Chapter 14: Plugged and Claimed
The plug was a persistent, weighted presence.
Donghae lay perfectly still in the circle of Hyukjae’s arms, their bodies spooned together under the damp sheet. Hyukjae’s hand rested, possessive and warm, low on his abdomen. Every slight shift sent a low, deep thrum through him, a constant reminder of the fullness, of the claim. He could feel the subtle, internal pulse of his own heartbeat around the intrusion.
“Still in you,” Hyukjae murmured, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. His lips brushed the nape of Donghae’s neck. “Every drop’s staying right where I put it.” His fingers pressed gently, as if he could feel the proof through skin and muscle.
“It feels… strange,” Donghae whispered. It was more than strange. It was obscene, and profoundly intimate. A secret they carried together in the quiet dark.
“Good strange,” Hyukjae corrected, nuzzling into his hair. “My kind of strange.” He sighed, a contented sound that vibrated through Donghae’s back. “Sleep. Let it settle.”
Donghae tried. He closed his eyes, but his nerves were alive, singing with the aftermath. The chill of the milk had long since warmed, but the memory of Hyukjae’s mouth, devouring and worshipful, was etched into his skin. The raw, claiming fuck played on a loop behind his eyelids. He’d never felt so thoroughly used, so completely owned. A deep, quiet shudder ran through him.
Hyukjae felt it. His arm tightened. “You okay?”
“More than okay,” Donghae said, and his voice was husky. “I just… I can feel you. Inside. It’s all I can think about.”
A low chuckle stirred the hairs on his neck. “That’s the point, baby.”
Dawn came eventually, a pale grey light seeping around the edges of the blackout curtains. The lamplight had died hours ago. Donghae woke to the absence of warmth at his back. The bed beside him was empty, the sheets cool. A pang, sharp and immediate, struck his chest. Then he heard it—the soft, familiar clatter of a whisk against a bowl from the kitchen.
He smiled into his pillow. His hips ached pleasantly as he rolled onto his back. The plug shifted, a startling, thick reminder that made him suck in a sharp breath. He lay there for a moment, adjusting to the renewed sensation in the calm morning light. It felt different without Hyukjae’s body wrapped around him—more clinical, more blatant. He felt wanton.
Pushing himself up, he padded to the bathroom. His reflection was a map of the night. A faint, purpling bruise on his collarbone. A redness around his nipples from the relentless sucking. He cleaned up quickly, his movements careful. The plug was a dark, sleek silicone. He bit his lip, looking at it in his hand under the fluorescent light. A trophy. Proof.
He heard Hyukjae’s footsteps approach. He didn’t knock. The door opened and he leaned against the frame, dressed only in a pair of low-slung sweats. His hair was mussed, his eyes soft. He held a steaming cup of coffee.
“Looking at your prize?” he asked, a smirk playing on those full lips.
Donghae felt a flush creep up his neck. “It’s not my prize. It’s yours.”
Hyukjae’s smirk deepened. He set the coffee down on the sink and stepped close. His hands went to Donghae’s hips, turning him gently to face the mirror again. He stood behind him, chin resting on Donghae’s shoulder, his gaze meeting Donghae’s in the glass.
“See that?” Hyukjae said, his voice a low rumble. “That look on your face? That’s the look of a man who’s been properly fucked and filled. Who’s walking around with his husband’s load locked up inside him.” His hands slid around, one splaying over Donghae’s stomach, the other drifting lower, cupping him possessively. “Mine. All day. You’ll be at the grocery store, or at the gym, and you’ll feel it. You’ll remember.”
The words, paired with the firm, knowing touch, sent a jolt of pure lust straight to Donghae’s groin. He was hard again, instantly. Hyukjae watched it happen in the mirror, his eyes darkening.
“Always so responsive for me,” he murmured. His hand left Donghae’s stomach and wrapped around his erection, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke. “You like this, don’t you? Being my dirty little secret.”
“Yes,” Donghae breathed, his head falling back against Hyukjae’s shoulder. His hips pushed forward into the tight ring of Hyukjae’s fingers.
“Breakfast is waiting,” Hyukjae said, but he didn’t let go. He sped up his strokes, his other arm banding across Donghae’s chest, holding him upright. “But I want to see you come first. I want to watch your face while you’re still stuffed full of me.”
It was merciless. Hyukjae knew his body, every sensitive spot, every rhythm that drove him mad. He worked Donghae’s cock with a focused, rhythmic precision, his thumb swiping over the leaking slit with every upstroke. In the mirror, Donghae watched himself unravel—eyes fluttering, mouth slack, chest heaving. The plug inside him seemed to swell with each pulse of blood, a constant, maddening counterpoint to the friction on his cock.
“Gonna come,” Donghae gasped, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the sink.
“Look at yourself,” Hyukjae commanded, his voice rough in his ear. “Look at how fucking beautiful you are when you’re about to lose it for me.”
Donghae’s eyes, glazed, found his own reflection. He saw the desperation, the utter surrender. It tipped him over the edge. His orgasm ripped through him, silent and intense, his body bowing against Hyukjae’s as he spilled over his husband’s fist, stripes of white landing on the pale ceramic sink.
Hyukjae held him through the tremors, gently milking him until he whimpered from oversensitivity. He brought his come-slick hand up, pressing his fingers against Donghae’s lips. “Taste it. Taste what you do to me.”
Donghae opened his mouth without hesitation, sucking Hyukjae’s fingers clean, the salty-bitter taste of himself a familiar intimacy. Hyukjae watched, mesmerized, before pulling his fingers free with a wet pop.
He turned Donghae around and kissed him, deep and slow, tongue sliding against his. “Good morning,” he said softly, his forehead resting against Donghae’s.
Later, over pancakes that Hyukjae had somehow not burned, the domestic peace settled around them. They sat at the sun-drenched kitchen table, feet tangled under it. Donghae shifted slightly on the wooden chair, the plug a persistent, private secret. A flush rose on his cheeks.
Hyukjae saw it. He kicked Donghae’s foot gently under the table. “Still thinking about it?”
“It’s hard not to,” Donghae admitted, swirling his maple syrup.
“Good.” Hyukjae took a large bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I have a conference call at two. Seoul office. It’ll be boring as hell.”
“I’ll be quiet,” Donghae said, automatically. His role. His service.
“No,” Hyukjae said, his eyes glinting with a new idea. “I don’t want you to be quiet.”
The call was conducted from Hyukjae’s study, a sleek, minimalist room of dark wood and screens. Hyukjae sat in his high-backed leather chair, dressed in a crisp white shirt, the top button undone. He looked every inch the formidable businessman. Donghae knelt on the plush rug beside the desk, out of the camera’s view.
Hyukjae had given him one instruction before connecting: “Don’t make a sound.”
The call began, voices filtering through the speaker—Hyukjae’s, sharp and professional, then the deferential tones of his Korean team discussing quarterly projections. Hyukjae’s hand, however, dropped below the desk. His fingers carded through Donghae’s hair, a casual, proprietorial gesture.
Then they drifted lower. He undid his own trousers, freeing his half-hard cock. He gave it a few lazy strokes, looking directly at the camera as he spoke about market volatility. He tapped Donghae’s lips with the tip.
The command was silent but absolute. Donghae’s heart hammered against his ribs. He leaned forward and took him into his mouth, his own breath hitching at the taste, at the context. He moved slowly, carefully, his mouth a warm, wet sheath under the desk.
Hyukjae didn’t miss a beat. “The metrics from the Frankfurt team are inconclusive,” he said, his voice steady, even as his hips gave a minute thrust upward into Donghae’s throat. “We need harder data before we re-allocate.”
A voice on the speaker asked a question. Hyukjae answered, his fingers tightening in Donghae’s hair, setting a subtle, rhythmic pace. Donghae closed his eyes, focusing on the task, on the weight and slide on his tongue, the muffled sounds of the meeting a surreal soundtrack to the obscene act. Precum bloomed, bitter and familiar. He swallowed, his throat working around the intrusion.
“I understand the timeline is tight,” Hyukjae was saying, his voice gaining a faint, almost imperceptible strain. “But quality can’t be compromised. Send me the revised analysis by end of day.”
His other hand found the back of Donghae’s neck, holding him firmly in place as he began to fuck his mouth in earnest, short, controlled snaps of his hips. Donghae gagged silently, tears springing to his eyes. The contrast was dizzying—the sterile corporate discussion, the secret, raw sex happening just out of frame. He was a tool, a hidden pleasure, completely at Hyukjae’s mercy.
Hyukjae’s breathing shallowed. Donghae could feel the tension coiling in the muscles of his thighs. The voices from the speaker droned on.
“Thank you, everyone. That’s all for now,” Hyukjae said abruptly, his voice tighter. He reached with his free hand and ended the call with a sharp click.
The moment the screen went dark, the professional veneer shattered.
“Suck it,” Hyukjae snarled, both hands now gripping Donghae’s head, driving himself deep. “Fucking suck my cock dry. You did so good, baby, so quiet for me.” He was thrusting in brutal, erratic strokes, hitting the back of Donghae’s throat. Drool dripped down Donghae’s chin.
Hyukjae came with a choked-off roar, his release spurting hot and bitter down Donghae’s throat in thick, urgent pulses. Donghae swallowed desperately, not wasting a drop, his own body throbbing with unmet need.
Spent, Hyukjae slumped back in the chair, his chest heaving. He looked down at Donghae, who was still on his knees, lips swollen and wet, eyes wide. Hyukjae’s expression softened from predatory frenzy to something unbearably tender. He gently pulled Donghae up onto his lap, ignoring the mess, and wrapped his arms around him, holding him close.
“You,” he whispered into his hair, “are fucking incredible.” He kissed his temple, his cheek, his salty lips. “My perfect secret weapon.”
Donghae buried his face in Hyukjae’s neck, the plug inside him a forgotten, secondary fullness. This was the core of it. The possession, the use, followed by this—the crushing, wordless affection that made the surrender not just bearable, but everything.
Later that night, as they prepared for bed, Hyukjae finally, slowly, removed the plug. The feeling was a shocking emptiness, a cool rush of air. Donghae gasped, his legs wobbling. Hyukjae caught him, lowering him to the bed.
He looked at the plug, then at Donghae. “Empty now,” he said, his voice rough. “But not for long.” He leaned down, his breath ghosting over the loosened furl. “I’ll fill you again tomorrow. And the next day. As long as you want me to.”
“Always,” Donghae said, reaching for him. “I’ll always want you to.”
He fell asleep with Hyukjae’s hand once again resting on his stomach, as if guarding a precious, internal treasure. The peace was total. The silence in the apartment was no longer an absence, but a saturated, living thing, built from shared breath and the profound understanding that every empty space between them was only an invitation to be filled.
The silence in the apartment was no longer an absence, but a saturated, living thing, built from shared breath and the profound understanding that every empty space between them was only an invitation to be filled. That understanding hung in the air between their sleeping forms, a pact written in skin and salt.
Hyukjae woke first, as he often did, to the grey predawn light. Donghae was a warm line against his back, an arm thrown over his waist. He could feel the soft, even puffs of breath on his shoulder. Carefully, so as not to wake him, Hyukjae shifted onto his back. Donghae murmured, nuzzling closer, his hand splaying on Hyukjae’s stomach.
His own hand drifted down, beneath the sheet. He found the smooth silicone base of the plug, still seated deep within Donghae. A possessive thrill, hot and dark, coiled in his gut. He’d kept his promise. Donghae had slept all night, anchored by him. Owned by him.
He pressed his palm against it, applying the faintest pressure. Donghae’s breathing hitched. His eyes fluttered open, finding Hyukjae’s in the half-light.
“Morning,” Donghae whispered, his voice gravelly with sleep.
“It’s time,” Hyukjae said, his voice low. No more explanation was needed.
He moved them, turning Donghae onto his stomach with a gentle firmness. Donghae went willingly, burying his face in the pillow with a shaky exhale. Hyukjae knelt between his thighs. He watched the rise and fall of Donghae’s back for a moment, the tense anticipation in the lines of his shoulders.
Then he took the plug in his hand. The sound of the medical-grade silicone releasing, the soft, wet pop as it came free, was obscenely loud. Donghae gasped, his body clenching around sudden, shocking emptiness. Cool air touched the exposed, sensitized ring of muscle.
Hyukjae discarded the plug on the nightstand. He leaned over Donghae’s body, blanketing him, his mouth at his ear.
“Empty,” he breathed, the word a condemnation. He wasn’t asking. He was stating a problem that required an immediate, visceral solution.
He reached for the bottle on the nightstand, slicking himself with rough, hurried strokes. He was already painfully hard, just from the sight, from the smell, from the raw fact of Donghae laid out and open for him. He notched the head of his cock at that loosened entrance, feeling the desperate, fluttering pulse of Donghae’s body against him.
“Please,” Donghae begged into the pillow, his hips pushing back. “Hyukjae, please.”
He drove in. One brutal, bottoming thrust that stole the air from both their lungs. There was no slow build, no gentle re-acquaintance. This was reclamation. He filled the hollow space completely, a burning, stretching fullness that was more intense than the plug, because it was living flesh, because it was him.
“Fuck,” Donghae sobbed, his fingers tearing at the sheets. “Oh, God.”
Hyukjae held himself there, buried to the hilt, his own vision swimming. The heat was unbelievable, a slick, tight vice. He dropped his forehead between Donghae’s shoulder blades, panting.
“Is that better?” he growled, his voice ragged. “Is that what you needed?”
“Yes,” Donghae choked out. “It’s… you’re so deep. I can feel you in my throat.”
Hyukjae began to move. He set a punishing, rhythmic pace, each thrust a blunt-force impact that shook the bedframe. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, filthy sounds of connection, filled the room. He fucked with a single-minded intensity, his hands digging into the meat of Donghae’s hips, holding him in place to be used.
“This hole,” Hyukjae gasped, “is mine. You understand? It takes my cock, it takes my come, it waits for me. Nothing else.”
“Nothing else,” Donghae moaned, his words breaking on each drive forward. “Only you. Always you.”
Hyukjae’s control was a fraying wire. The memory of the day before—Donghae on his knees under the desk, so obedient, so perfectly secret—fueled him. He leaned down, biting the tendon of Donghae’s neck, sucking a fresh mark into the skin. His hand snaked under Donghae, finding his cock hard and leaking between his stomach and the sheet.
He jerked him in time with his thrusts, a rough, dry friction that made Donghae cry out.
“Come for me,” Hyukjae demanded, his pace becoming erratic, brutal. “Come while I’m filling this hole up. Let me feel you lose it.”
The command, the overwhelming sensation of being utterly penetrated and mastered, tore the orgasm from Donghae. He shattered with a ragged scream, spilling over Hyukjae’s fist and the sheets beneath him, his body clamping down in violent, rhythmic pulses around the cock fucking him through it.
That milking tightness was the end of Hyukjae. He buried himself one last time, grinding deep as his own release erupted, a hot, endless flood painting Donghae’s insides. He collapsed over him, spent, his weight a welcome anchor.
They lay like that for long minutes, a mess of sweat and come and shuddering breath. Hyukjae finally softened and slipped out. He rolled them, gathering Donghae against his chest. He didn’t go to clean up. Not yet.
He slid his hand down, pressing over Donghae’s lower abdomen, possessive even now. “Full,” he murmured, a statement of profound satisfaction. “I filled it. Every part of you.”
Donghae just nodded, boneless and complete, his fingers lacing with Hyukjae’s over his stomach. The silence descended again, but it was different now. It hummed with a new, settled truth. The emptiness had been a temporary heresy. This, the claiming, the messy, physical proof of belonging, was the only doctrine they needed. The sun broke properly over the skyline, painting their tangled bodies in gold, but neither moved to start the day. The day could wait.