Chapter 8: Backstage Claiming
The roar of the crowd was a physical echo in his bones, a thunder that had shaken the stadium floor and now reverberated in the hollows of his chest. Backstage was a chaotic inverse of the stage’s curated frenzy: a sudden, shocking vacuum of sound replaced by the clatter of equipment and the frantic whispers of staff. Donghae walked through it all feeling detached, his body humming with spent adrenaline, his costume leather sticking to his sweat-slicked skin.
Hyukjae was a step ahead, turning to flash him a look that was pure fire before disappearing into the corridor that led to their private dressing rooms. The look said everything: Now.
The door to Hyukjae’s room shut behind them with a decisive click, muting the backstage chaos into a dull murmur. The space was as described: sleek black leather couches, glaring lights around a broad mirror, racks of clothes like silent spectators. It smelled of industrial cleaner, stale perfume, and their own exertion.
Donghae leaned back against the door, his breath still coming in heavy drags. Hyukjae stood in the center of the room, under the harsh lights, his stage makeup streaked, his own leather pants gleaming under the fluorescents. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the performance still crackling in the air between them.
“You were good out there,” Hyukjae said, his voice low and rough from singing. “Better than good.”
“I was thinking about you,” Donghae replied, the truth leaving him like a confession. “The whole time. About this.”
That was all the impetus Hyukjae needed. He crossed the space in two strides, his hands coming up to frame Donghae’s face. The kiss was not like the morning’s desperate claim. It was deeper, slower, a tasting of salt and shared exertion. It was a man coming home.
When they broke apart, Hyukjae’s eyes were dark. “The third time,” he murmured, his thumb stroking Donghae’s jawline. “You promised.”
In answer, Donghae spun him around, his movements fueled by a residual, frantic energy. He pushed Hyukjae forward until his palms slapped against the cool, unforgiving surface of the large mirror. Their reflections stared back, blurred and ghostly with sweat.
Donghae yanked at the buckle of Hyukjae’s leather pants, his fingers clumsy. The material was tight, stubborn. He got the belt open, the button undone, and shoved the pants and briefs down just enough, exposing the curved swell of Hyukjae’s ass. He didn’t prepare him. There was no need. The promise from the morning was still a tangible slickness there, a physical covenant.
He spit into his own hand, a crude, practical gesture, and slicked himself. His cock was already hard, throbbing with a pent-up urgency that had built through three hours of lights and music.
“Now,” Hyukjae growled, pushing back against him, his forehead resting against the mirror. “Do it now, Donghae.”
Donghae guided himself to Hyukjae’s entrance, pressed against the tight ring of muscle, and pushed in with one brutal, sheathing thrust.
Hyukjae’s whole body bowed, a choked gasp tearing from his throat. His knuckles turned white where they pressed against the glass. Donghae held himself deep, buried to the hilt, feeling the incredible, clenching heat around him, feeling his own heartbeat in his cock. He watched their reflection—Hyukjae’s face twisted in pleasure-pain, his own expression a mask of fierce possession.
Then he began to move.
It was nothing like the slow, deep claiming of the morning. This was a raw, punishing rhythm. Each snap of his hips drove Hyukjae harder into the mirror, the impact jolting through them both. The only sounds were the slap of skin on skin, the ragged puff of their breathing, and the low, obscene creak of Hyukjae’s leather pants straining.
“Fuck,” Hyukjae moaned, his voice muffled against his own arm. He bit down on his fist, teeth sinking into the fleshy part of his thumb to stifle the sound. His other hand scrambled for purchase on the smooth glass.
Donghae gripped his hips, fingers digging into the leather, using the leverage to drive deeper, harder. He was chasing something, the coiled spring of performance anxiety, the terror of the solo album, the overwhelming love—all of it focused into this single, piston-like motion. He was fucking it all into Hyukjae, claiming and being claimed in turn.
“You feel me?” Donghae grunted, his own voice alien to his ears. “You feel that? That’s for you. All for you.”
Hyukjae nodded frantically, a strand of damp hair sticking to his temple. He released his fist from his mouth, a red mark blooming on his skin. “I’m yours,” he panted, the words aimed at their reflection. “Your fiancé. Fuck, right there, don’t stop—”
The profanity, the claim, the sheer vulnerability in Hyukjae’s breaking voice shattered Donghae’s last thread of control. His rhythm fractured, became erratic, desperate. The pressure exploded at the base of his spine, detonating outward. With a guttural, animal sound that came from the deepest part of him, he slammed home one final time and came.
He spilled into Hyukjae in hot, pulsing waves, his vision whiting out at the edges. He collapsed forward, his chest against Hyukjae’s sweaty back, his forehead pressed between Hyukjae’s shoulder blades. He shook with the force of it.
For long moments, the only sound was their heaving breaths fogging the mirror. Slowly, Donghae softened, slipped out. He rested there, spent, the world slowly piecing itself back together from sensation into coherent thought.
Hyukjae straightened with a wince, a soft, satisfied exhale leaving his lips. He turned within the circle of Donghae’s arms, his face flushed and beautifully ruined. He reached up and wiped a streak of sweat from Donghae’s temple.
“There,” Hyukjae said, his voice wrecked but tender. “Three times.”
Donghae kissed him, softly this time. A seal. A confirmation.
A sharp knock on the door made them jump apart. “Hyukjae-ssi? Ten minutes for the post-show press meeting!”
“Yeah! Coming!” Hyukjae called back, his eyes never leaving Donghae’s. He quickly pulled his pants up, wincing again as the leather rubbed against tender skin.
Donghae righted his own clothes, his hands trembling slightly. The reality of the world outside the door began to seep back in. The press. The fans. The company. The secret.
Hyukjae caught his hand, lacing their fingers together. “We’ll figure out the how,” he whispered, echoing his words from the morning. He brought Donghae’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles, a mirror of Donghae’s earlier gesture. “You ready?”
Donghae looked at their joined hands, at the man who had just taken everything he had to give and asked for more, at their smudged reflection in the mirror—two middle-aged men in disheveled stage clothes, bound by a quarter-century of history and a promise made in sunlight and sealed in sweat.
He took a deep, steadying breath. The anxiety was gone. In its place was a steady, thrilling calm.
“Yeah,” he said, squeezing Hyukjae’s hand. “Let’s go to work.”
The press conference was a blur of camera flashes and perfunctory smiles. Donghae answered questions about the concert, about the energy of the fans, his voice a professional instrument that felt disconnected from his body. Beneath the table, Hyukjae’s knee pressed against his, a line of constant, reassuring heat.
Every slight shift in his chair made Donghae acutely aware of the sticky, cooling evidence inside him, the phantom stretch. Hyukjae’s promise, now a physical reality, thrummed under his skin like a second heartbeat.
Back in the car, the silence was dense and charged. The driver’s partition was up, sealing them in a dim, private world. Streetlights strobed across Hyukjae’s profile, highlighting the fatigue, but also a restless, simmering energy. He reached over and took Donghae’s hand, his thumb tracing slow circles on the inside of his wrist.
“You okay?” Hyukjae’s voice was soft, meant only for him.
Donghae nodded, leaning his head back against the seat. “Tired. Good tired.”
Hyukjae hummed, a low, knowing sound. He didn’t let go of Donghae’s hand the entire ride home.
Their apartment was dark and quiet, a stark contrast to the roaring stadium. They toed off their shoes by the door, the mundane act feeling surreal. Donghae moved to turn on a light, but Hyukjae caught his wrist.
“Don’t,” he murmured, pulling Donghae into the shadowed living room. Moonlight streamed through the windows, painting everything in shades of blue and silver. “I don’t need light to see you.”
He backed Donghae against the cool wall, his hands sliding under Donghae’s shirt, palms scraping over his ribs. His kiss was different now, slower, but no less hungry. It was a savoring. He licked into Donghae’s mouth, tasting the remnants of stage sweat and bottled water.
“You were incredible tonight,” Hyukjae breathed against his lips, working the buttons of Donghae’s shirt open. “Watching you own that stage… fuck.” He bit Donghae’s lower lip, a sharp, delicious sting. “It made me want to ruin you.”
Donghae gasped as Hyukjae’s hands found his nipples, pinching and rolling them until they hardened into aching points. “You already did,” he managed, his head falling back against the wall. “In the dressing room.”
“That was just a prelude.” Hyukjae sank to his knees on the hardwood floor, his hands making quick work of Donghae’s belt and zipper. He nuzzled against the fabric of Donghae’s briefs, inhaling deeply. “I can still smell us on you.”
He pulled Donghae’s pants and briefs down in one rough yank. The cool air was a shock against his heated skin. Before Donghae could process it, Hyukjae’s mouth was on him, swallowing his half-hard cock with a deep, practiced ease that made Donghae’s knees buckle.
“Jesus, Hyuk—“
Hyukjae took him all the way, his throat working, his nose pressed into Donghae’s pubic bone. He sucked with a focused, obscene intensity, one hand cupping and kneading Donghae’s balls, the other pushing a finger back, finding the slick, stretched place he’d claimed earlier. Donghae cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed in the quiet apartment.
Hyukjae pulled off with a wet pop, his own breathing ragged. He looked up, his lips swollen, eyes black in the moonlight. “I need more,” he said, his voice gravel. “I need it again. Right now.”
Donghae, rock-hard and trembling, hauled him up by the shoulders. “How much more?” he whispered, frantic, kissing him, tasting himself on Hyukjae’s tongue. “You had me three times today.”
Hyukjae walked him backwards, never breaking the kiss, until the back of Donghae’s legs hit the low, wide arm of their sofa. He pushed him down onto it, so Donghae was half-sitting, half-lying against the cushions. He straddled him, still in his own rumpled stage clothes, and ground down, the rough texture of his leather pants a maddening friction against Donghae’s bare cock.
“I don’t know,” Hyukjae panted, tearing at his own clothes, pushing the leather down his thighs just enough. He was already wet, messy, open from their earlier coupling. He reached between them, guiding Donghae inside with a desperate, impatient hand. “How many times can you give it to me?”
He sank down, a slow, searing descent that stole the breath from both their lungs. Once fully seated, he stilled, his body trembling, his forehead resting against Donghae’s. “However many you have,” Hyukjae whispered, his voice breaking. “Every one.”
He began to move, a deep, rocking grind that was more intimate than the frantic fucking against the mirror. This was slower, a claiming that went beyond possession. It was communion. Donghae gripped his hips, helping him, watching the play of moonlight on the muscles of Hyukjae’s stomach as he rose and fell.
“Tell me,” Donghae begged, his own climax coiling tight, spurred by the filthy, perfect sight of Hyukjae riding him, by the raw need in his eyes. “How many times do you need?”
Hyukjae leaned down, his lips brushing Donghae’s ear. His rhythm never faltered. “Forever,” he breathed, the word a hot promise. “Infinite.”
That word, in that voice, with that body moving on his, shattered Donghae completely. He came with a shout that was half-sob, pulsing deep inside Hyukjae, who followed moments after, his own release streaking hot and wet between their stomachs as he clenched around Donghae, milking him through the last waves.
They collapsed together onto the sofa, a tangled, sticky mess of limbs and spent desire. Hyukjae’s face was buried in Donghae’s neck, his breathing gradually slowing. Outside, the city hummed, oblivious. The solo album loomed. The world awaited.
Here, in the dark, they were infinite.
The city’s hum was the only sound, a distant mechanical lullaby. Hyukjae’s weight was a solid, anchoring warmth on his chest, their breathing syncing into something slow and deep. Donghae traced a finger along the ridge of Hyukjae’s spine, feeling the residual tremors.
“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” Donghae murmured into the dark.
Hyukjae snorted, the vibration pleasant against Donghae’s skin. “So will you.” He shifted, wincing slightly, and propped himself up on an elbow. His eyes were dark pools in the moonlight. “Worth it.”
He leaned down and kissed Donghae, a soft, closed-mouth press of lips that felt like a punctuation mark. Then he pushed himself up, groaning as he stood on shaky legs. “Shower,” he announced, his voice rough. “We’re sticky.”
Donghae watched him walk naked toward the bathroom, the silver light carving the lines of his body into something sculptural and exhausted. He followed, his own muscles protesting. The bathroom tiles were cool under his feet.
Hyukjae had already turned the water on, steam beginning to fog the glass enclosure. He stepped in, hissing as the hot spray hit his skin. Donghae joined him, the water sluicing over them, washing away sweat and spend in milky rivulets down the drain. Hyukjae reached for the soap, his movements languid.
But the simple act of washing turned. Hyukjae’s soap-slicked hands slid over Donghae’s chest, his stomach, lower. They moved with a purpose that was not about cleaning. Donghae’s head fell back against the tile as those hands encircled him, working him back to full hardness under the relentless spray.
“You said infinite,” Donghae reminded him, water catching in his lashes.
“I meant it.” Hyukjae turned him, pushing his chest against the cool, wet tile. He pressed close, his renewed erection nudging against Donghae’s cleft. “You’re still open,” he muttered, a dark, hungry note in his voice. “Still mine.”
He didn’t ask. He just pushed in, the water providing a slippery, inadequate ease. The stretch was immediate, a bright, familiar burn. Donghae grunted, his fingers splaying against the tile.
“Fourth,” Hyukjae growled into his ear, his hips snapping forward, driving Donghae into the wall. His hands were rough on Donghae’s hips, holding him in place. The sound was different here—wetter, louder, the slap of skin amplified by the shower stall.
Donghae pushed back, meeting each thrust, the pleasure a sharp, overwhelming spike that obliterated thought. It was less making love and more taking, a raw, hydraulic fuck where the only goal was friction and release. Hyukjae’s teeth scraped his shoulder.
“Gonna come,” Hyukjae warned, his rhythm stuttering.
“Do it,” Donghae gasped, the tile cold on his cheek. “Fill me up again.”
Hyukjae shouted, a short, sharp sound that bounced off the tiles, as he pulsed inside him. He stayed there, buried, panting against Donghae’s back as the water beat down on them. Then, slowly, he pulled out.
They finished washing in a dazed, wordless silence. They dried off with towels that smelled of clean cotton, the domestic ordinariness of it a stark contrast to the last hour. In the bedroom, they fell onto the bed, the cool sheets a shock.
Donghae lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The exhaustion was a physical weight, but beneath it thrummed a profound, liquid calm. The anxiety about the album, the pressure of the solo stage, felt distant, locked away for now.
Hyukjae turned onto his side, his hand coming to rest on Donghae’s stomach. “You’re quiet.”
“Thinking,” Donghae said.
“Don’t.” Hyukjae’s hand slid lower, his fingers curling around Donghae’s softness. “Not yet.”
He began to stroke him, slowly, with a lazy determination. There was no frantic need now, just a relentless, coaxing pressure. Donghae felt himself hardening again under that expert touch, a dull ache of overuse transforming into a fresh, insistent throb.
“Hyukjae,” he whispered, a protest that wasn’t a protest.
“Fifth,” Hyukjae said simply, his own voice thick with exhaustion and desire. He moved, swinging a leg over Donghae’s hips to straddle him. He was already slick from the shower, from earlier. He reached behind himself, guiding Donghae inside with a slow, measured push that made Donghae see stars.
He rode him like that, a slow, deep, grinding rotation of his hips. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed, his body moving with a tired, exquisite grace. Donghae gripped his thighs, feeling the muscles work, watching the play of moonlight on his throat.
This was different. This was not possession or desperation. This was a ceremony. A reaffirmation. Each roll of Hyukjae’s hips sealed the promises they’d made in daylight and backstage shadows. Donghae’s climax built slowly, a deep, rolling wave rather than a crashing breaker.
“Look at me,” Donghae pleaded.
Hyukjae opened his eyes. They held each other’s gaze as Donghae came, a silent, shuddering release that felt like surrender and victory all at once. Hyukjae followed, his body clenching tightly as he spilled across Donghae’s stomach with a soft, broken sigh.
He collapsed forward, his sweat-slicked chest pressed against Donghae’s. Their hearts hammered against each other, two frantic drums slowly settling into a shared rhythm.
“Infinite,” Hyukjae mumbled into his skin, already half-asleep.
Donghae held him, the words from the press conference, the empty congratulations, the looming work all fading into a dull buzz. Here was the only review that mattered: the weight of this man, asleep on his chest, the tangible, messy proof of their pledge drying on his skin. The dawn would bring the world crashing back in.
For now, in the quiet dark, they had this. They had each other. It was, for the moment, enough.
It was, for the moment, enough. The deep, bone-marrow satisfaction of the night ebbed slowly, leaving behind a familiar, delicious ache and a pervasive sense of peace. Donghae slept deeper than he had in months, wrapped in the scent of Hyukjae and their shared exertions.
He awoke to a different kind of ache. A sharp throb behind his temples pulsed in time with his heartbeat. A shiver wracked his body despite the warmth of the sheets tangled around his legs. He tried to swallow and felt a raw, scratchy pain skate down his throat.
“Fuck,” he croaked, the word barely audible.
Hyukjae was already awake, propped on an elbow beside him, watching. His hair was a messy tuft, his face soft with sleep, but his eyes were clear and assessing. He pressed the back of his hand to Donghae’s forehead, then his cheek. His lips pressed into a thin line.
“You’re burning up,” Hyukjae said, his voice flat with realization.
“Just tired,” Donghae mumbled, trying to turn over. A wave of dizziness stalled him. His muscles, sore from the concert and their later activities, now felt like heavy, leaden things.
“Bullshit.” Hyukjae threw the covers off and swung his legs out of bed. “You pushed too hard. The concert, the stress, then me…” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Your immune system just noped the fuck out.”
He returned with a glass of water and two pills. “Sit up. Drink.”
Donghae complied, the water feeling like broken glass going down. He slumped back against the pillows, his skin clammy. The bright morning light slicing through the blinds felt aggressive, hostile. Hyukjae moved through the room with a quiet efficiency, drawing the blackout curtains closed, plunging the space into a soft, gray gloom.
“Stay,” Hyukjae commanded, pointing at the bed. He leaned down, his expression unreadable. “I’m not kidding. If I find you in your studio trying to work on a demo, I’ll handcuff you to this headboard.”
Donghae managed a weak, pathetic smile. “Promises, promises.”
Hyukjae didn’t smile back. He dressed quickly in soft sweatpants and a t-shirt. “Sleep. I’ll be back.”
The apartment fell into a heavy silence. Donghae drifted in and out of a feverish haze, punctuated by chills that made his teeth chatter. Time became a soggy, indistinct blur. He heard the front door open and close, the muffled sounds of Hyukjae moving in the kitchen.
Sometime later, Hyukjae returned to the bedroom. He carried a bowl of steaming water and a clean cloth. Without a word, he sat on the edge of the bed, dipped the cloth, wrung it out, and laid it gently across Donghae’s forehead. The coolness was a shocking, profound relief.
“Hey,” Donghae whispered.
“Hey, patient,” Hyukjae replied, his voice softer now. He brushed Donghae’s damp hair back from his temples. His touch was infinitely gentle, a stark contrast to the demanding grip of the night before. “Just a cold. Maybe a shitty flu. Your body’s cashing the check your mind wrote.”
He fetched a thermometer, sticking it under Donghae’s tongue with a look that brooked no argument. It beeped. Hyukjae read it, his frown deepening. “Yep. Definite checkout from reality.”
For two days, Donghae existed in this fever-dream state. Hyukjae was a constant, quiet presence. He changed the cool cloths regularly, forced fluids into him, and administered medicine with a firm, no-nonsense hand. He slept in fits beside him, waking at every cough or restless shift.
On the third morning, the fever broke. Donghae woke up clear-headed, but weak as a kitten. The room was dim, but he could hear life happening beyond the door. The sizzle of something in a pan. The soft clatter of a spoon against ceramic. A low, off-key hum he recognized as Hyukjae lost in a cooking rhythm.
The scent reached him next, cutting through the stale, sickroom air. Garlic, ginger, the profound, savory depth of simmering broth. It was the smell of home, of care, of something elemental. His stomach growled, a hollow, painful cramp of actual hunger.
He pushed himself upright, his body protesting. He felt fragile, but clean. Hyukjae must have washed him at some point. The memory was gauzy, indistinct—gentle hands, warm water, a soft towel.
The bedroom door nudged open. Hyukjae leaned against the frame, a wooden spoon in one hand. He was wearing an apron over his sweats, a ridiculous, cheery floral thing. He looked tired, but his eyes were bright.
“Look who’s decided to rejoin the living,” Hyukjae said. His tone was light, but his gaze was sharp, scanning Donghae’s face. “Hungry?”
Donghae nodded, his throat still tender. “Smells… good.”
“It’s just samgyetang,” Hyukjae shrugged, as if he hadn’t spent the morning meticulously preparing a whole Cornish hen stuffed with glutinous rice, ginseng, and jujubes. “The easy version. Don’t get excited.”
He disappeared and returned with a lap tray. On it was a deep, stoneware bowl filled with golden, steaming soup, the small hen nestled within. A separate small plate held kimchi, pickled radish, and a perfect mound of purple rice. A glass of barley tea condensed gently on the side.
Hyukjae set the tray carefully over Donghae’s legs. “Eat. Slowly.”
Donghae picked up the spoon. His hand trembled slightly. The first sip of broth was a revelation—rich, slightly peppery, infused with the earthy warmth of ginseng. It spread through his chest, a liquid heat that felt like healing. He closed his eyes as he swallowed.
When he opened them, Hyukjae was sitting in the chair he’d dragged in from the corner, watching him eat. He had his own bowl, blowing on a spoonful casually.
“You cooked all day,” Donghae stated, his voice raspy.
“I had time. My annoying fiancé was unconscious.” Hyukjae took a bite of rice. “How is it?”
Donghae didn’t answer with words. He took another spoonful, then another. He tore a piece of the tender, falling-off-the-bone meat with his chopsticks. He ate with a focused, quiet intensity that was its own form of gratitude. Strength, minute but real, seeped back into his limbs with each bite.
He finished the entire bowl, every grain of rice, every last drop of broth. He sat back, a thin film of sweat on his brow from the soup’s heat, but it was a clean, healthy sweat. He felt grounded in his body for the first time in days.
Hyukjae took the tray away. When he returned, he sat on the bed, his back against the headboard beside Donghae. He didn’t speak. He just took Donghae’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together, and stared ahead at the drawn curtains.
“I’m sorry,” Donghae said quietly into the silence.
“For what?”
“For this. For being… this.”
Hyukjae let out a short, incredulous breath. He turned his head, his eyes searching Donghae’s. “Are you an idiot? After everything?” He squeezed Donghae’s hand, his grip firm. “You gave me everything. Your promise. Your…” He gestured vaguely, a flush creeping up his neck. “Your infinite. Let me give you some goddamn chicken soup.”
The crude, loving pragmatism of it, so perfectly Hyukjae, unraveled the last knot of anxiety in Donghae’s chest. A real smile, the first in days, touched his lips. It felt strange on his face, like a forgotten language.
“It was the best soup,” Donghae said, simple and true.
Hyukjae’s face did something complicated then—a flicker of relief, of pride, of a love so deep it hurt to look at directly. He raised their joined hands and pressed a hard, quick kiss to Donghae’s knuckles, mirroring their gesture from the dressing room, from the kitchen.
“I know,” Hyukjae said, his voice thick. He cleared his throat, the moment passing back into their easy, domestic reality. “Now shower. You smell like a sick person. And then we’re watching something terrible on TV where no one has to sing or dance.”
Donghae’s smile widened, cracking his dry lips. It was a small, tender thing. It felt like a beginning.