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The air is heavy; heavy with the scent of salt from the sea and sweat on beachgoers’ skin, mixed with an overwhelming sweetness from freshly spun cotton candy being peddled out by various brightly colored vendors.
The humidity of Busan doesn’t help — it condenses the smells of the festival to a wet pressure in Jihoon’s lungs. He takes a deep breath, and can faintly taste the kettle corn of a nearby stand.
Licking his lips, he considers buying some. The sun is setting on the horizon, painting the stretch of sea a deep red. Last he ate, the sun was directly overhead, beating down with the final strength of summer.
“Do you want some?” Jeonghan’s dry voice flits over the myriad of festival noises.
Jihoon’s head lolls to the side — too lazy to turn properly — and regards his friend. He shrugs noncommittally. “Feels too hot for kettle corn.”
“Fair enough,” Jeonghan laughs, brushing a stray lock of blond hair from his face. “We’re supposed to be meeting Jisoo and his friends anyways, but we can keep an eye out for something cool to eat. Maybe we can grab some sashimi later on?”
Humming in agreement, Jihoon follows Jeonghan’s lead as the older boy pushes through the crowd of bodies.
The small festival is in full swing: the first strumming sounds of an indie band setting up on a rickety stage in the shallows of the sand, a steadily growing stack of crates nestled at the end of the pier — the word FIREWORKS standing out in bold letters, and a collection of tourists and locals alike swarming the the nucleus of activities.
They find Jisoo and his friends surrounding an ice cream cart on a relatively uncrowded stretch of sand. They’re far enough away from their pier that the sounds of music and voices are a muted pressure against their eardrums, but close — only a few yards away — from the now indigo stretch of water.
Jisoo greets them both with a smile, sparkling eyes crinkling as he goes in for a hug with Jeonghan; he gives Jihoon a light ruffle of his hair, but opts out of pulling the smaller man into a tight hug. Jihoon returns the smile in kind, though his is a bit more strained as he takes in the sight of the five strangers before him.
They’re all tall. Unfairly so in Jihoon’s opinion. They’re all tall and good looking, and Jihoon wants to blame the shifting sand beneath his feet for the difference in their height and the reason he has to look up at them as they introduce themselves: Wonwoo, Mingyu, Jun, Minghao, Seungcheol.
“We were just getting some ice cream,” Mingyu says brightly, gesturing to the ice cream cart and the vendor whose smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Jihoon knows that expression well — has worn it at a few of his dead-end jobs. “Do you guys want some?”
“Yes!” Jeonghan nearly moans, pushing them towards the ice cream cart to look at the assortment of icy treats.
Jihoon shuffles forward and picks up a laminated menu only to immediately drop it. He cringes down at his hand, now a bit tacky with what he hopes is melted ice cream.
“Sticky?” A deep voice to his left chuckles and Jihoon tries vainly to hide his small jump. The boy who’s speaking was the last one to get introduced, Seungcheol. He’s smiling at Jihoon, dimples on full display, dark hair lax and curling against his forehead.
Jihoon thinks he likes him best. Of the five strangers, he’s the shortest — still taller than Jihoon, but he’ll take small victories where he can.
“Uh, yeah,” Jihoon says, left hand hanging a bit limply in the air. It’s a bit awkward, but he doesn’t want to bring it back in and take ownership of his hand, not while it’s still coated in whatever was sticking to the menu.
“Here,” Seungcheol uncaps a nearly empty water bottle and pours the last few gulps over Jihoon’s hand.
Before he can reclaim his hand to wipe away the water against his shorts, Seungcheol is lifting the hem of his shirt, drawing Jihoon closer and rubbing his skin clean with soft cotton.
For a moment, Jihoon freezes — hand still wrapped in Seungcheol’s shirt, the other boy’s hands rubbing small circles into his own though his skin is long since clean. There’s a strip of Seungcheol’s stomach on display, muscles taut and gently flexing. Then, before Jihoon can summon enough saliva to his suddenly dry mouth, Seungcheol is dropping his hand and smiling again, dimples popping out and eyes crinkling tightly in the corners.
“All clean.”
“Um, thanks,” Jihoon says, and because he is incapable of leaving well enough alone, he continues with a stiff shrug, “you didn’t have to waste the last of your water on me though. I could’ve just wiped it off on something else.”
Seungcheol’s smile falters, then slips into something else, something a little bit sharper, a little more perceiving. “Don’t worry. I don’t consider it a waste.”
Jihoon feels his skin heat, a light flush no doubt dusting his cheeks and coloring the tips of his ears red. He tries to tell himself it’s the heat, just the heat and nothing more — not the slight smirk on Seungcheol’s plump lips or the dark, doe-eyes peering at him from beneath thick brows, cocked curiously as if inviting him to say something more.
Just the heat, Jihoon reminds himself. And so what if his throat feels too dry and it takes him two attempts to swallow down the butterflies swelling in his lungs — it’s still just the heat.
“Ice cream?” Seungcheol asks, sliding closer to Jihoon and the cart.
Jihoon manages a hum and takes a small step closer to the ice cream cart, just enough to create a bit of distance between himself and Seungcheol.
Plans for distance are dashed against the rocks when Seungcheol quickly shifts closer, becoming a solid line of heat against Jihoon’s side. Their arms brush each other, a barely-there skim of skin on skin.
Normally, Jihoon would pull away from the contact. Normally, Jihoon is resistant to others’ touching him, needs to be the one to instigate physical contact. Normally, Jihoon would complain about the concentrated heat building between, would argue it’s too hot for any sort of contact.
But, nothing about this is normal because normally, Jihoon doesn’t have a smoking hot friend-of-a-friend flirting with him; or, at least, what Jihoon assumes is flirting. Plus, it’s been a while, Jihoon rationalizes, it’s been a while since he had someone interested in him and someone he was interested in in return. So he’ll allow himself this — whatever this may be.
For the smallest of moments, Jihoon presses back against Seungcheol, then pulls away — feels the slow unsticking of their skin.
Jihoon doesn’t look back, doesn’t try to catch Seungcheol’s expression. He addresses the ice cream vendor instead, “One watermelon snow cone, please.”
The vendor is quick with the order, lifeless eyes flicking over his cart as he scopes finely shaved ice then soaks it a sugary syrup. Jihoon parts with two dollars, takes his snow cone, and steps off to the side, allowing the other boys to make their requests.
Jihoon doesn’t bother paying attention to whatever everyone else orders. He focuses on his snow cone, relishing in the crunch of ice and the too-sweet play of a synthetic watermelon flavor across his tongue. The snow cone goes a long way in cooling him down, sending pleasant shivers rolling down his spine with each mouthful.
He only clues in when Jeonghan nudges him away from the ice cream cart and closer to the shoreline. They all gather at the water’s edge, the high tide sweeping around their calves.
“Sun’s almost down,” Seungcheol says from somewhere to Jihoon’s right. “The fireworks should start soon.”
“Yes! I hear the show is going to be epic this year,” Mingyu says, fist-pumping the air excitedly. Too excitedly, if the muffled thump of his ice cream hitting the sand and the disappointed whine that follows is any indication.
“Dumbass,” Seungcheol chuckles, except this time he’s much closer to Jihoon’s side, voice rumbling much closer to his ear.
Jihoon shoots him a quick side-eye and his breath catches in his chest. Seungcheol stands knee-deep in inky water, shaded in indigo and the faint fluorescent glow of street lamps flickering on some distance away. His lips are wrapped firmly around a bright red popsicle, the color vivid enough even in the dim light of dusk.
Attention snared, Jihoon watches as Seungcheol sinks further down the popsicle with a wet sound, thick lips tightening as he slides back up with a loud slurp. He pauses, swallowing, then tongues lightly at the tip of the popsicle.
Heat pools deep in Jihoon’s gut, his muscles tense, and his dick gives the slightest twitch of interest.
“Fuck,” Jihoon hisses. Too loud, his thinks, as Seungcheol catches his eyes.
There’s something heavy and penetrative in Seungcheol’s gaze, something the prevents Jihoon from looking away as Seungcheol mouths down the side of the popsicle, plump lips parted and glinting with a wet sheen.
Seungcheol’s lips twitch and Jihoon’s mind registers the smirk half a second before boisterous shouting and a rough shove sends him sprawling face-first into the ocean.
The cold shock of the water has him spluttering up for air, limbs flailing as he fights against the tide tugging at his now drenched clothes.
“Fuck, fuck, cold,” Jihoon gasps, trying to rub the water out of his eyes. His snow cone cup is a soggy clump of paper clutched in his left fist.
There’s a firm press of hands digging into his sides and lifting him up. Jihoon’s still gasping from the cold as he’s leaned against a solid expanse of muscle, thick arms circling around him to steady him.
“What the fuck?” Jihoon growls, but he’s sinking into the warmth behind him.
“Sorry, sorry,” Jeonghan laughs. He’s doubled over, hands clutching his chest as he takes in the younger’s disgruntled expression. “I had to try. You were just so fixated.”
Jihoon’s mouth pinches, a fierce ‘fuck you’ on the tip of his tongue. But, Jeonghan straightens up and targets him a pointed stare, a knowing smirk on his mouth. Jeonghan’s eyes flick to the figure behind Jihoon, then settle back on Jihoon.
“You should thank Cheol though. He dropped his popsicle in the sand to help you up.”
There’s light humming from behind him, the voice deep and rumbling in the other person’s chest, and only then does Jihoon shift — craning his neck back — to see the person supporting him.
Seungcheol stares down at him, dark eyes intense and searching, lips a dark red. An unbidden punched-out sort of whine escape from Jihoon’s throat. Seungcheol smirks, tongue swiping quickly across his lower lip before dragging it between his teeth.
“You good?” Seungcheol asks, and Jihoon feels the words more than he hears them.
“Yeah,” Jihoon says, pauses, then continues, “Sorry you dropped your popsicle.”
“It’s no big deal.” Seungcheol shrugs, jostling Jihoon with the movement.
Jihoon hums awkwardly, acutely aware that he’s still wrapped in Seungcheol’s embrace with their friends looking on. He shuffles, politely trying to indicate that Seungcheol should let him go. The arms around him tighten for a lightning-quick second before slowly sliding away. The ensuing shivers that wrack Jihoon’s frame is from the cold of the water weighing down his clothes, and not from the lingering graze of fingers against his waist. At least, that’s what Jihoon tells himself, repeatedly.
Jihoon steps back, creating space between them. Seungcheol keeps his gaze and Jihoon wants nothing more than the walk back into his arms. Instead, he thrusts his fist up, the crumpled snow cone cup peaking through his fingers. “I should, um, find a trash can.”
“Ah, yeah,” Seungcheol’s face does a comical shift — his eyes lose their intensity and scrunch up into tight crescents as dimples pop out. “I should find one too, gotta throw away my popsicle.”
“I think there’s a few further down the beach,” Jisoo says, pointing away from the festivities. “You guys should hurry up though; the fireworks are about to start.”
“Gotcha,” Seungcheol says, sweeping down to pick up his remnants of popsicle out of the sand.
Jihoon trudges after him slowly. There’s a warm wind blowing, mild enough not to stir up sand, but it presses on his water-logged clothes and he can’t repress the resulting shivers.
“You cold?” Seungcheol asks.
Jihoon shrugs noncommittally just as another round of shivering shakes his frame. Chuckling, Seuncgcheol pulls the smaller male towards him, tucking him firmly against his side and smoothing his hand up and down Jihoon’s arm.
Jihoon settles into Seungcheol’s warmth. And so what if he snuggles a bit closer into the other boy’s side? Jihoon can lie and say it’s for warmth, but as he presses into the fingers stroking soft back-and-forths against his hip, he knows there is a purpose to each other their actions. There is purpose to Seungcheol’s light teasing, touches; purpose to Jihoon pressing back against curious fingertips and curling further into the broad chest before him.
The purpose is a slow, unfurling warmth blooming between them. The dawning sense that they’re going to keeping pushing into the bends of each other until something snaps — until the warmth becomes heat and the heat becomes explosive.
Neither of them address what’s building between the press of their skin. They keep walking until they find a cluster of trashcans tucked into the sand. They throw away their trash and keep walking.
Faintly, carried on a sea breeze, comes an announcement that the fireworks display is going to start soon. Rather than circling back to their waiting group of friends, Seungcheol shifts his grip to Jihoon’s wrist and tugs the boy with a gentle ‘come on’ towards a grouping of umbrellas.
The umbrellas are planted haphazardly in the sand, creating a private little alcove away from prying eyes. Except, there are no prying eyes, Jihoon notices — their little stretch of beach is deserted. It’s just them, the lulling rush of water, and the early dotting of stars low on the horizon.
“Here,” Jihoon hears Seungcheol say, tunes in enough to catch the rustle of fabrics and looks over in time to see Seungcheol spreading out his button-up shirt across the sand.
“Oh,” Jihoon breathes, watching the play of moonlight over Seungcheol’s bare torso. His skin almost glows under the hazy light of the moon, the sharp cut of firm pectorals and barely-there abs shifting underneath shadow. It takes Jihoon a minute to find his tongue again. “You—you didn’t have to do that.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. This sand is soft enough, but it’s still going to be a bitch to clean off, so I figured I’d do what I can to minimize contact.”
“Right, good thinking — don’t want sand in your buttcrack” Jihoon chuckles, then promptly wants to smack himself but sandy buttcracks are without a doubt the least sexy thing he could think of in what is promising to be a decidedly sexy moment.
Seungcheol, a paragon of good grace, takes the comment well. He laughs, mild but amused. “Exactly,” he says, moving to recline on his make-shift blanket. Once settled, he casts a roguish smile up at Jihoon.
Jihoon stares transfixed at the smile. It’s not quite a smirk, there’s too much playful intent in the curve of Seungcheol’s lips, but there is an edge to the corners of his mouth — sharp like a shard of glass that cuts out any concept of simple innocence.
Jihoon sinks down on Seungcheol’s shirt. He wants to keep sinking down, too; he wants to sink down against the dark-haired boy until he finds his lips, wants to feel Seungcheols plump lips part against his own, wants to know if they still taste of his cherry-red popsicle, wants to know if he can get them as wet and slick and obscene. He just wants.
A piercing whistle cracks the silence between them rapidly followed by rhythmic popping sounds, then they’re suddenly blanketed in a flickering red glow. Jihoon jerks toward Seungcheol, feels the other reciprocate the movement, and looks up just in time to see the fading sparks of a firework scatter back down to the ground.
The following silence is dense. Jihoon’s breath feels thin in his chest before weak laughter filters out. “Fuck,” he gasps, resting his forehead against the curve of Seungcheol’s shoulder, “that scared the shit out of me.”
“Yeah,” Seungcheol chuckles, shifting closer to Jihoon, “not gonna lie, almost pissed myself.”
Jihoon does bark out a louder laugh at that. He lifts his head, a wide grin still in place, just as a second firework explodes into the sky. The twinkling glow of blues and purple dance across their skin and Jihoon realizes just how close they are. He’s curled into Seungcheol’s embrace and there’s the ghost of fingers sliding along the skin of his lower back.
Seungcheol is bathed in hot pink as his arm skates up Jihoon’s side slowly, muscles bunching under the vibrant light. Ash falls — the air feels heavier, taste singed — and there’s a firm press of fingers on Jihoon’s throat, settling at the base of his jaw.
A shrieking boom hits the air. There’s a hot exhale of breath across Jihoon’s lips. The sky is painted in deep reds and vibrant silvers — Seungcheol’s dark eyes glint under the glow — an explosion of neon aster flowers blinking across the black sky. Sparks shower down dimly. Seungcheol presses forward and Jihoon meets him, feels the firm give of plush lips beneath his own.
A series of flaring lights pierce into the sky and Seungcheol gasps into the kiss, mouth parting hot and wanton. Jihoon leans forward, tongue sliding against Seungcheol’s as searing light bleeds behind his closed eyes.
Someone whimpers. Jihoon can’t tell who, can’t hear the sound over the rapid-fire pop of yellow and orange sparklers in the sky, but he can feel the vibration of the noise in his mouth, feels is mix with the thudding of the firework pounding the air.
Any semblance of calm breaks with the next explosion. The sky explodes in balloons of color, the rapid movement of sparks never ceasing. Seungcheol growls into Jihoon’s mouth then pushes the blond down, pins him on his back in the sand. He hovers over Jihoon, backlit in shifting reds and purples.
Jihoon stares up, sees the wet glint of Seungcheol’s swollen lips cast in flickering red light. The sky falls black and Seungcheol’s weight shifts down, presses firmer against Jihoon’s. There are lips on his neck, a hot, wet suction at his pulse point and Jihoon knows he’ll have his own display of reds and purples.
The sky lights up again, verdant green. Jihoon’s moaning, he knows he is, but he can’t hear a sound. The air reverberates with a thick boom, and the sky is bathed in blue. He’s arching into the weight above, him, head lulling back to the nipping kisses Seungcheol is delivering to the sensitive skin of his throat.
There’s a harsh suck to his Adam’s apple, he feels Seungcheol’s growl, the thick laving of his tongue as it traces a path to the hollow of his throat. Jihoon’s eyes reflect the floral clusters of purple gunpowder.
“Euung,” Jihoon gasps, hips twitching into the rolling press of Seungcheol’s. Firm hands grip his waist, bunch and push his shirt up as Seungcheol trails his kisses further down.
The showering sprinkle of silver sparks sucks Jihoon in, his mouth opens and he chokes on thick air. He shivers and looks down. Seungcheol is painted in silver and cold, his mouth part around Jihoon’s nipple and all the blond can register his wet heat.
Seungcheol’s tongue flicks in rhythm to the explosive burst. Jihoon jerks, his head tilts back on a ragged moan and he’s drowning in cerulean and magenta.
“Please,” he begs as Seungcheol switches to his other nipple, nipping it before soothing it with his tongue. His rubs at the other nub, peaked and sensitive, with a blunt thumb. “Fuck, God, please, please, please.”
Jihoon’s throat constricts, his whining drowned out by the next clap of fireworks. Orange and pink flitters out in long strokes, curving back down to the water below. One hand grips Seungcheol’s hair — the taller man still pressing sucking kisses across his chest and nipples — his other hand scrambles down the smooth expanse of Seungcheol’s back.
Jihoon feels the shifting of muscle beneath his nails, his fingertips slipping on sweat-slick skin. He tugs upward, pulling Seungcheol back to his lips. He blossoms beneath Seungcheol’s touch, mouth open and wanton to Seungcheol’s exploration. His eyes flicker shut under a spiral of red.
Seungcheol’s tongue drags across the roof of his mouth, his hands trace teasing paths from his nipples to his hips. There’s a howl on the wind followed by a sharp pop and Seungcheol’s thigh thrust down on Jihoon’s groin, hands encouraging Jihoon’s desperate rocking.
“Seungcheol, please,” Jihoon whines against the other’s lips.
Their lips disconnect with a lewd smack. A jettison of blue and green scatters behind Seungcheol. “What do you want?” He asks voice scraped raw, a deep rumbling challenging that of the fireworks.
Jihoon pauses. He pants shallowly — the air still too thick in his lungs. He smooths his hands down from Seungcheol’s neck, notching over the muscles on his chest to settle at the waistband of his jeans. The sky flashes red in shimmering bursts. Jihoon flicks a quick gaze up at Seungcheol — eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted on small, hiccuping breaths.
Changing course last minute, Jihoon snakes one hand back up. He curves his palm over Seungcheol’s jaw, thumb hovering over parted lips. Seungcheol flicks the tip of his tongue over the pad of Jihoon’s thumb and Jihoon follows its retreat back into his mouth, pushing his thumb past thick lips.
Seungcheol’s cheeks hollow under purple light. Jihoon groans at the tight suction before easing his thumb back out, catching it on Seungcheol’s lower lip and dragging it out.
“This,” Jihoon says, dark eyes glowing chartreuse, sharp features coming to life under the dazzling glow under the shatter of green sparks. “I want this. I want to fuck your mouth. Can I? Can I fuck your mouth?”
Seungcheol groans and presses appreciative kisses to Jihoon’s thumb, breaths a worshipful ‘fuck yes’ into the delicate skin of Jihoon’s wrist. “Please,” Seungcheol exhales, lips parting on the column of Jihoon’s throat, trailing down the pale skin of his stomach, “please, fuck my mouth.”
“Yeah?” Jihoon grunts as Seungcheol palm at his hard cock through the fabric of his shorts. “You’ll let me?”
“Yes, yes,” Seungcheol says, making quick work of Jihoon’s shorts.
Jihoon hisses as his cock finally breaks free of the restricting confines of his shorts. He’s been hard for far too long, cock dripping and an angry red.
Seungcheol runs a feather-light touch down his cock. He looks up, a pleased smirk gilded in gold and lust turning the curves of his lips.
“You’re big,” he says, squeezing the base of Jihoon’s cock as if to prove his statement.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Jihoon laughs, sliding a hand in Seungcheol’s hair. “Is this okay?”
“Yes.” Seungcheol’s smirk becomes glass sharp again. He delivers a quick lick to the head of Jihoon’s cock, slurps at the gathering precome. Jihoon’s grip tightens in the soft strands of Seungcheol’s hair and the taller man groans. “Lean back, Jihoon. Watch the fireworks. Enjoy this.”
Seungcheol waits until Jihoon lays back in the sand before taking the head of his cock in his mouth. It’s as if he timed it — the tight heat is wet and immediate — Jihoon’s shout of pleasure melts in with the peal of fireworks. Tight nebulae of primary colors spray out into lazy arches of color against the black slate sky.
Reds, purples, and blues whisk before Jihoon’s eyes, seemingly seeping into the fabric of Seungcheol’s shifting skin as his head bobs lower. His mouth a consistent source of wet heat, tongue massaging against the underside of Jihoon’s cock.
Seungcheol’s slides back up, cheeks hollowing and sucking with firm intent at the Jihoon’s sensitive cockhead. Jihoon’s hand tightens in Seungcheol’s hair and his hips give a quick jerk up. He doesn’t heart the squelch of Seungcheol choking so much as feel the tight constraint of his throat before Seungcheol lifts off.
The word ‘sorry’ is on the tip of Jihoon’s tongue. But Seungcheol’s expression is anything but angry — it’s drugged, eyes black and plump lips slick and red. “Do that again.”
“Again?”
“Yes,” Seungcheol gasps, ducking down to mouth at the base of his cock, lips trailing open mouth down to Jihoon’s balls.
Jihoon writhes as Seungcheol takes his time taking each ball in his mouth, tongue swirling patterns in the skin. He has a hand on Jihoon’s cock, slowly tugging up and twisting at the head, thumb smearing spit and precome to help slick the drag of his hand.
Seungcheol pulls off. They both gasp in a breath, skin expanding in pinks and reds. The edges of Seungcheol shimmer neon and iridescent.
“You wanted to fuck my mouth, right?” Seungcheol asks, and Jihoon nods. “Then fuck my mouth and don’t hold back. I want to see you come undone, I want to watch you explode.”
Jihoon groans as Seungcheol sinks back down. Wet. Hot. Slick. Soft. The boom of fireworks is muted as Jihoon tightens his grips, palm cradling the back of his skull, and presses down. Seungcheol has a hand on his thigh, it tightens briefly, but he sinks down with Jihoon’s hand.
Jihoon hits the back of Seungcheol’s throat and the sky is bleeding red and purple. He presses Seungcheol further down, relishes the pulsing swallows around his cock. There’s tight heat around his cockhead, the fluttering of Seungcheol’s tongue at the base of his cock. Jihoon moans loud and unabashed; pulls Seungcheol up and allows him two sharp breaths in under neon blue twinkles of fire and chemical, then pushes him quickly back down.
Under the coiling burst of fireworks, Jihoon works Seungcheol’s mouth on his cock, presses the taller boy down with an unrelenting pace. He floats in the tight suction of Seungcheol’s mouth, the obscene slurping that fills the silence between rounds of fireworks, the play of gauzy colors on their skin, and Seungcheol’s eyes — dark, with a sheen of unshed tears reflecting the dazzling colors of the fireworks.
Jihoon’s hip jerk roughly. Seungcheol chokes, throating tightening quickly, then releases on a drawn-out moan — heavy vibrations pulse along Jihoon cock, and suddenly he’s so close to the edge. He yanks Seungcheol down, feel his plump lips twitching against the sensitive skin at the base of his cock. Grinding slowly, he watches as the tears finally crest down Seungcheol’s cheeks.
The taller man’s eyes flutter close, then open as he hollows his cheeks and sucks hard, a constant stream of moans thrumming against Jihoon’s cock. Seungcheol’s eyes, shiny with tears reflect a purple shower of sparks, the muscles on his back and arms dipping between colorful illumination and obscurity.
Jihoon feels his orgasm building, feels this burning heat in his gut, the tightening of his balls. He tries to tug Seungcheol off, too far gone to give voice to a warning. But, Seungcheol pulls against his hold, takes Jihoon deeper into his throat and swallows, eyes blazing red then blue then black.
The air is heavy, a sudden rush of thundering sound pierces through the fog in Jihoon’s mind. The sky explodes into a dozen blooming flowers, Jihoon throws his head back, body shuddering, mouth opening on a silent scream, and cums deep in Seungcheol’s throat.
Vaguely, he feels Seungcheol jerk as the first lash of cum hits the back of his throat. Then he’s floating, drowning, being pulled under and apart, expanding with heaving gasps as Seungcheol keeps sucking him, a firm hand petting Jihoon’s shaking thigh.
The sky is black when Jihoon comes to. He feels thin, sort of stretched out and buzzy. Seungcheol shifts between his thighs and slowly crawls up his body.
Seungcheol smiles at the blissed expression on Jihoon’s face, dimples popping out fondly. Jihoon can’t help it, he returns the smile, his own dimples popping out in sated mirth. Lazily, he drags Seungcheol down into a deep kiss, running his tongue along plump lips and into his slick mouth, tasting his own bitter release.
“Did you cum?” He asks, nipping at Seungcheol’s abused lips.
Seungcheol nods and lifts his hand, glinting wetly in the moonlight. Jihoon moans and doesn’t think twice before pulling his hand to his mouth, lapping at the other boy’s cum. He takes his time, sucks on each finger, slowly, thoroughly; maps out Seungcheol’s palm with his tongue. He delivers a quick nip to the tender skin between Seungcheol’s thumb and index finger.
Seungcheol groans and slumps down next to Jihoon, running a continuous stream of kissing along the boy’s neck and jawline.
“I didn’t hurt you, right?” Jihoon asks, tracing the sloping swell of Seungcheol’s biceps and down over his pecs.
“No,” Seungcheol says, though his voice is rough as if he had gargled gravel. “No, you were so good. So beautiful.”
“Better than the fireworks?”
Seungcheol’s lips twitch against Jihoon’s pulse point. “Fuck yes,” he says, deep voice rumbling against the sensitive skin of Jihoon’s neck and ear. “They were nothing compared to your glow.”