Chapter 1: Steam and Submission
The steam from the shower clung to the bathroom like a second skin, clouding the mirror and dampening the tiles. Dunk stood there, a towel slung low around his hips, water dripping from his dark hair onto his shoulders. He felt hollowed out, scooped clean. The fight with Benz played on a loop behind his eyes—the cold finality in his voice, the way he’d just taken his key off the ring and left it on the table.
He hadn’t heard the door open over the drip of the faucet.
A shape moved in the foggy periphery. Dunk started, his hand gripping the edge of the sink. “Jesus, Joong. Make a noise.”
Joong leaned against the doorframe, a silhouette of solid muscle in a tight grey t-shirt. His eyes, dark and intent, tracked a bead of water as it slid down Dunk’s chest. “You’ve been in here for forty minutes. I was checking for a body.”
“I’m fine.” The words were automatic, brittle.
“You’re not.” Joong pushed off the frame. The small room shrunk instantly. He stopped a foot away, the heat from his body cutting through the humid air. “He’s a fucking idiot. You know that, right?”
Dunk looked away, focusing on a blurred patch of tile. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.” Joong’s voice dropped, lost its teasing edge. It was just raw, frustrating sincerity. “Seeing you like this. All closed up. It’s wrong.”
“I don’t need a pep talk.” Dunk made to move past him, but Joong’s arm shot out, a solid bar against the damp wall, caging him in.
“Then what do you need, Dunk?”
The question hung there. Dunk didn’t have an answer. He needed the ache to stop. He needed to not feel so stupidly, utterly used up.
Joong’s free hand came up, not to his face, but to his shoulder. A calloused thumb rubbed over the damp skin, a slow, rough stroke. “You need to forget him for five minutes.”
Dunk’s breath hitched. “Joong, don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Joong moved closer, his thigh pressing against the towel. Dunk could feel the denim, the heat beneath it. “Don’t touch you? I’ve been thinking about touching you for a year. Watching you tiptoe around that selfish prick. Smiling when you thought I didn’t see it didn’t reach your eyes.”
His words were a low, relentless vibration in the steam. Dunk’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. This was a bad idea. A terrible, catastrophic idea.
“Fuck crying over that loser,” Joong murmured, his gaze dropping to Dunk’s mouth.
Then he kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a conquest. Joong’s mouth was hot and demanding, swallowing Dunk’s gasp, his tongue sweeping in with a confident claim. Dunk’s hands came up, fingers splaying against Joong’s chest, but he didn’t push. He held on. The taste was mint and something indefinably Joong, overwhelming the last sterile memory of Benz’s perfunctory pecks.
Joong’s hand slid from his shoulder, down the curve of his spine, and under the loose fold of the towel. His palm was searing on Dunk’s lower back. Then he squeezed, a full, possessive handful of Dunk’s ass, pulling their hips flush.
Dunk moaned into the kiss, the sound shockingly loud in the tiled room. The towel, loosened, gave way. It pooled at their feet with a soft, wet sound.
Joong broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. He looked down between them, his eyes blazing. “Fuck. Look at you.”
Dunk was half-hard, his cock stirring against the sudden cool air and hotter scrutiny. Shame flushed through him, followed by a sharp, dizzying spike of want. He tried to cover himself.
“No.” Joong caught his wrist, pinned it back against the wall. “Let me see.” His other hand drifted down Dunk’s stomach, fingers trailing through the damp hair, before wrapping around him. The grip was firm, knowing. A slow, deliberate stroke that made Dunk’s knees buckle.
“Joong…” It was a plea, fractured.
In answer, Joong dropped to his knees.
The sight was obscene. Joong on the wet floor, his messy hair, his fierce eyes looking up. He didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward and took Dunk into his mouth, all the way, his throat working around the head in one smooth, deep swallow.
“Oh, god!” Dunk’s head thudded back against the wall. The heat was shocking, wet and perfect. Joong’s tongue pressed hard along the underside as he pulled back, then sank down again, his hand working the base. He set a brutal, perfect rhythm, all hungry suction and slick pressure. No tentative exploration. This was consumption.
Dunk’s fingers tangled in Joong’s hair, not guiding, just holding on as the world narrowed to that scalding point of contact. Every thought of Benz, of the breakup, was burned away, replaced by the raw, physical truth of Joong’s mouth on him. The slap of skin, the wet sounds, Joong’s low groans of approval vibrating through his cock.
“I’m… I’m gonna…” Dunk choked out.
Joong pulled off with a pop. His lips were swollen, glistening. “Yeah. Come on. Do it.”
He didn’t wait. He took Dunk back down, deep, and hollowed his cheeks. That was all it took. Dunk came with a shattered cry, his hips jerking forward, spilling hot and bitter down Joong’s throat. Joong took it all, swallowing relentlessly, until Dunk was spent, trembling and oversensitive.
Only then did he pull away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stayed on his knees, looking up, his expression fiercely triumphant.
The steam was clearing. Dunk slid down the wall, his legs useless, until he was sitting on the discarded towel, facing Joong. The reality crashed in, cold and clear. The taste of his own release was still on Joong’s breath when he leaned in, kissing him again, deep and filthy.
“That,” Joong said against his lips, his voice wrecked and sure, “was just the start. He doesn’t get to ruin you. You’re mine now.”
And the terrifying part, echoing in the hollow where his grief had been, was the part of Dunk that believed him.
The kiss broke, leaving them sharing the same humid, spent air. Dunk’s mind was static. His body thrummed. Joong rose from his knees with a fluid grace that felt predatory, pulling Dunk up with him. The cool bathroom tile was a shock against his bare back as Joong turned him, pressing him against the wall with the solid weight of his body.
“Mine,” Joong repeated, the word a gruff vibration against Dunk’s throat. His hands were everywhere, mapping Dunk’s ribs, the dip of his spine, the cool curves of his ass. “You feel that? You’re shaking. All for me. Nothing left in you for him.”
Dunk couldn’t speak. He nodded, a jerky, helpless motion. His fingers dug into the sleeves of Joong’s shirt, clinging to the fabric like it was a lifeline in a riptide. This was a mistake. This was everything.
Joong’s mouth found his again, biting at his lower lip before soothing it with his tongue. He ground his hips forward, the hard ridge of his denim-clad erection a blunt, demanding pressure against Dunk’s stomach. “Bedroom. Now.”
It wasn’t a request. He maneuvered Dunk through the steamy bathroom, down the short hall, and into Dunk’s own room—the room that still smelled faintly of Benz’s cologne. The irony was a sharp, fleeting pain before Joong obliterated it, pushing Dunk backwards onto the rumpled duvet.
Joong stood at the foot of the bed, pulling his shirt over his head. The light from the streetlamp outside cut across the defined planes of his chest, the dark trail of hair leading down. He unbuckled his jeans, shoved them and his briefs down in one rough push. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, jutting insistently.
“Look at me,” Joong commanded, his voice gravel.
Dunk looked. His mouth went dry. This wasn’t the shy, tentative exchange he was used to. This was a presentation. A claim.
“You want this.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” The word was a scrap of sound.
“Say it.”
“I want it.” Stronger this time, fueled by a surging, desperate heat.
Joong crawled onto the bed, a deliberate, cat-like advance that made the mattress dip. He settled between Dunk’s legs, pushing them apart with his knees. His hands ran up the inside of Dunk’s thighs, a rough, possessive stroke. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else. You understand? Gonna fuck you so deep you forget your own name.”
Dunk whimpered, arching off the bed. The vulgar promise shouldn’t have ignited him. It did. It burned away the last fragments of his reserve.
Joong spat into his own palm, a crude, efficient sound. He slicked himself, his fist pumping his length once, twice. His other hand gripped Dunk’s hip, nails biting into the skin. “This might hurt. I don’t have the patience to be gentle.”
“I don’t care.” Dunk meant it. He wanted the pain. He wanted to be rewritten.
Joong lined himself up, the broad head pressing against him. He pushed in, not slowly, but with a relentless, controlled pressure that stole Dunk’s breath. There was a sharp, burning stretch, a feeling of being split open, and Dunk cried out, his back bowing.
“Fuck,” Joong hissed, pausing, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. “Jesus, you’re tight. So fucking tight.” He dropped his forehead against Dunk’s, his breath hot and ragged. “Breathe. Just breathe through it.”
Dunk gulped air, the initial shock melting into a deep, spreading fullness that was almost worse. It was too much. He was too full. He felt owned.
Then Joong moved.
He pulled back and slammed home, a brutal, perfect thrust that punched a guttural moan from Dunk’s chest. There was no finesse, no artful rhythm. It was pure, driving need. Each piston-like drive of Joong’s hips sent a shockwave through Dunk, rattling the bedframe against the wall with a solid thump-thump-thump.
The sounds were filthy. Skin slapping skin, Joong’s ragged grunts, the wet, rhythmic squelch of their joining. Dunk’s hands scrambled for purchase, finally fisting in the sheets. His world dissolved into sensation: the crushing weight of Joong’s body, the searing friction inside him, the bite of teeth on his shoulder.
“You take it so good,” Joong growled, his pace increasing, becoming frenzied. “Take my cock. Yeah. That’s it. Your hole is clinging to me, you feel that? Gonna fill you up. Gonna mark you from the inside.”
Dunk was unravelling. The pain had transmuted into a blinding, coil-tight pleasure, building low in his gut with each brutal thrust. He was hard again, his own cock trapped between their sweat-slicked stomachs, leaking pre-come with every jolt.
“Joong… I’m gonna…”
“Come.” The order was a snarl. “Come on my cock. Do it.”
It was the permission, the crude command, that shattered him. Dunk’s orgasm ripped through him, violent and silent for a heartbeat before a broken scream tore loose. He spilled between them, stripes of white hot on his abdomen, his body clamping down violently around Joong’s invading length.
The convulsive squeeze was enough. Joong shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound, and drove in one final, deep time, burying himself to the hilt. Dunk felt the hot, urgent pulse deep inside him, a claiming flood that seemed to go on and on.
Joong collapsed, his full weight crushing Dunk into the mattress. They were a mess of sweat and come and labored breath. The only sound was the frantic hammering of their hearts, slowly beginning to decelerate.
Slowly, Joong softened and slipped out. He rolled to the side, but immediately dragged Dunk with him, wrapping an arm around his chest, tangling their legs. He nuzzled into the damp hair at Dunk’s temple.
Dunk lay there, utterly destroyed. The grief for Benz was a distant, foreign country. His body was a map of new sensations: the ache, the stickiness, the profound, throbbing fullness that remained. Joong’s scent was in his sheets, on his skin, in his lungs.
“You’re thinking,” Joong mumbled, his voice drowsy but alert. “Stop.”
“I can’t.”
Joong propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at him. In the semi-darkness, his eyes were serious, all the earlier ferocity tempered by something quieter. “It already happened. It’s done.” He wiped a thumb over Dunk’s bottom lip. “This is what’s real now. Me. You. This.”
Dunk searched his face. The confidence was still there, absolute and unshakable. But underneath it, for the first time, he saw a flicker of something vulnerable. A question.
He didn’t answer it with words. He turned his face into Joong’s hand, a silent concession.
Outside, a car alarm wailed briefly then cut off. The world, which had shrunk to the four walls of this room, began to expand again. But it was a different world. The axis had tilted.
Joong settled back, pulling the covers over them. He held on, as if expecting Dunk to bolt.
Dunk didn’t. He lay in the circle of Joong’s arms, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling he knew by heart. The hollow grief was gone. In its place was a terrifying, electric awareness. Of the body behind him. Of the promise made. Of the line they had just crossed, which now lay in ashes behind them.
There was no going back. The terrifying part was that he no longer wanted to.