Chapter 29: Poolside Breakfast and Serenity
The sunlight was a physical presence, a gentle weight across Hyukjae’s eyelids. He awoke to a deep, pleasant ache woven into his muscles and bones, a comprehensive ledger of the day and night before. He was on his stomach, one arm slung across the empty space beside him. The sheets smelled of salt, sex, and Donghae.
A shadow fell across the bed. “I was about to use a bucket of pool water,” Donghae’s voice said, cheerful. “You looked too peaceful to punch awake.”
Hyukjae cracked an eye open. Donghae stood beside the bed, already dressed in loose linen trousers, hair damp. He looked obscenely refreshed. “I hate you,” Hyukjae mumbled into the pillow, his voice gravel.
“You say that, but your body tells a different story.” Donghae leaned down, his hands sliding under Hyukjae’s shoulders and knees before he could protest. In one smooth motion, he was lifted, cradled against a firm chest. “Up we go.”
“Put me down, you maniac. I can walk.”
“Evidence from yesterday suggests otherwise.” Donghae carried him through the villa, past the main living area, and out onto the deck. The morning glare was blinding for a second before resolving into the stunning vista of the infinity pool merging with the sea. The air was fresh, scented with jasmine and chlorine.
And there, in the center of the pool, floated a wide bamboo tray. On it, a riot of color: slices of mango and papaya, a plate of eggs and sausage, two croissants, and a bottle of champagne nestled in a silver bucket of ice. Two flutes stood like sentinels.
Donghae walked down the steps into the water, still holding him. The coolness was a shock, then a relief on his warm skin. “Breakfast service,” Donghae said, lowering them both until the water lapped at their chests, Hyukjae settled in the circle of his arms beside the floating feast.
It was absurd. It was extravagant. Hyukjae picked up a slice of mango. The juice ran down his wrist. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s room service with better scenery.” Donghae popped the champagne cork with a practiced twist. The sound was crisp in the morning quiet. He filled a flute and handed it over. “To recovery.”
They ate in the water, shoulders touching. Hyukjae found himself starving. The eggs were perfectly runny, the fruit explosively sweet. Donghae fed him a piece of croissant, his fingers brushing Hyukjae’s lips. Between bites, they kissed, tasting of champagne and butter and salt. It was lazy, unhurried. The desperate hunger of the previous day was absent, replaced by something slower, more digesting.
After, they let the tray drift away. Donghae turned, his hands finding Hyukjae’s hips beneath the water. “Okay. Stretch with me.”
“What?”
“Yoga. You’re stiff as a board. It’ll help.”
It was less yoga and more a series of slow, guided manipulations. Donghae, surprisingly knowledgeable, moved him through stretches on the submerged pool bench, his hands firm and sure on Hyukjae’s hamstrings, his lower back. He worked without teasing, his focus complete. Hyukjae felt his body reluctantly open, the soreness easing under the dual pressure of skilled hands and buoyant water. They moved in a wordless sync, a silent conversation of push and yield, of trust in the supporting grip.
Later, on the deck, towels slung around their necks, Donghae said, “Let’s go be tourists.”
The village was a short walk down a dusty path, a cluster of shops and warungs bustling with a leisurely energy. Donghae immediately laced their fingers together. Hyukjae, for once, didn’t pull away. The simple join felt monumental, a public declaration in a place where no one knew them.
They browsed a stall selling wooden carvings. Donghae picked up a pair of ducks, their feathers intricately detailed.
“These are terrible,” Hyukjae said.
“They’re magnificent. We’re getting them. For the penthouse.” Donghae haggled with the elderly vendor with a grinning, relentless charm, finally securing the ducks for a price that made the old woman cackle with delight.
At a batik shop, Donghae held up a deep blue sarong covered in silver fish. “This one. For you.”
“I don’t wear sarongs.”
“You do now.” He held it against Hyukjae’s waist, his eyes serious for a moment. “The blue matches the ice. A reminder.”
The purchase was made. They drank sweet, thick coffee from tiny cups at a roadside stand, watching scooters putter past. The normalcy of it was disorienting. There was no game to win, no audience, no history of snarled insults. Just two men in the humid afternoon, their shoulders touching.
As the sun began to bleed orange into the sky, they walked back, the wooden ducks tucked under Donghae’s arm. The villa was cool and silent. The bed had been made, the evidence of their prior abandon erased.
A quiet settled over them, heavy and soft. Hyukjae showered, the water sluicing away the dust of the day. When he emerged, Donghae was already in bed, propped against the headboard. He’d dimmed the lights.
Hyukjae slid in beside him, the sheets cool on his skin. He expected hands, the reclaiming of territory. Instead, Donghae simply turned onto his side and drew Hyukjae back against his chest, molding their bodies together from shoulder to ankle. His arms wrapped around him, solid and final.
“Tonight,” Donghae whispered, his breath warm against the nape of Hyukjae’s neck, “we just hold each other.”
The words were a different kind of possession. Hyukjae felt a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with sore muscles. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his entire body going pliant. He sank back into the embrace, his hand coming up to rest over Donghae’s forearm where it crossed his chest.
He could feel the steady, strong thump of Donghae’s heart against his spine. A rhythm. An anchor. In the dark, without the feverish pull of sex, this felt more intimate, more terrifying. This was the claiming of the quiet spaces, the empty minutes. This was the occupation of the fort he hadn’t even known he was still defending.
Outside, the ocean whispered. Donghae’s breathing evened out into sleep. Hyukjae lay awake, listening to the twin rhythms of heart and sea, his body cherished, his silence utterly understood. He was, in every way that mattered, completely and peacefully surrounded.
He was, in every way that mattered, completely and peacefully surrounded. That deep, wordless quiet lingered into the fifth morning, the memory of simply being held a new fand potent thing between them. Hyukjae woke first, watching the dawn light gild the fine hairs on Donghae’s forearm where it lay heavy across his ribs.
The promised massage therapist arrived just after nine, a wiry Balinese man with serene eyes and hands that looked capable of reshaping stone. He set up his table on the deck overlooking the ocean. “You first,” Donghae insisted, nudging Hyukjae forward.
The therapist’s thumbs found knots Hyukjae had carried for years, buried deep in the musculature forged on the ice. The pain was bright, then dissolving. A groan escaped him. Donghae, sipping watermelon juice from a nearby lounger, watched with focused interest. “That sound,” Donghae mused. “We should have someone like this on staff with the Titans. For recovery.”
“The budget’s for equipment, not for making guys moan like that,” Hyukjae mumbled into the face cradle.
“Priorities are wrong.” Donghae’s voice was a smile. “Think of the team morale.”
After, their skin glowing with oil and relief, they dressed in loose, thin shirts. “I read about a place,” Donghae said, scrolling on his phone. “Does luak coffee. The kind that’s been, you know, digested.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“It’s an experience! We’re having experiences.” Donghae already had the keys to the rented scooter in hand. “Come on, Captain. Live a little.”
The café was a small, shaded place tucked deeper into the village, all dark wood and the rich, pungent smell of roasting beans. A civet cat slept in a large, clean enclosure near the entrance. Donghae ordered the specialty brew with theatrical enthusiasm. Hyukjae ordered a regular espresso, his posture slightly too stiff.
While Donghae was distracted, asking the barista detailed questions about the process, Hyukjae’s eyes scanned the menu board. His gaze caught on a small, discreet section at the bottom, written in flowing script: Traditional Jamu & Tonics. For vitality, stamina, harmony. A specific listing, ‘Pasak Bumi & Tongkat Ali Fusion – For unparalleled masculine focus and endurance,’ was circled faintly in pencil.
The elderly woman behind the counter followed his look. She gave a slow, knowing nod.
“I’ll take one of those,” Hyukjae said, his voice low. “To go. In a sealed vial.”
The transaction was quick, silent. A small, dark glass bottle was slipped into a paper bag with his change. He pocketed it just as Donghae turned, holding two tiny cups. “You have to try this. It’s… earthy.”
Hyukjae took a sip. It was complex, smooth, and yes, slightly fecal. He made a face. “Tastes like a forest floor. After the rain.”
“See? An experience.” Donghae knocked his back like a shot, then grimaced. “Okay, maybe just the one experience.”
The vial felt like a live coal in Hyukjae’s pocket all afternoon. They swam. They read. Donghae’s casual touches—a hand on his lower back passing through a doorway, fingers brushing his ankle on the shared lounge—crackled with a new significance. Hyukjae was planning something. The reversal of their roles at the warung was a constant hum in his mind. He had been fed the herb then, had been unspooled by it. Now, he would control the unraveling.
Dinner was served on the deck: grilled mahi-mahi with fiery sambal and crispy baby squid. The sky turned a deep velvet blue. Donghae was talking about the upcoming preseason, his hands carving plays in the air. Hyukjae’s heart hammered against his ribs. He waited for the perfect moment, when Donghae turned to point at a fishing boat’s light on the water.
His movement was swift, practiced, a sleight of hand that would have done a stage magician proud. The tiny cork popped free silently. He tipped the entire vial’s contents, a thick, syrupy dark liquid, into Donghae’s half-full glass of tamarind juice. He stirred it once with Donghae’s own spoon as he turned back.
“You’re quiet,” Donghae said, picking up his glass.
“Just tired.” Hyukjae watched him take a long swallow. “From all your experiences.”
The effect was not gradual. It was a tectonic shift. They were cleaning up, bringing plates inside, when Donghae froze in the villa’s kitchenette. He set a plate down with a sharp clatter. His knuckles were white on the granite countertop. A harsh, shuddering breath left him.
“Hyukjae.” His voice was strained, almost unrecognizable.
“What’s wrong?”
Donghae turned. His face was flushed, his brown eyes wide and dark with a pained intensity. The front of his linen trousers was already strained, tented by an erection that looked rigid to the point of agony. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Something’s… what did you…?”
Hyukjae leaned back against the opposite counter, crossing his arms. The power of it was dizzying. “Me?”
“This is… this is worse. This is different.” Donghae braced himself, his body trembling with the effort of staying still. “The warung was a warm buzz. This is a wire in my blood. It’s… it’s too much.”
He stumbled toward the hallway, toward the bedroom, but stopped, gripping the doorframe. “I don’t want to hurt you. I can’t… think straight. I’ll just… take care of it myself. Lock myself in the bathroom. Just wait it out.”
“No.”
The word was quiet, final. Hyukjae pushed off the counter and approached him. Donghae flinched back as if Hyukjae were a flame. “Hyukjae, seriously. My control is gone. I feel like I could break the door.”
“You won’t.” Hyukjae reached up, his fingers tracing the frantic pulse in Donghae’s throat. “I fed it to you.”
Donghae’s eyes snapped to his, comprehension and fury and desperate heat warring in them. “You what?”
“I bought it at the coffee shop. I put it in your drink.” He leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing Donghae’s jaw. “You once told me you’d take anything I gave you. So I’m giving you this. And I’m going to take care of it.”
A ragged sound, part growl, part surrender, tore from Donghae’s throat. Hyukjae took his hand and led him to the bed. Donghae followed, his movements stiff, vibrating with barely leashed tension.
The first time was against the wall just inside the room, a frantic collapse of barriers. Donghae’s mouth was a scorching brand, his hands clutching at Hyukjae’s clothes with a roughness that was pure need, not art. Fabric tore. There was no patience for lubrication beyond spit and sheer, desperate want. Hyukjae gritted his teeth at the burn, his own body arching into the brutal, driving pace, his nails scoring down Donghae’s sweat-slicked back. It was over in a violent, shuddering cascade, Donghae crying out into the crook of his neck, his entire body seizing. He slid down the wall afterward, pulling Hyukjae with him, his breath sobbing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, that was too rough.”
“It was what I asked for,” Hyukjae whispered, his own body alight.
The second time was on the floor, slower, with Hyukjae kneeling over him, setting the pace himself, using his body like a balm. Donghae stared up, wrecked, his hands reverent on Hyukjae’s thighs, murmuring a broken stream of praise and curse words until he climaxed again with a sound like breaking glass.
The third and fourth blurred together on the rumpled sheets, a tangle of limbs and shifting dominance. Hyukjae took him from behind, one hand fisted in Donghae’s hair, grounding him through the violent pleasure. Then Donghae, finding a surge of coherence, flipped them, pinning Hyukjae’s wrists, his thrusts deep and measured, his eyes locked on Hyukjae’s as if reading a sacred text. The aphrodisiac was a relentless engine, granting no respite, demanding satiation only to stoke the fire anew moments later.
Exhaustion began to warp time. The fifth round was slow, almost melancholy, Hyukjae on his back with Donghae moving inside him with a deep, grinding rhythm that seemed to seek his soul. Tears tracked from the corners of Donghae’s eyes, dripping onto Hyukjae’s chest. “I can’t… I can’t get enough of you. It won’t stop.”
“I know.” Hyukjae pulled him down for a salt-tinged kiss. “I’m here.”
By the sixth, they were both trembling with fatigue, moving on pure instinct. Hyukjae was sore in a deep, fundamental way, every nerve both dead and hyper-alive. He lay on his stomach, face buried in a pillow, as Donghae moved over him, his weight a comfort, his pace a relentless, rolling wave that built slowly until it crashed over them both in a quiet, overwhelming rush.
The seventh was nothing but a whisper of movement in the dark. The moon was high. Donghae was half-soft inside him, the drug’s final demand spent, but the compulsion to be joined remained. They lay on their sides, Donghae’s chest to Hyukjae’s back, barely moving. It was less sex than a shared breath, a faint, clinging pulse. A final, shuddering sigh passed through them both, less an orgasm than a physical acknowledgment of total depletion.
Donghae slipped out, his body curling around Hyukjae’s, spent and finally, utterly soft. His arms locked around Hyukjae’s waist, his face pressed between his shoulder blades. His breathing was slow, deep, and ragged at the edges. Hyukjae’s own body felt liquid, every boundary dissolved. He was raw, used, completely filled and absolutely empty.
He had done it. He had taken the inferno and met it with his own body, had contained it. In the silent, wrecked aftermath, Donghae’s hold was not one of possession, but of sheer, stunned need. The one who had been fed was now the feeder, the boundary between them not just crossed but dissolved in sweat and spend and something dangerously close to worship. Hyukjae closed his eyes. The hum in his blood was not from any herb, but from the terrifying, quiet knowledge that he had done this to them, for them, and would likely do it again.
The hum in his blood was not from any herb, but from the terrifying, quiet knowledge that he had done this to them, for them, and would likely do it again. He slept draped in that thought, and in Donghae’s arms, as deeply as if he’d been drugged himself.
Morning came with a brutal clarity. The sun was a knife between his eyes. Every muscle protested, a symphony of specific, detailed soreness that catalogued every position, every impact, from the wall to the floor to the bed. He was sticky in a dozen places, aching in twice as many.
A cool, wet cloth moved over his shoulder blade. Then down the curve of his spine. He flinched.
“Shhh.” Donghae’s voice was raspy, ruined. The cloth, warm now, swept over the small of his back, over his hip. “Just cleaning you up. There’s… a lot.”
Hyukjae grunted, burying his face deeper into the pillow that smelled like them. The gentle, methodical wiping continued. Over his thighs. The back of his knees. It was clinical and deeply intimate.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” Donghae murmured, his touch lightening further over a pronounced bruise on Hyukjae’s flank. “Last night was… a lot. I lost the plot for a while there.”
Hyukjae laughed, a dry crackle against the cotton. “You idiot.” He shifted slightly, wincing. “I fed it to you. I wanted to be wrecked. Mission accomplished.”
The cloth paused. Donghae’s hand settled, warm and steady, on the crest of his hip. “Noted.” He was quiet for a few more strokes. “For the record, I don’t mind. If you wanted to… I don’t know. Switch it up next time.”
Hyukjae went still. “What?”
“You. Entering me.” Donghae said it simply, like suggesting a different restaurant. The cloth resumed its path. “It’s only fair. You’ve taken everything I’ve given. More than. I’d take anything you gave me, too.”
A strange, tight coil formed in Hyukjae’s gut. “I’ve never… I haven’t done that before.”
The admission hung in the air, fragile as a soap bubble. Donghae’s breath caught, just slightly. Then Hyukjae felt him lean down, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I don’t mind,” Donghae whispered, the words a hot, thrilling secret. “I don’t mind being the first. Being deflowered by Lee Hyukjae. Think of the bragging rights.”
Hyukjae rolled onto his back then, ignoring the protest of his body. He looked up at Donghae, who was kneeling beside him, his own body marked and tired, his eyes soft and utterly serious. The challenge was there, but so was the offering. It was a door swinging open. Hyukjae reached up, his fingers tracing Donghae’s jaw. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It happened not that morning, but the next. After a day of recovery, of lounging and light touches and shared smiles over the ridiculous wooden ducks. A new kind of tension built, thrumming between them, cleaner than the drug’s fever. It was anticipation, sharp and sweet.
That night, after a shower, Hyukjae found Donghae already on the bed. He was on his back, head propped on a pillow, watching him. Not a smirk in sight. Just open, waiting expectancy.
Hyukjae’s mouth went dry. He fetched the bottle of slick from the nightstand, the click of the cap loud in the quiet room. He coated his fingers, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving Donghae’s. “Tell me if it’s wrong.”
“Nothing about this is wrong,” Donghae breathed, spreading his legs.
The first press was met with tight, shocking heat. Donghae’s eyes fluttered shut, his breath hitching. Hyukjae went slow, achingly slow, learning the landscape by feel, watching every minute shift in Donghae’s face—the brief crease of discomfort, the slow melt into acceptance, then into something deeper. He was meticulous, adding a second finger only when the body beneath him was pliant and seeking. He curved his fingers, searching.
Donghae’s back arched clear off the bed when he found it. A sharp, punched-out “Fuck!” ripped from his throat, his hands fisting in the sheets.
“There?” Hyukjae murmured, pressing again, a steady, rolling pressure.
“Jesus, yes, right there, don’t stop—” Donghae was already unraveling, his hips lifting off the mattress, chasing the sensation. He was loud, wonderfully, shamelessly loud. “Ah, shit, Hyukjae, just like that, you’re a fucking natural, I swear to god—”
Hyukjae leaned over, cutting off the stream of filthy praise with his mouth. He kissed him deeply, swallowing the moans, as his fingers kept working, stretching, preparing. He could feel the tension coiling in Donghae’s belly, the promise of a different kind of pleasure. When he finally, slowly, sank into him, it was a revelation.
The heat was immense, a clinging, perfect vise. Donghae threw his head back, a raw, open-mouthed gasp breaking free. “God. Oh god.” His legs hooked around Hyukjae’s back, pulling him in deeper, taking him all.
Hyukjae moved, a slow, deep roll of his hips. The sensation was unreal. It was power, but not of the bruising kind. It was a surrendering of a different sort, a trust so profound it felt like vertigo. Donghae took every inch, his body welcoming, his pleasure blatant and vocal.
“Harder,” Donghae begged, his nails digging into Hyukjae’s shoulders. “Come on, don’t—don’t be gentle now, I can take it—”
Hyukjae obeyed, driving into him, the pace shifting from exploratory to punishing. Each thrust punched a gasp, a curse, a broken syllable of his name from Donghae’s lips. The room filled with the sound of skin, of ragged breathing, of Donghae’s unfiltered, joyous wreckage. “Right there, yes, you feel so fucking good, I’m not gonna last, I’m not—”
Hyukjae bent his head, silencing him again by closing his teeth gently, then not so gently, around a nipple. Donghae cried out, a sharp, shocked sound that melted into a groan. Hyukjae soothed the bite with his tongue, then bit the other, earning another cascading series of curses. He kissed him to shut him up, swallowing the sounds, making them his own.
It was over quickly, a turbulent, glorious crash. Donghae came between them with a sob, his body clenching rhythmically around Hyukjae, pulling his own climax from him seconds later, a wave of blinding, quiet intensity that left him collapsed, spent, buried deep.
He slipped out carefully, rolling to the side. Donghae immediately curled into him, his face pressed to Hyukjae’s neck. He was trembling, his skin slick with sweat. He mumbled something unintelligible.
“What?” Hyukjae asked, his own voice rough.
Donghae tilted his head up. His eyes were hazy, sated, gleaming with something triumphant and soft. “Told you,” he whispered. “Different kind of pleasure.” He kissed Hyukjae’s jaw, his mouth smiling against his skin. “My turn to feel wrecked. It’s fantastic.”