Chapter 11: Hyukjae claws at the sheets as Donghae fucks him on the plug, each thrust vibrating the jewel against his prostate until he's babbling incoherent pleas. Donghae swallows his screams with bruising kisses, murmuring 'good boy' as he milks another shuddering orgasm from Hyukjae's spent body.
The walk from the office to the bedroom was a slow procession of shared breath and stumbling steps. Donghae carried him, not out of necessity, but because he could, because he wanted the weight of him in his arms. Hyukjae clung to his neck, his face buried in the column of Donghae’s throat, inhaling the faded scent of their earlier recklessness.
The bedroom was a sanctuary of low light and deeper shadows. Donghae laid him down on the crimson spread like a offering, the fabric cool against Hyukjae’s overheated skin. The white shirt was a lost cause, stained and open, but Donghae didn’t remove it. He just looked, his gaze a physical touch.
“Still wearing my ring,” Donghae observed, his voice low. He took Hyukjae’s left hand, kissing the platinum band. “And my plug.”
Hyukjae shivered. The small, tapered weight inside him, a remnant of their morning, had been a constant, secret presence all day. A reminder. A promise. Now, it felt monumental.
Donghae knelt on the bed, straddling Hyukjae’s thighs. He started with agonizing slowness, his thumbs brushing over Hyukjae’s nipples, already peaked and sensitive. He circled them, light as a whisper, until Hyukjae was arching up, seeking more.
“Please.”
“Please what?” Donghae leaned down, his breath hot. “Use your words, writer.”
“Suck them. Bite them. Just… fuck, anything.”
Donghae’s mouth was heat and wetness and exquisite precision. He closed his lips around one nipple, sucking it into a hard, throbbing peak, his tongue flicking mercilessly. Hyukjae cried out, his hands flying to Donghae’s hair, fisting in the dark strands. The sensation was a direct, live wire to his groin, his cock twitching against his stomach. Just as the pleasure threatened to tip into pain, Donghae soothed it with a soft lap of his tongue, then moved to the other, giving it the same devastating attention.
Hyukjae was sobbing by the time Donghae finally pulled back, his chest heaving, his nipples reddened and glistening. “Too much,” he gasped. “It’s too much.”
“It’s not enough,” Donghae murmured, his hands sliding down Hyukjae’s flanks. He urged Hyukjae onto his side, then onto his stomach. He arranged him with a sculptor’s care, pillows under his hips, raising his ass. The shirt tails fell away, exposing him completely. The cool air hit the dampness between his cheeks, and he shuddered.
Donghae’s touch was reverent. A single finger traced the rim of him, circling the base of the plug. The metal was warm from his body. “So pretty,” Donghae breathed. “Keeping yourself open for me all day. My good husband.”
Then his mouth was there.
Hyukjae jolted, a shattered gasp tearing from his lungs. Donghae wasn’t kissing; he was feasting. Broad, wet strokes of his tongue licked over the exposed stem, then pressed insistently around the edges where the plug met his body. The obscene, slick sounds filled the room. Hyukjae pushed back against the sensation, but Donghae held his hips firm, relentless.
“Donghae… you can’t… ah, god!”
Donghae pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing the sensitized skin. “I can. I am.” He focused his mouth on the plug itself, sucking the cool metal, his tongue probing the narrow gap. The vibration, the pressure, the intimate filth of it shattered Hyukjae’s coherence. He was babbling, a stream of curses and pleas, his fingers clawing at the velvet.
With a soft pop, the plug came free.
Donghae caught it, setting it aside on the nightstand with a definitive click. The sudden emptiness was a shock. Before Hyukjae could process it, Donghae’s tongue was pushing inside, licking into the loosened, tender heat.
Hyukjae screamed. It was too intense, too raw. The oversensitivity from the nipple play, the prolonged fullness, now this intimate violation—it cascaded through him, a wildfire in his veins. He shook, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “Stop, stop, I can’t, it’s too—”
Donghae didn’t stop. He drove his tongue deeper, fucking him with it, rough and messy. His hands spread Hyukjae open, holding him in position for this devouring. “You can,” he growled against his skin. “You take it so well. You’re dripping for me. You’re fucking made for this.”
The words, filthy and true, broke something loose. The resistance melted, burned away by a wave of crude, blinding need. Hyukjae pushed back onto the tongue, meeting the rhythm, his sounds turning from protest to a continuous, hungry moan.
When Donghae finally pulled away, Hyukjae was a wrung-out, trembling mess. He felt Donghae shift, the sound of a cap snapping open. Cool gel touched his hole, a finger slicking it, pressing in easily. One, then two, crooking, scissoring. He was so open, so ready.
“Look at you,” Donghae said, his voice thick with awe. “Gaping for me. Begging for it without saying a word.”
The blunt, hot pressure of Donghae’s cock replaced his fingers. There was no resistance, only a slow, inexorable slide as Donghae sheathed himself fully in one smooth, deep thrust. The fullness was perfect, restorative. Hyukjae choked on a sob of relief.
Donghae held still, buried to the hilt, both of them panting. He leaned over, blanketing Hyukjae’s back, his lips at his ear. “This is where you belong. Always. Stuffed full of me. Claimed.”
Then he began to move.
It wasn’t the frantic pace of the office. This was deeper, more deliberate. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each thrust a measured, penetrating conquest. The angle was brutal, perfect, rubbing over that place inside with every single stroke. Hyukjae couldn’t form words, just broken syllables, each push punching a sound from his chest.
“Who do you belong to?” Donghae grunted, his pace increasing.
“You. You. Only you.”
“Say my name.”
“Donghae! Donghae, fuck, right there, don’t stop!”
Donghae’s arm wrapped around Hyukjae’s chest, hauling him up, back flush to Donghae’s front. The new angle was even deeper. Donghae’s other hand snaked down, calloused fingers wrapping around Hyukjae’s weeping cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts.
It was too much. The dual stimulation, the profound depth of the penetration, the possessive, growled words in his ear—Hyukjae felt his orgasm detonate, a white-hot explosion that seized every muscle. He came with a raw shout, stripes of release painting the dark velvet below.
The clenching rhythm tore Donghae’s climax from him. He slammed home one final time, a guttural roar lost against Hyukjae’s shoulder as he emptied himself, pulse after hot pulse filling the tight channel.
They collapsed together, a tangled, sweat-slick heap. Donghae rolled them to their sides, still joined, his arms a vise around Hyukjae. Minutes passed, marked only by the slowing cadence of their breathing.
Eventually, Donghae softened and slipped out. He reached a lazy arm to the nightstand, fumbling for the book of matches beside the unlit candle. He struck one, the flare of sulfur bright in the dim room, and touched it to the wick. A small, steady flame awoke, casting their intertwined forms in a dancing, golden light.
“There,” Donghae whispered, his voice raspy with use. “Now it’s perfect.”
Hyukjae, boneless and saturated, watched the flame. It reflected in the dark glaze of the plug on the nightstand, in the damp sheen on their skin. He understood. It wasn’t just a candle. It was a bookmark. A new page. The story wasn’t ending. It was just finding a deeper, warmer, more desperate rhythm. He pressed back into Donghae’s embrace, and let the light wash over them.