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Wookjin’s usual, molten voice, sounds pressed flat as he reads to him now, as if he were reciting formulae from a mathematics textbook. “But a criminal kiss long withstood and fought against, and therefore long yearned after, is beyond this.”
Anyone else would miss it, but Jisung can hear where his voice curls up at the edges. That dry control cracks and breaks to reveal something impish and wild. He can feel the heat of Wookjin’s gaze upon him in the pauses that he takes for air. In those breaths, Wookjin’s eyes flit from the page, to his body, naked and exposed.
But, Jisung dare not meet Wookjin’s stolen glances with his own stolen glances.
His pride and resolve will crumble soon enough. There is no need to hasten it.
Although his eyes may not betray him, his eyes do wander across his student’s dimpled knee caps and smooth, strong legs. Although his eyes may not betray him, the rest of his body does. He can feel the blossoming heat rise in his cheeks, lower in his chest, lower still just below his navel.
Perhaps Wookjin too can feel the burn of his gaze on his legs, much like Jisung can feel the burn of Wookjin’s gaze upon his shoulders and his neck.
“This scent reminds me of something,” Wookjin interrupts his reading of the passage. Long fingers play with the spined spring of rosemary that lies discarded on the edge of the bath. Wookjin drags those spines across the soft, exposed skin of Jisung’s forearm, barely a whisper of sensation. Jisung pulls away as if he were truly wounded.
“You’re wound so tight,” Wookjin gloats. “Isn’t a bath supposed to be relaxing?”
“Are you going to finish the passage?”
Perhaps for the first time since they’ve met, Wookjin does as he is told. He drops the facade and reads to Jisung now in a voice that is belligerently crisp, impish, and playful. “It is as luscious as forbidden fruit; it is a glowing coal set upon the lips; a fiery brand that burns deep and changes the blood into molten lead or scalding quicksilver. "His kiss was really galvanic,”’ There’s a scraping of paper against paper as he turns the page. Soft fingertips trace the supple leather binding of the book. “Jisung, what’s galvanic mean?”
‘Why would I know?” Only then does Jisung turn to finally look at Wookjin unshielded by his own half lidded eyes.
His expression is so soft, that if anyone else looked upon him, they would miss the predatory glimmer in his eyes hidden in all of that reverence. Jisung watches as Wookjin’s searing hot expression shifts. With narrowed pupils, Wookjin’s approval-seeking heat is sharpened, exchanged for something more corrosive, as if he grows annoyed at Jisung for the game that Wookjin himself created. Picking back up where he left off, he reads “His kiss was really galvanic, for I could taste its sapidity upon my palate.”
Wookjin fidgets as he reads, kicking his long, bare leg outward, off tempo to the poetic text from which he reads. It reminds Jisung that the power that Wookjin holds over him is tenuous at best. He watches the ball of his ankle jut outward, pull inward, his toes splay wide as he kicks back and forth.
“I suppose you don’t know what sapidity means either?”
“Not really,” he responds with a certain lilt in his voice that lets Wookjin know that he knows exactly what the word means.
“You’re probably the worst literature tutor ever.”
And at that, Jisung can no longer contain himself. He rises up from the water, encircling his arms around Wookjin’s slim waist. The book gets cast aside, rosemary infused water blots out and washes away the filth upon those pages. He soaks through the thin cotton shirt that Wookjin wears by embracing him. The feeling of warm damp skin, even if muted by cloth, the reverberating taste of Wookjin’s soft moan in his mouth, how could he ever want anything else?
The kiss is hungry, desperate like Wookjin wants to hold on and Jisung has something to prove. He pulls the other boy into the bath with him. Water spills out over the side in a cacophonous rushing sound.
Damp cloth clings to Wookjin’s skin and his hair to his face. Jisung pushes back those black strands and kisses him again and again and again, “producing an electric current.” He threads their fingers together and presses them against jade-colored tile. “Galvanic.”
When they part, Jisung can see Wookjin’s soft brown nipples and the heavy rise and fall of his chest underneath the translucent white of his soaked through shirt. Jisung can feel Wookjin’s cock, hard and insistent through the slick nylon fabric of his shorts.
When he does not claim Wookjin’s lips again right away, Wookjin diverts his wanting frustration elsewhere. The feeling of Wookjin’s lips upon his neck, teasing and marking, it truly is galvanic.
Wookjin rocks into his lap, desperate to feel Jisung’s length against his own, but this causes more frustration than relief while chasing friction. Then it will be his job to teach Wookjin this too. Grabbing the firm muscle of his buttocks he stills Wookjin, and then drives him down onto his cock. It still smacks of futility, too much cloth, and not enough friction, but for two people who want so desperately, it’s more than enough.
Jisung threads his fingers through Wookjin’s wet hair, pulling him off of his neck and kisses him forcefully, demanding access to Wookjin’s mouth immediately with his tongue. Wookjin responds fiercely, biting his lip when he dare pull back for air.
“A strong, but pleasant taste.” Jisung licks his own lips while keeping his eyes trained on Wookjin’s the whole time. “Sapid.”
Dissatisfied with the furtive rocking of their hips, Wookjin works his hand in between, palming his bare cock, teasing him, over, and over again until he’s rocking up into his hand. “Do you do this with all of your students?”
He doesn’t understand why Wookjin feels the need to repeatedly disarm him, not when he’s bare and vulnerable before him.
Jisung struggles to pull down Wookjin’s track shorts. It’s not about evening out the imbalance, its about trying to desperately, urgently, claw his way upward to a higher ledge knowing that Wookjin will be at his heels.
Bare skin touches bare skin for the very first time as they line their cocks up with one another. Their moans echo off of the tiled walls. Wookjin wraps his fingers around their cocks and fists them frantically. At this brutal pace, it isn’t the kind of pleasure that builds slow in their bellies, but takes them by surprise. He’s learned that it is simply easier sometimes to allow Wookjin to do as he pleases.
“Do you do this with all of your teachers?”
The tips of his fingers slide against smooth, soap softened skin. He squeezes the round flesh of his ass so hard that it would certainly bruise. Parting his cheeks, he wants to take him apart without removing a single piece.
The effect is immediate. Wookjin rewards him with desperate little noises that are greedily swallowed up in sloppy, open mouthed kisses.
Jisung circles his rim and traces intricate patterns with the pad of his finger. Jisung tests the tightness of Wookjin’s hole, pressing lightly, but never inside. So close and so far, so forbidden and so accessible, it makes him wild and fitful with desire.
“Do it,” Wookjin dares him, but doesn’t know how to ask for it. “Hyung--”
“Answer me first.”
“No,” his voice is husky and broken. “Just you.”
It’s only then that Jisung wraps his hands around their cocks. In that moment, frotting and rutting against Wookjin, water churning around them, he feels so reckless and so young.
“Wookjin--”
“Jisung hyung--.”
“Fuck--”
He regrets nothing when he cums into Wookjin’s hand.
He regrets nothing, not even the stinging, tugging sensation of overstimulation when Wookjin does not let go of his cock after he cums. He allows Wookjin to use him while he’s softening and overstimulated. Using Jisung’s cum as lubricant, it doesn’t take long for him to fuck himself to completion.
Only after they’re finished does Jisung remove Wookjin’s shirt, throwing it to the floor with a waterlogged slap. Wookjin sits with his back to Jisung’s chest, and in that position Jisung draws him in close and paints a portrait in red and purple and black along Wookjin’s neck in stippled love bites.
“Jisung,” The interruption is sudden, jarring even, after such a prolonged and comfortable silence. Wookjin cranes his neck so that they can look at one another. His expression is so soft, that if anyone else looked upon him, they would miss the predatory glimmer in his eyes hidden in all of that reverence. “I know what it reminds me of...the rosemary.”
“You just remembered?” The water is long past lukewarm. Their fingers are wrinkled. Wookjin has had time.
Jisung watches as Wookjin’s expression tightens as if he thinks better of what it is that he wants to say next. Then softens as he decides to throw caution to the wind. Wookjin quietly accepts his vulnerability to Jisung. A tool, a means to an end, closer to what he truly wants. “You remind me of my mother.”
It isn’t the kind of confession, the kind of disavowal that Jisung expects. Little has been spoken about her in the time that he’s known Wookjin. All he can really remember is a conversation were Mr. Jung told him that he believed that it was her absence that attributed to some of Wookjin’s more...colorful outbursts.
“It’s such a weird thing to talk about. After…”
“You want what’s best for me.” Wookjin lies back against his chest in the crook of his arm. “You’re very good to me.” There’s a certain calmness in Wookjin’s voice now, as it holds a timbre of satiety that he isn’t sure he’s ever heard there before. “You won’t leave now will you?” Because of what we did is implied. Like she did is implied too.
The answer to both of those questions is simple: A soft kiss against his knuckles and one small and complete statement, “no.”
Seemingly satisfied with that answer, Wookjin reaches over the side of the tub, finding his discarded book. The pages, puffy and no longer able to lie flat within the binding because of the water damage.
“I haven’t finished my lesson yet,” Wookjin’s tone is concerned.
Jisung couldn’t care less.
Picking up where they left off, Wookjin reads to him in that collected, sated voice, “Never again shall I see eyes so full of burning love, of such smouldering languor.” Wookjin repeats himself, “Languor, I know this one. Tired.”
Jisung cups Wookjin’s jaw softly and tilts his chin. He can taste the bruising on Wookjin’s mouth, hot and swollen. “Tired, but pleasantly so.”