Chapter 18: The Gift from Heechul
The morning light was different. It didn’t creep; it announced itself in bold, unforgiving stripes across the rumpled sheets, landing directly on Hyukjae’s closed eyelids. He groaned, turning his face into the pillow, which smelled intensely of them—sex, sleep, and the faint cedar from the bath.
Donghae was a warm line against his back, chest to spine, one arm a dead weight across Hyukjae’s ribs. His breathing was deep and even. Peaceful.
Hyukjae lay still, assessing. The digital clock on the bedside table read 8:47. Later than they’d slept in weeks. He listened to the rhythm behind him, felt the steady expansion of Donghae’s lungs against his back. No hitches. No tension.
Cautiously, he shifted onto his back. The movement dislodged Donghae’s arm. Donghae made a grumbling sound, his brow furrowing, but he didn’t wake. Hyukjae propped himself on an elbow and looked down at him.
In sleep, the years were softer. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes were just traces of laughter. His mouth was relaxed, slightly open. The ‘Memory of Rain’ shirt was rucked up, exposing a strip of flat stomach. Hyukjae’s gaze travelled downward, remembering the feel of those hips in his hands, the desperate clutch of his body. A slow heat, separate from the morning sun, kindled low in his belly.
He pushed it down. Now was for observation, not ignition.
He slid out of bed, his own muscles pleasantly sore in a way that had nothing to do with injury. He pulled on sweatpants and padded to the kitchen.
The lake was a sheet of hammered silver under a high, bright sky. He started the coffee, the ritual grounding. As it brewed, he opened his phone. The silence from last night had been broken. A dozen new messages, but only one made his blood run cold for a second.
Heechul-hyung: Coming up today. Don’t bother hiding. I have wine. And provisions.
He typed back, his fingers stiff. Donghae’s back is improving. Don’t be a nuisance.
The reply was instant. When am I ever? See you by lunch.
Hyukjae sighed, a long, weary exhalation. Heechul’s visits were either a blessed distraction or a category-five hurricane. There was no in-between.
He carried two mugs of coffee back to the bedroom. Donghae was awake, sitting up against the headboard. He was stretching his arms overhead, his face a careful mask of concentration as he tested his spine.
“Well?” Hyukjae asked, handing him a mug.
Donghae took a sip, his eyes closing in bliss. “Stiff. But it’s… muscular stiff. Not the other kind.” He opened his eyes, a slow smile spreading. “I feel like I got hit by a very sexy truck.”
“Charming.” Hyukjae sat on the edge of the bed. “Heechul’s coming.”
Donghae’s smile didn’t fade; it turned wry. “Of course he is. He smells convalescence from fifty miles away. He’ll want all the gory details.”
“He won’t get them.”
“He’ll guess.” Donghae set his mug down and reached for Hyukjae’s free hand, lacing their fingers. “Last night…”
“Was last night,” Hyukjae finished, his tone leaving no room for the vulnerability Donghae might have been digging for.
But Donghae just squeezed his hand. “It was good. To feel like myself again. To feel you again.” His gaze was direct, unflinching. “Not just the care. The other thing.”
Hyukjae leaned forward and kissed him, a soft, coffee-flavored press of lips. “I know.”
Heechul arrived just after noon, a whirlwind of black linen and sharp cologne. He bustled in, dropping a bottle of expensive-looking red wine on the counter and a small, ornate wooden box beside it.
“My favorite invalids,” he declared, peering at Donghae, who was perched on a stool at the kitchen island. “You look less pathetic. Color in your cheeks. Hyukjae must be feeding you something good.” He winked, broadly.
“Soup,” Hyukjae said deadpan, taking the wine to examine the label. “Just soup.”
“Right.” Heechul popped the lid off the wooden box. Inside, nestled in gold foil, were six perfectly round, dark chocolates. They smelled rich and slightly spicy. “These, however, are not soup. Imported. Single-origin. A little… stimulating for the circulation.” He tapped the side of his nose.
Donghae laughed. “Since when are you a chocolatier?”
“Since I have friends who’ve been acting like monks. Think of it as a medicinal supplement.” Heechul snatched one for himself, popping it into his mouth with a dramatic sigh. “See? Perfectly safe.”
The afternoon passed in easy companionship. Heechul filled the space with industry gossip, outrageous stories, and his piercing, perceptive questions about Donghae’s treatment plan. He was, beneath the flippancy, deeply concerned. He stayed for an early dinner, opened the wine, and left as the sun began to dip, citing a rendezvous in the city.
“Don’t overdo it,” he said to Donghae at the door, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. Then, to Hyukjae, he lowered his voice. “The chocolates. Just one. Maybe two. They’re… potent. A gift.” His smirk was back, full of knowing mischief.
Hyukjae rolled his eyes and shut the door.
The quiet after Heechul’s departure was physical. Donghae was washing the wine glasses, moving with a careful, contented slowness. The box of chocolates sat open on the counter.
“They do look good,” Donghae said, drying his hands.
“Heechul’s idea of a joke,” Hyukjae muttered, sorting mail.
“He ate one. They’re just chocolate.” Donghae picked one up, studied it, then took a bite. He chewed, his eyes widening. “Oh. That’s… incredible. Dark. But there’s this… heat at the end.”
“Don’t have another. Your system’s been on enough medication.”
“You’re no fun,” Donghae pouted, but he finished the first one, licking the melted traces from his fingers. He lingered by the box. A minute later, Hyukjae saw his hand dart out and take a second.
Hyukjae sighed but said nothing. They were just chocolates.
Thirty minutes later, he knew they were not.
It started subtly. Donghae, sitting on the sofa with a script, kept shifting. He uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. He ran a hand through his hair, which was already tousled. Hyukjae, working on his laptop, glanced over.
“You okay?”
“Warm,” Donghae said, his voice a notch higher than usual. “Is it warm in here?”
The thermostat hadn’t changed. But a faint pink flush was creeping up Donghae’s neck, staining his cheeks. He fanned himself with the script, but his breathing was becoming audible—short, sharp inhales through his nose.
“Donghae?”
“I’m fine.” But he wasn’t. He dropped the script and stood up, pacing to the window. His movements were restless, jittery. He braced his hands on the cool glass, his head bowing. Hyukjae saw the tremor in his arms.
Then he heard a low, helpless groan.
Hyukjae was on his feet in an instant. “What is it? Is it your back?”
“No,” Donghae gasped. He turned around. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, drowning the soft brown in black. His lips were slick, parted. He was breathing like he’d run a sprint. “It’s… fuck. Hyukjae.”
The curse, the wrecked tone—it wasn’t pain. It was something else entirely.
Hyukjae’s eyes darted to the empty gold foil on the counter. Potent. Heechul’s smirk. A gift.
“That bastard,” Hyukjae hissed. “What did he give you?”
But Donghae wasn’t listening. He was stumbling forward, his gaze locked on Hyukjae with a terrifying, single-minded hunger. “I need… I feel like I’m on fire. Inside.” His hands came up, clutching at the front of his own shirt, pulling the fabric taut over his chest. Hyukjae could see the distinct outline of his nipples, hard and peaked, and lower, the undeniable, straining bulge in his sweatpants.
“You need to lie down. Cold shower. Something.” Hyukjae’s clinical mind was scrambling, but a darker, possessive part was stirring, watching the desperate arousal warp his husband’s features.
“No,” Donghae whined, the sound utterly shameless. He closed the distance, his body colliding with Hyukjae’s. He was radiating heat. He ground his hips forward, and the hard, hot length of him pressed against Hyukjae’s thigh. “No shower. I need you. Now.”
His hands fumbled for the waistband of Hyukjae’s pants, fingers clumsy and insistent. “Please. I can’t think. I just need…”
Hyukjae caught his wrists. “Donghae, this isn’t you. It’s whatever the fuck was in those—”
“It is me!” Donghae cried out, his voice breaking. He wrenched a hand free and pressed it over the front of Hyukjae’s pants, palm scorching through the fabric. “This is me. Wanting you. It’s just… louder. So much louder.” He looked up, his eyes pleading and wild. “Don’t make me beg. Please. Just fuck me. I need your cock inside me. I need to feel it.”
The raw, filthy need in his words severed the last of Hyukjae’s resistance. Something primal and hot surged up in response. He didn’t want to nurse this. He wanted to devour it.
He released Donghae’s wrist. “Okay.”
It was all the permission Donghae needed. He dropped to his knees right there on the living room rug, his fingers making quick, frantic work of Hyukjae’s button and zipper. He didn’t bother pulling the pants down, just shoved them low enough to free Hyukjae’s erection, which was already full and heavy, drawn taut by the scene before him.
Donghae didn’t pause. He didn’t tease. He leaned forward and took the head into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the crown before sinking down, taking him deep into his throat in one shocking, smooth motion.
Hyukjae gasped, his hands flying to Donghae’s hair. “Jesus—“
Donghae gagged, his body convulsing, but he didn’t pull back. He forced himself deeper, his nose pressing into Hyukjae’s pubic bone. Tears sprang to the corners of his eyes. He pulled off with a wet, obscene pop, gasping for air, a thick strand of saliva connecting his lips to Hyukjae’s slick tip.
“Again,” he rasped, and dove back down.
This time he established a rhythm—a ruthless, sloppy, deep-throating rhythm that had none of his usual playful skill. It was pure need. His cheeks hollowed, his jaw stretched wide. The sounds were filthy: wet sucks, gags, ragged breaths through his nose. Pre-cum and saliva dripped down his chin, onto his own shirt. His hands gripped Hyukjae’s hips, nails digging in, pulling him deeper with each plunge.
Hyukjae watched, head spinning, his own pleasure a tight, coiling knot. He’d never seen him like this—utterly shattered by want, debased and gorgeous.
“Donghae,” he groaned, trying to pull him off. “Enough. You’ll choke.”
Donghae released him with a final, sucking pull. He looked wrecked. “I don’t care. I need you to fuck me. Right now.” He struggled to his feet, his knees wobbling. “Anywhere. Just do it.”
Hyukjae’s control snapped. He grabbed Donghae by the shoulders, spun him around, and marched him the few steps to the kitchen island. The polished marble was cool under his forearms as Hyukjae bent him over it. He yanked Donghae’s sweatpants and briefs down to his thighs in one harsh motion.
“Stay,” he commanded, his voice rough.
He fumbled in the drawer where they kept olive oil, not caring, pouring a slick, generous amount into his palm. He warmed it for a second before pressing two fingers against Donghae’s entrance. It was clenched tight, but slick with his own natural excitement from the drug. Hyukjae pushed one finger in, then a second, working them quickly, ruthlessly, scissoring them open.
Donghae was keening into the marble, pushing back against his hand. “Now, now, now…”
Hyukjae removed his fingers, lined himself up, and drove forward in one single, deep, splitting thrust.
The cry that tore from Donghae was raw, unfiltered pleasure-pain. His back arched, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth stone. Hyukjae sheathed himself to the hilt, the sensation of the tight, clenching heat almost blinding. He gave no quarter. He pulled back and slammed home again. And again.
This was not the tender reconnection of the night before. This was a claiming. A punishment for the scare, a celebration of his health, a violent answer to his desperate pleas. The kitchen filled with the sounds of their bodies colliding—skin on skin, the slick slap of each thrust, Hyukjae’s guttural grunts, Donghae’s choked, sobbing moans.
“Harder,” Donghae begged, his words slurred. “God, yes, right there, don’t stop, fucking ruin me—”
Hyukjae obliged. He pistoned into him, his vision narrowing to the sight of Donghae bent over the counter, his shirt rucked up, his body taking every inch with a shocking, willing vulnerability. The coil in his own gut was tightening impossibly fast.
Donghae came first. His entire body seized, a strangled scream ripped from his throat as he spilled onto the marble and the cabinets below, his channel pulsing and milking Hyukjae’s length in frantic, rhythmic clenches.
But the drug wasn’t done. Even through the shocks of his orgasm, Donghae stayed hard. He was sobbing, overstimulated, but still pushing back, his body demanding more. “Don’t stop, please, Hyukjae, I need it, I still need it…”
Hyukjae leaned over him, blanketing his body, biting at the sweat-damp nape of his neck. He reached around and took Donghae’s still-erect length in his oil-slick hand, stroking him in time with his brutal thrusts. “You want more?” he growled into his ear. “You take it. You take every fucking bit.”
He felt his own climax tear through him, a white-hot detonation that had him slamming deep and holding there, hips jerking as he emptied himself inside Donghae with a ragged shout.
For long moments, they stayed fused, shuddering, gasping. The only sound was their wrecked breathing and the hum of the refrigerator.
Slowly, carefully, Hyukjae pulled out. Donghae slumped forward, boneless, his forehead resting on his arms. A tremor ran through him.
Hyukjae’s anger at Heechul returned, cold and sharp. But it was mixed with a feral, satiated pride. He righted his own clothes, then gently pulled Donghae’s pants up. He turned him around.
Donghae’s face was a mess—tear-streaked, flushed, his lips swollen. But his eyes, though hazy, were clearing. The terrifying black dilation of his pupils was receding. The chemical fire was burning out, leaving the man beneath exhausted and exposed.
He looked at Hyukjae, a flicker of shame crossing his features. “That was… intense.”
Hyukjae cupped his face, thumb wiping a tear from his cheek. “You’re okay?”
Donghae nodded weakly. “Sore. Different sore.” He managed a ghost of a smile. “Heechul is a dead man.”
“I’ll kill him tomorrow.” Hyukjae pulled him into his arms, holding him upright as his legs threatened to buckle. He guided him to the sofa, grabbing a blanket.
Donghae curled into him, his head on Hyukjae’s chest. The frantic heat was gone from his skin, replaced by a spent, cool dampness. The sun was nearly down, painting the room in deep
The frantic heat was gone from his skin, replaced by a spent, cool dampness. The sun was nearly down, painting the room in deep indigo and long shadows. Hyukjae felt the slow, steady rise and fall of Donghae’s chest against his own, the aftermath thrumming between them like a fading echo.
“Can you stand?” Hyukjae murmured into his hair.
“Maybe.” Donghae’s voice was scraped raw. He pushed himself up, a full-body wince flashing across his face. Not pain, but a profound physical overload. Hyukjae stood and pulled him gently to his feet, keeping an arm firmly around his waist. They moved slowly toward the hallway, a silent, shuffling procession.
In the bedroom, Hyukjae guided him to sit on the edge of the mattress. “I’ll get a cloth. Clean you up.”
He turned toward the bathroom, but a hand caught his wrist. The grip was shockingly strong. Hyukjae looked back.
Donghae’s eyes were glazed again, the haze returning not as a wildfire but as a deep, smoldering coal. The aphrodisiac wasn’t finished. It was cycling back, a secondary wave fueled by their proximity. A fine tremor ran through the hand holding him.
“Don’t go,” Donghae whispered. His other hand came up, fingers walking up Hyukjae’s thigh, tracing the outline of his softening cock through his pants. “It’s… it’s coming back. I can feel it. A buzzing under my skin.”
“You need to rest. Your body’s been through—”
“I need you.” The interruption was sharp, desperate. Donghae leaned forward, pressing his face against Hyukjae’s stomach, nuzzling like a starving animal. His breath was hot through the fabric. “It’s not quiet. It won’t be quiet. Please.” His fingers found the waistband and tugged. “Just stay inside me. I don’t need you to move. I just need to feel you there. Please, Hyukjae.”
The begging unraveled something in Hyukjae’s resolve. He wasn’t fighting a mindful desire now; he was mitigating a chemical storm. He sighed, a sound of surrender, and let Donghae push his pants down just enough. He was half-hard, responding to the sheer need in the room.
He laid Donghae back on the bed, the faded ‘Memory of Rain’ shirt still clinging to his damp torso. He pushed Donghae’s legs apart, settled between them, and guided himself to that slick, used entrance. He pressed in slowly, a thick, gradual stretch. Donghae arched off the bed with a broken cry, his legs wrapping around Hyukjae’s back to pull him deeper, faster.
“Just stay,” Hyukjae breathed, fully sheathed, holding himself still with trembling effort.
But Donghae couldn’t be still. He was a live wire. He rolled his hips in tiny, frantic circles, chasing sensation, his cock leaking steadily onto his own stomach. “Move. You have to move. Just a little. Please, fuck me, just fuck me slow.”
Hyukjae gave in. He set a slow, deep, grinding rhythm, each drag deliberate and profound. He watched Donghae’s face contort, pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. This was the second round, and it was stranger, more intimate than the violent taking against the counter. It was a relentless, drowning tide.
Donghae came again with a silent, open-mouthed gasp, his body seizing around Hyukjae in pulsating waves. Hyukjae followed, spilling into him with a low groan, collapsing his weight onto his forearms.
He thought it was over. He tried to pull out.
Donghae’s legs locked like a vice. “No.”
“Donghae, you can’t possibly—”
“I can. I do.” His eyes were wild, unfocused. The drug was a parasite, feeding on the dopamine, demanding more. “It hasn’t stopped. It’s like an itch in my blood. You have to keep going.”
“You’ll hurt yourself. Your back—”
“Fuck my back!” The shout was jagged, hysterical. “I don’t care. I need you to come in me again. I need to feel it. I need to be full.” He was crying now, tears of frustration and unendurable need tracking through the sweat on his temples. “Don’t make me beg. I’ll do anything. Just don’t stop.”
A cold, clinical part of Hyukjae recognized this was beyond sane limits. But a hotter, darker part was ignited by the raw, filthy need, by the complete abandonment. His own body, spent moments ago, stirred again with a possessive fervor.
He rolled them over. “You want it? You take it.”
Donghae scrambled eagerly onto his lap, straddling his hips. He reached between them, gripped Hyukjae’s slippery, thickening cock, and aligned it. He sank down in one excruciating, slow slide, his head thrown back in a shuddering moan that cracked into a sob. He was so open, so impossibly used, that the glide was seamless and deep.
He began to move, riding Hyukjae with a clumsy, desperate rhythm, his hands braced on Hyukjae’s chest. “Yes, yes, like that,” he chanted, his voice a wrecked hymn. “Your cock is so deep. I can feel you everywhere. Come in me. Fill me up again.”
This was the third round. It was a rough, grinding marathon. Hyukjae gripped his hips, guiding the pace, driving up into him as Donghae bounced, his own climax a hard, dry shock that left him seeing stars. Donghae screamed, his release watery and forced, his body trembling with overstimulation.
He slumped forward, panting into Hyukjae’s neck. But his hips kept making small, involuntary circles.
“Again,” he slurred, almost incoherent.
Hyukjae, his mind blank with exhaustion and a kind of savage wonder, flipped him onto his stomach. He pushed a pillow under Donghae’s hips, entered him from behind in a single thrust, and fucked him with slow, deep, punishing strokes. The fourth round. The room smelled of sex and salt and desperation. Donghae fisted the sheets, his cries muffled by the mattress, his body accepting everything, demanding everything.
After, Hyukjae pulled out and collapsed beside him. They were both slick with sweat, trembling. A long minute passed. Two.
Donghae’s hand crept over, his fingers brushing Hyukjae’s spent cock. It twitched, a pathetic, painful reflex.
“One more,” Donghae whispered, his voice barely audible. He turned his head on the pillow. His eyes were clearer now, the chemical frenzy finally, truly receding, leaving behind a hollowed-out exhaustion and a fragile, pleading shame. “Just… one more. Slow. Gentle. Please. I need to remember you, not the drug. I need it to be you.”
That shattered Hyukjae completely.
He nodded, his throat too tight for words. He drew Donghae onto his side, facing away, and pulled him close, chest to back. He reached between Donghae’s thighs, finding himself soft, finding Donghae’s entrance swollen and slick and open. He nudged at it, a gentle, persistent pressure until he slipped inside, just the head, then slowly, slowly, an inch, then another, until he was fully seated. He didn’t move. He just held him there, buried in that incredible heat, his arms wrapped tight around Donghae’s chest.
Donghae let out a long, shuddering sigh. The tension finally, completely, left his body. He melted back into Hyukjae’s embrace. “There,” he breathed. “That’s you.”
They lay like that, fused, for a long time. Hyukjae softened inside him, and still, they didn’t separate. The fifth round was this: no movement, no climax, just a profound, physical anchoring. The chemical fire had burned itself out, leaving their raw, tender selves in the ashes.
Donghae’s breathing evened out into true, deep sleep. Hyukjae listened to it, felt the steady beat of his heart against his own arm. Outside, the lake was a black mirror under a sky full of cold, distant stars. Heechul’s ‘gift’ had been a violation, a dangerous game. But in its brutal wake, it had forged this: a silence so complete, a closeness so absolute, it felt like they had been remade.