Chapter Text
Jisung wakes up first.
Not because he's a morning person — he's absolutely a night owl, typically up until 2 a.m. or later — but because there’s currently a heavy arm slung over his waist like Minho’s trying to stake a claim.
The arm tightens instinctively, Minho’s thumb brushing against the small of his back.
Cute, Jisung thinks, sleepily. Possessive, even now.
The sheets tangle around their legs, the skin sticking slightly where it touches. The air feels warm with a kind of lingering closeness, every brush of contact stirring something in his chest, like the lyrics of a love song he hasn’t written yet.
He turns to admire the rise and fall of Minho's bare shoulders, kissed golden by the morning light spilling in through the blinds. His lashes cast delicate shadows against his cheeks, lips parted — just slightly — each breath escaping in contented little sighs.
He swallows at the sight.
Minho looks so beautiful like this. Soft, in a way he rarely lets the world see.
Jisung finds himself completely mesmerized by the mess of hair falling over his brow, the faint bruises blooming along his collarbone, and the unguarded gentleness he wears so easily in his sleep.
He lets his thoughts drift, lips twitching into a thoroughly pleased smile.
Minho had bottomed for the first time… and he'd completely lost his mind.
Jisung can’t stop the flicker of heat from sparking in his stomach as he remembers it.
The way Minho clung to him and whined his name in that high, airy tone. How he’d clenched around him whenever Jisung's thrusts hit that certain spot.
‘Ugh yes, Sung-ah, fuck right there’
He bites the inside of his cheek to stop a giggle from escaping at the memory.
He hadn't really expected it to go like that.
Honestly? He’d thought Minho would freak out halfway through. Maybe get embarrassed and call it off like he had in the past.
But surprisingly, he hadn't.
Instead, he’d opened up — physically and emotionally — and by the end, he was positively ruined.
Jisung had never seen or felt Minho quite like that before. Raw and vulnerable. Unraveling in his hands, piece by piece, until the only thing left was Minho's body arching into his, teary eyes begging for more.
It had been hot.
Insanely hot.
One of the hottest things Jisung had ever witnessed.
And I’m the one who made him feel like that.
The thought curls fierce in his chest.
It wasn't just the sex — though it had been incredible — it was the way Minho had trusted him to take control. The little sounds of pleasure Minho had tried to muffle, but couldn't. How his breath hitched whenever Jisung moved just right, whispering filthy praises into his skin.
But what stayed with him most — even more than the heated moans, the trembling legs, and the flushed skin — was the way Minho had looked afterwards.
Eyes glassy. Lips parted. Hands gripping Jisung's arms like he couldn't bear to let go. Like he'd never felt more wanted. Never felt safer.
Jisung's throat tightens, the memory winding around his ribs and squeezing.
I made him feel that good. I made him feel so loved.
And that matters more than anything.
"Love you, Min,” he whispers softly, knowing the other won’t hear, yet saying it anyway. Not because he needs an answer, but because loving Minho always feels too big to keep to himself.
And fuck, he means it. Every word.
He kisses Minho’s shoulder, letting his lips wander over the constellation of bruises blooming beneath the skin.
Minho stirs at the contact with a soft inhale, nose scrunching slightly as he burrows further into Jisung’s embrace, like a cat chasing a warm patch of sunshine.
Jisung watches as he slowly wakes, all sleepy blinks and sulky pouts like the world owes him a few more minutes of rest. He looks dazed, pampered, and far too kissable for Jisung’s sanity.
"Morning, Jagi," Jisung grins, feeling extremely pleased with himself. "Had fun last night?"
Minho’s gaze focuses as it meets his, and he freezes like a deer caught in headlights. The tenderness vanishes almost instantly, leaving behind only a faint blush dusting the tips of his ears.
"Mmm, it was okay,” he yawns, lifting a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes.
"Okay?"
That catches Jisung off guard.
He feels his mouth fall into a frown, eyebrows rising in genuine confusion. "Not life changing? Not mind-blowing? Just… okay?"
Minho just blinks back, his expression annoyingly unfazed. "Yeah. Why?"
"Oh , I don't know," Jisung huffs, propping himself up on one elbow to study him more closely. "Just thinking about the noises you made… seemed much more than okay to me."
But then Minho rolls away, flopping onto his back with a dramatic groan — and that’s when it clicks.
Ohhh, that’s what this is.
He’s deflecting.
Jisung's pout vanishes, immediately replaced by a knowing grin. Because of course Minho’s downplaying it. The second his voice went flat — too casual, too composed — Jisung should’ve known he was full of shit. It’s denial. Classic, stubborn, pride-soaked Minho denial.
And for Jisung, it's like fuel to a flame.
"Really?” He hums, bringing a hand to his chin and pretending to think hard. “Because I distinctly remember you begging."
"I did not!"
"You said please."
"That's not the same thing."
"I'm quoting you here. You said 'Please Sung-ah, fuck yes, don’t stop, harder.’ Did you not?"
Minho covers his face with one arm, attempting to hide as the blush spreads to his cheeks.
"Doesn't count," he says quickly, like rushing the words out might make them true.
"Doesn't count?" Jisung exclaims, watching with glee as Minho squirms beneath the weight of his own bullshit. "Hyung, you were shaking. My dick game had you crying tears of joy."
Still buried under his arm, Minho mutters an ‘I hate you’ under his breath, but Jisung catches it.
"No, you don't,” he crows, completely delighted now, laughing softly. "You love me, especially when I do that thing with my tongue…"
Minho uses his other hand to try and bat him away. "You're enjoying this way too much," he grumbles, but the lack of denial speaks volumes.
Jisung shifts out of reach with practiced ease.
"I haven't even gotten to the part where you whimpered,” he giggles, eyes sparkling. “Full on whimpered, Min."
That earns him a half-hearted glare from beneath Minho’s arm. "You're unbearable, you know that?"
"And you're in deep, deep denial,” Jisung shoots back immediately. “Not exactly your best look… or your most believable.”
"I'm not," Minho insists, trying to sound firm and failing spectacularly. "I'm in total control."
"Sure you are," Jisung hums, giving him a skeptical look, and before Minho can form a snarky reply, he moves, fast and smooth, like a viper striking its prey.
In one clean motion, he grabs Minho's wrists, pushing them toward the headboard, making the other freeze in surprise.
"Why don't you show me that control then?"
Minho's hips buck in response.
Oh, fuck, Jisung thinks. There it is.
That instinctive reaction, Minho moving without thought and chasing the touch like Jisung lit a fuse inside him. He’s barely even touched him, and Minho’s already needing more.
God, he loves it.
"You know what I think?" Jisung murmurs, mouth brushing close to Minho’s ear. "I think you're aching for me to do it again."
Minho makes a noise — something between a scoff and a curse — but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even try resisting.
That’s all the permission Jisung needs, rising up just enough to flip him over — effortless, like Minho was always meant to be handled like this.
Minho lets out a startled breath as he lands chest-first against the mattress, Jisung pinning his wrists behind his back and pressing his hips into the sheets.
He follows easily, straddling the backs of Minho’s thighs and settling over him, chest flush to his back.
And fuck, the way Minho tenses beneath him, muscles coiled tight, thighs pressing together like he’s trying not to fall apart too fast. He bites down on his lip, clearly attempting to stifle all the noises threatening to spill out, but his body gives him away. It’s all there, and it’s enough.
Enough to confirm everything Jisung already knows.
Enough to make him grin as he leans in, ready to ruin him all over again.
"You remember this?" Jisung purrs, fingers flexing around Minho’s wrists. "Exactly where you were last night."
Minho squirms in a very half-hearted attempt to escape. "Get off me."
"Ask me nicely, Min."
Minho lets out a growl, though it's mostly muffled by the pillow.
Jisung rocks his hips down, grinding his slowly hardening cock into Minho from behind with just a hint of pressure to make him gasp, but not nearly enough to satisfy either of them.
Minho arches in response, his back curving like his body’s answering before his mouth can, and then it happens.
That sound again.
A whimper.
Shy and raw. Slipping out of Minho's throat before he can stop it.
Jisung goes completely still — lips still resting against Minho’s neck where he’d been lazily mouthing at the skin — a pleased smile blooming across his features at the noise.
It's breathy, broken, torn from Minho like a plea he can’t take back. And god, it’s so beautiful.
"There it is," Jisung whispers, unable to hold back the fondness in his voice. "That's the sound you made last night. Over and over, Hyung."
He punctuates his words with another slow roll of his hips, earning a second whimper — softer this time.
"You loved it," he murmurs, biting his lip as he swallows down a moan. "Clinging to me like you never wanted it to end."
"Sung-ah —"
"Say it wasn't just okay,” Jisung urges, continuing to press kisses along Minho's nape, taunting and tender all at once. "Come on, Min, say it. For me?”
Minho stubbornly clenches his jaw, but Jisung feels him trembling beneath him — sensitive and needy — yet trying so hard to save face.
To keep up the act.
But Jisung has never fallen for it, not even once. He knows Minho better than he knows himself.
"All those pretty noises last night," he teases, trailing his fingers down Minho’s thigh. “And now nothing?"
Still no response.
“ You’re really gonna keep pretending? ” he asks, giving Minho one last chance to swallow his pride and admit how badly he wants this.
Minho, however, just scoffs. "There's nothing to pretend,” he snaps, voice cracking slightly despite the glare he sends the headboard.
Fine then, Jisung thinks. Minho wants to play it that way? Game on.
Minho might be too proud to admit it. Too stubborn to say how much he wants to be touched, undone, and taken apart, all over again.
But Jisung? He’s done asking nicely.
He gets up, settling beside Minho like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just had his hands all over him, mouthing at his neck, body pressed tightly against the other.
He doesn’t miss the way Minho blinks, clearly caught off guard, like he didn’t think Jisung would actually leave him wanting.
“Wha—what are you doing?” Minho asks, voice tight with disbelief, but Jisung notices the flicker of frustration beneath it — of need, raw and impossible to hide.
He shrugs, leaning down to slip on a pair of sweats discarded next to the bed. "Stopping."
“You’re just… stopping?” Minho sputters, mouth hanging open slightly as he sits up. “What—why?"
“Because I’m not doing anything, until you admit you liked it,” Jisung’s tone is calm, unapologetic.
He reaches out, gently nudging Minho’s jaw shut before tipping it up, making him meet his gaze. “No touching. No kissing. Nothing.”
Minho rolls his eyes, pulling away from his hand with a huff. “That’s ridiculous,” he scoffs.
Jisung doesn’t flinch. Just arches a brow, completely unbothered. “Is it?”
He lets the silence stretch, allowing Minho to feel the emptiness between them and the lingering traces of heat from before, hanging heavy in the air.
Minho, for his part, refuses to look at Jisung, opting instead to stare straight ahead, breathing shallowly like admitting anything would cost him something he couldn't afford to lose.
So goddamn stubborn.
Well, Jisung can be stubborn too.
"I can wait all day, Min."
Minho’s eyes narrow, defiance etched into every line of his face. “Great. I’m still not saying it.”
Jisung doesn’t bother with a reply. He just stands there, watching Minho squirm as his lack of response sinks in.
And sure enough, his composure starts to crack.
“You’re not getting me to say it, Jisung,” he huffs, voice tight with irritation.
A small laugh escapes Jisung before he can stop it, soft and sharp, all at once. "We both know I already did, Hyung. Last night, over and over."
He watches as color rises up the back of Minho’s neck, tinting the tips of his ears.
Minho’s fists clench — like he’s trying to hold onto the last scraps of composure — but it’s useless. Jisung can see right through it. Can see Minho’s fingers twitch slightly where they rest in his lap, like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
He’s embarrassed. God, Jisung finds it unbearably endearing… and maybe just a touch satisfying.
Without breaking eye contact, he tugs on a shirt before bending to pull on his shoes, daring Minho to let him walk away.
But Minho doesn't say a word, watching Jisung’s form with hungry eyes while biting the inside of his cheek like he's physically holding the words back.
Jisung rakes a hand through his hair, letting out a disappointed sigh and turning toward the door. He doesn't need a dramatic exit. The silence says everything for him.
Still, when his fingers brush the doorframe, he pauses, just long enough to glance over his shoulder.
"You know where to find me," he adds with a wink, lips curling into a smug little grin. "When you're ready to be honest with yourself."
His gaze flicks to Minho’s fists, clenched tight in the blanket, knuckles pale from how hard he’s gripping.
Jisung shakes his head at the stubbornness, letting the moment stretch a beat longer before he leaves.
The door clicks shut behind him, and Jisung knows Minho’s not just hearing the sound, he’s feeling it.
Minho might've lasted this round, but they both know who'll be crawling back first.
**********
The practice room feels too warm, the mirrors fogging at the edges from the heat.
Everything is too loud. Too bright. Too Jisung.
Minho doesn't understand how one person can take up so much space without saying a single word.
He stares at his own reflection, trying to focus on the choreography. On the beat, on the steps, on anything, but Jisung.
It's impossible.
And the worst part? He isn't even doing anything.
Jisung hasn’t looked at him properly all day, not since he left this morning. No teasing, no smirks, no mentions of last night. He’s just been… normal, like he hadn’t fucked Minho’s brains out the night before, completely wrecking him.
That’s what messes with him the most.
Because Jisung never actually follows through, always talking big, but never really walking away. He’s impulsive. Clingy. Always chasing what he wants, without hesitation.
But now he’s just sitting there, calm as ever, while Minho’s brain short-circuits — stuck replaying every second Jisung had him gasping into the pillows.
And it’s driving him insane.
Jisung’s currently laughing at something stupid Seungmin said, head thrown back, hair messy from rehearsal, and shirt clinging to his back in places Minho definitely isn’t staring at. Mid-laugh, he shoves Seungmin’s chest, playful and friendly in a way Minho knows is harmless.
His gaze remains firmly glued to the contact anyway.
Then, just as Seungmin opens his mouth — no doubt to fire off some dry, sarcastic response — Jisung presses two fingers to his lips to shush him, eyes dancing with mischief.
Minho’s breath catches.
It’s just Seungmin.
Jisung does this sort of stuff all the time, and on any other day, he wouldn’t bat an eye.
But today? Today, he’s strung like a live wire, and the flick of Jisung’s fingers against someone else’s mouth makes something hot and irrational curl low in his gut.
Suddenly, concentrating on anything else feels impossible.
"Minho-hyung, you’re off beat… again," Hyunjin calls out, nodding toward the mirror, confusion evident on his face.
Shit.
He'd missed the step. Again.
Minho almost never misses a step, and certainly never twice.
Resetting his footing, he clenches his jaw as he tries to refocus on the choreography. Meanwhile, Jisung hasn’t even noticed, still just chatting away, eyes bright with joy.
Minho looks away fast, but it's too late. His mind is already going there.
Going back to last night.
Jisung above him. Gripping his hips. Sinking in like he owns every inch. He can still feel the ache in his thighs, the way his body didn't hesitate to open up under the younger, as if it was made to.
He watches as Jisung pulls his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his neck, exposing the lean stretch of muscle across his stomach. Sees the dip of his waist and the subtle flex of his arms as he moves, sending a jolt of need racing down Minho’s spine.
Swallowing hard, he tries to concentrate on the steps, but Jisung refuses to give him any reprieve, using up all his remaining brain cells as he lightly massages his bicep.
Minho had seen those arms last night.
Felt them hold him steady, intense and unrelenting, as Jisung fucked into him with devastating precision. He hadn't let go, even when Minho had clutched at him, whimpering as he fell apart.
But now, Jisung’s just sipping water like he didn't rearrange his insides. Like Minho didn't sob his name when he came.
It's infuriating, to put it mildly.
Minho refuses to say one simple word and finds himself stuck in a self-inflicted hell of his own making.
However, it turns out that the real torture begins during their cooldown.
They've just finished running the choreo three times in a row. Everyone's exhausted, knees buckling and sweat dripping into their eyes. The room falls quiet with the kind of collective silence that only happens when everyone is too tired to make any jokes.
Jisung eases into a deep lunge, hips opening with the stretch, palms flat against the floor. Minho’s eyes are on him before he can stop himself, and suddenly his hands feel too warm — sweat slicking his palms until his water bottle slips right out of them, clattering to the ground.
It hits the floor with a thud, rolling loudly in the silence until it hits Chan's shoe.
Everyone looks up.
Chan glances down at his foot, then back up at Minho, taking the time to study the other’s strained expression, eyebrows creasing with worry. "You good, Min? You’ve been off all day today.”
"I'm fine,” he manages to choke out around the lump in his throat.
"Okay…" Chan concedes, raising his arms in surrender before nudging the bottle back towards him. "Just checking."
Minho snatches it off the floor, glaring like it had personally offended him before turning sharply to face the mirror, away from whatever the hell Jisung’s doing with that stretch.
But of course, he still sees it.
In the corner of his eyes, Jisung shifts into another position — this time on his stomach, back arching as he pushes up on his palms. His shirt rides up just enough to show a sliver of sweaty, honey-colored skin while his head tilts back, teeth sinking into his bottom lip and eyes closing in concentration.
Minho just about stops breathing, eyes going wide at the almost pornographic scene in front of him.
And then Jisung rocks forwards and outright moans — a strained, breathy sound that has no business echoing in a public space.
It isn't an ‘I’m in pain’ moan.
More like an ‘I'm buried balls deep in my boyfriend’ moan.
Jisung had made that noise when he was fucking into him — hips snapping forward, head dropping low to whisper obscenities into Minho's ear as he came, spilling deep inside him with one last thrust.
Minho's thighs tense with the need to throw himself at the other, his grip on his sweat towel tightening in a pathetic attempt to stay grounded.
Jisung’s brow furrows, hair plastered to his forehead, sweat sliding down the same neck Minho had kissed, bitten, and clung to while being pounded into the mattress until he forgot his own name.
His pulse spikes, and suddenly he’s not in the practice room anymore — he’s under Jisung again, every flex of muscle and every sigh from those too-pink lips bringing him right back to last night.
His hold on the towel now threatens to rip the poor thing in half.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he hisses across the room.
“… He’s stretching, Min," Hyunjin responds, genuine confusion written all over his face, clearly not seeing the problem.
The problem in question flutters his lashes, wearing a practiced, wide-eyed look that makes Minho want to throttle him — or something else entirely.
"That's not stretching—that's—" Minho gestures vaguely, violently, like there’s no safe way to finish that sentence without incriminating himself. "You know exactly what you're doing!"
"What?" Jisung’s tone is pure innocence, but his eyes glint like he’s daring Minho to call him out. "I’m just loosening up, Hyung."
He tilts his head, still in that sinfully arched position, and now, daring to wear a puzzled expression. "You seem… tense, Jagiya."
Minho tries for a scoff, but it comes out strangled, sounding more wounded than unimpressed.
He swallows hard, watching the slow, fluid way Jisung rises to his feet, like his body was made to be admired.
By the time Jisung’s standing behind him, lips curling in the faintest smirk, Minho’s already dizzy from the intoxicating mix of sweat and cologne clinging to the air between them.
"I can help, you know," he offers gently, voice just loud enough for the others to hear and feigning nonchalance. "If you're feeling tight."
Minho snorts, even as his gaze betrays him, following a bead of sweat sliding beneath Jisung’s collar. “I’m not—” He starts, realizing too late where his words are heading to stop them. “…begging for anything.”
A giggle blooms instantly in Jisung’s throat, clearly delighting in Minho’s stumble. “When did I say anything about begging?” He purrs, his tone syrupy-sweet, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Minho clenches his jaw, biting back a retort, already hearing the way Jisung would twist it around.
God, I’m so fucking stupid.
He shouldn't have opened his mouth. Shouldn't have said anything. Shouldn't have let Jisung’s words get to him. Again.
Jisung’s tone turns soft, threading heat across Minho’s skin. “I’m not making you beg, I just want you to admit how badly you want me,” he whispers, too low for anyone else to catch. “Do that, and I'll give you exactly what you need."
Minho's brain instantly turns to mush.
His spine stiffens — or tries to, anyway — even as his whole body traitorously melts under the weight of his voice, the closeness, the way each word makes his resolve slowly crumble.
Behind them, Changbin is watching with a knowing smirk, arms crossed like he’s witnessing the best k-drama of his life. Next to him, Felix sips from his water bottle slowly, eyes darting between them, glittering with barely concealed amusement.
Chan sits hunched near the speaker, letting out an exasperated sigh. "You know I fully support you two," he says, shaking his head. "But not in the rehearsal room.”
Seungmin, meanwhile, doesn't even bother looking up from his own stretch. "I sincerely hope you both pull something."
Jeongin just stands and makes a beeline straight to the door without saying a word.
"Wait, where are you going, Iyen-ah?" Hyunjin calls after him with a confused frown.
"Far, far away," Jeongin shouts back, refusing to turn around or elaborate further.
Hyunjin hesitates for a second, Minho watching the gears shift in his head as he looks between him and Jisung before scrambling after Jeongin. "Did I miss something?!"
He takes a steadying breath, the others’ comments serving as a jarring reminder that he and Jisung are very much not alone.
His ears are currently on fire and he’s silently pleading with his hardening cock to calm down — still gripping the towel like it’s the only thing tethering him to sanity.
Thank god it’s hiding him from the waist down, because his dick has decided now is the perfect time to announce itself, and the last thing he needs is to advertise just how affected he’s feeling to a room full of witnesses.
But of course, Jisung notices.
He always does.
His gaze dips, lingering on the towel like he can see right through it before slowly lifting to meet Minho's eyes with a sly, cocky smile.
"Oh," he exclaims, licking his lips — smug as hell — and Minho can’t stop himself from following the movement in the mirror. "So, so tense."
Minho's eye twitches. He's going to kill him. Or kiss him. Potentially both.
Jisung lets his lips just barely brush the shell of his ear. "You know… I could take care of that for you,” he offers, voice almost sounding sweet, but heavy with something that makes Minho’s breath catch.
Minho lets out a noise that can only be described as pained defiance.
Seungmin sighs like a man who’s seen too much and suffered deeply. “I’m going to start charging you for involving me in your foreplay.”
Changbin makes a strangled sound like he's trying — and failing — to hold in a new bout of laughter, while Felix bites his lip, physically vibrating at the chaotic scene unfolding before him.
Minho feels like he’s on the verge of spontaneous combustion. One whisper away from exploding due to sheer, pent up horny energy.
Chan, meanwhile, looks visibly red, frustration and embarrassment coloring his face in equal measures.
He turns slowly from where he’s messing with the music, pausing to survey the room as if he's inspecting a crime scene.
"Can you two just... not? For five minutes. Please? I’m begging you."
Changbin doesn’t miss a beat, giving Jisung a shit-eating grin.“Wow, you really got Chan-hyung to beg before Minho? That’s wild.”
He turns to Minho, letting out an almost maniacal giggle. “Look, Min. Chan is already better at saying please than you are!”
There’s a half-second of Chan’s incoherent sputtering before Felix — mid-sip of water — absolutely loses it.
Minho watches it happen in slow motion, dread coiling in his stomach as Felix chokes out a snort, spraying a mouthful of water directly into Seungmin’s face.
There’s a beat of stunned silence, the kind that sucks all the air out of the room.
Seungmin freezes, water dripping down his furious expression.
“Oh my god!” Felix gasps, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Min, I —”
“I’m going to kill you both,” Seungmin calmly says through gritted teeth, like he’s delivering a weather report, not even looking at Felix.
Wiping his face with the disdain of someone who knows exactly who to blame and is already planning revenge, he gazes at Minho — wordlessly, like he’s trying to burn a hole through his soul, using only eye contact and repressed rage.
Minho winces, like the sheer weight of Seungmin’s judgment physically stings. His towel remains front and center, the only thing protecting him against public indecency charges and the pitiful death of his bruised ego.
Seungmin’s glare snaps to Jisung, eyes narrowing. “This is your fault,” he says, voice like a blade. “You started all of this and now you’re just fanning the flames.”
Jisung smiles without a hint of remorse.
He’s not just fanning the flames, Minho thinks. He is the flames.
And Minho? He’s the idiot standing dead center in the middle of a wildfire, pretending he’s not already burning alive.
"You're actually trying to kill me, aren’t you?"
“Obviously,” Jisung winks, full of boyish charm, like he knows exactly how far he can push. “Is it working?”
Minho forces a scowl, hoping it masks the heat creeping back up his neck.
“Keep this up and you’ll be limping next practice,” he mutters, trying to sound intimidating, but it comes out much rougher than he intends.
Jisung tilts his head, considering his threat for a moment before his lips twitch into a grin. "Bold of you to assume I'm the one who'll be limping, Hyung."
A pang of heat flares deep in his stomach at the implication of Jisung’s words, in spite of everything.
Chan lets out a defeated groan, shoving his face in his hands at the realization that his words are about as effective as pouring water on a grease fire.
Felix buries his face in the curve of Changbin’s hoodie-covered shoulder, wheezing into the fabric as he tries to muffle his laughter.
And Seungmin — the earlier fury now replaced with a blank expression — grumbles, still mid-stretch, “nobody wants to know who’s topping who."
Changbin raises a hand. "Um… I do, actually," he says, voice annoyingly eager. "For scientific purposes. It’s important research, you know?”
Felix lets out a thoughtful hum, eyes narrowing as he considers Seungmin’s words.
“I would've guessed Minho-hyung was topping,” he muses far too casually. “I mean… It's Minho-hyung. All he has to do is look at Sung and he’s two seconds from creaming his pants. If that’s not top energy, I really don’t know what is.”
Minho chokes on air.
Jisung groans, hiding his face in his hands. “Yah! I told you that in twin confidence, Lix,” he whines, Minho catching as the pink flush blooms across his cheeks.
Felix just shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “Oops… Sorry, Sung-ah.”
He doesn’t sound remotely sorry. Not at all.
For a second, Minho thinks Jisung might get flustered — hopes that maybe this will even the playing field — but then he exhales, shoulders relaxing as that familiar spark lights behind his eyes.
He straightens, composure sliding back into place like it never left, lips curling into the kind of smirk that makes Minho want to disappear into the floor.
“He usually does.”
The words come light, but there’s a glint in his eye. An absolutely filthy one. He lets the silence hang for dramatic effect before continuing.
“But we wanted to change things up,” Jisung continues with a sunny smile before delivering the fatal blow. “And you should see him underneath me, legs spread and trembling, drooling all over the pillow while he cries for me to keep going.”
Seungmin doesn’t even flinch. Eyes flat, voice like a knife, he mutters. “Great. Now that’s burned into my brain forever. Really appreciate it, guys.”
Changbin, on the other hand, his eyes light up like someone has just offered him a year’s worth of free protein shakes. "Hold on—hold on—nobody move," he frantically scrambles to open his phone. "I need to add this to my collection."
Felix laughs, already halfway to the floor from a new bout of giggles. "For science?”
"Yeah, of course," Changbin nods, still typing.
"Right… and you’d also let JYP-nim name your firstborn child?”
“Uh-huh,” Changbin replies, not even sparing him a glance.
That makes Felix cackle even harder, clutching his stomach and wiping his eyes. "Bin didn't hear a single word!”
Seungmin moves to crouch behind Changbin, sneaking a peek at his phone. "Are we gonna ignore the fact that Bin-ah has what is pretty much a ‘Minsung scrapbook’ on his phone?"
Changbin pauses, mid-scroll. His thumb hovers above the screen, motionless, like it’s forgotten how to function. "It's a scientific research folder.”
"It has emojis and gifs."
"They're for categorization!"
Chan lets out a strangled noise of disbelief. "Why are we even having this conversation?!"
"Because you didn't stop us fast enough," Felix responds, grinning as he twirls his hair around his finger with way too much delight.
"I tried,” Chan points out. “But it just keeps getting worse!"
Jisung — looking far too pleased with himself — smirks at Chan in response. "You should be more grateful for the entertainment, Hyung."
Minho watches the chaos unfolding in front of him, towel still held like a shield, groaning and turning toward the door.
"I'm leaving," he yells out to no one in particular. "And I'm taking my towel with me."
Nobody stops him.
Chan is currently lying face down on the floor like a dead starfish.
Seungmin is — well… Seungmin. Silently judging everyone with the kind of withering stare that could curdle milk.
Meanwhile, Felix and Changbin are too busy giggling at carefully labeled tabs like ‘Minsung Eyefucking: a complete timeline.’
Seungmin squints at one, brows furrowing. "Did you seriously name this 'The Backdoer Era?' "
Changbin grins proudly, like he just solved world hunger with a goddamn bottoming joke. "Yup, like 'Backdoor', but sexy. Get it?"
Felix’s eyes widen as he nods, somehow following Changbin’s train of thought seamlessly. “That’s seriously genius!” he breathes, like it just blew his mind.
"It's seriously illiterate," Seungmin replies, letting out an exasperated sigh through his nose.
Without warning, he flicks Changbin on the head with alarming precision.
"Ow —what was that for?"
"You know what it was for."
Changbin frowns and pouts dramatically, rubbing his forehead. "You used to be nicer to me."
Seungmin doesn’t miss a beat. “And you used to have abs.”
The room falls silent for half a second before Felix and Jisung lose it, choking on their laughter. Even Minho — halfway out the door — finds he can’t stop the small chuckle that escapes, in spite of himself.
Changbin looks at him, scandalized, but there’s no real bite behind it. “You little menace.”
Before Seungmin can react, he whirls around and tackles him onto the ground with a dramatic yell.
Seungmin lets out an unflattering squawk, wriggling beneath him. “Ugh —get off! You’re heavier than you used to be.”
“I’m just smothering you with my love, Min,” Changbin coos, making ridiculously loud kissy faces right in his ear.
"Fine, you have abs," Seungmin grumbles, trying to shove the other off him in vain. "Now move, preferably, before I become a pancake."
Then, out of nowhere, Felix launches himself on top of the pile. “CUDDLE PUDDLE!”
Seungmin groans, now fully flattened on the floor underneath both of them. “This is actual hell.”
But he doesn’t fight them off.
And even with his face smushed against the smooth marley flooring, Minho can see the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to smile.
Chan lets out a sad, defeated groan, rubbing his temples with a sigh. "At this rate, I'm gonna have a heart attack by the time I’m thirty."
Minho snorts under his breath and turns back toward the exit, determined to finally escape to safety.
And that’s when he feels it, that flicker of heat.
He glances over his shoulder… and of course, Jisung is already watching him.
He doesn't say a word, just meets Minho’s eyes and winks. The kind that says ‘run all you want, I'll still have you begging.’
Minho's dick throbs, traitorously.
He storms out of the studio like a man fleeing the scene of a crime — one he didn't necessarily commit — but definitely participated in, internally screaming at the fading sound of Jisung's laugh.
By the time he makes it back to the dorm, the only thing standing between him and jerking off in the bathroom is sheer pettiness — a deliberate act of self-denial, like suffering might make up for how easily Jisung got to him.
His dick aches, straining for relief, and the towel clutched in his hands has now been officially named his ‘Emotional Support Towel’.
As it stands, it’s the sole barrier between him storming back into the studio and pouncing on Jisung in front of everyone.
And Jisung hadn’t even touched him.
He doesn't bother checking his phone until the fourth ping in thirty seconds. With a resigned groan, he rolls over, unlocking and bracing for impact.
The group chat is lighting up like a kindergarten class armed with fireworks and no adult supervision.
Of course it is.
[The (SKZ) Zoo 🐺🐰🐷🦙🐿️🐥🐶🦊]
🐷🐇Gym Goblin: Two hours max before he caves. Mark my words.
🐿️Skrrrt: Bold of you to assume he lasts past dinner🤭😏
🐥Oven Fairy: Do I get bonus points if he caves during dinner?🤔
🦙Drama Prince: Who's caving during dinner? Seriously, what did I miss? Innie refuses to speak😭😩
🐷🐇Gym Goblin: Jisung moaned in the middle of a stretch and Minho popped a boner🤣🤣🤣
🦙Drama Prince: OMG he popped a love boner?🥹
🐺Sleepy Grandpa: No more talking about Minho's alleged boner😅
🐿️Skrrrt: It definitely wasn't alleged 😏
🐰Whipped: WHAT THE HELL😾
🦊Baby Bread: I'M A BABY😩
🦊Baby Bread: A SWEET INNOCENT CHILD😭😭
🐶Grumpy Puppy: You'll both be hearing from my lawyers btw. Emotional distress, Visual trauma, Auditory crimes
🐶Grumpy Puppy: I'm suing for ₩100,000 plus ₩75,000 per addition moan
🦙Drama Prince: Oh my god this is what love looks like
🦙Drama Prince: The towel is a metaphor for vulnerability🥹
🦙Drama Prince: He's not just covering his body. He's shielding his heart😭🙏❤️
🐶Grumpy Puppy: Pretty sure he was just shielding his dick😐
🦊Baby Bread: I'M GONNA THROW UP 🤢
🦙Drama Prince: I'm crying it's so raw😭😭😭
🐿️Skrrrt: Hyung cries when I get raw with him😋🤫
🐺Sleepy Grandpa: Can we please refrain from using the word 'raw'?🫣
🦊Baby Bread: SOMEONE GET ME SOME HOLY WATER 😖😫
🐷🐇Gym Goblin: My money's still on him folding before 8
🐿️Skrrrt: I’ll happily fold him before 8 😋
🐥Oven Fairy: 7:30 if Jisung moans again
🐶Grumpy Puppy: Midnight. Minho's too stubborn to lose a bet even if it means blue-balling himself into next week
🐰Whipped: I am blocking every single one of you😾🖕
🐷🐇Gym Goblin: MINHO JUST ADMIT YOU LIKE IT WHEN HE TOPS
🐰Whipped: I WILL NOT
🐿️Skrrrt: But you DID😉
🐥Oven Fairy: Confirm or deny you whimpered🤭
🦊Baby Bread: OH MY GOD
🐷🐇Gym Goblin: MINHO'S SAYING NOTHING = CONFIRMATION😏
🦙Drama Prince: Sometimes we say nothing to protect our hearts, not just our asses🥺💔
🐺Sleepy Grandpa: We are traumatizing our poor maknae 😭🥺
🐶Grumpy Puppy: Nobody's forcing him to read this
🦊Baby Bread: I JUST OPENED MY PHONE TO CHECK THE TIME
🐥Oven Fairy: Mistake 1 🫡
🐷🐇Gym Goblin: Mistake 2 was not muting us
🦙Drama Prince: I'm making a painting of this… should I post it?👀
🐺Sleepy Grandpa: DO NOT POST ANYTHING❌
🦙Drama Prince: Should I add sparkles?
🐥Oven Fairy: YES!!!!!
🐺Sleepy Grandpa: IS ANYBODY LISTENING?
🐶Grumpy Puppy: When have we ever listened?
🐿️Skrrrt: Add a leash while you're at it😏
🦊Baby Bread: HUH?!?!?
🐥Oven Fairy: OMG THERE WAS A LEASH INVOLVED? 😱
🐷🐇Gym Goblin: DOCUMENTING THIS RIGHT NOW✍️
🐰Whipped: THERE WAS NO LEASH😤🙄
🐷🐇Gym Goblin: THERE IS NOW
🐺Sleepy Grandpa: I GIVE UP😭😩😖
🐿️Skrrrt: So… does anyone wanna hear about how Minho-hyung whined when I bit his thigh? 😇
🐶Grumpy Puppy: I can’t think of anything I’d wanna hear less
🐥Oven Fairy: OMG ME👀
🐷🐇Gym Goblin: ME TOO🙋♂️
🦙Drama Prince: Of course I do! 😍
Minho throws his phone before he’s forced to read anything more.
Not hard. Just far enough to hit his desk chair and bounce to the ground harmlessly. He groans and flops onto his bed, arm over his face, body teeming with frustration.
What the hell is wrong with him?
He wants it. That isn't the issue.
God, he wants it so bad it hurts.
Jisung on top of him, breathless and wrecking him. That teasing voice in his ear, the punishing rhythm of his hips, and the way he looks down at Minho like he’s something to be devoured.
Minho liked it. He loved it. He’s still craving it… and yet he can't make himself say one simple word.
Please.
Just that.
Please, Jisung. Please, again. Please, harder.
The word stays stuck in his throat, almost like if he lets it out, he'd risk losing something he couldn't get back.
But what exactly is that something? Is it control? Pride? Some paper-thin illusion of composure he's clinging to?
With a frustrated growl, he flops onto his stomach, limbs splayed and face shoved into his pillow like he’s trying to suffocate the shame out of himself.
Jisung already knows how close to caving he is. He'd seen the way Minho fell apart beneath him, heard every cry and whimper the night before.
And today, in the practice room, Jisung had tested every last ounce of his restraint, clearly hoping he’d break.
Minho can still picture it clearly. Jisung stretched out on the floor, sweat-damp and smug, dragging one palm slowly down his own thigh. That little glance over the shoulder, the smirk playing on his lips. It wasn't just teasing. It was a full-blown challenge.
His brain spins with flashes. Every breath feels like hot glass. Every blink brings another memory he didn't ask for.
The way Jisung had gripped his hips. The deliciously full feeling. The way Minho had melted beneath him.
His fists clench the comforter like it might pull him out of his horny haze of thoughts.
But sadly, it doesn't.
He flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling, chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths — the need in his stomach simmering low and stubborn, the ache between his legs refusing to fade no matter how he lies.
He can't stay here.
Not in this bed that still smells faintly like Jisung.
Every inch of the room feels too full of him — soaked in the ghost of his hands, voice, and mouth. Minho’s body won't stop remembering even as his pride frays at the edges, two more thoughts away from cracking.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, elbows braced on his knees. His hoodie is on the chair. His sneakers are by the door.
And before he can talk himself out of it, he moves, grabbing his discarded phone before slipping out.
No plan. No destination. Just… away from here.
For a while, he just sits on a bench two blocks from the dorm, head tipped back, watching the sky darken shade by shade. His phone buzzes a few more times, but he forces himself to ignore it.
Next, he runs until the streets blur together. Until his legs start to tingle and the cold air stings just enough to keep him grounded.
Then, he stops at a convenience store and buys a cup of pudding. Not out of spite — he actually loves pudding — and to be fair, it’s quite good.
Creamy, smooth, exactly the brand he likes.
But it doesn’t fix anything.
He leans against the wall outside, eating in slow, contemplative silence like a man spiraling, eyes unfocused and heart thumping loudly.
Because somehow, Jisung has even managed to ruin pudding.
By the time the ache in his chest dulls into a steady throb and the city quiets around him, it’s late and he finds himself swiping into the dance studio.
He’s met with silence. No distractions. No noise.
Minho lets the door close behind him with a soft click, the familiarity of mirrored walls and polished floor under his sneakers, a welcome distraction.
Maybe he just needs to move.
He's spent too long stewing in his head, too long imagining things he refuses to let himself ask for.
So, he hits play.
The music blasts instantly, loud and sharp, no buildup, no grace. Just percussion and notes and something to put his unresolved tension into.
He doesn't bother marking anything. No warm-up or intention of pacing himself — his body snapping through the movements as if he were chasing something, or rather, trying to outrun it.
He can still feel everything, though.
Jisung's hands. His voice.
He hits the beats harder.
Again. And again.
His breath comes out in short bursts, chest heaving, legs burning, but it isn't enough. His brain won't shut up. His skin still buzzes and Jisung's face — along with that damn smile — keeps flashing behind his eyes with every step.
Say it.
And Minho almost had.
He stops moving, hands resting on his knees and sweat dripping down his neck. Not from exertion, but frustration.
What is he doing?
This isn't helping. It never does when the problem isn't in his muscles. It's lower. Deeper.
Minho straightens slowly and turns toward the mirror.
His reflection stares back, flushed and wrecked, chest rising and falling. He doesn’t look like he’d been dancing though, he looks like he'd lost a fight.
If he’s honest with himself, he already knows what he wants.
But he isn’t sure he’s prepared to lose this invisible battle of wills.
He barely hears the door open, instead catching the movement in the mirror — a shadow behind him — as Jisung smoothly slips inside.
Of course, he’d found him.
His black shirt is tight, clinging to the definition in his chest and biceps like it was handpicked to show them off, the sleeves hugging the curve of his shoulders.
And those gray sweatpants.
Fitted at the waist, loose in the thighs — the kind that dips whenever he stretches or reaches overhead — hanging just low enough to flash the waistband of black briefs beneath.
Minho's gaze catches on the exposed strip of honey skin. The sharp cut of his hipbone. That fucking peek of elastic.
His throat dries out instantly.
It isn't just hot.
It’s targeted.
Jisung doesn't just look good, he looks intentional. Like he knows exactly what he's doing and exactly how it's driving Minho insane.
And when he finally looks up, meeting Minho's eyes through the mirror, he smirks.
"Are you always this dramatic when you're horny?" He asks, his voice low and teasing.
Minho doesn’t answer. He doesn’t trust himself.
Not when the wrong word could come out.
Not when there’s a very real chance he’ll do something humiliating, like whimper.
Jisung walks in slowly, eyes dragging down Minho's sweat-slick frame, not even bothering to hide it.
"You’re trying to dance it off?" he continues, licking his lips. "Burn the need out?"
Minho's jaw twitches. He hates how easily Jisung reads him. Like a book he’s already memorized.
Jisung cocks his head, giving him a look full of faux sympathy. "Mmm, and how's that working out for you?"
Minho still says nothing. He won’t give Jisung the satisfaction. Not now, not when he’s already hanging by a thread.
Jisung moves closer, close enough for Minho to feel the heat of him. He doesn't touch yet, but he doesn't need to.
"You've been holding it in all day," he murmurs, voice like silk. "Staring and clenching your jaw every time I stretched. Practically vibrating whenever I moaned."
Minho’s hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles taut and trembling. His pulse is a steady drum in his throat, every word sinking deep and twisting something hot in his gut.
"Jagi, all you had to do was say please."
His breath hitches. He tries to keep his expression neutral, but his body betrays him. Tense and wired. Too aware of the space — or lack thereof — between them.
Jisung closes in, lips barely brushing his ear.
"Still can."
A beat passes.
Minho's whole body feels like it's on fire. Not the clean burn of dancing, but something messier, hungrier — his nerves overstimulated by nothing more than the sound of Jisung's voice. By the promise of more.
Every inhale brings in Jisung's scent — sweet shampoo and musky cologne — the familiarity making Minho's stomach clench.
Pride grips his chest like a fist, but his hold on it weakened hours ago.
And now he’s cornered, like prey caught in a trap he fought to avoid.
But deep down, he’d always known it would end like this. The bait was too sweet, too perfectly placed, and some part of him had always wanted to be ruined by it.
His fists stay clenched at his sides, but his defenses are cracking and his walls buckle under the weight of something he’s too tired to resist.
He doesn’t want to win anymore. He wants to stop pretending. He wants to give in.
So, he swallows his last shred of resistance and turns around, quietly whispering, "please, Sung-ah?”
And that’s all it takes.
Jisung crashes into him, mouths colliding.
No buildup, no warning. Just teeth and tongue.
Minho bites down like he wants to mark him. Jisung shoves him back into the mirror like he wants to devour him.
It's filthy. Yearning.
No air, no space, just the sound of breathless groans and the soft thud of Minho's body hitting glass.
Jisung grins triumphantly against his mouth.
"Was that so hard?" he pants, weaving his fingers into his hair.
"Shut up," Minho hisses, yanking him impossibly closer like he can fuse them together, like closeness might somehow save him from completely unraveling.
"Say it again," Jisung demands, tugging hard on the strands.
" Ahh—fuck you,” Minho gasps — half defiant, half wrecked — the sound catching in his throat.
Jisung’s eyes flash, grin deepening.
"That's the plan."
Minho barely registers the mirror behind him. All he can feel is Jisung's chest pressed to his, breath hot against his lips.
Every touch lights him up, sharp and fast, like the crackle of static before a lightning strike.
Jisung's hands slide down his body — fingers pulling him close to grind their hips together, earning a needy sound that Minho couldn’t control if he tried.
"You're shaking," Jisung mutters against his lips, voice rough and knowing. "That turned on already?"
Minho growls, snapping back to himself, one hand moving to grip the back of Jisung’s neck. “Keep talking,” he hisses, “and I’ll bite you again.”
"Mmm," Jisung's voice deepens, making Minho’s dick jump. "You promise?"
Then his hands are everywhere — sliding under Minho's shirt slowly, like he wants to feel every twitch of muscle beneath his palms.
"God, you're so easy, Min," Jisung lets his mouth brush against Minho's jaw with just enough pressure to tease. "One stretch and you were already hard. One moan and you couldn't stop staring."
His fingers slip lower — ghosting over the waistband of Minho's pants — and Minho's breath catches.
"You think I didn't notice? The way you clenched your jaw every time I leaned back? The way your eyes kept dropping to my hips like you were starving?" Jisung laughs, soft and sinful, dragging him back in until their foreheads touch. "You were begging with your body long before you said it out loud."
Minho turns his head, panting already, his skin prickling where Jisung touches him. "I said, shut up."
"No," Jisung replies simply, fingers dipping lower. "You love it when I talk to you like this. Love being teased until you can't think straight."
Minho shudders. He hates how right Jisung is.
He doesn't want to answer — doesn't want to give Jisung the satisfaction — but then he licks a slow stripe up the side of his neck and all rational thought abandons him.
"Should I keep going, Jagi? Or do you want to beg a bit more first?"
Minho whines, high and helpless, cursing himself immediately.
Jisung laughs, extremely pleased. "See? You're already falling apart and I haven't even touched your cock."
Minho’s glare is instant, lips parting to fire back a retort—
But Jisung doesn’t give him the chance.
He surges forwards, kissing him hard enough to steal the words from his mouth, like he’s trying to lick every ounce of fight from Minho.
His hand finally slides lower, over the bulge in Minho's pants, palming it with infuriating confidence before pulling down his pants and briefs in one motion.
Minho lets out a strangled noise into his mouth, hips twitching into the cold air before he can stop himself.
"God, listen to you," Jisung's voice is thick with want, clearly just as affected. "You're already whining. You needed this that much, huh?"
His thumb drags lazily over the tip, smearing pre-cum, and Minho chokes on a sound he doesn't even recognize — half-whimper, half-moan.
Jisung smirks.
"Oh, that one was pretty," he breathes, eyes gleaming. "What was that? A plea? Warning?"
Minho tries to growl, but it lacks any bite, sounding too breathless. Too undone. "I hate you."
"You love me," Jisung replies easily, hand tightening around the base. "Especially when I do this—"
He twists his wrist slightly, just enough to make Minho stutter out a broken moan that echoes through the room, a damning admission.
"Fuck, Min," Jisung whispers, admiring how the sound leaves his kiss-swollen lips. "You're so fucking needy."
Minho bites his lip hard enough to leave a mark, trying to hold on to some level of composure, but he’s already slipping — knees wobbling, thighs tensing, cock throbbing in Jisung's hand like it had been waiting for this all damn day — which in all fairness, it had been.
Suddenly, Jisung's grip vanishes, ripping a displeased whine from his throat and leaving Minho confused and trembling.
"What—"
Jisung tugs him by the hips, steady and sure, walking backwards step by step until his knees hit the edge of a padded mat, quickly turning them around.
"Down."
One word. Low, firm, and undeniable.
Minho drops before he can think, hands bracing behind him as he inches backwards to fully lie on the mat, heart hammering like he'd just run a sprint. His cock throbs against his stomach, flushed and slick, aching for more.
Jisung stands over him for a second, just looking. Drinking in the sight before him.
Minho's shirt is shoved up, sweat-slick and clinging to his skin, his pants low around his thighs. He knows he already looks ruined, and Jisung is only beginning.
"Oh, hyung, you're a mess," Jisung kneels between his legs to pull his bottoms off entirely. "Did I do that?"
Minho glowers at him, but it doesn't carry any real weight. Not when his chest is rising too fast, not when his hips lift off the mat the second Jisung's fingers brush his inner thigh.
"Yep, I definitely did," Jisung giggles happily, watching Minho’s involuntary reaction.
He leans down, tongue dragging up the length of Minho's cock in one smooth stroke, making him curse, loud and raw.
Jisung's lips curl around the head, eyes flicking up to watch him lose control. He doesn't even take him deep — just mouths and sucks at him like he has all the time in the world — letting Minho gasp and flail under the barest stimulation.
He pulls off with a slick pop, licking his lips like he's tasting victory.
Before Minho can recover, Jisung grabs him by the collar and pulls him into a bruising kiss, hungry and possessive.
Minho groans the moment their mouths meet, tasting the salt of his own precome on Jisung’s tongue, mingled with that unmistakable sweetness that’s uniquely him — rich and intoxicating — like the first drag of something he swore he’d never get addicted to.
He barely has time to breathe before he catches the glint of a silver foil packet of lube, tugged casually from Jisung's pocket like it had been sitting there just in case.
Of course he came prepared.
Jisung flashes it between two fingers with a smile that can only be described as victorious.
"Knew you'd break eventually," he winks, tearing it open with his teeth. “Been carrying it around with me all day… just in case.”
Minho wants to snap back — something sharp and biting — but all that comes out is a choked sound when Jisung's slick fingers slide between his legs, teasing the spot they both know is already twitching for attention.
Minho shivers, far too gone to pretend he doesn't want every second of it.
"Let me get you ready again," Jisung says, moving one hand to open him while the other stays on his thigh, holding his legs apart.
The first finger slips in slowly, and Minho's head tips back with a gasp.
"Fuck."
His hips stutter up instinctively, only to be pressed back down by Jisung's palm on his lower belly.
"Easy," Jisung coos, watching the way Minho's face twists, lips parting and eyes glazing. “Hmm , maybe I don’t. You’re still nice and loose from last night. Shit, I could just slide in right now, couldn’t I?"
Minho can't answer. He's too focused on the way that single finger curls inside him, almost brushing where he needs it and then pulling away like punishment.
"You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Hyung?"
He slides in a second finger — slower this time, just to watch Minho squirm — lips twitching in amusement when Minho bites down on a moan that still escapes anyway, strangled and breathy.
"Such a good boy," Jisung whispers, thrusting slow and deep, scissoring his fingers with just enough force to make Minho's toes clench. "All soft and pliant."
Minho whimpers, louder now.
His thighs tremble as the rhythm is built, fingers fucking into him with practiced precision, hitting the spot that makes stars blink behind his eyes.
"You want me to stretch you more?" Jisung asks with feigned sympathy. "Want me to make you cum on just my fingers?"
Minho’s breath hitches, but he shakes his head, frantically.
“No,” he gasps out, voice thin and raw, as he tries to grab at Jisung’s arms. “Want more—need more, please—”
But Jisung only tsks , lips curving into something smug and merciless.
“Too bad,” he says, as he drives his fingers deeper, forcing sweet, broken noises from Minho's throat like they’re his favorite reward. “I love seeing you like this, Min. Wanna savor it.”
Minho sobs out a sound he doesn’t recognize, hips stuttering helplessly against Jisung’s hand. His thighs tremble, muscles taut, every nerve burning with need. He’s never felt so full, and yet so empty at once. Jisung’s fingers are relentless, but it’s not enough.
Not when he knows what else he could have.
“Please, Sung,” he chokes out, eyes squeezing shut like he’s trying to hold himself together with sheer force of will. “Please, just—”
Jisung leans down, mouthing at the inside of his thigh, his breath hot and voice infuriatingly calm.
“Please what, Min?” he asks, as he sucks a hickey into the muscular flesh. “Use your words. Tell me exactly what you want.”
He bites down making Minho’s legs jerk, fingers still buried deep and stroking with devastating precision.
“Come on,” he urges, gaze holding Minho in place just as much as his hands. “You were so good at begging a second ago.”
Minho is falling apart.
Everything he'd been too proud to admit is painted across his face now — the way his mouth hangs wide open, the tears threatening to fall from the corners of his eyes, and the pathetic little mewls he can't stop from spilling.
“Need you,” Minho finally cries out, back arching with a stuttering breath. “Fuck, Jisung—need your cock, need you to fill me, please—”
Jisung smiles against his skin, finally satisfied.
“That’s more like it.”
Minho can barely hear him over the blood rushing in his ears. His whole body is on fire, skin feeling too tight as need claws its way up his spine.
He’s about to lose it. He kind’ve already has.
"Alright, Jagi,” Jisung says, the teasing edge in his voice from earlier, softening. “I think you earned more."
Minho nods furiously, his eyes wide and pleading, as Jisung pulls his fingers out. He whines at the sudden emptiness, his hole clenching around nothing, fluttering with need.
But before he can be too upset about the loss, Jisung leans in and kisses him.
It’s deep and unhurried, sweet in a way that steals the air from Minho’s lungs. And it’s just as consuming as everything that came before, but in an entirely different way.
There’s no rush. No demand.
Only tender certainty, like Jisung’s trying to anchor him with his mouth alone.
Minho melts into it instantly, lips parting without hesitation, welcoming him as he chases that tenderness like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
His limbs are loose and trembling, aching from how thoroughly Jisung worked him open. He’s also still hard, the heat simmering just beneath the surface and pulsing low in his stomach.
But the kiss shifts everything.
It’s careful. Intentional. So full of quiet care, it makes his chest ache, washing over every raw edge inside him.
And he revels in it. Not just the warmth or the way his body still hums with want, but in the way Jisung somehow makes room inside him for both at once.
He murmurs praise under his breath as he gently coaxes Minho onto his stomach — his touch firm, but careful — as he guides him up onto shaky hands and knees, facing the mirror.
Minho barely registers his reflection, too dazed to do anything, but obey. His hips twitch forward on instinct, but Jisung's hands are already spreading him open, admiring his work.
"Look at you," Jisung breathes, eyes hooded as he stares between Minho's legs. "So open for me."
Minho shudders, eyes closing in embarrassment as heat blooms across his cheeks, chest rising fast.
Then he hears it — the soft rustle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of clothes being peeled off — and he forces his eyes open.
The mirror across from them catches everything.
Jisung tugs his shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the side. His muscles ripple — shoulders broad, chest firm, stomach flexing with every movement.
His tattoos move with him, one stretching along his side and the other curling over his pec, catching Minho's eyes and holding them there.
He's stunning.
But the dim studio lighting makes him absolutely devastating. Alluring. Dangerous.
His sweatpants are already being pushed down, revealing the hard line of his cock, heavy and flushed, tip already slick.
Minho's breath catches in his throat.
Jisung meets his eyes in the mirror and smirks, but the faint pink blooming across his cheeks gives him away.
"Like what you see?" He asks smugly, stroking himself once, unhurried, right where Minho can see it. "You wanted this, didn't you? Begged me for it."
Minho swallows thickly, his thighs trembling where he's kneeling, still spread open and twitching.
Jisung’s gaze darkens as it drags over him.
“Finish stripping,” he says, voice low and commanding. “I wanna see all of you.”
Minho scrambles to obey, fumbling with his shirt and dragging it over his head so fast, it tangles for a moment around his arms before he yanks it off completely. His skin prickles under the weight of Jisung’s stare.
As soon as he’s bare, he drops back into position — knees wide, back arched, exposed and waiting.
Jisung grabs the lube again, slicking himself in long strokes, not breaking eye contact as he steps up behind him.
And then Minho feels it.
The blunt head of Jisung's cock, pressing against his entrance without pushing in. Just resting. Tormenting him.
Minho whimpers, hips instinctively trying to move back, but Jisung grabs his waist, holding him still with a firm grip.
"Ah, ah," he says, gliding his cock along the crease of Minho's ass, but never breaching. "Not yet, Jagi."
"Sung-ah—need— " Minho pleads, voice wrecked and cracking from all the moaning, body slick with sweat. "Just—ah— "
Jisung leans in close, chest flush to Minho’s back, grinding slowly between his cheeks with each subtle roll of his hips.
"You're so impatient," Jisung mouths in his ear, letting his tip catch at the edge again. "Thought you didn't need this, but you're gonna cum the second I'm inside you."
Minho shakes his head, tears pricking at his eyes, but his body says otherwise, shuddering with want.
Jisung rocks forward just enough to breach him — not even a quarter of the way in — and Minho whines, forehead hitting the mat and fists curling helplessly around air.
"Fuck—oh god, Sung — "
And then Jisung eases out until only the head remains, teasing against his throbbing rim before slowly pushing halfway back in.
The pressure in Minho’s gut is unbearable, his cock untouched and still leaking onto the mat.
"Come on, Hyung," Jisung growls, pulling away completely, just to slap the head of his cock against Minho's swollen hole. "Be good and say please, just one more time. For me?”
Minho practically sobs at the loss — a sound so raw and pathetic — even he's startled by it.
"Please—fuck me please, Jagi — "
He doesn't care if the whole building hears him anymore. Doesn't care that he's begging, his pride abandoned long ago. He’s lost in the ache, the heat, in the desperate need to be fucked until he forgets his own name.
"I need you—please, Sung—need your cock in me—”
Jisung cuts him off, slamming in with a sharp thrust.
Minho's whole body jerks, breath punched out of him, back arching as he's filled.
"Oh—fuckfuckfuck— "
Jisung groans behind him, grinding in deep and buried to the base.
"See?" he whispers, pausing to give Minho a moment to adjust to the feeling. "All you ever have to do is say please."
Minho can't form a response — too focused on the way Jisung fits inside him, on how good it feels being finally taken.
Jisung draws back before driving into him again, dragging a choked cry from Minho's throat. The stretch is still sharp, the fullness overwhelming, and yet it's everything he needs.
"Shit—you feel so good, Jagi,” Jisung moans, ragged and wrecked, as Minho clenches around his cock, greedy for it.
"Please—fuck—please, " Minho gasps, voice like sandpaper as Jisung snaps his hips forwards again, harder this time. "Sung-ah, I can’t— "
"You're gonna take it," Jisung reassures him, spreading his hand over Minho's lower back to hold him in place. "You wanted this, remember? Wanted me to ruin you."
Minho's hands claw at the mat. He can't stop himself from shaking, can't stop the moans escaping his lips.
"You look so damn hot, Jagi," Jisung pants, his voice thick with arousal. "Fucked out. Crying my name. You don't even know what you're begging for anymore, do you?"
Minho moans — wrecked and needy — every inhale frayed, every exhale laced with need. He feels split, stretched around the thickness and stuffed so full, he swears he can feel it in his throat.
"Say it again," Jisung says, leaning in to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. "Say you want it."
"Want it— " Minho chokes out, his hole fluttering around the intrusion like it’s begging to be ruined. "Want your cock—want you—please, Jisung— "
That finally gets Jisung to begin fucking into him without mercy, making Minho jolt beneath him as he takes everything the other gives him.
"You love being filled," Jisung reminds him as he slams his hips deep enough to knock the air from Minho’s lungs. "Don’t you, Min? Love how perfectly I stretch you."
Minho nods, whimpering. His face is pressed to the mat, mouth open and drooling, hands scrambling for purchase. The pace quickens, Jisung’s movements consuming him with the kind of rhythm that makes him feel completely split open
"Thought you could handle it," Jisung growls, one hand slipping under Minho's waist to lift him higher, the other gripping his hip like a handle. "All that pride—where'd it go?"
Minho just whines louder at the other’s mocking tone, too far gone to really care. He’s barely aware of the sounds spilling from his throat, too focused on the way Jisung feels driving into him relentlessly.
"Please—ugh more—fuck—don't stop—"
"You're taking it so well, Hyung," Jisung grunts over the sounds of slapping skin that echo off the studio walls, making the mirror rattle. "Look at you, you love being fucked like this, don't you?"
"Yes—yes—I love it—"
His body feels used in the best way. Raw and trembling, split open and filled — over and over, again and again — like Jisung’s trying to carve himself into him.
"You're so pretty like this," Jisung tells him, somehow thrusting into him harder. "Red in the face and desperate for my cock. Fuck."
Jisung's hand under his waist keeps Minho exactly where he needs to be — helpless, quivering, and spread — forcing him to take every grind against that spot that leaves him whining in pleasure.
Minho’s losing his mind, every movement hitting so deep, his knees threaten to give out.
He’s too far gone to feel a hint of embarrassment now, even as his own cock drips onto the mat below with every rut of Jisung's hips. His brain is short-circuiting, body strung so tight he feels like he's going to break apart at any second.
"I'm gonna—" he barely manages to stutter out between gasps. "Sung-ah—I can't—“
"Cum for me, Min."
Minho shatters.
His whole body convulses as his orgasm tears through him, his untouched cock spilling messily onto the mat as he screams Jisung's name.
He barely hears it, too focused on the pleasure zipping through his body.
He's folded over, chest pressed to the mat, whole body shuddering from the aftershocks. His arms feel boneless, thighs shaking and his hole twitching around Jisung's cock as it stills inside him.
He thinks it's over.
But Jisung straightens up.
And without a word, grips Minho's hips and pulls him up with him, forcing him to kneel upright, his back pressed to Jisung's chest.
Jisung's hand goes to his chin, moving his head to watch the mirror.
His reflection looks wrecked. Absolutely ruined. His hair is a mess, sweat and tears streaking down his face, eyes glassy and half-lidded. His knees are spread, cum smeared against his stomach and the mat below.
And behind him is Jisung. Still hard. Still in him. Still keeping him stretched.
Minho whines at the sight.
"Look," Jisung runs one hand down Minho's flushed chest while the other grips his throat. "Look how pretty you are like this."
Minho tries to turn his head, wanting to hide, but Jisung keeps him facing forward.
"No," he says, voice quiet, but firm. "Watch."
He rolls his hips, fucking him right into overstimulation.
Minho chokes on a sob — a desperate, wrecked sound as his entire body jerks — the friction after cumming borderline too much, but walking the line between pleasure and pain.
"Fuck,” Jisung rasps out from behind him. "You're—God, Jagi, you feel so good like this."
Minho can feel it. The way Jisung's cock throbs inside him, the way his rhythm falters, rougher and needier by the second. His grip tightens on Minho's hips, like he's barely holding himself together.
"You're mine," Jisung moans, chasing his own release. "Every part of you—fuck—so perfect—"
Minho can't speak. He just nods, mouth hanging open, little noises escaping him as he clings to the arm around his waist like a lifeline, letting Jisung use him.
"Gonna fill you up," Jisung groans, hips stuttering as he drives in one last time, buried to the hilt. "Want you leaking for the rest of the night."
He curses against Minho’s neck, long and low, his whole body shuddering as he empties into him.
And Minho feels it.
Feels the twitch of Jisung’s cock inside him, the sudden flood of heat as he spills, pulse after pulse, painting his insides. His muscles tighten around the stretch, too sensitive, too raw, but it’s everything.
It punches the air out of Minho’s lungs, leaving him trembling and wide open, overwhelmed by the weight of it. By the way Jisung claims him with every rope of cum.
For a moment, neither of them moves, Minho stuck on the sharp, dizzying edge of overstimulation. He feels completely used, fucked full and barely coherent as Jisung rubs soothing circles into his hip.
Then Jisung shifts gently, steadying them both as he carefully lowers them down onto the mat. He stays buried inside, but now there’s no urgency, just warmth and care. He pulls Minho close, wrapping himself around him like a shield, like he’s trying to keep every part of him safe.
His body is warm against Minho’s back, breath uneven as he comes down from the high, but his touch never falters. He trails his hands gently along Minho’s sides, grounding him, petting him through the haze.
“You did so well, Jagi,” Jisung murmurs, voice still husky, but full of reverence. He presses a kiss to Minho’s temple, then another to the crown of his head. “So perfect for me. Took everything I gave you.”
Minho doesn’t reply. He can’t. He just breathes, eyes fluttering closed as Jisung’s words settle under his skin, full of praise he never knew he was starved for.
“You’re unreal, Min. So good, so amazing—” Another kiss, this one behind his ear. “You make me lose my mind.”
Minho hums, dazed, sinking into Jisung’s chest. The words feel like a balm, soaking into every jagged edge he hadn’t even realized was still exposed, his fingers curling over Jisung’s forearm where it rests protectively around his waist, holding him there.
“I’ve got you,” Jisung reassures him softly, noticing how Minho clings to him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Minho’s body still aches and his hole is still twitching with the aftershocks, but all he can focus on is the steady rise and fall of Jisung’s chest.
“I love you, Hyung,” Jisung whispers, his arms tightening ever so slightly and drawing Minho closer, as if he could press the words directly into his skin. “You know that, right?”
Yes, he knows that.
They’ve said it before. In breathless giggles, during 2 a.m. conversations, with passing touches and between shared kisses. The words have always meant something, always been true.
But now — after being stripped down to nothing, held open, and fucked full of everything Jisung had to give — they land heavier. Sink deeper. Not more real, just… different. Felt in places he hadn’t known were still waiting to be touched.
Minho swallows hard, and nods, voice barely audible. “I love you too, Jagi.”
“Good,” Jisung says, smiling against his shoulder as his lips brush over a mark he left earlier. "Because I wasn’t just fucking you tonight, I was showing you how deeply, how completely, you deserve to be loved. Every second, every touch… it was all for you, Min.”
Minho blinks up at the ceiling, feeling tears well at the corners of his eyes, and lets the warmth of Jisung’s words settle deep beneath his skin, like an eternal vow written in the stars.
He’s never been good at saying how he really feels, always too guarded, too careful. He chooses to leave that part to Jisung. All the tender confessions and poetic truths, amazed by the way he always seems to say exactly what Minho can’t.
But with Jisung, it’s like his walls don’t stand a chance. Not when he’s looked at like this, touched like this.
Loved so fiercely it echoes in his bones.
That love still clings to his skin — in the warmth around him, in the tremble of his muscles — even as Jisung begins to soften inside him, the stretch fading into emptiness. He slips out slowly, carefully, and Minho can’t help wincing at the loss.
It’s immediate, the sticky sensation of cum slipping out of him, trickling down onto the mat. He bites down on a shaky breath, his face flushed. He’s too wrung out to care, but too sensitive not to feel it all.
Jisung slides his palm up to rest over Minho’s chest, his fingers spreading gently, like he's trying to catch every beat, memorizing the rhythm.
A breath passes. Then another. And in the quiet between them, Jisung murmurs something soft and shapeless. Not quite words, but heavy with meaning.
Minho exhales slowly, grounded by the feeling of him.
"You okay?" Jisung finally whispers.
Minho huffs a laugh, eyes fluttering shut again. "Define okay."
His muscles ache. He can feel every jolt, every twitch, like his body has forgotten how to relax. But Jisung’s heat keeps him grounded, keeps the leftover tremors from overwhelming him.
He sighs softly, breath ghosting against Minho’s skin. “Still breathing? Still the most handsome guy I’ve ever laid eyes on?”
Minho groans, the heavy warmth in his chest bubbling into exasperated affection at the other’s unbearably sappy words. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, you’re still letting me cuddle you with my dick out. So who's really winning here?”
Minho snorts in spite of himself, cheeks burning, but it’s not the same fluster from earlier. It’s easier now. Familiar. “Stop being disgusting.”
Jisung hums, clearly unbothered and even a little pleased. “You still love me.”
Minho rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t pull away.
Not even a little.
In fact, he finds himself pressing back just a little, like it’s second nature now.
"You did really well," Jisung breathes, and Minho can hear the smile in the other’s voice. "So good for me… and you said please."
"I'm going to pretend I blacked out and none of that happened."
"Sure, Jagi,” Jisung says, nuzzling into his neck with a grin, not bothering to argue.
They stay like that for a few minutes. Tangled and sticky, but content. It's quiet again, but not empty.
Eventually, Minho breaks the silence, voice muffled and slightly embarrassed. “Um… I don’t think I can move, Sung.”
Jisung chuckles behind him, giving his waist another squeeze. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”
“Can you?” Minho asks, raising a disbelieving brow. “Last time you tried to pick me up, you almost pulled something.”
“Then I’ll just roll you back.”
Minho laughs at that, letting his head fall back against Jisung’s shoulder. “God, I hate how much I like you.”
I hate how easy it is to let you hold me like this. He thinks. I hate how safe it feels, and I hate that I don’t actually hate it at all.
"Yeah?” Jisung whispers, fingers soothingly stroking his side. "That makes two of us."
The air settles again. Not heavy like before, but full. Like a blanket drawn tight around the two of them. Like a secret they’re holding, unspoken, but still understood.
Minho closes his eyes. His body’s sore, thoroughly wrecked in the best way, every nerve still buzzing faintly beneath the surface. But there’s no tension left in him. No fight. Just the slow, syrupy contentment that comes from being completely undone.
He could fall asleep like this, he realizes. Right here, sprawled on the mat, sticky and unbothered, Jisung’s warmth pressed to his back and their limbs tangled like ivy.
Even the ache in his thighs, the slight soreness in his hips — all of it feels distant. Softened by the heat still radiating off Jisung, and the way his arms curl around him like they never want to let go.
It doesn’t feel real. The glow still hasn’t worn off, and Minho isn’t sure if it ever will.
His breathing slows, Jisung’s heartbeat thudding steadily behind him. And Minho’s on the verge of slipping under completely when the studio door creaks open, shrill and ominously loud in the quiet.
His eyes fly open.
For a second, he thinks maybe he imagined it, trying to convince himself it’s just the building settling or the hum of a passing car.
But then he hears them.
Footsteps. Light and careless.
Hyunjin's voice floats in, snapping him from the comfortable lull of almost sleep. "Yeah, yeah, I'm grabbing it now—relax, Hyung. I see your laptop charger, it's—”
A pause. A beat of silence that stretches too long.
“Oh my god.”
Another pause.
Then, louder this time and teetering on the edge of hysteria.
“OH MY GOD!”
Hyunjin stands in the doorway, phone still clutched to his ear, shining like he's stumbled upon a hidden treasure chest filled with Minsung-shaped gold.
Jisung just lifts his head. “Hey, Jin,” he waves sleepily.
Minho shoots him a glare, panic flaring through his body like a slap of cold water. His hands scramble blindly for anything — literally anything — to cover them, eventually yanking Jisung’s discarded shirt across their laps in a tangle of limbs and fabric.
"Yes," Hyunjin breathes out, holding a hand up to frame them. "Oh my god, yes! This is everything. Ugh, I wish I'd brought my sketchbook with me."
Minho’s jaw tightens in annoyance.
Of course. Of course Hyunjin wants to draw this.
"Hyunjin? What—what happened?" Chan asks, voice crackling faintly through the speaker.
Minho shoots upright so fast, the shirt slips halfway off again, Chan’s voice dousing him like a bucket of ice water.
"It's them," Hyunjin announces, eyes wide with awe like he’s just stumbled upon a never before seen Renaissance masterpiece. "Minho and Jisung! Cuddled up on the floor, still naked and flushed. Minho definitely just got railed—"
“Hyunjin, hang up the phone—” Minho hisses, mortified, looking up at the ceiling as if sheer force of will might undo the last thirty seconds.
But Hyunjin’s grinning now, absolutely delighted and glowing with purpose. "Don't worry," he reassures them with a sunny smile, waving the phone. "It's just Chan-ah—huh? Oh yeah, I can put you on speaker, Hyung."
Minho has never wanted to air fry him more.
Chan's horrified voice comes through much louder now, echoing in the room. "IN THE STUDIO?! ARE YOU TWO SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!"
Minho groans, dragging both palms down his face like he’s trying to erase himself from existence. His entire body is flushed, heat radiating off him in waves of secondhand shame. Jisung is still lounging half-covered, somehow unbothered by the intrusion.
"Why are you yelling?" Hyunjin frowns, phone held delicately between two fingers like it might bite him. "They're literally glowing. It's romantic."
Minho looks up just long enough to glare murderously, wondering how many tissues he could stuff him with before the other passes out. “Hyunjin, I swear to God—”
"Romantic?!" Chan practically shrieks, voice almost too shrill to be picked up by the shitty phone mic. "What if someone else had walked in? What if security sees the footage?!"
Minho’s heart drops. Footage? His career, no, his life flashes before his eyes — though it’s mostly static and pain.
"Oh, relax, it's after hours." Hyunjin waves a hand dismissively, even though Chan can’t see it. "Also, I'm pretty sure security ships them too."
Minho has half a mind to strangle him. If Hyunjin used his two remaining brain cells to actually think — instead of dreaming up new fanart of the two of them — he’d realize that after hours is when security finally gets bored enough to watch every second of those cameras.
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!"
Minho just groans again, louder this time, burying his entire face in his hands as he tries to sink lower into the mat. "I hate everyone in this group."
"Liar," Jisung murmurs fondly, still looking far too pleased with himself. He doesn't even pretend to be sorry, just rests his chin on Minho's shoulder and grins at Hyunjin. "So, did you bring any snacks?"
Minho sighs weakly, giving the other a disbelieving stare. “Seriously? You’re wanting food right now?”
“I burned a lot of calories,” Jisung says, giving a lazy shrug like it explains everything. “Also, I smelled ramen earlier and it never left my brain.”
"Was I supposed to?" Hyunjin cocks his head, looking completely puzzled. "I just came by to grab Chan's laptop charger and—” his eyes flick between them, “—found you two, post-sex snuggling."
Suddenly, he lights up with some idea Minho’s pretty sure he’s not going to like.
"Wait, do you wanna see how cute they look?” Hyunjin asks, practically bouncing on his heels in excitement. “We can FaceTime—"
"Absolutely not," Chan shuts the idea down instantly. "Do not FaceTime me, please, Jin."
That should be reassuring, but Minho’s face still twists like he’s just bitten into something foul.
Hyunjin’s too excited for this to end here and Minho can already feel the avalanche of teasing looming — the kind you never live down.
If even one photo makes it into the group chat, he’s burning his phone, changing his name, and moving to some remote mountain village where none of them will find him.
And he’s taking Jisung with him.
"But you're missing out,” Hyunjin whines with a pout, completely ignoring Chan’s plea. “The way Jisung is cradling him. How Minho looks freshly plowed and emotionally fulfilled. I can't wait to get back and paint this."
What the hell? Minho thinks.
Freshly plowed? Emotionally fulfilled? Hyunjin’s making it sound like Minho’s the main character in one of the trashy romance novels he knows the other keeps stashed under his bed.
He grumbles into his hands because — annoyingly — it’s not entirely inaccurate. "I’m about five seconds from running away."
"You'd have to leave the mat first, Jagi,” Jisung coos, stroking his back like he's soothing a very dramatic cat.
Minho hates how it actually kind of works.
"I'm dying! I can't keep this to myself, you have to see this, Hyung," Hyunjin giggles, and before Chan can protest again, he turns the camera on, face filling the bottom corner of the screen.
"HYUNJIN—" Chan starts, only for the view to shift as Hyunjin flips the camera directly at Jisung and Minho, still tangled on the mat.
Jisung, of course, just grins and waves.
Minho flinches like he's been shot. His entire body tenses. There’s no escape. He’s completely naked, sprawled out on a studio mat, hair messy, lying in the aftermath of everything — while on FaceTime.
Oh my god, he thinks. This is how I die. On camera, post-sex, and Jisung petting me while Hyunjin and Chan watch.
"Say hi, Chan-ah!" Hyunjin chirps, zooming in further on them, much to Minho’s chagrin. "Look, they're still glowing!"
Chan makes a sound that's part screech, part dying cry of an animal.
"WHY—WHY WOULD YOU—"
"I can explain—" Minho tries, though he’s not really sure where to start.
"Absolutely not," Chan cuts him off instantly, as if the very idea of learning anything more is too hazardous to his emotional and mental wellbeing.
Minho shuts his mouth with a click. Fine. At least it can’t possibly get any worse—
"Hyung?" another voice calls.
Nevermind, he was wrong. It definitely can.
Jeongin pokes his head into Chan's room, banana in hand, eyes bleary and unfocused. "Why are you yelling this late—?"
And then he sees the screen.
"OH MY GOD—"
The snack hits the floor, Jeongin staggering backward like he's being physically assaulted by the sight greeting him.
"WHY IS MINHO-HYUNG NAKED?! WHY IS JISUNG-HYUNG SMILING?! WHY ARE YOU FACETIMING THIS?!"
Back in the studio, Minho just lies frozen.
Completely, utterly frozen.
It’s like his consciousness has detached from his body and is now watching from above as his dignity dies in real time. He can only blink, his brain too busy buffering.
Jisung, meanwhile, is very much not frozen. He’s still smiling like this is the best day of his life, beaming with absolutely zero remorse.
Chan tries to cover the phone with his hand and fumbles, nearly dropping it.
"GET OUT," he screams at Jeongin. "YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO SEE THIS—"
"I CAN NEVER UNSEE IT!" Jeongin cries, turning to flee the room with a hand over his eyes, nearly slamming headfirst into the door.
Fucking hell, Minho wants to scream. This is a nightmare.
Jisung’s cum is still dripping out of him, and it’s been FaceTimed to Chan and Jeongin, of all people.
"SHIT—IYEN-AH, WAIT," Chan calls, scrambling to follow the younger. "I have to go—Jeongin is thoroughly traumatized and I need to do damage control. Get dressed and thoroughly sanitize every surface before you leave. We—we'll talk about this later."
Minho winces. He actually feels bad for Jeongin. Their poor maknae is probably scarred for life.
Chan, though? He’ll survive… probably. And if he doesn’t, well, Minho can’t say it’ll keep him up at night.
"Okay, okay, love you, Hyung!" Hyunjin chirps before hanging up, the screen going black.
Silence settles over them, dense and suffocating.
Hyunjin lowers the phone, expression going serious. "Don't move. I need to sketch the composition of this scene. You two are aesthetic perfection,” he says, giving them a stern look.
Minho rolls his eyes so hard, it’s a miracle he doesn’t see God. “I will set your paints on fire.”
He’s not even that angry anymore — just resigned. Emotionally damaged. Filled with the kind of calm that only exists when you’ve passed through all five stages of grief in under three minutes.
"I'll make prints," Hyunjin muses, already hurrying out the door, clearly ignoring the threat. "Hang them in the dorm hallway. One above the shoe rack. Maybe one in the kitchen—"
Minho just watches him vanish down the hall, knowing whatever comes next, he’s not going to like it.
He lets out a long, slow breath, trying to calm the pounding in his chest as he tucks himself closer to Jisung, hoping it might help ground him after the absolute insanity of the last few minutes.
Jisung easily shifts to accommodate him. "Are you okay, Hyung?" He asks, now stroking a hand lazily down Minho's spine. The touch is light, comforting, and infuriatingly sweet.
“No,” Minho grumbles, muffled against Jisung’s warmth like he’s trying to bury himself deep enough to disappear. “I’m staying here forever.”
Jisung chuckles fondly in a way that makes Minho’s chest ache. “So dramatic,” he says, giving him a squeeze.
Minho lifts his head just enough to glare — or at least try, but he’s too boneless and thoroughly fucked for it to land properly. "Please, let's get out of here before he comes back with a sketchpad and glitter glue."
"Please?" Jisung can’t help teasing, brows raised in mock-surprise. "Back to begging already?"
Minho smacks him lightly on the shoulder, the most he can manage with limbs that still feel like jelly. "Fine. Yes, please let me leave before Hyunjin paints me face down, ass up."
Jisung smirks, clearly savoring it. "Okay, okay," he concedes, finally sitting up and stretching. "But if he does, I’m getting us a copy."
Minho stares at him, equal parts tired and betrayed. "You're not even going to pretend to be embarrassed?"
"Hyung, I was incredible. That canvas is about to be blessed."
Minho drops his head back onto the mat in utter defeat.
He’s never living this down. Not with Hyunjin’s new art pieces. Not with Jisung looking like the devil’s favorite wet dream, entirely too satisfied with himself.
And definitely not with Jeongin and Chan, who both look like they need therapy. Immediately. Possibly together. Possibly forever.
And yet — when Jisung tosses Minho’s hoodie over his head, sleeves swallowing his hands, smile still smug, but also content — Minho can’t manage to find it in himself to be at all angry.
Not when he’s swimming in Minho’s clothes, still somehow his spoiled little baby, even after completely wrecking him.
Shoes on, hood up, they’re almost out the door when Jisung pauses mid-step, glancing back toward the mat in the center of the room — the one they'd fucked on not fifteen minutes ago.
He tilts his head, studying it for a moment. "Hey, what do we do about that? It's covered in our… bodily fluids."
Minho follows his gaze, grimacing instantly. The mat looks like it’s been through hell.
Sweaty. Sticky. Maybe a few nail marks.
He stares at it, mildly horrified. That mat has seen things. Things that should not be associated with scheduled dance practice.
“…We should probably disinfect it,” he says at last, sounding anything, but enthusiastic.
There’s a beat of silence. A shared pause. The guilt only lasts a second. Maybe two.
Then Minho catches it — the slow curl of a smirk on Jisung’s face, sharp and unmistakably wicked.
“Or,” Jisung says, glancing sideways at him, “we could leave it for Hyunjin… artistic inspiration, right?”
Minho stares at him for a moment, weighing the sheer stupidity of the idea against how little energy he has left to argue.
“What? So he can paint it and title it 'The Afterglow'?" Minho snorts, opening the door like he’s washing his hands of the whole situation. "Fine, as long as I don't have to see it."
They step out, Jisung still laughing, hood bouncing with each gleeful shake of his head. Minho’s heart thrums with leftover adrenaline, embarrassment, and something dangerously close to pride.
He’s definitely going to hell.
But at least he won’t be going alone.
And behind them, the mat remains — defiled and absolutely not safe for future choreography.
**********