Chapter 13: Fevered Reunion
The key turned in the lock.
Donghae heard it from the kitchen, where he was stirring the kimchi jjigae for the third time, the spicy steam fogging the window above the sink. His heart lurched, a physical jolt that made his knuckles white around the wooden spoon. Twelve days. The countdown had been etched on his bones, marked by the lonely indent of his head on Hyukjae’s pillow and the silent, too-clean bathroom.
The door swung open. Airport air rushed in, carrying the smell of rain, stale cabin air, and him. Hyukjae stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette familiar and suddenly, overwhelmingly real. He looked tired. His broad shoulders were slumped under the weight of his carry-on, his hair slightly flattened on one side. His eyes found Donghae instantly, and the exhaustion in them shattered, replaced by a heat so intense Donghae felt it across the room.
The suitcase dropped with a thud. The door slammed shut, propelled by Hyukjae’s heel.
No words.
Hyukjae took two long strides into the apartment entrance, his gaze never wavering. Donghae met him there, the spoon still clutched uselessly in his hand. The scent of home—the simmering stew, the clean, ironed laundry—collided with the scent of away.
Hyukjae’s hands came up, cradling Donghae’s face. His thumbs swept over the cheekbones. His eyes drank him in. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word ragged, full of sixteen hours of flight and twelve days of empty space. “You’re here.”
Then Donghae broke. The careful composure, the patient waiting, the acts of service that had filled the silent hours—it all crumbled into dust. A desperate, starving sound ripped from his throat. He dropped the spoon. It clattered on the floor, splattering red sauce on the tile.
His hands flew to Hyukjae’s belt. The leather was cool, the buckle heavy and foreign under his frantic fingers. “Hyukjae,” he gasped, not a name but a plea.
“Donghae—” Hyukjae started, but Donghae was already sinking. His knees hit the polished floor hard, the impact echoing in his bones. He looked up, the distance from the floor to Hyukjae’s face suddenly vast. He fumbled with the button of the trousers, then the zipper, his movements clumsy with urgency.
“Twelve days,” Donghae snarled, the words torn and raw. He yanked the fabric down, freeing Hyukjae’s cock. It was half-hard, thickening rapidly in the warm apartment air. “Twelve fucking days without your cock down my throat. It was torture.”
He didn’t wait. He didn’t tease. He leaned forward and took him in, all the way to the root in one smooth, desperate swallow.
Hyukjae cried out, a sharp, punched-out groan. His hands flew to Donghae’s head, fingers tangling in his soft hair. Donghae gagged immediately, his throat convulsing around the sudden, thick intrusion. Tears sprang to his eyes. He forced himself to relax, to breathe through his nose, to take it. Salty-bitter precum hit his tongue, the intimate taste he’d dreamt about. He moaned around the fullness, the vibration wringing another harsh gasp from Hyukjae.
“Jesus Christ,” Hyukjae choked out, his hips giving an involuntary jerk. “God, your mouth. Your fucking perfect, greedy mouth.”
Donghae began to move. He pulled back until just the head rested on his tongue, slick and gleaming, then plunged down again, taking him deep. He set a ruthless, hungry rhythm, his own need a wild thing gnawing at his insides. He used his tongue, lapping at the vein underneath, sucking hard on the upstroke. The obscene, wet sounds filled the entryway, louder than the simmering pot in the kitchen.
Hyukjae’s grip tightened, guiding him, not gently. “That’s it,” he rasped, his voice dark with praise. “Take it all. You missed it, didn’t you? Missed having your throat stuffed full of me.”
Donghae could only nod, a frantic bob of his head as he drove himself down again, his nose pressing into the coarse hair at the base. He was hard, painfully so, his own erection straining against his jeans. He shoved a hand down to palm himself through the denim, a feeble, frantic friction.
Hyukjae saw it. “No,” he growled. He pulled Donghae off his cock with a wet pop. Donghae looked up, dazed, lips swollen and slick, a string of saliva connecting him to Hyukjae’s glistening tip. “None of that. You don’t get to come from just this. Not after making me wait.”
He hauled Donghae to his feet by his armpits, his strength effortless. He spun him around and pushed him forward, chest-first against the cool wall next to the coat hook. Donghae’s damp laundry basket tipped over, spilling clean t-shirts onto the floor.
Hyukjae’s body blanketed him, his lean frame pressing Donghae into the plaster. His mouth was at Donghae’s ear. “You cooked. You cleaned. You waited.” His hand snaked around, undoing Donghae’s jeans, shoving them and his briefs down to mid-thigh in one rough move. The air was cold on his exposed skin. “Now you get your reward.”
Donghae heard the tear of a foil packet. Hyukjae always had one in his travel wallet. The sound made his hole clench in anticipation. A slick, lubed finger pressed against him, circling, then pushing in. He was tight. The frantic blowjob had aroused him but done nothing to prepare him here.
“Tight,” Hyukjae muttered, working his finger in deeper. “So fucking tight. Like you’ve been clenching for me this whole time.”
“I have,” Donghae whimpered, pushing back against the digit. “Need you. Please.”
A second finger joined the first, the stretch burning beautifully. Hyukjae scissored them, rough and efficient, searching. He found the spot, rubbing over it with relentless pressure.
Donghae shouted, his forehead knocking against the wall. “There! Fuck, right there!”
“I know,” Hyukjae said, his voice smug. He withdrew his fingers. The broad, blunt head of his cock pressed where they had been. He didn’t ask. He just pushed.
It was a slow, inexorable invasion. The burn was sharp, intense. Donghae gasped, his nails scraping the paint. Hyukjae kept going, an inch at a time, letting Donghae’s body fight to accommodate him, until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against Donghae’s ass.
They both shuddered. Hyukjae dropped his forehead between Donghae’s shoulder blades, his breath heaving. “God. You’re… you’re perfect. Every time. It’s like coming home.”
Then he moved. He set a deep, pounding rhythm from the first stroke, each thrust driving Donghae harder into the wall. It was possessive, reclamatory. There was no tenderness, only raw, urgent reconnection. The slap of skin, Hyukjae’s guttural grunts, Donghae’s choked-off cries—they were a symphony of reunion.
“My hole,” Hyukjae snarled, one hand braced on the wall, the other wrapping around Donghae’s throat, not squeezing, just holding. Claiming. “This is my hole. You keep it for me. You hear?”
“Yes! Yours! Only yours!” Donghae babbled. The hand on his throat, the relentless drilling deep inside him, the scent of their mingled sweat and the forgotten stew—it was too much. His orgasm built, a terrifying wave cresting too fast.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice breaking.
“Do it,” Hyukjae panted, his own rhythm faltering, losing its precision. “Come all over this wall. Mark it. Show me how much you missed me.”
The permission was all he needed. Pleasure detonated, wracking his body with violent convulsions. He came with a shattered cry, striping the pale wall in front of him with hot, white spurts. His internal muscles clamped down on Hyukjae’s cock in vicious, rhythmic pulses.
Hyukjae swore, a long, filth-ridden stream of praise and obscenity. He fucked him through it, his thrusts turning ragged and shallow before he slammed in one last time, burying himself to the hilt. Donghae felt the deep, internal throb of Hyukjae’s release, the hot flood within the condom. Hyukjae’s whole body trembled against his back, his breaths coming in great, heaving gulps.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The hum of the refrigerator. The gentle bubble of the jjigae on the stove. The ache in Donghae’s knees from the hard floor, the sweet, throbbing pain in his ass.
Hyukjae softened, slipped out. He rested against Donghae for a long moment, his lips pressing softly to a sweaty patch on his shoulder. Then he carefully turned Donghae around. His eyes were soft, the crinkles at their edges deep with emotion. He looked at the mess on the wall, then at Donghae’s spent, blissful face. A slow, tired smile spread across his lips.
“I missed you too,” he said, his voice quiet now, hoarse.
Donghae leaned into him, his strength gone. Hyukjae held him up, arms strong around his waist. “The stew is probably burning,” Donghae mumbled into his neck.
“Let it burn,” Hyukjae said, kissing his hair. He reached down and pulled Donghae’s jeans up gently, his touch now infinitely careful. “I need a shower. You’re coming with me. And then you’re going to tell me everything I missed. Every boring, mundane detail.”
He led him away from the wall, stepping over the spilled laundry. The apartment was warm, lived-in, and finally, finally complete. The hunger was sated, for now. It had been fed, and in its place swelled a quiet, profound contentment, thicker than the steam from the pot on the stove. The wait was over. The space between heartbeats had closed.
The space between heartbeats had closed. The shower steam faded from the tiles, leaving behind the scent of clean skin and Donghae’s sandalwood soap. They fell into bed, limbs tangled, too exhausted for anything but the press of Hyukjae’s nose against Donghae’s nape and the heavy, synchronized drift into sleep.
Donghae dreamed.
It was not a dream of the beach, or the kitchen counter, or any past reality. It was visceral, surreal. He was on his back in their bed, but his chest felt strangely heavy, tight with a deep, throbbing ache. He looked down. His pectorals were swollen, the skin stretched taut and shiny. A single, pearl-white droplet beaded at his nipple, catching the moonlight.
Hyukjae was there, kneeling between his legs, but his focus was higher. His eyes, dark and hungry, were fixed on that droplet. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration in the dream-air. “All full for me. My own fucking fountain.” He leaned down, his breath hot. His tongue, broad and wet, swept over the aching nub, collecting the bead of moisture.
A shocking, electric pleasure shot from Donghae’s nipple straight to his cock, which lay hard against his stomach. He cried out, a sound without air. Hyukjae’s mouth closed over him, sucking gently. A sweet, warm release flooded Donghae’s mouth—the taste of almonds and honey, like the milk he made for Hyukjae’s coffee.
“More,” Hyukjae growled, his lips glistening. He sucked harder, a relentless, rhythmic pull. A thin, milky stream trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Feed me. Let me drink you dry, you perfect fucking thing.” He shifted, his mouth leaving Donghae’s chest with a wet pop, trailing down his stomach.
Donghae could only writhe, his hands fisting in the sheets. The sensation was unbearable, a deep, pulling ache in his chest syncing with the throbbing need between his legs. Hyukjae took his cock into his mouth without preamble, swallowing him whole in the wet, hot darkness of his dream-throat.
“Tastes like you,” Hyukjae said, pulling off for a moment, his voice thick. “Sweet and fucking mine. Come for me. Come right down my throat. I want to swallow every drop.”
The filthy command, the impossible physics of the dream, the relentless suction—it coalesced into a tension so acute Donghae thought his spine would snap. His hips bucked, fucking up into that devouring heat. Hyukjae took it, deep-throating him with a skill that defied reality, his tongue working the frenulum with brutal precision.
“I’m gonna—!” Donghae choked out, the dream world brightening, dissolving at the edges.
Hyukjae hummed around him, the vibration the final trigger. Pleasure erupted, a searing white-hot geyser from his core. He came with a silent, arching scream, his body bowing off the dream-bed, his release pumping in hot, endless pulses down Hyukjae’s waiting throat.
He woke with a ragged gasp, his real body jerking. The room was dark, the only sound Hyukjae’s steady breathing beside him. A deep, throbbing ache echoed in his groin. He was painfully hard, his briefs damp with precum. The dream’s sensations—the suckling, the sweet taste, the utter debasement—clung to him, vivid and shamefully arousing.
A shift in the bed. A low, knowing chuckle in the darkness.
Hyukjae’s hand slid over Donghae’s stomach, feeling the tense muscles, the damp fabric. His fingers dipped beneath the waistband, closing around Donghae’s aching erection. Donghae hissed, hips jolting.
“You were whimpering,” Hyukjae whispered, his lips brushing Donghae’s ear. His thumb swept over the slick tip, spreading the moisture. “Squirming. Your hips were pumping air.” He squeezed, his grip firm. “I’m here, in our bed, and you’re getting off from me in your dream.” He gave a slow, deliberate stroke. “What was I doing to you, huh? What was so good you came in your sleep?”
The question hung in the dark, humid air between them. Hyukhae’s hand was a slow, torturous piston on Donghae’s cock, his thumb catching on the leaking slit with every upstroke. Donghae’s breath hitched. He wanted to hide, to bury the absurd, feverish fantasy in the sheets.
“Tell me,” Hyukjae insisted, his voice a low, compelling rumble against Donghae’s shoulder. His grip tightened, his pace turning deliberate, ruthless. “You’re throbbing in my hand. It must have been fucking filthy.”
“It was… impossible,” Donghae gasped, arching into the touch. The words tumbled out, fragmented, pushed by pleasure. “You were… drinking from me. From my chest. Like I was… full of something. For you.”
Hyukjae went still. The sudden absence of friction was a punishment. Then he laughed, a soft, amazed sound that crinkled the skin near Donghae’s temple where his lips rested. “Fuck. That’s… god, that’s hot.” He kissed the spot, his teeth scraping gently. “My sensitive, dreamy boy. Making up fantasies where you can feed me. Where I can live off you.”
He released Donghae’s cock entirely and rolled away. The loss was a physical ache. Before Donghae could protest, the bedside lamp clicked on, casting the room in a low, golden glow. Hyukjae sat up, his lean torso a landscape of shadows and sinew. He looked down at Donghae, sprawled and wanting, his expression a mixture of fierce affection and devouring curiosity.
“If that gets you off,” Hyukjae said, his voice dropping into that playful, intimate register that made Donghae’s stomach flip, “we can do it in real life too. In our own way.”
He swung his legs out of bed and stood, padding naked out of the room. Donghae heard the refrigerator open, the clink of glass. He lay there, confused, painfully hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. Hyukjae returned, a tall, cold glass of milk in his hand. The white liquid sloshed against the sides.
“Sit up,” Hyukjae instructed, his eyes gleaming.
Donghae obeyed, pushing himself back against the headboard. The sheets pooled around his waist. Hyukjae climbed onto the bed, kneeling over him. He looked at the glass, then at Donghae’s chest, his gaze calculating, hungry.
“This is for the dream,” he whispered. He tipped the glass.
The milk was shockingly cold. It poured over Donghae’s sternum in a thick, sudden stream, cascading over his pecs, rivulets catching in the dips of his collarbones, flooding his nipples. Donghae gasped, his skin pebbling instantly from the chill and the sheer, bizarre intimacy of it. A white pool gathered in the hollow of his stomach.
“Look at you,” Hyukjae breathed, setting the empty glass aside with a soft thud. His eyes were wide, dark pools of pure want. “Drenched. My own personal feast.” He bent his head, his tongue following the trail of a stray droplet sliding down Donghae’s ribcage.
The warm, rough swipe of his tongue against the cold, milk-slicked skin was a sensory overload. Donghae cried out, his hands flying to clutch at Hyukjae’s hair. Hyukjae lapped at the pool on his stomach, his mouth messy and avid. He closed his lips over Donghae’s right nipple, sucking hard, drawing the chilled milk and the nub itself into the scorching heat of his mouth.
“Tastes like you,” Hyukjae groaned, vibrating against him. “Sweet. Pure.” He moved to the other, his sucking turning voracious, his teeth grazing the hardened tip. “I could do this for hours. Drink every fucking drop you make for me.”
He was painting the fantasy over reality, and it was more potent than any dream. The subservience of it, the offering of his body, the shameless consumption—it lit a fuse in Donghae’s gut. Hyukjae’s hands slid under his ass, hauling him down the bed, spreading his legs. His mouth traveled south, through the sticky mess on his abdomen, licking a clean, wet path.
Hyukjae didn’t pause. He took Donghae’s cock into his mouth in one smooth, deep swallow, milking him with his throat. The contrast was blinding: the lingering chill on his torso, the searing, wet heat engulfing his length. Hyukjae bobbed his head, a ruthless rhythm, his nose pressing into Donghae’s pelvis.
“Hyuk—I can’t—!” Donghae choked, his hips stuttering.
Hyukjae pulled off with a wet pop, his lips swollen and glossy. “You can. And you will.” He grabbed the discarded glass, scooped a finger through the milk residue inside, and brought it to Donghae’s entrance. The cold, slick touch made him jolt. “This is just the substitute,” Hyukjae growled, working the finger inside him with crude, efficient twists. “Would be better if I could breed you for real. Pump my seed so deep into you it’d fill you up for days. Make you leak with me. Would you like that? Being my vessel?”
The filthy words were a lightning strike. “Yes,” Donghae sobbed, his body opening, begging. “Please. Want it.”
Hyukjae positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against the milk-slicked furl. He pushed in, a relentless, burning stretch that stole Donghae’s breath. There was no condom. The realization was a final, dizzying plunge.
“Gonna put it in you now,” Hyukjae rasped, sinking deeper, his eyes locked on Donghae’s. “Every fucking drop. Gonna mark you inside where no one sees. My claim.” He began to move, a deep, possessive rhythm that was less about friction and more about occupation. “You’ll feel me for days. Remember who you belong to.”
The possession was total. Donghae wrapped his legs around Hyukjae’s waist, pulling him in deeper, meeting each thrust with a desperate roll of his hips. The slap of their bodies was a wet, solid sound in the quiet room. Hyukjae’s pace grew frantic, his control fraying. He was breathing in ragged, open-mouthed gasps against Donghae’s throat.
“Gonna come,” Hyukjae warned, his voice thick and shattered. “Gonna fill you. Take it. Take all of it.”
Donghae clenched around him, a silent, physical plea. That was all it took. Hyukjae drove in one final, devastating time, burying himself to the root. A raw, guttural shout tore from his chest as he pulsed, a hot, liquid flood jetting deep inside. The feeling of it, the intimate, forbidden release, triggered Donghae’s own climax. He came untouched, his orgasm wringing him dry, his spend striping his stomach in weak, final pulses.
They collapsed, a tangled, sweating, sticky mess. Hyukjae’s weight was a welcome anchor. The smell of sex and sweet milk hung in the air. Hyukjae nuzzled into Donghae’s neck, his lips moving against the damp skin.
“You’re delicious,” he murmured, his voice slurred with exhaustion and satisfaction. “My perfect, fucking delicious husband.” He shifted slightly, a possessive hand splaying low on Donghae’s stomach. “Mine.”