Chapter 3: Fabric Fucking
The red hoodie smelled like Donghae again. He’d washed it as instructed, but the scent of his own body wash, his sweat, his skin, had already reclaimed the fabric. It lay on the dresser in the Seoul apartment, a vivid stain against the monochrome room. Hyukjae’s flight had been delayed. Another three hours. The countdown, which had ticked down to a manageable nineteen hours, had just ballooned again, and something brittle in Donghae’s chest had snapped.
He picked up the hoodie. The cotton was soft, worn thin in places. He brought it to his face and inhaled. His own scent, yes, but underneath, lingering in the very fibers, was the ghost of Hyukjae’s cologne, a faint, spicy whisper. That trace of him, so close and yet so impossibly far, was the final provocation.
Donghae stripped, letting his clothes fall to the floor. The apartment was silent, vast in its emptiness. He pulled the hoodie on. The hem brushed mid-thigh. The arms were too long, the shoulders slightly too broad—Hyukjae’s frame subtly imprinted on the design. He left it unzipped.
He fetched his phone, propping it against the television stand, angling it to capture the length of the couch. He sat down, the cool leather a shock against his bare skin. The red fabric pooled around his hips. He was already half-hard, just from the feel of the cotton and the illicit intention.
He hit record.
The camera saw a man tousled and tense, eyes dark in the dim afternoon light filtering through the blinds. Donghae stared into the lens as if it were a person. As if it were the person.
“You’re late,” he said, his voice low, stripped of its usual playfulness. It was just a statement. An accusation. He let his hand drift down his stomach, fingers trailing through coarse hair until they wrapped around the base of his cock. He gave a slow, firm stroke, his eyes never leaving the camera. “My time. You’re wasting it.”
He leaned back, spreading his legs wider on the couch. The hoodie rode up, exposing the full, thick length of his erection. He worked himself slowly, steadily, his breathing already beginning to hitch. He pictured Hyukjae in an airport lounge, probably annoyed, probably checking his watch, completely unaware of the storm brewing here in their home.
“You should be here,” Donghae continued, his grip tightening. “You should be the one dealing with this.” He pumped his fist, a pearly bead of precome welling up and slicking his path. “You woke it up. You don’t get to just… postpone.”
His movements became more urgent, less controlled. He shoved the hoodie’s fabric aside, gathering it in a bunch in his other hand, pressing the wad of red cotton against his lower stomach. The visual was obscene: his cock, ruddy and leaking, jutting out from the vibrant, crumpled fabric. It looked like he was fucking into it.
And then he did.
He pushed the bundled hoodie down, creating a tight, rough channel of material. He angled his hips and thrust up into it, a sharp, guttural groan tearing from his throat. The cotton was abrasive, nothing like skin, but the symbolism of it—fucking into the garment Hyukjae had worn, that he had worn for Hyukjae—unlocked something feral in him.
“This,” he panted, thrusting again, the fabric straining, “this is how you should be riding me right now.” He held the camera’s gaze, his own expression a mix of agony and defiance. “Not in some fucking airport. Here. On me. Taking this.” Each word was punctuated by a rough, shallow jab into the makeshift sleeve of the hoodie. “You’d be so tight, so fucking hot for it. You’d be begging me to go harder, wouldn’t you? ‘Hae, please.’ You’d say it just like that.”
He was losing coherence, the pleasure spiking, a coil winding unbearably tight at the base of his spine. The fantasy took over, vivid and brutal. Hyukjae beneath him. Hyukjae above him. Hyukjae’s mouth, his legs, his choked-off sounds. The hoodie smelled of them both now, of sweat and sex and desperate ownership.
“Come home,” Donghae growled, his thrusts becoming frantic, jerky. “Come home and fix this. I’m not… I can’t…”
His orgasm hit him like a seizure. A raw, broken shout echoed in the empty apartment as he came, stripes of white splattering across the red fabric and his own stomach, violent and claiming. His body shuddered, his knuckles white where he clutched the hoodie.
He held the position for a long moment, chest heaving, before reaching a trembling hand to stop the recording.
He didn’t watch it back. He didn’t need to. He attached the video file to a new message for Hyukjae. The text box blinked cursor. He typed four words: Your delay. Your problem. He hit send.
He slumped back into the couch, spent, the mess cooling on his skin. The high-definition proof of his need was now hurtling through the digital ether, an indecent, unsanitized package of frustration. A minute passed. Then five.
His phone buzzed. Not a message. An incoming video call.
Donghae answered, too drained to even prop the phone up. He held it, pointing it at his own wrecked face.
Hyukjae filled the screen. He was in an airport bathroom stall, the ugly fluorescent light highlighting the pallor of his face. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted. He looked utterly stunned. He’d watched it.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Hyukjae’s breath was audible, a soft, shallow rasp.
“You,” Hyukjae finally said, his voice hushed, strained. “You are… fucking insane.”
Donghae just stared, his post-orgasm defiance crumbling into a vulnerable exhaustion. “You’re late.”
“The plane had a hydraulic issue. It’s not a personal insult.” Hyukjae’s gaze scanned what he could see of Donghae on the screen—the flushed chest, the spent cock, the ruined hoodie. Something shifted in his expression. The shock melted, replaced by a dark, focused heat. “You made a mess of my hoodie.”
“It’s our hoodie.”
“Clean it up,” Hyukjae said, his tone dropping, becoming a command. “And be ready. When I walk through that door, I am not looking at airport departure boards. I am looking at you. On your knees. Wearing nothing but that. Understand?”
The words landed like a physical blow, reigniting a fresh, deep thrum in Donghae’s gut. He nodded, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin.
“Good.” Hyukjae’s eyes held his through the screen, a promise and a threat woven together. “My flight’s finally boarding. Three hours, Hae. Then you’re mine.”
The call ended. Donghae lay in the quiet, the stickiness on his skin, the scent of sex and cotton thick in the air. The delay was just a footnote now. The countdown had reset, sharper and more potent than before. He pushed himself off the couch, his legs unsteady, and went to fetch a washcloth. He had a hoodie to clean, and a position to assume. The waiting was almost over.
The waiting was almost over. It had condensed into a sharp, needle-point of anticipation that pricked at Donghae’s skin with every passing minute. He knelt on the floor just inside the apartment door, the polished wood cool and unforgiving against his bare knees. The red hoodie was the only thing he wore, the zipper pulled low, the fabric open to expose his chest and stomach. He’d cleaned the mess from earlier, but a new tightness had gathered low in his gut, a different kind of ache. The silence was a thick blanket, smothering, until the distinct scratch of a key in the lock cut through it.
The door swung inward. Hyukjae stood in the threshold, a suitcase tilting behind him, the hallway light framing his tired silhouette. He smelled of recycled airplane air and faint sweat. His eyes, dark with travel fatigue, dropped immediately, taking in the sight of Donghae on his knees, the deliberate submission, the waiting. He didn’t speak. He stepped inside, letting the door click shut with a finality that echoed in Donghae’s bones. The suitcase was abandoned with a thud.
Hyukjae’s fingers, still cool from the outside, came to rest under Donghae’s chin, tilting his face up. “Look at you,” Hyukjae murmured, his voice rough from disuse. His thumb traced the line of Donghae’s jaw. “All that fury in a video, and now you’re here like this.” Donghae nuzzled into the touch, his eyes closing for a second. “I missed you,” he said, the words simpler and truer than anything he’d sent through a screen.
“Show me,” Hyukjae said, his hand sliding back to grip Donghae’s hair, not cruel but firm. “Show me how much.”
Donghae didn’t need further instruction. His hands went to Hyukjae’s belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle before wrenching it open. The button of his jeans gave way, the zipper a harsh rasp in the quiet. He pulled the fabric down just enough, freeing Hyukjae’s cock, already half-hard and heavy in his hand. He didn’t hesitate. He took the length into his mouth in one slow, deep slide, his throat working open around the head.
Hyukjae gasped, his other hand flying to brace against the doorframe. “Fuck, Hae.” His hips jerked forward involuntarily, a shallow thrust into the wet heat. Donghae moaned around him, the vibration drawing a ragged curse from Hyukjae’s lips. Donghae’s hands clutched at Hyukjae’s thighs, his own need a throbbing counterpoint as he worked, using his tongue, his lips, his throat, every skill he possessed to convey the hollow days without this. Hyukjae’s taste, familiar and vital, flooded his senses, erasing the sterile memory of the Taipei hotel.
“Enough,” Hyukjae gasped, pulling Donghae’s hair to drag him off. A string of saliva connected them for a second before snapping. “Inside. Now. I need you inside me.”
They stumbled toward the bedroom, a messy crash of limbs and discarded clothing. The hoodie was the last thing to go, peeled off and tossed into a corner. Hyukjae pushed Donghae onto the bed, his practiced hands finding the lube in the nightstand drawer. He crawled over him, his body a lean line of want in the dim light. “You feel like a dream,” Donghae breathed, his hands mapping the planes of Hyukjae’s back, his waist.
“I’m not a dream,” Hyukjae said, pouring slick over Donghae’s aching cock, his own fingers working quickly, urgently, behind himself. “I’m right here. And I missed this. I missed you. I missed you in me.” He positioned himself, one hand guiding Donghae’s length, the other braced on Donghae’s chest. He sank down in one fluid, relentless motion, sheathing Donghae completely, his head thrown back with a punched-out groan.
Donghae saw stars. The heat, the tight, clinging pressure was bliss so acute it bordered on pain. His hands flew to Hyukjae’s hips, fingers digging into the bone. “Hyukkie,” he choked out.
“Move,” Hyukjae commanded, his own voice wrecked. “Don’t you fucking dare be gentle.”
Donghae obeyed. He snapped his hips upward, a brutal, driving thrust that shook the bedframe. Hyukjae cried out, his nails scratching red trails down Donghae’s pectorals. It set a pace that was less rhythm and more collision, a physical argument against their time apart. The slap of skin, the choked gasps, the creak of the bed—it was a symphony of reclamation.
“Tell me,” Donghae grunted, driving up into that exquisite, clutching heat again and again. “Tell me who this is for.”
“You,” Hyukjae panted, riding him with desperate, bouncing force. “Always you. Fuck, right there, don’t stop, it’s only ever for you.” His words fragmented into nonsense, into breathy, high-pitched sounds as Donghae hit a depth that unspooled him. Donghae could feel the internal flutter, the tightening that signaled Hyukjae was close. He wrapped a slick hand around Hyukjae’s leaking cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.
“Come for me,” Donghae growled, his own climax a furious knot unraveling in his spine. “Mark me. Let everyone see you were here.”
Hyukjae shattered with a sound like breaking glass, his release striping Donghae’s stomach and chest in hot, sudden spurts. The convulsive clamp of his body around Donghae’s cock was the final trigger. Donghae followed, his own orgasm wrenched from him with a guttural shout, pumping deep into Hyukjae’s clinging heat until he was spent, shaking.
They collapsed together, a tangled mess of sweat and come and heaving lungs. Hyukjae’s weight was a familiar anchor. Minutes bled into each other, measured only by the slowing of their heartbeats. Then Donghae, still buried inside him, felt Hyukjae shift. His lips brushed the shell of Donghae’s ear.
“I think,” Hyukjae whispered, his voice hoarse but laced with a dark, satisfied humor, “I should go on holiday more often.”
Donghae’s eyes, which had fallen closed, snapped open. He turned his head, finding Hyukjae’s gaze. A slow, dangerous smile spread across Hyukjae’s swollen lips. “If I get debauched deliciously like this when I come home.”
A new, possessive fire ignited in Donghae’s gut. He rolled them over, pinning Hyukjae beneath him, not bothering to slip out. Hyukjae’s legs instinctively hooked around his waist. “Try it,” Donghae murmured, leaning down to capture his mouth in a searing, claiming kiss. He was already hardening again inside him. “Just try leaving me again.”
The night stretched on, a blur of skin and salt and relentless hunger. They moved from the bed to the shower, where the water ran cold before they were finished. Then to the living room floor, where Hyukjae pushed Donghae onto his back and took his time, riding him slow and deep until they both sobbed from the overwhelming sensitivity. Each round was a reclaiming, a deeper fusion, a silent vow written in bruises and bites and spent fluids.
As the first grey light of dawn filtered through the blinds, they lay entwined on the ruined sheets, too exhausted to move. Hyukjae traced idle patterns on Donghae’s chest. “I really did miss you,” he said, softly, the earlier bravado gone.
Donghae caught his hand, interlocking their fingers. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The entire night had been his answer. The frantic, raw, multi-round proof of it was drying on their skin. The waiting was over. For now.