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Jisung follows the familiar sound of overlapping conversations and dissonant vocal warm-up as it leads him out of the fitting room, around the corner, and into the waiting area assigned to their team.
He absentmindedly pokes the tips of his bangs, futilely prodding at overly styled hair he knows for a fact will not budge, as he scans the room. Even in a sea of activity, it takes him no time at all to spot where the perfect place for him to hang out is.
Tucked away in the lounge corner, Jeongin is laughing as he squirms in the small armchair. He’s practically folded himself in half over one side of it, ribs undoubtedly hurting with the strain, as he tries his absolute best to escape Minho. Minho, who’s perched on the arm of the chair, the dramatically frozen smile on his face growing more menacing the further towards Jeongin he leans. Seated on the edge of the coffee table opposite them, the Talker cameraman records the exchange in visibly entertained silence.
Jisung grins as he takes the sight in. He approaches the scene without a second thought.
“…such a good boy,” Minho says, words finally becoming intelligible, the closer Jisung gets, and Jeongin lets out something between a laugh and a yell in response.
Jeongin’s efforts to physically get away are thwarted by Jisung, who bends over the back of the chair to drape his arms over his shoulders. When he snaps his head around, startled, to look back at him, Jisung smiles warmly and clasps one hand around his own wrist, securing Jeongin in place.
Jeongin’s face creases with anguish. Jisung grins.
This is one of his most favourite games.
“Were you guys talking about me?” he asks, despite having absolutely no idea as to what kind of conversation could have led them to this moment. Knowing them — knowing Minho — it could have been literally anything.
When Minho talks, Jisung turns to him to realise just how close their faces are, on account of how closely the both of them have crowded Jeongin. He feels his cheeks heat up, but he makes no move to withdraw. Instead, he takes a small moment to be thankful for already having gone through make-up. “Why would anyone call you a good boy?” Minho asks.
The response does nothing to actually clue Jisung into the nature of their conversation, but Minho appears to take the opportunity to riff and runs with it, as he turns to the camera that’s pointed in their direction.
“Everyone, Jisungie has never been good a day in his life,” he says, his side profile beautiful as his face slackens, tone perfectly deadpan.
“That’s not true!” Jisung protests, and if he exaggerates the reflexive pout that takes over his face for the benefit of the camera, that’s neither here nor there. For a second, he thinks he feels Jeongin relax in his hold, suspiciously quiet, but he’s afforded no time to look into it as Minho’s attention falls right back to him.
Eyes that sparkle with mischief meet his own. “No?” Minho asks, lips softly parted with the question, and Jisung has to force himself not to stare at them. Familiar excitement, the kind that only Minho can induce, zips down his spine.
The second that follows seems to stretch into several more.
Not for the first time in his life, and definitely not for the last, Jisung finds himself lost for words, locked into Minho’s stare. It’s ironic; Jisung prides himself on his wordsmithing, his readily witty tongue, yet it takes Minho no more than a single prolonged look to rob him of it entirely.
As he latches onto the tail-end of a half-formed sentence, eager for anything he can use as a comeback, however belated, the opportunity is stolen from him before he can even open his mouth. Jeongin takes advantage of his inattentiveness and finally breaks free, escaping his hold and jumping up and away with a small yet triumphant whoop!
Jisung hisses through his teeth for effect as the camera tracks the rapid movement, and he makes to straighten back up only to be halted.
Minho’s hand effortlessly catches his wrist mid-air. Jisung feels his eyes widen as he turns to him.
“Admit it,” Minho says, one corner of his lips tilting upwards. “You’re a terrible brat.”
Something in Jisung’s gut instantly tightens up, hot and alarming, before he can even fully process the words. When the realisation properly hits, of what Minho just said, of how his body is reacting to it, of what could possibly be showing on his face, clear as day for anyone to read, his eyes snap to the side. Only when he realises the cameraman has followed Jeongin to the other side of the room does his petrification ease a little.
But only just.
He turns back to Minho.
Eyes that were gleaming with playfulness mere seconds ago now examine him closely with something on the other end of the spectrum in them. He watches as darkness settles over them in real time.
The shiver that starts high on his spine dominoes all the way down his arms. The wrist that’s caught in Minho’s hand trembles in the aftermath.
When Minho speaks again, Jisung feels his voice in his ribcage, like standing next to a subwoofer on full blast. “Aren’t you?”
In the moment, Jisung will freely admit to being eager to accept any and every allegation Minho could possibly level at him. Even if he’d entirely lost track of the conversation by this point, he would plead guilty to anything.
As it stands, Jisung simply nods.
Minho’s throat bobs as the fingers pressing into Jisung’s skin squeeze once, hard, before quickly relaxing in an impressive show of artificial restraint. Jisung watches him, speechless. Anticipates his next words with equal amounts of thrill and mortification.
“Lee Know to make-up, please!” comes the call from the adjoining room, successfully startling Jisung into a small jump. The bubble he hadn’t been aware they’d been wrapped up in suddenly bursts, allowing the barrage of sound to wash over him again.
They’re not alone, he rediscovers all at once.
The instant Minho releases him, Jisung feels like he can breathe again for the first time in what seems like hours but realistically couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes. He watches as Minho’s expression loosens up in increments, the easy light in his eyes returning, slowly but surely. It should be a comfort, Jisung thinks, and yet he can’t help feeling forlorn.
Fingers lightly pinch the tender flesh right below his belly button, exposed by the cropped vest he’s wearing.
“We’ll circle back to this,” Minho says before turning to leave, and the hint of want in his tone is probably the only thing keeping Jisung from spiralling, in this very moment.
He folds himself over the back of the armchair, lets his arms dangle against it uselessly. Takes a deep, deep breath, and prays to whatever deity is willing to listen that his erection goes down before it’s time for last looks.
The dull ache in his wrist does nothing to help.
+
Much to Jisung’s dismay, they do not, in fact, circle back to it. Not later that night, not the day after, not anytime in the week that follows.
He waits and waits, looks at Minho with strategically big eyes that only manage to earn him fond smiles and sweet kisses, the press of Minho’s lips soft and loving against his own.
He watches him carefully, trying to anticipate his needs before Minho himself even knows he has them.
Sadly, he discovers, eagerly abandoning his breakfast mid-bite to refill Minho’s half-empty glass does not trigger any sort of comment on how good a boy Jisung is or is not. Minho merely looks at him, the expression on his face half-pleased, half-bewildered, and silently transfers the rest of his rolled omelette over to Jisung’s plate, after Jisung’s eyes scan the table only to find there are no more servings left.
When Jisung slowly, carefully takes him apart, in the near-darkness of his room, Minho shakes. Jisung catalogues each and every reaction, however subtle, and capitalises on it with intent. Minho, in turn, wraps his arms around him, holds him close, breathes out little moans only for Jisung to hear and calls him baby, the word desperate and reverent as it drips from his lips.
It’s great, wonderful, as it always is, and yet it never quite evolves into exactly what Jisung seeks.
He loves Minho, of course. His heart grows twice its size just to be near him, let alone to be on the receiving end of his affection, precious yet abundant. But, still. He wishes that Minho could read his mind, cross the thin line separating them from the sort of reaction Jisung aches for. Wishes that he could find the words to ask for it explicitly.
The thought that he’s been going about this all wrong only strikes a few days’ worth of fruitless attempts later.
Maybe, he thinks, as his brain loops last week’s inciting incident over and over, the key to getting what he wants has been right under his nose all along.
Maybe lunging to steal Minho’s popcorn from between his fingers is the right move, after all, despite the fact that Minho’s preternatural reflexes thwart his efforts. Succeeding was never the point, anyway.
Jisung does not withdraw, but merely redirects his attention towards what really matters. Lit by nothing but the TV opposite them, the lines of Minho’s face are thrown into sharp relief. The subtle tilt of his mouth makes the corners of Jisung’s eyes crease in response.
“Say please,” Minho says, inching his hand closer to Jisung and, even though he recognises Minho’s tone as more playful than anything, Jisung decides it will do. He can make it work. He can steer this in the right direction, still.
He makes sure to maintain steady eye contact as he extends his neck, snaps his teeth a few centimetres away from Minho’s fingers.
Clack.
Minho’s eyebrows lift.
Jisung tips his head back, chin high in defiance.
Miraculously, that’s all it takes. It’s obvious, the exact moment it happens, the very second Minho leaps onto the same page Jisung has been waiting for him on; it’s like the light in his eyes turns dark.
“Han Jisung, don’t be a brat,” he says, voice torturously even, and Jisung feels his insides quake in response. The spark of relief in his chest is instantly washed away by unbridled want.
In his mini fantasies, when he’d lie awake coming up with scenarios, plans, he always thought he’d stick to his guns, when the moment finally came. Now, in the thick of it, all he seems to be able to do is fold, easy as anything.
“Please, hyung,” he says, and the way Minho’s gaze falls heavy on his lips as he speaks has his stomach burning with need.
“Some of us want to actually watch the movie, you know,” Hyunjin’s voice pipes up, monotone and pointed, from the couch to the left of them.
Heat floods Jisung’s face.
He’d clear his throat, straighten his back and abashedly refocus on the TV, if only Minho’s eyes would allow him to look at anything else at all. He’s so caught up in them that the taste of salt takes him entirely by surprise. His lips yield to the gentle pressure, front teeth mechanically latching onto the popcorn that Minho feeds him.
Good boy, Minho mouths, silent and all at once deafeningly loud at a volume only Jisung can perceive.
His heart thumps in his chest as he has to actively remind himself to chew.
The movie keeps playing.
Jisung sits there, his side pressed into Minho’s body, all the way until the credits roll. It was something about robots, he thinks. Or zombies.
The bowl in Minho’s lap lies empty. Jisung’s lips feel raw, burnt by the salt. Once the warm hand on the nape of his neck eventually withdraws, his sweaty skin breaks out in goosebumps against the sudden cold.
When he follows Minho to his own room, he does it mostly by feel.
It’s only when he crawls into bed, however long later, that he realises he has no clear recollection of the past few minutes. He floated here, maybe, he thinks.
Whatever the case, the sole important thing is that he’s found himself here now, legs folded underneath his body, hands on top of his thighs, restless. Waiting. Looking at Minho and nothing but Minho; the lines of his body, the comfortable arch of his back against the headrest, the relaxed expression on his face, illuminated by the screen of his phone.
Jisung couldn't hold himself back under threat of his life.
He approaches him slowly on his hands and knees, savouring the way the air around them changes the closer he gets to Minho, the warmth of him. He swings a leg over Minho’s thigh, encroaches into his space and leans in so close he swears he can taste the base notes of his perfume on his tongue. He noses at the hinge of his jaw, leaves wet kisses on the tender side of his throat.
Minho makes no move to touch him, offers no sound of pleasure, and, even though the column of his craned neck calls to Jisung like flame does to a moth, Jisung needs more, still.
He lifts his head. Leans in. His lips seek out Minho’s own, only to land on the corner of his mouth, the kiss unfulfilled.
His eyebrows meet in the middle.
“Hyung?” he asks, pulling back just enough to confirm that Minho’s eyes remain glued to whatever app it is he’s been scrolling through. No response, no sign of acknowledgement.
Something in his chest stings.
Jisung moves to sit back, lost and discombobulated, but the hand that unexpectedly settles on the small of his back stops him in his tracks. Fingertips slip underneath the waistband of his sweatpants as the action throws him off-kilter, trapping him against the heat of Minho’s thigh.
When Minho speaks, he doesn’t even lift his gaze from his phone to look back at him. “Go on.”
The order — that’s what it feels like, that’s what it is — rattles him. He tries to catch Minho’s eyes, only to be denied. The hand on his lower back persists. Hurt meets confusion meets arousal.
“You wanted to get off, right?” Minho asks, tone flat, bored-sounding. The tendon of his jaw flexes, and relaxes only after Jisung offers a quick nod, compelled to respond. “Go on, then.”
Jisung lets out a squeak when Minho dips his hand lower, pulls him in tighter. Jisung’s knees spread and painfully dig into the mattress, even as he’s forced to transfer most of his body weight onto Minho’s thigh.
Even if he truly wanted to, there would be no single way to hide the fact that he’s pathetically hard despite the lack of sorely-needed attention.
“Hyung—?”
An electric current zaps down his back the instant Minho’s gaze finally, finally finds his own, out of the corner of his eye, neck still craned away from Jisung. There’s a murky feel to it, obscuring something Jisung vaguely recognises as worry, even in the low lighting.
“Colour?” Minho asks.
It’s hard to describe the way his back muscles relax all at once as if remotely controlled. Tension he hadn't even been actively aware of melts away in an instant. This is not Minho being cold because he’s upset with him for reasons Jisung can’t discern. It’s Minho trying to give him what he wants. Loving him, taking care of him — and doubting himself in the process, if the look in his eyes is anything to go by.
Jisung exhales, relieved. He looks back at him head-on. “Green,” he says, “so green.”
The newly-established eye contact is yanked away from him before he can even blink. Minho redirects all of his attention back to his phone. “Get to it, then,” he says, his tone as dismissive as it can possibly get.
The hand that had snaked itself down his pants draws as far back as the elastic allows it to before snapping home, the slap of skin against his lower back startling him into a tiny jolt. It makes his hips snap forward. Jisung has to bite back a moan as his cock drags against Minho’s thigh through three layers of clothing.
Now that he’s started, he discovers it’s impossible to stop.
He allows himself small thrusts, slow and almost timid, that really only succeed in frustrating him further. It’s not getting him exactly what he wants, but it’s hard to find the right leverage for it, when he doesn’t know how to position himself; what Minho will let him do.
Minho sighs. “Be serious about this or hop off.”
Jisung rushes to shake his head, resolute. He experimentally leans further down and sets his palms on the mattress, on either side of Minho’s thigh, pleased to find that it alleviates some of the stress on his knees, allows for more confident movement.
It’s better, so much better, even if it’s not perfect.
“This is what you’ve been after all week, isn’t it?” Minho asks. Jisung couldn’t say that this is exactly what he’d been aiming for, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t nod, regardless. Minho clicks his tongue, disapproving. “Looking at me all needy, fetching me things. You even did my laundry unprompted.”
Jisung feels red, flushed all over, for more reasons than one. The mortification of being found out eclipses the pleasure he feels, even as every rut makes his desperation grow. The shame is more acute, with the promise of release as distant as it seems in the moment.
“Thought you were being sweet.” Minho rolls his eyes, their whites flashing in the dark. “But it was just you scheming. Conniving brat.”
Jisung’s gut tightens so hard it burns. His hips stutter, and it’s only now, with his tempo being interrupted, that he realises how loud he’s being — the squeaking of the mattress, the rustling of his clothes, the slick sound of his underwear, wet, Jesus Christ, every time he rolls his hips back to grind forward against Minho’s muscular thigh, over and over again.
A whine catches in his throat.
He hangs his head, hot and wanting so hard it’s exhausting, and breathes through his mouth as he tries to collect himself.
His elbows shake with the effort of supporting his weight.
“Wasting my time,” Minho sighs, disappointed, and Jisung’s entire body trembles. “You’ve been planning this for a week and you still can’t do it.”
Jisung keens in protest. It’s true, Minho’s right, and yet. He grinds down again, once, twice, seeking some sort of relief, and despairs when it does not prove enough to console him. “I need…” Words come hard.
“What do you need?” Minho asks, stressing the last word with no subtle amount of derision. Several seconds tick by with Jisung failing to respond. The next time Minho speaks, his voice sounds closer than before. “Look at me.”
Jisung’s neck creaks as he shifts to obey.
Minho’s phone is nowhere to be seen. The only light hitting the room is that of the city outside. The eye contact sears him.
“Tell me what you need and I might just give it to you.”
Minho has never once betrayed Jisung’s trust.
He feels the inner edges of his eyebrows lift on their own. “You,” he says, the answer simple. His hips roll back and home again, in a bid to prove the truth in his words. He’s hard for him. Wet and aching. Minho must know.
No reaction or acknowledgment follows, for what feels like the longest time. Jisung holds onto a breath as he hangs on Minho’s lips.
“You can do better than that,” Minho eventually drawls, and Jisung realises he’s being tested. Based on the look Minho’s giving him, he’s probably already failed at least once. He isn’t eager to do so again.
Jisung takes a slow inhalation, entirely unpretending in its shakiness. “I need you,” he says, “in any way.” Daringly, he lifts a hand off the mattress, and risks gently placing it right in front of himself, on the thickness of Minho’s thigh. And even as the temptation to touch himself, to relieve some of his tension, is so strong, he refuses to lose sight of his goal.
He inches higher, testing the waters, and gains confidence when he registers the way Minho’s gaze falls onto his hand. He elates in the responding tightening of his mouth when his fingers reach the top of Minho’s leg, dig into the joint of his hip. Not even the low lighting can hide his reaction; the undeniable proof that, despite his words, Minho needs him, too.
Jisung leans in, lowers his voice. “Please, hyung.”
Minho’s eyes lift in increments, syrupy-slow. When they finally find Jisung’s own, he swears the world around them simply falls out of existence. Nothing is real, nothing matters, outside of Minho looking back at him with eyes that glimmer like they hold the entirety of the universe in them.
Maybe that’s where everything went, after all.
The hand on his lower back tethers him to Minho, the focal point of everything that ever has been and ever will be. Safe.
And, as if to reward him for not getting lost, Minho, at last, speaks. “There,” he says, one corner of his lips tilting upwards with none of the previous mockery and all of the contentment Jisung needs to see on his face, “that’s a good boy.”
Jisung’s brain disconnects from his body. Every muscle and every limb goes numb. The only parts of him that Jisung can with absolute certainty verify belong to him are the ones Minho graces with his touch — the constant pressure at the bottom of his spine, the tender grazes on his hip, the small of his waist, the outer curve of his pec, his clavicle, the edge of his jaw.
Fingers tug at the nape of his neck, pulling him down, closer to Minho.
A word is pressed into his cheek with a kiss. “Baby.”
Jisung lets out what might be a whine as his body bucks into Minho. Pleasure sparks in his groin and blazes through him, from the centre outwards.
He follows Minho’s lead, unthinking, and turns whichever way he needs him to. Parts his lips for him, lets him lick his way in, swallows his words when Minho says, “is this what you need?”
Jisung offers as small a nod as he can, unwilling to interfere with whatever Minho means to do to him.
He almost protests, when Minho’s touch leaves the side of his face, only to discover it’s even better, so much better, when he finds it again between his legs. On his cock, squeezing him through his sweatpants.
“This?” Minho asks. “What about this?”
Jisung moans, thrusts into Minho’s palm, desperate beyond belief. Yes, this.
“Tell me.”
He can feel his heart beating in his tongue. Trying to speak around it takes a lot out of him, but he does it, either way. “This is what I need, hyung.” He ruts, ruts, and finds it in himself to self-correct even as Minho’s hand threatens to render him wholly useless. “Anything. Please.” He’ll take anything.
Minho’s smile shimmers in the low light. “See, you can be so good when you want to.”
Hot fingers dip underneath his waistband to wrap around his cock. Jisung’s spine gives up. He’s in free-fall until Minho’s other hand cradles the back of his neck, softening his landing as he finds solace in the crook of Minho’s shoulder.
Minho, merciful, tugs at him in earnest while Jisung’s chest heaves against his own. It’s like it goes on forever, until it suddenly becomes obvious it’s going to be over way too soon for Jisung’s liking, the burden of pleasure too heavy to bear for this long.
“Are you gonna come?” Minho asks, as if he cannot read the answer in every single hurried breath.
Jisung nods, mindlessly mouthing at the softness of Minho’s throat.
Minho’s lips burn against the hinge of his jaw. “Come, then,” he says, hand picking up speed, “come on, baby, so good, so sweet,” he coos, Jisung’s skull reverberating with the praise, and that’s—
That’s it, that’s all, as Jisung’s entire body seizes, hips stuttering as they chase after even more of Minho’s touch, eyes so tightly shut he sees stars as he digs his nose into Minho’s shoulder.
He loses all track of how long he spends trembling in his hold, inhaling through his mouth as he tries his best to fill his burning lungs. Through it all, Minho’s hands trace gentle lines up his back, down his flank, his lips peppering small pecks all over the side of his face in random intervals.
“Holy shit,” he whispers against Minho’s clavicle whenever words become possible for him again. “Hyung, holy fuck.” His heart is still fluttering in his ribcage, a shaky little thing.
“Yeah?” Minho asks while he scritches at the short hair on Jisung’s nape, his tone softer now, almost uncertain-sounding. Trust Minho to give Jisung the single most brain-melting orgasm of his life and act like he’s not sure he fucking aced it mere minutes later.
Jisung manages a breathy, unsteady chuckle, and kisses Minho’s shoulder before he musters up enough energy to draw just far back enough to look at him. He gives him a smile only to have it mirrored right back, Minho’s eyes shining even as they search his face, still not entirely believing.
“Yeah,” he reassures him, leaning in to catch his lips in a kiss. He’s still far from all the way back online, mentally, but he wills himself to find some sort of coherency for Minho’s sake. “What the fuck, yeah, are you kidding? It’s a miracle I can even form sentences right now.”
Minho laughs, kisses him; again, and then some more.
When Jisung reaches between them, however many minutes later, Minho sounds bashful when he tells him there is no need. If Jisung had any strength left in him, by this point, he's certain the feel of sticky wetness he finds on the material of Minho’s boxer briefs would have him hard all over again in ten seconds flat.
—
Short but confident fingers dig into his upper back, and Jisung inhales through clenched teeth, lips drawn back so dramatically it makes his gums grow cold.
Felix stops humming along to the vaguely familiar-sounding song that must be playing in his earbud to emit a happy little aha. He flattens the pad of his thumb against the muscle and pushes into it in a rolling, upwards motion. “There it is,” he says, and he scoots just a little closer on the seat, clearly unwilling to let the jostling of the van interfere with his task.
Jisung twists his shoulder just so, tries to physically move into the massage; Felix is so close, but the source of his pain is mere centimetres off to the left of where he’s touching.
“No,” Minho’s voice pipes up from the right, and Jisung only has a second to process the exact level of threatening his sweet tone is before finding out first-hand. Minho’s arm snakes around his back easily. The finger that presses into his deltoid pinpoints the epicentre of soreness on the very first try.
Jisung yowls.
“That’s where it is,” Minho says through a crystal-clear audible smile, and only digs in more deliberately when Jisung tries and fails to escape his touch.
Felix laughs at them, and circles his arms around Jisung’s midsection when he arches into him in pain. Once Minho has seemingly had his fill torturing Jisung, Felix takes over to soothe the aching muscle with the ball of his thumb, the pressure soft yet relieving. “Personal trainer Lee Know got you good yesterday, huh?” he asks around a chuckle.
Jisung sighs, deep and exaggerated. “Beauty is pain,” he says, rotates his shoulder into Felix’s hands for better access. “No pain, no gain.” He scrapes the back of his skull for any similarly corny quotes he can parrot just to be annoying, but has no luck.
Still, the fond grin he finds in Minho’s face rewards him for his efforts.
“I gotta do what I gotta do,” Jisung says, interrupting himself to groan at a particularly accurate press of Felix’s thumb, “need to look after hyung’s favourite part of me.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Minho lift an eyebrow even as Felix hums in understanding.
“Isn’t that right?” he directs at Minho, thrown off by his reaction.
Minho offers a puzzled smile. “Are you talking about your arms?”
It’s Jisung’s turn to level him with a confused expression, this time. “Yeah. Are they not?”
“Why would your arms be my favourite part of you?” he asks, and Jisung can’t quite figure out how to respond to that.
He always just assumed, is all. He’s quite proud of his arms, all things considered. Minho makes sure to guide him through the most thorough arm exercises, whenever they work out together, and it is paying off, the results obvious in his physique. He figures they’re the manliest thing about him, along with his shoulders — not like Jisung is some sort of macho freak, but he’s aware of the way they make him look. Of the soft spot Minho has for the rougher parts of him.
He’s not hurt, not really, it’s just—
It’s surprising. That’s all.
Jisung hisses as Felix’s touch persists, kneading in circular motions, and realises he hasn’t replied in a long enough time for it to start being a little weird. He decides to push through with bravado. “Well, where do they fall? Are they number two?”
Minho’s responding laugh creases the corners of his eyes and makes Jisung smile by default, even as he’s unsure what Minho is going to follow up with. “You think I have a ranked list, Jisung-ah?”
And, okay, that’s uncalled for. “People who care do!”
“You have one for me?”
He pouts. “Not like I’m gonna tell you, now.”
“Your arms are number three, for me,” Felix supplies over his left shoulder, and Jisung finds just the right opportunity to give his overworked muscles a break. He pulls away only to shoulder his way between Felix and the back of the seat, looping his arm around Felix’s elbow.
“See,” he says, lips purposefully rounded around the word, “someone actually cares.” He throws an exaggeratedly jilted look Minho’s way, chest warming at the subtle furrow of his brows, and chooses to maintain eye contact as he lowers his head onto Felix’s shoulder. He pats the bicep that’s flush against his chest. “Yongbokkie can be my boyfriend for the day.”
Felix laughs, gently pats his forearm. “I don’t think hyung likes sharing.”
Jisung debates between pushing it further and reaching out in an attempt to smooth the slight downturn of Minho’s lips away, but the van slowing to a stop steals the chance to decide away from him.
When he climbs out, seconds later, his fingers find the cuff of Minho’s jacket easily. He tugs him close as they’re being herded into the building.
“Thought I’ve been replaced?” Minho asks but yields, regardless, knocking his shoulder against Jisung’s own as they walk.
Jisung rolls his eyes. Lowers his hand to wrap his pinky around Minho’s. “Nah, you’re still my number one by far.”
+
“There’s the knot,” Minho practically coos, and Jisung groans as he feels the tension break in real time.
His back arches, hips and shoulders lifting off the mattress even as Minho’s weight anchors him in place. The pained God, hyung, it hurts so much, that he smothers into the pillow earns him a chuckle so fond it takes at least half of the ache away.
Minho’s fingers, slick with coconut oil and warm with friction, continue pressing circles into his upper back. Jisung, to his credit, allows it all the way until he finds himself on the brink of feeling raw with it. He internally counts to five before rolling his shoulder the other way, in protest.
Minho takes the hint. “Fine, you baby,” he says, running his hand over the sore spot just once. Jisung lifts his head, eager to find his shirt before the warmth of the massage gives way to the autumn chill, but discovers there’s no need for it, when Minho stays put. Instead of letting him go and getting off the bed, he simply scoots higher up Jisung’s thighs. The pressure of his hands softens as they now move more to caress, rather than to heal.
Jisung rests his cheek against the pillow. Sighs.
Palms gently smooth over the expanse of his back, starting from his spine and sliding outwards. Lower and lower with each pass, until they reach the small of his back. They reset their path by cupping the tops of his shoulders, fingers squeezing all the way until they reach his elbows.
It’s nice. Nice to be touched for the sake of being touched. As if Minho simply enjoys doing it, as much as Jisung loves being on the receiving end of it.
Minho runs one hand down the length of his back. “My big, strong man,” he quietly says out of nowhere.
Jisung would twist around, send a look of complaint his way, if only it didn’t feel like his entire body has the consistency of putty. “You’re teasing me.”
“I’m not,” Minho says, tone sweet, devoid of any pretence. It makes Jisung grow warm from the inside out.
He does not bother to hide his self-conscious smile away from him. “You’re bigger than me, hyung.”
Minho runs his thumbs down the nape of Jisung’s neck, once, twice, and offers a little hum, like he’s considering the statement. “Maybe so. But you’re still more fit, considering your frame.”
Jisung wonders if Minho can see the flush he feels spanning down his throat; sense the heat of it, blooming under his hands. “Yeah?” he asks, hungry for validation.
“Yes.”
Minho’s touch returns to his shoulder blades, tender and aimless.
Jisung subtly presses his hips into the mattress below. He’s on the verge of opening his mouth, eager to exploit Minho’s gracious mood to fish for more compliments, when Minho spares him the trouble by speaking again, unprompted. “Notice how you haven’t been as tense here, lately?” he asks, gently digging into what Jisung thinks are the divots between his muscles.
He’s unsure where Minho is going with this, but he makes an inquiring sound, regardless, keen on hearing whatever it is he has to say.
“It’s because you’ve been training so hard. Growing stronger.” The pressure persists, warm and far from painful. “Your wide shoulders,” he says, something in his tone bordering on shiver-inducing awe, “powerful and capable. Keeping you healthy.”
Jisung fights against the whine building in his chest as slick hands curve over the balls of his shoulders and wander down his biceps.
“All the way down to your arms,” Minho says lowly, suddenly sounding much closer than before. “You can even lift me with ease, nowadays.”
He almost wants to dispute it, to point out that, the times he’s done it, it’s been thanks to a wall or some kind of furniture supporting most of Minho’s body weight, but he can’t find the heart to do so. Not when Minho is speaking so softly, voice full of wonder, as if Jisung is the most admirable man alive.
The familiar heat of Minho’s mouth latches onto the top of his spine, and Jisung’s cock throbs.
“They’re not my favourite part of you, though,” he mouths against Jisung’s skin, even as his fingers squeeze at said muscles. A kiss, and then one more, at the base of Jisung’s skull, right where his hair starts. “I could never pick.”
Jisung rotates his head as much as he can, tries his best to get a glimpse of Minho’s face, given the angle.
Minho pulls back just as much as is needed to reward him with precious eye contact. “When will you understand I’m obsessed with all of you, Han Jisung?”
At the weak moan that escapes past Jisung’s lips, Minho simply responds with a smile. It’s that soft one, the kind that Jisung has grown to recognise as his very own, tucked away only for him to receive. The very same that’s always paired up with that lovely twinkle in Minho’s eyes.
It means everything to Jisung.
“Do you get it now?”
Jisung sighs, wills himself to let go of the subtle sting that’d stayed with him, ever since that drive. Ever since he’d let his own insecurity blind him to the meaning between Minho’s words. “I think so.”
Minho leans down to deposit a kiss in the middle of his cheek. “Let me make sure,” he says, “just to be safe.” The way his lips tilt with mischief has Jisung’s heart fluttering as he nods, right before Minho disappears from his line of sight all over again.
There is no more fitting way to describe how Minho makes him feel, in the time that follows, other than revered.
Jisung’s lexicon simply falls short, as Minho’s hands languidly slide all the way to his wrists only to reunite at the top of his back. When they shift to fan down the curves of his ribcage, Minho’s mouth readily takes their place.
The series of pecks on each knob of his spine is only briefly interrupted to leave room for words, tenderly spoken into his flesh.
“I love you.” Kiss. “All of you.” Kiss. “Each part as much as the next.” Kiss. “Because all of it is you.” Kiss.
This time, when Jisung slowly thrusts against the mattress, the motion displaces Minho just enough to reveal the fact that he’s hard, too, between the tops of Jisung’s thighs. He rolls his hips to meet him, but Minho only scoots away as he travels further down his body.
Hands on his waist, mouth on the small of his back.
“Here, too,” he says as his thumbs stretch all the way across, as if his hands are big enough for them to meet in the middle. Or, maybe, as if Jisung’s waist is slim enough for it. Jisung wishes it was. “You're perfect here, too.”
And, with surprising ease, Minho sounds confident enough to make Jisung believe it, as well.
He cooperates when fingers hook around the waistband of his underwear to pull them down and off. Moans at the purposeful grip on the globes of his ass, and hisses at the feel of teeth softly sinking into the meat of it. Minho lets go to speak, but only after soothing the sting with a kiss.
“Now, if I had to choose a favourite…”
Jisung automatically transfers some of his weight to his knees, lifting his hips, when Minho’s slick touch trails down his crack and brushes against his hole.
“If I absolutely had to…”
“Yeah?” he asks, breathless with it.
Minho makes a contemplative noise as he repeats the action. “No,” he says in the end, sounding almost disappointed with himself, but Jisung can hear the smile in his voice all the same. “I couldn’t. It’s up there, though.”
Jisung’s responding huff of disbelief, combined with the way he physically seeks out Minho’s hands as they leave him again, earns him a self-satisfied chuckle. This fucker.
“Turn around for me, Jisung-ah.”
He complies without hesitation, and feels himself blush, crimson-hot, at the way Minho sits back to watch him, eyes appreciatively running down the entire length of him like this is his first time getting to look at Jisung. He has to wonder when Minho’s gaze on him evolved into what it is today. If it happened gradually or all at once, with Jisung failing to notice. When it’s going to stop.
Jisung would give anything to know it never will.
“You’re doing that thing again. Like in the van,” Minho accuses after a few seconds of silence, eyes trained on whatever is showing in his expression, sizing him up. He crawls forward, coming to a stop centimetres away from his face. “Good thing I’m making sure.”
Minho kisses him slowly. With intent.
He caresses the line of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw. He withdraws to whisper against the corner of his mouth, as if confiding a secret. “I can’t believe I get to kiss you.”
“Hyung,” Jisung says, sounding pained even to his own ears. He wishes he knew what he’s ever done to deserve this — Minho himself — so that he can at least try to replicate it. Maybe, this way, he’ll ensure that karma loops the invisible string connecting the two of them tighter and tighter. Maybe, even if he’s not fully deserving, he’ll still get to hoard Minho all to himself for at least one more lifetime.
Minho smiles. If he can tell what’s going on inside Jisung’s head, he does not let on. Instead, he just tips Jisung’s head backwards so he can make his way down the column of his throat, his sternum, with a detour to nose at the underside of his pec.
Jisung arches into it, holds him close by the back of his head.
When Minho speaks, Jisung can feel the vibration of it in the bones of his fingers. “I do have a soft spot,” he admits, “for how responsive you are, here.”
And, to prove his point, the warmth of his mouth closes around Jisung’s nipple. Teeth, blunt. The slide of his tongue, hot.
Nothing can be done about the way Jisung whines, needy and all too sensitive. About the way he bucks upwards, in an attempt to find Minho against him.
It’s all too much, and yet Minho just lets him go with a quiet pop, to respond with a smile. “See? Perfect.” He resumes on his original path, after that, down the line of his abdomen, to leave a kiss right above his belly button. “And here.”
Jisung half-lifts himself to watch, and distantly congratulates himself for the decision, when the action makes his abs tense up.
“Perfect when you’re leaner,” Minho says, his fingers traversing the plains of Jisung’s torso, dipping into the lines of his abs and curving over the muscles. Jisung feels hot with pride. “And perfect when you’re not.” A hand reaches out to gently press down on his chest, instructing him to lie back down. He follows Minho’s lead despite his uncertainty, and earns a kiss on his belly button for his compliance. “When you’re softer,” Minho clarifies.
He feels winded, all of a sudden. Takes a belly-filling breath, and exhales slowly as Minho peppers his abdomen with even more pecks, lower and lower until his mouth reaches his hip bone.
Jisung’s body twists into it, tries to silently guide Minho where he needs him the most.
Minho, thankfully, doesn’t torment him for too long. His touch travels down to his calves, leisurely, before coming back to his thighs. Jisung allows his legs to part, leaving room for Minho to settle between them.
“And this?” Minho asks, tone lifting at the end of the sentence.
Jisung doesn’t have to prop himself up on his elbows, to confirm what Minho is referring to, not when he can feel his fingers follow the line of his hip joint to wrap around the base of his cock, but he does it, anyway. He wants to see.
He finds Minho looking straight at him. “Do you know what this is?”
Under different circumstances, the question would make Jisung laugh. As it is, right now it simply makes him moan. Possible answers swirl around in his head. Yours, he could say, all for you. And it would be completely true. Instead, he tries to make sure Minho knows he’s been paying attention. “Perfect?” he asks, recognising just how watery his voice sounds and unable to do anything about it.
The corners of Minho’s eyes crinkle with a smile. “You’re a fast learner.”
Jisung is afforded no time to weigh the exact difference between teasing and praise, as Minho starts stroking him. He can only try (and fail) to steady his breathing, while one hand pumps his cock and the other reaches down to cradle his balls.
“It’s perfect in my hands,” Minho comments entirely too softly, considering the context, “in my mouth, in me.” A brush of his thumb over the slit makes Jisung hiss, roll his head backwards. Minho waits him out, and grins at him when they reestablish eye contact. “Do you believe me?”
“Sure,” Jisung says. He cups Minho’s cheek, only a little shakily, and feels his heart flutter when Minho turns to nuzzle into it. “But show me, anyway?” he smiles.
Minho, thankfully, doesn’t need to be told twice. His lips part to wrap around him with ease. His tongue flattens against the underside of his cock, scorching. Jisung is confident there is no need to have any sort of lesson taught to him, in this case. Perfection is staring him head-on; its name is Lee Minho.
“Fuck,” he says, arousal spiking when Minho angles his head just so, guides the head of Jisung’s cock into the velvety softness of his cheek. Underneath Jisung’s palm, Minho’s cheek distents with the pressure. He bucks into it, finding a perverse kind of satisfaction in the way he can feel himself through the side of Minho’s face, and he moans when Minho shifts to once again properly take him in, only seconds later.
Jisung reaches around Minho’s skull, weaves his fingers through his hair, and holds on as best as he can while Minho bobs his head, working him deeper and deeper into perfect, wet heat.
This really won’t take long, Jisung realises. Not with the expertly applied suction. Not with the way Minho’s eyes sparkle where they’re focused on his face.
“I’m close.”
The hand around the base of his cock withdraws, and Minho’s eyelids fall closed as his mouth takes its place.
Jisung is going to lose his mind.
“Gonna come,” he says, fucking into Minho’s mouth as it encourages him in. He twists his fingers into his hair, pulls, and feels more than hears Minho’s responding moan. “Fuck, hyung, I’m gonna—”
His vision whites out as he spills deep into Minho’s throat. He whines as it convulses around him, swallowing, consuming.
Jisung has no idea how long it goes on for, as he fights the cresting overstimulation. He only really comes back down after Minho has let go, and just in time to witness the way Minho’s lips, red and raw-looking, leave fleeting kisses down his shaft. On his pubic bone. The valley of his hip.
When seemingly satisfied, Minho lowers his head to rest his cheek on his thigh. As Jisung struggles to catch his breath, Minho looks up at him with stars in his eyes.
“Perfect,” he practically purrs, the immaculate embodiment of the cat that got the cream. “Perfect for me.”
Jisung’s ribcage rattles to the tune of his erratic heartbeat. This man is going to be the death of him.
—
“You can say it.”
Minho does his best to suppress his grin, but Jisung manages to see it even as he’s emphatically shaking his head in disagreement.
He tightens his hold on Minho’s wrists and cages him into the couch cushions, with his elbows framing Minho’s ribcage. Loves the way he can feel him trying to breathe against Jisung’s weight on him. “No, admit it. You’d love to cheat with me.”
“You’re projecting,” Minho says through a giggle.
“And you’d love to know I’d be cheating with you.”
Minho’s eyes go wide in mock-offence, but he still makes no move to break free. In fact, he only secures their hold on each other tighter; Jisung can feel him locking his ankles together against the backs of his calves. “I’m not a freak like you,” Minho protests.
“You’re right, you’re worse.” Jisung’s cheeks hurt with the force of his smile. “Sister-in-law.”
Minho lets out a huff. “How dare you.” When Jisung’s nails unconsciously dig into the flesh of his wrists, he feels Minho’s cock twitch against his own. Jisung hopes it’s all right that he’s way ahead of him, on that front. “I’m a happily married woman,” Minho whispers, all scandal.
“Oh, you’re definitely happy every time I’m done with you,” he says, voice low in just the right register that always makes Minho laugh that special laugh of his, the one that starts out with disbelief at his cockiness and peters out into arousal.
This time is no different. Jisung leans down to drink Minho’s mirth straight from his lips.
When they part, Minho breaks his hands free from Jisung’s grip just to curl them over the sides of his throat. The grin he offers him lights up the entire living room.
“You’re sick,” Minho says, delivering the words like they’re the single sweetest compliment he can come up with.
Jisung smiles, nods. It gets yet another laugh out of Minho.
“Tell me about how we’d sneak around.”
He shimmies his hips a little, settling even more comfortably into Minho’s embrace, which generously accommodates him. “You mean about how you’d signal me to follow you to the bathroom during family dinners?” Jisung asks, arousal building in his belly at MInho’s slowly-spreading smirk.
“Is that right? I’d be the instigator?” His arms stretch to loop around Jisung’s neck. The way he’s looking at him leaves Jisung light-headed.
“Who else?” He dips his head to meet his lips again, and sighs into the kiss when the slow roll of their hips — it’s unclear who started it, but, if he’s being honest, it really doesn’t matter — has his cock grinding against Minho’s abdomen. The contact, even if dulled by their clothing, is perfect, as it always is. “Just like when you’d call me over whenever you’d be home alone.”
The grin Minho gives him is borderline ravenous. “You’d be that easy for me?” he asks, as if not entirely familiar with the concept. As if believing Jisung would throw away his morals just to get to have him is a hard thing to do.
(They’re joking. Playing along for the sake of the fantasy. He knows they wouldn’t. He knows Minho wouldn’t. But, even in the moment, Jisung does feel a little sorry, considering how not sorry he feels about his imaginary family.)
“Easy enough to leave everything the moment you ring me,” he admits. “To be on you the second you open the door.”
He feels Minho’s shiver echoed in his own body. “Where the neighbours can see?”
The thought catches him by surprise, burns him all the way to the core.
The feel of Minho’s eyes on him changes at a dizzying speed. “You’d like that,” he says, not a question, not teasing; a statement.
Jisung has no words left in him to refute it, all of a sudden. All he can do is grind down against Minho.
“You would,” Minho says, letting the revelation roll off his tongue decadently, clearly delighting in having made this discovery all on his own. “Maybe you’d want us to be caught by the neighbourhood busybody.”
He gasps as Minho’s hips cant against his.
“Or maybe you’d wanna hear the lock turning as you’re coming inside me?”
Two things happen at once, as Minho breathes out that last syllable: Jisung short-circuits, and the distinct sound of the elevator door opening somehow manages to reach his ears, despite his current state.
In the back of his mind, he acknowledges that the latter may be a side effect of the former, his overwhelmed brain embellishing reality with the fictional, but the fact remains the same. Jisung is almost embarrassingly hard, swept up in the fantasy of getting caught in the act with Minho, and someone is right outside the dorm.
If asked, at a later time, he’s confident he will not be able to explain the intensity and speed at which pleasure lances clean through him. He has never, ever felt this way before.
The door manages to muffle the sound of conversation, but does nothing to hide the familiar jingling of keys as they’re being shuffled.
Jisung feels more like an astral projection than a person while he desperately ruts down and against Minho’s body. The edges of his vision fuzz over with white noise. In the centre of everything, Minho looks up at him with eyes so wide they’re predominantly white. His hands grip at Jisung’s back, while his legs, hitched higher on his hips now, spur him on.
Key slots into lock.
Jisung has gone from comfortably horny and messing around to rapidly crash-landing his way to an orgasm in under a minute.
The lock turns.
Minho’s abs tense up underneath him. One more hurried thrust is all it takes for Jisung to come in his pants, breathless and quaking in Minho’s hold.
He admittedly kind of blanks, in the aftermath.
Not much else he can find in himself to focus on, other than the immediate wave of guilt and shame that slams into him, as he uselessly ragdolls against Minho.
He thinks he can feel warmth cover him, after Minho’s legs and arms unwrap from around him. He thinks the voices stall in the hallway, just briefly, as the sound of what might be boots hitting the floor reaches him.
And, as he sinks deeper and deeper into embarrassment, he only distantly tries to follow along the exchange that takes place only seconds later.
“I think he might be coming down with something,” Minho quietly says against the crown of his head. Jisung can feel where one of his hands comfortingly smooths the blanket over his back, the touch muted by the thick fabric.
Overlapping reactions of worry, then, from caring members who have no idea what just happened, no idea just how sick a puppy Jisung is, dragging them into this without their consent.
It makes his stomach roll.
He tries not to pay too much attention, at least until he can hear the bathroom door being closed, the sound of footsteps leading down to the far side of the dorm.
A breath leaves him, shaky, as he burrows deeper into the crook of Minho’s shoulder. He cannot meet his eye. Cannot bear to theorise about what he might think of him, now. Doesn’t believe his heart could take it. Not at the moment.
Arms circle his body, again.
“Baby,” Minho whispers against the side of his head, and Jisung thinks he could possibly break into tears, if nudged only slightly.
He shakes his head, unwilling to respond, and hopes Minho will decide to spare him, at the absolute least until Jisung musters up enough courage to drag himself to the bathroom.
Instead of speaking, Minho moves. He shifts up the couch just a little, only as much as it takes for Jisung to resettle between his thighs, lower than before. To feel the hard line of Minho’s cock against him.
A hand gently runs down the back of his head to rest at the nape of his neck, consoling.
Jisung sighs against him, sneaks his hands underneath Minho’s back to curl them over his shoulder blades.
He thanks his lucky stars as the thought occurs to him that Minho doesn’t have to say it’s all right. Doesn’t need to utter the words I thought it was hot, too.
And Jisung doesn’t have to say anything in response. He offers a little kiss, a chaste peck, at the base of Minho’s throat, and hopes it’ll do as a gesture of gratitude, at least for now.
Minho’s hand squeezes, just briefly, in what feels like understanding. “Let’s get you a change of clothes from my room, okay?”
Jisung nods.
+
His grip on Minho’s hips is so tight it has got to hurt, but the steadying hands on Jisung’s wrists only encourage him further.
“Just like that,” Minho breathes out, and Jisung readily obeys, doing his best to replicate the exact thrust that gets Minho writhing in his lap.
He’s so focused, so zeroed in on Minho’s reactions — from the aggressive flush down his neck and chest, to the way his hips swivel to meet Jisung at just the right angle — that he almost doesn’t hear it, at first. If it weren’t for the way the vibration makes it rattle loudly on top of the nightstand, it’s entirely possible Jisung’s ears would entirely block the sound of Minho’s phone ringing.
He tilts his head a little, trying to pinpoint the melody. It’s not Minho’s default ringtone, but it’s not one of the custom ones he’s set, either, and Jisung is confident he’s aware of all of them. How many contacts does Minho care enough about to customise, anyway?
Still, Minho seems to recognise the alert for what it is. He rolls his eyes but does not get off of Jisung’s lap as he leans across the bed to reach for his phone.
“Leave it,” Jisung says. Whoever it is will surely get the message, after being ignored for a couple more seconds. He thrusts up decisively, elating in the moan it startles out of Minho. This is way more important.
The alert plays on, regardless. Jisung tries to focus past Minho to figure out what’s going on.
He has his ringing phone in his hand, now. When he leans away, back straightening up, Jisung can see the light creases around his eyebrows, as he looks between Jisung and the phone.
“Who is it?” he asks, confused and just a little bit worried. “Leave it.”
The look in Minho’s eyes briefly turning calculating is the only warning Jisung gets before he sees his thumb swiping across the screen. The ringing stops. Minho brings the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
Jisung lets his head hit the pillow, disappointed, and supports Minho’s hips as he pulls him off.
“Ah, right, yes.” Minho follows along the movement, lifting himself up only to slowly sink back down.
Jisung feels his eyes widen. He digs in his nails, in warning, and mouths a string of words that he can only hope accurately translate into hyung, what, stop.
“I remember,” Minho says into the phone, a dangerous shine to his eyes as he lifts a hand to hold his index finger against his own lips.
Being shushed was never among the things that Jisung would expect to find excruciatingly hot, and yet here he is. He purses his lips and prays for the best as Minho rolls his hips once, a perfect circle, before he starts to properly fuck himself on Jisung’s cock.
“Yes.”
Jisung watches, his heart beating in his throat, as Minho’s lips hang open in silent pleasure. When he thrusts up to meet him halfway, Minho tosses his head back, exposing the long line of his throat. Jisung drinks in the sights of the sharp triangle of his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobs.
A single sigh spills out of Minho’s mouth.
Jisung’s breath gets caught in his lungs.
“Ah, I’m at the gym,” he says after the longest-lasting couple of seconds of Jisung’s life. Whoever’s on the other end of the call — it could only be a manager, really, based on his tone and responses, but he could’ve sworn that was not the ringtone Minho’s set for them — cannot be heard, not even a tiny bit.
Then again, Jisung cannot, hand on heart, claim he would be able to focus on much else, when most of his willpower is being expended on not losing his mind.
He does his absolute best to be silent. The hand that settles on his pec does not even try to feign innocence, not when they’re both aware of the fact that Minho’s thighs are powerful enough to not require assistance; fingers pinch his nipple with confidence.
Jisung draws a quick, sharp breath through clenched teeth.
Minho smiles. Contracts around him, tight.
“Ah, Hannie?” he asks, and Jisung’s arousal spikes into a panic that loops right back around, one feeding the other. “He’s got his phone on silent, that’s why.”
There is no way, he thinks numbly, that they can’t recognise what’s going on. That they can’t hear the telltale sound of skin on skin, as Minho rides him. The winded grin in Minho’s voice. The laboured breathing that Jisung is trying so, so hard to keep quiet.
There is no way.
He shuts his eyes closed so tightly he sees colours against the backs of eyelids.
“We’re working out together, actually.”
Fuck. Fuck.
“Sure, I can pass him the phone.”
Jisung slaps the palm of his hand over his mouth hard enough to sting, and bucks into Minho with shallow, uncontrolled thrusts as he comes.
Nothing registers outside of the ringing in his ears and the impossible vice of Minho around him, hot and unyielding.
He cowardly allows himself to hide away in it for however long it takes, until it starts feeling like his heart isn’t about to give up on him any second now. Until he feels himself go soft.
When he unsticks his hand from his face, dares to open his eyes, it’s to be met with the sight of Minho looking down at him like he’s witnessing a minor miracle. One hand is loosely hanging onto his phone, screen dark against the mattress, while the other is wrapped around his own cock, squeezing a few drops of come out and onto Jisung’s belly. His chest feels hot, Jisung realises. Wet.
“What the fuck,” he breathes out.
As Minho’s eyes gradually clear, his lips are drawn into a slow, satisfied smile.
“What happ—” Jisung struggles with prioritising his thoughts, as Minho sets a warm palm on his stomach, the sound of impact slick. “I can’t believe you picked that up.”
The grin Minho gives him borders on predatory, now, all teeth. “I didn’t.” At what must be Jisung’s visible confusion, he pointlessly tilts the phone in his direction. “It was just an alarm I’d forgotten to turn off.”
Jisung lets out a sigh so deep it empties out his lungs entirely. It makes Minho laugh, almost offensively joyful, considering the amount of hornyscaredexcited stress he just put Jisung through.
Words fail to characterise the award-winning performance this man just improvised simply to wring Jisung dry.
“You genuinely scare me, sometimes.”
Minho wraps his grin around Jisung’s nipple, bites a weak moan out of him.
“I know. Isn’t it great?”
☆
“Okay, this is the third time in a row you’ve handed Jisung the round. You can’t keep doing this.”
Minho lifts his hands, palms up, and blinks in Changbin’s direction. “I thought his combo was—”
The back of Hyunjin’s head hits the couch. “It was not that funny.”
Minho dutifully hands his cards over to Jeongin, who has thankfully volunteered himself as the designated shuffler, for the night. “We’re supposed to vote based on our own criteria, so that’s what I’ve been doing,” he defends himself.
Jisung chuckles softly, one hand soothing wide circles into his back. Minho leans into his touch, grateful for it.
“I don’t remember seeing wanting to have a player’s babies in the criteria listed in the guidebook, but okay,” Seungmin drawls from the armchair opposite them, and—
And, all right, Minho will admit to giving himself away, here, because that’s a comment he could easily brush off, casually, but the way his back immediately stiffens in response definitely relays that he’s feeling anything but casual.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jisung’s eyebrows lift in his direction.
Fuck.
“I don’t—”
Seungmin scoffs. “Please. You do. You’ve literally said so.”
“I have never said that.”
“Except you have,” he says before turning to Hyunjin. “You were there.”
Hyunjin twists his face up, nods. “You did say it.”
Minho is instantly overtaken with the need to dive into an active volcano. Whatever happened to the unspoken oath that any words shared around a cheap bottle of wine are the kind that one takes to the grave?
Seungmin, unbothered, digs the knife of betrayal deeper. “Something something, little clones with his pretty, big doe eyes, can you imagine, Seungmin-ah?” he says, tone exaggerated in a way that most certainly does not make him sound anything like Minho at all.
Unsurprisingly, the impression makes Hyunjin let out a laugh that could rival that of a hyena’s, as he leans to slap Seungmin’s shoulder.
Just as Minho decides he’s had enough, the arm that loops itself around his neck draws him back against the couch. He turns to come face-to-face with Jisung’s smile.
“You think my eyes are pretty enough to pass down, hyung?”
Heat climbs up his chest, breaks out in his throat. He swallows around nothing. “Jisung-ah, don’t take them seriously.”
“I think the only one being serious about it, in the first place, was you.”
Minho is going to murder Kim Seungmin.
“You wanted to google if chocolate chip moles can be genetic.”
And he’s going to bury Hwang Hyunjin right next to him.
The warmth of Jisung’s body plasters itself all along the length of Minho’s side. A hand is protectively planted right on the centre of his sternum. “Hey, stop teasing my hyung, you two,” Jisung calls out.
More giggles ring out throughout the living room.
“I think I’m going to deal the cards, now,” Jeongin, to his credit, does his best to say while suppressing a grin.
Minho plays the next two rounds with the tops of his ears violently burning and Jisung’s hand giving him goosebumps, chilly against the heat underneath the neck of his hoodie.
+
Minho arches into the hand travelling across his chest, and extends his neck for better access when it loosely settles on the base of his throat.
Hot lips graze against the shell of his ear, the point of contact steady despite the onslaught of thrusts into him. “Gonna put a baby in you,” Jisung says, his tone betraying just enough uncertainty to be endearing, even as the words sear Minho from the inside.
He can’t help but shiver.
Jisung breathes out what sounds like a sigh of relief, digs his thumb right above Minho’s clavicle. “Yeah? Want me to breed you?”
Minho moans and does his best to fight against the quaking of his muscles, which has less to do with the fact that he’s had to support himself on all fours for a while now, and everything to do with the way Jisung is holding him, breathing against him, pushing every hidden button of his like he’s got him mapped out in detail.
When words come to him with difficulty, he resorts to answering Jisung’s question with a nod.
The hand on his neck pulls, directing him upwards and back.
He follows all the way along, until he's sitting on his knees. Until his back moulds perfectly up against Jisung’s chest, and his thighs burn with the strain of having to hold him upright. Until he’s perfectly seated on Jisung’s cock, cradled in his lap, no escape, even if he wanted to.
Jisung’s hand slithers down his body, finding its home below his belly button. “Right here,” he says, audibly breathless but valiantly confident against Minho’s ear, “this is where I’ll plant it.”
Minho’s responding gasp fills his lungs with fire, as Jisung punctuates the statement with a thrust that drives him even further in than Minho thought was possible. He rolls his hips in a circle, and draws back a little, only to slam his way back in.
Minho swears he can feel his brain shutting down, cell by cell.
Jisung, evidently, has chosen not to show any mercy. “Will hyung carry my child?” he asks, tone painfully sweet.
The palm on his belly — over where his womb would be, if Mother Nature cared for Minho’s secret dreams and desires — presses gently, and Minho can’t help but moan. “Yes,” he manages to say.
Jisung’s cock twitches inside him. “Fuck.”
Minho lets his head fall backwards, and is rewarded for his trust when Jisung instantly rolls his shoulder to support it.
“What was it you said? Little clones with my eyes?” Jisung asks. “I’d rather it’s your eyes, instead.” He pushes in, in, saves the earnest thrusts for the spaces in between sentences. “Among all my favourite parts of you, they’re my most favourite.” Minho’s chest aches with the thrill of being wanted. “So big and pretty,” Jisung whispers against Minho’s cheek bone, “like a doll’s.”
It’s all too much. “Jisung-ah,” he sighs out, his voice rendered almost completely useless, with the knot of pleasure building in his throat.
“Yes, baby?”
Minho twists his neck, lifts heavy eyelids to meet Jisung’s blazing gaze straight on. “Do it.”
Jisung’s response is instantaneous, capable muscles doing all the work as Minho is smoothly lowered down to all fours again, except, this time, Jisung hunches down with him. The heat of him never withdraws, a constant down the entire length of Minho’s spine.
The hand on his abdomen reaches down and, even though Minho instantly misses it, he does not even dare complain, when it curls around his cock.
“Okay, hyung,” Jisung says, and plants a kiss to the nape of his neck. “I’ll give it to you. Anything you want,” is all the warning Minho gets before Jisung makes good on his promise; too good, even. He pulls no punches as he thrusts into him with determination, each shift of his hips a statement of its own, perfectly matched by the movement on his hand, stroke for stroke.
Minho hangs his head, tries to focus on feeling every single bit of Jisung inside him. Anything to keep him from wondering if Jisung can truly grasp just how deeply this goes for him, beyond kink, beyond getting caught up in the excitement of something impossible.
His heart gets the best of him, regardless, commanding his body to give voice to worry that his brain is scared of expressing. “You mean it?”
The brief stutter in Jisung’s movements is enough to have Minho’s heart thumping painfully in his ribcage. When he speaks, Minho feels his words as a rumble against his back. “I mean all of it.” Simple, undeniably serious. He starts moving again, faster than before. “Want it all with you.”
Every single nerve in Minho’s body feels like it catches fire.
“Want to start a family with you.”
Minho’s chest constricts with overwhelming need.
“Want us to be one, in every way.”
In this very second, Minho knows with conviction that, even if it wasn’t for the way Jisung is expertly consuming all of him from the inside out, his words alone would be enough to push him over the edge. And that’s exactly what happens.
His climax strikes like a lighting bolt. His legs cramp with it. His insides quiver. He feels the way he clenches around Jisung, uncontrolled, and prays it’s enough to coax him along.
He thinks he’s about to have his wish granted when Jisung’s thrusts start losing finesse, and the heat of his mouth latches onto his nape again. “Be good and open wide for me, I need this to take.”
All Minho can register, after that, is the way Jisung bodily seizes against him. The scorching brand of him, deep inside, coating his walls and staking its claim.
He wants this to never stop, needs Jisung to keep going until Minho’s raw with it.
Still, he recognises when the end of the moment is due, after Jisung’s breathing starts to steady against his back again, a while later. He offers no complaint when he feels him carefully pull out, and he allows himself to finally relax when Jisung lies down on his back next to him, gently pulls him to lie on his chest.
Minho counts seconds as he focuses on the gradual slow-down of Jisung’s heartbeat, willing his own to follow along.
Eventually, the comfortable silence and the blunt fingernails softly scratching his scalp get to him. He’s on the verge of saying some incredibly sentimental shit, possibly too real even considering what just took place, but he does find it in him to aim for playful, thankfully.
“You are a menace to society.”
Jisung’s chest inflates with a laugh. “That’s not a very nice thing to say about the father of your child.”
Minho cranes his neck to direct wide eyes at him. “Han Jisung.”
The grin Jisung gives him is sunny and self-satisfied enough to knock the air out of his lungs. “Ah, sorry, I meant to say the father of your children. We’re not stopping at one, right?”
When the blistering mass of love in his chest burns so bright it threatens to climb up his throat, he shifts up the mattress to hide some of it away in Jisung’s mouth.
Jisung holds him close, smiles into the kiss like nothing has ever made him happier. Minho knows how that feels.
He has no idea how long it goes on for. He only realises he, at some point, slipped a leg between Jisung’s own when a hand squeezes his ass, dips lower to brush against his hole. Fingers circle his rim, slick with lube and Jisung’s come.
Arousal swirls in his gut.
“Keep kissing me like that and we’ll be ready for another try, soon enough,” Jisung drawls.
Minho arches into his touch, grins, his happiness effervescent.
“Oh, good.”