Chapter 10: Possession Marked in Flesh
The dorm room smelled of them. It was a new smell, layered over the old scents of paper, ink, and cold coffee—sex, sweat, and the faint, clean tang of Donghae's laundry detergent. Hyukjae lay on his back, the single thin blanket from Donghae’s bed twisted around his ankles. Dawn was a gray suggestion at the small window, outlining the towers of textbooks. Donghae’s fingers traced the fresh, dark bruise on his shoulder—the birthday bite—with a possessiveness that sent a slow, warm shiver down Hyukjae’s spine.
“People will see that,” Donghae said quietly. His voice was low, rough from sleep and use.
Hyukjae turned his head on the pillow, smiling a lazy, satiated smile. “Good.”
Donghae’s fingers stilled. He propped himself up on an elbow. In the half-light, his face was serious, the softness from their night hardening into something more defined. “Is it?”
“Yeah,” Hyukjae said, but the smile faltered. The air in the small room thickened. The comedown was always a bitch.
Donghae swung his legs off the narrow bed and padded naked to his desk. He picked up the half-empty mug, sniffed it, and put it down. He picked up the unlit candle, turned it in his hands. “You can’t just… glue yourself to me now, Hyuk. We have classes. Lives.”
Hyukjae watched the lines of Donghae’s back, the tension in his shoulders. “You’re the one who said ‘always yours.’ Were you just fucking me when you said that?”
“No.” Donghae put the candle down with a sharp click. “That’s the problem. I meant it. Every word.” He turned around, leaning against the desk. The morning light cut across his chest, highlighting the scratches Hyukjae had left. “But meaning it and… navigating it are different things. What do we do? Hold hands in the quad? Tell everyone? Your friend Jeonyoung? Your… other friends?”
The name ‘Jeonyoung’ landed like a stone in the quiet room. Hyukjae sat up, the blanket pooling at his waist. “Jeonyoung doesn’t matter.”
“He was in your bed two weeks ago,” Donghae said, the words flat, factual.
A cold knot formed in Hyukjae’s stomach. “That was before.”
“Before you drugged yourself to get my attention?” Donghae’s tone wasn’t cruel, just terrifyingly direct. “Before you decided this was real?”
Hyukjae flinched. He looked away, at the open journal on the desk, at Donghae’s scrawl: Why do you always say ‘not you’ instead of ‘not them’? A question from months ago, dissected in the margins. He’d been the subject of Donghae’s study long before he’d known it.
“It is real,” Hyukjae said, his voice small.
Donghae pushed off the desk and came back to the bed. He didn’t get in. He stood over Hyukjae, a look of pained intensity on his face. “I know it is. That’s what scares me. You… you flit, Hyuk. You always have. I can’t be your next favorite thing.”
Hyukjae reached out, his hand finding Donghae’s hip, his thumb stroking the sharp bone. “You’re not a thing.” He pulled gently. “Come here.”
Donghae resisted for a second, then let himself be drawn down. He knelt on the floor beside the bed, his face level with Hyukjae’s lap. The vulnerable position sent a jolt through Hyukjae. Donghae rested his forehead against Hyukjae’s thigh, his breath warm on Hyukjae’s skin.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Donghae whispered into his flesh. “I only know how to watch you.”
Hyukjae’s heart cracked. He carded his fingers through Donghae’s sleep-mussed hair. “Then stop watching. Just… be here.”
Donghae lifted his head. His eyes were dark pools of want and fear. He turned his face, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of Hyukjae’s thigh, then higher, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of Hyukjae’s half-hard cock.
Hyukjae sucked in a breath.
Donghae didn’t take him in his mouth. Instead, he looked up, his cheek resting against Hyukjae’s length. “Show me,” he said, his voice raw. “Show me this isn’t just another night for you.”
Understanding washed over Hyukjae, cold and clear. Donghae needed proof, but not of love—of commitment. Of a choice. He needed to see Hyukjae choose him, actively, right now, in the harsh light of morning.
Hyukjae slid off the bed, onto his knees on the thin carpet facing Donghae. They were eye to eye, naked and vulnerable on the floor of a messy dorm room. He took Donghae’s face in his hands.
“It’s you,” Hyukjae said, the words simple and final. “It’s always been you. I was just too fucking scared to look.” He leaned in and kissed him, a deep, slow kiss that tasted of sleep and salt and them.
When he pulled back, a new resolve hardened in his gut. He guided Donghae to sit back against the side of the bed. Then he moved, positioning himself over Donghae’s lap, straddling him, but facing away. He reached back, guiding Donghae’s cock, already stiffening again, to his entrance. He was still loose, slick from their earlier rounds.
Donghae’s hands came up to grip Hyukjae’s hips, his fingers biting in. “Hyuk…”
“Shhh,” Hyukjae whispered. He braced his hands on Donghae’s knees and lowered himself slowly, taking Donghae inside with a smooth, excruciating slide. He threw his head back as he filled himself, a gasp tearing from his throat. It was different like this—deeper, more vulnerable. He couldn’t see Donghae’s face, only feel his hot breath on his back, the brutal grip on his hips.
“Move,” Donghae commanded, his voice a guttural rasp against Hyukjae’s spine.
Hyukjae obeyed. He rose up until just the tip remained inside, then sank back down with a filthy, wet sound. He set a slow, grinding pace, rolling his hips, using the angle to rub his own cock against the rough fabric of Donghae’s sweatpants tangled on the floor. The pleasure was a bright, sharp line connecting his ass to his brain.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Donghae groaned, his hips thrusting up to meet Hyukjae’s descent. “Taking me so deep like this… showing off.”
“Yes,” Hyukjae hissed, pushing back onto him, taking him to the hilt. He was on display, his back arched, his movements lewd and deliberate. “Your present. Your fucking present.” He reached behind himself, gripping Donghae’s thigh for leverage, fucking himself faster.
Donghae’s hands slid around to Hyukjae’s stomach, then lower, wrapping around his cock. He stroked him in time with Hyukjae’s bounces, his grip rough, perfect.
“Gonna come inside you again,” Donghae panted into his ear, his teeth grazing the shell. “Gonna mark you inside and out. Everyone will know. They’ll smell me on you.”
The filthy words, the claim in them, pushed Hyukjae higher. His rhythm became frantic, sloppy. The slap of skin filled the small room. “Do it, fuck, do it, fill me up, I want it—“
Donghae’s hand on his cock tightened, his thumb swiping over the leaking head. “Come for me. Show me you want it.”
The command, paired with the relentless friction and the fullness inside him, was too much. Hyukjae’s orgasm ripped through him, violent and silent for a stunned second before a broken cry wrenched itself free. He came over Donghae’s fist, his body clamping down in vicious pulses around Donghae’s cock.
The convulsions milked Donghae over the edge seconds later. With a groan that was half a sob, Donghae buried himself deep and held Hyukjae still as he emptied into him, his release hot and profuse.
They stayed like that, locked together, until their breathing slowed. Hyukjae slumped back against Donghae’s chest, spent and shaking. Donghae’s arms came around him, holding him tight, his face buried in Hyukjae’s neck.
On the desk, Donghae’s phone buzzed, a harsh vibration against the wood. Then again. And again.
Hyukjae felt Donghae tense. “Ignore it,” he murmured.
But Donghae was already reaching, his arm extending, fingers fumbling for the device. He brought it around, the screen lighting his face in a sickly blue glow. Hyukjae watched his expression shutter, his eyes narrowing at the notifications.
“What?” Hyukjae asked, dread pooling in his gut.
Donghae didn’t answer immediately. He thumbed the screen open. His jaw tightened. “Jeonyoung,” he said, his voice devoid of all its earlier heat. “And… a few others. They’re looking for you. Party’s still going at Minho’s, apparently.” He turned the screen toward Hyukjae.
The screen was a cascade of messages, mostly from a group chat Hyukjae had silenced.
`JEONYOUNG: Where’s the birthday boy? He ditch his own bestie? lol`
`JEONYOUNG: Seriously tho where’s Hyuk?`
`MINHO: Probably got lucky. Again.`
`JEONYOUNG: @Hyukjae answer your phone you dick. We’re gonna head to yours.`
Hyukjae’s blood ran cold. He looked from the phone to Donghae’s impassive face, then down at the fresh bruise on his own shoulder, at the mess drying on his stomach, at the evidence of Donghae still inside him.
The world, the one he’d built so carefully to avoid this exact moment, was knocking at the door.
Donghae slowly withdrew, the loss feeling more profound than just physical. He stood up, his body a silhouette against the dawn-gray window. “So,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “What do we do?”
Hyukjae stared at the messages glowing on the phone in Donghae’s hand. The chaos of his old life beckoned—loud, easy, empty. He looked at Donghae, standing quiet and real amid the scholarly chaos.
He knew the answer. For the first time, he truly knew it.
He got to his feet, his legs unsteady. He walked to Donghae, took the phone from his hand, and placed it face down on the desk, next to the journal with its telling question. Then he took Donghae’s hand, intertwining their fingers, the silver rings cold against their skin.
“We get dressed,” Hyukjae said, his voice quiet but clear. “And we go.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the textbooks. It was thick with the scent of their bodies, the drying sweat, the sharp, living odor of sex. Donghae’s fingers tightened around his. He didn’t ask go where? He didn’t need to.
He pulled his hand free, but only to walk to his small closet. He pulled out two clean towels, tossing one to Hyukjae. The simple, mundane act of cleaning up felt like a sacrament. They wiped the evidence of each other from their skin in quiet, efficient movements. Hyukjae watched Donghae’s muscles flex under the gray dawn light, the ghost of his own fingertips on Donghae’s back.
“Jeans,” Donghae said, his voice a low rasp. He tossed a pair to Hyukjae—his own, a bit too short in the leg. “And here.” It was a soft, worn university hoodie. Hyukjae pulled it on. It smelled like Donghae’s detergent and, now, faintly, like them.
Hyukjae dressed slowly, the cotton against his oversensitive skin a quiet torture. He watched Donghae pull on a simple black t-shirt and jeans, his movements precise, almost severe. This was the Donghae the world knew: composed, orderly. The man who had just been inside him felt like a secret folded small and hidden in a pocket.
“Ready?” Donghae asked, picking up his keys.
“No,” Hyukjae answered honestly. He grabbed Donghae’s wrist. “Last night… with the champagne. It was stupid. I was terrified.”
Donghae looked at the hand on his wrist, then up at Hyukjae’s face. “I know.” He leaned in, closing the distance. His kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a brand, a punctuation mark. “Don’t be terrified now.”
They left the dorm. The hallway was echoingly empty, fluorescent lights humming overhead, flickering on ugly linoleum. Hyukjae’s heart hammered against his ribs. Each step away from the room felt like stepping onto a high wire. The elevator doors slid open with a ding that was too loud.
Inside, Donghae leaned against the mirrored wall, watching Hyukjae fidget. “They’re probably at your place already,” Donghae stated.
“Probably.”
“Jeonyoung has a key.”
Hyukjae winced. “I’ll get it back.”
The elevator descended. The silence stretched, thin and charged. Hyukhae stared at their reflection—Donghae, calm and steady beside his own haunted eyes, swimming in Donghae’s too-big clothes. He looked claimed. He felt a sudden, violent need to feel it again, to have the theory of them proven against his skin once more before the world rushed in.
As the elevator hit ‘L’ with a soft thud, Hyukjae moved. He slammed his palm against the ‘Door Close’ button, then the button for the basement laundry. The doors slid shut.
“What are you doing?” Donghae asked, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Hyukjae didn’t answer with words. He pushed Donghae back against the mirror, the cold glass meeting the heat of his back. He kissed him, a fierce, desperate invasion of a kiss, his tongue pushing past Donghae’s lips. He could taste last night, taste himself. Donghae groaned into his mouth, his hands coming up to fist in the hoodie at Hyukjae’s sides.
The elevator dinged, opening to the basement’s concrete gloom and the smell of damp and bleach. Hyukjae pulled back, panting. “Here,” he growled, dragging Donghae out into the dim, humming corridor.
He spotted a narrow recess beside a vending machine, a shallow alcove shadowed from the overhead lights. It was enough. He pushed Donghae into the darkness, the rough concrete scraping against Donghae’s shoulders.
“You want proof?” Hyukjae’s voice was raw, his fingers fumbling with the button of Donghae’s jeans. “You want to know this isn’t just another night?”
Donghae’s eyes glittered in the half-light. He gripped Hyukjae’s hips, pulling him flush. He was already hard. “Show me,” he breathed, a challenge and a plea.
Hyukjae dropped to his knees on the cold concrete floor. The shock of the hard surface vibrated up his bones. He yanked Donghae’s jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock, thick and already leaking. He didn’t hesitate. He took the head into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the slit, tasting the salty precum.
“Fuck, Hyuk,” Donghae hissed, his head thumping back against the wall.
Hyukjae sank down, taking him deeper, his throat relaxing, opening for him. He loved the weight of it, the feel of Donghae hitting the back of his throat, the ragged sound of Donghae’s breathing above him. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard, one hand working the base while the other pawed at his own jeans, wrenching the button open to fist his own aching dick.
“That’s it,” Donghae moaned, his fingers tangling in Hyukjae’s hair, not guiding, just feeling. “Take it. Swallow it.”
Hyukjae pulled off with a wet pop, gasping. “I want you to fuck my face.” The filthiness of the words, here in this grimy basement, sent a thrill through him. “Do it. Come down my throat.”
Donghae’s control snapped. He held Hyukjae’s head in both hands, his thumbs pressing beside his mouth. He pushed his cock back between Hyukjae’s lips, starting a slow, deep rhythm. Hyukjae relaxed his jaw, letting Donghae use him, the head of his cock nudging his throat each time. Tears pricked his eyes from the effort. Spit dripped down his chin.
“You look so good like this,” Donghae grunted, his hips pistoning faster. “On your knees for me. In my clothes.” He fucked into his mouth with short, sharp jabs. The sounds were obscene: the slap of skin, the wet, choked gasps, the hum of the vending machine.
Hyukjae whimpered. The sound was muffled, vibration around Donghae’s length. It was a sound of overwhelmed pleasure, of submission, of pure, aching want. He worked his own cock faster, the pressure coiling tight in his gut.
Donghae groaned, a deep, shuddering sound. “I’m gonna come. You want it? You want me to fucking come in your mouth?”
Hyukjae nodded, his nose pressed against Donghae’s skin. He tasted salt and soap and skin. He wanted it. He wanted the burn, the claim, the undeniable truth of it inside him.
Donghae’s thrusts lost rhythm, becoming frantic. His grip on Hyukjae’s hair tightened painfully. With a final, brutal push, he stilled, pulsing deep into Hyukjae’s throat. Hyukjae swallowed convulsively, taking every drop, the bitter, musky taste flooding his senses.
As Donghae softened, sliding from his lips, Hyukjae’s own orgasm ripped through him. He came in hot stripes across the dusty concrete floor, his body jerking, a silent cry contorting his face.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant thrum of a dryer. Donghae slid down the wall to kneel with him on the filthy floor. He cupped Hyukjae’s face, his thumb wiping spit and come from Hyukjae’s chin. His eyes were black and bottomless.
“Proof enough?” Hyukjae managed, his voice shot.
Donghae kissed him, deep and slow, tasting himself on Hyukjae’s tongue. “It’s a start,” he said, his lips brushing Hyukjae’s. He stood, pulling Hyukjae up with him. He tucked himself away, zipped his jeans. He looked at the mess on the floor, then at Hyukjae, disheveled and flushed in the dim light. “Now,” he said, his voice steady again, lacing his fingers with Hyukjae’s sticky ones. “We go face the music.”
The penthouse door was unlocked, the handle cool under Hyukjae’s palm. He pushed it open to a wave of laughter and the stale, sweet smell of spilled liquor. The Parisian skyline puzzle lay trampled underfoot, a few pieces clinging to his shoe. Jeonyoung was sprawled on the chaise lounge, his arm around a girl Hyukjae vaguely recognized from a marketing class. Minho was by the bar, pouring vodka into a dying fern.
“There he is!” Jeonyoung slurred, lifting a bottle in salute. His eyes, glassy and amused, slid from Hyukjae’s face to Donghae’s hand locked in his. The grin faltered, just for a second. “And… the bestie. Wow. You two get lost?”
All conversation died. The girl on the chaise looked between them, her eyebrows raised. Minho froze, the vodka bottle hovering.
Hyukjae felt Donghae’s hand tighten, a silent anchor. He cleared his throat, the sound too loud in the sudden quiet. “Party’s over,” he said. His voice didn’t shake.
Jeonyoung blinked slowly. He untangled himself from the girl and stood, swaying slightly. “Over? It’s your birthday weekend, man. We’re just getting started.” His eyes dropped again to their joined hands. A slow, ugly smile spread across his face. “Oh. I see. You needed a… private nurse. That’s cute.”
Donghae took a half-step forward, but Hyukjae squeezed his hand, stopping him.
“You should go, Jeonyoung,” Hyukjae said, keeping his tone flat, final.
“I’ve got a key,” Jeonyoung said, patting his pocket, the smugness returning.
“Not anymore.” Hyukjae held out his free hand, palm up. “Give it.”
The air crackled. Minho carefully set the vodka bottle down. The girl on the chaise looked intensely interested.
Jeonyoung’s smirk dissolved into something darker. He looked at Donghae, a sneer twisting his lips. “What, you finally wore him down, Hae? All those years of pining finally paid off? Guess patience is a virtue.” He fished in his pocket and tossed the key onto the floor at Hyukjae’s feet. It skittered across the parquet. “Enjoy the leftovers. He’s a phase. You’ll get bored.”
Hyukjae let go of Donghae’s hand. He crossed the room in three quick strides, the trampled puzzle crunching underfoot. He got right in Jeonyoung’s space, close enough to smell the gin on his breath. “Get out,” he said, his voice low and deadly calm. “Or I will throw you out.”
Jeonyoung held his gaze for a long, tense moment, then scoffed, backing away. “Whatever. Come on, Minho.” He shouldered past Hyukjae, knocking into the coffee table. A half-empty wine bottle wobbled and fell, soaking into a silk pillow.
No one moved until the front door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the spacious room. The girl from the chaise stood, smoothed her skirt, and left without a word.
Silence descended, thick and heavy. Hyukjae stared at the red stain spreading on the cream fabric, the final ruin of his old life. He felt Donghae come up behind him, a solid, warm presence at his back.
“Well,” Donghae said quietly. “That happened.”
A laugh burst out of Hyukjae, sudden and sharp, bordering on hysterical. He turned and slumped against Donghae, burying his face in his shoulder. Donghae’s arms came around him, holding him steady.
“I hate parties,” Hyukjae mumbled into the soft cotton of Donghae’s t-shirt.
“I know,” Donghae said, his hand rubbing slow circles on Hyukjae’s back.
They stood like that for a long time, amidst the wreckage. The single candle from the night before had burned to a puddle of wax. Donghae’s hoodie was still on the bed.
A sharp rap on the door made them both jump. Hyukjae tensed. “If that’s Jeonyoung—”
It swung open before he could finish. Heechul stood in the doorway, immaculate in a cream silk shirt, a large, shiny black shopping bag dangling from his fingers. His sharp eyes scanned the room—the stained pillow, the broken puzzle, the two of them clinging to each other in the middle of it.
“Drama,” Heechul announced, stepping inside and kicking the door closed with his heel. “It wafts off you two like cheap cologne. I could smell it from the elevator.” He dropped the bag onto the cleanest corner of the coffee table with a rustle.
“Hi, Heechul,” Donghae said dryly, not letting go of Hyukjae.
“I brought a peace offering,” Heechul said, ignoring the mess. He pointed a manicured finger at the bag. “For you, specifically.” He looked at Hyukjae. “Since you’re clearly convalescing from a severe case of… whatever the fuck that was.” He gestured vaguely at the room. “Consider it a therapeutic aid.”
Hyukjae peeled himself away from Donghae, curiosity cutting through the exhaustion. “What is it?”
“Open it and find out,” Heechul said, perching on the arm of a chair. “I have a theory about your specific rehabilitation needs. Indulge me.”
Hyukjae approached the bag. He pulled out the tissue paper, his fingers brushing against something slick and sheer. He pulled the garment out.
It was a nurse uniform. But not a real one. This was a costume of the lightest, palest pink satin, the fabric so thin it was nearly translucent. The dress was short, with a row of tiny pearl buttons down the front and a white lace trim. A matching white lace cap was tucked inside the bag, along with a pair of sheer white stockings and a delicate garter belt.
Hyukjae held it up. The satin shimmered in the dim light.
Donghae made a small, choked sound behind him.
“See?” Heechul said, a smug smile playing on his lips. “You nurse him back to health.” He nodded toward Donghae. “He’s looked half-dead with longing for years. Physically, he’s fine. Spiritually? Emaciated. It’s a metaphor. With benefits.” He stood, brushing imaginary lint from his slacks. “My work here is done. The instructions are simple: you put it on, you fix him. Enjoy.”
With a final, sweeping look, Heechul let himself out. The lock clicked softly into place.
Hyukjae turned the flimsy satin dress over in his hands. A strange, electric current ran through him. He looked at Donghae, who was staring at the garment with an intensity that made the air feel thin.
“It’s…” Donghae started, then swallowed.
“Ridiculous,” Hyukjae finished, but he was smiling, a real one this time. He felt a flutter in his stomach, a quickening pulse. The ugliness of the confrontation was fading, replaced by this new, sharp anticipation. “It’s absolutely fucking ridiculous.”
Donghae’s gaze lifted from the dress to Hyukjae’s face. “Yeah,” he said, his voice husky. “It is.”
Hyukjae took a step toward him. “He said to enjoy.”
“I heard him.”
“So.” Hyukjae let the dress slip through his fingers, catching it before it hit the floor. He felt bold, unmoored from the person he’d been an hour ago. That person would have laughed it off, hidden it in a closet. “You need… nursing?”
A deep blush crept up Donghae’s neck. He didn’t look away. “Maybe.”
Hyukjae closed the distance between them. He pressed the bundle of satin and lace into Donghae’s hands. “Then wait here. I need to… prepare.”
He disappeared into the ensuite bathroom, locking the door behind him. His heart was pounding. He looked at himself in the mirror—hair a mess, Donghae’s hoodie, the bruise on his shoulder a dark blossom. He stripped, letting the hoodie fall to the tile floor.
The stockings were first. He sat on the closed toilet lid, rolling the sheer white silk up his legs. They were incredibly fine, clinging to his skin. The garter belt was next, its clips cool against his thighs. He stood, stepping into the satin dress. It slid over his hips like water, whisper-light. He fastened the tiny pearl buttons, each one a small, deliberate act. The front plunged low, the skirt ended high on his thighs. The material did nothing to hide the shape of him. He looked… transformed. Exposed. A fever-dream version of care.
He fixed the little lace cap on his head, a absurd, perfect detail. His reflection was a shock—a sharp, wanton contrast to the boy in the hoodie from minutes before. He felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated power.
He took a deep breath and opened the door.
Donghae was standing exactly where he’d left him, the ruined room forgotten. His eyes widened, then darkened. His breath hitched audibly. He said nothing, just drank Hyukjae in, from the lace cap to the stockings, his gaze lingering on the translucent skirt, on the swell of Hyukjae’s cock beneath the thin satin.
“Doctor’s orders?” Hyukjae asked, his voice barely a whisper. He took a step, the stockings whispering against each other.
Donghae moved then, a hunter’s grace. He crossed the room and pulled Hyukjae to him by the hips, the satin slick under his rough palms. He kissed him, hard and consuming, biting at his lower lip. “You’re not a doctor,” he murmured against Hyukjae’s mouth.
“Nurse,” Hyukjae corrected, gasping as Donghae’s hands slid down to cup his ass through the flimsy fabric.
“Nurse,” Donghae repeated, the word a growl. He walked Hyukjae backward until his knees hit the edge of the bed. He pushed him down so he was sitting, then dropped to his own knees on the floor between Hyukjae’s legs. The position was a mirror of the basement, but inverted. Now, Hyukjae was on display, clothed in nothing but suggestion.
Donghae ran his hands up Hyukjae’s stockings, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of his inner thighs. “You’re supposed to be nursing me.”
“I am,” Hyukjae said, spreading his legs wider. “This is holistic care.”
Donghae’s answer was to lean forward and bite the inside of Hyukjae’s thigh, just above the stocking top. Hyukjae hissed, his head falling back. Donghae mouthed his way upward, his tongue hot against the satin covering Hyukjae’s erection. The fabric grew damp under his ministrations.
“Take it off,” Donghae ordered, his voice thick. “I want to see.”
Hyukjae’s fingers trembled as he worked the pearl buttons open. The dress fell away, pooling around his waist. He was naked beneath except for the stockings and garter. The cool air hit his skin, followed by the heat of Donghae’s stare.
Donghae didn’t touch him with his hands. He leaned in and licked a slow, wet stripe from the base of Hyukjae’s cock to the tip, swirling around the head. Hyukjae moaned, his hands fisting in the bedspread. Donghae did it again, and again, teasing, until Hyukjae was trembling.
“Please,” Hyukjae begged, the word ripped from him.
“Please what?” Donghae breathed, his lips brushing the sensitive skin.
“Suck me. I need it.”
Donghae obliged, taking him deep in one smooth motion. Hyukjae cried out, his hips bucking off the bed. Donghae held him down with a firm hand on his stomach, controlling the pace, sucking him with a devastating rhythm that had Hyukjae seeing stars.
The dual sensations were overwhelming—the slick, tight heat of Donghae’s mouth and the crude, visual perfection of his fully clothed self kneeling between Hyukjae’s sheer-stockinged legs. Hyukjae looked down, watching his cock disappear between Donghae’s lips, and the sight pushed him toward the edge.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice strangled.
Donghae pulled off with a pop. He was breathing hard, his lips swollen and wet. “Not yet.”
He stood, his own erection straining against his jeans. He unzipped them, pushing them and his boxers down just enough to free himself. He was flushed and thick, a drop of precum glistening at the tip. He gripped himself, stroking slowly as he looked down at Hyukjae.
“Turn over,” Donghae commanded.
A shiver of pure lust ran through Hyukjae. He obeyed, scrambling onto his hands and knees on the bed. The satin dress was still tangled around his waist, the lace cap askew on his head. He felt Donghae’s hand on his back, pressing him down until his chest was to the mattress, his ass in the air.
He felt Donghae’s fingers, slick with spit, press against his hole. He was still loose from earlier, but the intrusion made him gasp. Donghae worked one finger, then two, inside him, scissoring them open.
“Still so wet for me,” Donghae murmured, his voice awed. “From before.”
He removed his fingers. Hyukjae heard the tear of a condom packet—practical, even now—and then the blunt, heavy pressure of Donghae’s cock against him. Donghae pushed inside in one long, relentless stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
Hyukjae screamed into the mattress, the fullness a breathtaking ache. Donghae didn’t move, just let him feel it, every inch.
“You look…” Donghae gasped, his hands gripping Hyukjae’s hips so hard it would bruise. “Fuck, Hyuk. You look like a dream I shouldn’t be having.”
Then he moved. He set a brutal, punishing pace, slamming into him with deep, grinding thrusts. The bed rocked against the wall. Each impact jolted through Hyukjae, forcing ragged sounds from his throat. The satin of the dress rubbed against his oversensitive cock trapped beneath him.
“This what you wanted?” Donghae grunted, his rhythm faltering. “Dressed up like this? Being my… my fucking nurse?”
“Yes!” Hyukjae sobbed, pushing back against him, meeting every thrust. “Yours. Always yours.”
The words tore something loose in Donghae. He leaned over Hyukjae’s back, his chest pressed against the satin, his mouth at Hyukjae’s ear. “I’m gonna come inside you,” he panted, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate. “Gonna fill you up so deep. Mark you. My come in you, under this… this fucking perfect dress.”
The filthy promise, the relentless friction, the sheer vulnerability of his position sent Hyukjae spiraling. His orgasm crashed over him, violent and silent for a paralyzing second before a torn, shattered cry ripped out of him. He came, spurting onto the sheets beneath him, his body clamping down on Donghae in vicious pulses.
That was all it took. Donghae drove into him one final, searing time and held there, burying his face in Hyukjae’s shoulder as he came with a broken groan, his hips shuddering against Hyukjae’s ass.
They collapsed together onto the ruined bed, a tangled mess of limbs, satin, and cooling sweat. Donghae’s weight was a warm, comforting anchor. Hyukjae could feel the damp patch of the condom against his thigh, the sticky mess on his stomach.
After a long while, Donghae shifted, pulling out carefully. He disposed of the condom, then returned to the bed. He didn’t speak. He simply began unclipping the garters, his movements tender now. He peeled the stockings down Hyukjae’s legs, his touch reverent. He unbuttoned the rest of the satin dress and gently pulled it off, followed by the lace cap.
He fetched a warm, damp cloth