response to the violent friction.
“You see?” Hongjoong grunted, pounding into him. “You fight, but your body knows. It knows its alpha. It knows where it belongs.” He leaned over, biting the junction of Wooyoung’s neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to brand. Wooyoung came with a broken shout, untouched, his spend hitting the wall. Hongjoong followed soon after, spilling inside him with a low, satisfied growl.
He withdrew, leaving Wooyoung shuddering and leaking against the wall. He didn’t stop. The compulsion was a wheel now, spinning faster. He turned to the room. His cock was still hard, gleaming with lube and spend. His eyes, molten gold, found Mingi, who was backed into a corner.
“Mingi.” The name was a command.
Mingi, the gentle giant, looked like a spooked animal. He shook his head, mute with terror. Hongjoong crossed the room. He didn’t speak again. He manhandled Mingi onto the large couch, pushing him down on his back. Mingi was taller, broader, but he yielded like a child, paralyzed by fear and a deep, submissive streak he’d never acknowledged. Hongjoong pushed his legs apart, settled between them.
“Look at me,” Hongjoong said, his voice softening by a fraction. Mingi’s terrified eyes met his. “This is for the nest. For all of us. You are mine.” He pressed inside, and Mingi cried out, a sound of shock and pain. Hongjoong fucked him slowly, a deep, grinding rhythm that was somehow more intimate than what had come before. He kissed Mingi’s tears away, whispering garbled, possessive nothings against his skin until Mingi’s body unclenched, until he wrapped his long legs around Hongjoong’s waist and held on.
One by one, he took them. He bent Yunho over the dining table, fucking him with a ruthless, clinical efficiency that broke the healer’s quiet stoicism into soft, shocked whimpers. He took Jongho on the floor, the maknae meeting his thrusts with a furious, competitive glare, as if this were another contest to win, until his defiance melted into ragged, surrendered moans.
The air in the dorm was suffocating, thick with sex-sweat, salt, and the pungent, coppery scent of repeated claim. Bodies lay where they had been left, trembling, used, connected by glistening streaks on skin and fabric. Hongjoong stood in the center of the wreckage, his own body slick with sweat and the evidence of his passage through all of them. His chest heaved. The frantic, burning need was banked, replaced by a heavy, sated fog.
He looked at Seonghwa and Yeosang, the only two he hadn’t touched. They watched him, their expressions inscrutable. The dragon’s work was done. The pack’s scent was now a uniform, heavy musk, layered with him. The nest, in his primal mind, was secure.
But as the human part of his mind surfaced through the haze, he saw the reality. Wooyoung, silently crying against the wall. Mingi, curled fetally on the couch. Yunho, staring blankly at the ceiling from the table. San, still on his knees, looking hollow. Jongho, clenching his jaw as he got dressed, his movements stiff with shame.
A cold, nauseating clarity washed over Hongjoong. He looked at his hands, then at the shattered pieces of his family around him. The bonds weren't strengthened. They were twisted, violated, and strewn across the floor. The dragon’s logic had been flawless, and it had broken everything it sought to fix.