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“Okay.” There’s a splash, water rocking against his side. A thoughtful hum. “Would you rather…. Be a hermit crab or a sea anemone?”
“Why a hermit crab?”
A shrug. Slowly broadening shoulders under a white shirt that’s bleeding transparent from water. A popsicle procured from a mysterious somewhere stains his mouth pink and red.
Minho drops lower in the water. Plants his feet against the rough surface of the pool. Looks away, at the dips and waves of the pool in the far end, catching the glimmer of sun, turning white gold in the light.
“I like hermit crabs. They’re always searching for a new home.” Jisung’s legs kick idly at the water. He’s sitting on the pool edge, feet skimming the surface, already sun-touched legs forming a loose semi-circle that Minho stands inside, but only just. “Always looking, always growing. They’re constantly changing—and they’re never satisfied with what they have.”
His shorts ride up a little, paler thighs that Jisung hadn’t exposed at the beach winking up at Minho, the underside soft and white, like the underbelly of a whale. Like Soonie’s belly.
Minho’s teeth ache.
He adopts a theatrical, questioning tone, like the one Jisung uses when he’s mimicking his therapist’s well-meaning, if pontifical advice. “And do you feel like this hermit crab, Jisung-ssi?”
Jisung laughs, pulling the popsicle out of his mouth. The juice drips down the side, staining his hand and Jisung’s tongue is bright red. Minho looks at his mouth and then lets the reverie wash over him like the water slapping against his skin as Jisung kicks his side lightly in indignation.
“Don’t therapise me,” he says, amused and fond. Minho catches his foot before he can kick him again and tugs him closer, Jisung’s butt scraping against the poolside, legs dipping lower into the water. “I get enough of that from Jiwoo-nim.”
“I’m sure there’s no shortage of therapy you could use.”
Jisung squawks in offense.
“What does that mean?” He kicks out at Minho again with his other foot, and Minho grabs his ankle before he can, using his leverage to yank Jisung closer to edge, reeling himself closer with the grip as well.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Minho says lightly. He drags his hands up Jisung’s shins and immediately has to stop because the sensation of Jisung’s warm skin under his damp palms is too much to bear. His palms feel stupidly sensitive. “You are very special.”
“You don’t get to talk to me about needing therapy,” Jisung shoots back, but he’s laughing, legs nudging against Minho as best he can with Minho still holding him, knobbly knees knocking into his ribs. It’s been a too long back and forth between them; Jisung suggests therapy—even Changbin hyung started going, hyung!—and Minho changes the subject.
He doesn’t need some stranger to talk him through problems he refuses to face head on—he’s not Chan—he knows exactly how to solve every obstacle that’s come his way.
It’s just that, sometimes, those solutions aren’t always easily achievable.
“Stop kicking me before I pull you in here.” It’s a baseless threat, Jisung’s already been in the pool. He only got out to eat his popsicle before it melted. His hair is drying in patches, frizzy strands sticking up all over his head like a dandelion.
“So scary, Leelino,” Jisung says in a mock whisper. He finishes his popsicle and drops the stick to the side, spreading his hands wide in silent invitation.
Let it be said that Minho never backs down from a fight. To whoever chronicles Stray Kids’ adventures in the distant future, he wants this to be in the record: the delighted screech of Jisung’s laugh, the mighty splash of the water, the way his hands find purchase on Minho’s arms, the way his chest butts against Minho’s, rocking him back a step, the water buffeting around his waist.
Jisung’s wide smile up at him, the scant difference in height between them widened by the sloping decline Jisung’s on.
“Terrifying,” he says, after he’s found his balance, the giggles still lingering under words, like bubbles in a bath, iridescent, popping under the consonants. Jisung pats Minho’s chest. “I thought kitty cats didn’t like water.”
“They make exceptions.”
“Oh.” Jisung’s mouth rounds at the same moment his eyes do. His hand hasn’t moved from Minho’s chest. Minho fleetingly wonders if Jisung can feel his heart thudding under his palm, throwing itself against the cage of his ribs for the change to touch Jisung’s skin, and then immediately casts that thought out into the open ocean before it can affect him.
“Am I special, Minhoyangi?”
Minho blinks rapidly. Feels his cheeks heat a dull red—nothing like the pretty pink that’s staining Jisung’s face, the enticing shade of his mouth. No, this red is born from years of holding back, of waiting for Jisung to catch up to the finish line where Minho has been patiently standing since about the time Jisung snuck into his bed a few months after debut, headphones on and a deep sea documentary on his cracked phone, heart beating fast and furious, to where even Minho could hear the pulse of his blood where his ear was pressed to Jisung’s neck, listening to the sound of the documentary bleed through the headphones.
This red is familiar. This red Minho has spent many man-hours working back until his skin returned to its usual pallor. This red burns and insists and spreads down the entire length of Minho’s body until he forgets what it’s like to not be consumed by it.
In this pool, the smell of chlorine strong, the rhythmic slap of tiny waves against the filter grates mimicking the ocean right outside, the cool water suffusing the red over his skin and Jisung so close, looking up at him, it’s hard to remember why Minho had spent so many agonising nights fighting back every instinct he had to slide out of bed, cross the seemingly insurmountable distance between two rooms and spill his every thought to a surely awake Jisung.
“Yes,” he says and there’s nothing light about his tone, nothing playful that detracts from the fact underneath. It ripples across the water, echoes off the high ceiling, at odds with the sunlight dancing over the tiles in the pool.
Jisung blinks. Once. The pink darkens, chiffon blurring into raspberry, into a coruscating kaleidoscope of crimson until he looks how Minho feels. How he’s been feeling for five years.
“What?”
Well. Maybe here’s one reason Minho will need a therapist soon.
“You are,” he repeats because it’s hard to remember why he had spent so long stopping himself from saying these words when they’re at the bottom of the world, all by themselves. “You’re special. To me.”
Jisung lips part. “Oh,” he says faintly.
Minho has some mercy lingering in his marrow, most of it reserved for Jisung, so he lets it go.
Lets Jisung drift away from him when the pool door opens and another—No. A couple comes in, bantering cheerfully about racing down the pool in a thick accent.
Minho steps back—doesn’t pull himself away, doesn’t think he could have let go of Jisung for any reason other than the threat of a camera—and pushes himself out of the pool, letting the water course off his clothes as he perches on the edge, tipping his head at Jisung who’s still standing there, adrift in his surprise.
“Aren’t you going to swim, Jisungie?”
It takes Jisung a second to recover. When he does, his voice is steady, back to the familiar cadence of their well-worn back and forth. “Ah, but I don’t know how, hyung.”
“Put on a show for me anyway,” Minho suggests, leaning back on his palms. “That big head of yours must be good for something.”
“Yah, hyung!” Jisung splashes him indignantly with water and Minho smiles as Jisung laughs again, delighted and easygoing, and no longer that delicate shade of beautiful, ruinous pink.
The pool slowly fills up with other people, who are more interested in actually using it, rather than pruning away their skin in chlorine and meaningless conversation, so Minho and Jisung get out to give them the space. They throw their towels around their shoulders and head back up the elevator to their rooms.
Minho feels a little sleepy, despite it barely being mid-afternoon; his early-morning workout and the time in the pool has left his limbs weighed down, the buoyancy no longer in effect, no longer keeping him afloat. Jisung looks just as tired beside him, bangs flat against his forehead, yawning behind his hand.
“Food?” Minho asks. They’re both dripping on the carpet and later, when Minho has the energy to, he’ll feel bad about it.
Jisung nods, sleepily. “Room service,” he says. Demands, more like, pouty and exhausted and Minho is just tired enough for his defenses to be lowered, to admit to himself—when he usually keeps all thoughts of this flavour far away from the reaches of his brain—that he wants to give Jisung everything he asks for when he looks like this.
Jisung yawns again, smacking his lips as the elevator approaches their floor. “Your room?” He asks, fumbling for his key card.
Minho nods. “Go shower. If you fall asleep in your wet clothes, I’m taking a picture and posting it on Bubble and then Stay will see exactly how ugly you are.”
“You think I’m gorgeous,” Jisung mumbles, turning away from Minho and heading to his own room. Minho stares at his back and then opens his own door. If, in the safety of his room, he pushes his forehead against the door and scrunches his eyes until white sparks in his vision, for several, drawn out minutes, well. There’s no one around to call him out on it.
Minho has just turned the shower off when a knock comes at his door. After a cursory look through the eyehole, he cracks the door to let Jisung in, before waddling back to the bathroom, keeping a tight grip on his towel.
“Have you ordered yet?”
Minho shakes his head, knowing Jisung’s looking. He nudges the bathroom door half shut to pull on his underwear before pulling it back open. There comes the telltale thump of Jisung dropping onto his bed, as Minho rakes essence and hydrating oil through his hair so the chlorine doesn’t destroy the delicate ash brown colour he’s been given for this leg of the trip.
“You could try, I know you can do it.”
“Why would I when I’ve got you here?” Minho glances at Jisung over his shoulder and blinks. Jisung is on his stomach, with his chin propped up his fists, ankles knocking into each other. It takes a moment for his eyes to move, clearly staring at the plane of Minho’s back. Then his eyes flick up to Minho’s and Minho watches his cheeks stain pink, like a watercolour bleeding out to the edges before he turns around without offering further comment.
There’s an embarrassed pause, and then Jisung clears his throat. “What do you want, hyung?”
When Minho peeks up in the mirror, he sees Jisung rolling over in the bed stretching fingers for the hotel phone on the bedside table. He smiles to himself. Reaches for his towel and dries the drops still clinging to the back of his neck and the dip in his lower back.
“Burgers,” he says, stomach rumbling pleasantly at the thought of hot, oily food. “Fries. Greasy American food.”
Jisung snickers. “Sure,” he says amiably, wrapping his finger around the phone cord, eyes twinkling up at Minho as he crosses back into the room and snags a fresh shirt from his suitcase. “That’s what I’ll tell room service in the Australian hotel we’re in—my hyung wants greasy American food.”
“It’s all the same,” Minho dismisses. He finds his phone on the bed, wedged under Jisung’s calf and scrolls through his notifications—messages from their managers about the venue, texts from his friends and mom and pictures from the beach in their group chat. Minho flicks by a video of Seungmin running after Berry, chasing her into the water with Chan’s delighted laughter in the foreground, shaking the camera with his giggling, and looks up when Jisung starts talking to room service.
He’s got the hotel menu pulled up on his phone and is flicking through the items, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip as he listens to whatever the person on the other end is telling him.
“No, that’s good,” he says earnestly. He meets Minho’s eyes through his damp bangs and winks, fingers coming up to sacrifice a nail to his needy teeth. “What about the—yeah, the lunch special?”
His pointer finger is the only one that has polish on it, a shimmery slate grey that Jisung must be testing in private. Minho waits for him to answer the question and then taps the back of Jisung’s hand lightly.
Jisung drops his hand immediately, a flush rising to his cheeks. Minho returns his attention to his phone, letting him finish up the call, only fixing Jisung with a look when he hangs up and flops back over the bed with a whine.
“Good job, Jisungie,” he says blandly, patting Jisung’s hair lightly. “You worked hard.”
Jisung turns over to press his face into the sheets. “I’m tired, hyung.”
“You’re going to fuck up your sleep schedule if you fall asleep now,” Minho says, as if any of them have a semblance of a normal routine. “At least wait for the food.”
Jisung twists his head to pout up at Minho. “Entertain me,” he says, a demand as easily delivered as a smile. Fortified with the certainty that Minho will give in, ever pliable for him.
Minho looks down at him for a drawn out moment; considers, for a single, insane second, leaning down to kiss that pout off Jisung’s mouth, push him flat on his back, rake a hand through his damp hair and devour him whole.
He’s never wanted anyone as much as he wants this boy, slowly drifting off in his bed, dampening the sheets with his still-wet hair. It aches, ripples through him like an earthquake that digs into the well placed grooves that have been well worn by time, resonating through his bones.
Minho’s waited so long. He can be patient for a while longer.
He leans off the bed and rummages for his laptop in his bag. “Demon Slayer or Chainsaw Man?”
Jisung’s head pops up. “Demon Slayer.”
They watch episodes in a sleepy haze until a polite knock comes at the door. Jisung lifts his head from Minho’s shoulder so he can disentangle himself from the bed and answer the door. Jisung’s ordered a lot, just going by the sheer number of plates being set down on the table, and Minho meets Jisung’s eyes over the server’s shoulder and widens his eyes. Jisung smiles back sheepishly.
“I was really hungry,” he says after the door shuts behind the waiter and they’re left alone again. “Doesn’t the pool always make you hungry, hyung? Beaches too.”
“Eat,” Minho says, amused. He is hungry too, only grabbed a boiled egg and some juice for breakfast before Jisung flounced into his room and demanded to go to the pool.
They finish up the season of Demon Slayer while eating and then exit onto the balcony for some fresh air.
Jisung leans over the railing and peers out at the beach in the distance. Minho looks too and wonders if any of the blobs are their members, or if they’ve retreated to the shade for food. The late afternoon sun is hanging high over them, the waves shimmering white gold with every lull and push.
“Ahh,” Jisung sighs, tipping his face up to the sun. “Maybe we should have gone to the beach with the others.”
Minho rests his cheek on his fist and tips his head sideway to look at him. “You’re only saying that because you’ve eaten now.”
Face still upturned to the sky, Jisung smiles.
Minho’s used to this—this breathlessness, this almost painful ache as his ribs collapse into the cavernous space left behind by his limp lungs. He looks at Jisung and his chest turns into a black hole—holding the burden of all his unspoken emotions crumpled in a small mass under his heart, the sheer weight warping the expanse of his chest. General relativity has nothing on Minho.
“Hyung.” Jisung’s looking down at him, and something in his expression is unreadable, uncertain. They’re all—all of them—mini experts on the rolodex of Han Jisung expressions, but Minho prides himself on being a step above the rest. Knowing the parts of Jisung he only gets to see when he’s tucked in the crook of Minho’s arm, bracing his phone over his head to watch an animal documentary while Minho reads.
This look though… Minho’s at a loss. It’s discomfiting. A little thrilling, if he’s being honest with himself.
Jisung blinks, and then the expression vanishes. “Let’s nap?” He asks, tilting his head at Minho. “Hyung? I’m tired.”
Minho hums. In the last six years, he’s found there are fewer things he likes more than waking up next to Jisung.
Case in point, waking up an indeterminate amount of time later—the late afternoon sun melting through the cracks in the curtains and Jisung is dripping in gold as he stares at Minho, eyes wide, a look of wonderment, almost fear.
“Jisung-ah.” Minho blinks, struggling to wake up, pull himself out of the sticky, viscous grip of sleep. Most of his senses are still dulled, vision bleary with the force of a late nap. “What…”
“Hyung,” Jisung says. Then he swallows, eyes darting over Minho’s head, all over his face before he seemingly forces himself to meet Minho’s eyes. “I… I’m…”
Oh, Minho thinks distantly, a mix of anticipation and dread coagulating in his gut, dulled by sleep. Is this it? Does he know?
He sits up and scrubs his eyes. They hadn’t pulled the sheets over them. The doors to the balcony were thrown wide open which made the room soupy and warm, a slight sheen of sweat coating his skin in his sleep. Jisung shifts on the sheets to look up at him. He looks wide awake and Minho wonders how long he’s been lying there, waiting for him to wake up.
“I’ve been thinking,” Jisung starts quietly, tongue pressed to the underside of his teeth. “For a while now and… And I think… I…” He trails off and then he sits up abruptly, almost knocking his face into Minho’s in his haste, his eyes darting all over Minho’s face. Minho can see the exact moment his train of thought derails, goes off the fucking track, from whatever he’s been building up to this whole day.
He opens his mouth again but Jisung steamrollers over him again.
“Have you kissed anyone?” He asks, eyes now hovering somewhere over the top of Minho’s no doubt bird’s nest hair.
Slowly, Minho nods. His mouth is dry. His throat feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton.
“Oh.” Jisung nods. Bites his bottom lip. Minho can’t read his expression. “I—hyung—”
Is this it?
Minho’s heart thunders in his chest. “Jisung-ah.”
“Hyung, I think—no—I know, I know…” Jisung’s eyes are wide. His mouth pink. His fingers knot into each other. “Hyung, I really like you. Really, really. And I just—I wanted you to know. I wanted to tell you. I didn’t think I could hold it back any longer.”
“Jisung-ah.”
“I just wanted to tell you, hyung,” Jisung repeats and his voice is pitching high now, pace quickening. “You don’t—you don’t have to say anything and we can ignore it, we can totally move on and we’ll pretend it never happened, and I—I can just—I shouldn’t have even said it but I thought about it once—just, how it would feel if you kissed me, and then I couldn’t stop once I started and then I—I just couldn’t hold it in anymo—”
Minho cups his cheeks in his palms and Jisung stutters to a stop, his eyes extraordinarily shiny and glossy. “Jisung,” he says and his voice comes out crushingly soft and tender. “My Jisung. Jagiya.”
Jisung’s mouth trembles. “Hyung.”
Minho shushes him. “My turn.” He smooths his thumbs over Jisung’s cheekbones. “I’d do anything for you, my Jisungie. Anything.”
Jisung’s mouth opens but Minho beats him to it. “I’ve…” He takes a deep breath. Vulnerability always feels like fire ants crawling over his ankles, threatening to burrow under the hem of his socks, light him up from the outside in, welts of honesty and tenderness blistering his skin. “I’ve liked you for a very long time. I’ve… I’ve wanted you for a very long time.”
He takes a moment to pause, to gather his thoughts while Jisung stares at him, wide-eyed in disbelief. Minho can feel his ears turn red, throb with a dull heat. He swallows, presses on, because Jisung has been so brave and Minho wants return it right back to him, give him everything he deserves. Minho’s waited so long and now it’s finally here—this moment. He wants to do it right.
“I don’t want to ignore it,” he says, making sure every syllable comes out firm and loving and sure, so sure, there’s no way for Jisung to misinterpret it. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. I want—I want to kiss you and—and do everything with you. So.” Minho presses his lips together, feeling his cheeks heat. “Yeah.”
A smile wobbles at Jisung’s mouth. “So, yeah.”
Minho nods. “Yeah.”
They stare at each other for a moment. The sound of the waves is loud, even from all the way up here. Minho’s heart thumps in tune with the crashing. He wants to pin Jisung to the bed, wants to open his mouth and devour him, wants to give Jisung the world, whatever he wants, however he wants it.
Jisung swallows, his hands clasped to his chest, a singular sparkly silver nail chipping at the edges, eyes wide and mouth back to that perfect shade of pink. “Hyung…” He says. Whispers. “I want to… But I’ve never—never…”
“Oh,” Minho says, and it’s a paltry response to the fire blazing in him. He’d known it, deep down, really, in a logical, abstract kind of way. Jisung had been a kid when he entered the company, and in-drawn and shy once they debuted. And for a few years there, the dating ban and the sharp eye of their managers had dissuaded pretty much any clandestine activities. If he’d had a chance to sleep around, it wouldn’t have been often and he also probably wouldn’t have kept quiet about it. Not to Minho, anyway.
But it had been one of those things Minho thought about once, maybe twice, distractedly, half-curious, half-dreading the answer his brain came up with, and then never thought about it again. Never let himself consider that possibility.
It was complicated enough to be in love with one of his members—one who seemed to be taking all the time in the world to realise that he was loved—but to add the question of Jisung’s virginity on top of that? Minho couldn’t have handled it.
He looks at Jisung, his golden hair fluffed up all over his head like a halo and swallows. Can’t help but ask, “For… Everything?”
Jisung blushes, teeth sinking into his lower lip. “I mean—I—Jeonginnie and I kissed. Years ago. But—but yeah… You’ll be—you are the first.”
Minho hears the blood thundering in his ears. “Oh,” he says again. “Oh, Jisung-ah.”
Jisung squirms, thighs shifting against the sheets. “Hyung,” he says, pleads, a little. “Hyung-ah, I don’t—I know I don’t—”
“Can I kiss you?”
Jisung falls silent and then, cheeks pink and eyes full of wonderment, nods.
Minho cups his cheeks again, one thumb swooping over the soft skin there, bravely over his lip, and Jisung’s mouth falls open in surprise, a small intake cutting through the silence sharply. Minho takes a moment to take this in, commit this to memory, and then presses in, angling his mouth to fit over Jisung’s. His lips are soft and he inhales ever so quietly when Minho kisses him just a touch harder, sliding a hand up into Jisung’s hair to pull him closer.
Unsurprisingly, Jisung is vocal with every shift, every move, every step forward that Minho takes, gasping and whimpering under his breath; moaning when Minho tips him back on the bed and braces himself over him, kissing him harder. For someone who’s kissed one other person in their life—and that other person being fifteen year old Jeongin—Jisung is picking up on this kissing thing alarmingly quickly, hands fisting in Minho’s shirt and keeping him there.
“How far,” Minho mumbles, trying to pull back to ask the question but Jisung wraps his arms around Minho’s shoulders and neck, pulling him back down, murmuring no, no, hyung, no under his breath every time Minho tries to pull away.
“Hmm?”
Minho smacks a kiss onto Jisung’s full open mouth and then uses his leverage on the bed to push himself up and out of Jisung’s reach. He stares down at Jisung, his puffy lips and pinking cheeks and almost forgets his question. “How far do you want to go?”
Jisung looks at him blankly, as if it were obvious. “Everything,” he says and his voice is solemn despite the breathlessness. “I want everything you’re willing to give me, hyung.”
Minho’s breath catches in his throat. “Don’t give me that kind of carte blanche,” he warns. “I’ll take—everything—all of it, if you let me. I—”
Minho falls silent, pressing the words to the back of his mouth, tongue barring their exit. He’s waited so long for this moment. He wants it all. All of Jisung. It’ll sound insane if he says it out loud right now.
Jisung’s hands find purchase on his arms. “Hyung,” he says. Earnest and sweet and wanting. “Hyung-ah. Take it. Give me all of it. I want all of you.”
The red burns all over.
Minho lets himself take.
“My Jisungie,” Minho murmurs, mouth pressed to Jisung’s inner thighs, pulling back to watch his hands press into the soft flesh under his press, the skin bleeding red and then yellow under Minho’s hands.
Jisung shifts under his touch, hands fisted in the sheets not touching his cock drooling on his belly. “Hyung,” he whispers and when Minho looks up through his lashes at him, Jisung flushes a dull crimson.
“Yes, jagi?” Minho asks sweetly. He leans down to kiss Jisung’s thigh again, sinking his teeth into the tender skin and Jisung twitches, legs jumping. His skin is salty, warm, heating up further under Minho’s loving abuse.
“Ah—no,” Jisung protests, sounding vaguely put out. Minho bites him again, just to hear his voice crack when he whimpers. “Hyung, how am I supposed to focus when you—uhm—” the sentence dissolves into a moan as Minho bites him harder, sucking the flesh into his mouth, pulling back only when he’s certain a mark will be left behind, high up on Jisung’s thigh, right where the crease of his pelvis and leg sits, where he’ll be able to feel it every time he moves.
“You can keep talking,” Minho murmurs. “I’m listening.”
“You’re making it very hard,” Jisung replies, baffled and out of breath already. He has no idea what’s coming. Or maybe, Minho ruminates, blindly casting his hand over the sheets for the lube he’d shoved into his bag when they were packing at the very last minute in a fit of madness, maybe Jisung knows exactly what’s coming. Has been secretly thinking about this moment as long as Minho has. Ruminating in the secret snatches of the dark, with a hand shoved into his pajamas, conjuring up an image of a concupiscent, dark-eyed Minho wrapped around him just as Minho thought of the opposite.
The reality is even more headying than Minho could have ever imagined. The small, punched out whimper Jisung lets out when Minho rubs a slick finger against his hole reverberates through his skull, chews him and spits him out. The way he looks at Minho, bright-eyed and awed, as if he’s still surprised at what’s happening. The way his thighs clamp around Minho’s shoulders, the bruised flesh warm and pink, like the skin of peaches at the height of summer.
“Have you ever done this before?” Minho hums as he gently fingers Jisung open. He wants to be careful for this—this first time. Wants to memorise every twitch of Jisung’s body, the pitch of his rasping gasps, the way he responds as Minho toys him open, unfurling open for him—Minho’s very own sunflower.
Jisung has his arm thrown across his face but it doesn’t hide his pink cheeks, nor the wobble in his voice. Minho lets him keep it there. He’s got plenty of time to pry Jisung apart.
“Once—once or twice,” Jisung whispers, chest hitching when Minho pushes in a fourth finger, angling to rub slowly against Jisung’s prostate. “Ah—hyung—I’m, I’m going to come if you keep—” He cuts off with a gasp, his other hand coming down to try to push Minho’s hand away but Minho grabs it and presses it back down on the bed.
“You can, jagiya,” he murmurs, brimming with pleasure, with intent. “I’ll just make you come again.”
Jisung sobs, hand twisting under Minho’s hold, wrist bleeding pink and red from his grip. “I can’t.”
“You can.” Minho kisses his hipbone and works another finger in while drizzling more lube over his hand. The sheets are already drenched under them. Minho feels like he could do this forever, lie here between Jisung’s legs and slowly, slowly work him down until Jisung tenderises, falls apart like meat off the bone. Spend hours pulling Jisung apart like taffy until he crystallises white under the pressure until Minho learns everything there is to know about him; his sensitive spots, his favourite kisses, the best way to make him scream when he comes.
Now, Minho keeps pushing, pushing, rubbing up against his prostate until Jisung shudders, back arching up off the bed as he comes untouched, a soft, creaky sob slipping from his plum bitten lips.
“There you go sweetheart,” Minho says, almost stuffed to the brim with satisfaction and adoration. He kneels up to get a closer look. “My jagi, look at you.”
Jisung whimpers, his arm slipping away from his face, eyes sparkling with tears. He’s lax against the sheets, a soft puddle of everything Minho’s ever wanted. “Hyung,” he says, hiccups, reaching for Minho. “Hyung, please.”
Minho goes, kisses him sweetly, sinks his teeth into Jisung’s lower lip and then licks up the tears dripping down his soft cheeks. “You’re so gorgeous, jagiya. I can’t believe you’re real.” It escapes him in a moment of vulnerability, of surprise, of the sheer wonder at having this, having Jisung here, wrapped up in his arms.
“Hyung,” Jisung mumbles. He cranes his head to kiss Minho’s neck, up on his jaw, the soft spot under his ear. It sends gooseflesh prickling down his spine. “Please fuck me,” Jisung whispers against that spot. “Please, hyung.”
How can Minho refuse him? When he asks so sweetly?
It’s close to what Minho imagine pure bliss must feel like—when he pushes into Jisung. When Jisung clenches around him, legs hitched up around his waist, squeezing him tight all over. When Jisung sobs, panting oh hyung, I can feel you, I can—you’re inside me—I can feel you inside me, hand pressed to his stomach, staring up at Minho with blurry eyes, mouth open, ragged gasps escaping him with every thrust.
“I like it so much,” Jisung mumbles. Sweat drips traces a path down his neck and Minho follows it, bending Jisung further, crushing him into a perfect ball to fit under his ribs, right where the space is—where it’s been waiting for Jisung’s arrival. “Hyung, hyung, Minho.”
“Yeah, me too,” Minho agrees, dazed. He sinks his teeth into Jisung’s throat, laves his tongue over the bite marks left there and speeds up, grinding his hips with every smack against Jisung’s ass. “Fuck, Jisung-ah—”
“Yeah,” Jisung nods mindlessly, arches up against him, grinds his cock against Minho’s stomach, precome smearing between them. “Yeah, hyung, please, please.”
“You’re going to come for me again?” Minho asks, pants. He sits up for the leverage, for the view spread out beneath him, the long line of Jisung’s body splayed out under him, the way his hair is splayed out along the pillow like a halo, a flush crawling down the length of his torso. He grips Jisung’s hips tightly and pushes harder, gives Jisung something to remember, something to think about when they’re alone for the night and he feels the echo of the bruises Minho left behind. “My gorgeous Jisungie, my baby.” Mine, mine, mine.
Jisung shudders under him all over, clenching tightly around Minho, hand fisted tightly against his stomach where Minho is pressing into him. Minho wraps a hand around Jisung’s cock, tight and slow, a direct contrast to the pace he’s setting and Jisung sobs, a high-pitched moan cracking out of him like a baseball hit out of the stadium, loud and messy when he comes all over himself.
It takes Minho maybe a handful of seconds to follow, bending back over Jisung to stare into his eyes as he screws deep into him, cataloguing every twitch, every synapse firing in Jisung when he comes, fills him up, makes Jisung his.
Jisung’s hand shakes when Minho pulls out, when he reaches up to pull him down on the bed. Minho collapses—half on Jisung, half on the mattress. Next time, Minho thinks, he’s going to flip him over, pry Jisung’s thighs apart and lick every drop of come out of him, until his legs start shaking again. But for now, he’s content with this—lying here, breath slowing in a matching rise and fall, Jisung’s warm body nestled against his.
Jisung’s eyes are lidded shut, every inch of him lax, insouciant, sated; his mouth upturned to ask for a kiss. Minho gives it to him, and hums when Jisung nestles his head into the crook of his neck, kissing his skin again and again. Sweet. Lovely. His Jisung.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” he whispers. His hand traces up Minho’s side, trailing goosebumps in his wake. “Did that just happen?”
Minho hums. “Unless we’re having some very weird shared dreams. You didn’t eat anything glowing or sparkly, did you?”
A giggle hiccups its way out of Jisung’s mouth, funnels straight into Minho’s ear. Minho wants to bottle it, wants to turn over and kiss Jisung and drink the sound straight out of his mouth.
There’s nothing stopping you, he thinks and then proceeds to do exactly that—rolls over and crushes Jisung into the mattress and kisses him deep and hard and loving, with a strength he didn’t know he had left in him, and savours every gasp, exhale, whimper that Jisung lets out. The newness of it is sparkling, fizzing under his skin like champagne bubbles in his blood. Minho wants to drown in it.
When they separate, Jisung is pink all over again, and he presses a hand to Minho’s chest, nails scraping against his skin. They look at each other for a moment and then Jisung makes a grumpy noise in the back of his throat. “I have to shower again.”
Minho laughs. “Poor baby,” he says. And then, heart full and ballooned with the sheer joy of being so annoyingly understood and known, “Want me to come along?”
Jisung’s fingers wrap around his arm, pull him back down. “Of course,” he says, as if it should be obvious and maybe it should be, because Jisung’s lips are puffy pink and they press perfectly against Minho’s when he leans down to fit them together. “I always want you.”