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“It’s just.. missing something.”
Chan’s brows pinch together, his lips pulled into what has to be the deepest frown Minho’s ever seen. Changbin is leaning over one of his shoulders, elbows balanced on the back of the chair so that he can get a good look at Chan’s laptop. Jisung is on the other side of him, looking tired and fed-up and like two straight hours of re-running the same four lines is finally getting to his head.
“I don’t know what else I can do,” he says. “I’m trying my best.”
Minho observes him closely, the way he shrinks in on himself, the way he instinctively makes himself smaller, like he’s bracing for some sort of impact. Readying himself to be told off, or yelled at, or reprimanded for a mistake that isn’t even his. Hell, it’s not even a mistake, but he’s clearly blaming himself for the fact that they’ve been here all day, and they’ve made barely any progress.
Chan shakes his head in that very distinctly Chan way. Like a disapproving parent, but comforting. Careful and kind, always so patient. Snuffing Jisung’s worries out without so much as a second thought.
“I know you are, ‘Sung,” he assures, twisting in his chair. “It’s not on you.”
Changbin straightens up, rolling his shoulders out. “Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s not something you can do. There’s just.. it’s like an empty space, y’know? In the background. Like we need something to fill it.”
Minho watches their back and forth for a moment from the leather studio couch, letting them talk it out. It’s not often that he takes his friends up on their invitation to join them in the studio. He has a sneaking suspicion that the only reason they even invite him in the first place is so they can squeeze the odd backing vocal out of him, computer science degree be damned.
“I’m not a singer,” Minho always says, right before giving in and grabbing a lyric sheet. He’s learned by now that the only way to avoid being used for his talents is to simply not show up at all.
But Jisung had been nervous about this one. Apprehensive, maybe, is a better word. They were right on the cusp of finishing their new track, one of their first fully-polished pieces that needed to be the best . Jisung is a worrier by nature, so it makes sense to Minho that he’d been a little shaky on his way out the door. But that doesn’t mean he likes to see it. That’s his boyfriend, after all, and if he can make things easier for him, he will.
So here he is, watching his three best friends lament over twenty seconds of their track with the collective exasperation of someone who’s just.. well, someone who’s just been in the studio for hours without rest.
Minho looks away again, down at the game he’s been playing on his phone. It suddenly feels a lot less interesting.
“It’s a song about sex, right?”
His mouth starts moving before he can stop it. Minho catches a glimpse of Chan’s head snapping back to face him, like he’d forgotten he was even there. Changbin follows, looking all scandalised and lost for words. Jisung looks at him last, Minho makes sure to meet his eye.
“You don’t all have to look at me like that,” he says, shifting in his seat, “it’s kind of obvious. Or.. it gets obvious, anyways, once I’ve heard the lyrics this many times.”
Chan reaches up to rub sheepishly at the back of his neck. “I mean.. yeah,” he admits. “I guess it is. Kind of. I wrote it with.. something in mind.”
He gives Changbin a clatter across the head when he starts wolf-whistling like some hormone-driven teenage boy. Jisung’s cheeks are all pink, like he’s just been caught with his hand down his pants. Minho can’t help but think it’s a stupidly pretty sight.
“Right,” he says, “well, I don’t need details, but.. why don’t you guys build off of that? You need something for the background, why not add some sort of sexy sounds back there or something. I’m sure Changbin could moan for you.”
Changbin snatches a pen off the table and fires it in Minho’s direction without even an ounce of hesitation. He only narrowly manages to dodge.
“Shut up, hyung,” he huffs. “I thought you were going to say something actually helpful. Should’ve known.”
Minho grins right back at him, all teeth, and he’s about to go back to his stupid game when he notices Chan is not laughing. Even scarier again, he also doesn’t look like he’s about to scold him for needlessly interrupting their little session. Minho raises a brow.
“I mean..” Chan looks at Changbin, then at Jisung. “Maybe we could..?”
As if someone has just set a firework off down his tattered basketball shorts, Changbin practically leaps back, waving his hands back and forth. “Absolutely fucking not,” he says, “I am not moaning for any of you.”
“Damn,” Minho sighs, “and here I was thinking we were friends.”
Changbin rolls his eyes. “Who invited this guy again?”
Chan holds his hands up in a not me sort of motion. Jisung only shrinks in on himself a little more, smiling this beautifully shy, not-so-apologetic little smile into the collar of his hoodie. He may still be on edge—that much is clear—but Minho likes to think the lack of tension in his shoulders is thanks to having him here. He likes to think that him being around is as much of a comfort for Jisung as it seems to be.
“Well, okay.” Chan shrugs after a moment or two of careful consideration. “Nobody has to moan. We can just.. I dunno. Keep thinking, and maybe—”
“I can do it.”
This time, it’s Minho’s turn to snap his head up.
In fact, everyone snaps their heads up, all looking in the direction of the interruption, the finger-fidgeting ball of anxiety off to the left side of Chan’s laptop, looking like he regrets ever opening his mouth but— oh .
Oh, Minho knows better than that.
It takes everything in him not to smile like the cat that got the cream, not to knowingly look Jisung up and down, make him squirm right where he stands. The little exhibitionist.. of course he’d offer himself up, of course he’d want to let his friends hear him. To march into that recording booth and moan so pretty into the mic, to blush and wriggle in his seat when he hears himself back. Minho has recorded him before, and even though he acts shy, he’s always the one itching to play it over.
Minho never would’ve anticipated this, though. For all the filth Jisung spews when he’s bent over their bed or pressed up against the wall of their shower, Minho never expected him to really— do something. Make a move, for want of a better word, even though he supposes moaning for a song about sex is.. somewhat innocuous on the surface.
In any case, if he thinks too hard about it, he’ll have to excuse himself.
“Oh, uh..” Chan, looking as stunned as ever, blinks at Jisung. “Do you.. I mean, are you sure, ‘Sung? You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. If you’re only offering because you feel like you have to, I mean. Like—”
“He’s a big boy.”
Minho can’t stop himself from interrupting. He just can’t, not when that delectable blush is still spread across Jisung’s cheeks and he looks like he’s about to vibrate right out of his skin. And not when his own excitement has started bubbling up inside of him, either, because that’s his pretty boyfriend, and if anyone is going to get a kick out of hearing his little noises, it’s going to be him.
Chan and Changbin exchange a look, but Minho stares right past them. “You are, aren’t you, Jisungie?” he prompts. “You wouldn’t offer it if you didn’t want to?”
Jisung stares back—it feels like they share a whole conversation in that one look, a silent are you sure? on Minho’s part and an equally silent yes on Jisung’s. They know one another inside out, they know each other’s boundaries as well as their own. Chan and Changbin seem alright with it (maybe out of desperation to get something done today), so..
“I’ll do it,” Jisung says at last. “How hard can it be?”
..Apparently? Quite.
“It needs to sound more natural,” Chan says into the intercom, gentle in his words because it's Jisung, and everyone has a soft spot for Jisung no matter how frustrated they may be. “Like.. it needs to sound real.”
Changbin nudges Chan out of the way so that he can speak instead, tentativeness be damned. “Imagine you’ve got Minho in there with you,” he suggests, grinning wickedly when Chan swats him on the arm. “None of this ah-ah-ah shit. I’m sure he’s better than that, right?”
Jisung glares at Changbin through the glass window between the studio and the recording booth, flipping him off with the hand that’s not death-gripping his lyrics sheet. Minho feels the corners of his lips twitch upwards in a little smirk, though he feels Jisung’s pain. He’s been trying his best, taking Chan’s cues and Changbin’s unorthodox advice and he sounds good. Yeah, he sounds good.
But they need him to sound real . Not like amateur porn.
“I mean, I’m right here,” Minho mumbles, mostly into his phone, but he’s loud enough to catch Chan’s attention, which in turn makes Changbin look his way, too.
Minho bites his lip, but he doesn’t back down. Jisung’s not the only raging exhibitionist in their relationship, and hey, it’s not like either of them are going to take him seriously.
So he laughs, light and airy, and shrugs his shoulders. “I’m just saying.” Minho brushes a hand through his hair, as cool and calm and collected as he can possibly be even though his stomach has just done a backflip inside of him. “If you want some authentic moans out of him, I’m right here.”
Changbin makes a face at him, so Minho makes one back. But Chan is just looking at him, this unreadable expression Minho can’t quite decipher. It makes him feel a little uneasy, like his stupid joke didn’t land and he’s made him genuinely uncomfortable. He looks at Jisung still standing in the booth, totally oblivious to what’s going on.
Shit. Has he gone and fucked up?
Before he can backtrack and start apologising, though—because fun and games aside, the last thing Minho wants to do is cross any lines—Chan simply swivels back around in his chair and presses the intercom button again. Minho hears the beep, the static of his voice registering inside the booth.
“Jisung,” he says, “I’m gonna send Minho into you. You okay with that?”
Jisung looks a bit like a deer on the road when he lifts his head, all wide-eyed and uncertain. He also looks excited, in a brief flash across his face that Minho doubts anyone but him even noticed. He meets Jisung’s eye, giving him a look he knows he’ll be able to decipher right away. Jisung nods, and his bangs bounce again. Minho wants to grab them and give them a good tug.
“That’s okay, hyung,” he says, and then a little more playfully, a little less shy, he adds, “what, do you guys want a show, or something?”
“I’m not gay,” Changbin shoots back, like he’s not leaned forward in his seat, looking anything but uninterested. “But, y’know. Maybe a little kissing in the background of the song will add the right feel.”
Chan nods his head. “Right, what ‘Bin said,” he agrees, laughing awkwardly. “We have a real life couple right here in the studio, why not make use of ‘em?”
“That’s all you ever do when I come here,” Minho says, rising from the leather couch and crossing the studio on legs that feel like they’re made of jelly. Kissing Jisung is always good. Kissing Jisung with an audience appeals so beautifully to something nestled so deeply inside of them both. “Use me. Force me to sing. Now I’m being forced to kiss. What’s next?”
Changbin smacks him right between the shoulder blades just as he slips past the heavy door into the recording booth. His mouth starts moving, but once the door swings shut, Minho is left in blissful silence. With Jisung. His Jisung.
“Hi, baby,” he says sweetly, turning to face him. Jisung is standing there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He’s dressed in those comfortable, three-sizes-too-big clothes Minho loves to see him in, even though he loves even more when Jisung squeezes himself into something tight. Something that pinches his tiny waist, his slim thighs.
Minho shamelessly looks him up and down. “You okay with this?”
Jisung squirms under his gaze. His big, dark eyes flit back and forth between Minho and the window leading out into the studio, where Changbin and Chan are watching them like hawks. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, so full, so perfect against Minho’s own. He’s always said he’s Jisung’s soulmate, has always thought they fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.
“I am,” Jisung says at last, nodding his head. Minho ducks slightly to meet his eyes, delights in the shy smile he gets in return.
Jisung swallows. “Kiss me?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Minho goes slow at first. Tentative, almost, like he’s scared Jisung will get spooked. They’ve kissed like this a thousand times before, but never in front of anyone. Never in front of family or friends, not even in front of strangers. It’s all a fantasy for them, like Minho fucking Jisung up against the floor-to-ceiling window in his bedroom and teasing him for how hard it makes him, like he’s not fit to burst any second himself.
This is all new to them, uncharted waters. So he kisses Jisung like it’s their first, his hands finding the dip of his waist through that huge hoodie he’s wearing. And Jisung kisses him back just as sweet, his little fingers poking out from under his sleeves to cup Minho’s cheeks. To hold him there when Minho presses his tongue into his mouth.
“Closer to the mic, please.”
Changbin’s sudden interruption makes Jisung jump, pulling back just enough so that Minho can see him. His cheeks are all flushed, his mouth slick with spit. He already looks like he’s just been kissed stupid, which is one of Minho’s many favourite looks on him. Always so sensitive. It drives him up the wall.
“Yeah, yeah,” he shouts back, waving Changbin off. “Give us a minute. Unless you wanna pay for professional porn stars, just—”
Chan slams his hand on the intercom button, cutting in with so much force that the receiver actually squeals. “Take your time, guys,” he says coolly. “Ignore Changbin.”
Minho looks over at Chan through the window. He’s looking nearly as flushed as Jisung, which is hilariously contradictory for the guy who wrote the song they’re currently working on. The song about sex, the song about giving yourself to someone and taking them in return. It’s good, honestly. Running over the lyrics in his head has Minho in the right mood to capture Jisung’s lips again. To squeeze at his waist, press a little further into the kiss.
There’s something delectable about the feeling of Chan and Changbin’s eyes on them. Everything combined is an unfortunately euphoric recipe for disaster—otherwise known as Minho’s jeans already feeling tighter than they had ten minutes ago.
When he deepens the kiss, Jisung gasps. He’s all open-mouthed now, panting against Minho’s lips. It’s obscene, the sound of spit on skin and lips smacking echoing all over the recording booth. They make sure to stay close to the mic, Minho keeping Jisung grounded in place with a tight grip on his sides when he whimpers, and the embarrassment has him jerking shyly away.
They both need air—Minho makes good work of kissing down Jisung’s neck while he catches his breath instead, looking up behind his lashes at Chan and Changbin through the window, at their wide eyes, at the way they’re both staring , even though Changbin’s “not gay” and Chan is as sex-shy as they come, somehow.
He nips at the sensitive spot on Jisung’s neck, the little divot that makes him weak at the knees, and the way he moans goes straight south. All high-pitched and out of breath, whiny and desperate because he’s so easy. Minho barely has to touch him to get him all worked up, and these sounds are so much better than anything Jisung had been giving before.
And maybe that goes to his head a bit. Maybe the heat of the moment, the thrill of kissing for their friends to see has clouded his judgement. Maybe Minho is just really addicted to Jisung’s mouth on his own. Whatever it is, something drives him to press him back against the table in the recording booth, to slot his thigh between Jisung’s knees and pull him down against it. He might curse himself later, when the common sense and last shred of dignity he has left kicks in, but for now, the way Jisung whines in his ear is enough to make all of that a problem for the Minho of the future.
Besides.. they’re supposed to be making sex noises, right? Something like that.
“Hyu— ung ,” he gasps, his hips rutting down involuntarily, his shaky thighs trapping Minho’s leg against his crotch. He’s hard, Minho can feel it through his sweatpants. It’s taking everything in him not to flip him over and fuck him into the table until he cries. “Hyung, too—too much.”
Jisung’s hands fall to Minho’s shoulders, scrabbling to hold onto the material of his t-shirt. Anything to keep him steady. He looks like he wants to hide his face, like he’s trying to conceal himself behind his fluffy hair. Minho feels something downright primal snap inside of him at the sight of that alone.
“I think it’s just perfect, actually,” he mumbles, pulling Jisung down against his leg again before using his grip on him to flip their positions, to force Jisung to look out into the studio instead to where Chan and Changbin are still staring right at them while he himself leans back against the table.
In the brief glimps he gets of them, their little audience looks thorougly awestruck.
Aroused, if Minho didn’t know any better.
Jisung locks eyes with them both, his mouth falling open. Minho feels his cock twitching against his thigh. He feels him tense up, feels him unconsciously start to grind down against him. It’s an intoxicating thing, the sight of his Jisungie so desperate that he’ll get himself off right where their friends can see.
“Pathetic,” he mumbles, because he can’t stop himself. “You’re so pathetic.”
When Minho cranes his neck to take his own look out into the studio, he swears he sees Chan squirm.
“Do you want us to stop?” he asks, trying to keep his voice level. Trying not to let the tremors of his own arousal peek through, the urge to take Jisung right here. He needs to calm down, even just for now, before they do something they can’t take back. This is fun, this is so fun . But Minho’s not so far gone just yet that he’s forgotten about the importance of consent. Everyone’s consent. “If you’ve got enough background noises , we can call it a—”
Chan’s hand is still on the intercom button, but before Minho can say another word, Changbin shoves it out of the way and leans in to speak.
“No,” he says. His voice is rough and gravelly, like he’s just woken up, but he’s adamant. Certain. Entirely unwavering in a way that’s almost surprising, actually, and Minho can see him trying so very hard not to look directly at Jisung and, well, he’ll take that as a win. His baby is just too pretty.
“No?” Minho repeats. He flips them around again, pulls Jisung down by the hips one more time before sliding his hands back so that he can grab his ass, give it a good squeeze. Try not to lose his fucking mind at the way Jisung sobs in response. “You want us to keep going?”
It feels like a dream. This whole thing feels like a fucking dream. But if both Chan and Changbin nodding enthusiastically in response is anything to go by at all, Minho’s not sure he ever wants to wake up.
Satisfied, he nods, too. “Alright, then,” Minho says. “Let the show go on.”
He kisses Jisung again, harder this time, and crowds him back against the table, pulls him down against his thigh with enough force to make his whole body tremble. Jisung is always vocal, but getting to live out this fantasy he’s had for as long as Minho has known him has him louder than ever. The moans practically spill out of his parted lips, the pleas and the begging and the whiny hyung s are like music to Minho’s ears. He wonders, briefly, if Chan would put that on the track. If he’d allow Jisung’s voice to be heard so clearly.
Even just thinking about that makes something inside of him feel fit to combust. But Minho’s not too keen on the idea of cumming in his pants before they’ve even gotten started.
In one swift movement, he turns Jisung around, one hand on his hip now and the other between his shoulder blades, pushing him down chest-first against the table. “Make sure you keep them headphones on, baby,” he mumbles, admiring the view of Jisung all bent over for him when he presses him right down. “Make sure everyone can hear you.”
Minho grinds his hips against Jisung’s ass. He can’t stop himself, not when he’s right there. Jisung whimpers into the table, pushing helplessly back against him. He’s shy about it, but Minho sees every time he tilts his head up, just enough to see Chan and Changbin still ogling them through the window.
It kind of feels like nothing they’ve ever done before. Something like pride swirls in Minho’s chest at how good Jisung is being, and something far more possessive accompanies it. That primal urge back again, the feeling that Jisung is his , that he’s using this opportunity to show their friends that he belongs to him even though they’d never argued otherwise.
Minho swallows thickly, watching the way Chan takes his hand off the intercom button and lets it fall under the table instead, hidden from his view. The insane part of him hopes it ends up down his pants. He hopes the little show they’re putting on for them is enough to get him hard, enough to wish he was in the recording booth too, taking a shot on Jisung or letting Minho take a shot on him.
And for all of Changbin’s insistence, he hasn’t dared to take his eyes off them, not even once. Minho winks at him, taking one hand off of Jisung to brush his hair back. Changbin gulps—he literally gulps. Minho thinks he might just die.
“Please, hyung..” Jisung’s voice comes out small, barely audible from where his hands are all bunched up at his face. He wiggles his hips, pushing back against him. “Please, I—”
Minho acts before he thinks, landing a hard slap on Jisung’s ass. He yelps on impact, his whole body tensing up, but Minho knows him well enough to know that the reaction was good. He knows that his face is probably flushed red, lips swollen and bitten, drool trickling down his chin. He can only imagine how hard he must be, how wet he is for him.
“Be patient,” he huffs, grabbing at the waistband of Jisung’s sweatpants with one hand while he reaches around with the other, presses his index and middle fingers against his little mouth. “And shut up. Suck.”
Minho sees Chan mouth something, maybe a fuck , or maybe something else. Jisung is obedient as ever, parting his lips and letting Minho force his fingers into him. He sucks like it’s what he was made to do, coating his fingers in sticky spit, slicking them up like he’ll never get another chance to do so again.
“You’re such a slut,” Minho whispers, totally in awe like he is time and time again when Jisung gives into him, no matter how many times they do this. “Look at you. I’ve barely touched you and you’re this desperate. You know our friends are still watching, yeah? Do you have any decency?”
Now, it’s his turn to let his mouth run. Minho has always had a thing for dirty talk, a thing for talking Jisung down, degrading him, calling him names ranging from whore to gorgeous. Jisung eats it all up like a starving man, forever aching to be praised and bullied, to take whatever Minho is willing to give.
He pulls his fingers out of Jisung’s mouth, giving his ass a squeeze when he chokes, gasps for air like the ridiculous little drama queen that he is. “God, didn’t I tell you to shut it?” he snaps, taking a fistful of Jisung’s sweatpants, enough to tug them down, and—oh.
Oh .
“Well.. look at this. No wonder you were grinding on me like a bitch in heat.”
Minho gulps, reaching out with the hand that isn’t dripping in Jisung’s spit to flick the baby pink gem nestled between his cheeks. He feels his composure crack a little, like the weight of this revelation is just too much. Jisung had plugged himself up today, knowing he’d be spending hours in the studio. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to touch until he got home. The insatiable little shit..
“Jesus Christ, Jisungie,” he mumbles, dragging his fingertips through the trickle of lube down his inner thigh. “You've been this wet all day, huh? Dripping all over yourself like a fucking whore while your friends are trying to get work done?”
Minho gives the plug a careful tug, watching in awe as Jisung’s rim stretches around the thickest part of it. No matter how many times he fills him up, he’s always so fucking tight. Minho thinks he might die if he doesn’t get inside of him very, very soon.
“Show us.”
The crackle of the intercom makes Minho jump. It pulls him out of his trance, reminds him they have an audience which in turn makes his cock twitch in the confines of his jeans. He looks up at the window, bleary eyed and so hard it hurts. Changbin’s reddened face stares back at him, leaned over to press his mouth against the mic. He looks embarrassed, like he can’t believe what he’s asking. It’s a miracle Minho doesn’t cum right there.
“Ask and you shall receive,” he mumbles calmly, even though he feels anything but. He reaches out, taking a handful of Jisung’s hair like he’s wanted to do all evening, and he uses it to straighten him up, ignoring the way he whimpers in protest.
“If you’re gonna act like a slut,” Minho says, tilting his head to look at him. “I’m gonna show you off like a slut, too.”
He spins Jisung around again—manhandles him like some pliant little doll—so that he’s facing him, bottom lip caught between his teeth. His sweatpants are down around his thighs, his pretty little cock leaking all over the hem of his hoodie. Everything about him is so dainty, so small and so cute and Minho always makes a point of telling him this, if for no other reason than to see him squirm.
When Chan and Changbin catch an eyeful of Jisung all plugged up, both of their jaws drop in surprise. Chan’s hand is still under the table, leaving a whole lot to the imagination. Changbin’s finger is still on the intercom button, his laboured breathing echoing around the recording booth.
“Jesus fuck , Jisung,” he mumbles. “You had that in there all day?”
Jisung wriggles in Minho’s hold, his cock dripping at being shown off like this, at being paraded around for their little audience to gawk at as much as they please. He tries to hide his face in Minho’s shoulder, but Minho keeps a tight grip on his hair. They have a safeword, something to break the scene immediately, and Jisung knows he can use it. The fact that he hasn’t means he’s enjoying this just as much as his full-body trembling would suggest.
“Of course he has,” Minho replies, because Jisung doesn’t bother to answer. “He’s insatiable, you know. Doesn’t like to be empty, huh? Isn’t that right?”
Minho gives Jisung’s hair a tug, which makes him whine right into his ear. It’s only then that he remembers that they’re supposed to be recording an audio, fixing a track that’s been plaguing the group for weeks.
Oops. Minho hadn’t exactly meant to get so sidetracked, but then again, who could blame him?
Jisung whines again, pitiful, when Minho bends him back over the table and takes the base of the plug between his forefinger and thumb. In all honesty, this works quite well for him. As much as he loves prepping Jisung, spreading him open and taking his time, Minho is so hard it hurts . He’s not sure how much longer he’ll last.
He slips the plug out, depositing it on the table, and he certainly doesn’t miss the way Chan and Changbin’s eyes stick to it like magnets, watching the shiny gem twinkle under the recording booth lights. Minho grins a bit to himself, tearing his eyes away just so that he can plunge two fingers into Jisung’s dripping wet hole.
His whole body tenses up at the intrusion, a downright pornographic moan breaking past his swollen lips. Jisung loves nothing more than having Minho inside him, whether that’s his fingers or his cock, and whether it’s his mouth or his ass. Insatiable .
“Please, hyung,” he hiccups, wiggling his hips again when Minho doesn’t move his fingers. “N—Need you.”
Minho smooths his hand over Jisung’s tanned skin, kneading the flesh of his ass and squeezing up and up until he can grip at his hip instead. With the other hand, he crooks his fingers slightly, just enough to make Jisung shudder.
“Please what, baby?” he asks. This time, Minho swears he can hear the unsteadiness in his own voice. He’s as desperate as Jisung is, no longer able to swallow it down when he’s got Sexual Fantasy #1 all laid out on the table in front of him. “Use your words.”
Changbin must still have his finger on the intercom button, because Minho swears he hears a quiet fuck he knows doesn’t come from Jisung. He looks up through his lashes, something deep in his gut twisting when he sees Chan and Changbin’s hands under the table now, their arms moving shamelessly, undeniably, uncaring of whether or not Minho or Jisung sees.
The thought of their friends getting off to them is enough to spur Minho on at last, to make the appeal of dragging this out any longer to dissipate—to give way for the carnal desire to fuck Jisung like he’s wanted to since he first set foot in this damn booth. He pulls his fingers out of Jisung, wiping the lube and spit off on his hoodie before reaching down to undo his belt buckle with one hand. He doesn’t need to prep him at all, he’s all loosened up from the plug and Minho knows Jisung likes it when it’s a tight fit.
Finally freeing his painfully hard cock from the confines of his jeans is almost orgasmic enough in and of itself. Minho barely stifles a groan.
“No condom,” Minho says, to nobody in particular. “I’ll fill you up, hm? Plug you up again after, make you walk around like that for the rest of the day.”
He gives his cock a few lazy strokes, dipping his thumb into the slit before lining up with Jisung’s hole. “You like that, don’t you?” he mumbles, pressing forward but not quite enough to actually slip inside just yet. “‘Sungie loves feeling full.”
Jisung rocks back against him, desperate. “Please, hyung,” he whimpers, “please, fill me up. W—Want it, want—I want.. please. Please, please, please.”
Minho watches as the head of his cock finally slips inside. Jisung clenches around him, like his greedy little body is trying to suck him in. Like he simply can’t wait any longer. He’s all tense, something halfway between wanting to melt right into the table and not being able to—nerves, maybe. On edge, even though he’s so sweet and so desperate and so aching to be taken care of.
When he bottoms out, Minho brings his hands up to sit on Jisung’s hips, keeping his grip soft in contrast to everything else he’s done and said to him today. He presses his thumbs in, massaging his soft skin, working out the stiffness with the kind of hushed praise he knows Jisung likes the most. It always works wonders, hearing Minho tell him he’s doing well. Jisung is so easy to please, it’s almost ridiculous.
But as the tension starts spilling out of him, so too does the patience. He rocks his hips back against Minho as much as he can with the grip he’s still got on him, wriggling around like he’s trying to coax Minho into fucking him properly, suck him in deeper like he could get any deeper even if he wanted to.
Minho lands a slap on Jisung’s ass again, harder this time without the material of his sweatpants to break the impact, and when Jisung lurches forward, like he’s trying to scramble away from the sting, Minho grabs him by the hips again and pulls him back onto his cock.
He glances up at Chan and Changbin again, catching another quick glimpse of their arms moving, their shameless jerking off even though—if he recalls correctly—this was all just for the song. Right? For the song. Minho grits his teeth. It hasn’t been for the song for him in a while. Not since Jisung had started grinding on him like that, at least. Not since he’d discovered him all plugged up.
It spurs something on inside of him, something that’s already being blissfully stroked by Jisung clenching down around him, sobbing uselessly into the table and trembling— God , he’s trembling. Shaking all over, poor thing. Minho can see his knees knocked together, his feet scrambling to stay planted on the floor every time he fucks into him again. He gives him another smack.
“You’re putting on such—such a good show, ‘Sung,” he mutters, low enough that maybe only Jisung hears it, or maybe Chan and Changbin hear it, too, echoed around the studio like some sort of bizarre 4-dimensional porn experience.
Minho almost laughs—that’s kind of what this is, right? Jisung’s headphones are skewed from all the jostling around, and from Minho pulling at his hair, too sex-drunk to think about—right. The song. The fucking song. The whole reason they’re in here in the first place.
He hits a particularly hard thrust, and Jisung practically screams. He’s so loud, so over-the-top , like some cheap whore just trying to get a reaction. What’s even better is that Minho knows that’s not the case. He knows Jisung just can’t handle it when he’s this turned on. When everything feels so good and right and all he can do is lay there, pliant, and let himself be used.
“Hope this is good enough background noise,” Minho says, once again to nobody and everybody who cares to hear. His jaw is set tight, he grips Jisung’s hips hard enough that it’s bound to bruise, and his voice sounds like it’s being punched out of him. Low and gravelly, almost foreign, even to his own ears.
Something depraved inside of Minho likes the contrast; Jisung’s sweet, whiny, high-pitched cries for more and harder , begging like a true slut, with Minho’s own voice right behind him. Deeper, steadier. He can’t pretend to be totally composed, but he’s sure not so far gone that he can’t even stand.
Jisung presses his cheek into the table, sobbing against the cool wood. Minho hears a groan that doesn’t come from him, tips his head up to look out under his lashes into the studio again. Changbin’s leaned back in his chair, one hand still working just under the desk, just out of sight, while the other has his shirt rucked up to reveal a thin sliver of his tanned stomach. And stupidly well-built abs.
Chan sits beside him, ridiculously red in the face, like he can’t believe what he’s doing. Minho almost wishes they were in here with them—he wishes Jisung could see the effect he has.
But Jisung is out of it, likely too much to even think . And that’s what he likes best. He likes when hyung does the thinking for him. When he can be nothing but a pretty little doll, a pillow princess , in Felix’s words, which always makes him blush and protest and insist that’s not true.
(Minho would be inclined to agree with Felix, of course. But boyfriend obligations mean lying to Jisung’s face every now and then.
Yes, baby, you put in so much work. I swear
That kind of thing.)
“I—I’m so, s—so.. so close. So close,” Jisung whimpers, all fucked out and hoarse, fingers scrabbling weakly at the table and his discarded lyrics sheet and the twisted material of his hoodie. Anything he can grab. Anything that’s in reach.
Minho wants to take his hands, maybe. Hold them and squeeze them and lean down to kiss the space between Jisung’s shoulder blades because even when he’s fucking him like this, even when his pace is so relenting that his thighs are starting to burn, and the slap of skin on skin and the smacking of sweat and lube is so loud he can barely hear his own thoughts .. Minho is as much of a sap as the next guy. He’s a sap and he loves his Jisung more than words can say, and—shit, maybe this is the wrong time to think about how much he adores him, lest he start getting sappy.
But let it just be known that it’s true , and even though he teases and degrades and calls him the filthiest names, Minho is so proud of how well-behaved Jisung is. He feels larger than life at the fact that his boyfriend is the one that has their friends moaning into the intercom, lips parted, jaws slack and eyes rolling back whenever they flick their wrists.
Minho wonders how hard they are. How wet they must be. He gives Jisung’s hips a squeeze.
“Yeah,” he says, sounding perhaps just a little shakier now. A little closer to the edge. “Yeah, baby, I can tell. Wh—What do you want hyung to do about it, huh?”
Jisung squirms on the table, trying to weakly fuck himself back against each one of Minho’s thrusts. It’s honestly a miracle he hasn’t cum already—he usually does. Usually gets so worked up and sensitive and overstimulated that he can’t help it. He won’t even think to ask, or to warn Minho before he makes a mess of himself. It’s like sometimes, he just wants to be punished.
But he’s on his best behaviour today, Minho can tell. No bratty demands, no complaining about oh, it’s too big or oh, it hurts . And certainly no cumming without permission, it seems. Minho bites back a smirk.
When Jisung doesn’t answer him, he smacks him again. There’s a reddish splotch forming on the right side of his ass, just under the finger-shaped dents from how hard Minho has been holding him.
“You wanna cum?” he asks, massaging the spot his hand had hit. “Is that what you want, baby?”
Jisung squeaks. “Y—Yes. Yes, hyung. Please. ”
It’s almost too tempting. God , it’s so tempting. Minho has slowed his thrusts down, slow and deep now so that every time his hips collide with Jisung’s ass, he knows he’s hitting that one spot just right. He knows it because Jisung mewls, and he squirms, and the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the table is Minho’s hands and their death grip on his hips. His ass. Whatever he grabs first.
But.. Minho likes to think he’s pretty good at not giving in. Even when he wants to.
“Ask nicely, then,” he says.
Jisung groans. “I—I just—”
“Not me. Them.”
“ Fuck .”
Changbin’s mouth falls open the second Minho says the words, and he looks up at him, almost coos at how far gone he is. Half-lidded eyes, sweaty bangs glued to his forehead. He’s still jerking off, so is Chan, but they’ve slowed down. Just a careful shift of their shoulders every few seconds. God , Minho wishes he could see.
“Us?” Chan repeats, quiet and small, the kind of sound Minho doesn’t think he’s ever heard come from him before. “He—”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
Minho hopes he sounds as bored as he does in his head. He hopes he doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels in the pit of his stomach. Jisung clenches around him every few seconds, like his own hidden way of misbehaving, and it’s getting harder to ignore.
Minho is as close as he is. He’s just better at pretending he’s not.
“Go on, then,” he prompts, nudging a knee against the back of Jisung’s sweaty thigh. “Ask. Nicely . Use your words like a big boy, otherwise your hyungs will cum and you’ll.. well, you’ll just have to get over it, I guess.”
Jisung chokes on a sob. He lifts his head off the table, either not noticing or simply not caring about the string of drool that connects his chin to the surface. Minho can only see some of him, just the roundness of his cheek from where he’s standing behind him, but he can only imagine how pathetic he must look, all snotty and teary and ruined. It’s one of Minho’s favourite looks on him—the hidden album in his phone gallery can attest.
“Please,” Jisung whispers, so quiet until Minho digs his fingernails into his hips, and he yelps. “Please! P—Please, hyung. Chan hyung, Ch—Changbin hyung. Can I..”
Minho is about to prompt him, maybe scratch him or squeeze him again, land another smack, but maybe on the other side this time just to make him jump, just to make him spit it out instead of stumbling over himself like he’s forgotten how to speak. He turns each option over in his head, considering carefully which one will procure the best results, but in the end, he doesn’t have to do anything.
“Use your words, Jisung.”
Chan’s voice crackles through the intercom again, no longer meek and uncertain. In fact, he sounds so sure of himself that it surprises Minho enough to make him look up, brows raised.
Jisung, too, tilts his head back further. Chan is still blushing (he’s bright red), but he looks as resolute as a guy can when he’s still very clearly jerking off. Minho’s dick twitches where it’s still buried inside of Jisung.
“What?” Jisung repeats, so tiny, so surprised. “I—um—”
It takes a damn miracle for Minho not to bust right there, listening to Jisung’s minute little voice and Chan’s, too, the uncharacteristically assertive rumble through the intercom that sends shivers up his spine. He palms at Jisung’s ass, smoothing his hands over his sweaty, reddened skin and the blossoming bruises biting at his hips. It’s not easy to maintain the smooth, methodical rhythm of his thrusts, but if Jisung can behave enough not to cum before he’s been given the go ahead, Minho supposes he can be good, too.
“You what ?” he prompts, nudging Jisung with his knee again. “Be a good boy and answer your hyung.”
Chan’s breath hitches, a little staticky where his mouth is pressed right up to the mic. His hips cant up off the chair, Minho sees that much before he’s forcing himself back down, grinning and bearing the full-body shudder that he can only imagine comes with being on the other side of the window.
Jisung lets his head fall forward again, his cheek squished up against the spit-soaked table. He clenches down weakly around Minho, an obscene level of tightness even still, the kind that makes Minho’s head feel like it’s being torn right off his shoulders.
“C—Can I—Can.. please ,” Jisung whines, his fingers digging into the table. “Please, lemme cum, hyung. Ple—”
The intercom squeals again. Changbin nudges Chan out of the way, leaning in to speak while his right hand still works overtime under the table. He looks about as desperate as Minho feels, the want and the need just oozing off of him in yet another dizzying stroke to Minho’s ego. They did this. They worked their friends up to this point.
“Let him cum, hyung,” Changbin mutters. His words sound like they’re too big for his mouth, like he struggles to get them out without letting them crash into his teeth on the way. “Let—yeah. Let him. Go on, ‘Sungie. You’ve been good. He’s been good, hasn’t he?”
Minho bites his lip. Chan has slumped back in his chair, panting, bucking up into his hand with no restraint and right back to the stuttering, shaky mess he’d been before now that Changbin has taken over the intercom. Jisung is still all— god , he’s so fucked out, so delirious with it that he’s mumbling little pleas into the concoction of his own mess on the table, wriggling his hips with each spontaneous burst of energy he gets like he’s trying to coax Minho into fucking him properly.
Changbin— straight Changbin, who’s looking at Jisung like he wants to eat him alive—locks eyes with Minho, then takes his finger off the intercom button and leans back, too, like he’s satisfied. Like he’s confident in the case he’s made. He throws his left arm around the back of Chan’s chair, which only encourages him to lean into his side, brows furrowed and eyes struggling to stay open, like how close he must be is in an active battle with how badly he wants to watch.
It’s all—it’s too much. It’s too much in the best way, seeing the effect they’ve had on their friends, feeling it like fire on the surface of his skin. Jisung has been so good, Jisung feels so good. And Minho is a goddamn sap at the end of the day—denying him is only easy for so long.
“Okay, baby,” he mumbles, sliding his hands back up to Jisung’s hips so that he can hold him, turn him from the trembling little puddle he is back into something solid, something he can grab. “What’s your colour? You okay to keep going?”
Jisung tilts his head as much as he can, enough so that Minho can see the left side of his flushed, sweaty face. Despite it all, despite the overstimulation and the desperation and the desire that just spills right off of him, he smiles.
“Green, hyung,” he mumbles, reaching back blindly to give Minho’s hand a reassuring pat. “Fuck me, please .”
Minho laughs, a sharp sound that jumps right out of him before he can stop it, because Jisung just has that effect on him sometimes, and he’s absolutely helpless to do anything about it.
“Alright, pretty,” he says, nodding even though he doubts Jisung can see him. “Since you asked so nicely.”
It’s almost too easy to fuck into him after that—even though Minho’s legs feel weak with his own arousal, he snaps his hips forward with all the hunger of someone who’s been holding himself back for longer than he’s ever had to before. Drawing it out, putting on a show because, seriously, when will they ever get the chance again? Minho’s still not fully convinced this isn’t some sort of elaborate dream. Had he fallen asleep on the studio couch? Will he wake up any minute now, hard and aching in his jeans and decidedly not buried inside of Jisung like he was essentially made to be?
Minho jerks his hips forward again. He sure as hell hopes not.
As the seconds pass by, each one of his thrusts grows more erratic than the last. Jisung lets out a steady string of moans, the kind of pitiful ah-ah-ah s that Changbin had been criticising him for in the first place, but the authenticity makes them so much better now, so real even though Jisung still moans like some sort of amateur pornstar.
The headphones are barely clinging on, askew atop the fluffy, sweaty mess of Jisung’s untamed hair and Minho’s pretty sure that that’s his fault, but they’re both loud enough now that he’s certain the mic will pick them up anyways. Grabbing his hair is just too tempting when it’s right in front of him, how is he ever expected to turn that chance down?
Minho takes one hand off of Jisung’s hip, hooking it under his thigh instead and pushing his legs further apart, propping his knee up on the table. It spreads him open so perfectly, an absolutely filthy sight that makes Minho’s cock twitch inside of him.
The new angle has him hitting Jisung’s prostate dead on with every sloppy jolt of his hips. Minho can’t decide whether he wants to stare down at Jisung’s scrabbling fingers and the ripples of tension in his back, or if he wants to tip his head back and watch Chan and Changbin as they cling to one another, still furiously jerking off.
“‘M close, baby,” Minho gasps, fucking into Jisung at a bruising pace now that he can feel his orgasm nipping at his heels. He leans over him, kissing at the heated skin of the back of his neck, the tear-stained cheek bared to him where Jisung’s head is still turned to the side. “You feel— fuck , ‘Sungie, baby. You feel so good.”
Jisung whines, his hand shooting back again to reach blindly out, and Minho takes his own hand that’s been viced on his hip to reach out and lace their fingers together instead.
“Cum for me, hy—hyung,” Jisung begs, “cum—cum inside, fill me up. Want it so—so bad, want it, I—”
“ Fuck .”
Minho snaps his hips forwards one last time, his vision whiteing out as he cums. He feels it all over, from the fuzziness in his head right down to feet, which have, by some miracle , managed to keep him upright this whole time.
He buries his face in Jisung’s bunched up hoodie, groaning into the sweat-damp fabric as he fills him up. He’s so fucking tight around him, so hot and so wet, whimpering into the table and squeezing at Minho’s hand and tensing up so beautifully when one weak little grind back against Minho’s cock has him cumming all over himself, too.
Minho knows this because Jisung clenches down on him so hard that it almost hurts, and within seconds, he starts trembling with the overstimulation. The sensitivity of being so full when he’s this worn-out.
They stay like that for what feels like forever, taking as long as they need to regulate their breathing and to slow down the pounding of their hearts in their chests and—well, maybe to just feel one another, too. To feel the skin-to-skin they both seek out after they’ve had sex, the most intimate kind of bonding they share, no matter how many times they sleep together.
When he finally does peel himself away from Jisung, carefully slipping out of him and stepping back on shaky legs to admire his work, he feels a hint of pride and pure adoration swirling around in his chest. He’s so good for him, always so takes him so well, and Minho has no clue what he’d done to deserve him. Has no clue how he got so lucky.
As promised, he plucks the shiny plug back up from its spot on the table, teasing the cool metal against Jisung’s puffy rim. He’s so wet down there, a mixture of lube and spit and Minho’s cum, which has already started trickling out of him, dripping down over his balls and making a mess in the sweatpants still bunched around his thighs.
Jisung whimpers when Minho pushes the plug into him. He watches it slide in with little to no resistance, gently pressing the pink gem back into place between his cheeks. Jisung’s body just sucks it right in, always so eager to be full even when he’s still twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
“You did so well, my Jisungie,” he sighs softly. “My good boy.”
Jisung hauls himself up off of the table on shaky arms, half-heartedly tugging his sweatpants back up without even bothering to wipe the sticky cum up from his stomach, or from where it’s drying tacky between his legs.
He looks up at Minho, all dazed and pretty, eyes half-lidded, tear-stained cheeks and lips slicked up with his own spit. There’s a pause, a brief moment wherein he looks like he’s going to say something in response. But, before he can, the intercom in the recording booth crackles to life, and their shared privacy is rather instantaneously shattered by the reminder that—right. They’re not alone.
Both Minho and Jisung turn their heads at the same time to the window, staring out into the studio where Chan and Changbin are staring back. Neither of them are jerking off anymore, rapid arm movements replaced by an arguably more rapid rise and fall of their clothed chests. They’re slumped against one another, their chairs pushed impossibly close. If Minho’s eyes don’t deceive him, Changbin’s hand is under Chan’s side of the table rather than his own, but, well.. that’s none of his business.
“That—” Chan clears his throat, his tongue darting out to wet his lips before he leans back into the mic again. He’s so flushed, his bangs plastered to his forehead, his hoodie all twisted around his neck. Minho can’t help but think it’s a good look on him, can’t help but think that he wouldn’t mind seeing it again.
Chan seems a little stuck for a moment, like he’s trying to kick his brain into gear, and when he looks at Changbin for help, all he gets is a half-assed pat on the back and a blissful, fucked-out smile.
Minho raises a brow at them both, looping an arm around Jisung’s waist to pull him into his side.
“Everything alright out there?” he asks, and the suddenness of his question, irrespective of how hoarse his voice is, makes Chan jump. “D’you think you got enough background noise?”
Jisung giggles airily beside him, pushing the headphones down around his neck so he can lay his head on Minho’s shoulder again.
“If not,” he says, and—okay, wow. If Minho’s voice is hoarse, Jisung’s voice is fucked , “we could just go again?”
It’s a joke. It’s just a joke, and Minho couldn’t get hard again even if he tried , but something about the combination of Jisung’s scratchy little tease and the way he’s practically glued to his side has him seeing stars.
Maybe it’s also partially the fault of the way Chan groans into the mic, and then promptly jumps back when he realises his finger had still been on the intercom.
When he composes himself (and when he’s smacked Changbin over the back of the head for laughing at him), he leans in again.
“I think—I think we got what we needed,” he says hastily, almost endearingly shy. “Come on out again. Let’s give it a listen.”
As soon as Minho gets Jisung home, they stumble over to the couch and collapse into the cushions. The apartment is silent apart from the sounds of their laboured, post-stair-climbing breathing and the quiet hum of the air conditioning overhead. Soonie lifts his head from where he’d been napping on top of the cat tree when Minho kicks the front door closed behind them, but pays their arrival no mind as he returns to his sleep.
Jisung buries his face into the crook of Minho’s neck where he’s draped over him with a muffled hmph , liquid in his exhausted arms. They melt so well into one another, even though Jisung’s clothes feel sticky and they’re both grimy with sweat.
“We need to shower,” Minho mumbles, his hands finding the bruised skin of Jisung’s hips under his hoodie. He holds him, so gentle in comparison to the grip he’d had on him back in the studio—Jisung is so warm under his fingers, so smooth at the dip of his waist when Minho drags his hands up a little further. “We need to get you cleaned up.”
He noses at the side of Jisung’s face, kissing whatever he can reach. He wants to tell him a little more about how good he was today, wants to smother him in praise until Jisung gets too shy and has to shut him up. Minho never tires of complimenting him—he loves the way it makes Jisung squirm, loves the way his words paint him cherry red, so shy and so very pretty.
But Minho’s voice feels like a brick in the back of his throat, like it’ll betray him if he tries to push past the tiredness to speak more than he absolutely has to. He’ll have to bottle it up for now, save it for when he’s not this close to falling asleep.
“We can clean up later,” Jisung whines softly, his warm breath against Minho’s neck sending shivers up his spine. “You can’t fuck me like that and then expect me not to need a nap.”
Minho scoffs out a laugh at Jisung’s logic, but.. well, it makes sense, and a nap is tempting. The shock of what they’ve just done is still heavy in his chest—the giddy anticipation of living out one of their wildest fantasies is palpable, so real that Minho swears he can taste it. He’s not sure he’ll ever shake the mental image of how Chan and Changbin had looked at them out of his head, how they’d gotten so worked up by watching them that they simply couldn’t keep their hands off of themselves.
It settles inside of him like a zap of electricity, a current, sparklers ricocheting back and forth from one nerve ending to the other. They’d listened to the recording together, full volume in individual pairs of headsets and eyes cast down, hands folded in their laps because, contrary to what he’d thought, Minho’s dick continues to surprise him everyday. The second he’d heard Jisung’s breathy little whines played back in his ears, he had gotten hard again. At record speed.
He wonders what it’ll be like when they all inevitably have to face one another again. Will it be weird with the absence of the deplorable horniness that had spurred them on in the first place? Jisung’s pretty sounds will be in the background of one of their songs eventually—will Minho ever be able to listen to it without getting worked up?
“D’you think it’ll be awkward,” Jisung suddenly asks, like he’s somehow privy to what goes on in Minho’s mind, “when we see Chan hyun and Changbin hyung again?”
He doesn’t sound nervous about it, which is an achievement in and of itself when Jisung is concerned. If anything, his sleepy voice mirrors the post-climactic buzz in Minho’s veins pretty well.
If he focuses hard enough, he can almost hear the shy smile in Jisung’s voice.
“Maybe,” he says honestly. “It’s gonna be a great song, though. And that’s one fantasy we get to tick off the ever-growing list.”
Jisung snorts. “What’s next? Pet play? Piss? You wanted to try something with candle wax, last time we talked about this. Maybe we could—”
Minho takes one hand off of Jisung’s waist to reach up, pressing it over his mouth instead.
“Jisung,” he breathes, “I love you dearly, but if I get hard again , my dick will fall off. Please, for the love of god, shut up.”
Jisung laughs once more, only softer this time, and leaves a gentle kiss on the tips of Minho’s fingers. “Okay,” he relents, “but I will be accosting you about this when I wake up. Just a heads up.”
Minho rolls his eyes, pinching Jisung’s bottom lip in response. “I’m sure you will, ‘Sung,” he mumbles, smiling despite himself. “I’m sure you will.”