Chapter Text
The room was dark, at first.
Jisung squinted in the low light, the hue of it a peculiar pink-orange, not able to see much at all. He could feel the fog, still: pressing down on him, wrapping around him, urging him on. But he didn’t move, resisting that strange, persuasive force. That strange, carnal desire. His heels dug into the floor hard, strong despite his unease. And his fingers twitched by his sides, smoothing over the gauzy fabric of his garb. His whole body shivered, and his eyes darted around, trying to see through the mist and shadows. He felt odd, so very odd. And exposed. As though someone was looking at him. As though he wasn’t quite alone.
Suddenly, the floor moved.
Jisung yelped, scrambling backwards until he hit the door. It was closed. He stood with his back against it, one hand on his chest, the other flat against the wall behind him, breathing heavy. It felt like the floor had moved beneath his feet, he was sure. The soft silk of it had shifted forwards. And now it was moving again—
Cursing, he watched as the silken fabric of the floor started to shift, started to slip forwards, slowly, slowly, as if it was being pulled. It swirled around his feet, bunching up behind his ankles, pulling him with it, making him trip and stumble. Jisung lifted his feet up desperately, eyes wide and wild, heart hammering fast, trying to untangle himself with fumbling hands as he was dragged down to his knees. Then there was a giggle, soft and female, followed by a shushing noise, the voice distinctively different.
Half tipped over onto the ground, Jisung’s head shot up, eyes frantically searching the room again. There was someone in here with him—more than one someone. And they could see him. See him making a fool out of himself, so scared and unsure. Jisung dug the heels of his palm’s into the floor and tried to regain his footing, but a swathe of fabric encircled his wrists, pulling him down again. He landed painfully onto his shoulder with a dull thud . This time, there was more than one set of laughter. Suddenly more angry than anxious, Jisung managed to struggle to his feet, jaw clenched, head swimming.
“What’s so funny, huh?” he demanded of the darkness, fingers drawing themselves into fists at his sides. A growl built in his throat when he received no reply but silence. “C’mon, show yourselves!”
Breathing so heavy that the veil covering his nose and mouth fluttered, Jisung started forwards after a long moment of quiet, his steps unsure and eyes frantic despite the sudden burst of anger. The room wanted him to go that way? Then, sure, he’d go that way. He’d do whatever this scarily sentient place wanted him to do, lest it collapse upon him. Or something to that effect.
“Show yourselves! Damn it, show—” his voice cut off as he felt his foot hit something. Mouth still open around a word, he looked down. A cushion, fringed and patterned. A confused sound left his throat and he twisted his head around, eyes running over the floor that was too dark to see. Only, it wasn’t. Before, Jisung could see nothing but the fog and the colour. But now . . . the flooring was of a light brown colour, sandstone and smooth, and was covered by rugs and pillows and shimmering, sheer fabrics. The fog seemed to be thinning. And the pink-orange of the light seemed to glow brighter. Gulping, Jisung took a step back, his foot hitting another plush pillow that he was sure hadn’t been there before. He would have felt it if it had, he would’ve, there was no way he could’ve missed it, he wouldn’t—he froze.
There was . . . music? He could hear music? Only it was more threat than song, more insistence than melody. A mad cacophony of noise, increasing in volume steadily, like a swarm of wasps, or a stampede of mice across a piano. But it was there and it existed in his ears, against his jugular, behind his eyes. It was an anxious sort of sound, insistent on taking him with it. It existed and it grew in size and solidity, quickening his breath, spinning his head, dampening his palms.
And then the room started to change.
It swirled with the music, as though dragged by it or existing within it. The pink and orange and the pillows and the floor turned aqueous, whirlpooling around Jisung’s body. It sped up when the song did, the mad piano and strings clashing and clanging unlike any sound that had been created before, Jisung knew, entirely unique to this experience. And it sped up until it hurt to listen to, until Jisung was forced to press his hands to his ears just so he had room in him to breathe. It sped up until it didn’t.
Like a wave drawing back from a beach, the noise receded. And with it drew back the fog.
The room remained dim, but he could see. Gods, could he see.
The notes which before had been so offensive sorted themselves into a nice pattern, coming from nowhere. And the pillows and rugs that had already existed remained, only now in larger numbers, obscuring the stone floor near-completely. What was entirely new to Jisung’s eyes, however, were the people.
They seemed to be more background than anything else, existing as the pillows and throws did. Shrouded in shadow, they moved in strange ways, the glittering smoke around them disturbed by their slow, lazy movements. Jisung’s eyes roved around these forms as he gingerly made his way forwards, wondering what they were doing and why so many seemed to be paying so much attention to him. As he walked, the fog drifted away from him, disturbed.
A hand reached out from the mist. It moved along the floor shakily, its fingers curling into a bright rug. Jisung flinched backwards, fearing that it was grabbing for him. But it came no closer. A second hand appeared, running down its paler companion's arm before stopping to rest over the hand in the rug. The fingers intertwined and withdrew back into the smoke. What in the—
Jisung froze. The fog thinned.
By the Gods.
Bodies, slicked with sweat and oil, ground against others in the fray. Palms ran down arched backs, reverent and demanding. Limbs bent and stretched within the swathes of fabrics. Mouths opened wide around moans, gasps, and low groans of pleasure. All around, people gorged themselves on the fruits of ecstasy. Some wore intricate jewellery, or fine, skimpy garbs like Jisung’s own, others were completely exposed. One such man caught his eyes, and grinned wide.
Jisung’s heart jumped and he averted his gaze, training it instead on his feet. When hearing of the legendary parties thrown by Lee Minho, this part had never been included. Grand celebrations were one thing. It should be expected of an ever-growing empire to wish to demonstrate its wealth with spectacle, but this. Jisung tried to consolidate the image of the Prince, a skilled, ruthless warrior, with the image of a man who would engage in such lechery. Such depravity.
When a hand touched his waist, Jisung practically jumped out of his skin.
He spun around, eyes wide and frantic. Standing behind him with a grin was Lee Minho. The Vulture.
He was stood so close that Jisung could see his every detail. The way his dark eyelashes fanned his kohl-lined eyes, the way his cheeks crinkled as his smile widened, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked Jisung up and down, the hand at his bare waist suddenly tightening, nails digging in hard. The other reached up around his head, gently unclasping Jisung’s veil, letting it flutter to the floor.
“Are you enjoying my party?” he asked, voice light and musical.
Jisung flitted his gaze across the man’s angular face, avoiding those eyes that bore into him, looking for an escape, an answer in those features, caught off guard by the question. This man, this myth, this devil was speaking to him, looking at him, looming over him. Every nerve in Jisung’s body was buzzing with the intent of self preservation, yet Jisung did not know how to sate that desperate desire. Fight or flee? Fawn or freeze? Any word he may say could set off the man, the Vulture. Jisung had heard before that Lee Minho was mad.
There was long, heavy pause before the Prince lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head in question when Jisung simply stared at him, wordless, mouth opening around a sound before it closed again, totally out of his depth with no idea what to say to such a man. What could be said to one who reigned over cultures?
“Won't you respond to me?” he asked, a pout on his lips, taking a small step forwards. The man’s hand at Jisung’s waist stroked up the curve of his back, slowly, so slowly, cold because of the rings he wore. Jisung shifted at the feeling, forcing his breath to slow despite the quickening of his heart and the stiffening of his jaw as the hand crested his back, leaving goosebumps and shivering skin where it had before been. Fingers splayed across his nape, wrapping around the back of his neck, long enough to grip the sides of it. Fingers pressed at his pulse point, discreetly. Like a predator wrapping its jaws around the soft throat of its prey, testing. By the dark, gleeful look that bloomed in the Prince’s eyes, he had determined that his was thoroughly subdued. “No? No response?” he simpered. A finger ran along the length of Jisung’s clenched jaw, stopping below the plush of his bottom lip, slowly tapping at his chin . Tap, tap, tap, tap. The man sighed, bending down his neck until he and Jisung were eye-to-eye. The Prince’s eyes dulled, his body suddenly relaxing. “Cat got your—“ two fingers pushed past Jisung’s sealed lips and into his mouth, grabbing his tongue, hard, “—tongue?”
Jisung reacted viscerally, body seizing as he gagged around the intrusion. He jerked himself back, scrambling out of reach of the other man, whose fingers remained in the air where Jisung’s mouth had been. A sudden high, shrill laugh, like the clinking of bells, escaped the Prince’s lips at Jisung’s startled retreat, and Jisung watched as he rubbed together those fingers and redirected his attention from Jisungs shocked form to them, wet and shining. A furious heat bloomed across Jisung’s face, rising up from his neck at the sight. Humiliation thrummed in his veins, tributaries of molten liquid hardening into rock, planting Jisung firmly in place. Not knowing what the Prince would say, or do. When he would strike. Jisung brought his hand to his lips and worked his tongue around in his mouth.
“Hm,” the Prince cocked his head and dropped his hand back to his side. He fingered the material of his dark trousers. Slowly, he looked up at Jisung. “Please?” He outstretched his palm towards Jisung, request obvious.
Breathing deeply, as though a hummingbird had found home in his chest, Jisung looked at that calloused hand and the tan forearm it was connected to, webbed with veins carrying his golden blood. He stood, tense, knowing that he must comply, but couldn’t shake the animal instinct that doing so would mean walking right into the jaws of a predator.
Slowly, he stepped forwards and placed his hand atop the Prince’s. A thumb, warm and gentle, stroked over his fingers.
“Thank you,” he said, voice surprisingly kind. Looking up, Jisung noted his expression. Smile sweet, eyes soft, missing that sharp, sudden glint there moments before. The grip on his hand tightened and tugged. “If you would.”
Jisung allowed himself to be led down the room by the Prince. They walked side by side, the other man’s steps long and sure. Jisung felt awkward and hurried beside him. Now that the palace’s master had made himself known, the fog seemed to have cleared, leaving behind a dimly lit room. A room full of nude aristocrats deep in the throes of pleasure. He and the prince seemed to be the only ones still dressed, himself in his silks, and the other in stiff, black trousers, a luxurious, sheer white shirt, and various pieces of resplendent jewellery, the most luxurious of which swung from his ears, golden and blue. He had changed from the official military uniform he had worn in the banquet hall.
They stopped at the head of the room, before a low table covered in rich foodstuff and floral decorations. Turning back, Jisung regarded the room, smaller than how it felt when he had blindly stumbled through it. It was narrow, the ceiling low, and lit a warm orange colour. All along the walls, bodies writhed amongst fringed cushions and brightly coloured blankets, the sound of low expletives and groans rising from the forms. Clearly, only the most adventurous were invited to attend this part of the festivities. Jisung was not new to the trade, but the sight of it all shocked him anyways.
“I must say,” muttered a voice from behind him. Jisung spun around, having almost forgotten the other man was still right by him, too caught up in the strange sights. “You dance beautifully.”
“Thu-thank you,” Jisung stammered out hurriedly, declining his head in a jerky little nod. “I’m flattered that you think so, Your . . . Majesty.” The foreign title felt thick and strange on his tongue.
The Prince made slow tutting noises and shook his head, admonishing. “No, no. There’ll be no need for that. Minho will do.”
Jisung breathed in a sudden, shallow breath at the request. He nodded.
The Prince —Minho— took a step towards Jisung. His face was unreadable, a flat, unmoving mask that betrayed no thought or emotion, simply bespoke cold regality and poise. Distantly, Jisung thought back to what another had said about the man before him when they were travelling in the carts, that moment feeling like a lifetime ago: Minho, the handsome one. Jisung looked into those deep brown eyes, the ones that had made him feel a physical, overwhelming pull before when he had danced, and imagined himself getting lost in them. Falling before them. He imagined how possible it would be.
“Say it.”
“Your Majesty?” Jisung could feel the warm breath from the whispered words against his cheek.
“Say my name.”
A hand cupped the back of Jisung’s elbow, another trailed up his front until it reached his neck. There, it caressed his skin, knuckle against the pulsating vein of his jugular, touch so soft it hurt.
“Minho.”
Minho grinned, a sharp, intelligent thing. Splitting his smooth, hard face like a crack in marble.
“Lovely,” he murmured. The touch at Jisung’s neck moved to his face, pads of his fingers feeling over the delicate skin under Jisung’s eyes. “And what shall I call you, hm? What is your name?”
Jisung stiffened under Minho’s touch, so close to his eyes. Too close to him. These hands on him were dangerous hands, had held blades and snapped necks before they were laid upon his flesh in this soft, deceptive manner tonight. He could feel the weight of them, the callouses, he could smell the iron of blood. The animal part of him wanted to bare his teeth and flee. The human part knew to play his role: a demure, coltish whore. “Whatever you wish it to be.” Jisung reached for Minho’s hand at his face, fanning his own fingers over Minho’s knuckles, feeling how his tendons twitched.
“I wish it to be yours.”
Jisung breathed in deep, unconsciously tightening his hold on Minho’s hand. He should not enjoy this. “My name is Jisung.”
“Jisung,” Minho mused, raising his eyes to the ceiling, as though mulling over the name. He cupped both sides of Jisung’s head, thumbs working into his temples. “Jisung, Jisung, Jisung. Fitting. A beautiful name for a beautiful boy.” Minho’s voice was smooth and warm, a hint of an accent foreign to Jisung’s ears present. Despite himself, he felt a small twinge in his stomach at the praise.
Vulture was not what Jisung had expected him to be. Far from the stereotypical image of the battle-hardened, simple warrior, he seemed sly, quick. Charming at the surface, with something much more sinister simmering just underneath. Jisung could imagine the fear a man such as him would inspire on the battlefield.
“Please,” Minho gestured towards the pillows laid before the low table with a smile, and Jisung acquiesced, folding his legs under him as he sat, watching as Minho sat in turn. He moved fluidly, serpentine. Once seated, he reached across the table, picking up a pineapple slice from a plate of the vibrant, yellow things and popped it into his mouth. He chewed languidly, raising his fingers to his lips to suck off the juice, looking up through his eyelashes at Jisung. Jisung shifted where he sat. Minho smiled.
“So, Jisung. Is this the first time you have ventured into these parts of my lands?” Minho placed another piece of colourful fruit upon his tongue.
Jisung took pause at the question. The Prince was speaking to him, asking after his travels as though he were an honoured guest invited to dine together with him, and not a dancer boy sat at the head of a room of debauchery. “Yes, it is,” he said tentatively, “I have not before had the pleasure of visiting these parts.”
”And what do you think of them?” Another lick of the finger.
”This land is . . . different to what I am accustomed to.”
“Is it?” Minho asked. “How so?”
Jisung smoothed over the fabric of his trousers. “It is vibrant. And loud.”
Minho chuckled as he turned back to the table of delights, stretching his body over it, the thin silk of his shirt translucent and shifting in the light. He plucked up a small pastry, topped with swirling cream. “And delicious.”
Minho turned his gaze to Jisung’s own, and Jisung felt himself stiffen. Minho moved with a smooth grace, a strong certainty to his muscles, the tone of them visible through his shirt. There was a power to him and the way he shifted, airy, but only because he chose to be. He moved with a grace unlike that of Hyunjin, who moved as though he was enticing you, hypnotising you, drawing you into him and his delicate physicality with an extension of a finger, a shift of the knee. A predator hunting prey. Minho moved as though he already had his jaws wrapped around your neck and needed to prove nothing.
The pastry was held up to Jisung’s lips. He looked down, away from Minho’s indiscernible gaze, and opened his mouth. A sweet taste bloomed across his tongue as Minho’s fingertips passed through his open lips and deposited the treat. Unconsciously, his eyelids flagged and a low noise of delight escaped him as the thing practically melted in his mouth. “How is it?”
Jisung opened his eyes. Minho leaned against the table on an elbow, resting his head against his fist, a slight smile across his face. A look in his eyes.
“Delicious.”
That grin widened. “Well, please.” He gestured to the great spread of foodstuffs strewn across the table, “Indulge.”
His eyes were drawn to a small mound of pale green spongy treats, the colour of the fabrics around his waist, and he brought one to his lips to bite. “Oh!” Jisung felt his eyes screw up on reflex at the unexpected sour taste, and he covered his mouth with the back of his hand to stifle the cough that wanted to escape. Minho laughed beside him and moved.
“Here.” Jisung opened his eyes to a golden goblet full of rich red, which he took carefully into his hand. “Sweet, to match the sour.”
With his tongue still smarting, he took a slow pull of the red without first considering what it may be, and softened himself when the smooth, sugary stuff filled his mouth. It felt something like laying down amongst soft sheets.
“Better?”
“Much,” Jisung looked over the goblet at Minho before taking another sip. “Thank you.”
When Minho only continued to gaze at him, making no more conversation, Jisung fingered the patterned stem of the goblet somewhat awkwardly. Swallowing, he looked at Minho’s neck, tanned and strong, housing a pulse Jisung knew to be as steady as the tapping of his fingers against the table. If the Prince had acted as he ought to—brutish and bullying—it would be much easier to find words. But he didn’t, and so Jisung fidgeted.
And Minho smiled, pulling that tension taut. He cleared his throat, sitting up on his knees, and shifted his body towards the table. One finger circled the rim of his own goblet, his cheek rested on his fist, and his face turned completely towards Jisung. Absent, almost coy. “You know,” he tilted his head. A strand of brown fell across his forehead, “I’ve heard of you.”
“And I of you,” Jisung couldn’t help but say, almost testily, forgetting himself.
“I’m sure,” Minho said wryly. He hummed, picking up his goblet and swirling it, looking to the ceiling. “You’ve heard much of me?”
“Yes, Your Ma—Minho, I mean. Of your great triumphs.”
”Yes, those,” he said dryly, as if his mythos meant little to him. He drank from the goblet. “Triumphs that result in so much loss. All that beauty, ruined.” Minho sighed into this goblet. “This,” he brandished his cup, “is all that is left of a kingdom. Such good drink. Just think of all I could have had if they didn’t feel the need to offer up such petty resistance. I care little for the empire itself, that’s what father’s after. No—no, what I really covet are pretty delicacies.” The Prince looked to Jisung. “And I have heard much of you.”
”. . . Is that so?”
”Yes, I have heard of a beauty amongst beauties. A little dancer boy.”
At this, Jisung flushed. It was simply not possible that his beauty was spoken of, that he was a “beauty amongst beauties”, and that such myths had reached royalty. Simply not possible. Jisung thought of Hyunjin, and of his hair and eyes.
“Who you have heard of mustn’t be me.” He shook his head softly.
“A slight, golden man, hair of spun silk, moves like water. No, I believe it is you I have been made aware of.”
Minho moved towards him then, the silk of his loose shirt the only part of his person wavering. He pinched the hem of Jisung’s trousers and stroked his thumb over the fabric, his eyes locked onto Jisung’s own. “The prettiest delicacy of them all.”
At this, Jisung swallowed, a heat spreading over him. Minho moved his light touch to the ball of Jisung’s ankle and shifted closer still.
“I’ve heard they have a fun name for me.” Minho’s strong hands were on Jisung’s knees now, holding him. “What was it now?” He mimicked forgetfulness, flitting his eyes up to the ceiling, pouting slightly, until he smiled.
“Vulture, I believe. Do you think that is fitting, Jisung? Do I remind you of a vulture?”
Up close, Jisung supposed that he did not. No, he seemed more serpentine than anything else. In the way that he moved, in the way that he spoke, in the way that he commanded attention, yet was so very . . . imperceptible. “No,’ he whispered.
Minho hummed and ran his hands from Jisung’s knees to his thighs, slowly, so slowly. Heat spread through Jisung, a low tingling up his body, blooming in the pit of his stomach. Then Minho’s palms slid to the backs of Jisung’s legs, the pads of his fingers just barely ghosting over the fabric and the skin there, touch so light that it almost hurt. And throughout he retained eye contact, gaze strong though his hands were soft, until the heat bloomed so fierce Jisung let his lids slip shut, biting at his bottom lip. When he felt fingers toying with his waistband, petting the skin there, dipping into the fabric just so, he could not hold back the small noise that had been building up inside him. It left him with some of the tension of his body, and he felt himself shiver.
A warm breath puffed over Jisung’s cheek as he felt, more than heard, Minho’s dark chuckle. “You are wonderful . I should like to keep you.”
Jisung unscrewed his eyes and turned to better face Minho, feeling the warmth of their skin brush together, so softly. “And if I can’t be kept?” he challenged, despite the rawness of his voice and the flame upon his face.
A pause. A slow grin spread over Minho’s face.
“Oh, you’re mine.”
With that, he pounced. A hand was tight around Jisung’s jaw and another was solid at the small of his back before he could take another breath.
Minho did not kiss like he seemed he should. Far from the slow, intentful way he moved and spoke, he kissed like he craved. He held Jisung hard, kissed him harder. With a muffled groan, Jisung arched his chest up into Minho and wrapped his arms around Minho’s neck, drawing him closer, without thinking why he shouldn't. The Prince’s mouth was warm and rich with the taste of fruits, and Jisung wanted more. He gave as good as he got, licking into Minho’s soft mouth, catching his bottom lip between his teeth when a hand began to trail up his spine, pulling hard at Minho until he was upon his lap, so desperate was he with sudden desire. It was with a hiss that he felt his head being wrenched back, two hands bunched tightly in his hair. He breathed like a wounded animal then, shallow and rasping, eyes to the ceiling, mouth agape. There was a mad chuckle against his neck, then the sensation of a tongue, tasting. Jisung looked down the best he could with his head bent back, trying to catch a glimpse of the man atop him, but his face was nestled into the crook of Jisung’s neck, and all Jisung could see was the heave of his shoulders, trembling with low laughter and frenzied breaths. A kiss was pressed against the side of his jaw, another to the shallow dip of his clavicle, before teeth were around the column of his neck, biting hard.
”Gah—“ a strangled, choked noise, one Jisung had never heard himself make before, left him. He reacted bodily, desperately gripping at the back of Minho’s shirt, fingers spasming. His hips jerked, grinding up into the body atop him, unmistakable in their sudden, unexpected desire, as a deep, deep heat bloomed through him.
Minho unfurled his spine; his grip on Jisung’s hair did not falter. Neither did his grin. He rolled his hips down, right into the core of Jisung’s want. “Oh, you want it bad.”
Jisung’s eyes lidded at the contact and the words. Half of him flushed with desire, the other with shame. Because, fuck, he did want it—he wanted it bad. Minho must have seen it in his eyes, for he let go of his hair, tucking a few strands he’d pulled loose behind Jisung’s ear. At the soft contact, Jisung gasped and leaned back until he rested against the table. From this perspective, Minho loomed. He straddled Jisung’s hips with his strong, muscular legs, body circling slowly, steadily working Jisung up, playing him like a lyre, plucking him just so. The fabric of his shirt flowed with him, rolling like cloud cover, clinging to his shoulders, his biceps, in such a way that made Jisung groan. He burned under the strange light of the room, bronzed skin ruddy where it most mattered; he looked down upon Jisung, glowing like a God.
A particularly loud cry of pleasure snapped Jisung out of his reverie, and he awkwardly snapped his head around, trying to look over his shoulder. He’d practically forgotten that he was at the head of a room filled with bodies chasing their own ecstasy. A woman had her head thrown back, her legs were splayed wide, in between them another woman—
“Tsk, tsk.” Minho’s hand grabbed Jisung’s jaw and wrenched his head back around, levelling an amused gaze at him. “You keep your eyes on me. Don’t worry, that will be you soon enough.”
Jisung shuddered at the promise. He let himself settle back against the table in soft acquiescence, resting on his elbows.
“Gorgeous,” Minho murmured, almost to himself. He bent over Jisung’s body, holding him at the waist, and ghosted his lips over Jisung’s sternum. “So gorgeous.”
The feeling of Minho’s hips, gently circling and rolling, coupled with his warm lips was so good. So good. But not enough. The room was warm, the air thick and cloying, fogging Jisung’s brain, Minho was warm atop him, breath sticky with fruit and intent. And Jisung was warm, so fucking warm. The heat started at his core, deep and pulsing. It sizzled up through his body, and down through his legs, controlled entirely by Minho’s will and touch. And Jisung needed more.
He ground his hips up when Minho pulled back again, drawing groans from both of them.
In response, Minho caught one of Jisung’s peaked nipples between his teeth, and pulled.
“Oh, fuck!” Jisung’s eyes opened wide, and he tried to flinch upright, but there Minho was, hard and strong against him. He closed his lips around Jisung’s nipple, his fingers going to pinch at the other.
An intense, constant shiver took hold of Jisung’s body. His mind spasmed at the aching pleasure, and his hands shot up to grip hard at Minho’s hair of their own accord. Instead of pulling away from Jisung’s tight hold, Minho pressed himself harder against Jisung’s body, clutching at his waist even tighter, rolling his hips hard.
“Yeah,” Jisung breathed, trying to find enough leverage to grind back against him. One of his hands slid down the arch of Minho’s back, stopping at his hip, urging him forwards, closer, faster. He threw his head back, the skin of his neck straining. “Fuck, yeah. Just like that.”
Jisung stiffened at the feeling of Minho chuckling into his chest, the vibrations unbearable against the smarting peaks of his nipples. He groaned into the pain, keeping hold of Minho’s hair even as he pulled away, moving up Jisung’s body until they breathed each others’ air.
“Just like this,” Minho grabbed Jisung’s hips, pulling him roughly into his next thrust, “huh?”
Jisung’s mouth dropped open on a silent gasp, eyebrows drawing together into a surprised, pleading expression. It was good. Maddeningly, it was so fucking good. A choked noise struggled out of his throat. “Mhm,” he nodded, lips pursed, voice high. Both of his hands tangled in Minho’s hair, pulling the Prince in so close that their lips brushed, sweet with need. “Give it to me. I want it,” he gritted out, suddenly realising that he did.
Minho moaned out at that, and Jisung smirked at the surprise in the sound.
Their mouths met again in a kiss, slower than before, the teeth and brutality of their last absent now. But Minho’s lips were still strong and sure, insisting, unfailing. Their heads bobbed and ducked as they surged into each other, Minho licking at Jisung’s bottom lip, Jisung sucking on Minho’s smart tongue. When the feeling of warm, calloused hands trailed down, down, down Jisung’s sides to the waistband of his trousers, he arched up slowly until they were chest-to-chest. Fingers slipped under the delicate elastic, and Jisung lifted his hips from the ground, allowing them to be pulled down. Minho moved leisurely, his relentless kisses slowing to a crawl as he slipped off Jisung’s only garment, until they ceased altogether when he pulled back to gaze.
Jisung did not flush easily. But at the look in Minho’s eyes—at that dark, filthy, look—he burned.
In an effort to seem, to feel, as though he were not completely out of his depths, and to keep that heady gaze on him, he hiked one of his legs up, planting his foot flat on the floor, and reached for his cock. Groaning, he stroked himself from base to head, smoothing a thumb over his slick, rouged tip. Jisung watched as Minho’s tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip, and felt as his hands encircled his bare thighs, tightening as Jisung’s fist twisted. Minho’s mouth fell open, and Jisung could see the shape it made around a moan too silent to hear. Slowly, Jisung reached his other hand out towards Minho. His fingers felt at the top button of Minho’s silk shirt, and popped it open, revealing just the beginning of Minho’s hard, tanned chest. Momentarily, Minho’s eyes flicked up to Jisung’s own, mouth still agape, eyebrows still furrowed, in want, in something much more. Jisung levelled a challenging gaze back as he moved on to the next button, exposing Minho further still. As much as he wanted to look, to take in that bare skin, he maintained their eye contact. And upon reaching the next button, he only pulled at it lightly, playfully, circling it with the tip of his index finger before he drew back, sinking against the table again, shifting until he was settled. Minho, still staring at him, still watching with eyes so dark, so severe that Jisung almost felt as though he were withering under them, reached up to undo the button, shirt falling open to his navel.
With a smug feeling of satisfaction bubbling up in his chest, Jisung let his eyes drop closed and head tilt back, making sure to cant his hips up on the next downstroke, fucking his shining cock up into his tight hold, putting on a show. Then, fingers twitching, he—
“Fu-Fuck!” He suddenly flinched up straight, as though a bolt of electricity had shot up his back, pinching his every nerve.
Jisung almost crumpled at the sight. Minho was bent over him, bent over low, head right by his cock, tongue just barely grazing the tip, tasting the wetness there. At Jisung’s exclamation of surprised pleasure, Minho applied his tongue harder, laving the full flat of it over Jisung’s slit before wrapping his lips around the head, in something like a kiss.
A brutal, burning sensation bloomed in his stomach, and his muscles there clenched. Jisung released his grip on his cock, hands going to ball up by his sides instead, the sense of control he had been basking in stripped away completely. In its place, desperation grew. And grew further still when Minho looked up at him, lips still wrapped tight around Jisung’s cock, cheeks hollowed obscenely. He chuckled at whatever stunned expression he saw upon Jisung’s face before grabbing at the smallest point of his waist, sinking down lower, taking more of Jisung’s hard length into his mouth.
“Gah—“ the tortured noise escaped Jisung’s throat even as he tried to hold it in, attempting to clutch onto his rapidly waning hubris.
It was a futile effort, with Minho moving in the way he did. He took Jisung deep, but slow, bobbing his head intently, mouth so warm and tight around him. Jisung’s lips pursed, trying desperately to stay silent even as his legs began to shake, twitching and stiffening sporadically when Minho lifted his head, itching with the urge to thrust back in, to make Minho gag. On the next bob, Minho took him so deep that Jisung hit the back of his throat, and then he stayed there, just sucking and humming. Then, one of his hands released Jisung’s waist, trailing down his shivering body until he reached where Jisung was hottest. There, he cupped Jisung’s balls and, throat still filled by Jisung’s cock, swallowed hard.
“Shit,” Jisung whined, broken and reedy. His body curled in on itself, and he lurched forwards, movements jerky as his muscles clenched. “Shu-shit.” One of his hands went to the back of Minho’s neck, not pulling or pushing, just gripping helplessly, and his other balled up tight against the ground. The pleasure coursing through Jisung’s body climbed, reaching an unbearable peak.
The hand Minho had against Jisung’s waist shot up to his heaving chest, pushing him back against the table roughly. Jisung gasped at the force and impact, mouth open on a half-moan-half-gasp. He looked down his body as Minho pulled back up to the tip of his cock, and his balls tightened in Minho’s hold when he sucked hard one last time, staring up into Jisung’s eyes, before he pulled off completely, a trail of saliva connecting his swollen lower lip to Jisung’s slick cock.
Jisung leaned back, taking in a deep breath of air as Minho moved back up his body until they were face-to-face. Both panting wildly, both flushing furiously. Jisung’s hips made futile, aborted thrusts into the air as the height of his pleasure receded, leaving an aching pain in its wake. Unthinkingly, he raised a hand to Minho’s reddened lip, touching it gently, awed, with his index finger. “Please.”
Minho took the tip of Jisung’s finger between his teeth for just a second with a pained groan before he collected Jisung in his arms, manhandling his body around and up onto the low table. Jisung yelped at the sudden rearrangement, clutching at Minho’s arms until they were forced from his grasp as he was turned around completely, Minho’s front against his back.
Oh, shit.
“Minho,” Jisung gasped, eyes wide, voice high. He tried to turn back around, but Minho’s hands were fast upon his shoulders, twisting him until he faced the room again.
The room, teeming with people engaged in their own debaucheries. The sights and sounds rushed back to him, forgotten momentarily when Minho’s lips were on his, on him. But now he was plunged back into it, right at the head of it, the precipice of the depravity. Torturously, traitorously, his cock stirred.
Minho leaned up to rest his chin on Jisung’s shoulder, humming musically. He watched Jisung watch the room. Then his hands left Jisung’s shoulders, finding home instead around his thighs. Slowly, he ran his hands up them until he reached the bend of Jisung’s knees where they were pulled up tight against his chest; he hooked his hands under them, and began to pull.
Jisung scrambled desperately, going to grip at Minho’s elbows. “Minho, Your Majesty—please, no.”
Minho gentled his hold, and Jisung let himself relax for just a moment before he felt how Minho tucked his face into the side of his neck, and smiled. There, Minho pressed a soft kiss into his skin, right where Jisung’s pulse hammered. “Why,” Minho murmured, kissing further up, “would I cease,” he drew up to his full, kneeling height behind Jisung until his lips were right by his ear, “when you are enjoying this so much?”
As if to demonstrate his point, one of his hands flitted to Jisung’s cock, slowly dragging up its length until he reached the tip, circling the head with a thumb where precome beaded, even now. Perhaps now more so.
Jisung whimpered, and shivered at the slow tug. He couldn’t help it as he was faced with the truth—he liked it. He liked it. “Nuh-no,” he panted, “I’m not.”
”No?” Minho asked, fake concern dripping from his words, like sugar from spoiled fruit. Jisung shook his head furiously. “Then you wouldn’t like it if I were to fuck,” he wrenched Jisung’s right leg open, spreading him wide, exposing where he was most sensitive, “you right here, on this table, with all these people watching?” Jisung leaned his head back against Minho’s shoulder, but not so far back that he could no longer watch the room, watch the eyes watching him.
Unwittingly, he whined low in his chest. “Nuh-no, I wouldn’t. Don’t, please—not here.” But even to his own ears it sounded feeble, fake, more like a virgin's coy plea for rest, when really they want more.
Minho made a considering sort of noise, the fingers on his right hand trailing down the inside of Jisung’s thigh. The closer they got to where Jisung really wanted them, the quicker his pulse beat, the shallower his chest expanded.
“I think,” Minho purred into his ear, and Jisung strained to be closer to him, wanting desperately to hear what Minho thought, to know what Minho knew. So lost in anticipation was Jisung that he didn’t notice the shift of Minho’s other hand, and so he started violently when he felt it suddenly at his neck, gripping his jaw tight, pulling his head down to look at himself, to see how he twitched. “I think you’re lying.”
Jisung did not deny his want this time. He only whimpered quietly and tensed his legs.
Minho kissed his ear, keeping hold of Jisung’s jaw. “And you don’t have to lie to me, Jisung.” He twisted Jisung’s jaw to face him, so that Jisung had to watch as he placed two of his fingers into his mouth, sucking on them lewdly, making sure it was loud, getting them wet. It was with a gnawing want that Jisung realised he wished they were his.
“I know what you want,” Jisung’s head was tugged back to look down, at where his hard cock pulsed, at where he was spread wide open, “and I’ll give it to you.”
Minho pulled Jisung’s left leg back to make room, and placed his fingers where Jisung wanted them most. He circled the two wet digits gently with a barely-there touch, just teasing and getting wet Jisung’s tight furl. And Jisung circled with them, gyrating his hips, moaning at the sensation. He wanted to demand, to beg, but couldn’t manage to make a noise, so he just moved—his hips, his hand back into Minho’s hair, his legs wider. Blessedly, Minho was either feeling generous, or wanted it just as bad as Jisung did, for he soon groaned deeply and ceased his teasing.
Jisung watched with a slack mouth and furrowed brows as the two fingers breached his entrance, sliding in halfway before pulling out, then thrusting in again. Minho had gotten them wet with his mouth, but it was still only saliva, and so the stretch burned, but Jisung gritted his teeth against the pain and bore down, taking them into the knuckle. He groaned, low and relieved.
“See?” Minho pulled out until only the tips of his fingers were still inside, “You like it. Being fingered open in front of all these people.” And then he drove them back in, again and again—hard and fast.
With each quick thrust, Jisung’s cries grew in pitch until he was doing little but squeaking into the air. His back straightened as he strained upwards, shaking his head no, even as his eyes rolled back. Minho growled, simultaneously wrapping his hand tight around Jisung’s neck and pulling his fingers out of his wanting body. Jisung tried to lurch forwards at the sudden, painful absence of sensation, but Minho kept him put with the firm grip around his neck, so all Jisung could do was twitch his hips fruitlessly.
Jisung was close to tears then, but he blinked furiously, staving them off. He watched through clouded eyes as Minho leaned to the right, over the table, and pulled a small, ornate, golden tin closer to them. When the lid was removed, Jisung could see that it was full of a clear, gelatinous paste. Minho scooped out some of the lubricant and spread it over his fingers before he was back on Jisung, his hand between Jisung’s legs, his fingers around his neck. Not squeezing, just holding, keeping Jisung put.
And then he was inside again, with three fingers now, sating Jisung’s ache, and his mind went utterly blank at the delicious, agonising stretch, all sorts of nerves and sensors firing, wanting more, craving it. The slide was smoother this time, and Jisung offered up no resistance, letting his legs fall open wide, his muscles weakened by the sharp sparks of pleasure shooting through his body, the sounds filthy and wet.
“Yeah,” he breathed, both hands going to grab at Minho’s arm, the one against his chest, leading up to the hand at his neck. “Yeah.”
Minho groaned into his skin, grinding his clothed cock against Jisung’s back, and fucked his fingers in faster. He curled them, searching, seeking, until, on one particular thrust, Jisung went ramrod straight, lurching forwards, his eyes popping open wide. Minho focused on that point, circling his fingers there. A long, continuous wail slipped out of Jisung’s lips, one he couldn’t have suppressed even if he’d tried, and his back arched like a bow pulled taught, close to breaking point. The tears came back, and Jisung had to screw his eyes shut to stop them falling.
Somehow, Minho sidled up closer to him, pressing his mostly-bare torso against Jisung’s back. Jisung could feel the muscular swell of his chest.
“You hear that?” Minho muttered, giving that spot inside of Jisung a brief break as he resumed his thrusting. Slower and harder this time. And, yeah, Jisung could. The obscene squelching of the lubrication, of Minho’s fingers fucking into him grew in volume. Jisung flushed in humiliation, half at the sound, and half at how much he liked it. Minho shook his hand around Jisung’s neck, making his head loll side to side. “Yeah, you hear that?” He fingered him harder, louder. “You hear how wet you are? How wet your little cunt is around my fingers?”
Fuck.
”Yeah, yeah I can,” Jisung whined, voice coming out desperate and ragged, the tears he had been able to banish from his eyes making themselves known through the state of his voice. His spine twisted, an anguished expression upon his face. “Minho, you’ve gotta stop, I’m gonna come. Gods, I’m gonna come.”
”You’re gonna come,” Minho said low, into his nape. “And why don’t you want to? Why is that? Tell me what you want, Jisung.”
Minho went back to focusing on his prostate. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Jisung felt as his pride slipped away, fucked out of him by the movements of Minho’s fingers.
“Because I wuh-want—“ he swallowed dryly, “I want to come on your cock, I want to come with you fucking me. You in me.”
”Oh? And here I was, thinking you were shy. I thought you didn’t want to do this here, where all these people can see you. I thought you didn’t like it.”
Jisung groaned, past the point of shame. “I do, I luh-like it. I like it. I like it so much. I want them to watch.”
Minho squeezed his neck now, cutting off Jisung’s flow of oxygen, and jabbed at that spot that made Jisung squirm.
”Are you sure?”
Jisung couldn’t help it; a low sob clawed itself from his throat. A tear rolled down his temple. “Gods, yes.” This, he practically yelled, surely drawing close to every eye in the room to him. But he didn’t care. He liked it. He wanted it.
When the fingers filling him up so good were suddenly removed, he clenched around nothing, feeling desperately empty, but he wasn’t given the opportunity to dwell on the loss, for he was then grabbed and moved. He wasn’t able to offer up any resistance, limbs too weak, so he was pulled and manhandled half-off the table, his legs kneeling on the ground, his upper half still across the wood. He had to brace his forearms before him so he didn’t go headfirst into the surface.
With a sharp complaint on the tip of his tongue, he turned to protest his almost-collision, but any words he may have conjured up died swiftly as he caught glimpse of Minho behind him.
His shirt hung loose down to his navel where he and Jisung had unbuttoned it. Beads of sweat decorated his tanned skin, rolling down between the bulge of his strong chest to the divots of his stomach, where his skin pulled taut over abs forged in battle and long hours in the practice room. Scars littered his torso, a particularly large one running from the flesh over his heart to the left side of his stomach, the twisted skin of the mark curved like a crescent moon. He was a classical statue, of hard and unyielding stone, built like a God of old.
Jisung’s attention was only drawn from the lesions and build of the Prince when he noticed Minho’s hands hooking into his trousers, pushing them down just enough to free his cock. It was hard like the rest of him, beading with pre, angry, throbbing veins running up the length of it. He gave himself a few pumps before shifting on his knees to Jisung, his other hand going to his hip. Jisung turned away from the sight and hung his head heavy between his shoulders. Yeah, he wanted it.
Minho lightly slapped Jisung’s inner thigh, as though spurring on a horse, and Jisung shifted them apart, breathing so deep his body heaved with every inhale. He arched his back and squirmed, knowing Minho was watching, his skin prickling at how exposed he was. Despite the warmth of the heady, sweet air, he shivered.
The hand on Jisung’s hip squeezed, and then there was Minho, pressed up against him, the blunt head of his cock resting on Jisung’s hole. It clenched around nothing, wet and stretched and wanting.
Minho’s strong body leaned over where Jisung trembled, fingers going to dip inside the small jar of slick again. He drew back, and Jisung could hear the wet noises of Minho pumping his cock, getting it slick, getting himself ready. Jisung wanted to see, wanted to watch Minho give himself a moment of selfish pleasure, but feared it would be too much to bear, so he stayed put. He pursed his lips and imagined how Minho’s fat cock would twitch in his hand, large and veiny as they were, if Minho would like a tight grip, a slow stroke. If his eyes would slip closed, if his head would tip back in ecstasy.
He was dragged suddenly from his reverie by the feeling of fingers passing over his entrance, spreading some of the wetness there. At the unexpectedly cold sensation, he scrambled up until his palms pressed against the table, holding up his upper body as his spine curved deeper, hips hitching up. He inhaled sharply, resting his weight heavy on his hands.
From behind, Minho tittered, and grabbed at the back of Jisung’s neck, forcing him back down again, with seemingly little regard as to whether Jisung would be able to brace for the descent in time and stop himself from hitting the table hard. Traitorously, something in his stomach throbbed at that.
But he wasn’t given an opportunity to dwell on that fact, because Minho tightened his grip around Jisung’s nape then, grinding his head into the hardwood, and pushed into him in one long, smooth, never-ending stroke.
Jisung’s breath left him in a pitched gasp and his eyes rolled back behind his fluttering lashes. It was so much that it almost overwhelmed him–not in pain, he was too open and wet and wanting for pain, only in pressure. For it had been a while, and Prince Lee Minho was heady.
Minho’s hips knocked up against Jisung, the sharp bumps of his hip bones digging into the plush of Jisung’s ass as he ground deeper still, persistent and covetous. He grabbed harder at Jisung’s neck and hip, rolling his hips into him again, not pulling out, just driving in deep.
“Fuck.” Jisung mouthed, mouth wide open around the word, face twisted into some face of shocked desperation. His eyelids flickered open for a second, colours and shape coalescing into one.
Jisung spasmed hard around the weight of Minho in him and dug his fingers into the table, tapping his palm desperately against the wood, jolting plates. He gritted his teeth against the strain and screwed his eyes tight, a wounded noise leaving him. And he rocked back onto Minho’s cock instinctively, lips pressing shut tight, neck straining up against Minho’s hold, wanting to arch and twist into the heat rushing up his spine.
He felt Minho react to his movements. The body behind him shifted side to side, like Minho was adjusting where he placed his knees, and then he grabbed Jisung by the waist with his warm hands wrapped in those cold rings and really began to fuck him.
Every one of Jisung’s muscles seemed to fail in response to the overwhelming wave of heat that ran through his body at those first, hard thrusts, as though his pleasure sensors so overrode his every other function that it rendered them useless. His body sagged against the table, his legs slipping open further on the pillows and silks beneath them, bending his back further, opening him up wider. His fingers twitched where they helplessly dug into the table, too weak and dazed to ball them up, unable to tighten up and brace himself against the assault of sudden pleasure on his body, made to simply take it.
And unbidden, frantic noises escaped him. They slipped from his lips, hot and airy, curling from his tongue like smoke. Though there was noise in the room, from the others and from the music, Jisung heard only himself. Whining and whimpering, voice so high and of pure desperation. He felt embarrassment at that, but such emotion only curled that heat harder in his stomach and wound him up tighter.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice struggling out from his dry throat. He swallowed audibly, “Yeah, yes, yes, yes. Fuck, yeah.”
Minho groaned behind him and moved, hips still pistoning in and out steadily, fucking Jisung hard and loud. He bent his body over, looming over Jisung, until he was flat against his back. Jisung could feel the hard ridges of Minho’s front, slick with their exertions, and could feel the way his opened shirt hung loose, just tickling his sides where Minho’s hands held him.
Then Minho’s arms were moving. He pressed himself harder against Jisung’s body and settled his forearms against the table next to Jisung’s head, bracketing him in totally. His shirtsleeves were pushed up to his elbows, his tan skin exposed. He had scars there, too, and his veins bulged, spiderwebbing from his wrist to the crease of his inner elbow. With his shaking left hand, Jisung curled his fingers weakly around Minho’s wrist as his body was jolted by the force of Minho’s hitching hips.
And then he felt a sharp pressure around his jaw. Minho’s fingers wrapped tight around his face, forcing his head up from where it was lolled against the table. Jisung felt Minho’s face against the side of his own, turned into his jaw, hot breaths blooming from his open lips. At the pressure put upon his neck from the positioning, the noises Jisung made turned that much more hoarse, completely debauched. Minho’s hand tightened, and his thrusts slowed, really making Jisung feel each one. The strong, thud of his hips against Jisung’s own, the slow, wet drag of his cock against Jisung’s sensitive walls.
Minho inhaled a deep breath and tilted Jisung’s face until he faced the room once more. “Do you think,” he murmured hot against the shell of Jisung’s ear, “they wish to be you? To be fucked by their future King?” Minho shook loose Jisung’s circle of fingers around his wrist, and used the hand instead to pin Jisung’s to the table. He braced his shoulders, every part of his strong body stiffening above where Jisung strained. “Or do they wish to be me? Getting to fuck into a pretty–little– whore?” Those last words were punctuated by maddeningly deep thrusts, sending Jisung’s eyes rolling.
A loud, started noise left Jisung at the words and hard fucking, and Minho pulled back from where he was panting against Jisung’s face. He released his wrist in favour of completely caging Jisung in, resting his own hand on his other wrist, and his chin on Jisung crown. Sordid laughter sounded from above Jisung–he could feel the way Minho’s body vibrated with it. He could feel the cold metal of Minho’s dangling earrings pooling against his hair.
“Oh, you liked that, didn’t you?”
The picking up in pace from Minho’s hips assured Jisung that Minho felt how he nodded.
And Jisung fucked back against him, finding his rhythm with Minho’s movement, taking his pleasure, searching for that spot.
When, on one particular thrust, he found it, he turned his face up into Minho’s chin and wailed. Jisung’s every nerve shuddered, and some far-off, unheeded part of himself told him to quiet. But how could he do so when Minho honed in on that spot, and sent wave after wave of rolling pleasure up through his body? The burning heat in his stomach only grew, and he reached a hand underneath himself to stroke along his hard cock. And just as Jisung’s desire was about to reach its final, satisfying peak, Minho pulled back from him, leaving Jisung suddenly empty and confused.
He gasped against the painful whip of denial, and gasped again when he was shifted. Minho flipped and rearranged his body like his weight was hardly a burden, until Jisung was atop him. Minho’s back was against the table now, and Jisung sat, perched on his thighs, dazedly looking out at the room, then down at him.
Minho’s lips were almost as red as his face, coloured from the digging in of teeth, and from the friction of Jisung’s cock between them. The rouge fanned out from his face, down his neck where his muscles and veins strained, and to his heaving chest. And the eyes that Jisung had felt so heavy upon him when he had danced were boring into him now. Burning with something dark, something filthy. Jisung was unable to suppress a low moan under the look, and he leaned in to mouth at Minho’s neck, tasting the slick evidence of their desires and efforts. Minho’s hand pressed at the small of Jisung’s back, pushing him forwards, shifting him so he was over his cock. Jisung sunk down slightly, so the head of Minho’s cock just grazed that hot part of him where they both wanted it; he shifted his hips a little, grinding against it, feeling how Minho threw his head back, the muscles of his neck pulling taught under Jisung’s mouth. Jisung moaned into his skin again, mouth trailing to the part of Minho where his jugular vein hammered, and his fingertips trailed down Minho’s torso, pinching at his nipples until a decidedly desperate sound left his lips. Then he pressed his hands over Minho’s heart and sank down onto his cock, mouth against the thrum of his jugular, palms over the source of his pounding blood.
They both groaned at the breach, and then again when Jisung was seated fully. He circled his hips, feeling how Minho’s cock hit every part of him like this, and he tensed the muscles of his thighs, squeezing Minho’s hips between them, thoroughly caging him in as he built up the warm heat of before, taking his pleasure slowly.
“C’mon,” Minho panted breathily. He forced Jisung’s body into a deep grind that sent his mind reeling. “Yeah, just like that.” He coaxed Jisung’s hips back and forth, building up a steady rhythm for him, and Jisung watched how Minho’s mouth dropped open as his gaze alternated between the shiny tip of Jisung’s cock and the desperate pleasure that he could feel written over his face.
And then Minho pulled him up, until only the head of his cock still filled him, and slammed him back down again, hard.
“Oh–oh!” Jisung wailed, hands shooting out to stabilise himself against Minho’s hard stomach. His back arched violently, head thrown back to the ceiling. He tried to right himself and tilt forwards, but Minho was lifting and dropping him down again, and again, and again. He could do little more than curl his fingers into Minho’s skin and moan, trying to brace against the coming waves of burning exhilaration.
When those waves came, he shivered, twitching atop Minho and around his cock. His limbs shivered, the muscles of his abdomen tensing sporadically.
Minho did not slow his thrusts, just kept fucking up into Jisung desperately, jolting his body atop him. Frantically, Jisung repositioned his knees against the floor to try to steady himself, until he was stable enough to fuck down against Minho. He dropped down hard and fast, meeting Minho’s thrusts halfway, jolting each time they collided.
“Fuck,” Minho leaned twoards Jisung and ran his hands up the curve of Jisung’s back. He shifted under Jisung, drawing his knees up, planting his feet firmly against the ground, giving himself leverage to fuck up into him, faster, more frantically.
They ground together, their bodies—wants—becoming one. Wet noises of Minho’s cock pounding into Jisung, of Jisung mouthing at Minho’s fingers, filled the space they occupied. Jisung whimpered into the air, small sounds growing in pitch when Minho shoved a hand between them to grab his cock, stroking with little rhythm, driven by nothing but pure, frantic impulse.
When Minho’s cock dragged against that perfect spot inside him, Jisung cried out. “Yeah, right fucking there,” he breathed hotly into Minho’s ear, shame be damned. “Right, fucking there.”
Minho made no verbal response, only pulled back from where he was buried in Jisung’s chest to gaze up into his face as he focused on that spot, lips pursed in determined impulse.
With that hungry look upon Minho’s face, the weight of Minho in him, the tightness of Minho’s hand around him—Jisung stood no chance.
Briefly, he registered how Minho moaned when he watched him reach his sudden peak, but was soon dragged too far from his senses to take much more note. His every nerve seemed to be pinched with a white-hot heat, and his limbs shivered, utterly out of his control. The coiled anticipation in his stomach snapped, and sent a blooming heat all through him, reaching to his fingertips that he belatedly realised where tangled in Minho’s hair, tugging at it. “Don’-don’t stop. Don’t stuh–” Another wave of violent pleasure wracked through him, and he felt more than heard the scream that built up in his chest and escaped his lips despite his best, delirious efforts.
Distantly, he felt Minho reach his own crest. His thrusts stuttered, slowed, deepend until he was just grinding sloppily into Jisung’s soft body. Minho groaned into his neck as he stilled completely and spilled into him, warmth filling Jisung up.
For a moment, they stayed like that. Jisung’s hips shivering, making aborted little thrusts as the last drops of cum dripped from him, Minho gently grinding up, to make Jisung feel it all until the very end.
Then, gradually, they both came down from their highs, and made soft noises as the pulled away from each others’ spent bodies. Jisung didn’t even have it in him to feel embarrassed by the way Minho’s cum dripped out of him as he shifted to lie against the floor, heavy head landing onto a pillow.
They breathed for a moment, just looking at each other, until Minho leaned over him, the ball of his palm holding him up by Jisung’s head. His other hand trailed down between Jisung’s bent legs, to where he was sensitive and open, gently working his escaped cum into Jisung’s skin. Two of his fingers scooped some up and back to Jisung’s entrance, where they pushed it back in. Minho’s mouth dropped open at the sight, “Look at that.”
Jisung whined and clenched his thighs tight around Minho’s arm. With both of his weak hands he grabbed at Minho’s elbow when he kept at his slow, shallow thrusts, sending almost-painful zings up his spent body, until he began to whimper in oversensitive complaint.
Minho pulled away with a low moan and lowered himself by Jisung, resting on his forearm. Absently, he walked those two fingers up Jisung’s shivering stomach.
“You are remarkable.” He leaned over Jisung to lave his tongue over where some of Jisung’s own spend had landed, and moaned at the taste. “Do you fuck your masters like that when they tell you to?”
Jisung bristled and sneered. He tried to push himself up, but his shivering limbs refused to comply. “I answer to nuh-no-one.”
Minho hummed and looked down at himself. Jisung’s cum coated the ridges of his abs, stark against his tan skin. He dragged his fingers through it—the ones that had been in Jisung—and placed them upon his tongue, tasting Jisung again. Minho looked down at him, and Jisung felt how his face flushed violently.
“You answer to me.”
Something bloomed in Jisung’s stomach at that, traitorously. He swallowed, his throat making a dry clicking sound. “Do I, now?”
Minho furrowed his brow, and seemed to be thinking, “I desire for you to stay here, with me. I desire you.” He paused and lowered himself closer. “If you . . . wish to.”
Jisung breathed in deep. Prince Minho almost sounded nervous. And he certainly didn’t seem happy about that fact, if the narrowing of his eyes offered any indication. An impish feeling arose in him.
“From what I know of desire,” Jisung said, in a low voice, “it leaves behind an awful after taste.” He smiled up at The Prince, wryly.
Vulture looked down at him, then hummed and stretched an arm over their tangled bodies, to a plate on the table. He brought his hand to Jisung’s lips, a sticky piece of fruit between his fingers.
Jisung looked at Minho as he took it between his teeth. The taste of it filled his mouth, sweet.