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The bad thing about being sick is the brain fog. What’s the date? Is this his second or third pill today? Is he nauseous because he’s hungry or hungry because he’s nauseous? Jake can’t conjure an answer to any of those things. Memory, logic, motor skills; everything the brain is good for has been thrown out the window by whatever nasty virus is wreaking havoc on his body. Unfortunately unscathed, the remaining survivors of instinct and impulse fight to assume control over Jake’s cognition.
He’s contemplating the faces he’s started to see in the ceiling when there’s a rap at the door. Without really thinking, Jake immediately croaks at them to come in. The door knob clicks. A squeak of the door hinge echoes from round the corner, blocked from Jake’s view as he lies propped up on the bed, essentially the same position he’s been in for the past two days.
But, Jake’s getting the feeling that he’s forgotten something. He can’t quite put his finger on it. He feels like an animal on the road making out a vague light in the distance getting closer and closer and—
“Whoa. Is that a skirt?”
Jake sucks in a breath. Right. That’s what he’s forgotten. He’s forgotten that it’s not usually supposed to be that drafty down there.
“No.”
Like a Pinocchio whose throat, not nose, can detect lies, Jake suddenly finds himself coughing uncontrollably.
Heeseung is patient enough to wait for Jake to stop spasming under the pillow he’s pulled over his face before he points out the painfully obvious.
“That’s a skirt.”
He’s been overheating these past few days, Jake wants to say. It’s been so warm that even his shorts feel like leather pants caging him in, but stripping down all the way just gets sweat everywhere, and it’d chafe too, and he just happened to have this in the closet, and he thought it might help, and it did help, so why should he stop?
Jake clears his throat, sending these thoughts back down to his gut. He concedes, defenseless.
“I guess.”
Heeseung squints. “That’s the skirt from the Decelis uniform.”
That accursed name. If someone had told Jake that debuting would also mean being unwittingly dragged into the male harem cast of some shitty Twilight rip-off, he’d have laughed in Rain’s face and gotten himself kicked off I-Land. The word Decelis is something he should not be hearing in his bedroom, his sanctuary away from the worst of work.
But, Heeseung is right. Somehow, he’s figured out that it’s no regular grey skirt. Jake won’t question how he knows this. Trust that man’s work ethic to extend to their vampire lore—individual fucking outfits included. Back to the skirt: Jake had pulled a stylist to the side after a shoot and asked if he could have it. It was a casual request, just for shits and giggles and maybe a little curiosity—though that curiosity never ended up being sated with all the bloody intruders to his room who could never spare him a moment alone to try it on. Now that he’s sick and in dire need of some TLC, the bastards avoid him like the plague, save for one.
He peeks out. “Anything of substance to add?”
“It looks good.”
“I said,” Jake rips the pillow off of his face. “Of substance.”
“Your legs look nice. Very pretty. You should wear this more.” Heeseung sidles a few steps further into the room. He takes an exaggerated ogle at Jake, but the joke falls apart with a full-body guffaw, “Okay, fine. Brought you chicken porridge.”
Jake’s stomach roils. Nauseous roil or hungry roil?
He hugs the pillow to his stomach, squishes that churning feeling down.
“I don’t really feel like eating.”
“And I don’t really feel like seeing you die of starvation.”
Jake tracks Heeseung as he walks to the end of the room to place a plastic bag, in it a take-out container, on the desk. He tosses himself onto the gaming chair next to it.
Too far, Jake can’t help but think. He feels out, through the fog, some vague desire for Heeseung to come closer. He grabs at it, but the fine mist has no weight. It diffuses through him and out his mouth, to manifest itself in a soft-spoken question.
“Do you mean it? Do you think—it looks pretty?”
Heeseung’s gaze drags. It trails from toe to ankle, ankle to knee. Up his thigh. There’s a pause. Then, it goes higher. Across Jake’s thin white t-shirt, sweat stains, worn neckline, and all. Jake looks right into Heeseung’s round eyes. His mouth dries. “Do you—I—”
Heeseung laughs, again. It sounds like an appeasement. The kind that makes Jake feel a tinge of shame when it’s aimed at him. One that Jake chases anyways. High on meds or not.
“Of course.”
It works. A little. Heeseung draws the chair a little closer. Jake draws a raggedy breath in. He doesn’t ask the other question in his mind aloud, but Heeseung somehow knows.
He rises from the chair, his hands in his hoodie’s front pocket, “Yes, really.”
Jake exhales. As slowly as he can, so that it doesn’t irritate his lungs. He can’t ruin this. A hand ghosts his knee. Jake hugs the pillow tighter. That churning in his stomach is squished much too far down, sent to a different organ altogether. His thighs clamp together, then split apart.
“I’ll stay here until you eat,” Heeseung says. He settles himself onto the edge of the bed. Settles his hand on Jake’s lower thigh with a reassuring clap.
Jake stares into the fog again. That blurry feeling of wanting Heeseung nearer is no isolated whim. He’s sick, not fucking stupid. There’s a much bigger beast that it’s attached to. It cuts through the scorched thickets of his sense with slow, sure, trudges. There’s nothing he can do about it.
So, Jake closes his eyes. He rasps out a sigh. Every bit of his energy goes into that patch of skin above his knee, feeling for a response. Feeling, feeling, feeling—
A half-second twitch.
Jake does not blink awake, like some startled animal. Under Heeseung’s watchful gaze, he lifts his lids, slowly, deliberately.
Now, the hand goes back and forth. Upper, lower, upper thigh. It pushes a border that inches higher the more it’s challenged. Soon, it’ll disappear.
Through sweat-wet lashes, he regards.
He blinks.
A droplet trickles down his cheek.
He permits.
Suddenly, cold air is rushing into Jake’s lungs. Forced in, it scrapes his throat raw on the way. His back miraculously unsticks itself from the bedsheets he’s been adhered to for the past few days.
Heeseung grips him, the same way Jake opened his eyes, in measured increments, Heeseung’s hand pulls across his cock. A finger crawls a circle around the tip.
It does little for Jake’s satisfaction. It’s not supposed to. Jake thinks he might know how this will go.
Heeseung pushes himself further up the bed to straddle the middle, taking up whatever vertical space Jake doesn’t. With his torso upright, he blocks out the overhead light fixture, casting a wide shadow that eclipses Jake.
Symmetrically placed fingers brush at Jake’s side. His ass lifts, automatically. It earns a smile. Whether it’s of derision or pride, Jake’s fine with not being able to tell apart the two right now.
When the fabric beneath his skirt is pulled away, the air scalds his feverish body. Goosebumps ripple across Jake’s legs; part physiological reflex, part carnal response, stoked by Heeseung’s absentminded touch, most of his attention taken by what’s under Jake’s skirt, where Jake himself can’t see, what he can only feel.
He can feel the heat pool, his balls tighten, his hole involuntarily clench. He hopes it's a nice view.
When Heeseung helps him slide off his shirt, it’s like his hands bend the fundamentals of physics. They’re wide, veined, rough-palmed, yet completely immune to friction. Where the damp spots of Jake’s shirt stubbornly cling to his body, Heeseung’s hands deftly untangle man from cloth. The world cleaves to Heeseung, it seems. Jake watches him ball the shirt into a neat wad. Heeseung tilts his chin up, gestures with his finger for Jake to follow. Jake does exactly that. He’s has never been exempt from the long list of things that Heeseung is disconcertingly good at. He’s only mortal.
Heeseung draws closer to the exposed column of his neck. For the briefest moment, there’s a flicker of teeth sinking into him, siphoning his life away. He waits for the sting, but there’s only the soft brush of cotton. It tracks an exact route around the beads of sweat, attentively avoiding the sore patches of red. Heeseung even gets the wet ends of Jake’s grown out hair before he draws back again. The backlight makes a halo of sorts around him. Even while shadowed, the concern is evident in Heeseung’s expression.
“You’re really warm. Are you sure?”
There's no chance Jake is answering no. There's a logical niggle at his brain that's warning him about strenuous activity in this state and a compassionate niggle that’s fretting over Heeseung catching anything from him. Unfortunately, his animal brain, starved of human contact, doesn't understand English or empathy. It just knows that there's an opportunity right in front of him that he desperately needs. Jake nods and flashes a smile. A reassuring, non-delirious smile.
“Okay. Sit up for me, if you can. Let me get behind you.”
Jake pushes himself upright and scooches forward. He doesn’t get very far, what with his empty stomach and lightheadedness. And the skirt below him, rubbing at his balls and rim.
“A little more. Sorry, I know it’s tough on you.”
That’s all the warning Jake gets before the hands return round his waist, moving him enough for Heeseung to fit himself against the headboard. Jake squeaks as a firm grip pulls him backwards, for his head to come to rest against toned shoulders and his legs to be bracketed by Heeseung’s sweatpants-clothed own. A hand reaches between Jake’s legs. It—
It pulls free the skirt that had been bunched up.
The exhale Jake lets out this time is less controlled. When it scratches the wrong spot of his esophagus, a harsh few coughs rip out of him. The broad chest his back presses against doesn’t even tense, much less flinch. A comforting hand massages at his sternum until he quietens with heaving breaths.
Maybe, there’s nothing mysterious about how much power Heeseung has over him. There’s a lot about the man that seems supernatural, but none of this is. Jake tilts back to settle his head on a collarbone. Relinquishing himself to the hands that curl round his waist is the most logical thing he’ll do today, he thinks.
Jake hears that he’s ‘pretty’ pretty often. The fans say it, the stylists and makeup artists say it, even the members chime in sometimes. His hair, his eyes, his lips, and not to brag, but, his face in general.
Soft fingers slide down Jake’s side, gliding like they’re doing scales on a piano. Jake jerks away, though he doesn’t mean to; while his senses of taste and smell are gone, his ticklishness is unchanged. Heeseung breathes out a titter.
“Even the way you react is pretty.”
How is it that the same two syllables sound so different, enveloped in hot air, diffused delicately across the shell of his ear? What he’s grown to barely blink at is suddenly novel all over again.
Heeseung traces the faint protrusions of his ribs, the gentle incline of the abs he’s been slacking off in maintaining. In a way, it is new. The hands running over him like they’re—appraising him. Every time they slow to pay a little more attention to some part, the birthmark on his solar plexus, the divot down to his navel, it’s like Jake gets a little blue ribbon. A stamp of approval that impresses onto him, spreads him out like hot wax. But, as liquid as he ends up, he doesn’t get any less sensitive. When Heeseung loops back to flutter over a nipple, Jake jolts with an ungainly choking noise. A palm to his shoulder, removed from being tangled in Jake’s hair, keeps him where he is.
Heeseung dips his head, the side of his face a hair’s breadth away from Jake’s own.
“Is Jaeyunie like this while taking cock as well?”
This is definitely new. Jake’s cheeks and ears burn, more than they already do from the fever, and Jake can tell that Heeseung can tell. His touch takes on an edge. One hand gets more insistent, the other tightens its hold on Jake.
“I like it, though,” he hums. “Will you squirm like this while you’re riding me? Or you’d rather have me ruck your skirt up and fuck you while you’re thrashing into the mattress?”
Jake absolutely does not have the mental bandwidth to pick an option.
“I don’t know—” The more Jake thinks about it, the more the images saturate his brain and the more he can’t get an answer out to the question. Wait. When did that wrist slip below his waistband? “—I don’t— hah, hyung .”
The back of a finger, with the slightest tip of a nail, skims up his shaft. Attention now drawn back to what had been out of sight, out of mind, Jake realises how achingly hard he is, only from being groped all over. It should be embarrassing, but he instead finds tentative eagerness thrumming deep in him.
How is it? Do you like it? Jake wants to ask.
Under those dull-toned pleats, between still boyishly slim thighs, straight south of his smooth stomach, Heeseung’s fingers orient themselves lower to cup him fully. Barely.
Hold it. Feel its weight, its heat, in your hands. This is what you do to me. This is how well I can wait for you. This is what I want to give you.
“You’ll need to give me an answer soon. For your own sake.”
Though the fantasies tempt him, realistically, he has no business trying to get on top when simply walking down the hallway to the bathroom has him staggering like a marathon finisher.
“The—second one.” As much as Jake can imagine it, he can’t bring himself to say it like Heeseung did. It’s comically stupid, being afraid of a few words, considering the state he’s in right now, but he just can’t .
A beat passes, for Heeseung to recollect what he said before, then: “Ah.”
Jake can hear the smile in the single, short, utterance.
Heeseung is right. Well, not fully right yet. He will be right, though. In a bit. Because right now, with just two fingers in Jake, Jake already feels like he’s a fish reeled out of water: soaked everywhere, arms drawn to his chest, and spasming; it’s not the classiest comparison, but it’s what’s happening.
Every so often, a free hand reaches up to get Jake’s fringe out of his eyes, to tuck a lock behind his ears, to stroke down the head of hair that he can’t remember when he last washed. Careful fingers brush at his cheek, leave a blush in their wake, even if they’re indistinguishable from his fever flush. It makes Jake less, for lack of a better word, fish-like. He feels—
Heeseung cocks his fingers upwards, pushes them deeper. Jake clamps his mouth shut, stifling a gasp with a trembling hand.
“Another?”
Jake nods frantically. His knees lock with tension, while a whine slips out his throat.
“So fucking hot inside. Bet you’d be so, so good, all tight around me.”
Tight around Heeseung. Jake’s head spins. He’s about to pass out, and not from exertion or sickness. He unsticks an arm from his side to tap weakly on Heeseung’s. The movement slows. He’s so full. The thought of being fuller in a moment—God, he can’t pass out. Not now.
“Hm?”
“You can stop already. I’m ready—now.”
“Ready for…” Heeseung’s fingers grow more sluggish. Jake groans. “That’s all you’ll let me hear of your pretty voice?”
His name and that word, in the same sentence, straight from Heeseung’s mouth.
“My voice is pretty,” Jake repeats, dumbly. He doesn’t realise that Heeseung’s taken his fingers out entirely, cleaned them off on tissue, and resettled them on Jake’s knee, tracing lines on old scars, circling yellowed bruises from practice.
“You’re great at listening, aren’t you?” Heeseung chuckles. When they subside, he presses a kiss to Jake’s ear. “I still need to you to tell me what you can—what you want.”
Heeseung’s tone is soft yet firm, another paradox that only he can pull off.
Jake wishes he could have that sort of mystique. There’s so much Jake wants to say, and he’s aware that it shows on his face, the same way he turns red when he’s trying to hold a chain of coughs back.
Everyone knows that if you let one cough out, everything will follow, then you’ll end up with tears down your cheeks and blood in the back of your mouth. And, everyone will refuse to be in a ten-metre radius from you for the next week, because it sounds like you have some diabolical combo of the coronavirus, influenza, and Tuberculosis. Except Heeseung, whose new hoodie now smells of sex and sweat and is probably in need of hospital-grade sterilisation.
The low flame of Heeseung’s arms and his honeyed voice melts Jake inside out.
“I wanna be good for you— wanna lay back and have you. Take you. Kick my legs up on your shoulders and watch the skirt billow every time you drive into me. Feel it scrunch under my ass when you bend me in half just to get deeper. I wanna—” Jake coughs, hard. His throat hurts, unsurprisingly. He hasn’t used it this much in a good minute. When he draws in his next deep breath, it passes clear, the viscous cling from deep within that had invaded his respiratory tract notably absent.
He feels—
Jake feels human. He feels alive.
Heeseung holds him by the waist, his ass supported by the bulky mound of a stripped-off hoodie, lube now added to the list of unsavoury things it’s been stained by. Jake’s given up on trying to look down and deciphering what might happen next; the strain on his neck makes his head pulse nauseatingly. If there’s something worse than passing out right now, it would be being sick everywhere—but it's not like he can see much, anyways, when the skirt acts like a curtain across his thighs. Ironically, despite its school-appropriate length, Jake feels barer with it on him. A shiver wracks him in reflexive complaint of the cold sheets he's back to lying on, clamouring for the warm body that gave him respite in their equilibrium. Jake shivers once again when there's a hot, slick, press at his entrance. Maybe it's not about the warmth. It pushes against him, thick and solid, nothing like fingers, even at their most desperate. Where dexterous digits worked him open in increments, a carnal coarseness breaches him through and through. A rough brush of hair reaches his perineum. Heeseung smooths down the pleats of the skirt.
“Just like that, Jaeyun-ah. You’re doing so fucking good for me." Heeseung coaxes with a nudge at a knee.
Jake's legs fall to the sheets. In a way, Heeseung’s flattery is terribly misplaced. They're less his legs than they are legs that happen to be attached to his body. He’s not really doing anything at all, at least by his own volition. The uncontrollable pull inwards is something his body can’t help, some hedonistic lobe of his brain running his body like a machine: taking the muttered words and compelling him to take as much as Heeseung can give, even though his muscles scream in disuse.
Where Jake’s vision can’t reach, where his hands don’t dare to intrude on, it goes, and goes, and goes. Heeseung’s face looms closer and closer; Jake can almost see the vapor through his teeth, hear the hiss like a boiling kettle—which he might as well be. The thin skin of latex between them does little to mediate the frenetic rush of their blood, the electromagnetic heat where their cells almost meet, the match-strike spark where every ridge rubs, until a tense weight squeezes against right below Jake’s hole. There’s a second of stillness. Jake empties his lungs of air. Just like that, he is nothing but a vessel for Heeseung, glazed with sweat, painted with tears that he doesn’t realise have tracked down his cheeks until a tender thumb detours their route.
“Shit, is it too much—”
“No!” Damn. That comes out more forceful than he intends.
“No,” Jake repeats in a more level tone. “Oh my god. I don’t know why—” he’s interrupted by a hiccup that has him covering his mouth with a fist to stifle an embarrassed laugh. “It’s gotta be the virus. Fucks my emotions up.”
Heeseung laughs too, endeared. "Wear masks less. Go into crowded places more. You're cute like this. I didn't think you were a crier."
Jake's hands uncurl to cover his eyes. He peeks through trembling fingers and burning vision. "I'm not—Are you trying to curse me?"
"I'll take care of you the whole time," Heeseung easily lifts Jake’s left leg up, hooks its shin over his shoulder and keeps a steady grip on a thigh that might be the only thing keeping Jake from splitting into two. He pushes further, into where Jake didn’t even think a ‘further’ existed, displacing a moan from Jake’s other end, as guttural as Heeseung is gentle when he lilts, “How about it? Hm?”
“We’d both end up sick. The others will be pissed as fuck,” Jake wants to say.
But, it’s a bit hard to put the words together, much less get them out, when Heeseung starts moving. He’s found some cheaty angle that makes the searing strain of his cock up inside Jake more insistent, and however far he draws himself out doesn’t lessen the friction by any amount.
It’s not just the physical impossibility of speaking, that Jake’s throat closes up with an unbearable itch that spreads through him inside out, damming anything intelligible behind raspy whimpers; it’s that, with every roll of Heeseung’s hips, Jake feels the half-formed words slip away and morph into something that sounds a lot more like yes, yes, god yes. The image before him, a blurred blob of mussed auburn atop a long swathe of tanned skin, multiplies and tiles out across time and space: his mental calendar jotted with every place, every way they could do this.
Heeseung hoists Jake’s ass up, as well his other leg. One of Jake’s hands snake backwards, gripping the headboard for support while the bottom half of his body is pried off the bed. The other instinctively surges down to flatten the skirt that threatens to flip backwards. As if that would confer him any ounce of propriety; as if he's not currently begging between bilingual strings of mumbled profanities for Heeseung to fuck him deeper, right—mmh—there . As long as that little circle of fabric round his waist is secure, he's absolved from how much he revels in its trespass.
Jake's cock bounces with every push and pull of his body away and against, up and down the mattress, its sensitive head skittering across the lining of the skirt. It tents right where he's laid his palm, a brush of flesh, fabric, flesh that brings him to flash point. His palm melts into spread-out fingers that rub at the stifled heat, careless and desperate. It brings back memories of a different situation: a bedroom with too many people, a bathroom he saw too little of; pressing his face into the glass with a fist around his dick and terrible thoughts in his head.
"Jaeyun," Heeseung says.
His voice rises over the distant rain of a showerhead left running, over the closer, harsher sounds of their bodies slapping together. Jake's hand turns to ice, jerking away from the flame and out of the cookie jar, like he's been walked in on. "Oh. Why'd you stop?"
Jake doesn’t answer. Neither does he need to, because Heeseung’s hand caresses down Jake’s frozen arm, pressing down at the wrist, and he turns pliant all over again with a gasp. He doesn’t stop moving thoughout all of this. So, so close.
Jake raises a shaky gaze to blown pupils. Heeseung’s skin is ruddied in uneven patches. His hair sticks up in weird places. He's not the perfectly patchworked memory who follows Jake into the shower, crawls into his bed when everyone else is asleep, and finds his way into Jake's dreams on the rare occasions that he has them. He's the same solid presence that sits by Jake, blinking through his fatigue, whenever he needs help with singing. The body between Jake's legs is the one he's learned to watch in the studio mirror, to emulate, to replicate, to accidentally stare for way too long at. This is, somehow, real.
“Go on. I want you to feel good. Show me how a good boy feels good.” Jake hears enough bite in the murmur to make it just shy of an order, though that might be his subconscious projecting. Either way, he follows.
He feels good in the knots of the shoulder blade he clings at with the hand that was once on the headboard. He feels good in the heat, the shape that he’s squeezed around, that he squeezes. He feels good in the pain, as well: the muffled itch of now moistened fabric scratching him, the sting of not having been fucked like this in a long while, the continuous chafing below him. Compounded by the body ache, the parched throat, the general malaise, he hurts all fucking over, but it’s also the surest reminder that this is not some fever dream. To be clear, he’s no masochist (not strictly, at least); the pain itself isn’t what is reducing him into this mess. It’s what comes tied to it, the words Heeseung laves over him. Possessive, adoring, filthy, painfully loving. My pretty boy in one breath, then perfect fucking hole in the next. Ambrosial praise drips down his body to coalesce with the rivulets of sweat indistinguishable in source: the fever or the fucking. I love you like this, Heeseung tells him. Like this meaning absolutely fucked-out, writhing about pathetically every time that fat cock pistons in and out of him, every time his hand ekes another drip of pre-cum out of himself, the sick fuck.
“Doing so perfect, babe. Won’t you let me see you come on my cock?”
But, eh, Jake thinks, he’s sick too. In many more ways than one.
“Fuck, Jaeyun, are you actually—god, that’s so hot.”
Jake’s hand loosens around himself, quivering. The cloth released from his grasp deepens to a near black, while some translucent dribbles force their way through the thread. There isn’t a particular trigger for when his body seizes up, his emptied hand curling, the one on Heeseung’s shoulder almost punching five crescents down to the bone. It just happens; the natural consequence of everything.
Heeseung draws Jake’s knees to his chest as Jake’s damp hand scrabbles at a broad back. He almost cages Jake to the bed, continuing—intensifying his pace to match Jake’s pitchy, staccato, sobs timed to the spasms of his puffied hole. They’re drawn out into low whines as Heeseung closes the distance between their torsos, his lower abdomen sliding wetly against Jake’s softening cock, enfolded in his skirt. Jake’s mouth stays open, taking in rapid gasps of air, returning Heeseung’s name when the man pulls him tight.
An elongated groan curls round Jake’s ear, a far cry from the sweet nothings he’d gotten moments ago. The hips pressed against his ass veer off-time, canting arrhythmically, seeking to go deeper, to lock itself in with each throb and spurt deep within Jake. It’s like he’s being fucking bred or something—Jake’s dick twitches again, doubly encouraged by the pressure of Heeseung’s juddering body, but, physiologically spent, nothing more.
Jake’s hands eventually, reluctantly, have to slip off of Heeseung when the latter sits up shakily. His arm buckles momentarily, and Jake entertains a split second view of Heeseung killing him by crushing his already weak lungs right here and now. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go. He’d feel less empty, at least, he thinks, as the cock in him is slowly drawn out. He peers hazily over limp legs and a skirt soiled by a huge wet patch. Empty, empty, empty, his monkey brain hoots in complaint—until the two cells bouncing about in there make a rare collision, and an idea is born of it.
“Wait, hyung,” Jake rasps. Heeseung immediately looks up, attentive.
Jake twists himself into a sit-up, reaching below him to ease the cock out of himself fully. He tries not to drool at how it feels in his hand. All of that exhausts him enough to go back to lying down.
“Can you take the condom off?”
Jake doesn’t see the frown, but he can hear it when Heeseung replies, “We are not doing this again right now.”
“You said—Okay. I’m not asking for another round, just take it off.”
There are some faint noises, and then a gross, muted, splat sound.
“Did you just throw that on my floor?”
“Ack. Right. Sorry. I’ll pick it up.”
“Whatever.” Jake hauls himself up into sitting cross-legged, then shifts to lying prone.
See, the nice thing about being sick is the brain fog. The body kind of stops giving a damn about shame when it has better things to attend to, like stopping itself from overheating and dying.
He wriggles forward, reaching for Heeseung’s cock. When he looks up, he’s met by wide eyes. For once, he’s not read like an open book. Jake has to hold his smile back, careful not to let his teeth scrape onto the sensitive head, as he laps at the traces of cum down to the streaks along the shaft. Even when he pulls off, his fingers run across the length to catch any last drops. There’s a dirty, bitter, savour. Tastes bad, feels good.
”What the fuck was that?”
Jake’s too lazy to get up again. He curls onto his side, laying his head on Heeseung’s bare lap, looking up into a tilted, sort-of, smile: fifty percent bewilderment, fifty percent arousal. All Jake’s doing.
“Help. With cleanup and all.”
“As much as I appreciate it, your spit is not a real cleaning agent. If anything, the cleanup should start with you, that skirt, and running water.”
He emphasises his point with a smack on Jake’s ass. Obviously, it completely backfires, because Jake’s mind starts to fill with distracting thoughts. Sure, they do that to each other all the time, but it hits different fresh out of… sex.
Jake pouts into Heeseung’s thigh. “Can’t move. Everything hurts.” He’s not lying—as the blissful fuzz he’s in recedes and the world comes into sharpness, he finds pains in places he forgot he could feel.
Heeseung’s fingers card into Jake’s hair, turning soothing.
“Put some clothes on, at least. I’ll carry you.”
Jake is smiling before he realises it. This instinct he doesn’t mind. “Okay. Les’ go.”