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The practice room is grey, fabric soundproofed walls and bald white lights. Decidedly unsexy. Jiung is wearing a hoodie and a beanie when he opens the door, not the same ones as he had on in the TikTok but recognisable from his revolving supply.
“Hyung,” Intak says, dry-mouthed already.
Jiung closes the door and Intak reaches out to lock it.
Most of the space in here is taken up by the desk, the keyboard and the computers and the chair, and it’s too narrow to even stand side by side. Jiung twists his fingers together in front of himself, looking nervous, and Intak places one hand on each of his shoulders and walks him backwards until he hits the wall. Only three steps and he’s cornered.
Intak says, “you know it got posted?”
When Jiung’s lips twitch up at the corners Intak realises he never looked nervous. Just anticipatory. Like he’s flipped it on Intak, like he isn’t the mouse but the cat looking on in pleasure at a successful trap.
What were the lyrics? Intak’s English isn’t the best but he picked up on enough. He slides his hands down from Jiung’s shoulders to instead shove them up under his hoodie and t-shirt, touching cold bare skin. Jiung shivers.
Hips and waist: Intak fingers at the band of Jiung’s sweats, strings tied tight, and palms over the tight curve leading up to his ribcage. When he thumbs at Jiung’s nipples, Jiung makes a noise in the back of his throat. He doesn’t need to be quiet in here, not with all this soundproofing that they might as well make use of. Intak takes it as a challenge. Do well enough to get Jiung loud, louder.
He’s skinny and lean but his chest has never been totally flat, not the way Shota’s is like a board. Stubborn little swells of fat no matter how much weight Jiung ill-advisedly tries to lose that Intak presses his hands over now. Jiung is self-conscious about it; Jiung’s head falls back and hits the cushioned wall and his mouth drops open and his hips jerk forwards in search of Intak’s.
In the TikTok his face had stayed so carefully blank. It only changed when he had mouthed the words, and even then he’d done so without expression.
Reality is much better. A hot red flush on the tops of his cheeks, fluttering eyelids and his bitten and chapped bottom lip. He’s smiling, so pleased with himself, and a moan trips off his tongue as soon as Intak fits his thigh between Jiung’s.
He can’t see past the thick cotton hoodie hanging over his wrists but Intak blindly pinches Jiung’s nipples, too hard probably, and grins himself at the way Jiung trembles and pants.
Intak got hard when he watched the TikTok. Well- He started chubbing up after it looped the second time, and then he’d watched it a few too many more times. The walk through the building to find which room Jiung was in had been awkward and hobbling. Still, he’d done it. He’d do it again, too, because for whatever reason Jiung won’t just ask for what he wants. He’ll plant bait and wait with a patience Intak doesn’t have. So Jiung films himself, sits tight for the company to approve it, and Intak comes running.
“Tak,” Jiung breathes, low and real and sexier than even that maddening TikTok dance.
Intak grinds into Jiung with single-minded purpose, rolling his hips down and flexing his thigh and groaning. He’s wearing jeans and wishes he wasn’t but Jiung is in sweats, soft and worn, and Intak can feel the shape of his cock through them. Hot and hard, smaller than Intak because he’s smaller all over and never feels like that more than when Intak has him caged in.
If his hands were free he would unbutton his jeans and shove the denim down. He could move them, he could. He would if Jiung didn’t look so fucking good like this, making more noise by the second, arching his back off the wall to push his chest into Intak’s grabbing hands even more.
Under the sweats his legs are hairy and thick with hard-earned muscle. Under the hoodie there’s a trail of hair beneath his navel that grows back time and time again despite laser and wax, and abs that are firm and defined. Under the boxers he’s wearing is Jiung’s cock, leaking enough to stain through two layers of fabric.
Intak drops one hand down, ignoring Jiung’s faint protest, and presses his palm between Jiung’s legs instead. Cupping him in one big hand, rubbing against the damp spot.
“Hyung, you’re wet,” Intak murmurs, feeling himself blush at the dirty words.
Jiung’s eyes roll back, all the whites exposed, and Intak would say a thousand embarrassing things if he knew they’d all get this reaction.
Jiung hates when there’s mess. There’s a box of tissues in the top drawer in here, Intak knows, but to avoid any hassle he slips his hand into Jiung’s pants and touches him skin to skin. He keeps his hand flat, letting Jiung rut against it rather than jacking him off, and feels precome spread over his fingers.
It’s okay that Jiung isn’t doing anything to reciprocate. Intak couldn’t ask for more, really. Or, he could, but he takes what he’s given. He’d like it if Jiung would shuck his hoodie and let Intak get his mouth on his tits. He’d like it if he could turn Jiung around, push him against the wall face-first, and get him wet inside, too. It’s up to Jiung, though, and Intak has learned to be less greedy.
Less greedy but not selfless. Intak digs the tip of his thumbnail into Jiung’s nipple, hoping it stings, and palms his throbbing cock while he humps Jiung’s thigh like a neglected dog.
Mess doesn’t bother Intak the same way: he comes in his jeans, sticky and hot, muffling his moan against Jiung’s neck and then snorting at the way Jiung flinches away from his touch there even now.
“Ungie-hyung,” Intak says, breathless and still riding his high. “Touch yourself, help me.”
Jiung does it without hesitation, throwing his hand up to his own chest and letting out a pitchy whine. His hoodie is rucked up, his belly out in the open but he doesn’t seem to care, and Intak swallows hard and feels his dick twitch.
He’s gentler with himself than Intak is, letting his fingers dance lightly over his nipple while Intak keeps pinching until the skin is red and swollen and puffy. Intak’s other hand rubs against Jiung’s cock, incessant and so wet by now he wonders if his fingertips will wrinkle up like he’s been in the bath, and Jiung rocks jerkily into the pressure with moves so far from the smooth hip rolls he’d pulled for the TikTok.
He sounds so pretty when he comes, spilling over Intak’s palm and his own stomach, squirming against the wall and trembling minutely. And his mouth is open, his lips are slick and red, and so Intak leans in and kisses him before he can move away. He uses too much tongue which Jiung doesn’t like but he’s mid-orgasm and allows it, and Intak licks at Jiung’s teeth and swallows down his spit.
Jiung takes a moment to catch his breath and only then does he pull his mouth away. Intak pouts - greediness kicking in again - but doesn’t complain.
“Gross,” Jiung says, face screwing up when he looks down at the smears of come on his skin drying tacky. He grabs the hem of his hoodie, holding it out of the way so that Intak can yank out a handful of tissues to wipe him clean with, and Intak tries to do a good job at the same time as he stares blatantly at Jiung’s belly and nipples and the tattoos scattered over his torso.
Intak could go again. Easily. He never quite went soft and the feeling of soiled boxers isn’t enough to put him off.
“Hyung, can we shower together?” Intak asks.
He can see on Jiung’s face the hesitation, the denial. But Jiung looks at Intak, meets his eye for a fraction of a second before his gaze darts away to the side again, and he says, “sure. Yeah, Tak-ah.”
Intak will never learn to stop being greedy if Jiung keeps indulging him like this.