Jingle Balls – Part 5

Everyone in this story is 18+

My hand shot from dangerous territory to my chest like I was having a heart attack, clutching an invisible wound while the traitor throbbed angrily beneath the duvet, robbed of justice one more time.

Aunt Lisa was still hovering in the doorway, beaming like she’d just brought cookies, while I was sprawled in bed, one hand already locked and loaded for a one-on-one showdown with my own meat.

“Good morning, Auntie L,” I managed, voice still wrecked. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to let you know the water’s getting shut off for a few hours,” Aunt Lisa added, already halfway out the door. “Some emergency thing with the city. If you need a shower, better hop in now.”

“Okay, sure,” I called after her, still trying to sound normal while my dick screamed for mercy. “I can just go after Tate’s done. When do they shut it off?”

She popped her head back in, glanced at the little gold watch on her wrist, and her eyes went wide. “Oh my, is it that late already? Honey, they’re turning it off in like three minutes.”

“What?” I sat up too fast, duvet slipping, and frantically sniffed a pit. Instant regret. I smelled like airplane, beer, and last night’s bad decisions. No way was I marinating in that all day.

“But sweetie,” Aunt Lisa sang, “just go shower with Tate. He won’t mind. He showers with Braden all the time, those two are like peas in a pod.”

She shut the door before I could die properly.

I sat there staring at it, brain short-circuiting. Shower with Tate, naked. Together. My morning wood was still raging like it hadn’t gotten the memo that this was a terrible idea, but the alternative was smelling like roadkill until dinner, and my dignity had already taken so many Ls in the last twenty-four hours that one more probably wouldn’t even register.

Fuck it.

But I wasn’t going in the shower with this morning wood from hell, I was still sitting there on the edge of the bed, duvet barely hiding the traitor who was now standing at full attention like he’d been called to the front of the class, when some half-remembered locker-room myth from freshman year slammed into my brain: supposedly if you smack the head of your dick hard enough it goes down out of self-defense or something. I’d never tried it (why the hell would I?), but desperate times, desperate measures, and I was not walking into that shower with a loaded weapon waving hello to my cousin.

I glanced at the bathroom door (Tate still humming), took a deep breath, gripped the base with one hand like I was holding a baseball bat, and swung the other hand down in what I hoped was a firm, clinical slap.

WHACK.

Pain exploded like I’d just teabagged a hornet’s nest. My vision went white, knees buckled, and I made this pathetic high-pitched HURK sound that was definitely not human.

But, somehow it actually worked. My soldier finally at ease, totally worth it!

I quickly grabbed my towel, wrapped it around my waist like armor, and basically sprinted down the hallway before I could talk myself out of it. The bathroom door was cracked, steam pouring out, Tate still humming whatever annoying pop song he’d been torturing me with earlier.

I shoved the door open and stepped inside without knocking because knocking felt weirder than just barging in at this point. “Water’s getting shut off in like two minutes, Aunt Lisa sent me, move over.”

Tate turned, water streaming down his chest, and grinned like Christmas had come early. “Well, good morning to you too, roomie. Plenty of room, come on in.”

He just stood there under the spray, water beading on his lashes, looking way too pleased with himself. I kept my towel on until the last possible second, then dropped it, slapped a hand over my junk like a fucking fig leaf, and stepped in behind him.

Tate scooted forward to make space, which wasn’t much because Aunt Lisa believed in “cozy” bathrooms. His back brushed my chest for half a second and I nearly jumped out of my skin. He just laughed under his breath and grabbed the shampoo.

We both stood there for a solid ten seconds like idiots, hands cupped over our dicks, water pounding between us. Tate was the first to drop his. Of course he was. He turned a little, giving me a full-frontal view, and started soaping his chest like this was the most normal Tuesday on earth.

I lasted another five seconds before I decided I wasn’t about to look like the shy virgin in this equation. Dropped my hand, let the traitor spring free, and grabbed the body wash like I didn’t have a care in the world.

Tate’s eyes flicked down immediately, then back up, grin widening. “Still cut, huh? Thought I remembered that from when we were kids.”

I snorted, trying to sound annoyed instead of secretly pleased. “Don’t make it weirder than it already is.”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, “just stating facts. It’s… quite big though.”

I opened my mouth to tell him to shut the fuck up, but the words got stuck somewhere around the part where my ego did a little happy flex. “You think?” I heard myself say instead, and instantly hated how fishing it sounded.

Tate tilted his head, water running down his neck, and gave me this lazy once-over like he was appraising a car he already knew he could afford. “Oh yeah. Definitely top percentile. You know that.”

Heat crawled up my neck that had nothing to do with the shower. I busied myself with soap, rubbing it across my chest way harder than necessary. “Whatever. Yours isn’t exactly small either,” I muttered before my brain could hit the brakes.

Tate’s grin turned soft, almost shy, which was total bullshit because nothing about him was shy. “Thanks, cous. Appreciate the review.”

We both laughed, actual dumb locker-room laughter, because apparently that’s what we were doing now. I shoved his shoulder lightly, he shoved back, water splashed everywhere, and for thirty seconds it almost felt normal. Just two dudes, no big deal, totally not cataloging every inch of each other’s bodies while pretending we weren’t.

Then the water cut out mid-rinse, like the universe had a personal grudge.

Cold air hit us both. Tate cursed, cupped his hands under the last pathetic dribble coming from the showerhead, and collected maybe half a palmful. “Here,” he said, stepping close, “turn around, you still got soap on your back.”

His hands landed on my shoulders, slick with the last of the warm water, and slid down my back in one slow sweep, thumbs pressing along my spine, getting every last bit of suds. My skin lit up like he’d hooked me to a battery. He didn’t linger, didn’t grope, just finished the job and stepped back.

“All good,” he said, voice light.

I turned around, throat dry, and we both grabbed towels at the same time. Started drying off like nothing happened, bumping elbows, stealing the same corner of the mirror, arguing over who got to use the good deodorant first. Normal dumb shit. Locker-room shit.

I told myself that at least twelve times while we goofed off and headed back to the room dripping and half-dressed and still not talking about the fact that I’d just let my cousin basically soap me up like it was no big deal.

We stumbled back into the bedroom dripping and half-wrapped in towels, still shoving each other like idiots and arguing over whose turn it was to use the deodorant first.

I snatched the can of Axe off the dresser like it was my God-given right and blasted half of it under my arms. Instantly the room smelled like a high-school locker room committed chemical warfare.

Tate wrinkled his nose and fanned the air dramatically.
“Oh my God. Industrial masculinity in aerosol form. Do you want to smell like a Hollister store had a baby with a Monster Energy drink?”

“Shut up,” I snorted, flexing a little as I sprayed my chest for good measure. “Chicks dig it. Proven science.”

He rolled his eyes so hard I was worried they would get stuck. Then he reached past me for the little black bottle on his nightstand, some fancy silver-and-gold Rituals thing, and spritzed once under each arm and once down his torso like he was filming a cologne commercial.

The smell hit me like a velvet brick. Warm, spicy, expensive. The kind of scent that makes you want to lean in and figure out where it is coming from.

I hated that it smelled insane. It was objectively better than my chemical apocalypse.

Tate caught me inhaling and smirked.
“See? You do not have to announce your presence three zip codes away.”

“It is fine,” I muttered, deeply annoyed he was right. “Mine lasts longer.”

“Yours lasts until the EPA shows up,” he fired back, then flicked my towel so it snapped against my thigh hard enough to leave a mark. “Real alpha energy there, cous. Needing my two-hundred-dollar body mist to save you from smelling like a middle-school dance.”

I lunged for the bottle. He danced out of reach, laughing, and somehow we ended up wrestling for it like we were twelve again. Except now we were basically naked and damp, and I was trying very hard not to notice how good that stupid Rituals stuff smelled on him.

He let me win, and I sprayed one tiny pump just to show I had no fear of smelling good. The cloud mixed with the Axe and somehow the combo was not even terrible.

Tate grinned like he had just converted another straight boy to the cause.
“There. Now you only smell seventy percent like a frat basement.”

“Fuck off,” I laughed, shoving him toward his closet. My hand lingered half a second on his bare shoulder and neither of us mentioned it.

Then he dropped his towel, pulled on those evil black briefs, and tugged an oversized grey church-logo hoodie over his head. The second the stretched collar shifted, I saw them. Three fresh dark hickeys blooming along the side of his neck like neon signs that said A BIBLE BOY DID THIS.

My brain short-circuited.

Tate touched the bruises absently, gave me that lazy satisfied cat smile, and said,
“He gets carried away when he thinks Jesus is not watching.”

Aunt Lisa’s voice floated up the stairs like a starting pistol.
“Boys! Pancakes are getting cold and Diana is already on mimosa number three. Move your cute butts!”

Tate winked, grabbed his phone, and brushed past me toward the door. The hoodie hem flipped up just long enough to flash the bottom curve of his ass in those briefs like a promise I definitely never asked for.

I followed, already knowing breakfast was about to be a goddamn war crime.