Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If Jisung was merely confused a few seconds ago, hearing the command uttered out of Minho’s mouth left him completely bewildered. His eyes cast down to his own sandals he’d just slipped on, but he complies slowly, kicking them off in the direction of his bed. The only sound between them is the awkward thud as one clatters and smacks against the floorboard.

His eyes eventually drag back to Minho’s silhouette, brows tilted downward. A weak chuff of laughter escapes him, more in concern than amusement. “Um, why did I just do that? What happened?”

“The soju didn’t get along with your stomach, so you thought it’d be best to hang back.” Minho states, and the confidence laced in those words made that almost sound like the truth.

Jisung blinks his narrowing gaze a few times. What? He did— no? Jisung’s lost the entire plot on this conversation before it’s barely even started.

“I never said that, though?”

Minho shrugs against the doorframe. “No, I did. I told them I’d hang back to keep you company.”

“Why..?” Jisung asks, ending the question with a tentative pitch. 

Jisung’s eyes have adjusted enough to properly see Minho’s, now unmoving and observant. They squint slightly on his next words, as if to calculate Jisung’s reaction. 

“Because you made me a promise.”

They must only stare at each other for a few seconds, but Jisung’s eyes blank as he tries to interpret what he said. Maybe he was a lightweight, because his brain is beginning to fog as he attempts to replay his day in reverse, reliving every minute and moment they’d spoken to each other. It wasn’t during the games, definitely not during the ‘nap’ he took, either. 

He wanted to sigh. Even thinking about the day made his body wilt in exhaustion. There was just too much to unpack on all fronts, an emotionally confusing avalanche that all started when Minho came home early and— 

Wait.

Jisung’s eyes impossibly widen when he suddenly blinks at Minho, slow. Too slow.

I’ll let you do anything you want.

Anything.

Oh.

The silence between them was deafening, but Jisung could already feel his core tightening in a sick medley of nerves and desire that crept through the veins and made the pads of his fingertips itch. The quiet of everything only suggested how alone they were, just the two of them, the members conveniently out of earshot. For hours, Jisung suspected, because their karaoke sessions usually went deep into the night until they returned home with sweating bodies and ringing ears. 

Karaoke. That Minho suggested.

“Oh,” Jisung whispers, barely audible even to himself. 

The tension built up between them all morning had reached its precipice, and the air was thick with it. The privacy was the final nail in the coffin, unable to hide the raw, desperate arousal usually trapped under their skin. Minho could do whatever he wanted, and the realization made something so nervous and submissive bloom in Jisung that he could no longer return eye contact. 

Jisung unintentionally flinches when he catches Minho pushing himself off the doorframe, intending to come forward, but pauses when he notices Jisung’s reaction. 

“Jisung,” Minho says, and it takes everything for Jisung to not pathetically shudder at that alone. “Look at me.”

Jisung slowly lifts his head again, having to silently remind himself that this was actually happening. His eyes trace up Minho’s jeans, the waist hidden by his loose sweater, exposing hints of neck and toned chest in a low vee, finally looking up in awe of that flawlessly nonchalant face.

Minho allows himself a moment to simply stare at Jisung, letting his eyes dance between both of them. He must be attempting to solve something in his own head — ask questions he doesn’t have the answers to. 

“Do I intimidate you?” He finally asks. 

Jisung blinks, taken aback by the question. 

Sure, Minho intimidated a lot of people, even Jisung at times. He felt like a walking enigma to him, irreverent to intimate questions and unreadable in so many aspects. The terrifying RBF was just the cherry on top. Even if he was just being dorky, a mess of laughter and genuine smiles, Jisung felt it. He was guarded. He was in control.

Jisung gave Minho a shy nod.

Jisung didn’t know what he was expecting, but Minho began shifting out backwards into the hall. His body was fully exposed in the light now, and Jisung could see how his brows slightly lifted, hands palm-forward. Something in his face looked concerned, and Jisung didn’t like the way it made a pit form in his stomach. 

“Jisung, we don’t have to do this.” Minho says calmly, and it’s a tone of reassurance Jisung hasn’t quite heard out of him before. “If I intim—”

“I like it.”

A pause. So much goes unsaid in the next moment they stare at each other. It was kind of Minho to give Jisung the option to stop. He could slip on his sandals and maybe have enough time to catch up with the rest of the group. File away this damned day as an unresolved, forgotten chapter in his life.

Yeah, fuck that. 

“I like it a lot, hyung.” Jisung says, almost stuttering from how nervous he is at his own words. They spill over before he can catch them, body thrumming and heart pounding in his chest, gaze wavering in anticipation when Minho’s expression suddenly severes, lids dropping as his eyes give a quick up-down of Jisung’s form.

To Jisung’s surprise, Minho doesn't move forward like he’d originally planned. A mix of confusion and worry spike through Jisung’s body when he just sidesteps the doorframe, leaning his body away from it.

“Go to my room and sit on my bed,” Minho orders darkly. “Now.”

Jisung is quick to obey, already feeling the sparks of anticipation lick up through his stomach. He fiddles with his hands that are buried under his oversized sleeves at his chest, trying to focus on that as he passes through the threshold of his room, Minho right by his side.

It’s almost unbearable to be this physically close to him. If Jisung wanted, he could reach out right now and touch him, tilt his head up past his fringe to see that gorgeously cold face only a few inches away from his, curved pout beckoning his own until the soft, wet press made them one again. 

Being this close to Minho was nearly impossible to resist, even before today. They’d take the back seats of the staff van at night on the way home from filming sometimes, and Minho would let Jisung curl close, let him hook an arm around his bicep and press his temple against his shoulder. When he tilted his head up, he saw Minho’s profile, his jaw — the way his skin flickered orange to red to drenched in shadow in the streetlights and underpasses. He had to clench his teeth in grating to avoid lifting those last few inches to press his lips there. 

He couldn’t, and he can’t now, even now that he’s had the pleasure. He wants to be good for him. He rounds the corner with his eyes on his hands and the burn of Minho’s gaze on his back. 

Minho’s room was only a few doors down from his own. Jisung releases a breath he hadn’t known he was holding when he walks past the threshold, finally out of Minho’s sight. 

A sudden hit of deja vu floods through Jisung as he looks around, tensing his feet at the creaking floor beneath him. There’s a foreignness being here alone, taking in the furniture arranged unlike his own room, the way it even smells slightly different, dominated completely as Hyunjin, Minho and Seungmin’s space. It felt like visiting Felix’s room all over again.

This one was the cleanest by far, definitely from the Seungmin’s doing. It’s obvious which bed is his, pristine and perfect enough to be out of a catalogue. He runs the edge of his pinkie along the sheets, featherlight to not cause wrinkles. 

Minho’s bed was even more obvious. 

Around the time dorms became necessary, Jisung distantly wondered why Minho was so adamant about having the bottom bunk. When they started moving in, Jisung chanced a glance when he walked past Minho’s room. He saw him on his feet, jaw tight in focus while he attempted to tape a privacy curtain around the frame of his bunk.

Jisung found that sort of cute until he was asked to wake their room up one morning sometime after debut, because there was nothing ‘cute’ about Minho groggily pulling his curtain back with mussed hair, tired eyes and his fully naked chest, arms and stomach on display. 

Jisung is at that same curtain now, a faraway look in his eyes as he plays with the dried flecks of tape curling out at the edges from such frequent use. It’s been years, but Jisung still remembers his reaction: stuttering over whatever he was supposed to say, eyes flying awkwardly to his feet. When he looked back up, Minho had hid himself from the world again, letting the curtain fall back in place. 

Now Jisung stands here, feeling the sticky peel of the tape on his fingers to move it away, exposing the whole mattress so he could sit down. Fuck, how things have changed. 

Jisung ducks under the top bunk and he’s instantly hit with the strong scent of Minho. It’s natural and musky and nostalgic, something Jisung only experiences on the occasion Minho brings him in for one of those breath-stopping hugs, inhaling into his shoulder and squeezing twice as hard back. 

Jisung has to let out a sigh and control himself from doing something stupid, like burying his face in his pillow. It’s embarrassing enough that being on his bed and surrounded by his scent already had his briefs filling in interest. 

When Jisung sits down properly, facing the door that leads into the hallways, the silence only heightens his anticipation. His fingers curl against the edge of the mattress, thumbnails scratching over the cotton sheet, too aware of the silence. 

Where’s Minho? What was he doing? When he came back, what was he going to do to Jisung? How.. far did he want to go?

He flinches when he hears a door open nearby, the light of a different room filling the hall. Jisung’s nails dig tighter into the sheets, knees pressed hard enough together to feel the bone underneath. He tries to keep his breathing calm, even with his heartbeat up in his throat, even when the sound of a cabinet slams shut, the light turns off, and the door closes. 

Jisung sees Minho’s shadow before he sees him, the anticipation allows the seconds to feel like hours before he’s rounding the doorframe and closing the door behind him, stalking towards Jisung with some items in his hands. 

Nerves, feelings, whatever it is — it feels like he’s seeing Minho for the first time today all over again. He flickers on the lamp beside his bed, bathing his face in subtle shadows and golden skin. The only thing that snaps Jisung’s eyes away from his profile are the items he sits next to the lamp on the table. 

It’s a bottle of liquid cleanser and some water-based wipes, one already sprouting from the plastic box. Jisung looks between them and Minho, confused. 

He’s unaware of how small his voice sounds when it comes out. “Um, what are those for?”

Minho is plucking out a wipe and folding it into an uneven square when he replies. He can’t seem to subdue the small curve of amusement on his mouth. 

“I figured you’ve had my marks hidden long enough.” He supplies, moving to thumb the lid of the cleanser open with a tiny click. He tosses the wipe next to it, before moving to directly face Jisung. 

“Whoever put that on did a great job, but I’m not curious what BB cream tastes like, either.”

Minho does a gesture where he lifts his arms, staring down at Jisung. 

Jisung fights a blush when he blinks and looks away, understanding what he just implied. The moment he begins to lift his arms he’s gasping, Minho’s hands firm on his body as he pulls the fabric completely off of him, leaving him half-naked. 

After his hoodie gets tossed to the side, his immediate reaction is to hide away. His forearms shoot to cover his ribs and chest but Minho catches him, softly cuffing his hands around his wrists and coaxing them to his lap. 

“It’s not anything I haven’t seen before, Sungie,” Minho reminds him, unashamedly racking his eyes over every inch of his torso. When they zero in on one specific spot, dark and unmoving, Jisung is too curious to not look himself. 

A little off-center, right in the middle of his sternum, a severe and mottled purple stains Jisung’s chest. One Felix nor Jisung could see with his hoodie on, back from when Minho took his sweet time letting his mouth kiss from hip to chest. Jisung shudders when he sees it, the evidence of their time together that he’d wanted back. Minho’s claim on Jisung. Fuck.

When Jisung allows himself to glance back up at Minho, Minho’s still looking at it, pupils inking even deeper. His eyes are hooded with want even as he lets them flit back to Jisung’s own below him. 

“Nothing I haven’t tasted before, either.” Minho releases on a gravelly sigh. He finally pulls his gaze away from him to coat the bundled up wipe in some cleanser. It gives Jisung the perfect opportunity to close his eyes for a moment, squeezing his thighs together tight to stave off the pulsing heat between them. 

When Minho turns around to begin removing the makeup, kneeling to be just above eye level, Jisung is immediately aware of just how different he is from Felix when treating his neck.

Felix with his petite, gentle hands, delicately padding on the makeup with a focused gaze, too afraid he’d mess up if he wasn’t constantly looking. He never touched without comfort, the same as he massaged, keeping the wellbeing of everyone he cared for in mind. 

But Minho.. Minho immediately has Jisung’s chin between his thumb and the curve of his forefinger, tilting his jaw back. The cleanser is cold, overflowing in icy rivulets that collect in clear rivers past his collarbones. The press of Minho’s hand isn’t aggressive but firm, slowly stroking to ensure the blooms of berry-stained skin return as quickly as possible. 

Jisung is too shy to meet his eyes while he works, overwhelmed enough by the hand guiding the tilt of his head. He chances one glance to see him — also unlike Felix — blinking rapidly in succession, a habit that people who don’t know him very well might find uncharacteristic. 

Jisung smacks away the thought of how domestic this feels before he allows it to become a problem, but Minho was cleaning him. Only to see his marks on you again, his brain immediately supplies, since he seemed to enjoy looking at his work. 

It made something tighten and lodge in Jisung’s throat, gulping pure pain, hard and empty and sinking low, low, low in his stomach. Those anxieties and doubts were coming to the forefront again, justifying all the past skinship and words today. No matter what he wanted to believe from Felix, there was nothing to suggest Minho’s feelings went beyond carnal. In the years he’s known Minho, the topic of romance was rare at best, always met with indifference or avoided with humor. Jisung would laugh it off alongside him, something in his face going slack when he found himself finally away from the conversation.

When Minho’s eyes flicker up to his own with a quirked brow, Jisung realizes that he forgot to stop staring. 

Minho’s eyes drop briefly to his lips, then back up. “Someone’s being awfully quiet.” 

Jisung lets out a shaky sigh, watching as Minho pulls the wipe away, barely a trace of flesh-toned cream on it. He must be done. He tosses it carelessly onto the table, back to full standing height, knees nearly knocking against Jisung’s. 

Fuck, Jisung doesn’t know how to say this. He doesn’t even know if he wants to. Minho must know something’s up. He always does. One hand idly coils around a railing of the top bunk, staring down at Jisung patiently. 

“Sorry— I’m sorry, I just..” Jisung starts, then stops. Gulping doesn’t do anything but make his ears pop and throat dry faster. His eyes are level with Minho’s midsection, but he casts them down to the floor between them. Between a few uh’s and um’s later, the knot expands into his chest and his voice comes out in a whisper.

“I didn’t think you’d remember the.. — ..the promise.” Jisung says, and then, even quieter, “I figured you didn’t.. want .. me.”

He can see Minho’s legs bend into a crouch, brushing against his own to get level with him. 

“Hey dummy,” Minho laughs softly, bringing up a hand to squeeze Jisung’s knee. “I literally told you all the stuff I thought about this morning, remember?”

Minho had admitted to some pretty intimate.. fantasies he had. They were all sexual in nature. Only sexual in nature. That’s what was making Jisung go so pale now. He’d take anything from Minho he could get, believe him. He was already receiving more than he thought realistically fathomable, but he was in too deep. He knew himself too well, knew that with every touch and taste of Minho he’d get more absorbed than he was, and to know it’s unrequited, or in the indefinite unknown that it might be— 

Shit. Don’t cry. 

Jisung already feels a warm sting behind his eyes, but he won’t do that. He can’t do that. 

“That doesn’t mean you want me.” Jisung says, internally cringing when he hears his voice crack all among the pseudo-composure in his face. 

Minho’s hand stills from where it was beginning to rub his knee. Jisung’s heart stops.

“What do you mean by ‘want,’ exactly?” 

Jisung’s lids slip shut and he swears he can feel every memory of Minho flash behind his eyes all at once. A best friend that balanced him out in every way for years, who he never tired of looking at, a blinding smile with the best hugs that purged negativity from him in waves — his very own ocean of dark and endless depth that was never to be fully known, explored or understood.

And here Jisung was, willing to risk dividing himself from it all because the burn of salt in his lungs tasted too good. 

“It doesn’t mean you have..” 

Deep breath.

“.. feelings..”

Oh god, oh my god.

“.. for me.”

Jisung can feel the tremors in his lap from where his hands shake. There’s a claustrophobic pulsing in his ears, and it’s so alarming that he almost wants to open his eyes just to balance out all of his senses, but he can’t. He refuses. The last thing he needs is to see the rejecting blankness in Minho’s face behind his lids every night as he tries to fall asleep. That’s the last thing his heart could handle. 

The hand that shifts on his knee makes Jisung suddenly flinch from how skittish and distracted his panic has made him. It’s laughable, because the touch is nothing but gentle, a whisper of soft nails that approach the hem of his shorts and climb to his elbow. After they crawl up the length of his arm and glide over his shoulder, Jisung realizes he’s no longer vibrating from the anxiety, even though something in him refuses to open his eyes. 

Minho’s hand is a welcome cold as it presses more fervently into his flushed skin, soothing the burn when it traces along his collar and all the way up his neck, along the edge of his jaw, until it finally reaches the destination of his cheek and blankets it, cupping softly. He begins to feel puffs of warm breath hit his face and a thumb rubbing slowly over his cheekbone, the corner of his eye. 

Jisung braves, opening them halfway.

He’s stunned to find Minho close enough that their noses almost touch. He’s all Jisung can see, completely crowding his field of view. The expression on his face is so fucking soft that Jisung just might actually cry, but he doesn’t want to break this moment between them, frozen and breathing in each other until everything and anything, inside and outside — just Minho, Minho, Minho. 

Jisung’s eyes never get a chance to fully open, because Minho finally leans in to close the distance and his lids fall closed on instinct. 

It’s perhaps the softest kiss they’ve ever exchanged. All Jisung feels is the soft press of Minho’s plush lips that slot against his own and the thumb that continues featherlight across his cheek, and it seems like a pleasant eternity passes between the two before Minho separates them. It’s only far enough to speak, but Jisung still woozily reopens his eyes to listen. 

“Then I want you.” He whispers against his lips, pecking the corner of them sweetly, then his cheek, and before Jisung can process it all, he’s going in again. 

Jisung melts into it this time, sighing and pliant under the control of Minho’s mouth. He’s moving now, dragging his lips in a slow and torturous slide like he wants to prove that he wants Jisung, like the words can’t do it justice. Jisung’s form feels slack and electric all at once, buzzing and itching all fucking over with the euphoric, tiny smacks as their lips shift against each other, already drunk off the heady pull of Minho’s mouth against his. 

He almost whines out when Minho’s hand shifts down to cradle the side of his neck, fingers firmly bracing at his nape and his thumb opting to now brush against the curve of his jawline. It’s all the reminder Jisung needs that fuck, he has hands too, and they immediately shoot out to grab at Minho. They’re fervent and indecisive, unsure whether to bunch the soft cotton of his sweater eagerly in his grip or pet down the lines of his torso. 

Minho decides for him when he moves Jisung further up the bed, kisses growing quicker and louder as he forces him onto his back, draping his frame over him. Jisung’s arms are a vise around his shoulders, clinging desperately as he drinks him in like he may disappear at any second. 

The mattress dips on either side of Jisung’s head when Minho moves to plant his forearms there. Jisung feels him smile against his mouth when he whines at the loss of pressure around his neck. 

He’s about to whine more when Minho’s lips almost come to a complete stop then— 

He’s dipping his tongue to trace wetly along the seam of Jisung’s lips to coax them apart and oh my god, yes. 

Jisung could confidently affirm that he loved basically everything about Minho, almost too much, it seemed, but it was always at an equal and unbiased intensity. 

He thinks that may have changed when he made out with him the first time this morning, finally getting to feel that tongue against his. 

It was impossible to ignore that it was one of his favorite things. Minho laved into him, dominant yet languid, tasting greedily until he breathed the muffled pants and whimpers of the boy underneath. They only spurred him on further, unafraid to be aggressive in ways that were so hot and messy that their lips eventually shined glossy with spit. 

Jisung snakes his arms above Minho’s to wrap around his neck, knitting his brows together in pleasure when he can taste the remnants of apple soju on his tongue and how it goes straight to his dick. It pulses in aching throbs, already painfully hard, and Minho simply hums when he can feel it trapped between them.

He fucking keens when Minho bites down on his kiss-bruised bottom lip before he chases more of those broken noises, kissing a wet trail down the side of Jisung’s cheek, the line of his jaw, nosing at the patch of skin under his ear he secretly kissed in front of the members only a short while ago. 

Minho kisses it again before sucking it into his mouth with a groan, letting his teeth tease the perimeter in vague presses that have Jisung tilting his head back to offer more, mouth permanently open in a tiny ‘o’ as gasps and breathy ah, ah’s escape him. 

Minho must take it as an invitation because then he threads a hand through Jisung’s hair and yanks with a sharp tug, eating up the sound of Jisung’s broken gasp when his head is tilted back fully to expose every inch of his throat. He never lets up on his sucking and biting down Jisung’s neck, resurfacing the marks that were destined to eventually fade. 

Jisung returns the gesture, running his hands through the hair at the back of Minho’s head to push down, encouraging him to take, take, take. He loved Minho like this, greedy for him, putting him in his place however he saw fit because he knew he could, he knew Jisung would let him use him, ruin him. He needed it so bad.  

Minho drags his mouth back up against Jisung’s jaw, letting his grip loosen in his hair as he reaches his ear.

“You said anything I want, right?” He growls, and the feel of his lips against the shell have Jisung shivering in chills all over. 

Jisung goes to respond, because yes, fuck, anything, but it cuts off in a sob when Minho suddenly grinds down against him. 

“Oh— fuck, Minho,” Jisung pants feebly, unable to mistake Minho’s firmness roving over and over against his own. Minho props himself back on his elbows to properly watch Jisung come undone beneath him from the slow roll of his hips, mesmerized by the way a litany of whimpers and pants continue spilling past those abused lips.

“Because I don’t want just anything,” Minho mutters above him, watching the way Jisung attempts to sober himself enough to open his eyes, all glazed and hooded in faraway ecstasy. 

“I want everything.”

Jisung’s eyes finally blink open. He looks up at Minho and, and— holy fuck.

Minho looks the perfect type of wrecked, dark hair mussed up in all different directions from Jisung’s enthusiastic grip. Jisung instinctively combs the strands between his fingers, touch slackened and loving now. He loves the way Minho’s body cages him in, elbows pressing against each of his shoulders until no point of contact is left unattended. There’s an odd gentleness in his features, some vulnerability in the swollen wet pout of his mouth. Jisung knows he must look no different, marked in spit and bites with an embarrassingly reverent look on his face. 

It’s hard to reply as he fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and moan when Minho continues to rub over him in his brutally slow pace, but he needs to know.

“Oh my god, please,” Jisung breathes desperately.

Minho dips forward until their noses touch, playfully brushing them together. “Please what?” He whispers back. 

“Please, I want that too,'' Jisung sighs, scraping his nails against Minho’s scalp. He grits past a wrecked whimper when he feels Minho rut against him just right. “I want everything.”

“Yeah?” Minho growls against the side of his face. “Tell me how much you want it.”

Everything was a concept as all-encompassing as it was vague. His definition could be different from Minho’s, but Jisung knows exactly how to make himself crystal fucking clear. 

“All yours,” Jisung says, feeling the way the tangle of fingers on Minho’s head moves lower as he begins kissing down Jisung’s neck. 

“I wanna be yours so badly.”

Minho’s hips still on a pained exhale as if the words shot straight through him. Jisung feels him curse against his collarbone. 

“Fuck, you are,” Minho groans, kissing messy down the planes of Jisung’s bare chest, hands clutching along his sides so tight the nails dig into his skin as he sucks weakly in various spots. “You have been. You’re mine.”

They’re not even grinding anymore, but the words alone make Jisung want to arch his back and moan. It would be Heaven on Earth if he could replay those words over and over again. 

“P-please..” Jisung rasps, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at him. His hands left Minho’s hair as he’d ambled down his body too far, marking everything with sucks and bites and kisses that Jisung could only describe as overzealous.

“Please say that one more time.” Jisung pants.

Minho was far enough down that the tip of his nose was just above the hemline of Jisung’s shorts, letting his fingers skim and tease along it. He stared up at Jisung again after he nipped at the skin of his hip bone.

“You belong to me.” Minho declares coolly, like it was obvious. Jisung wonders if he’d say it like that if others asked, say it at all, and the resounding he would that echoes confidently through his mind has him burning a million different shades of adoration.

Jisung doesn’t realize amidst their little staring contest that Minho’s pulling Jisung’s shorts off. The elasticity of the band lets it go easy, only registering for Jisung when it snaps against his shins, letting an affronted noise disappear somewhere in the back of his throat as Minho finally gets it off and throws it mindlessly over his shoulder. 

When Jisung looks down at himself, his face immediately tenses with flushed heat. 

No brand of underwear could ever camouflage how hard he is. The outline of it is so fucking obvious, swollen and trapped under the fabric. The dark material barely attempts to hide the pathetic amount of pre-cum he’s still leaking, pooling wet in a dark patch. With all there is, it’s a wonder it never bled through his shorts. 

Minho climbs off the bed in his periphery, dropping to his knees on the floorboards.

Jisung doesn’t have time to question it before Minho’s clamping his grip around the back of his knees and manhandling him forward until his ass practically hangs off the edge of the bed. He gasps and scrambles for purchase back on his elbows, met with the sight of Minho resting his face against his inner thigh and fuck, they were actually doing this. 

He feels his chest rise and fall with shaky breaths when Minho hooks his thumb under the bottom hem of his briefs. He pulls it all the way up to the crease of where his thigh meets his groin, slow, tracing the newly revealed patches of skin with closed eyes and languid kisses. The combination of soft, wet kissing sounds and the fact Minho’s knuckles are almost brushing his cock have Jisung borderline faint. 

Jisung naturally spreads his legs apart wider when Minho finally reaches the top of his inner thigh, so enthralled that he thinks he might not be breathing. Minho doesn’t continue further, simply latching his mouth in an open suction at the most sensitive part of his now completely naked leg, hiding the way his tongue flicks over the skin there. 

All breathing does truly escape him when Minho finally opens his eyes to stare directly into his. 

It feels obscene to keep eye contact when Minho’s got his mouth full, but he can’t look away from that smug little glint he’s casting at him. 

Then Minho sinks his teeth into him and bites.

Just as Jisung begins registering that split second brain-to-body signal of pain, already opening his mouth to release a startled yelp, a stuttered moan comes out instead. 

Minho’s hand is on his dick.

That beautiful fucking hand is wrapped over the fabric of his dick print, squeezing just enough to override Jisung’s senses into complete hysteria. 

There’s no way he ever truly understood the concept of ‘pleasure-pain’ until right this moment. Jisung should be alarmed, worried at how much damage had been done, but the sting merely feeds the heat thrumming through him as Minho works his palm against his shaft. It’s a dangerous cocktail of sensations he never knew he needed.

Looks like Minho knew better. 

He observes from under his lashes the entire time, even after he lets off to salve the teeth-shaped grooves with his tongue. His fingers grow more playful on Jisung’s cock, letting the tip of his thumb brush where he knew the underside of the head was, where it was most sensitive. 

“Mmfuck, h-hah..” Jisung overreacts with every small press, leg letting out slight twitches under Minho’s weight. His head lolls back between his shoulders and his eyes tense shut, still able to feel Minho’s gaze on him.

The hand around his length releases to suddenly smack the fat of his thigh authoritatively. 

Jisung jerks, bringing his shocked stare back down to Minho’s in question. It wasn’t a hard hit, the weight of it barely above a tap, yet the remnants of their play leave his core buzzing in oversensitivity. 

The lightness of Minho’s touch becomes forgotten in the tension behind his eyes. 

“Stop exposing your neck.” Minho warns.

Jisung can’t help the way his canines dig into his bottom teeth to fight off his giddiness, endeared by the way Minho may just be as wrecked in his own way. “Can’t resist?” He questions, unaware if the way he tilts his head to the side is out of teasing or just his regular stupid cockiness he’s allowed himself to leak in. 

“It makes me want to fucking maul you.” Minho responds, serious. 

The irreverence in Jisung’s features bleeds out in seconds. How would he ever be able to tease someone who said shit to him like that? He wonders if Minho understands just exactly how that trained glare has the edges of Jisung run ice-cold yet molten at the center, how the clipped cadence of his words make him want to do nothing but surrender. 

“I’d let you,” Jisung breathes out, all transfixed and quiet and unfairly whipped for the weight that keeps his lower half pinned against the bed.

A quiet laugh hits Jisung’s leg in a stutter of breath, and Minho lightly shakes his head from side to side. “No, I don’t want to.”

The slight horror that floods Jisung is probably etched on his features. He knows he blinks a few times down at Minho, rolling those words over in his head until his panic-stricken brain begins wondering if he’d even heard him right. 

“You don’t want to?” Jisung says, worriedly nipping at the wetness inside his cheek. “Why?”

“Because,” Minho starts, letting his finger toy over the last of the fabric covering Jisung’s body. They dance near the hem of his briefs again, tickling down the side of his thigh before thumbing underneath and pulling away, only to let the elasticity snap back into place. Minho considers that for a second before he sneaks his fingers entirely underneath the fabric to climb up Jisung’s thigh and cup the swell of his naked, bare asscheek. 

“I have other plans.” 

Jisung’s vision weakens at the grasp. The way too much air engulfs and stills in his lungs suffocates him with the anticipation. He only breathes out when Minho’s touch slackens, as if he’s a puppet, pliant and controlled on invisible strings as Minho’s personal little marionette.

“Hope you’re not tired,” Minho teases, observing the way his touch has Jisung lax and taut all at once. 

“Pfft, anything but.” Jisung gets out with whatever weak iota of humor he has left. 

“Good, because we haven’t even started,” Minho murmurs, lifting his weight off of Jisung to rock back on his haunches. “On your stomach.”

As the hazy remains of his brain process the order, his eyes veer down to the bite mark before he can stop it. Jisung doesn’t try to place what causes the itch of sick curiosity that lures him to look, but the view that greets him certainly pushes his confusion over the precipice. 

With how intense the bite felt, Jisung swore Minho intended to draw blood. Angry red indents, broken skin, maybe just a mottled hickey inside an uneven ring of abused pink. What he gets is nothing more serious than some flesh-toned grooves slightly lighter than his skin, no signs of wishing any true damage on Jisung’s body in sight. 

In the pause of that moment, Jisung comes to the conclusion that he’s either oversensitive or simply so far gone for Minho that every touch he’s allowed overwhelms him, pent up over the years it’d been locked within fantasy. 

Both, probably. 

He flips over for Minho despite his confusion at the command, limbs awkwardly slow and unsure of what they’re meant to do. Minho meets him halfway to fill in the blanks, unafraid to adjust him however he pleases until he’s exactly how he wants him. When he’s done, Jisung feels the sheets against his chest and his erection digging into the side of the mattress, bent over the edge of the bed with his ass level Minho’s body. He feels his breath fanning the forearm lying limp beside his head, tempted to rise on his elbows and peer back to see what Minho was up to.

His touches were answer enough.

Jisung’s eyes lock with the fabric beneath him as he feels hands rove slow over the naked planes of his back. The touch surprises him at first, but apart from the frail pant he exerts at the shock, he lies still. He attempts to relax, surrender all awareness of anything except the way Minho’s palms feel petting up and down his skin, but it’s admittedly harder than he’d think. The muscles Minho grazes only tighten uncomfortably in the spotlight, and he’s unsure of how to respond to receiving such foreign attention on just.. his body. 

His eyes begin shifting despite not having not much to look at besides the ocean of Minho’s crumpled sheets. It was his body — his back. There wasn’t much to look at, was there? He’s built some muscle, sure, but he was nowhere near impressive in the way Chan and Changbin were, defined with the curve of muscle even when they weren’t flexing. He didn’t have that lithe and lean elegance like Hyunjin seemed to exude on the opposite end of the axis, either. There wasn’t anything to warrant attention like —.. like this. He wants to say he’s gotten better at not comparing himself to others, but the receiving end of too much focus always left him doubtful and too conscious of himself. 

Every time Jisung anticipates Minho’s hands to let up, anticipates him to grow bored with the view and move on, he keeps going. Jisung eventually braves taking a peek over his shoulder, met with the sight of Minho distractedly skimming his nails down either side of Jisung’s spine.

He looks sucked in the moment, not much unlike the way Jisung feels. He’s brought himself up to lean against the edge on Jisung’s side, just enough so he could reach everywhere he wanted. It’s nothing but the beauty in Minho’s face and the blunt nails inching across his back and Jisung can’t bring himself to tear his gaze away, both locked in the quiet infinitum of worshiping each other. 

When the nails reach his tailbone, Minho knowingly flicks his eyes to Jisung’s. He flings his leg over Jisung’s other side to crawl up his body and cage him in, bringing his mouth down in an opportunity to kiss off that self-conscious pout that formed on his lips a few minutes ago. Jisung has no time to lament the awkward angle before Minho’s kissing down his jaw and the back of his neck, letting the weight of his head finally fall back against his forearm. He sighs out at the teething kisses down his body, feeling the way Minho shifts his form off the bed once again. 

Must be back on his knees if the hands skimming down his waist was any indicator. Minho finally appears to be directing his attention downwards. His hands drift all over Jisung’s dips from waist to hip, the place where his briefs taper off into naked flesh at the back of his thighs, even along the crevices behind his knees. 

After a few moments, Jisung finally begins to relax. It’s difficult to get over the fact he has Minho of all people hyperfocusing on every detail of his body, but in truth, he’s the only one Jisung would allow to. He does trust Minho. He trusted him to do anything he wanted, after all.

Of course, the second Jisung experiences a modicum of comfort, some semblance of safety in the ability to expect what happens next, Minho proves him wrong. 

The soft whisper of fingers and nails suddenly bite either side of Jisung’s waistband, and he feels the way they scrape down his hips and thighs, taking the fabric with them and — holy shit, Minho is pulling his briefs off. The front of the garment is still trapped over his dick and pressed against the mattress, but Minho manages to pull down the back until Jisung feels his entire ass exposed to Minho, wedged tightly underneath his cheeks from the stretch of the elasticity. 

“Minho—!” Jisung gasps, just at the same time Minho breathes out a dangerous, “Fuck.”

If Jisung was embarrassed before, he’s absolutely mortified now. That’s what he’d tell anyone, anyways. He’s never had anyone this close to him like this before, and Minho — Minho was a few tugs away from having Jisung completely naked, on his bed. Jisung’s body refused to ignore that excitement, and the heat only built from the broken, complete growl in Minho’s tone.

There’s no warning when Minho doesn’t hesitate to bring a hand up to smack right over Jisung’s asscheek, drinking in the startled pants while he undoubtedly watches the meat jiggle there. He does it again, forgoing a simple smack in favor of squeezing upon contact with his palm. 

“Fuck, look at you,” Minho utters, digging his nails around his handful. “My fingers sink right in.”

Oh my god. Jisung is not making it out of this day alive. He feels the blush all the way down to his fucking chest, too flustered to say much beyond pathetic, monosyllabic half-whimpers of Minho’s name into the sheets at his gropes and smacks. He’s not sure why he’s already a mess. Might be the excitement, his proclivity for dramatics, the awakening realization his libido is much more needy and intense than he realized. All three. 

“Always wanted to play with this tight little ass,” Minho purrs out, casually pressing his thumb against the crease of his cheeks to pull one aside, exposing Jisung’s hole. “Wondered what it felt like.”

“Fuck,” Jisung whines. He can feel his teeth grit under the prolonged burn of Minho’s stare, cock twitching at the unmistakable groan Minho lets out at the sight. He feels wound up and tingling with warmth all over, even after he releases his thumb to allow Jisung’s cheek to bounce back into place. 

“Lift your hips,” Minho orders, thumbs hooking at the bunched fabric at the bottom of his asscheeks. “Gonna be good for me, right?”

Jisung’s not even sure if Minho’s looking at his head, but he belatedly jerks out a weak nod, ashamed of how much effort it requires to focus on lifting up the lower half of his body. He’s completely naked in a few fervent pulls, distantly making out the sound of his last piece of clothing colliding somewhere with the floorboard. He sighs at the pressure of his bare cock against the edge of the bed, and he can feel the way his throat constricts on a gulp against the sheets he’s gripping. A part of him wonders what power trip Minho must be feeling, having the boy pining for him laid bare and bent over, presented. 

He doesn’t think he can stomach attempting to guess what Minho wants from this position. Jisung’s imagined these scenarios hundreds of times — of course he has — but Minho wasn’t predictable on the best of days, let alone in this experience they’ve never shared together. So Jisung goes lax, both brain and body, letting his cheek rest against the sheets beneath him.

Minho’s back on him immediately. The last shred of clothing getting removed must have also broken some barrier within him, because there’s nothing shy or tentative in the way he immediately cups Jisung’s cheeks in both hands on a resounding clap to knead at them.

Minho sighs out, like he’s the one getting touched, and the h-hah.. that escapes Jisung is a few decibels higher than he thought he could produce. 

“You’re so perfect like this,” Minho coos, digging his nails all along the swell of everything that could fit in his hands. “And you have the cutest fucking ass. Fuck, the amount of times I’ve had to resist jumping you when you’re stomach-down on your phone in the waiting rooms,” he continues, slow. “Looking over at me in the middle of Lives. Dunno how I’m supposed to focus when all I can think about is fucking into you until you’re crying, Sungie.”

Fucking hell. Jisung can hear the smirk in Minho’s voice from how he knew he’d break, and Jisung does, letting out a shaky thrust into the mattress with his back dipped in an arch. 

“I want— fuck, Minho,” Jisung pants. “Please—”

He interrupts himself on a gasp when he feels Minho spread his cheeks apart, letting his hole hit the cold air of their dorm. 

“I know you can beg better than that, baby,” He snarls, and Jisung can feel the way he dips forward to spit right over his rim. Jisung’s grip in the sheets tightens, clenching at the feeling of the cool trail it leaves down his scrotum. “Seemed pretty fucking desperate for it earlier, grinding on me during Uno.”

“Just wanted you so bad, m’sorry,” Jisung breathes, resting his forehead against his arm as his cock still jerks in small, abated thrusts beneath him. He’s been left untouched in all the important places for too long. “M’so sorry, hyung, please, I need you, pleaseplease—”

Jisung doesn’t expect Minho to dip down and clean the mess he made with his tongue. 

He licks one fat stripe over Jisung’s rim, causing him to squirm forward in a shocked jerk. It felt foreign and wet and hot against the chilling spit, and the sensation sent such a rush of pleasure through Jisung that he probably wasn’t even aware of the way his legs parted wider, silently inviting it back. 

Jisung felt the cocky huff of amusement against his entrance before Minho pressed in again, slower this time, planting light kisses all around the perimeter. Jisung sighed out at the feeling, sinking into the sheets, incapable of stopping the way that sigh morphed into a broken moan when Minho retraced the pattern with the tip of his tongue. 

“F-fuck, mmf,” Jisung manages out. “Hyung, a-ah..”

“Tell me how good it makes you feel,” Minho says, pulling away to nip near his asscheek. “Let me hear those pretty noises.”

Then he closes his mouth directly over Jisung, flicking his tongue right against him. The sob that comes out of Jisung only encourages Minho to repeat it at a quicker speed, pressing in until his face is buried. 

“Hyung, oh my god,” Jisung whines at the stimulation. He can feel the way his cock drools as Minho effectively makes out with his hole, sucking at the skin sealed against his lips. “Your tongue, fuck— fuck,”

Minho hum-sighs against his rim, some cross between acknowledging his words and an enthusiastic confirmation that he was enjoying this just as much as Jisung. The vibration of the sound has Jisung’s eyes squeezing shut, pushing back to chase the silky feeling languidly roving over him. 

Minho holds him open like that for a long time, letting out quiet sighs through his nose from the way he never seems to tire of Jisung’s sounds, his taste. Jisung’s been reduced to a lax mess within his sheets, stringing along a consistent melody of light moans as if being massaged, legs occasionally giving involuntary spasms and twitches. 

Like this, it’s easy to feel the way Jisung’s body responds to him. Minho pulls his tongue back to flatten softly near his taint, letting it drag up until the press of it is right over Jisung’s hole. 

And then he presses harder, prodding to get inside, and he immediately feels the way Jisung’s muscles tense against him. 

“Fuck!” Jisung cries into the sheets. Minho quickly snakes his arms under Jisung’s legs to lock him in before he can jerk away from the heightened mix of pleasure and surprise, returning his hands to spread him open again with barely any pause. He fights against the way Jisung’s muscles kick and jolt with the tremors, insisting himself past his rim with firm, wet punches. 

Jisung isn’t a stranger to the feeling of.. intrusion. More like an acquaintance. He’d once tried a finger out of curiosity, left a little sore and weirded out in his inexperience. He could count the times he’d tried again afterwards on one hand, coming to the conclusion that it might only feel good if someone else used their own on him. It was one of the many fantasies he’s had of Minho; wondering how it’d feel to be fucked open by him, if it’d feel less painful and awkward. 

When Minho finally breaches him, now inside of him, Jisung finally gets his answer. The only issue is that his fantasies never entertained the idea that he’d do it with his tongue.  

The tightness is barely an issue with how determined Minho is, insistently fucking into him between brief intermissions where he kisses and licks at his rim until it’s coated sloppy with spit. By the time he’s worked Jisung open entirely, able to press in as far as he can, Jisung thinks Minho’s idea to make the members leave was an ingenious plan. His moans have reached an obscene level and he knows he wouldn’t be able to stop the whole floor from hearing how pornographic he sounds. 

“Minho, hyung, fuck— I’m..” Jisung says lowly, words starting to tangle into an indecipherable slur. He weakly pushes at the sheets to rise on his elbows, fighting against how weak and fucked out his body feels. The adjustment makes him whine, feeling the way his cock slightly shifts while it’s trapped beneath him, but he persists anyways, twisting his head over his shoulder to see what the scene looks like behind him. 

Jisung almost loses it on the spot. 

The angle doesn’t allow Jisung to see much with clarity, all mainly in his periphery, but it’s enough. He notices the way Minho’s hands are clutching his ass, idly petting and squeezing and pulling him apart. His eyes are closed in focus, head and hair slightly shifting on each ministration, and it’s something in the way every one of his senses finally get overwhelmed and stimulated all at once. Being able to feel, hear and now see the way Minho fucks his tongue into him leaves him throbbing.

“.. I’m gonna—” Jisung says before interrupting himself on a moan, shifting his ass to begin rocking himself back on Minho’s tongue. Jisung is too out of it to be confused at the way a familiar heat is building in him despite the lack of pressure on his cock. He can’t keep his eyes open anymore, head falling between his shoulders, only able to focus on the way his everything is thrumming so hard in climax it almost hurts. 

Minho must be able to feel the impending orgasm in the way Jisung’s moans heighten into desperate whines, the way his hips attempting to move of their own accord in the vise of his arms, because the last thing Jisung feels is a puff of breathy laughter against his backside and a few weaker licks, topped with an affectionate bite on his asscheek, before Minho slips his arms off and pulls away entirely. 

Like that, the pleasure clawing to the surface is put on pause, and Jisung can feel the way it begins to rapidly ebb back down and away from the finish line. 

Jisung pushes his elbows out from under him so his chest can theatrically hit the bed, able to feel the way it heaves in gulps of air that dry out his mouth and turn his tongue to sandpaper. A faint buzz still lingers beneath his skin alongside some unplaced defeat, unlike the way he’d been determined to continue chasing the orgasm Minho denied him this morning. 

“Should’ve seen that coming,” Jisung scoffs weakly. He can hear Minho rising to his feet behind him, a sudden hand coming down to give his asscheek a few light pats. 

“Don’t break on me yet, babe,” Minho says in a teasing lilt. His palm glides up Jisung’s side until he has a grip around his hip, using his strength to push until Jisung’s rolled over onto his back again. “That was just some of your prep.”

Jisung would love to respond, maybe humor him with a complaint or question why exactly it was only ‘some of’ his prep, but he can’t. 

His brain fizzles out, dryly gulping at the sight of Minho standing above him. The golden lamplight reflects lewd glimmers of the spit that coats his mouth and chin, and he brings his wrist up to it, carelessly wiping it across the sleeve of his sweater. Jisung’s eyes rove down, suddenly realizing he’s been lying naked and hard this entire, getting fucked and manhandled by someone who hasn’t even removed a single article of clothing yet. He can’t place why he finds that so hot. 

His gaze dips lower and fuck, okay, it looks like Minho was in agreement. 

The shadows casted from their dim lightsource do nothing to help hide how painfully hard Minho looks in his jeans. The line of his bulge strains tight and angry, nothing conspicuous left under his washed denim. 

When Jisung gulps again, it’s no longer dry anymore, and he realizes why — he’s salivating. Everything seems to mute itself in favor of the lust that trickles down his nerves, animalistic.

He wants Minho so bad that he can pin the moment his conscience fades into a one-track mindset, fixed with a burning need to finally be the one pleasing him, tasting him. He wants to see Minho, finally have him naked above him in the ways he’d been unable to help imagining in public or private. He’d always force the fantasy away on an awkward cough and averted gaze, but now this was fucking real and he was too caught up in his own pleasure to realize that it’s right fucking there. 

It’s a garbled and messy streamline of want, want, want that kicks him up into a seated position, face level with Minho’s pelvis. With how delirious Jisung feels, it’s an ironic miracle he’s able to keep his hands at his sides, almost demurely so. 

Jisung doesn’t even realize he’s leaning forward until he feels fingers comb through the hair at the back of his head to harshly yank, forcing him to look up. The grip keeps his body steady and grounded, coaxing his mind out of that hazy dream of tunnel vision, slowly refocusing himself on Minho’s curious face with every passing blink. When Jisung comes to, Minho only seems to reinforce his hold on him, making sure he’s kept a painful distance from his crotch. 

“Eager.” Minho tuts above him. Jisung can feel the way his eyes widen even further to compensate for the disapproving edge of Minho’s tone.

Permission. Jisung’s feels his lashes flutter rapidly at the realization, and he tilts his head back into Minho’s grip to look up at him completely. His brows are furrowed in desperation, and the way he lets his gaze briefly flit back down to Minho’s crotch and back up to his face brooks no argument on what he’s after. 

“Please,” Jisung asks, wetting the seam of his lips with his tongue. “Can I?”

“Can you what?” Minho chides. All traces of color and humor have disappeared in his voice. He almost sounds.. distant. Like it’s another thing that barely interests him. It’s been capable of worrying Jisung in the past, and it would’ve now — if not for the way Minho’s glaring down at him in rapt interest. 

“Use your words.”

“Please,” Jisung repeats readily, more breathy this time. He can’t help the way his eyes drop back down, and he has to scrunch his eyes shut to keep focused on his words. “Please, hyung, please, I wanna see you.”

There’s a beat of horrible, horrible silence. Jisung hates-loves it. The blend of anticipation and his complete lack of control leave Jisung’s system anxiously suspended on thin wire, capable of snapping at any second. He tries to concentrate on stabilizing his breaths instead of his surroundings, because he wants Minho to call the shots. He needs it.

His ears are met with a sound right in front of his face. Subtle clinking, barely there, drowned out by rustling fabric. The muscles in Jisung’s brows shift, confused, so he allows one eye to peek open in a curious squint. 

It doesn’t last. The sight Jisung catches with his limited vision only takes a second for him to process before both eyes open in surprise.

He’s undressing himself.

Minho’s nails catch on the material of the button as he unhooks it. Fuck, he was actually going to take his jeans off. Jisung casts Minho one cursory glance upward, awestruck, like he had to confirm this was actually happening. When he looks back down, his eyes zero in on the zipper because of course the only thing he’d gape at other than Minho’s cock would be the last thing getting in the way of having it. 

His eyes train on the pads of Minho’s index and thumb, watching the way they press down on the tab of the zipper. He pulls it down leisurely, tantalizing, teasing, and it’s testament to how obsessed Jisung is when the slowness only works him up more. No amount of waiting could ever prepare him for this, be it days, months or years. 

The first hint of Minho’s underwear (dark gray) does Jisung in. He only registers the fact he’s lifted a greedy hand towards Minho when he feels a sharp tug at his hair clamped between Minho’s fingers. Minho’s other hand — the one on his zipper — pauses in warning. Jisung watches it in horror of the implication, letting his own hand fall back to his side immediately. The fingers stay still for a few beats longer, working Jisung up as punishment, allowing the threat to loom between them:

If you move, I’m not taking it off. 

Jisung’s not sure if he wants to complain or moan at how horribly sadistic that is. He knew nothing came easy with Minho, enough to figure that he’d assume control over all of Jisung’s weaknesses if he left them unchecked. But how can Jisung manage when Minho was his weakness? When Minho knew just as much? To be forced to sit and watch him dangle everything Jisung’s ever wanted right in front of his eyes and not be allowed to touch, to revere, to commit the memory into his skin.. feels like borderline torture. 

It’s a power move that Jisung can’t even trust his own body to obey, but he’s desperate to be good. With that assurance in mind, Jisung clasps his hands together behind his back, his own personal set of cuffs to keep him in check. The tightness of his grip could rival the one at the back of his head. 

Jisung takes a deep breath, letting his eyes flutter closed through it. He can do this. When he opens his eyes again, he casts them up to Minho’s, who’s undoubtedly been watching for his reactions the entire time. He does it so Minho can infer that he’s ready, that he can continue, because Jisung’s too scared to chance a verbal confirmation. 

They hold eye contact with each other, even when Jisung can hear the tab of the zipper being pulled down again. Minho’s face is fucking beautiful, and the blunt coldness of his features is something Jisung would be willingly trapped in every day if possible, but he’s far too weak for the rest of him. He realizes that when he hears the clink of the zipper and buttons beneath them, making out the way Minho’s shoving his jeans down to mid-thigh, exposing all the flesh-colored tones in the blurred edges of Jisung’s eyesight and— fuck, he has to look. 

The slight hitch in his breath should be embarrassing, but Jisung’s too enraptured to comprehend basic thought anymore. 

The first thing is Minho’s thighs. Apart from the fact Jisung has to take a few seconds to absorb the fact he’s really seeing them, he still can’t tear his gaze away. Anyone would be able to tell how impressive they were even when clothed, because Minho’s general onstage wardrobe didn’t consist of adjectives like baggy or reserved. Jisung knew, he’s watched him for ages, but he can scope out the dancer's thick muscles even when left unflexed and his mind buzzes pure static in awe. 

Then his eyes shift to, well, him. 

Keeping his hands folded together behind his back felt manageable thus far, even if his limbs itched with the need to touch, except now they fucking ached. He feels his nails dig into his wrists the longer he eyes Minho’s length under the material of his underwear, hard and defined with a clear line of shadow that tilts upwards and sideways towards his waistline. 

Minho brings his free hand to it, and Jisung watches the way the veins bulge, branching over knuckle to wrist as he palms himself. He grazes over his length once before giving it a generous squeeze, his own breath heavying, and his underwear is suddenly the most offensive fucking article of clothing Jisung’s even seen.

“Fuck, hyung,” Jisung comments uselessly, tone thick with desperation. 

“Beg.” Minho orders from above, letting the syllable leave in a velvety lilt. 

“Minho, please,” Jisung asks immediately, flicking his gaze between Minho’s own and the way he’s beginning to trace the band of his underwear with his thumb. “Fuck, Minho, I can’t take it, I need you, wanna taste you so bad,” He continues, unable to spare himself any shame — sat before someone, begging, naked and hard and leaking such an obscene amount of pre-cum that he can feel it the way it slowly crawls down his shaft.. Jisung could think that would warrant a dent to his pride, but it doesn’t. The theatrics, this game, it only works him up more to the point where the arousal is painful, and he loves it. Minho has ruined him. 

“Mm?” Minho dips the tip of his thumb into his waistline, teasing the fabric away from his skin. Jisung can practically feel the gleeful, vicious edge to his voice.

“Tell hyung how badly you want it.”

Jisung sighs out at the way the fist at the back of his head tightens, as if to squeeze an answer out of him. It works. 

“So much, so much,” Jisung grits. His lidded gaze on the print of Minho’s cock falls closed a few times so he can process basic thought. “Fuck, hyung, I’m— I think about it all the time.” He admits. 

“Aw,” Minho coos bluntly, not even attempting to mask his condescension. “I’m not surprised. Tell me what you think about.”

That demand is harder to meet. Jisung’s eyes slip fully closed now, more out of humiliation than a need for concentration. His head dips as much as Minho’s insatiable grip allows, mind already flooding behind the eyes with fantasy after fantasy. “.. It’s embarrassing,” Jisung eventually says. 

Cutting off his own vision does nothing to ease the way Jisung feels when complete sin drips from Minho’s tone. “Now I’m really curious,” he murmurs, unperturbed — he knows he barely even has to goad Jisung for answers. “Sungie, baby, tell me what you think of.”

Fuck, being pet-named by Minho just does something to him. He hears the endearment, even if used for advantage, and can’t help but be overrun with the need to please and obey. 

“..I think about you fucking my face,” Jisung begins weakly. Having his eyes closed allows the fantasies to gain lucidity behind his lids, almost as if watching a video reel. “I think about you using my mouth to.. get off. I think about you fucking me,” he sighs, releasing his grip on his hands to let his fingers dig into the sheets beside him. “I’ve thought about you fucking me here,” Jisung admits, and he feels the way the admissions come easier with each passing confession. “I want it so fucking bad.”

“‘All the time,’ huh?” Minho quotes in a low drawl, indirectly prompting him further. He heard the what, now he wants the when. 

Minho was aiming for the jugular on purpose, he had to be. Jisung’s cheeks burn their own little shade of mortification from describing what he wanted Minho to do to him, even if he was comfortable enough to confess, even if they both already knew they thought of each other this way, but this next part was what he’d been truly worried about. He was weak for him for far, far longer than his brain would ever admit to itself. 

“Literally,” Jisung hoped maybe there’d be some self-deprecating humor in his voice, but all that comes out is a weak, shy huff. “Whenever you’ve touched me, I..” He starts, stops, gulps. A facsimile of the butterflies he’s felt over the years through his ‘crush’ resurface in his stomach, and Jisung can feel the way he shrinks in on himself.

“Huh, so every day,” Minho chuffs in disbelief, and that was it. Jisung’s thighs tense at the coil of shame and exposure racking through his system. “You said you weren’t innocent, but fuck, Jisung. Just a little skinship and you think about me fucking your tight little throat.” 

God.

“Please.”

The humiliation of having Minho realize he was so ready for him all the time should be a turn-off, wrong, kept to himself, but it merely spurred him on to beg harder. His pleas feel as heavy and slurred as his eyelids when they open, readjusting to the foggy, golden filter of the lighting. He’d planned to look at Minho directly after his focus came back, stockpiling the reserve of needy asks in him as if prayer: please do it, give it to me, there’s nothing I want more— 

But his eyes catch on the bunched, dark gray fabric that squeezes around the meat of Minho’s thighs, and his mind goes radio silent once again. 

Somewhere during Jisung’s admission, Minho had revealed himself. 

The only thing left covering his cock was his hand, fingers shamelessly wrapped around himself in a loose ring. He pumps himself with a lazy drag. 

“Anything like you pictured?” He purrs.

No, Jisung wanted to say. His breaths came and went in stuttered breaks as he took in everything in front of him. Minho looked slightly bigger than Jisung, so curved and erect that he could make out the protruding vein hiding under his fingers, branching up the underside of his length. It narrowed out towards the head, which gleamed an aggressive pink-red — reminded Jisung of his own skin after Minho freshly sucked it. Pearly beads of pre-cum leak from the tip, collected by the hand that grazes up and down to slick himself up, and Jisung’s mouth waters. 

No, he thought again, more distantly this time. So much better.

The only reason Jisung tears his eyes away is to look at Minho directly in emphasis. The sound of Minho fisting himself and the pain in his scalp from his grip become much more apparent, and Jisung’s suddenly far too aware of the ache from being just out of reach. 

Minho’s eyes terrify Jisung, his face. He controls everything between the two of them, Jisung understands, but he keeps his eyes locked with purpose. Desperation is one hell of a way to stay emboldened.

“Please,” Jisung asks again, voice dipping to an uncharacteristic level of seriousness. “Please, Minho, let me.”

Minho’s brows lift in pseudo-surprise. “Oh yeah?” He asks, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Kinda greedy, Sungie, considering you just asked to ‘see me’ at first, right?”

Wait.

“Hyung, no—”

“Maybe I could get myself off like this, make you watch,” Minho muses absently, ignoring him. “Come all over your pretty face.” 

What?

Jisung can hear the wetness of Minho’s fist and looks down to see it tightening, quickening. He barely avoids going drunk at the sight, too afraid that he’s actually going through with the idea. No, he needs this. 

All the begging makes Jisung feel like a broken record. There’s nothing new he can say, no way he can articulate just how badly he craves him, how low he’s willing to go just for a taste. The need only faults him, making him a mess of few words and inhuman desire, barely able to keep his hands at his sides if not for the simple fact he was ordered to. 

“No, need you,” he says candidly, looking at him again. “Please, please, hyung,” he continued begging, digging his nails into the sheets. He hears Minho slow down when the gaze Jisung casts at him borders something apologetic, unplaceable. “Use me.”

The pressure at the back of his head urges him forward just so, just enough to tease Jisung with the irrational urge to look down. He could close the gap right there, if he wanted. Dive down until his eyes slipped shut and nothing existed besides the cock buried in his throat.. but Minho’s eyes. Jisung’s breath hitches with the intensity of them, so arresting that his mind and body are forced still. 

“Gonna be good, Sungie?” Minho grits, slowing his ministrations to a halt until he’s merely gripping the base. He spat out the nickname so casually, something patronizingly saccharine at the edges, and maybe a bystander would be able to find the humor somewhere in that. There was none left between them, however — Jisung knew it, even past Minho’s teasing, past the illusion of how simple Minho appeared, hovering over him with his sweater still on and how the chaste sight ironically clashed with the lewd scene beneath them. 

Jisung has never nodded so quickly. 

“Then open that fucking mouth,” he ordered, no light left in his tone. 

Yes, fuck, finally. 

Jisung’s jaw slackens immediately. He probably looks obscene with his eyes and mouth both wide and waiting, blanketing his bottom lip with the underside of his tongue that flattens over it. His knees press together hard, coquettish and impatient. 

His eyes only flutter shut when Minho finally shifts forward and tilts his head up by the hair, finally feeling his cock on his tongue in the form of a few weak, wet slaps against it. Minho curses under his breath, and Jisung can feel the way his own knuckles are beginning to ache with the strain.

“Fuck,” Minho curses again, letting his cock rest heavily on his tongue after the last light smack. Jisung feels the way the head drags it’s curve over Jisung’s tongue, pushing in to the side. He stays diligently still, even as Minho presses his length against the wall of his inner cheek, forcing it to bulge out. 

“Knew your cheeks would look good stuffed with my cock,” Minho murmurs, admiring the sight. “S’like you were made for it. So fucking pretty.”

Jisung keens, unable to fight the want that pulses through him. His gaze can’t remain when he tilts his head to the side to bring his cock back to the center of his mouth, dragging his tongue up the underside of Minho’s length. Jisung catches the pre-cum when his lips suction around the head in a half-kiss, feeling the way it smears across his lips, and it only has him producing more of his own. 

His eyes shut fully on a hum, circling his tongue around the head once he realizes Minho wasn’t stopping him. Eager kitten licks melt into languid strokes, occasional kisses down the shaft that’s now glossy with spit. 

He catches the weak huff of pleasure Minho makes above him.

When his lips are wrapped around him again, Minho uses the pull he has on Jisung’s hair to begin slowly coaxing him back and forth on his cock. Jisung continues licking what he can, finally able to flick the tip of his tongue under the vein he’d seen earlier. It’s not much unlike how he feels when they make out. His mind goes lax, letting his body take over in the need for the taste of skin tinged with salt.

Minho let’s out a long, open-mouthed sigh. 

“Look at me.”

Jisung drags his eyes open and up to Minho’s, watching the way Minho’s watching him, his mouth. His forehead is resting against the bars of the top bunk, transfixed with how the suctioned ring of Jisung’s lips envelops him and makes his cock disappear. There’s a piercing purity in Jisung’s gaze, full of unspoken questions with every hidden swirl and sick lave over his tip. 

What are you thinking? How does it feel? Am I doing good, being good for you?

Minho slowly inches himself further into his mouth with every push and pull, and he can see the way Jisung’s features shift to a subtle pain when the head of his cock finally grazes his throat, body tightening up again. 

Minho weakens his grip at the back of Jisung’s head to reassuringly scratch his scalp. “Relax your throat, kitten,” he hushes, and the worry lines between Jisung’s brows fade almost immediately. Minho can feel how he sighs around him.

When Minho pushes him back down on his cock again, it’s even slower, but so much deeper. Even Minho’s hips stutter at the feeling of Jisung’s throat clenching around him, but he continues to push him down. He’s so far inside that Jisung can do nothing with his tongue anymore — letting it cushion and curve against his girth at the edges. 

Minho gently pulls him back with the tendrils of blonde between his fingers one last time as he sinks down again, and Jisung is so stuffed that he can feel his nose press against the warm skin of Minho’s pelvis, deepthroating him. The muscles in his throat unwillingly convulse for air and he can feel himself choke out a cough that escapes through his nose. That would fairly warrant a tapout, wouldn’t it? Shouldn’t that be embarrassing? Jisung watches for Minho’s response to find he’s only cradled more against his body, burying his chin and mouth against his skin between pleasured nngh’s and mmf’s. 

Minho only pulls away when his eyes slip open again, seeing the way tears are beginning to build at Jisung’s waterline. Jisung’s gasps for air are hot over Minho’s cock as he pulls away, eyes finally slipping shut to gather himself. Even in his need to breathe he never allows Minho to fully leave him, letting the swell of his lips drag against his shaft during whatever odd intermission this is between them. 

After his breathing evens, Jisung feels the hand in his hair slacken completely to snake to the side of his head. Minho’s free hand suddenly presses against the other side of his skull to hold him still, and Jisung instantly realizes why when he feels the familiar stretch of his mouth compensating for Minho’s length. 

He can’t help the muffled moan when he realizes that it’s now Minho thrusting into him, fucking his face. 

“Your mouth feels so fucking good,” now it’s Minho who’s panting with an edge in his voice, like he’s trying not to snap right then. “Such a good boy, taking it so well.”

It’s a cycle of building intensity; Minho sets Jisung off with words of lewd praise, causing Jisung to whine around him, causing Minho to feel the vibrations and chase, fucking deeper in with each push. By the time Jisung’s forgotten his physical boundaries and reached up to enthusiastically grip the muscles of Minho’s thighs, he can feel his cock in his throat on every sharp thrust. 

Jisung’s drooling now, has noticed the feeling of a few tears streak down his cheeks. He wonders if he should be concerned with the way his jaw aches, but he looks up past the watery film of his vision and the look of total, unhinged desire on Minho’s face makes him forget the sensation instantly. 

He regrets ever having the thought, because losing the ache means he’s losing Minho. Jisung realizes this when Minho’s movements decline to some short, slow thrusts before he slips himself out entirely. 

The urgency in Minho’s movements causes the string of saliva connecting Jisung’s lips to his cock to break apart before he has the chance to appreciate it.

Jisung didn’t have time to mourn that, because Minho was bending down to wrap his arms around and under his limbs, manhandling him back up the mattress. “Can’t take it,” he murmurs lowly, almost as if it’s not for Jisung to hear. He shoves at Jisung’s chest until he falls flat on his back, head hitting the pillow. “Need to be in you.”

Jisung feels like he sinks into the sheets. He’s slightly lightheaded, all the breaths he had to hold in finally catching up with him, and he can feel the way his chest swells with every gulp of air he takes. God, he never would have assumed getting his throat used would feel like a full fucking cardio session. His body is boneless and tingling at the edges, and even his lids feel weighted as they fight to stay open and zone out in his respite.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t catch on to what Minho was doing until he lolls his head to the side with curiosity. 

Minho’s gaze is floorward. His elbows shoot above his head as he reaches his fingers to the back of his neckline and pull, tugging his sweater over his head in one swift movement that reveals far too much and far too fast for Jisung to prepare for. Somewhere, in some part of all of this, he’d not made the connection that Minho would also get naked. He lets the bundled handful of wool drop absently to the floor, and his eyes flick up knowingly to Jisung’s through the entire process of bending down to get his jeans and underwear to the floor, trying to bite back something of a grin in his features. 

When he stands back up, fully naked, nothing hidden in the bedside lamplight— fuck. 

“Fuck,” Jisung repeats aloud this time. A hand shoots out to clap over his mouth, because that was not his voice. It’s raspy and hoarse from his ruined throat, crackling a ridiculous amount over just one syllable. He barely registers the chagrin before it’s ebbing away into the background, far too distracted to give focus to anything that wasn’t right in front of him. 

His pupils dance over Minho’s body, trying to absorb it all at once. He’s seen it all before, in fractions. Never altogether in the years of their modest friendship. But sometimes there would be days where Minho wore tanks that side of revealing, catch him in boxers, maybe a towel around the waist after a shower. When Jisung caught himself attempting to piece it all together, ‘undress' him with his eyes, he recoiled in shame until he trained himself to avoid the itch.

Imagination could have never done Minho justice. He was beyond perfect. 

Jisung’s awed reaction forces Minho to reveal the smirk in his eyes, crinkling at the edges. “Mm?” He hums, an equal mix of velvety and teasing. He plants his hands on the edge of his bed and hikes his legs up to knee crawl towards him, and it’s not fast enough. Nothing would ever be fast enough. Jisung needs him now, and he lifts an impatient hand to grab in his direction. Come here, come here. 

The first thing he touches is Minho’s bicep. His skin is warm and the muscle is firm, and Jisung squeezes it like he needs it to survive. When Minho crawled close enough for his other hand to reach, it immediately palmed up his chest. He grazed over a nipple, all the way to the sharp jut of his collarbone, along the line of his shoulder. The heat when Minho finally hovered above him only made his mind more heady, barely aware of the dip in the pillow when Minho’s elbow was planted beside his head or how he swung a leg over Jisung’s body to cage him in. The hand on Minho’s shoulder ran up the smoothness of it until it reached his neck, further, until he was gently cradling his jaw. 

Jisung barely has any time to look Minho in the eyes before he’s leaning down to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth and then slot their lips together. It’s heavy from the start and Jisung just sighs, melting into it, letting the hand at Minho’s arm trail up until it’s cupped around his neck. Minho brushes his fingers through Jisung’s hair and relaxes his body against him, just enough that they press together, blanketing without crushing. Jisung’s overwhelmed by how intense this position feels now that it’s skin against skin, dazed on the realization that there’s no longer any barriers between them. Finally. Nothing but Minho’s chest pressing against his and the way he can feel the remnants of his own spit on Minho’s cock getting coated between their stomachs.

Minho interrupts their kiss to suck Jisung’s bottom lip into his mouth, pulling it away until it releases with a wet pop. Unsatisfied, he leans down again to give it a few more absent nips and tugs before he begins peppering kisses along Jisung’s jawline. 

There’s an unspoken synergy between them when Minho’s hand in Jisung’s hair slips to press an index and middle finger against his mouth. Jisung doesn’t need to think, already parting his lips to wrap around the digits and suck. He’s so acquainted with the feeling now, letting his teeth graze over the knuckles before his tongue scissors them apart. 

“That’s it, baby. Nice and wet for me.”

The veneer of gentleness in Minho’s praise cracks on the last few words into something more raw and commanding. Jisung opens his eyes to find that he’s being watched under his attentive stare. It only dips down to his mouth when Minho slowly removes his fingers from it.

Jisung’s not sure why Minho is being so careful with keeping them untouched. He keeps them separated from the rest of his hand even as he peels his torso off Jisung’s to amble down his body, stopping only when he’s in a hunched sort of kneeling position between his legs. His clean hand smooths over one of his legs from thigh to knee before hooking under it, propping it up after he bends it away from the rest of him. 

Like this, Jisung is exposed to him again. The pang of shyness feels much less severe than when Minho saw him for the first time, whether from familiarity or the mutual nakedness now, Jisung doesn’t know. Maybe they’ll eventually reach a point where he isn’t shy at all. 

The way his heart stops when he watches Minho’s face disappear between his legs, though — that will probably never change. 

The hands that were on Minho’s face moments ago now grip the sheets when he feels the first lick over his rim. Then another. Just as Jisung’s breath quickens and he questions if Minho is going to eat him out again, his face reappears between his thighs. A hand comes to pet over one of his asscheeks before pulling it to the side, revealing even more of him, and Jisung whimpers in surprise when Minho bends down again to spit right over his hole. 

“Fff—.. hyung,” Jisung breathes. He can feel it dripping into him. 

Minho ignores him, admiring his work for a beat of silence before coming back up. He doesn’t remove his clean hand from where it’s still got him spread open, idly giving the occasional squeeze. He only looks up to Jisung when he moves the hand with the spit-covered fingers to his ass, testing, like he’s attempting to gauge a reaction. 

Jisung’s eyes briefly widen when he feels the wet digits circle his rim, and everything suddenly makes much more sense.

“You ready?” Minho asks, stilling the pad of one of his fingers directly over Jisung’s entrance in emphasis. 

Jisung rises to his elbows, letting out a shaky sigh at the view of Minho’s hands between his legs, the way his own stomach is rising and falling with breaths of anticipation.

He nods.

Minho pushes in slowly, but there’s no need. There was no pain or awkwardness like Jisung had experienced when he’d attempted this by himself. Being worked open by Minho’s tongue and all the fucking spit as lube lets in glide into his tight heat with an obscene squelch, and he sighs out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding in when Minho pulls out to the fingertip before going right back in down to the knuckle, again. And again. 

Jisung moans once he feels the second finger. Minho only grants him a few pushes to adjust to it before he starts thrusting them in with a punching little rhythm that has Jisung’s ass jiggling from the force of it. 

“Oh, fuck,” Jisung gets out through staccato pants, mesmerized by the movement of Minho’s hand disappearing and reappearing under him. He’s barely conscious of the fact he’s spreading himself wider for him, mirroring his other leg that’s bent open for easier access. Minho releases the hand gripping his cheek with a light smack, planting it beside Jisung’s waist so he can prop himself up over his hips. 

“How’s it feel?” Minho purrs down at him. “Does my baby like getting fucked?” 

He thrusts his fingers into him hard on the last word, letting them still inside him and twist. Jisung’s head falls back on a clipped cry, back arching, struggling to roll his hips and fuck himself down on his fingers. 

“S’fucking good, nngh, please,” Jisung slurs. Once he has the strength to lift his head up again, he’s afraid he’ll have none left in reserve to face looking into Minho’s eyes. He barely manages it, trapped and squirming from how just looking at his face pushes him over the edge. Fuck, his whole body is throbbing with need, and Minho is drinking in every single inch of it. The unrestrained want in his darkened eyes has Jisung clenching around him. “Please, more, fuck, I need—.. wantyousobad—”

Jisung interrupts himself on a high whimper at the feeling of Minho pulling his fingers out of him to the tip, how they drag slowly against his walls. Even the sensation of him simply leaving has him feeling like he’s gonna spasm from the inside out, making his eyes involuntarily squeeze shut. 

The whimper spilling out of his throat distorts into a wanton sob when he feels a third finger insisting itself in beside the others. It’s such a fucking stretch, Jisung would have never been able to do this to himself, wouldn’t have ever wondered what it felt like to be worked open like this, but everything was different with Minho. He’d only ever want this with him, and by the way Minho was beginning to slowly fuck his fingers into Jisung how he wanted, revelling in the way Jisung came undone under him, they both knew it. 

Minho owned him. 

“Wait ‘til it’s my cock,” he taunts out, and the words have Jisung whimpering again, cock already twitching from the flickers of imagination that spark behind his eyelids. Minho above him, taking him, finally able to understand the way it feels to get fucked into the sheets by him. It’s almost real with the way his fingers slowly pump in and out of him, but fuck— it’s too slow, and whatever remains of Jisung’s sobriety knows Minho is doing this on purpose, prepping him just shy of anything severe until he’s broken and yearning for it.

“God, you’re gonna get fucking ruined,” Minho continues above the sound of Jisung’s labored panting. “Gonna fuck you ‘til you cry.”

Holy shit. 

Jisung’s not sure if he can speak. His mouth can’t close, stuck on a muted moan and unable to do anything like Minho’s words have ripped the coherence from him. He nods emphatically in short little jerks, a disgusting level of desperation that he doesn’t have the capacity to monitor anymore. He just needs Minho.

“Yeah? You want that, Sungie?” He spits, and the next time he pumps his fingers into him is rough, jostling Jisung’s body back as if he were giving him a preview, a warning of what he was going to do to him. The cry that was trapped in his throat is forced from his lungs at the feeling, and it’s so overpowering that his toes begin to curl. 

“Then fucking look at me and use your words.”

The two things Jisung’s body had rendered impossible, and Minho knew it. Just like how he knew he could push Jisung and he’d always follow through, because he wanted to be good — he wanted to obey. 

Jisung’s lids slowly lift. The moment his eyes find Minho’s again, he questions if he actually can speak. He wonders if it’s pitiful to be so enraptured by a face that all it takes is looking at them to nearly do you in. Years of seeing him every day, Minho watching back, and the need seemed to only intensify with time. Suppressing with a fiercer denial the stronger the fantasies became, and now he was here, Jisung suddenly realizes. It was all actually happening. He was real. He wanted him. He was going to fuck him. 

All he had to do was use his words. 

Maybe it’s the truth of it that makes Jisung’s eyes stop trembling as he locks eyes with Minho. His breaths still shake, his lips are slow and tentative when they part, and even his words come out in shy whispers, small and breathy. Yet there’s never been anything he was more confident in. There’s never been anything he wanted more. 

“Minho,” Jisung says. Opposite to Minho, Jisung has always struggled with hiding what he felt on his face. The complete and total need for him is absolutely apparent, he has no doubt. “Please, please fuck me. I want you, I need you—”

He hisses at the feeling of Minho’s fingers suddenly leaving him. He wipes them somewhere on his sheets before he shifts, moving up to plant both hands on either side of Jisung’s head. The front of his body is shrouded, backlit by the amber glow of the nearby lamplight, lining the edge of his silhouette with it. 

He lifts a cupped hand against Jisung’s chin. “Spit,” he orders. 

Jisung complies instantly, staring down to his hand as he forces all the saliva in his mouth to collect behind his teeth. After he spits it out and lets it collect in Minho’s palm, Minho brings it to his own mouth and spits in it as well. Jisung is enthralled by the controlled expression of his face, how natural he’s treating this, and wants to look forever — but his eyes curiously follow his hand, the way it travels down to his cock. 

Minho hangs between Jisung’s thighs, and he can see the way his pre-cum glints in the light. They both watch Minho bring the hand with their collected spit to the head, and a light sigh is released above Jisung when his palm rubs over it. His fingers make a loose ring as he drags them down his shaft, lubing himself up until his entire length glimmers with spit. 

Then he shifts. Minho lowers himself down to his elbow to line himself up with Jisung, darkening the expanse of skin between them in shadow. There’s hardly any space between them anymore, and Jisung can barely see anything, yet his eyes fixate, locked where Minho is undoubtedly gripping his base, guiding himself in through a stretch of silence that lasts this far of forever. 

And Jisung finally feels it, how his head slips past his entrance after it presses against his rim, and the sigh he lets out is laced with a startled shock that’s too soft, breathy, mind overrun on the skin and heat and everything he wanted in the everything that was above him; Minho, he realizes, and it hits him right in the chest. I’m finally feeling Minho. 

Now that he can properly push inside, Jisung feels the hand at the base of Minho’s cock shift to grip around his forearm. It finally forces him out of his stunned trance between them, eyes lifting with the distant realization that Minho wants Jisung’s arms around his neck. His reaction is immediate, wrapping himself in a tangle of limbs that hang off Minho’s shoulders, tight enough that their foreheads touch and noses brush together. 

Minho leaves languid kisses and licks at Jisung’s bottom lip as he presses the rest of his length in. It’s nothing but soft sighs and the wet smacks of Minho lazily playing and pulling at him, which Jisung would greedily return if not stuck on the sensation of how he just seems to keep going into him. A low moan slips from him into the heat of Minho’s mouth, and Jisung can feel the way his breath lightly puffs in laughter at that.

“Nngh, fuck,” Jisung whispers when he finally feels Minho’s hips press against his ass, buried fully inside him. The stretch is so good, so much, and he can feel the way his legs work on autopilot to lift and wrap around Minho, clinging with all of his body to keep him there. “Hyung,” he sighs, looking at the way his mouth parts into a pleasured ‘o’ while his ankles lock behind him. Minho feels it too. 

“Still so fucking tight,” he growls between them, using the time Jisung takes to adjust to bring a hand up and tilt his jaw to the side. Minho briefly nuzzles his face into his neck before he litters it with open-mouthed kisses. 

“Have wanted to feel this for years.” 

Holy fuck.

Jisung whimpers out at that, and he knows Minho can feel the way he clenches around him impossibly tighter. He makes a brief rhythm of that, getting used to how it feels to be entirely full with something, calm his heart from how it’s jackhammering in his chest, overwhelmed that the something is Minho. 

Once he feels he’s calm enough, ready, his indicator that Minho can move is in the subtle way the vise of his legs slacken around his back, offering room. Minho understands the unspoken cue immediately, breathing against his neck while his lower half shifts out of Jisung until there’s nothing left but the head catching on his rim. 

Then he rolls his hips forward, rougher this time. Jisung lets out a gasp into Minho’s hair, who bites back his own groan by sinking his teeth into Jisung’s shoulder, spurred on to chase the tight wetness of it with another immediate thrust. 

“Fff— oh my god,” Jisung pants into the soft tangles, whining out at the combined feeling of Minho licking away the sting as he continues to mercilessly drive into him. He only lets up on Jisung’s neck and shoulder when he hears his words melt into incoherence, attempting to murmur something out between the string of wrecked moans and whines that only seem to heighten with the force of his hips. 

“—rder, Min— please..” 

“What is it, baby?” Minho whispers against Jisung’s skin, letting his thrusts slow down to a relaxed roll. 

“Rougher, please,” Jisung manages out within the garbled mess of his keening, clinging onto Minho like a lifeline even when he lifts his head to stare at him. “Please, hyung, need you— harder,”

He needed to feel Minho everywhere all at once, wanted to be railed until he was everything Jisung’s body ever thought of, pleasure and pain, all for him to use and keep and do with however he wanted. Jisung had finally gotten Minho today — the kisses, the feelings, the realization his fantasies and wants were never one-sided. It was the best gift in the world, everything to him, and now he needed to prove how much it meant. 

Now he wanted to give himself to Minho. 

There’s a beat of silence held between them, but it’s all the confirmation and permission Minho could ever need. Before Jisung can even take another breath, he feels his arms around Minho’s neck get ripped away as he throws them off, letting them fling into his wrinkled sheets. Jisung falls back into the pillow, stunned, and he can feel the way his body spikes with adrenaline of getting manhandled around. Minho wraps his fingers tight around the junction of where his forearms meet his wrists and yanks until they’re over Jisung’s head. Minho rests the entire weight of his upper body on them, propped up by his arms, pinning him there. 

The next time he thrusts into Jisung, it slams him with such a force that the way he gets jostled forces the tangle of his legs around Minho’s waist to come undone. Jisung releases a shocked yelp and parts his legs wide, letting him take what he wants, transfixed by the sound of their skin slapping between them. He looks down where they connect and at how his whole body moves up the bed as he gets fucked, how his cock bounces and slaps against his stomach, the way the sheets rub against the skin on his back with it.

The new angle leaves him with nonstop, broken moans getting stolen from his throat, drowning out the sloppy, wet slaps every time Minho fucks back into him. He can feel all of Minho like this, and it sends surges of white-hot heat from his cock through every nerve until his entire frame is on edge. 

On one particular thrust in, Minho’s dick does something, rubbing against something that has Jisung’s legs twitching with spasms from the stimulation. Jisung screams out at that, muscles in his arms tensing where they’re pinned, and he looks up at Minho in his startled pleasure. 

“You sound so fucking pretty,” Minho grits. He releases one of Jisung's wrists to bunch both in one hand, and a spark of nostalgia from this morning hits somewhere distant in his mind. He keeps hitting that fucking spot every time he drives his pulsing cock into him, and it only has Jisung wailing louder, only vaguely aware of the free hand now trailing his jaw. 

And then he feels the fingers dance over his neck, resting in a half-circle against his jugular before he squeezes. 

It’s light, no more than a press from the pads of his fingers, but Jisung would positively melt into the bed at the gesture if he weren’t getting pounded within an inch of his life, back arching into an aggressive bow. He mewls when the pressure tightens. 

“What a good fucking boy,” Minho praises, eyes not leaving Jisung once. There’s no edge of exhaustion in his voice, only a desire that makes his voice drop in a hungry timbre as if seeing Jisung get ruined fuels him instead. “So perfect for me.”

Fuck.

He feels a heat build somewhere in his stomach, up to his chest. “Only you,” Jisung pants between his wrecked sounds, feeling Minho’s palm against his throat when he gulps. “Only yours.”

Minho actually groans something deep and breathy through the next few thrusts, particularly hard this time, and the sound has Jisung’s limbs tingling underneath the skin. 

“All mine.”

Hot. Jisung feels like he’s burning from the inside out, pulses and waves of liquid heat bending and breaking him until something snaps. Something that had started since before Minho started fucking him, before the foreplay, before today. He feels it everywhere, which feels odd to Jisung, because it’s not coming from him, it’s coming from— 

Minho. 

Looking up at him only intensifies it, and it must be apparent on his face, because then Minho’s purring out a “How’s it feel, Sungie?”

“L-love it,” Jisung slurs filthily between labored breaths, watching Minho above him with a half-lidded gaze. The depraved rasp in his voice when he speaks, how his bicep tensed and flexed keeping his grip on Jisung’s wrists, sweat, so much sweat darkening his bangs and matting them together, running in clear rivulets down that beautiful skin. His eyes have lost color, nothing but black pits that stare down at him and threaten to swallow him whole. Jisung stares back at them, at the coldness, at how perfect and right and warm it makes him feel, and then he suddenly gets it. 

How’s it feel, Sungie?

Everything, all at once.

“I love y—..”

He’s interrupted by his own silence, mouth falling open and eyes squeezing shut after they roll to the back of his skull. So much fucking heat pulses in fiery increments through his cock, right there, spasm after spasm as he’s sent over the edge and screaming out a broken cry once he realizes he’s about to come. 

He feels it reach the summit before spiralling over the edge. He feels the hand around his neck give one final, appreciative squeeze before immediately leaving him. He feels how it wraps around Jisung’s cock — his palm is so soft —  pumping him with sharp twists that are timed with Minho’s thrusts. 

Jisung’s eyes barely open, watching past the blurry film of his dazed lids as he comes. His release shoots out of him in lazy spurts, coating his tensed stomach in it. 

“Fuck, that’s it baby, keep coming for me,” Minho growls out, catching some of it between his fingers to slide down his length for a wetter glide. It’s almost like Jisung’s body is in perfect tune with Minho, because it doesn’t fucking stop; seconds pass and Jisung’s got tears hotly rimming his waterline, moans unending at the sight of him milking ribbon after ribbon of white out of his cock until there’s nothing left but a pathetic few dribbles that crawl down the head. 

Even then, he doesn’t stop. Minho is unrelenting, refusing to let up on the possessive grip around his cock and wrists, wracking Jisung alight in thousands of pain-pleasure nerves that leave every single inch of him crying. The tears spill past his ducts, cresting hot and fast around the shell of his ears when he feels Minho thumb his tip. He no longer sounds like himself, drowning out his own ears in a flurry of pornographic vowels that bleed into staccato with the punches of Minho entering him. 

Jisung can no longer think, it’s even a struggle to properly breathe, but his body sends him a knowing signal once he finally feels Minho’s hand release his cock after one slick, final pump: this is the hardest he’s ever came. He’s never felt this before. 

And it’s done nothing to calm the heat in his chest. 

It burns high and everywhere, even when the rest of his body feels boneless against the sheets. He doesn’t even move his wrists from where they’re folded over each other above his head once Minho releases those, too. He’s barely capable of even noticing. 

The tears continue to fill and escape his eyes in languid streams from the overstimulation of Minho rubbing inside him, and Jisung blinks them away once they begin to fog his eyesight. He wants to stare and watch how Minho’s lifting himself up to sit on his knees, bringing his hands down to squeeze at Jisung’s hips and casually lift his entire lower half, arm muscles bulging as he holds him level with his cock for better access to use him. 

He can go faster like this. Minho’s thrusts seem to double in pace, but Jisung doesn’t watch, feeling instead of seeing. The sensation has him releasing a string of weak whines that mix with the slaps of Minho’s hips against his ass and the labored breaths above him. 

That’s where Jisung’s looking. 

His lids widen just further when his gaze catches Minho’s face; focused and tense, eyes squeezed shut, biting hard enough at his bottom lip to break skin. Jisung feels the way the rhythm in his thrusts begins to waver into something more unorganized and mean, huffing harsher out of his nose and digging hard into the bone of Jisung’s hips. He’s finally using Jisung’s body to get off, he realizes, and it’s one of the hottest fucking things he’s ever seen.

“Come in me,” Jisung sighs up to him.

It feels like the world stops when Minho opens his eyes and looks down at him, dark eyes so present and consumed yet faraway. 

“Jisung.” 

Jisung blinks, and feels the tears creep into the hair at his nape. “Baby..” he responds in a whisper.

That sends Minho over. After a few final thrusts and a breathy h-hah.. escaping past Minho’s red-bitten lips, Jisung feels the spasms in his cock as he releases. Unending spurts of cum shoot inside him, and he can feel the way it fills him up, too hot and too good against his walls. 

Minho groans and his thrusts slow, eyes dipping to look down at the way his cock leaves wet with his seed every time he pulls away from Jisung’s hole. Then he pushes it back in, rolling his hips to slowly fuck his cum back into Jisung, uncaring if he’s overstimulating himself. 

He buries himself to the hilt one last time, petting his thumbs over Jisung’s hips until he goes soft inside. After about a minute of nothing between them but the shared breaths of their exertion, Minho lets out a tense sigh when he pulls out, slipping from Jisung as he slowly lays his lower half back on the mattress. 

Jisung catches the way Minho’s eyes fall back down to the scene between them. An awed “Fuck,” breathes past his lips, and Jisung’s gaze dips down in curiosity. 

Despite having just came, Jisung can see the way Minho’s dick is twitching in interest, not entirely soft. Before he can fully wonder why, he feels the foreign sensation of Minho’s cum leaking out of him, one slow stream that crawls down the cleft of his ass, and oh, that’s what he was staring at. 

No matter how exhausted or fucked out Jisung was, he’d never lose that edge of humor he loved to tease Minho with. He uses the last of his energy to part his legs wider, undoubtedly exposing more of his hole. He knows it, he can feel the way even more of Minho’s release pulses out of him, and the look of total hunger that has Minho’s lids dropping to slits forces the corner of Jisung’s mouth to twitch in amusement. 

Then Jisung lifts a hand, and Minho follows the way it trails down between them, between Jisung’s legs, rubbing his index and middle against his sensitive entrance. He collects a generous amount on the pads of his fingers before returning it to his mouth. He wishes he could see what it looked like out of his periphery before tasting, but he wanted to keep complete eye contact with Minho, watch him stare as he pressed the fingers against his tongue before wrapping his lips around it to suck.

He lets the hints of salt coat his taste buds before he swallows, and yeah, now Minho does look like he actually wants to maul him. 

“I’ve always wanted to taste you,” Jisung confesses once he pulls the tips of his fingers away from his mouth, all wet and shiny. 

Minho takes a deep sigh, idling himself by petting a hand up and down one of Jisung’s legs. He never looks away, though, and Jisung can tell he’s caught on when he lifts a single brow, curious. 

“Your verdict?” He purrs. 

Jisung pretends to think about it for a moment, letting his eyes trail to the bunk above them in thought. He can’t hide his smirk when they flit back down to the boy kneeling above him. “Not bad.”

“Pffsht, like you’re any better, sweetheart.” Minho chuffs, back to condescending. Even despite the attitude, something dark flickers in his eyes, and Jisung’s breath catches in his chest when Minho crawls his hands up on either side of his stomach to lean over him again. He dips his head down to all the sticky release pooling at his middle and licks, cleaning him in a slow lave after lave. The wet sounds have the muscles in Jisung’s stomach tensing, and fuck, his cock is twitching again too. 

Minho must notice, because Jisung suddenly feels a brief whisper of warm breath against his tip before it’s enveloped past Minho’s lips.

“Oh fuck, hyung,” Jisung winces in oversensitivity. Minho hums around him, easily keeping his waist pinned with his hands so can’t buck up or spasm, forced to take every lick against his slit, every swirl around the tip. 

He eventually releases him with a filthy pop, smacking his lips together a few times as he looks up at Jisung with a blank expression. 

Jisung rises to his elbows to become more level with Minho’s eyes. “Your verdict?” He pants, cocking an eyebrow himself. 

The glare Minho shoots him is the perfect balance between angry and teasing. “Not bad.” He quips, voice flat. 

Jisung is about to give him a breathless smile, but then a thought suddenly hits him. A memory — this morning, everything from this morning. Back from before Felix got home, from before how Minho was above him with the promise of his climax in his tight fist, before all the teasing and edging and denial. Before all that, it was kissing. So much kissing, including the first one they ever shared. God, Jisung thinks, their first kiss. All because of Minho. 

I think hyung should have a taste.

Jisung gets an idea. 

“I don’t believe you.” Jisung mutters, hopefully doing an effective job of parroting how Minho sounded in that moment this morning — dark, wanting, needing. 

To anyone else, Minho’s expression hasn’t changed. It’s blank, nonchalant, no hint of emotion or weakness in his features. Jisung knows him, though. He’s lived in his space for years and has watched him even longer, trying to catalogue every idiosyncrasy, mannerism and quirk that he could on the boy he never felt he would truly be able to read or understand. He never made it far, but he knows Minho understands the second his eyes shift, something glimmering in them. 

Minho’s eyes only leave Jisung’s to dip his face back down to his stomach, slipping them shut when he roves the softness of his tongue over some of his cum he’d missed earlier. Jisung watches him in rapt silence, able to hear the way his own breathing grows shaky while the mess of chocolate brown tangles shifts, tonguing over the soft trace of his abs, leading a messy trail into the dip of his belly button.

When he rises again, Jisung notes the subtle movements in his mouth — trying to collect everything right on his tongue. Minho crawls up the bed until he’s properly straddling him, knees digging in on either side of his waist with a hand propping him up. The other hand comes up to grip his jaw and Jisung sighs into it, opening his mouth at the silent command. 

Jisung sticks his tongue out past his lips, eyes wide as they stare up to Minho’s which are hooded in lust. He feels Minho’s thumb brush tenderly at the edge of his mouth, once, twice, and then he spits. 

Jisung’s eyes slip shut at the feeling of it hitting his tongue, mouth following soon after. He roves it over his taste buds with a pleased hum before swallowing the saltiness away on a gulp. To think he was cringing on camera over the concept of swapping saliva just a little while ago. God, he was in so much fucking denial. 

He blinks his eyes open slowly when he returns his gaze to Minho, who’s watching him back intensely. He wonders what he’s thinking, what he sees: the pseudo-innocence of Jisung’s rounded eyes beneath him, skin splotched with aggressive hickeys, bite marks, indents from nails, painted inside out with their cum. 

Minho answers. 

The thumb at the corner of his mouth moves up with Minho’s hand to his cheekbone, and he swipes absently over the tear tracks there. He leans down until their noses ghost each other, close enough to feel every breath hit his lips. 

“Perfect.” Minho whispers before he presses their mouths together again, licking over his bottom lip. Jisung pants into his open mouth when the hand at his cheek sneaks to cradle the back of his head, giving light, idle scratches to his scalp. It holds Jisung up when the kiss deepens and he feels his limbs go weak, easing him down gently into the pillow. 

Minho presses his naked weight into him, not caring if his stomach gets sticky. Fuck, Jisung could kiss him for hours. He’ll never tire of how soft his lips and tongue feel, languidly rubbing against his own in wet, messy presses. All of Minho’s bites are soft and lazy now, the occasional hum when he nips at his bottom lip, unable to keep his mouth further than a few inches away from Jisung’s. 

Jisung snakes his hands between them to lift them up to Minho’s face, cupping it on both sides. Minho pulls away until it’s just the tips of their noses grazing, staring down at him. They just look at each other for a long, pregnant pause before Jisung’s eyes flit down to his cheekbones.

He rubs over them with his thumbs in a featherlight back and forth, still sort of unable to believe this was actually happening, that the skin under the pads of his fingers was real. The euphoria made him want to start crying again, realizing everything he’d ever wanted was between his hands now, looking down at him like there was nothing else he’d ever want to stare at again. 

He wanted to live inside the eternity of it. He wanted to be consumed by it until nothing else existed. The seconds wouldn’t pass, life wouldn’t go on, nothing existed outside of this room, past Minho’s black, moth-eaten curtain. Just him. Minho.

And why can’t you? Jisung’s mind chimes in the distance. Warm. Soft. What’s stopping you?

Maybe one thing. 

It must be how relaxed he feels, full and sated on everything from the inside out. He’s so content that he doesn’t even register the way his breathing evens as he stares up at Minho, or the way his view of him is cut off in slow increments from his eyelids weighing shut. He eventually doesn’t open them again on one particularly heavy blink, mind slipping with flickers into subconsciousness. 

The last thing he registers is the sound of a soft laugh above him; tiny puffs of air that are so far away. 

He doesn’t want it to leave. 

Jisung fights to stay awake. His mind refuses to surrender to his body, as paralyzed as he feels, and he finds himself regaining consciousness in short little episodes before he slips under again:

The weight above him is gone. Jisung battles to lift his eyelids, making out the blurry view of Minho’s naked silhouette sitting at the edge of the bed — fiddling with the wipes he’d brought in before this all began — before his vision goes heavy and pulls him back under. He distantly acknowledges the feeling of his legs being spread apart, and then he’s being cleaned up, his lower half and stomach getting wiped in gentle strokes while he floats through his own little limbo. 

Then he feels a weight leave the bed. The whisk of feet against the floor fills his right ear, growing quieter.

The belated, panicked realization that Minho is walking away from him is enough to inspire the strength for Jisung to open his eyes. His head lolls to the side, catching the backside of Minho’s frame as he makes way towards the door that leads out into the hall. 

“Don’ leave me,” Jisungs slurs through a petulant moan, unblinking. Minho stills at that, casting him a glance over his shoulder. “M’ gon’ die if you leave me.”

Jisung doesn’t miss the way Minho rolls his eyes before he continues for the door, but he pauses in front of it instead of leaving like he’d imagined. He simply tosses a handful of wipes into the wastebin adjacent to it, and Jisung keeps a tentative glare on his figure as he ambles to one of the storage containers under Hyunjin’s bed to pull out the square of a folded blanket. 

The pout on Jisung’s lips remains even when Minho comes back to him. Minho drops the blanket right on top of it.

Jisung’s only reaction is to let out a dramatic groan, muffled and drowning him with the feedback heat of his own breaths. It feels like his entire body lags in suspended delay from the exertion it takes to simply lift his hand to the blanket and lazily pull it off. Once it is, he blinks up to the sight of Minho putting the tape of his privacy curtain back in place, gradually shrouding the bed until it’s completely enveloped in shade. 

Minho casts Jisung a cursory glance as he pulls a corner of it back to come in. 

“You’re an actual idiot if you think I’d ever leave you.” 

And then Minho’s moving him, the skin of his forearms pressing against Jisung as he snakes them under his knees and behind his back to lift, depositing him closer to the wall to grant space. Jisung watches him through the film of a tired haze; how he knee crawls onto the mattress so he can finally lie down next to him, letting the curtain fall into place behind him, cutting them off from everything else that exists.

Once Minho had grabbed the blanket and properly covered them, he turned on his side to look at what he could see of Jisung. 

“Lift your head,” he says gently. 

Jisung uses the last of his strength to do so, letting out a surprised sigh at the feeling of Minho’s hands on him. He pulls him in until Jisung’s face rests against the side of his chest, Minho’s bicep his pillow. Invigorated by the total, absolutely manic need to be as close to him as possible, Jisung finds the energy to throw a leg over one of Minho’s and tuck his hands between them so they could bunch comfortably against his sternum. Jisung exhales utter relief, and the content feeling returns, washing waves of warmth through him that slowly beckon him to sleep. 

When Minho dips his face down to nuzzle the top of Jisung’s head, Jisung finds a conclusion amidst the hazy, exhausted recesses of his mind:

Minho was perfect. No, Minho was perfect for him. Even when Jisung attempted to murder the heat in his stomach, convince himself in the years between them that it was an unnecessary want, he knew it was never true. Minho was a need. He knew in the way warmth danced bright and dangerous at the edges in him every time Minho cast one of those rare, raw smiles of unhinged joy, how something sad rang in his ears and pulsed void through his body at every reminder that as much as they touched, it would never be anything more. He’d be forced to remain at a distance, never allowed in, stuck in the sick wonder of a what could’ve been that passively ate him alive from the inside. 

But now Jisung was here, finally allowed to appreciate just how much perfection he’d never been allowed to witness before. 

It was in the details: Minho openly staring at Jisung like he was the universe itself, unable to keep away from it, inhaling and consuming until there was no way to tell where one ended and the other began. His arm is flung over Jisung now, caging him in against the wall as if he wants to keep him away from the rest of the world. 

Jisung sighs into him and his eyes close. He feels the telltale signs of his mind slipping, and he leans forward until his lips blindly find skin. 

“I love you so fucking much.” He thinks out loud, sleepily whispering into him.

Jisung feels the breath tickle his hair from where Minho softly laughs. “I know.”

And then Jisung slips under where he leans into Minho’s chest, finally at peace. Minho feels the warm breath against his skin reach the cadence of unconsciousness, and it’s only then when he kisses Jisung’s hair. 

“I love you too.”