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Minho’s chest is heaving and there’s a hectic flush crawling up his neck. He doesn’t take his eyes off the other guy until he’s dragged out sight by security though; it’s only once the guy’s shouts are fading in the distance that he turns around, face hot with anger, gaze dark and furious.
‘Are you okay, jagi?’ he says, eyes scanning over Jisung’s body like he’s checking for damage. ‘Did he hurt you?’ When Jisung doesn’t reply, Minho frowns and reaches for him, stopping as he clocks the blood on his knuckles.
There’s blood. On his knuckles.
The rest of the world is underwater. Someone is saying something but Jisung can’t hear a thing over the static in his ears, high-pitched and ringing as he stares at Minho’s hand, split skin and smeared blood over his knuckles, all for Jisung.
One singular thought makes it through the noise.
I need to suck his dick.
*
Jisung’s not stupid – he hasn’t considered himself straight for a long time. If he had to put a label on it he’d probably say he’s bi, but as he doesn’t have to put a label on it, he doesn’t. He just deals with the occasional flares of attraction and all-consuming crushes when they come, mostly by writing more of his “emo love songs” (Changbin’s words, not his) or holing up in his room to watch anime and bemoan his lot in life. Anyway, that’s not the point.
The point is that the desire to suck dick isn’t a surprise. No, the surprise is that it’s Minho’s dick.
And yeah, Jisung knows Minho is attractive; he’s known it since the moment he first laid eyes on Minho’s stupidly perfect face and experienced previously unknown levels of rage over the fact that someone so good-looking was allowed to exist. It’s simply a universal truth: water is wet, and Stray Kids’ Lee Know is a ridiculously handsome man. Still, there’s knowing and there’s knowing, and up until now Jisung’s been firmly in the first camp.
I need to lick the blood off his knuckles, he thinks, vaguely aware of the fact that someone has an arm around his shoulders and is steering him firmly in the opposite direction of where he wants to be. And then I need to suck his dick until one of us passes out.
‘Jisung-ah, come on, we need to get out of here.’
He’s steered with more force, nearly tripping over his own feet as he keeps craning to look over his shoulder, back to where Minho’s standing, knuckles still bloody, dick still unsucked. And then he’s pushed – pushed – through a door and he can’t see Minho any more, just the darkly shiny walls of a lift, reflecting shadow of his own face back to him, something yawning and hungry in the hollows of his eyes. Huh. He didn’t know he could make that expression.
Vaguely, he registers the sound of someone grumbling under their breath. Then:
‘Earth to Han Jisung’, they boom, far too loud for the enclosed space. ‘Anyone home, or did Minho-hyung also sucker-punch your remain brain cell back to space?’
‘Yah, Seo Changbin!’ He turns without thinking, hand raised to strike before he remembers Changbin can crush a melon with his bicep and bench-press Jisung’s entire bodyweight and then some. He drops his hand, scowling. ‘Why’re you trying to break the sound-barrier?’
The aforementioned biceps bulge where they’re crossed over Changbin’s equally impressive chest. ‘Normal volume wasn’t working’, his hyung says, not a hint of remorse in his eyes. There is, however, a hint of more worrying emotion: concern. ‘You okay, Han-ah? That guy didn’t… he didn’t hurt you, did he?’
Jisung blinks for a moment, confused. What guy? he almost says, then catches himself as the memory starts filtering back in. There was a guy: he’d come over when they were in the hotel’s members’ lounge, at a moment when Jisung was alone at the poseur table, idly toying with the empty glass in his hand as he waited for Changbin to come back from the toilet and Minho to come back from the bar.
He’d claimed he was a fan, so Jisung had been polite at first. Then the guy had started to come on to him pretty aggressively and Jisung was less polite and more withdrawn, hoping he’d take the hint. When he didn’t, Jisung decided he’d go and see what was taking Changbin so long, except the guy didn’t seem to like that; he’d reached out and grabbed Jisung, hand wrapping around his forearm hard enough to jolt his shoulder, maybe hard enough to bruise. And that was when Minho appeared out of nowhere, wrenching the guy’s hand off Jisung like it was nothing and punching him so hard that Jisung swears the guy lifted off his feet.
There’s blood on his knuckles because of me, he thinks fuzzily. His own blood starts to head down south.
‘AHEM.’
Jisung’s going to smother Changbin while he sleeps.
‘I’m fine, hyung’, he grouses. ‘He tweaked my shoulder when he grabbed me, that’s all. Nothing some painkillers and a hot shower can’t fix.’
Changbin mutters something that sounds suspiciously like try telling your boyfriend that, but when Jisung rounds on him he’s met with a wide-eyed, innocent stare. At normal volume, Changbin says, ‘That’s good. We’ll get you into the shower as soon as you get back to your room, and I’ll call Chan-hyung to let him know what happened.’
And that’s what they do, Changbin getting comfortable on Jisung’s bed as he shoves Jisung in the direction of the bathroom, a strangely cheerful, ‘Chan-hyung, guess what?!’, making it into the room just before the door closes.
Jisung turns the shower on and gets in once the spray’s warm, pressing his forehead against the tile to ground himself. The water beats down on his shoulders and snakes hot trails down his chest and stomach. He’s not even really thinking as he reaches for his cock, one hand moving on instinct to work himself to full hardness – not that it takes much with the way his pulse is singing under his skin – the other reaching for his conditioner to make the slide a little easier. And then it’s just him, fucking into his fist like it’s the only thing he knows how to do, thinking about Minho reaching for him with bloodied knuckles, imagining taking those fingers into his mouth and tonguing away every trace of blood, picturing how it would feel to sink to his knees and suck Minho’s dick, Minho’s newly clean hand clenched in his hair as he comes down Jisung’s throat -
‘Sung-ah, you good in there? Minho-hyung wants to video call so he can check you’re okay.’
Jisung is – uh. Well.
‘I’m good’, he calls, voice thankfully trembling less than his knees, which are feeling pretty weak from the combined orgasm and rapidly fading adrenaline. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
He watches his come wash slowly down the drain. Thinks, I might have a problem.
*
He definitely has a problem.
The first time was unexpected, but he could roll with it. After all, Minho defending his safety and honour (with his fists!) was, objectively, very sexy – it would be weirder if Jisung hadn’t been into it, really. In grand scheme of things it was just a blip on an otherwise unsexy radar, not noteworthy or statistically significant. No biggie.
The second time? Well, technically it’s an extension of the, uh, inciting incident. Yes, maybe it wasn’t a proportionate response to watching Minho explain his actions in front of a room full of lawyers, but in his defence, it was less than 48 hours later and Minho’s knuckles were barely starting to scab! Who could blame Jisung, really, for taking one look at his hyung’s entirely unapologetic expression and thinking: I need to crawl under the table and suck him off until he’s physically unable to come again. And okay, maybe jerking himself off in a bathroom stall immediately after the meeting was a bit much, but what was he supposed to do? It’s not like he could go to dance practice with an erection.
Anyway. As some guy said, two times is a coincidence. It’s still not noteworthy or statistically significant! Jisung could chalk it up to experience and just… move on.
Unfortunately, his subconscious doesn’t seem to get the memo.
The third time is arguably the most embarrassing because of how much of a non-event it is. Nobody gets punched, nobody bleeds. In fact, the only thing that gets hurt is Jisung’s pride.
It goes something like this: a few days later they’re learning a new piece of choreography with a new choreographer and Jisung just cannot seem to get it. He’s not the only one messing things up, but he’s making more mistakes than normal and it’s starting to stress him out, tension creeping up his spine to knot at the nape of his neck, the beginnings of a headache throbbing in his temples. And all of that would be fine, except the choreographer keeps calling him out when he fucks up and it feels kind of… pointed. Which again, would be fine, except that the anxiety-headache-shame combination is starting to make Jisung feel like maybe he wants to burst into tears, and he’d honestly rather confess to JYP than cry in front of everyone right now.
So when Minho calls for a time-out and then goes over to the choreographer to have a very quiet, very polite conversation that puts an end to any further comments on Jisung’s fuck-ups, there’s really no reason for Jisung to spend the rest of practice wondering if Minho would be okay with using his mouth as a cock-warmer the next time they watch anime.
Yeah, Jisung’s fucked.
*
After the fourth time – where someone tries to film Jisung having a panic attack while they’re out getting dinner and Minho descends on them like some kind of icy avenging angel, which leads to Jisung biting his pillow to keep from moaning as he jerks off to the thought of choking on Minho’s dick under a restaurant table – he decides this burden is too heavy to be carried alone.
‘So yeah, any suggestions for how I stop thinking about sucking hyung’s dick would be great.’
‘I need therapy’, Hyunjin says, horrified. ‘Like, all of it. Immediately.’
Felix, by contrast, looks both confused and thoughtful. ‘And you’ve really never thought about hyung that way before all of this?’
‘Nope’, Jisung says, shaking his head. ‘Minho-hyung’s obviously stupidly beautiful but it’s just not like that between us.’ He pauses, considering. ‘I guess I did have a sex dream about him one time, but I’ve had sex dreams about all of you at some point and it’s not like they mean anything. And I think he was half-crab, so it’s hardly representative of real life.’
Hyunjin slowly slides off the couch on to face-plant the floor. ‘I’m going to kill everyone in this room and then myself’, he mumbles, only somewhat muffled by the rug. Then he raises his head. ‘Which half was crab? Actually, don’t answer that.’
‘I had a sex dream where I was getting railed by Father Christmas once’, Felix says, shrugging. ‘I don’t remember much, but I was definitely hard when I woke up.’
Hyunjin buries his face in the rug again and screams. Felix reaches down to gently stroke his hair.
‘Have you considered just asking hyung to let you suck it? Maybe if you do it once it’ll get it out of your system’, he suggests.
Jisung sighs. ‘I dunno, maybe? But I thought thinking about sucking his dick was a one-time thing – what if I actually suck it and then I become, like, addicted or something? That would be so awkward.’ He flings his head back against the couch, groaning. ‘Ugh, I’m doomed, aren’t I?’
Felix just hums sympathetically, still stroking Hyunjin’s hair.
*
The fifth time is the final straw.
They’re at an awards ceremony, which is a special kind of hell in and of itself, although at least they’ve made it through their performance without incident, and Jisung manages to time his toilet break so that he’s actually ready to go up on stage when their names are called. They even get through their speeches with minimal drama, though there are still plenty of tears.
It’s getting towards the end of the night. Jisung is tired and close to reaching his limit, too many hours spent around too many people with too few opportunities to hide; all he really wants is to go home. Instead, he’s getting shepherded through backstage corridors by the event coordinators so they can take their places for the closing ceremony. His smile is pinned firmly in place, exchanging bows and greetings with various seonbaes and hoobaes as they walk, hoping it’s not as obvious as it feels that he’d rather be anywhere else.
They’re close to the stage when it happens. The drinks have been flowing – some from bottles, others from flasks – and some attendees have definitely been less restrained in their consumption. The seonbae walking towards them (well known, though not necessarily well-respected) is clearly one of those, judging by the way he keeps stumbling. Still, they make their bows, because Chan raised them to be polite.
It seems this seonbae wasn’t raised the same. Not only does he fail to greet the group, he also manages to trip over his own feet and knock into a passing trolley of stage equipment, sending a cascade of cables and mic stands directly at Jisung, who barely has time to think oh shit before it all connects. Except instead of taking a load of mic stands to the face, the hits land glancingly on his back – he hardly even stumbles under the impact, held securely against a warm body, head tucked into a familiar-smelling neck.
A chorus of voices break out, overlapping like a flock of starlings to accuse, apologise, ask if he’s okay. Jisung only pays attention the one right in his ear, sweet even when it’s full of thinly veiled fury.
‘Are you hurt anywhere, Sungie?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, m’okay’, he says, all breathy and star-struck. He sounds like the female lead in a romantic drama, probably looks like one too with the way he’s almost swooning. He draws back to look at Minho, taking in the little crease between his hyung’s perfect eyebrows, the unhappy tilt of his lips. ‘Hyung saved me.’
‘Lee Know-ssi, you’re bleeding!’ someone exclaims from somewhere behind them, and just like that Jisung’s romantic drama takes a sharp turn into something much less suitable for public consumption, all his thoughts slithering – along with his blood – somewhere southwards.
‘It’s nothing’, Minho says, dismissive. ‘Just a scratch.’ He looks at Jisung again, eyes scanning his face as if to check there’s really nothing wrong. Whatever he finds must satisfy him; he nods gently, unwrapping his arm from Jisung and taking a step back. ‘It can wait ‘til we’re finished.’
People say other things after that, but Jisung’s not listening. He walks on autopilot, head full of white noise and all-consuming need, eyes drawn to Minho like a lodestone. If I don’t suck his dick tonight, I might actually die, he thinks weakly.
‘Get it together’, Hyunjin hisses in his ear as they make their way on stage. ‘We’re in public.’
Jisung opens his mouth. Closes it. Licks his lips. ‘I -’
‘Do not finish that sentence.’ Hyunjin’s mouth twists the same way he does when confronted with an aubergine. ‘And stop looking at Minho-hyung like you want to eat him. Your parents are probably watching this right now. My parents definitely are.’
As threats go it’s effective, if unpleasant. Sending a mental apology to his parents – and a quick prayer of thanks to whoever decided to style him in a pleated half-skirt over his trousers – he tries to school his face and thoughts into something less painfully, blazingly horny.
*
The ride back to their dorm feels like it takes longer than usual, silence stretching out between them in the backseat. Without the threat of a public broadcast, Jisung’s thoughts have circled firmly back around to not safe for work territory; he spends most of the drive resisting the urge to undo his seatbelt and crawl into the footwell to press his face into Minho’s crotch, and by the time they pull up outside the dorm he’s sporting a semi and halfway out of his mind.
‘What a night’, Minho sighs as they get inside, rolling his neck stiffly as he toes off his shoes. ‘I can’t believe that asshole. Are you sure you’re doing alright, jagiya?’
‘I want to suck your dick so badly I could cry.’
The sentence sends ripples through the room, like a stone dropped in a still pond. Minho blinks at him. Jisung blinks too, just as taken aback, trying to find ssomething normal to say. He fails miserably.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Minho asks, a beat too late and studiously casual. ‘You didn’t hit your head or anything?’
Colour floods Jisung’s face; he narrowly resists the urge to stamp his foot. ‘Hyung! I’m serious!’ He pouts, feeling hot all over from the mingled embarrassment and anger. ‘I’ve been thinking about it ever since you punched that guy.’
‘Oh.’
Jisung rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah.’ He scuffs the toe of his shoe on the floor, thinking. Fuck it. ‘So… can I?’
He’s honestly not sure what he’s expecting Minho to say; after all, he’s just dropped the conversational equivalent of a bomb on their friendship with no warning, only to follow it up with a second, bigger bomb. He’s pretty sure Minho won’t storm off or anything, but beyond that it’s anybody’s guess.
And then: ‘Sure. Your room or mine?’
Huh, maybe he did hit his head: maybe this is all a head-trauma induced horny delusion. Still, on the off chance it’s not...
‘Uh. Yours?’
Minho nods calmly, as if Jisung’s just suggested getting takeaway instead of going to Minho’s bedroom for dick-sucking purposes. ‘Cool. You wanna now, or…?’
Jisung’s heart is racing so hard he feels light-headed. ‘Now is – now is good’, he says, his voice gone all breathy again.
‘Okay.’ Then Minho’s holding out his hand like this is the most normal thing in the world. ‘Come on then, jagiya.’
*
Five minutes later and fifteen feet further into the apartment, Jisung’s still not totally convinced this is real. It’s been weeks – months, even – of being consumed, body and hole, by thoughts of sucking Minho’s cock; surely this has to be a dream?
It’s impressively convincing if it is a dream though, spit pooling in his mouth, his knees already starting to ache against the hardwood floor. And then there’s Minho, looking at him with an eyebrow cocked (heh) from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, sweats shoved down to his calves, erection straining hard against the front of his underwear.
‘I thought you wanted to suck my dick?’
It’s a reasonable question. ‘I do!’ Jisung insists, because he really, really does.
‘So what’s the hold-up?’
Jisung can feel himself pouting as he explains. ‘This is a dream, right? I mean, it has to be – some kind of insane unconscious wish-fulfilment cause of how much I want this. And if I actually suck your dick, that probably means I’m going to wake up right before I get to the good part and I don’t want that, hyung!’ He sounds pained, feels pained, can’t imagine anything worse than waking up in his own bed, so close to what he wants and yet still so far.
Minho, unsympathetic bastard that he is, snorts. ‘The smell of sweaty ball-sack’s real’, he replies. ‘Pretty sure that’ll convince you you’re not dreaming.’
The pout deepens in intensity. ‘Don’t be mean to me right now, jagi, I’m going through something.’
‘I offered to shower! You’re the one that said no.’
A frustrated noise crawls out of Jisung’s throat. ‘And I told you, if I let you out of my sight right now, I’ll definitely realise I’m dreaming and then I’ll wake up and I’ll cry, hyung, I really will.’
Minho sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Can I at least get it out?’
Jisung considers it. On one hand: one less obstacle between him and Minho’s dick, and a visual for all his future lust-addled hallucinations. On the other – no, actually, there’s nothing. He nods quickly. ‘Yeah, yes, you can get it out. Please get it out.’
Minho gets it out. Jisung makes eye contact.
‘Hyung’, he whispers, swallowing hard so he doesn’t literally drool everywhere. ‘Hyung, seriously… I mean, wow…’
Objectively, it’s a nice dick: bigger than average – which, duh – and thick in a way that Jisung knows is going to stretch his lips to the limit, flushed dark and curving a little to the left. Subjectively it’s the best dick, because it’s attached to Minho and it’s about to be in Jisung’s mouth.
He sways forward without thinking, hands braced on Minho’s thighs as he leans in. Just a taste, he thinks dumbly. Just a tiny taste…
Minho wasn’t lying about the smell of sweaty ball-sack as it turns out, but Jisung doesn’t care, too caught up in the heady thrill of oh shit it’s real it’s real it’s really happening as his tongue makes contact with hot, silky skin that twitches at the first touch, a little jerk that has saliva filling his mouth in a wave. ‘Hyung’, he moans, fingers tightening against the strong muscles of Minho’s thighs. ‘Fuck, hyung, oh fuck.’
Somewhere above him, Minho makes a low, wrecked sound. ‘Jisung-ah, jagi, please.’
And just like that, the last of Jisung’s restraint snaps. He leans all the way forward and gets his mouth around the head, letting the taste of sweat-tangy skin and sour pre-come spill across his taste buds as he tongues at it. He moans again, feeling half out of his mind; Minho’s answering groan has his head spinning, spit sliding out of the corners of his mouth and down the shaft. It’s wet and messy and it’s everything, everything he dreamed of and so much more.
He gets a little lost in it truthfully, all his senses reduced to a chant of Minho Minho Minho as he works his hyung over, hand and mouth moving in a slippery, eager rhythm. Over and over, until his jaw is aching almost as much as his knees and still he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, not even when Minho’s trembling seizes into something rigid, his come pulsing hot and bitter across Jisung’s tongue. It takes a hand in his hair – once again bloodied, just for him – to pull him off and lay him down, breathless and gasping as he rests against Minho’s thigh.
‘Fuck’, Minho says, sounding just as winded as Jisung feels. ‘Fuck.’ His hand is still tangled in Jisung’s hair, fingers twitching like he’s been shocked. It’s stupid hot. Jisung wants to suck his dick about it at the earliest possible opportunity.
A few minutes later, his hyung breaks the silence. ‘Can I – do you -’ Minho swallows, audibly. ‘Can I return the favour?’
Dragging his eyes open is an effort, but it’s worth it to see the way Minho’s looking at him, red-cheeked and wide-eyed, something dazed and worshipful in his gaze. Jisung hums, feeling floaty and contented. ‘Sure’, he says. ‘I’m gonna last, like, ten seconds though, just so you know.’ He shifts a little, wincing. ‘And you’re gonna have to help me up, cause my foot’s gone to sleep.’
A smile tugs at the corner of Minho’s mouth, soft-edged but amused. ‘I can do that’, he says easily.
And he does.
- fin -