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Minho is quieter than usual as they wait for the cars to pull around after the fan meeting. Jisung throws an arm around his shoulders, leaning close.
“You good?”
“Fine.” The reply is much too curt, turning Jisung’s mild curiosity into genuine concern. “Tired,” Minho adds, resting his head on Jisung’s shoulder.
Jisung catches manager hyung’s eye over Minho’s head and mouths, Can I ride back with him? When he gets a nod, Jisung rubs Minho’s shoulder and squeezes him for a second, blinking rapidly as the cameras begin to flash outside. The cars must be here.
“I’ll come back with you,” Jisung declares. “We can chill for a bit.”
“Thought you were getting dinner.” Minho’s arm slips around Jisung’s waist as he speaks, fingers tight on his hip.
“I can get it with you.”
Chan gives Jisung a thumbs up from where he’s been whispering with manager hyung and tugs Felix over. After a moment of conversation, Felix laughs and waves a hand at Jisung. He must have agreed to switch his seat. Jisung gives him a thumbs up in return.
“Car’s here, jagi. Let’s go home.”
Minho stands up straight in slow increments, his fingertips lingering at the small of Jisung’s back.
“Whose seat did you steal?”
“Yongbokkie.”
The face Minho makes in reply is disgruntled. “Switch with Seungmin instead.”
“Too late,” Seungmin cuts in. Jisung jumps. How did he not notice that Seungmin was standing behind him? “Let’s go.”
Just teasing Seungmin seems to exhaust Minho’s energy. While Jisung plays with Seungmin and Jeongin on the ride home, Minho lays with his eyes closed on Jisung’s shoulder, only moving to occasionally adjust his position or quietly threaten Seungmin the one time something catches his attention. A low thrum of anxiety lurks behind the rest of Jisung’s thoughts, but he handles Minho into his room without distressing anyone else, which is worth something.
Minho lays down easily enough, but he pops back up when Jisung doesn’t join him, holding out his arms. “Thought you were staying with me,” he says, not quite whining but hovering on the edge of it.
Jisung laughs as he grabs the phone stand from Minho’s closet.
“Isn’t it easier to keep this by the bed?” he asks, shoving at Minho’s chest until he’s sitting back enough on the bed for Jisung to sit between his legs. Minho links his fingers over Jisung’s stomach and hooks his chin over Jisung’s shoulder.
“Too cluttered,” Minho argues.
“If you don’t use it, I won’t be mad.” Jisung bought the phone stand for Minho last year after he complained that watching anime and holding up his phone was an extra workout, but he hasn’t ever caught Minho using it.
Rather than respond, Minho bites down on Jisung’s shoulder through the sleeve of his shirt.
“Ow!”
“Aren’t you gonna show me something?” Minho asks, innocently tapping his fingers on Jisung’s stomach.
He gives Minho a suspicious look for a few more seconds, but when nothing else happens, Jisung settles back against his chest and pulls up his FYP. He scrolls past a lot of reptiles before he finds a video of a cheetah meeting their emotional support golden retriever.
“Oh,” Minho says, soft but pleased. Jisung is satisfied.
They hit a good stretch of related videos, with enough cats that Minho stays interested, but fifteen minutes in his leg starts to bounce, and by twenty minutes, Jisung can no longer ignore it. He sets a hand on Minho’s thigh.
“Thought you were tired?” he teases, half-joking, half-inquiring.
“I was.” Minho places his hand over Jisung’s. “Now I’m not.”
“Your big cat friends giving you energy?”
Rather than reply, Minho lifts Jisung’s phone out of the stand and deposits it on the bed, then tosses the phone stand to the floor. Jisung leans forward so that Minho can get up and watches him spring to his feet, pacing back and forth with the occasional pause to jump up and down in place. It’s not a symptom of any sickness Jisung knows about. At least it doesn’t seem like COVID.
“Hyung, what can I do?” He’s good for a relaxing time at home, but Jisung doesn’t know how to help a Minho in this state.
Minho doesn’t answer. He just paces and paces, until the sight of him makes Jisung’s head spin.
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
Minho stops short, turning to Jisung and staring him down.
“Yeah,” he says after a few moments of silence. “Yeah, let’s go.”
They go for a walk. It’s right on the edge between winter and spring, pavement wet beneath their feet and the thick feeling of humidity in the air without the oppressive heat that later months will bring. Jisung’s hair starts to soak up all that water pretty quick. He tugs on his hood—Minho’s hood, technically, since Jisung hadn’t brought one with him to the fanmeet—and pulls the drawstrings so the hood scrunches tight around his face.
“Is it better?”
“Hm?” Minho’s answer is more distant than it should be, his hands shoved hard into his pockets. Jisung frowns.
“Out here, is it better? Less cooped up?”
“Oh.” Minho blows out a slow breath. “Yeah, Jisungie. It’s good.”
He finally looks over at Jisung, bursting into laughter at what he finds. Jisung’s stomach swoops.
They walk around the block a few times, nothing too strenuous. It’s not Jisung’s favorite wind-down activity, but walking helps Minho even when he’s not sick, just to clear his head. Since nothing about Minho makes any sense to begin with, Jisung doesn’t mind indulging him—and since he’s feeling weird, Jisung doesn’t even complain.
After the fifth time, Minho pulls him to the side out of nowhere.
“Ah! Hyung—”
Jisung tumbles into Minho’s shoulder, wrapping his arm around Minho’s to steady himself. The chime of the convenience store door opening lets him know where they are, but he still grumbles as he sets himself straight.
“You could’ve asked. I have ears.”
“Really? Let me see.” Minho tugs the hood off his head, smoothing Jisung’s hair down with both hands. “There they are.” He tugs Jisung’s earlobe, making Jisung laugh when he’s trying to look serious.
He sighs, too fond of Minho to be annoyed for long. “What do you want?”
“What?”
“From the store.” Jisung gestures around them. “You wanted something?”
Minho just looks at him. There really must be something messing with his head.
“C’mon,” he says, taking Minho’s hand and leading him down the aisle. “Ramyeon cures everything, right? Let’s get some. Do you still have ssanghwacha? I’ll make you some when we go back, maybe it’ll help.”
He feels the warmth of Minho’s breath on the back of his neck a second before strong arms wrap around him from behind. Normally, Minho would hook his chin over Jisung’s shoulder, but he presses his forehead to Jisung’s hair instead, just breathing. The brim of his cap rests lightly on top of Jisung’s head, like they’re sharing a hat.
Jisung shivers. When Minho doesn’t say anything, he places his arms on top of Minho’s and rocks them side to side a little. The shelves of ramyeon in front of him don’t hold any answers, but he stares hard anyway, waiting for Minho to say or do something he can respond to.
“You want to help?”
“Of course.” Jisung’s voice is a little off even to his own ears, but there’s no reason for it. No reason for the way the hairs on the back of his neck stick up, either. Probably just because Minho’s breathing on them.
He pulls out of Minho’s arms and grabs a flavor at random. Now Jisung is the one who’s way too jittery, the one that feels the need to pace, to keep moving, like he’s a shark that’ll die if he slows down. “Let’s go check for tea.”
Jisung doesn’t look back to make sure Minho is following as he takes off. The teas are tucked away in the back corner. Jisung makes a beeline for them. Tea and ramyeon are the two best cure-alls in the world; whatever is making Minho so weird, there’s no way one of those can’t fix him.
If the impossible does happen, Jisung can always order cheesecake for delivery.
Minho is behind him again when Jisung turns, ssanghwacha in hand. He wobbles when there isn’t enough space to take the step he expected to take, but Minho catches him at the waist, face shadowed beneath the brim of his cap.
“Hyung?”
The only reply is Minho reaching up and switching his cap so that it’s facing backwards. Beneath the fluorescent lights, Minho’s eyes are dark enough to be all pupil, like round balls of boba. His cheeks are flushed. Does he have a fever?
“Minho,” Jisung whispers. “We should—”
He forgets what they need to do the second Minho kisses him. Jisung’s brain can’t process it. They’re in the middle of a convenience store—their convenience store, the one that sees enough idols to know exactly who they are, even if they weren’t being conspicuous—and Minho is kissing him.
The ramyeon and tea clatter to the ground at their feet. Jisung presses his hands to Minho’s chest, knowing there’s no way they can do this here. Minho tugs Jisung’s lip between his teeth. When he opens his mouth to complain, Minho’s tongue takes that as invitation, pushing inside with such ruthless efficiency that Jisung shudders, fingers curling against Minho’s hoodie.
He’s had dreams like this: Minho backing him against the shelves on one of their evening snack runs, boxes of tea scattered to the ground as Jisung struggled and Minho forced him still. The reality of it is overwhelming. His heart races, so loud in his ears it almost drowns out the sound of the door chime.
Almost.
Jisung makes a break for it, darting out of Minho’s grip before he has time to respond. It’s another sign that Minho’s not thinking right; his reactions are too slow.
“We should go home,” he says, pleading with whatever’s left of Minho’s brain. “Hyung, please.”
Slowly, Minho turns to face him. He stares at Jisung’s mouth, which still throbs vaguely as the hurt from Minho’s teeth fades.
“Home.” He sounds like he’s never heard the word before.
Jisung’s anxiety rises with every moment they spend outside. “Please,” he repeats. Minho’s never denied him when he really needs something. He won’t do so now, even sick, even confused.
“Sounds good.”
Despite sounding a little like an alien, Minho dragging him out of the store by the arm is familiar enough. Jisung briefly mourns his inability to apologize for making a mess and dropping things, but that’s anxiety for another day, whenever they see the same clerk again.
You know what? The kissing might be an even bigger problem. Two problems for future Jisung to handle—or, more likely, make Minho handle to make up for whatever’s happening now.
They don’t speak on the walk back. Jisung is terrified that if he interrupts, Minho will stop walking and do something crazy, and then Jisung won’t be able to get him inside again. He doesn’t let go of Jisung’s wrist the entire time, not even when they’re in the elevator, nor when they’re back in the dorm.
Minho drags Jisung directly to his bedroom and shuts the door.
“Okay,” Jisung says, so relieved to be in privacy his eyes start to sting. “Okay, what the fuck is happpening to you?”
He rounds on Minho, still standing between Jisung and the door. Minho takes off his cap and runs his fingers through his hair, eyes never leaving Jisung’s.
“Do you feel better?” he asks.
Jisung barks out a sharp laugh. “Do I feel better? I’m not the one losing his mind in broad daylight—”
“Jisungie,” Minho interrupts, stepping closer, eyes darting all around Jisung’s face. “Are you okay?”
He wants to press Minho for answers, but Jisung hates worrying him.
“Fine,” he says through his teeth.
Minho smiles, the kind that always makes Jisung feel like the sun’s just come out from behind a rain cloud.
“Good.”
Before Jisung can say anything, Minho takes his face in hand, kissing him just as soundly as he had in the convenience store. He’s so warm that Jisung can feel it in the press of his lips, the wet slide of his tongue as it finds a way into Jisung’s mouth. Maybe he let it happen. He’s distracted. Is Minho going to give him a fever?
Jisung turns his head to the side so he can breathe enough to talk, but it doesn’t discourage Minho from kissing him. He moves to Jisung’s neck instead, sucking hard, his teeth exerting slow, steadily increasing pressure.
“Lino-hyung,” he breathes. Jisung meant it to sound stronger than that, but he’s dizzy, blood rushing south all at once. “Li—Lino, I—ah, ah, ahhhhh—”
He’s found another spot, lower on Jisung’s neck. Was he always so sensitive there? Minho’s hands slide down Jisung’s back and over his ass, squeezing and shifting Jisung a little closer. Jisung always calls Minho a wildcat, but this is ridiculous, this—this sexual mauling can’t be normal.
Once Minho’s hands slide up the back of his shirt, Jisung finds the will to pull away. Minho’s fingertips drag on Jisung’s hip, like he doesn’t want to let go, but Jisung is able to step back a little and get some air. The marks on his neck still throb, damp and chilled by the air now that they’ve separated.
Jisung stares at him. Minho’s eyes are closed, his head still tilted. It looks like Jisung could step right back into his arms and pick up again. Like he’s in a drama and Jisung just pressed pause.
“I don’t understand,” Jisung blurts out. He probably should ask if Minho’s okay, but he’s feeling a little selfish, and more than a little confused. “You’ve been weird—and not like, sick weird. Not Minho-hyung weird.” His voice quavers over that one, cheeks flushing. “Weird like you’re not okay and I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t know how to fix it and I really don’t think this is the right time for us to be kissing!”
With a flutter of his eyelashes, Minho opens his eyes. His stare always has a lot of weight to it—good weight, like an anxiety blanket or a warm hug—but this one is so heavy it makes Jisung’s breath catch.
“Hyung?”
Minho takes a step closer. Just one. “You can fix it, Jisungie.”
Relief courses through him. “Oh, good. You figured it out?”
Another step. The room feels smaller.
“I figured it out in the store.”
Jisung’s brain grinds to a halt, then restarts in double-speed. “The—But you—What?”
They’re not much different in height, maybe a centimeter or two, but Minho traps him against the wall with ease, overwhelming and everywhere. There’s nowhere for Jisung to go. He could duck away, but Minho isn’t doing anything. He’s just watching. Staring down at Jisung in a way that’s unfamiliar, but not necessarily unsettling.
He’s ridiculously hot. Jisung feels small and nervous between his arms like this, even though Minho isn’t touching him at all. Just the wall. His hands are on either side of Jisung’s head.
“Say no,” Minho says quietly.
Jisung blinks. He’s lost the conversation entirely. “What?”
“Say no. Not ‘we shouldn’t’ or ‘this isn’t the time’ or whatever.” Minho leans closer. His eyes are a little red at the corners. “Tell me you don’t want me.”
The silence between them is deafening. White noise roars in Jisung’s ears.
“Hurry, Jisung-ah. You’re running out of time.”
Jisung licks his lips. This is what Minho needs, right? He said Jisung could fix things. The instructions are very simple.
Minho’s eyes drop to Jisung’s mouth.
“I won’t ask again.”
Swallowing, Jisung opens his mouth. He can do it. I don’t want you. Four words. It doesn’t make sense, but none of this has made sense all day. The solution doesn’t need to.
“I—”
His voice sticks in his throat. It’s not that Jisung hasn’t lied before, but he hasn’t lied to Minho, not on purpose. It’s harder than he thought it would be. Jisung closes his eyes, hoping that will make it easier to force the words out.
Minho’s lips finds his again. Distantly, beneath the roaring in his ears and the moan muffled into their kiss, Jisung thinks he’s run out of time. He opens his mouth and lets Minho inside, leaning back until his head thumps gently against the wall.
Mauling: Round Two is much rougher. Minho’s tongue is so ferocious and invasive that Jisung can barely gasp for air, breathing harshly through his nose whenever he remembers. He lets Minho push his shirt and hoodie up and off, mostly for the access to oxygen, but Jisung doesn’t expect Minho to strip his own too. His neck and chest are flushed pink.
He doesn’t give Jisung more time to observe him before they’re kissing again, messy and wet. Minho is so warm that Jisung doesn’t really question it when he strips out of his pants. He tries to ask when Minho reaches for Jisung’s pants, but Minho bites his lip at the same time, and that distracts him long enough that he might as well step out of them, pooled around his ankles as they are.
The other possible reasons for taking their clothes off don’t really hit him until Minho has pulled him back toward the bed, sitting down and tugging Jisung into his lap. He yelps and rocks upward when he feels the hard length of Minho’s dick beneath him, thighs trembling as he tries to keep from sitting on it.
Minho tugs him down at the hips.
“Lino-hyung,” he moans without meaning to, trying to interject. He knew Minho was big, but it’s another thing for Jisung to feel him like this, pressed up against his body with only two thin layers of cotton between them.
Sloppy kisses trail down his throat, Minho’s hands tight on his hips. Jisung can’t help moaning when Minho thrusts up, but he knows they can’t do that when Minho isn’t in his right mind.
Thinking of Minho’s virtue actually clears his head a little.
“Wait, wait,” Jisung says, tilting Minho’s face up to look at him again. He may not understand the situation, but he thinks he might finally have figured out what Minho meant by ‘fix’ earlier; it’s insane, but if he’s right, Jisung will have to be the one to set some kind of boundary.
Minho looks up at him. He’s the picture of innocence—aside from his half-lidded eyes and the way his hands cup Jisung’s ass.
“Slow down,” Jisung coaxes, dropping a feather-light kiss on Minho’s nose. “Let me help.”
It’s a bit more intense than his usual soothing, but it works. Minho leans back on his hands and lets Jisung do what he wants. When Jisung hooks his fingers under the hem of Minho’s underwear, he lifts his hips to accommodate the silent request, the flushed head of his cock bouncing obscenely against his stomach as it’s freed.
Jisung’s mouth waters. He swallows hard, but it doesn’t help the curiosity burning in the pit of his stomach.
Slowly, almost dazed, Jisung drops to his knees. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Minho’s hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white with how tightly he’s holding onto them, but he doesn’t say or do anything. Minho just waits.
His knuckles brush Minho’s dick first. It’s soft and fever-hot. The moment he touches it, a pearl of liquid drips down the side, sticking to his finger. Jisung wants to lick it off so bad he actually sways forward before remembering why he knelt down here in the first place.
Wrapping his hand around it is both familiar and not. Jisung is pretty sure he’s never jerked off with a fever, and he’s definitely never jerked off a dick this big, but Minho’s head falls back on a moan with the first stroke, so he must be doing okay. Minho leaks all over his fingers immediately, precome making the slide of his hand wet and loud. Jisung blushes but doesn’t stop.
If whatever’s making him so weird is just pent-up horniness, Jisung can fix that. Then they can talk about all this and he’ll try not to die.
“Fuck,” Minho says when Jisung rubs his thumb over the head. “Tighter, Jisung-ah.”
He tightens his fist, mouth falling open when Minho fucks into it, setting his own pace. It feels wrong—isn’t Jisung supposed to be helping?—but it’s hypnotic, the way Minho’s thigh muscles stand out through his skin as he fucks Jisung’s hand, the way he swears under his breath when Jisung adjusts his angle or uses his thumb again.
“Jisung,” Minho says through gritted teeth.
Blinking, he looks up and realizes Minho is looking down at him again. He’s close.
No, it’s Jisung that’s close, leaning forward between Minho’s parted legs.
Mortification washes over him. Jisung isn’t sick, isn’t pent up. There’s no need for him to go crazy just because Minho is.
They share a long look. Jisung normally reads Minho pretty well, but he has no idea what to expect from this Minho. He can barely keep his eyes on Minho’s now that he’s seen his cock like this, dark and sticky and beautiful. In Jisung’s hand.
Minho reaches up and presses his thumb to Jisung’s bottom lip.
“Open.”
Jisung opens. Minho’s thumb dips into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue. He’s too warm. His skin tastes like salt. Jisung moans and slides his head forward, but Minho pulls out, leaving him breathless and empty.
He must look like an idiot. Mouth open, eyes wide, face flushed dark with a mixture of embarrassment and desire.
“Pretty,” Minho says as he scoots closer to the edge of the bed.
Sucking Minho’s cock doesn’t feel like a decision, exactly. It feels natural, the way breathing feels natural. Reflexive. The head presses against his lips and Jisung opens wider to accommodate it, the stretch in his jaw closer to the burn of working out than he would have expected.
It doesn’t taste as bad as Jisung thought it might. His mouth waters more when he’s taken the whole head in. How can even half of this fit? He pulls back enough to get a proper look at Minho one more time, just to make sure he wasn’t having some kind of horny hallucination.
That’s Minho’s dick. A string of spit connects the head to Jisung’s lips. He wets them and it breaks. Precome pulses out, dripping down the shaft. It feels like Minho’s reacting to him, except he’s not doing anything, is he? Minho’s dick is too big. He’s seen it before, but he hasn’t seen it like this. Not on his knees. Not between his lips.
When he leans forward again, Jisung relaxes his jaw, filling his mouth with Minho as much as he can on his own. It’s not much. It’s not enough. Jisung looks up at Minho and waits. He likes to set the pace, right? That’s why he took over earlier.
A moment of stillness follows.
“Like this?” Minho asks as his hand drops to Jisung’s head, pushing just a little on the back of his neck.
Jisung moans around him.
It’s easy to lose himself in the feeling of Minho fucking his throat, shallow at first, then deeper when Jisung doesn’t complain. He chokes a couple of times, but Minho doesn’t seem able to stop, gasping sorry and fucking him through it.
Jisung should care. He should want to pull back. Having his mouth fucked to the point of tears shouldn’t make Jisung so hard he has to press a hand to his dick over his underwear, muffling a whimper as he twitches forward. One of the tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes finally slips down his cheek. He feels Minho’s thumb catch it and struggles to open his eyes, to look at Minho and try and convey that this is fine. It’s good. He likes it so much more than he thought possible.
He moans when Minho’s precome hits his tongue, whimpers muffled by Minho’s hand on the back of his neck as he thrusts in deep before pulling Jisung all the way off. He doesn’t have time to complain before Minho says his name, just once, voice cracking in the middle.
“Jisung-ah.”
Minho comes like that, across Jisung’s face and tongue. It should be awful. It’s always looked so gross to him in porn, like it was just the guy’s way of marking his territory. Self-satisfying.
When Jisung opens his eyes and sees the naked greed on Minho’s face, he understands that being someone’s territory can be a good thing. If the person is Minho. If the territory is Han Jisung.
“C’mere,” Minho says, tugging Jisung up and into his lap. He goes easily this time, no longer caring where he sits. How can he? He’s done a lot more than sit on it at this point.
Minho takes his chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting Jisung’s head one way and then the other.
“Pretty.” His voice is hoarse and soft. “Pretty baby.”
Jisung is pretty sure he looks like a mess. He wants to argue—maybe figure out how to lighten the mood now that Minho’s craze should be over—but he can’t speak, barely remembers how to breathe. His whole face is sore and he likes it.
Minho leans close. Tilting his head, he licks Jisung’s cheek, soft and wet. Hums like he’s considering the taste. Jisung shudders when he does it again, but he doesn’t stop Minho from cleaning his face, even if it makes him feel a little like a baby lion with its mom.
He’s littered with signs that say: Lee Minho was here. The bruises, the few remnants of come Minho didn’t catch, even the spit drying on Jisung’s face.
The fever doesn’t seem to be going away. Jisung presses the back of his hand to Minho’s forehead with a frown.
“It didn’t help,” he says, disappointed and confused. “Minho-hyung—”
“Shh.” Minho kisses him, his tongue just as bitter as Jisung’s. “You’re helping.”
There’s something wrong with that statement, but Minho presses him down onto the bed before he can figure it out. He covers Jisung’s body with his own so easily. Bare skin is suddenly everywhere at once, hot beneath Jisung’s fingers as he clings unsteadily to Minho’s back, trying to think. If he helped, wouldn’t they stop kissing and talk about it a little?
Minho grinds down on him, hard again in an unreasonable amount of time. Is he dying? Maybe someone slipped him one of those dick pills that makes you hard for a million years.
“Maybe we should try something else,” Jisung gasps.
Minho hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of Jisung’s underwear and bites his shoulder.
“Hyung,” he pleads.
“What would help,” Minho demands, slightly manic, “is if you turned over for me.”
As he speaks, Minho pulls the last of Jisung’s clothing off, tossing his underwear to the floor before crawling over him again. A lion on the prowl. Jisung is definitely dinner.
“Wha—Why?”
Hovering over him, Minho cups Jisung’s face in one burning palm. His thumb trembles on Jisung’s cheek.
“I need you.”
Minho says it so plainly, like it doesn’t strip Jisung’s heart as naked as his body. It’s one thing for members to say it. Fans say it all the time. All the members need each other at this point.
No one has ever said they need Jisung the way Minho does. He always feels wanted, sure, but there’s something bleak in Minho’s voice that goes beyond even the fever-dream they’ve entered into. Need is unavoidable. Minho doesn’t even seem real, hair sticking up at the sides where Jisung has messed with it, cheeks dark with heat, eyes dilated until Jisung can practically see his own reflection. He’s insane.
How can someone like that need Jisung so badly? There’s an ache building in Jisung’s chest that started the day they met, a throbbing bruise as real as the ones dotting his throat.
“My Jisungie,” Minho says, tracing Jisung’s lower lip with his thumb. “Mine.”
Jisung’s eyelashes flutter. His dick throbs, wetting his stomach with the overwhelming evidence of just how much he’d like that. Being Minho’s. The what doesn’t matter as much as the whose.
“‘Kay.”
He squirms enough for Minho to push up on his arms, giving Jisung enough room to turn over onto his front. Cheek pressed to the pillow, arms folded above his head, Jisung closes his eyes and lets go.
Minho isn’t going to stop. Jisung—at least his most selfish part—doesn’t want him to.
There’s a shift to one side, a dip in the bed as Minho reaches for the bottle on the nightstand. The pump-action bottle has caught Jisung’s eye more than once, forcing a blush to his cheeks, making him wonder just what Minho did with all that lube. If he touched himself with it. If he touched other people with it.
There’s a clatter and the sound of Minho swearing, but he manages not to knock the lube off the nightstand in his haste. Jisung jumps when Minho’s hands find his ass; he wants to ask if Minho mistook the lube for hand sanitizer with how slick his hands are, but then Minho spreads him open and Jisung can’t think about anything because Minho’s finger is inside him.
Nothing but static floats through his head, muted white noise where Minho stretches him open. His finger isn’t huge or anything, but Jisung doesn’t do this a lot on his own, and Minho’s straddling his thighs—whether to keep him tight or to keep him from moving, Jisung can’t be sure. Maybe both.
Minho barely gives him time to adjust, his free hand still so slick with lube that his fingers keep sliding when he tries to squeeze Jisung’s ass. He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and presses a second finger at Jisung’s hole.
It’s too soon.
“Wait,” Jisung gasps out, unable to breathe enough to project. “Wait, wait—”
Minho does not wait—it’s possible he didn’t hear Jisung at all, which should scare Jisung more than it does. Minho goes relatively slowly, but that’s the only quarter Jisung is allowed. The stretch is overwhelming, knocking a sharp whine from behind Jisung’s teeth. He wants to crawl away, shifting up toward the headboard, but that only extends that weightless feeling in the pit of his stomach as Minho splits him open.
He expects more fingers next—Jisung is very familiar with how big Minho is, one might even say he’s haunted—but when Jisung shudders and tries to relax, he finds himself clenching around air. Minho flips him onto his back in one fluid motion.
“Hyung?” he asks, confused. Minho shifts forward so that Jisung’s knees are pressed back toward his chest, but his bloodshot eyes never leave Jisung’s. “Hyu—aaaahhhhhhh.”
Jisung can’t speak. He can barely breathe. That’s Minho—Minho’s—he’s so—and he’s—
At first Jisung mistakes his own whining something else, someone else. Surely a sound so pathetic couldn’t have come from his own mouth. But it certainly didn’t come from Minho, and Jisung is the one biting down on his wrist, stinging eyes squeezed tightly shut as he tries to relax around the head of Minho’s cock.
It won’t fit. It can’t. Jisung feels tiny. He’s the immovable object to Minho’s unstoppable force.
Then Minho pushes just a little further inside him and moans. Jisung blinks the unshed tears from his eyes enough to look up at Minho. His eyes are shut, mouth dropped open, face and chest flushed pink with heat. He’s beautiful.
He’s so clearly trying to hold back that Jisung throws caution to the wind.
“Minho,” he whispers, voice cracking on the end. “Minho-yah.” Jisung slides his legs around Minho’s waist and pulls him closer, entranced by the need on his face as he sinks further into Jisung’s body. It’s still too much, the fullness overwhelming when Minho bottoms out, but there’s something perfect about it, too. Jisung wants claim to everything about Minho—all his smiles, all his secrets, all his fears, all his desires. This is the closest Jisung has ever been to another living person. He could never risk getting so close to anyone but Minho.
Now that Jisung is clinging to him like a koala, the tension coiled in Minho’s body eases a little. He presses his face to Jisung’s neck. Minho’s face is hot enough to fry an egg, but there’s something sweet about this. Jisung runs his fingers through Minho’s sweaty hair.
“Jisung-ah,” Minho slurs into his skin. “Jisung-ah, Jisung.”
He doesn’t say it like a question, but it feels like one, so Jisung answers anyway.
“Yeah, hyung.” Nothing hurts anymore, but Minho is shaking with how badly he wants to move. Trembling in Jisung’s arms. Is he afraid? “Please.”
Minho captures his lips in a kiss at the same time he snaps his hips forward, desperate and messy. There’s no rhythm to the way he moves, only managing to hit that sweet spot inside Jisung half the time, but it’s still good. It’s good for the way Minho can’t seem to stop now that he’s started, hungry sounds muffled by Jisung’s mouth beneath his.
The tension builds between Minho’s shoulders again—they tighten beneath Jisung’s fingers as he scrabbles uselessly for purchase—but it’s still a surprise when Minho jerks to a halt, biting down hard enough on Jisung’s lower lip that he tastes the salt and rust of blood. Minho’s breathy moan when he comes is almost disbelieving. His cock twitches inside Jisung’s body. Though he can’t feel much more than that, the thought of Minho coming inside him makes Jisung’s dick leak copious amounts of precome onto his stomach, his head falling back on a groan.
He wants to give Minho a second to recover, but it seems he doesn’t need it. His dick is still hard in Jisung’s body, still thick and full as Minho eases out and pushes back inside. It’s so wet—both the sound and the feeling—that Jisung whines, throwing one arm over his eyes to hide from the embarrassment. He can’t hide from the pulse of pleasure he feels at every filthy noise their bodies make, but he can try.
Minho works his way back to a frantic speed, sloppy enough that he slips out of Jisung more than once. Each time he whines low in his throat; it makes Jisung want to comfort him, which seems insane given how roughly Minho is fucking him right now, but he really can’t help it. Jisung lifts his hips to make it easier for Minho to slide back inside, pressing his lips to Minho’s temple, mouthing at his hair. It doesn’t make sense and it doesn’t have to.
He sneaks a hand between their bodies as Minho licks the blood from his throbbing lip. It wouldn’t take much for Jisung to come, not with the death grip Minho has on his thigh and the small, satisfied sounds Minho keeps making in the back of his throat, like there’s nothing better than fucking Jisung incoherent.
Jisung has barely wrapped a hand around his dick when Minho wrenches it away by the wrist, using one forearm to hold his weight above Jisung while the other pins Jisung’s wrist to the pillow.
Embarrassingly, this is what makes tears spring to Jisung’s eyes for the second time.
“Minho,” he whines, gasping for air as Minho fucks him through the words. “I wanna, please? Let me, ah, fuck, please let me come.”
For a moment, Jisung worries that Minho can’t understand him anymore. If he doesn’t come he’ll die. But with a squeeze of his wrist, Minho lets go, sliding his hand between them and trapping Jisung’s cockhead between his stomach and Minho’s palm.
“For me,” he says, almost vicious as he stares down at Jisung through reddened, half-lidded eyes. “Like this.”
Like this? Jisung scoffs and digs his heels into Minho’s back as hard as he can, but it does no good. Minho pulls out to the head and shifts his legs enough that his next thrust has twice the power of the last, forcing Jisung forward and grinding the head of his dick against Minho’s palm. It should be too dry, but with how hard Jisung has been and for how long, his cock slides with just enough friction to have him crying out, tears flowing properly as Minho focuses all his attention on fucking Jisung hard.
“Hyung,” Jisung moans, unable to say anything that would require two syllables, “hyung, hyung—”
“For me, Jisung-ah.” He startles at the first brush of Minho’s tongue on his cheek, but all he does is lick Jisung’s tears away. There’s no way to know if it’s because he doesn’t have hands free, or if Minho just wanted to know what they taste like. Maybe both. “Come for me.”
The strange, unholy combination of tenderness and demand is so very Minho that it’s no surprise when it pushes Jisung over the edge. He bites down hard on Minho’s shoulder, satisfied with the broken groan Minho lets out, and sinks his teeth in further when he feels Minho shudder and come inside him again.
It takes a few moments to remember how to open his mouth again after that. Minho is heavy above him, but Jisung doesn’t mind it so much. He’s going soft, which is a good sign. Jisung pets his hair. The place he bit is very red. Will Minho have a bruise there? Will it last?
Jisung has never before felt so uncomfortable in a silence shared with Minho. When he can’t bear it any longer, he asks, “How… Um. How do you feel?”
There’s an unintelligible groan muffled by Jisung’s shoulder. It’s so normal that it startles him into laughter.
“From this side, I don’t think I could fry an egg on your face anymore. That’s nice.” Jisung is babbling now, but he can’t stop. He can’t even move. Minho has him trapped. “And you seem less horny, which is probably good. For you. Uh. Generally. Like, for your dick? I was worried about it. Not that it’s any of my business, but since it was kind of all I could think about for a while—”
“Jisung.”
He falls silent as Minho lifts his head enough to look him in the eye. Purple bruises have begun to bloom under his eyes. There’s concern on his face that he normally tries to pack away—beneath layers of sarcasm, or at least by turning his head when he notices Jisung is looking.
“Are you okay?”
“Me?” Jisung’s voice comes out high and squeaky, too sharp and too soft at the same time. “I’m fine!” He clears his throat, but it doesn’t help much. “I’m good, really. Don’t worry about me.” To take the attention off himself, Jisung presses the back of his hand to Minho’s forehead, frowning. “You’re still warm though. Maybe a shower will help, now that you’re… you?”
Minho pulling out is maybe the worst feeling Jisung has ever experienced; between the emptiness and the rush of fluid as Minho’s come leaves his body, it might be the worst thing anyone has ever experienced. Jisung can’t help a disgruntled noise, though he coughs after in the hopes of covering it. The bed bounces a little when Minho rolls to the side, no longer trapping Jisung beneath his weight, though he takes a moment to recover from all that movement. Jisung gets it. Stretching out his legs to lay down like a normal person makes him realize just how many muscles ache.
“Right,” Minho says. He sounds weird, but Jisung can’t get a good look at his face. “I’m just gonna—”
He doesn’t bother to finish the sentence, rolling into a sitting position and pushing up onto his feet. Minho makes it two steps before he crumples with a heavy thud.
“Minho!” Jisung scrambles out of bed, ignoring the various wet spots and the rapidly increasing muscle soreness as he rushes to Minho’s side. “Are you okay? You’re doing the thing where you clench your jaw, so I’ll go with no. Come on. I’ll take you.”
It should be awkward, standing here naked and covered in suspicious fluids, holding out a hand to pull Minho to his feet. Jisung certainly feels out of place, but there’s also the sense that he’s where he wants to be. He’s been trying to get to this point with Minho for way too long.
Minho looks up at him with a jaw so tight Jisung is surprised he can’t hear the sound of Minho’s teeth grinding together. “You don’t have to,” he says.
Jisung doesn’t understand. Minho’s always let Jisung take care of him before. Hasn’t he been doing so this whole time?
He makes grabby motions with his outstretched hand, pouting in the way that usually gets him what he wants from Minho. “Come shower with me,” Jisung begs. “I’m sticky.”
As much as Jisung likes to assure everyone he’s a Minho expert, there are still so many times where he can’t figure out what Minho is thinking at all. This is one of them. Minho stares him down like he’s looking for something. If Jisung knew what it was, he’d try and give that look in return, but he’s hopeless.
“Maybe a bath,” Minho says, taking Jisung’s hand and pulling himself to his feet. He’s wobbly, and Jisung has to catch him by the waist, but he seems to move better now that he’s tried it once before. Minho always has such control over his body. It must be awful to have it betray him so many times in a row like this.
Jisung wrinkles his nose as they slowly hobble their way to Minho’s bedroom door—
Fuck. Minho’s bedroom door.
Since Jisung’s bathroom is connected directly to his room, he didn’t think of the fact that he’d have to leave Minho’s room to get to the shower until confronted with the reality. It’s not like the members have never seen them naked before, but Jisung still has a lot of his own come drying on his stomach. It’s on Minho’s other hand! What if someone sees?
Minho doesn’t seem worried. He reaches with the clean hand to open the door; Jisung only has a moment to steel himself against the inevitable mortification of being seen. But when they step outside, no one’s in the hall. The dorm is suspiciously silent.
Jisung decides not to think about that any further and counts his blessings.
Once they shut themselves in the bathroom, Jisung can breathe again. “No bath,” he says as he deposits Minho to lean on the wall before starting the shower and waiting for the water to warm from totally freezing to somewhere in the middle. “The water would be so gross. We can sit in here; I won’t let you drown, hyung.”
“Okay,” Minho says softly. When Jisung turns back to look at him, Minho is staring back. He’s as fond as he is sad.
Jisung checks the water again. It’s not going to make him run screaming it’s so cold, which will probably be good enough to help Minho’s lingering fever.
There’s no fight when he reaches for Minho this time, only a bit of awkward maneuvering as they get into the shower together. Minho sits immediately, but he doesn’t fall hard on his butt, which was all Jisung was really hoping to avoid.
He slips into auto-pilot as he cleans off, trying to be as quick as possible so he can wash Minho off next. It’s awkward trying to avoid blocking the spray, and it’s colder than he likes, but Jisung’s sore muscles still feel good under the water pressure, and he feels better once he’s clean. He wrings out the exfoliating sponge and adds new soap before crouching in front of Minho.
Cleaning someone else’s skin is surprisingly intimate. Jisung has never done this before—not even to Bbama, let alone to another human. He’s bathed with the group plenty of times in various iterations, but washing each other wasn’t part of the deal. How is it that gently scrubbing Minho’s skin makes him blush after he spent all that time with Minho’s actual dick in his actual ass?
Minho is unusually pliant as Jisung soaps him down. He tries to be clinical about it, but Jisung finds himself lingering on the plane of Minho’s stomach, sponge especially gentle over the pink surgical scar. It’s awkward the way they have to maneuver around each other to get at everything without Minho standing up, but they make it work.
When he’s done, Jisung puts the sponge away and crouches in front of Minho again, pushing his own soaking bangs off his face. Minho doesn’t bother; the water wets his hair down right into his eyes, but he lets it happen, arms limp where they hang over his bent knees.
There’s not enough room for it, but Jisung sits down in front of Minho anyway. His muscles complain immediately. Minho doesn’t move or say anything. For a while, the white noise of the shower spray is the only thing that passes between them.
“I’m breaking my promise,” Jisung says, flicking the thin amount of standing water on the shower floor.
“What?”
Jisung looks up. Minho has leaned forward enough that the spray mostly passes over his head, eyes sharp.
“I said I wouldn’t let you drown,” Jisung says. Now that Minho looks so serious, the joke seems like less of a good idea, but he’s already committed. “You look kinda like you’re drowning from here.”
Minho huffs a laugh. His smile makes Jisung smile too, and then Minho is laughing. Properly laughing, with his eyes scrunched up and his smile crooked. He leans further forward, until his forehead presses against Jisung’s shoulder, but he doesn’t stop laughing. His shoulders shake beneath Jisung’s tentative palm.
This can’t possibly be comfortable, but Jisung doesn’t want to break the spell. If Minho wants to contort himself enough for them to half hug, who is Jisung to tell him what to do?
“Jisung-ah,” Minho says when he’s caught his breath. “You’re so stupid.” From this angle, he could almost be speaking directly to Jisung’s heart. Or his chest. It is a nice chest.
“Yah!” Jisung smacks his back. “This idiot just saved your ass. Do you even know what I saved you from?”
Minho reaches behind Jisung and shuts off the water. When he shakes his bangs out of his eyes, a few droplets splash Jisung’s cheek.
“No idea. I’ll let the doctor do some tests in the morning, maybe.” He huffs out another laugh, looking at Jisung in wonder. “What kind of idiot would you have to be, to let me do all that?” Minho drags his thumb across Jisung’s cheekbone, this strange delight in his eyes that Jisung doesn’t understand. “The best kind,” he continues before Jisung can come to his own defense. “My favorite.”
Jisung’s cheeks heat. “Minho-hyung, you’re not making sense.”
“And you like it,” Minho says. Normally that statement would be filled with smug satisfaction, but there’s something worse in his voice this time: naked wonder. “You like me almost as much as I like you.”
“You—What? Almost as much?”
“You’re close,” Minho judges, sizing Jisung up, “but I’ve got you beat.”
“On how much you like you?!”
Minho laughs again. “No, idiot. On how much I like you.”
“Oh.” Jisung sits with that for a second. “Really?”
“No, I’m making fun of you.”
“You say that like you’d never do that!”
Minho pushes back enough to brace his back against the shower wall and stretches out his legs, tugging Jisung over them so he’s in Minho’s lap. It’s not comfortable, but it lets them be close enough for Minho to kiss him, which seems to be the goal. Jisung wonders if Minho has a ‘nice’ kiss setting, or if all of them are just like this: open and raw and a little filthy.
“I wouldn’t to you,” Minho says when they pause for air. “Not my Jisungie.”
Minho’s eyes are shining more than when staff hand him free pudding. Jisung doesn’t know what to do with that.
“Good,” he says, somewhat dazed. The words ring in his head over and over again. My Jisungie. “Am I?”
“Are you what?”
“Yours?” Jisung asks. He should probably try to keep the hope out of his voice, but there doesn’t seem like much of a point.
Minho stares him down, eyes darting over every inch of his face. Is he trying to commit it to memory? Trying to read between the lines? Jisung doesn’t really have them, not here and now, not with Minho. It feels like when it comes to the two of them, he’s always been an open book.
“Yeah, Jisung-ah.” Minho brushes his thumb tenderly over the cut on Jisung’s lip. There’s too much satisfaction on his face. Jisung probably shouldn’t like it as much as he does. “I think you’re all mine.”