Chapter 4: Sticky Sweet
The sweet-sour tang of the sauce was still on their lips when they stumbled into the bedroom, a half-empty container of tangsuyuk abandoned on the kitchen counter. Hyukjae had indeed ordered extra sauce, and a stray, glistening piece of pork had left a sticky, amber trail down Donghae’s sternum as he’d leaned over the coffee table.
“You’re a mess,” Hyukjae had mumbled around a laugh, already leaning in.
Now, in the soft glow of the single bedside lamp, he made good on his unspoken promise. He pushed Donghae backward until his knees hit the edge of the mattress, and Donghae sat with a soft gasp. Hyukjae didn’t follow him down immediately. He stood between his spread legs, looking down at the sticky path on Donghae’s skin.
The light caught the sheen of it. Hyukjae watched the slow rise and fall of Donghae’s chest, the quickening pulse visible in his throat. He bent, slow and deliberate, and swiped his tongue through the sauce.
Donghae’s breath hissed between his teeth. The flavor burst on Hyukjae’s tongue—sugar, vinegar, the underlying savor of the meat. But underneath it was the salt of Donghae’s skin, a taste more familiar than any food.
“Fuck,” Donghae whispered, his hands coming up to fist in Hyukjae’s hair.
Hyukjae cleaned the trail with broad, languid strokes of his tongue, from the hollow of Donghae’s throat down to his navel. He took his time, feeling the subtle tremors that ran through Donghae’s stomach muscles. When the last trace of stickiness was gone, he replaced it with the wet heat of his mouth, sucking a small, dark mark just above the waistband of Donghae’s sweats.
Donghae tugged his hair, not to pull him away, but to pull him up. Their mouths crashed together, a clash of teeth and flavor. The kiss was deep and filthy, open-mouthed and searching. Hyukjae could taste himself in it, mixed with the sauce and the unique, essential taste of Donghae. It was overwhelming. He climbed onto the bed, straddling Donghae’s lap, never breaking the kiss.
Their hands were everywhere, pushing fabric aside with a frantic urgency that belied the afternoon’s laziness. Hyukjae’s shirt was wrestled over his head and tossed to the floor. Donghae’s sweats were shoved down his hips, his cock springing free, already hard and leaking against his stomach. The sight of it, thick and flushed, made Hyukjae’s mouth water with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
He broke the kiss, panting. “Tell me what you want.”
Donghae’s eyes were dark, pupils swallowing the warm brown. His gaze dropped to Hyukjae’s mouth, then lower. “I want you to suck me. Just like that. Get me wet. Get me ready.”
The raw command in his quiet voice sent a jolt straight to Hyukjae’s groin. He slid off the bed, knees hitting the floor with a soft thud. The position felt obscenely good, submissive and powerful all at once. He looked up the length of Donghae’s body, meeting his heated stare, before leaning forward.
He didn’t use his hands. He just pressed his face into the thatch of coarse hair, inhaled the musky, intimate scent of him, and then took the head of his cock into his mouth.
Donghae groaned, a rough, broken sound. His hips jerked involuntarily.
Hyukjae worked him slowly, with a focused, wet devotion. He hollowed his cheeks, swirling his tongue around the frenulum, savoring the bitter-salty pre-come that seeped onto his tongue. He took him deeper, relaxing his throat, until his nose pressed into Donghae’s skin. He could feel the vein pulsing against his tongue, the sheer living heat of him.
“Christ, Hyukjae.” Donghae’s fingers tightened in his hair again, not guiding, just holding on. “Your mouth… fuck, your mouth feels so good.”
Hyukjae pulled off with a filthy, wet sound. A string of saliva connected his lips to Donghae’s glistening cock. “You want more?” he asked, his voice ragged.
“I want you.” Donghae’s words were clipped, urgent. “Now. Need to be inside you.”
They moved together in a chaotic, graceful scramble. Hyukjae fumbled in the bedside drawer, finding the lube half-crushed under a charging cable. He tossed it onto the bed as Donghae shoved the duvet aside, making space.
Donghae didn’t lay him down gently. He pushed him onto his back, followed him down, and covered him. Their bodies aligned, cock to cock, a searing line of friction that made them both gasp. Donghae grabbed the lube, slicked his fingers with a harsh, frantic sound.
“Ready?” he breathed against Hyukjae’s ear. It was a courtesy, a formality. They both knew the answer.
“Yes. Don’t wait.”
Donghae’s finger, cool and slick, pressed against him, and then in. Hyukjae arched off the bed, a sharp intake of breath bursting from his lungs. It was a stretch, a burning fullness he craved. Donghae worked him open with a single-minded efficiency, adding a second finger, scissoring them, crooking them until Hyukjae saw stars behind his eyelids and a ragged cry was torn from his throat.
“There,” Donghae murmured, his voice thick with want. He found the spot again, pressed, and Hyukjae’s whole body bowed off the mattress.
“Donghae—now. Please, now.”
The fingers withdrew. The blunt, insistent pressure of Donghae’s cock replaced them. He pushed in, not slowly, not with careful restraint, but with a steady, relentless drive that stole the air from Hyukjae’s chest.
It was a blinding, perfect invasion. Hyukjae wrapped his legs around Donghae’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him in deeper. When Donghae was fully seated, they both went still, shuddering, breathing in ragged unison. The stretch was exquisite, a throbbing, full ache that settled deep in Hyukjae’s bones.
Donghae lowered his forehead to Hyukjae’s, his breath hot and panting against Hyukjae’s lips. “Okay?”
Hyukjae could only nod, biting his own lip. He was so full he felt split open, vulnerable and complete.
Then Donghae moved.
He withdrew almost all the way and slammed back in, setting a punishing, desperate rhythm. The bed rocked, the headboard knocking a soft, steady tattoo against the wall. Each thrust punched a harsh, guttural sound from Hyukjae’s throat—half pain, all pleasure. Donghae fucked him like he was trying to erase every moment of distance, every unseen audience, every second they’d ever spent not being exactly here, like this.
“You feel it,” Donghae grunted, his voice strained. His thrusts grew harder, deeper. “You feel how much I… fuck… how much I need this.”
Hyukjae’s nails scored down Donghae’s back. He could feel the sweat-slick skin bunching and moving under his hands. The room filled with the sounds of their bodies meeting: skin slapping against skin, wet, sucking sounds, their choked, ragged breaths. The citrus scent of Hyukjae’s lotion was buried now under the saltier, animal smell of sex.
“Look at me,” Donghae demanded, his pace never faltering.
Hyukjae forced his eyes open. Donghae’s face was a mask of raw intensity, his lips parted, his gaze locked on Hyukjae’s with a ferocity that was almost violent in its intimacy. He was completely gone, lost in the act, in Hyukjae. It was the most exposed Hyukjae had ever seen him.
“You’re mine,” Donghae growled, the words ripped from somewhere deep inside him. It wasn’t a question. It was a truth being forged with every driving thrust. “Right here. You’re mine.”
The possession in his words, the sheer undeniable claim, shattered the last of Hyukjae’s control. His own cock, trapped and rubbing between their sweat-slicked stomachs, throbbed. Pleasure coiled, tight and white-hot, deep in his gut.
“Yours,” Hyukjae gasped, the admission broken by a sob. “Yours, Donghae, I’m—”
His climax tore through him, violent and unbidden. He came with a strangled shout, his body seizing, clamping down around Donghae in rhythmic pulses. The intense, blinding pleasure seemed to last forever, wrung from every nerve ending.
Donghae watched him fall apart, his thrusts becoming erratic, jagged. With three more deep, grinding strokes, he followed. Hyukjae felt the hot spill inside him, the final, helpless groan muffled against his own shoulder as Donghae collapsed, his full weight a welcome, crushing comfort.
For long minutes, the only sound was their heaving breaths slowly settling, and the faint, persistent hum of the city. The knocking headboard had fallen silent. Donghae was a dead weight on top of him, skin glued to skin with sweat and come.
Finally, Donghae shifted, softening, slipping out of him. The loss was a hollow, aching feeling. He didn’t go far. He just rolled to his side, pulling Hyukjae with him, tucking him against his chest. His heart hammered against Hyukjae’s back.
Neither spoke. Donghae’s arm was a heavy band across Hyukjae’s stomach, his fingers splayed possessively over his hip. Hyukjae traced the fresh nail marks on the arm holding him.
On the nightstand, the lamp cast a small, warm pool of light. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, a fleeting reminder of another world. Here, the air was thick and spent.
Donghae’s lips brushed the nape of his neck, a whisper of a kiss. “The sauce was worth it,” he murmured, his voice shot and rough.
A surprised laugh bubbled out of Hyukjae, shaky and weak. It faded into the quiet. He pressed back into Donghae’s solid warmth, into the smell of sex and skin and them.
The fanmeet felt like a dream. The balcony, a memory from another life. There was only this: the damp sheets, the steadying heartbeat against his spine, the utter, disarming certainty of being claimed. He closed his eyes, let the weight of it—of him—pull him under, towards a sleep too deep for dreams.
He closed his eyes, let the weight of it—of him—pull him under, towards a sleep too deep for dreams.
A few hours later, the muffled closing of the freezer door tugged him back to the surface. The room was darker now, the bedside lamp off, the only light a grey-blue wash from the city coming through the window. Donghae was a warm space beside him, but now he was moving, the mattress dipping.
Hyukjae stirred, blinking slowly. “W’wrong?”
“Nothing.” Donghae’s voice was clear, awake. He slid back into bed, his skin cool from the brief journey. He held something in his hand, a vague, dark shape. “Go back to sleep.”
But then Hyukjae felt the kiss against his shoulder blade, cold and damp. He flinched, a soft gasp escaping him. “Fuck, that’s cold.”
Donghae’s chuckle was a low vibration against his back. He kissed the same spot again, his lips now wet. A droplet of ice-cold water trailed down Hyukjae’s spine. The shock of it was electric, a sharp contrast to the warm, sleepy haze cocooning him. His nerves snapped to attention.
“What are you doing?” Hyukjae mumbled, trying to roll over, but Donghae held him in place, a firm hand on his hip.
“Shhh.” The command was soft. Donghae nudged his legs apart with a knee. Hyukjae went willingly, his body pliant with leftover sleep and the deep, pleasant ache from their earlier fucking.
He felt the cold then, not on his back, but lower. A smooth, round, impossibly cold tip touched him there—right where he was still tender, stretched, used. He jerked violently.
“Donghae—”
“Hold still.” The order was gentle, but absolute. “It’s just ice.” Donghae’s other hand, the one not holding the melting cube, soothed up his flank. “Relax for me.”
The ice cube circled him, a teasing, freezing ring around his sensitive rim. It was a shocking, almost painful sensation that quickly blurred into something else. The cold was a strange, sharp sort of pleasure, a contrast so intense it made his nerves sing. He shuddered, a low moan catching in his throat.
“That’s it,” Donghae murmured, his breath hot on Hyukjae’s neck. The heat of his mouth against the cold trail on Hyukjae’s skin was its own delicious torment.
Then the ice pressed forward. Not with force, but with a slow, insistent pressure. Hyukjae gasped, his fingers clutching at the sheets. The cold was inside him, a deep, burning chill that made his internal muscles clench instinctively, trying to reject the intrusion. It was too much. It was everything.
“Oh, god,” Hyukjae breathed out, his voice ragged. The meltwater was leaking out of him, a shocking trickle of cold down his perineum.
Donghae worked the cube slowly, in a shallow, twisting motion. The friction of the ice was a slick, frozen burn, the melt making the path easier. Hyukjae was panting, his forehead pressed into the pillow. The dual sensations—the brutal cold inside, the warm hand on his hip, the hot mouth on his shoulder—were overwhelming, shattering his coherence.
“You’re so tight around it,” Donghae whispered, his voice thick with a dark wonder. “So fucking hot inside, and I’m filling you with cold. Think about that.”
Hyukjae could only whimper in response. The cube was mostly melted now, a smaller, sharper shard of cold that Donghae pushed deeper, targeting a place that made Hyukjae cry out, his back arching. The pleasure was acute, piercing, amplified by the shocking temperature.
Just as Hyukjae thought he couldn’t take another second, the sensation vanished. The ice was gone. Before he could even process the loss, Donghae replaced it. Not with his fingers, but with the hot, solid thickness of his tongue.
Hyukjae shouted.
Donghae ate him out with a ruthless, focused hunger. His tongue was a brand of fire after the ice, licking deep into the chilled, sensitive channel, lapping up the cold meltwater mixed with his own earlier spend. The shift from extreme cold to searing heat was delirious. Hyukjae shook, his legs trembling, words dissolving into a stream of shattered, pleading sounds.
Donghae didn’t let up. He fucked him with his tongue, rough and wet and obscene, the filthy sounds loud in the quiet room. He reached around, his wet fingers finding Hyukjae’s cock, which was hard and leaking against his stomach. He stroked him in time with the thrusts of his tongue, a slick, twisting rhythm.
“Gonna come,” Hyukjae choked out, a warning and a plea. The coil in his gut was wound impossibly tight, a spring-loaded wire of pure sensation. “Donghae, I’m gonna—”
Donghae growled against him, the vibration shooting straight up his spine. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue plunging deeper, his hand working faster.
The orgasm erupted from Hyukjae with a force that blacked out his vision. It was a seizure of pure, mindless ecstasy, wrenched from a place the ice had opened and the heat had devoured. He came over Donghae’s fist with a broken, sobbing cry, his body rigid, then collapsing into boneless aftershocks.
Donghae gentled his touch, his movements slowing to soft, soothing caresses. He pressed a final, tender kiss to the small of Hyukjae’s back before sliding up the bed to gather him close. Hyukjae was limp, spent, vibrating with the echoes of the sensation. Donghae’s arms wrapped around him, anchoring him to the solid reality of the bed, of the night, of them.
The chill was gone, replaced by a penetrating, satisfying warmth. The city’ hum outside the window was the only sound. Hyukjae turned his face into Donghae’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent now layered with sweat and sex and something clean, like cold water.
“You’re insane,” Hyukjae whispered, his voice wrecked.
He felt Donghae’s smile against his temple. “You liked it.”
It wasn’t a question. Hyukjae didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His body, still humming and open, was answer enough. He curled closer, letting the deep, steady rhythm of Donghae’s heartbeat sync with his own, a slow lullaby pulling him back down into the dark, this time without dreams, just the quiet, profound certainty of the man who held him.
The profound certainty lasted until the first grey light of dawn seeped around the edges of the blackout curtains. Hyukjae woke to a familiar, deep ache, a pleasant soreness that anchored him to the night before. Donghae was a solid line of heat behind him, breathing evenly, his arm still a heavy weight across Hyukjae’s waist.
The ice cube. The memory surfaced, sharp and visceral. A shiver that had nothing to do with cold went through him. He shifted slightly, feeling the residual tenderness, the ghost of that shocking cold and the searing heat that followed. He was a mess of sensations, gloriously used.
He turned carefully within the circle of Donghae’s arm. Donghae’s face in sleep was softer, younger, the fierce intensity of his possession smoothed away. Hyukjae watched the slight flutter of his lashes against his cheek. He had been wrecked last night, mastered completely.
A slow, warm curl of intention began to unwind in his gut. Reciprocity. It wasn’t a debt. It was a need.
Hyukjae slid his hand down, under the loose waistband of the sweats Donghae had pulled on sometime in the night. He found him soft and warm. He wrapped his fingers around him, not moving, just feeling the weight in his palm. Donghae stirred with a soft, sleep-thickened groan.
“Mm. ’S early.”
“Very,” Hyukjae whispered. He began to stroke him, slow and firm, his thumb circling the tip where a bead of moisture had already gathered. He watched Donghae’s face. His breathing hitched, changed. His eyelids fluttered open, hazy with sleep, then sharpened with understanding.
Hyukjae bent his head. He took Donghae into his mouth without preamble, swallowing him down in one smooth, wet glide. The taste was familiar, musky and intimate. Donghae arched off the bed with a choked-off gasp, his hands flying to tangle in Hyukjae’s hair.
“Fuck. Hyukjae—”
Hyukjae hummed around him, the vibration pulling a ragged moan from Donghae’s throat. He set a ruthless, deep rhythm, his own arousal a hard, insistent throb between his legs. This was different from last night. Last night was about being taken. This was about giving, about wielding his own power, about reducing this man to a shuddering, pleading wreck.
He worked him with his mouth and hand, a slick, twisting torture, until Donghae was fully hard and leaking, his thighs trembling. Hyukjae pulled off with an obscene, wet pop. He looked up, Donghae’s cock resting against his flushed cheek.
“I want to ride you,” Hyukjae said, his voice rough. It wasn’t a question.
Donghae’s eyes were black, his chest heaving. He nodded, once, a sharp jerk of his chin.
They moved together in a wordless, efficient scramble. Donghae shoved his sweats down and kicked them off. Hyukjae found the lube, slicking his fingers, preparing himself quickly, impatiently, under Donghae’s heated gaze. He was still loose, sore, open from the night before, and the slide of his own fingers was a slippery, shocking reminder. He coated Donghae’s length, his fist moving in slow, firm strokes until Donghae was gritting his teeth, his hands fisting in the sheets.
Then Hyukjae straddled him. He braced his hands on Donghae’s chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath his palms. He guided him, notched him at his entrance, and sank down.
The stretch was breathtaking, a burning fullness that stole the air from his lungs. He took him inch by inch, his body opening, accepting, until he was seated fully, Donghae buried inside him to the hilt. They both went still, locked in a shared, suspended gasp.
Donghae’s hands came up to grip Hyukjae’s hips, his thumbs digging into the bone. His gaze was locked on where they were joined. “Christ, look at you.”
Hyukjae began to move. He rose up, almost until Donghae was about to slip out, then sank back down, a slow, grinding roll of his hips. He set the pace, controlled the depth. Each drag and slide was a lightning bolt of sensation, a raw, building friction that coiled tight in his core. He threw his head back, his eyes closing.
“Look at me,” Donghae growled, his voice strained.
Hyukjae opened his eyes, meeting that fierce, unguarded stare. He increased his rhythm, bouncing faster now, taking him harder. The slap of skin filled the room, a lewd, rhythmic counterpoint to their harsh breaths. His own cock bounced between them, untouched, leaking onto Donghae’s stomach.
“You feel so deep,” Hyukjae panted, driving down onto him. “God, you’re so fucking deep.”
Donghae’s control shattered. His hips pistoned upward, meeting Hyukjae’s descents with brutal, driving thrusts. He fucked up into him, his grip on Hyukjae’s hips turning to iron, forcing him down harder, taking him deeper. The angle shifted, hitting a spot that made Hyukjae see white.
“Right there! Fuck, Donghae, right there!”
Hyukjae rode him frantically, chasing that blinding, sharp pleasure. He was a mess of sweat and need, his movements turning erratic, desperate. The tension snapped. His orgasm ripped through him with a wordless shout, his come striping Donghae’s chest and stomach in hot, wet spurts. His body clamped down, milking Donghae violently.
Donghae followed instantly. With a guttural groan, he thrust up one final, searing time and came, his release pulsing hot and deep inside Hyukjae. The feeling triggered another, smaller convulsion from Hyukjae, a weak, oversensitive shudder.
They collapsed together, a tangled heap of trembling limbs. Hyukjae slumped forward, his forehead resting on Donghae’s sweat-slicked collarbone. Donghae’s softening length slipped from him, followed by a warm, wet trickle. Neither moved. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat.
Donghae’s hands rose, clumsy and gentle, to stroke Hyukjae’s back. His breathing slowly evened out.
Hyukjae drifted, boneless and spent, in the warm, sticky silence. The fanmeet, the city, the world—it was all a faint, irrelevant echo. Here was the only sound that mattered: the slowing syncopation of their hearts. He knew, with a certainty that was bone-deep, that Donghae would gather him up soon. He would clean them both with a damp cloth, his touch tender. He would pull the fresh duvet over them.
The sun would rise fully, and they would have to face the day, the schedule, the recording. But for now, in the grey dawn, there was only this: the salt on their skin, the proof leaking between his thighs, and the absolute, quiet truth of the man beneath him, still holding him as if he’d never let go.