Chapter 4: Laughter and Lust
Sunlight, thin and honeyed, sliced through the gap in the curtains. It painted a stripe across Donghae’s sleeping face. Hyukjae watched him, propped on one elbow, tracing the light with his eyes. The frantic need from the night before had settled into a low, constant hum. It was their last full day.
Donghae’s eyes fluttered open. He smiled before he was fully awake, a reflex. “You’re staring.”
“You’re pretty,” Hyukjae said, his voice gravelly with sleep.
Donghae snorted, rolling onto his back, stretching. The sheet pooled at his waist. “I have morning breath and my hair’s a disaster.”
“Still pretty.” Hyukjae leaned down and kissed him, tasting sleep. It was slow, deep, a languid exploration. His hand slid down Donghae’s stomach, beneath the sheet.
Donghae’s breath hitched. He was already half-hard. “Again?” he murmured against Hyukjae’s lips.
“Again,” Hyukjae confirmed, his fingers wrapping around him, giving a slow, firm stroke. “Always. Gotta stockpile.”
The mood shifted from soft to searing in a heartbeat. Hyukjae pushed Donghae flat onto his back, pinning his wrists above his head with one strong hand. He loomed over him, his expression darkening with intent.
“My turn,” Hyukjae said, and it wasn’t a suggestion.
He moved down the bed, his mouth leaving a burning trail down Donghae’s chest, over his belly. He shoved Donghae’s thighs apart, settling between them. He nuzzled the soft skin of his inner thigh, then licked a long, hot stripe from knee to groin.
Donghae jolted. “Hyukjae—”
Hyukjae bit down, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to sting. Donghae yelped, a laugh escaping him. “You’re such an ass!”
Hyukjae grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Your ass,” he corrected, before diving in.
He didn’t tease. He buried his face between Donghae’s cheeks, his tongue pressing insistently against his hole. Donghae cried out, his laughter dissolving into a ragged moan. Hyukjae ate him out with a raw, vulgar hunger. He licked and probed, spreading him open with rough, hungry strokes of his tongue, fucking him with it. The sounds were obscenely wet, loud in the quiet room.
“Fuck, right there,” Donghae gasped, his hips coming off the mattress. “Oh god, just like that.”
Hyukjae obeyed, driving his tongue deeper, circling that tight ring of muscle until it fluttered and yielded. He reached up, fumbling for the lube they kept in the bedside drawer. He slicked his fingers without lifting his head, his mouth still working Donghae open.
The first finger slid in alongside his tongue, an easy intrusion. Donghae was still loose, still pliant from the night before. Hyukjae added a second almost immediately, scissoring them, stretching him. He crooked them, searching.
When he found the spot, Donghae screamed. His back arched violently. “Yes! Fuck, yes, right there, don’t stop!”
Hyukjae didn’t. He fucked him with his fingers, relentless, his mouth still sealed over him, sucking and licking. He was marking him, claiming him from the inside out. Preparing him.
“Ready for me?” Hyukjae growled, finally pulling back. His lips and chin were slick. “Need to be inside you. Now.”
“Yes,” Donghae panted, his eyes glazed. “Please. Need you.”
Hyukjae pushed himself up, kneeling between Donghae’s spread legs. He poured more lube into his palm, stroking himself, his gaze locked on Donghae’s wrecked expression. He notched the head of his cock at Donghae’s entrance and pushed.
It was a slow, brutal invasion. There was no gentle easing. Hyukjae sheathed himself in one continuous, devastating thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The breath was punched from Donghae’s lungs. He felt impossibly full, stretched, owned.
Hyukjae held there, letting them both adjust, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint. He leaned down, kissing Donghae, swallowing his gasp. “Mine,” he whispered, filthy and tender.
Then he began to move.
He set a ruthless, pounding rhythm. Each thrust rocked the bedframe against the wall. There was no art to it, only a frantic, physical need to fuse together. Skin slapped against sweat-slicked skin. The headboard knocked a dull, steady beat on the plaster.
“Is this what you think about?” Hyukjae grunted, driving into him. “When I’m gone? This cock stretching you open?”
“Yes!” Donghae cried, his legs locking around Hyukjae’s waist.
“You touch yourself thinking about it? Get your fingers wet and pretend it’s me?”
“Yes, god, always you!”
Hyukjae’s control snapped. He hooked his hands under Donghae’s knees, pushing them back towards his chest, bending him almost in half. The new angle was devastating. Hyukjae pistoned into him, each stroke hitting his prostate dead-on.
Donghae was incoherent, babbling curses and pleas. His own cock, trapped between their bodies, leaked steadily onto his stomach.
“Gonna come,” Hyukjae warned, his thrusts turning erratic, brutal. “Gonna fill you up. Leave my come in you so you remember. So you feel it tomorrow when I’m in the fucking air.”
The words, crude and possessive, tipped Donghae over. He came with a shattered cry, his release painting stripes across his own chest and Hyukjae’s. The violent clenching of his body was all Hyukjae needed. With a final, deep snarl, Hyukjae slammed home and held, his own orgasm racking through him as he emptied himself inside Donghae, pulse after hot, claiming pulse.
He collapsed, his weight crushing Donghae into the mattress, both of them gasping, slick with sweat and spend.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Hyukjae finally rolled off, pulling Donghae against his side. He didn’t let go.
Donghae traced the faint scar on Hyukjae’s shoulder. “Stockpile secured?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Not even close,” Hyukjae said, but his chuckle lacked its usual lightness.
The silence that followed was different. The urgency had been spent, and in its place, the reality of the clock settled in. Hyukjae’s flight was at 10 PM.
They showered together, a quiet, efficient affair. Hyukjae packed. Donghae made lunch—kimchi jjigae, Hyukjae’s favorite. They ate at the kitchen island, just like the first night.
“The dry cleaning is picked up,” Donghae said, not looking up from his bowl. “I put your extra passport in the front pocket of your carry-on. Your presentation notes are printed and in the black folder.”
Hyukjae put his chopsticks down. “Donghae.”
“I also refilled your travel shampoo bottles. The ones you like. The cedar scent.”
“Donghae, stop.”
Donghae stopped. He finally looked up. His eyes were bright, too bright.
“Just… sit with me,” Hyukjae said softly. “Just be here. Don’t manage my departure.”
Donghae nodded, a quick, tight movement. He came around the island and sat on the stool next to Hyukjae, leaning into him. Hyukjae wrapped an arm around him, holding him close, kissing his hair.
They stayed like that until the light began to fade, gilding the room in long, melancholic shadows. The suitcase, now fully packed, stood by the door like a sentinel. The polished shoes waited beside it.
Donghae walked him to the door at quarter past eight. Hyukjae shrugged on his coat. He looked from the suitcase to Donghae’s face, which was now a careful, composed mask.
“I love you,” Hyukjae said, his voice thick. “More than any of it. You know that, right?”
Donghae managed a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I know. I love you too. Now go, or you’ll hit traffic.”
They kissed. It was tender, lingering, a silent conversation of lips and breath. It tasted like goodbye.
Hyukjae picked up his bag. He opened the door. The cool hallway air rushed in, foreign and intrusive.
He stepped out. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Inside, Donghae stood in the sudden, immense quiet of the foyer. He looked at the spot where he’d knelt just days before. He looked at the empty space where Hyukjae’s shoes had been. The order of the apartment felt cold now, sterile. A museum of absence.
He walked slowly to the bedroom. The sheets were still tangled, the room still heavy with the scent of sex and their shared sweat. He lay down on Hyukjae’s side of the bed, pulling the pillow over his face, breathing in the fading trace of his lover’s shampoo.
Outside, a car door slammed. An engine started, then faded into the distance.
The waiting had already begun.
The waiting had already begun, but it curdled, stretching thin and souring as the promised five days bled into seven, then ten. A flurry of texts blamed a delayed prototype, a recalcitrant investor, a logistical snarl at the factory. Two more days, love. Then three. This weekend, I swear. The apartment’s meticulous order became a cage. Donghae cleaned things that were already clean, reorganized drawers, wore Hyukjae’s old shirts to bed where the scent of him was fading from the pillows.
On the thirteenth night, the dream came. It wasn’t soft or hazy but hyper-real, a lurid playback in high definition. He was on his hands and knees on the cool hardwood of the foyer, not the bed. The texture of the grain bit into his palms. He felt the hot, humid wash of Hyukjae’s breath first, then the blunt, wet pressure of his tongue, lapping broad and slow from his taint up to the base of his spine. A low groan echoed—his own, from the dream or from his sleeping throat, he couldn’t tell. In the dream, Hyukjae didn’t tease. He ate him out with a vulgar, sloppy hunger, his tongue spearing deep inside him, fucking him with it while his big hands spread Donghae’s cheeks apart, holding him open. The sensation was so visceral, so electrically specific—the scratch of Hyukjae’s stubble, the obscene wet sounds, the unbearable building pressure in his groin—that Donghae woke with a choked gasp, his hips jerking into the mattress.
The room was dark and empty. The echo of the phantom touch burned on his skin. He was achingly hard, his briefs soaked with pre-come. He fumbled for himself, gripping his cock with a frantic need, trying to chase the ghost of the dream. He came in less than a minute, a quick, shattering release that left him panting and utterly unsatisfied. The emptiness in his gut yawned wider. He felt raw, untethered, the chemical bliss of orgasm a cruel mockery that did nothing to touch the deep, physical ache of missing Hyukjae’s weight, his smell, his touch. He was insatiable.
The next evening, the final flight confirmation came. Landing at 8. Home by 9. Wait up. Donghae’s blood sang, a frantic counter-rhythm to the slow, agonizing tick of the clock. He showered, scrubbing every inch, but didn’t dress. He paced, then forced himself to sit on the sofa, naked, the air cool on his skin, every nerve ending screaming.
The key turned in the lock at 9:07.
The door swung open and Hyukjae entered, dragging his suitcase, his shoulders slumped with travel fatigue. He looked up, his sentence—“God, I’m wiped, the traffic was—”—dying in his throat. His carry-on bag slid from his hand, thumping to the floor.
Donghae stood in the middle of the foyer, bathed in the lamplight, wearing nothing but the shadow of a smile. Every hard line and soft plane of his body was on display, a deliberate, silent provocation.
“Fuck,” Hyukjae breathed, the word all air and hunger. His travel-weary eyes darkened, scanning Donghae from head to toe. “You… you are going to be the death of me.”
He crossed the space in three strides. His hands, still cool from the night air, grasped Donghae’s waist, fingers biting into the flesh. There were no greetings, no questions. His mouth crashed down on Donghae’s, a claiming full of teeth and tongue and two weeks of starvation. He walked Donghae backwards until his bare back hit the wall, the impact jarring a gasp into Hyukjae’s mouth.
Hyukjae’s belt buckle clattered, his zipper hissed. He shoved his own trousers and briefs down just enough to free his cock, already brutally hard. He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and hooked Donghae’s thigh over his hip. He positioned himself, the broad head pressing against Donghae’s entrance, which was still tight, unprepared.
“Need you,” Donghae begged, scrabbling at Hyukjae’s shoulders. “Now, please, fuck, now.”
Hyukjae drove in. It was a single, brutal, piston stroke that buried him to the root, tearing a ragged scream from Donghae’s throat. There was no preamble, no gentleness, only a furious, relentless claiming. Hyukjae fucked him against the wall, each snap of his hips a punctuation mark of possession. The force drove Donghae’s shoulders into the plaster, the cool surface a stark contrast to the inferno between them.
“This,” Hyukjae grunted, his breath hot against Donghae’s neck. “This is what I thought about. In every fucking sterile hotel room. Your tight heat milking my cock just like this.”
Donghae could only sob, his legs locked around Hyukjae’s waist, taking every deep, punishing thrust. It hurt in the best way, a sublime friction that burned away the two weeks of loneliness. He came suddenly, violently, his release striping Hyukjae’s still-buttoned shirt in weak, translucent spasms. His body clenched in rhythmic pulses around the cock still pistoning inside him.
Hyukjae froze, buried deep, feeling the contractions. He looked down between them at the mess on his shirt, then at Donghae’s blissed-out, tear-streaked face. A slow, weary grin spread across his features. “Two weeks and that’s all you’ve got for me?” he joked, his voice rough but light. “Feels a bit thin, baby. You been sleeping around while I was gone? Sharing my stockpile?”
The words landed wrong. The warm, sated haze in Donghae’s eyes iced over instantly. The vulnerable need morphed into something sharper. He unwound his legs, pushing Hyukjae back with surprising force, slipping off his softening cock. He turned away, his naked shoulders stiff.
“Hey,” Hyukjae said, softening, realizing his error. He tried to pull him back. “Donghae, come on. It was a joke. A stupid joke.”
Donghae shook him off, walking toward the bedroom without a word. He climbed onto the bed, drawing his knees up, presenting the perfect curve of his back—a silhouette of hurt.
Hyukjae followed, kicking off his ruined pants. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over Donghae’s spine. “I’m sorry,” he said, the fatigue and regret clear in his voice. “That wasn’t funny. I’m an idiot. I would never… I know you wouldn’t. I’m just tired and mouthy.”
Donghae was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke, his voice quiet but clear, muffled by the sheets. “You need to be punished.”
Hyukjae’s eyebrows raised. A flicker of heat reignited in his gut, different from the frantic hunger of moments before. This was slower, more intentional. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice dropping. “How?”
Donghae rolled onto his back. His expression was no longer hurt, but focused, a glint in his eye. “You don’t get to come. Not tonight.”
Not tonight.
The words hung in the air, a stark decree. Hyukjae’s tired eyes widened, then narrowed with understanding. This wasn’t rejection; it was a reclamation. Donghae slid off the bed, his naked form moving with a new, deliberate grace. He went to the oak dresser where Hyukjae kept his ties, the same one Donghae polished weekly in his absence. His fingers bypassed the silks, choosing a navy cotton knit, soft but strong. He returned to the bedside, the fabric coiled in his hand like a promise.
“Hands,” Donghae said, his voice quiet, leaving no room for debate. Hyukjae watched him, his breath catching. After a beat, he offered his wrists, crossing them obligingly above his head on the pillows. Donghae looped the tie around them, knotting it firmly to the wrought-iron bed frame. It was secure, but not cruel—there was slack enough for comfort, for the illusion of choice. “Too tight?” Donghae asked, his thumb stroking the inside of Hyukjae’s wrist where the pulse thrummed.
“No,” Hyukjae whispered. He tested the bind, the muscles in his arms corded. The vulnerability was acute, a thrilling exposure that made his already-sensitive skin prickle. Donghae’s gaze was a physical weight, tracing the lines of Hyukjae’s body, from the broad, tethered shoulders down his lean torso to where his cock lay half-hard against his thigh.
Donghae climbed onto the bed, straddling Hyukjae’s hips, but didn’t touch him there. He leaned down, his soft hair brushing Hyukjae’s cheek. “My love,” he murmured, before kissing him. It was deep and slow, a languid exploration that tasted like home and forgiveness. He moved his mouth to Hyukjae’s jaw, his throat, licking a slow path to a nipple. He took the nub between his teeth, worrying it gently before soothing with his tongue.
Hyukjae hissed, his hips lifting off the mattress. “Hae…”
“Shh,” Donghae breathed against his skin. He continued his torturous descent, his lips and tongue charting a course over Hyukjae’s quivering abdomen. He nuzzled the coarse hair at his groin, inhaling his musky scent. He bypassed Hyukjae’s aching cock, instead gripping the base firmly, holding it still as he licked a fat, wet stripe from root to tip.
“Christ,” Hyukjae choked out, his bound hands twisting in the tie. Donghae took him into his mouth, not all at once, but in slow, suctioning increments. His cheeks hollowed, his head bobbing with a rhythmic precision that was maddening. He used his tongue, swirling it around the head on each upstroke, teasing the slit. He reached down, fondling Hyukjae’s balls, rolling the heavy weight in his palm.
Hyukjae was panting, sweat beading on his temples. The pleasure was a tight coil in his gut, pulled taut by Donghae’s expert mouth. “Gonna… I’m too close, baby.”
Donghae released him with a wet pop. “Not yet,” he said, his own breath uneven. He reached for the lube on the nightstand, the bottle cool in his hand. He coated his fingers, watching Hyukjae’s face. Then he pressed a single, slick finger against Hyukjae’s entrance, circling the tight ring of muscle.
Hyukjae jolted, a ragged gasp tearing from him. “Fuck.”
“Yes,” Donghae whispered, and pushed inside. The burn was exquisite, a sharp, full sensation that made Hyukjae see stars. Donghae worked him open with meticulous care, crooking his finger, searching. When he brushed that internal nub, Hyukjae cried out, his entire body seizing. “There,” Donghae smiled, a dark, lovely thing. He added a second finger, stretching him, scissoring gently.
“Need you inside me,” Hyukjae begged, his composure shattered. “Please, Donghae. Need to feel you.”
Donghae slicked Hyukjae’s rigid cock with more lube, stroking him slowly, making him whimper. Then he rose up on his knees, positioning himself above Hyukjae. He guided the blunt head to his entrance, which was still loose and ready from their earlier frantic coupling against the wall. He sank down, taking him in one slow, excruciatingly deep slide.
They moaned in unison, a shattered harmony. Donghae seated himself fully, sheathing Hyukjae to the hilt, his own head falling back. He began to move, not with frantic pounding, but with a deliberate, grinding roll of his hips. He used Hyukjae’s body, riding him deep, rubbing his own prostate against the thick intrusion with every downward stroke.
“My Hyukkie,” Donghae chanted, his voice a broken sigh. His hands braced on Hyukjae’s chest, fingers splayed over his pectorals. He rode him faster, his rhythm becoming more urgent, less controlled. His thighs trembled with the effort. “My baobei. So deep. So good for me.”
Hyukjae could only watch, enthralled and desperate, his wrists straining gently against the tie. The sight of Donghae above him, backlit by the low lamp, face contorted in pleasure, using his body for his own climax—it was the most vulnerable, intimate thing he’d ever witnessed. The coil in his own gut was a white-hot wire, threatening to snap.
Donghae’s movements grew frantic, his grunts becoming sharp, punched-out sounds. He reached between them, fisting his own cock, stroking in time with his frantic rides. “Hyukjae, I’m… I can’t…”
“Come,” Hyukjae commanded, his voice raw. “Let go, my love. Show me.”
With a sharp, torn cry, Donghae did. His release striped Hyukjae’s stomach and chest in hot, wet pulses, his body clamping down in violent spasms around Hyukjae’s cock. The intense, rhythmic milking was too much. Hyukjae’s vision whited out as his own orgasm ripped through him, untethered and devastating, filling Donghae deep inside as he shuddered and shook beneath him.
Donghae collapsed forward, his sweaty forehead resting on Hyukjae’s shoulder. His fingers fumbled with the knot at the bedframe, tugging it loose. Hyukjae’s freed arms came around him immediately, crushing him close, turning them onto their sides. They lay tangled, sticky and spent, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs. The only sound was their ragged, slowing breath.
Hyukjae nuzzled into Donghae’s hair, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I really am sorry,” he murmured into the quiet.
“I know,” Donghae whispered back, his finger tracing idle circles on Hyukjae’s hip. “Don’t joke about that again.”
“Never.”
Outside, the city hummed, indifferent. Inside, the world had narrowed to the warm, mussed sheets and the steady, familiar weight of each other’s limbs. The suitcase by the door was empty now. For this moment, at least, there was nowhere else to be.