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Hot Sugar

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Shanghai summer is in full swing.

It is hot and sticky and wet. When Sui Zhou goes out, he returns with his shirt sticking to his skin. He wears his hair up whenever and however he can, and by the end of his shifts at Dong-gu’s he feels like he’s been standing in a terrarium cooking himself. Tonight, the outside air remains heavy with humidity long after the sun has set, but it feels good after hours in the little kitchen.

Sui Zhou takes the little he can get, because he knows home is not necessarily going to be a relief.

Not with Tang Fan there.

Tang Fan and his little shorts.

They have been together for a few months now. Sui Zhou is allowed to look at Tang Fan’s legs. He has done more than look at them. They have been soft underneath his hands, wrapped around his back, bracketing his head. Sui Zhou has left marks on Tang Fan’s thighs, on his ankles. Technically, Tang Fan and his little athletic shorts should be more of a gift than a nuisance.

But…it’s still so new.

This is not the first summer Sui Zhou’s lived with Tang Fan. He has seen Tang Fan wearing shorts. And now he can reflect on it and consider that, perhaps, he was always looking a little. But now he’s looking. Now he knows what it’s like to want to touch and to get to touch.

It makes him feel out of control, sometimes. If he’s honest, Sui Zhou is not used to the deep, heavy tenderness he feels for Tang Fan mixing with such potent physical desire, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s never allowed himself this with a man before or if Tang Fan is uniquely infuriating, but—being out of control is not—good. So Sui Zhou tries very hard to be good.

Tang Fan should be able to sit around his own apartment in the summer without being—sexualized. He is a person, and Shanghai in the summer is hot and humid, and sometimes people wear shorts. Shorts are not an invitation for anyone, even Tang Fan’s boyfriend, to start having wild little fantasies—fantasies of being on his knees with his nose pressed to the sweaty backs of Tang Fan’s own knees, of pressing kisses and bites from his foot to the fabric of the shorts, of burying his cock in the warm, slick sweat of his thighs.

Especially when summer makes someone very grumpy, and at the peak of July, Tang Fan is extremely grumpy. He was not, he always whines, made to sweat. And lately he seems to be getting grumpier and grumpier, and Sui Zhou is having a harder time figuring out what Tang Fan wants. He pouts and lingers like he wants things, but food and cold drinks and ice packs at the back of his neck do not seem to placate him. Last night, they even seemed to make him angry, or at least very short with Sui Zhou.

In his current state, Sui Zhou cannot imagine Tang Fan doing anything but snapping at him if he admitted he spends over half his days thinking of various ways he might touch or be touched by Tang Fan.

Sui Zhou doesn’t know how he’d make any of his fantasies happen, anyway. Sex, so far, has kind of just happened between them, not without enthusiastic consent but definitely without any detailed conversation about—fantasies, about the kinds of weird little things that keep getting Sui Zhou hard, things like the way Sui Zhou whines and shudders when Tang Fan calls him “good boy,” though it’s obvious Tang Fan has noticed, from the way he wields it, soft and wrecked and timed for when Sui Zhou is right on the edge.

Ah. Sui Zhou can’t think about that right now.

He is minutes away from home with leftovers, and he is going to get there and check if Tang Fan has eaten and ignore his shorts completely, and if he ends up jerking off in the shower again later, nobody has to know but him, and he can live with that, probably.

He is prepared for Tang Fan’s shorts. He might not be immune to them, but he is prepared to deal with them.

Unfortunately, it is not shorts that greet him when he opens the front door.

Tang Fan is lying on the couch, which is not unusual, especially lately. He is often spread out there with a little handheld fan, complaining the moment Sui Zhou gets in.

But he is not wearing shorts. He is, instead, wearing something that is either a too-big t-shirt or a little dress made to look like one. The fabric is thin and soft pink, and it lands just above mid-thigh, leaving a generous amount of bare skin between its hem and the laced-trimmed tops of tall white socks—especially generous with the way Tang Fan has his knees bent and crossed, one leg dangling over the other. The shirt-dress is just long enough that Sui Zhou cannot tell if Tang Fan is wearing underwear at all. If he is, they are not covering a lot of area.

Before Sui Zhou can stop himself, he says aloud, “Oh.”

“Oh,” Tang Fan copies him, wiggling to push himself up on his elbows. Sui Zhou watches the fabric shift over Tang Fan’s thighs. Lately, Tang Fan’s been wearing his hair in a topknot, keeping it tight off the skin of his face and neck, but now it dangles in a high ponytail. Tang Fan tosses it back with nonchalance so affected it is anything but. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Sui Zhou says carefully. He lets his bag fall to the ground.

“How was work?” Tang Fan asks, and he uncrosses his legs slowly, the foot that was dangling in the air sliding down the other, toes pointed. The words are entirely at odds with the way he’s looking at Sui Zhou.

Sui Zhou swallows. He wonders if his hours in the kitchen have left his mind addled enough to conjure a mirage. “It was,” he says, “Fine.”

“Mm,” says Tang Fan. He tilts his head, drawing Sui Zhou’s attention to his long neck, and blinks at him slowly.

Sui Zhou might be careful—at least with Tang Fan—but he is not stupid. Tang Fan is not wearing thigh high socks in July because he doesn’t want Sui Zhou to look—or to touch. But Sui Zhou needs a moment to get himself together enough not to pounce at the luck he’s been handed, to gather enough control to avoid being—too much.

That moment, it seems, takes too long, because Tang Fan’s mouth falls into a pout, and Sui Zhou’s seen his pouts enough to know this one is not trying to be sexy. “Sui Zhou!” Tang Fan whines, sitting up abruptly, and Sui Zhou’s stomach drops until Tang Fan adds furiously, “Do I have to be sitting here naked?”

Sui Zhou blinks.

“Do I have to be holding a sign?” says Tang Fan. “That says—that says, ‘Fuck me,’ or—”

“Tang Fan,” Sui Zhou says hurriedly, but Tang Fan’s mouth has already left the station.

“Do I have to be on my knees?” he says. “Do I have to tie you down? You aren’t even—you won’t even—are you already sick of—” Tang Fan stops abruptly at this, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling. “Never mind.” He moves as if to get up, ponytail swinging. “I’m going to go die now.”

“Tang Fan,” Sui Zhou repeats, and he strides over to the couch and drops to his knees in front of it, grabbing Tang Fan’s knees. “Stop.”

Tang Fan huffs. He sits fully back down, but he rolls his eyes to the ceiling and does not look at Sui Zhou. “What?” he grumbles.

Sui Zhou digs his fingers into Tang Fan’s skin and wonders if he isn’t actually very stupid after all. He stares at Tang Fan’s flushed face, knowing Tang Fan must be aware of his gaze, even if he’s looking pointedly away. “Tang Fan,” Sui Zhou repeats. “You have to give me a minute.”

“I have given you weeks,” Tang Fan says, and his eyes fly back to Sui Zhou, his pout deepening. “You didn’t care about the shorts at all! Do you know what that does to my self-esteem? I bent over so many things. And for what? For you to give me ice?”

Sui Zhou is so stricken by the thought of Tang Fan thinking he is undesirable that he barely thinks of how embarrassing it is to admit where his thoughts have been; he says, as earnestly as he can, “I cared about the shorts.”

Tang Fan’s eyebrows wrinkle in disbelief.

“It’s hot out,” Sui Zhou insists. “I didn’t want you to feel like you couldn’t wear shorts without me…without being objectified.”

For a moment Sui Zhou thinks he might have, for the first time, stunned Tang Fan into silence. And then, in a low, dangerous voice, Tang Fan says, “Sui Zhou.”

Sui Zhou doesn’t answer; he knows he doesn’t have to. He just waits for the rest.

Tang Fan reaches forward and whaps Sui Zhou over the head, not nearly hard enough to be anything but annoying, but it is very much annoying. “Aiya, Sui Zhou, you stupid—you are impossible!” Tang Fan says. “You walk around with your arms out like that and think it’s just—that you’re the only one who’s horny? I’m wearing the shorts because I want to be objectified! Objectify me! Don’t you know I want you to objectify me, you stupid hunk? Tch. Objectified.”

“You could have asked,” Sui Zhou says, his concern rapidly melting into irritation.

“Hmph,” says Tang Fan, leaning back into the couch and crossing his arms again. Sui Zhou knows he has him, because Tang Fan has started to blush.

“You could have said anything,” says Sui Zhou, “At any time.”

“You could have said something, too,” Tang Fan insists. “And anyway, I like it when you—” He stops. “Ugh,” he interrupts himself, covering his face with his hands. Sui Zhou has learned in these few months that it takes Tang Fan a while to warm up to talking about sex, romance writer or not. When he does warm up, he says all kinds of things, but it takes him time to get there—he can be shy in a way Tang Fan is usually not.

Sui Zhou thinks it is charming.

He sighs and pinches the skin behind Tang Fan’s knee. Tang Fan yelps and kicks out at him, but the kick is half-hearted; Sui Zhou dodges it easily, letting go of Tang Fan’s legs to avoid it. He settles back, still on his knees. “What do you like?” Sui Zhou prompts. “Will you tell me?” He adds pointedly, “So I can stop being stupid?”

“You’re not stupid,” Tang Fan huffs from behind his hands.

“Your words,” says Sui Zhou.

“Don’t be petty,” says Tang Fan. “It’s like—come back here.” He removes his hands from his face and grabs out at Sui Zhou. Sui Zhou should still be annoyed, and he is, a little, but—he goes willingly, scooting closer and settling between Tang Fan’s thighs as Tang Fan sinks his hands into Sui Zhou’s sweaty, frizzy hair. Tang Fan presses his face to the top of Sui Zhou’s head. “I like it when you’re…desperate for me.”

Sui Zhou swallows. “Ah,” he says, and Tang Fan tightens his thighs, brings them closer to Sui Zhou on either side. He keeps on gripping Sui Zhou’s hair.

“When…it’s like you can’t…resist,” Tang Fan continues.

Sui Zhou already felt warm, but he can feel it getting worse, his face heating at Tang Fan’s words.

“You’re so sweaty,” Tang Fan murmurs.

“Sorry,” Sui Zhou rasps.

Tang Fan’s hold on his hair tightens, and Sui Zhou just manages to hold back an embarrassing noise.

“No,” says Tang Fan. “Don’t be sorry. You smell sexy. Come up here.” There is a pause before he adds, “Baobei,” low and sweet, and Sui Zhou cannot help but shudder. He lets Tang Fan pull him up onto the couch, goes willingly as Tang Fan pushes him against the back of it and crawls into his lap, straddling him.

Tang Fan is absolutely not wearing underwear.

Sui Zhou can be annoyed with him later.

His hands go right to the bare skin between the dress and the socks, and Tang Fan giggles and scrubs at the hair on Sui Zhou’s chin with the tips of his fingers. It feels good. “You really are a leg man,” says Tang Fan, like this is somehow new, gripping Sui Zhou’s chin as if to hold him in place.

Sui Zhou hums, and Tang Fan leans forward to kiss him. He lets go of Sui Zhou’s chin, placing his hands on Sui Zhou’s cheeks, holding his face more firmly. Sui Zhou likes to kiss this way—gentle but wet, teasing, holding back and feeling it build between them. Tang Fan seems to like it, too—it always makes him shiver, makes his breath catch in the back of his throat. The little catching breaths drive Sui Zhou wild. He grips Tang Fan’s thighs tighter, and Tang Fan pulls his mouth away to tilt his head back and sigh, his hips rolling in Sui Zhou’s lap. Sui Zhou gets his mouth on Tang Fan’s neck. He loves having his mouth on Tang Fan’s neck.

“I like it when…” Tang Fan swallows, and Sui Zhou feels it against his mouth and latches firmly onto Tang Fan’s skin, sucking. Tang Fan lets out another little sigh and grips Sui Zhou’s head, holds him where he is, squirms. Sui Zhou is getting hard, and Tang Fan is really not wearing any underwear, and his thighs are sweaty under Sui Zhou’s hands, his neck sweat-salty under Sui Zhou’s tongue. “It’s not like—I mean, it’d be good. If you just…grabbed me. And you could, because you’re so strong. But it’s…I like to think about…it’s like you’d do anything to touch me.”

Sui Zhou surprises himself with a moan against Tang Fan’s skin. Maybe he should not be surprised anymore by the things Tang Fan drags out of him, but it’s still so—startling, sometimes, how far he gets pulled in, under.

“Ah,” says Tang Fan. He tightens his fingers in Sui Zhou’s hair. “I thought you might…”

He trails off, but Sui Zhou answers anyway: “Yes.”

“Or like you’re so desperate,” Tang Fan says, “That maybe…”

This time, Sui Zhou needs him to finish. “Maybe what?” he asks, lightheaded, muffled by how close he is to Tang Fan’s neck.

“Maybe you can’t even—it’s too much. You can’t wait for me to be ready, or—you just have to touch yourself.”

Sui Zhou cannot stop his hips from jerking forward. It’s a small movement, barely there, but Tang Fan is pressed flush against him and feels it easily.

It’s just. There is—a particular fantasy of Sui Zhou’s own.

Part of the appeal of the—the “good boy” thing—is Tang Fan’s bossiness, his fussiness. Fulfilling his demands can be difficult. And there’s a part of Sui Zhou that thinks—maybe it would be okay—would be good, even—if Tang Fan got a little mean sometimes, when they’re like this. There’s a part of him that has spent some time touching himself to the thought of...of doing that in front of Tang Fan, of touching himself, and Tang Fan not deigning to touch him.

He can picture it—he can vividly imagine the looks that might appear on Tang Fan’s face, has seen them, the cutting little glance he throws out sometimes, the disappointed pout, the affected boredom. Sometimes, in these fantasies of Sui Zhou’s, Tang Fan is the Tang Fan that pouts at him on the couch in a t-shirt, and sometimes, Tang Fan is Feifei, and Sui Zhou spends a particular amount of time thinking about high heels and where they might touch him, just lightly, the ghost of a possibility, and he comes and feels guilty because he has no idea if Tang Fan would like this, and as much as his dick likes the thought of Tang Fan’s feigned condescension, he does not actually want Tang Fan to look at him with disgust for real.

“You like that?” Tang Fan murmurs. He has loosened his grip now, has moved to stroking Sui Zhou’s hair softly.

Sui Zhou wants him to pull it again.

He does not know how to answer Tang Fan’s question. Yes, he likes it, but does he like it in the same way? Would Tang Fan—not like it anymore, if he knew Sui Zhou thought of him being mean about it? Would Sui Zhou not like it if it happened for real?

But Tang Fan continues. “You like the thought of touching yourself for me?” he prompts. “And maybe—maybe if you were good—I’d let you come on me.”

Tang Fan,” Sui Zhou gasps.

“You like it,” says Tang Fan. “Sui Zhou…” He pulls Sui Zhou away from his neck, where Sui Zhou has long since ceased kissing and sucking at his skin; he has only been pressing his face hot against him, breathing hard. Tang Fan holds Sui Zhou’s face firmly, stares into his eyes—his own pupils are blown wide. He is so pretty, so pretty like this and at every other time. “Do you want to touch yourself for me?” Tang Fan says.

Sui Zhou does not know what his face does, but whatever it is makes Tang Fan preen. He leans forward and murmurs in Sui Zhou’s ear, “You can come on my thighs. On my little socks.”

“Fuck, Tang Fan,” say Sui Zhou, and he squeezes Tang Fan’s thighs harder before he can even think about doing it.

“Is that a yes?” Tang Fan asks.

“Yeah,” Sui Zhou says. “Yes.” Maybe there should be more discussion. Maybe there’s more they should say, about limits, about what they like. But Sui Zhou is rapidly losing focus on anything but Tang Fan’s pretty face and his legs and, If you were good, I’d let you come on me.

There is no possible way he can resist this landing so firmly in his lap.

“Good,” says Tang Fan. He runs his hands up and down Sui Zhou’s arms, lingering at his biceps, his eyes tracking the movements. It feels good. Sui Zhou likes the way he feels when Tang Fan looks at his body like this, like he wants it, like he likes what Sui Zhou can give him. Tang Fan’s eyes meet Sui Zhou’s again, and he blinks slowly, deliberately. “How do you want me?” he asks. “Put me where you want me.”

Sui Zhou no longer hesitates.

He reaches for Tang Fan’s waist and slides him off the side of his lap, letting go of him only for the moments it takes for him to get his jeans and underwear pushed down just enough to free his erection. Then he pulls at Tang Fan’s legs until Tang Fan gets the picture and drapes them over Sui Zhou’s thighs.

“Just lie back,” says Sui Zhou. He runs a hand along Tang Fan’s calf in the sock.

“Sui Zhou,” says Tang Fan, faux-scandalized. He leaves his legs draped over Sui Zhou’s, but he holds himself up with his elbows, eyes hot on Sui Zhou’s cock. “So dirty.”

“You knew that,” says Sui Zhou, and he takes his cock in his hand, the other still on Tang Fan’s leg. He watches Tang Fan squirm, his legs rubbing together, the bump of his erection visible through the fabric of the shirt, dangerously close to escaping. Sui Zhou slides his thumb over the head of his own cock, feels the wetness there. It’s so close to the bare expanse of Tang Fan’s thighs.

“I think you’re a fetishist,” says Tang Fan.

“Shut up,” says Sui Zhou. He slides the tips of his fingers under the top of Tang Fan’s sock, his fingers grazing the hot back of his knee.

“Ah,” says Tang Fan.

“You can just…you can just lie there,” Sui Zhou says, staring hard at the tops of Tang Fan’s socks as he slides his thighs together. “Do whatever you want. And I’ll—I’ll give you what you asked for. What you want.”

“Fuck.”

He chances a glance at Tang Fan’s face. He looks like he’s swallowed a can of chilis, with how red and sweaty he is, but he’s biting his lip, too, eyes fixed so firmly to Sui Zhou’s cock that Sui Zhou doesn’t think he even knows he’s being looked at.

Tang Fan says, “Get—” He stops and licks his lips. “Get yourself wetter.”

“Okay,” Sui Zhou says thickly. He stalls, unsure what Tang Fan would prefer he do and wanting to do it—right.

Tang Fan notices his stalling, it seems, because he pushes himself up further, nearly all the way, and says, “Sui Zhou. Give me your hand.”

Sui Zhou does, heart pounding.

Tang Fan takes it and rubs his fingers along his palm, his legs still squirming in Sui Zhou’s lap, and Sui Zhou shivers, feels lightheaded. Tang Fan leans forward as if to kiss his palm, then stops and leans back. “Um.” He swallows.

“What?” Sui Zhou asks.

Tang Fan lets out a nervous giggle, which does not seem necessary considering the circumstances, but Sui Zhou understands.

“You can do whatever you––” Sui Zhou starts, and then Tang Fan lifts Sui Zhou’s hand and slips one of his fingers in his mouth.

Sui Zhou spends a lot of time watching Tang Fan put things in his mouth. Watching—and feeling—Tang Fan tentatively suck on his finger is enough to make his breath stutter. This seems to give Tang Fan more confidence; he takes in another finger, gathering spit. Sui Zhou stares, watches his fingers sliding in and out of the wet heat of Tang Fan’s mouth, the spread of Tang Fan’s lips around him. Sui Zhou wants to spread his fingers out more, stretch Tang Fan’s lips further, push his fingers deep into his mouth, but he can’t get up the nerve to do it until Tang Fan has removed them. “Get yourself wet,” Tang Fan repeats, lips shiny with spit, and then he spits into Sui Zhou’s palm, and somehow he manages to maintain eye contact while doing it.

“Too much?” Tang Fan rasps, strangely quiet in his embarrassment, and Sui Zhou shakes his head and brings his newly wet hand to his cock.

Tang Fan lays back on his elbows. His eyes fall again to Sui Zhou’s hand on his dick. Sui Zhou strokes himself steadily, fist tight around his cock, and thinks about Tang Fan’s spit slicking the way, Tang Fan’s spit mingling with his precome, even though the only place they’re touching now is where their legs meet. Sui Zhou’s eyes roam over Tang Fan’s legs, his socks, the little dress or whatever it is, the way he’s lying back with his ponytail swept over his shoulder. For a while, the only sounds are their heavy breathing and the embarrassing slick sounds of Sui Zhou’s hand on his dick. Occasionally, they make eye contact, intense and still a little embarrassed, and look away again. Mostly, Sui Zhou’s eyes are, as intended, on Tang Fan’s legs, on the proximity of them to his cock, to his knuckles as they move up and down.

Tang Fan is probably well within his rights to call him a fetishist.

The hand not on his dick has been wandering around the tops of Tang Fan’s socks, but now, tentatively, he pushes it further up Tang Fan’s thigh, pushing up the edge of Tang Fan’s shirt just slightly. Tang Fan lets out a tiny little whine. It makes Sui Zhou suck in a breath and press his fingers tighter to the soft skin, sliding them up underneath the dress and squeezing. Tang Fan squirms. Fuck, it’s so hot, watching him squirm on him like this. The hand on Sui Zhou’s cock speeds up, so slick with precome now despite the drying of Tang Fan’s spit, and when he looks up at Tang Fan’s face, Tang Fan is staring right at him, expression intense. He is grabbing himself through his clothes with one hand, and with the other he's grabbing his ponytail, pulling it himself, fingers tight in the hair.

Sui Zhou stares back.

Tang Fan breathes, “Am I pretty, Sui Zhou?”

“Fuck,” says Sui Zhou, surprised, his cock pulsing.

“Am I?” Tang Fan insists with a pout.

“Yes—yes, Tang Fan,” says Sui Zhou, watching him tug at his own ponytail. There is something about Tang Fan doing this to himself that hits close to Sui Zhou's fantasy, to being watched and not interacted with, to not—to maybe not being allowed to touch. So Tang Fan has to do it himself.

“Do you like me like this?” Tang Fan asks, and the hand he’s using to rub himself through the dress is so close to Sui Zhou’s grip on his thigh.

“Yes,” Sui Zhou says, jerking himself quickly. It’s not any different functionally from the way Sui Zhou touches himself alone, but—it feels so much better like this, somehow, so much more intense. It’s—embarrassing, the way he’s going at it with Tang Fan draped right over him, with Tang Fan’s eyes so firmly on him, and maybe it shouldn’t make him want so badly to keep doing it, to come, but it does.

“I’m so pretty you have to touch yourself,” says Tang Fan. The way he's pulling at his hair is baring his neck. Sui Zhou can see where he sucked a hickey just before. “Right in front of me. You couldn’t wait.”

Yes.”

“Tell me. Tell me I’m pretty.”

“You’re pretty,” Sui Zhou says, desperate, his hand speeding up even further, tightening around him. “You’re so pretty, Tang Fan. Your legs.”

“I know, baobei,” says Tang Fan. “Are you gonna come on them?”

“I—”

“You’re gonna come all over my legs, aren’t you? All over my thighs and my socks and my dress, too, you’re gonna cover me—”

Fuck,” says Sui Zhou. “Yes.”

“Are you gonna come? I want you to come on me, baobei, show me how much you like my pretty legs.”

Sui Zhou does. He comes with an embarrassing grunt, right on Tang Fan’s thighs as promised, on the tops of his socks. He strokes himself through it, watching ropes of his come land on Tang Fan’s soft skin, on the hem of the—dress, Tang Fan called it a dress. He feels—he does not know how to describe it, the way the hot shame of it makes it feel better, but his whole body feels feverish with it. Tang Fan is talking, calling him good, he thinks, praising him, but he barely hears it through whatever haze has descended on him.

The sight of his come on Tang Fan’s thighs is—it’s—

He scrambles to his knees and tugs Tang Fan around, pulling Tang Fan’s legs over his shoulders without worrying about his strength. Tang Fan gasps, letting go of his ponytail. It swings behind him. Sui Zhou feels—crazy, maybe, possessed, beyond some point of caring. He licks up Tang Fan’s thigh. He licks up his own come. Tang Fan is keening, has slapped one of his hands over his own mouth. “Sui Zhou,” he gasps through his fingers. “Sui Zhou, oh wow.”

Sui Zhou doesn’t stop. He pushes the dress up to Tang Fan’s waist, licks Tang Fan’s thighs clean. Tang Fan’s breathing is so loud and harsh, and his cock is so hard, twitching right in Sui Zhou’s face; the moment Sui Zhou has finished with Tang Fan’s thighs he gets his mouth around Tang Fan’s cock. Tang Fan whines, his thighs clenching, and Sui Zhou moans around him, works to get more of him in. Overbalancing a little in the process, Sui Zhou grabs Tang Fan’s legs, firmly on his shoulders, and squeezes, tries to convey that he wants this, that he likes it, his head in a vice-like grip between these fucking thighs.

“You want me to...” Tang Fan’s voice is a little slurred, heavy. He squeezes his thighs tight, and Sui Zhou—he wanted it, he asked for it, but he gags around the sudden push of Tang Fan’s cock harder into his throat. Tang Fan lets out a little, “Ah!” and loosens his legs, and Sui Zhou backs off his cock for a moment, coughing. When he does, a string of spit connects his lips to Tang Fan’s cock. There’s spit on his face. He thinks there’s come on his face, too, and it’s his own come.

Sui Zhou thinks he should be embarrassed, and he is, a little, except he also feels come drunk and like Tang Fan, with his face flushed and legs twitching on Sui Zhou’s shoulders, is really beautiful, and this is more important.

“Okay?” Tang Fan asks, swallowing hard, and Sui Zhou knows the question is genuine, but Tang Fan’s eyes are solidly on that string of spit when he asks.

Sui Zhou nods. “You can—yes,” he says. He clears his throat, but he does not wipe his face. Tang Fan thumps his heels at Sui Zhou’s back and sits up a bit, tries to pull him back so Sui Zhou’s face is again wedged firmly between his thighs. Sui Zhou’s mouth is half-open, pliant, but Tang Fan’s cock misses its mark; it does not slide in but bumps against and along his lips, until it is lying across Sui Zhou’s face, sliding against his nose, wet with spit. Tang Fan gasps and shivers, eyes wide as he stares at Sui Zhou between his thighs, and then—before Sui Zhou can adjust and try to get Tang Fan’s cock in his mouth again, Tang Fan comes.

Sui Zhou feels it land in his hair, feels Tang Fan’s thighs clench harder around him; he watches as Tang Fan’s hand flies to his cock, as he scoots back enough to come deliberately on Sui Zhou’s nose, on his cheeks, on his open mouth, on his tongue. He notes, dazed, that it tastes different from his own, a comparison he had yet to make.

Sui Zhou swallows it, and Tang Fan stares at him as he does, eyes wide. He tracks Sui Zhou’s tongue as Sui Zhou licks the come from his lips.

“Sui Zhou,” Tang Fan says weakly. “Oh my god.” His thighs are trembling.

Sui Zhou, coming down from the high of it, is starting to feel the embarrassment creep into his veins. It is one thing to have touched himself in front of Tang Fan, to have stroked his cock quick and desperate with an audience, but it is another altogether to have then, apparently, been seized with a frantic need to lick up his own come.

He has no idea what to say—partly because there is nothing in the world he can imagine saying to explain it, and partly because he liked it. He might have loved it. He would do it again. He would do it again, and again, and again.

“That was so hot,” Tang Fan says. He backs up and slides his legs off Sui Zhou’s shoulders, lets his feet fall to the floor. His legs are still shaky. “Sui Zhou. What the fuck?”

Sui Zhou eyes the come drying at the top of one of Tang Fan’s socks and says the first thing he’s able to: “Let me wash your socks.”

Tang Fan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Let you wash my socks?”

“I want to,” Sui Zhou says. He feels a little stupid, but his stubborn streak is rearing its head, too. He just let Tang Fan come all over his face. He can wash Tang Fan’s socks if he wants to.

Tang Fan’s eyes dart all around Sui Zhou’s face, his body, taking him in like he’s looking for clues. “Okay,” he says finally. Before Sui Zhou can start peeling off the socks, Tang Fan tugs him closer again by the shoulders and leans over to press a soft kiss to Sui Zhou’s head. “Okay. You can wash my socks, you silly man. But only if you let me wash your hair.”

Ah. Any come Sui Zhou could not reach with his tongue is—still on him.

That’s true.

“Okay,” Sui Zhou capitulates.

So he peels Tang Fan’s socks off and puts them in the laundry, and Tang Fan pulls Sui Zhou under the shower and washes his hair and his face and says quiet things Sui Zhou will keep close, and later, curled against Sui Zhou’s side despite the heat, Tang Fan says, “Next time you want to objectify me…” He presses a kiss to Sui Zhou’s bare shoulder. “Do.”

“Next time you want to be objectified,” Sui Zhou grumbles. “Ask.”

“I always want to be objectified,” says Tang Fan. Sui Zhou is overcome with the urge to poke one of his dimples as he smirks, but he holds himself back.

“I don’t think that’s true,” he says.

“I always want to be objectified by you,” says Tang Fan. His eyes are alight with mischief. “Can I objectify you, too, gege?” He rolls over and straddles Sui Zhou. It’s too hot for this, for anything more, but…“Can I objectify your tits?” Tang Fan asks, and Sui Zhou rolls his eyes and pins Tang Fan underneath him, relishing his little shriek. He attaches his mouth to Tang Fan's neck again, intending to mark him up as much as he wants. This is a good enough revenge.