Kim Jongin sometimes—often—thinks he’s lucked out as far as arranged marriages are concerned.
Kim Minseok, his husband is a good man, a good fit. Handsome, quiet, clean. He's calm, too, thoughtful, kind, receptive enough to Jongin’s terrifyingly hesitant touches, receptive enough maybe, too, to Jongin’s terrifyingly hesitant feelings.
Some people aren't so lucky. Jongin is terribly lucky.
Minseok is so good to him.
He remembers Jongin’s favorite brand of chocolate bar, his favorite combo from the Korean restaurant by their house. He gets Jongin extra blankets when he's sleeping so he won’t get cold, bookmarks and shelves Jongin's dogeared paperbacks whenever he dusts, texts to ask how his lunch was, always has icepacks ready for him on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, Jongin's days as a volunteer children's dance instructor. And every morning, he leaves Jongin a mug of coffee on the kitchen counter. And even though Jongin fucking hates coffee, he drinks it anyway because it makes his heart feel fuzzy when Minseok smiles at him over the rim of his own cup, his sleepy eyes curling with fondness as he wishes him a good day at work. And Minseok’s smile then is sweet enough to drown out the lingering bitterness of coffee on his tongue, sweet enough to brighten Jongin’s entire day, even the hard ones.
They’ve been married for almost 4 months at this point, and Jongin thinks that Minseok is the kind of person you’re lucky to have, the kind of person that you kind of just have to fall for. Yes, he thinks this was almost inevitable.
Feeling, wanting all of this. More.
Cohabitation, repeated exposure has only made Jongin weaker, worn down his resolve, and Jongin is terribly lucky, terribly comfortable, terribly—terrifyingly—infatutated.
On the subway homeward bound, Jongin receives a text—I'll be a little late :(—presses his face into his bicep with a small smile, finger dragging over the little heart after Minseok’s name on his phone as he responds.
Jongin sometimes—often—blames himself for not being ready that first night, their first night.
Nosing at the starched fabric near his forearm, he recalls the lingering taste of overpriced champagne on his tongue, how it had mingled with the sharp bitterness of nervousness in his throat. How swallowing heavily, he’d stepped into their marriage suite, fiddling nervously with his cufflinks. And it wouldn’t have been his first time, but his first time in a while, his first time with Minseok, presumably for the rest of his life.
Briefly meeting Minseok’s soft, unsure eyes, Jongin had fumbled, faltered, fucked up, gesturing awkwardly to the bed as he'd murmured something about consummation and the legality of their union, how they should probably just—just get to it, right, the chore of sex, right, just to make it official, this was what their whole arrangement boiled down to, right.
He had been speaking without reason just to fill the awful silence, Minseok on the other side of the room, fingers tense, too, on the scattered rose petals of their bed, Minseok in his awful silence.
Minseok had caught his eyes then, held them, and Jongin had seen something flicker there, something brief and unidentifiable before Minseok had smiled—soft, kind, but no less alarming.
He'd reached forward to urge Jongin on the mattress. Side by side, in their undershirts and boxers, but still clothed enough, decent enough to halt anything further.
And he doesn’t know whether Minseok had wanted it then, Jongin doesn't even know whether he’d wanted it then. But he wants now. Wants so very badly.
Jongin wants to kiss him again, really kiss him, wants to touch him, wants to feel the flutter of Minseok’s breath against his mouth, the tiptoe of his small, steady fingers on Jongin's sensitive skin.
Jongin thinks sometimes—often—of all the ways he can take and be taken. In the shower, quiet and trembling and ashamed, he imagines more than just kisses, more than just shy touches, thinks of Minseok's teeth at his throat, Minseok's fingers between his legs. He thinks also of Minseok's cock in his mouth, Minseok's body clenching tight around him, Minseok inside him, too. Minseok panting "husband, my husband. Jongin, my Jongin" against his skin.
Jongin fucking aches for it.
But God, beyond that, he wants to impress him, wants to please him, wants to be the kind of person that Minseok can want, can fall for, can ache for, too.
Jongin thinks sometimes—often—of all the ways he can ever hope to accomplish that.
And he's lucked out, honestly, but he wants to try his luck even further, wants to explore the potential for more, too. Wants it all, is greedy for it.
Kim Minseok is a great husband, and Jongin just maybe wants to deserve him, maybe wants to have him, demand even more even if he doesn't.
It’s a lazy spring Friday afternoon, almost night. Stepping through the door of their tiny apartment, Jongin shakes the broken cherry blossom petals off his coat, kicks off his shoes at the entryway.
Sentimental, brimming with purpose, full as always with terrifying hesitant, terrifying potent feelings and desires, Jongin thinks about change, about rebirth, about growth, about the utter ephemeral nature of life. He thinks about their almost four months of marriage and Minseok's upcoming birthday. He thinks about the awful stutter in his breathing every time Minseok whispers his name, thinks about the swell of warmth in his chest every time he awakens to find a sleeping Minseok curled up beside him. He thinks about Minseok's "Have a good day" texts and how his smile always seems to reach his eyes.
He thinks and hopes and wants and aches.
It's Jongin's night to get dinner, and often that means ordering takeout, setting the delivery boxes and plastic silverware on their table with a bumbling, awkward, joking flourish of "the restaurant ajummas made this with love for us, yeobo.” Jongin always shutting his eyes and blushing and looking away before he has a chance to see Minseok’s response.
But today, a day of change, rebirth, growth, a day of recognizing the utter ephemeral nature of life, a day of Naver searches and scrawled, stickynoted recipes during his lunch hour, Jongin instead stumbles gracelessly into the kitchen, intent, with a purpose.
He’s brimming with purpose, but his efforts are lacking, he realizes midway through. And oh this is why Jongin lived exclusively on takeout and 711 sandwiches during college, why his mother used to insist on sending tupperware containers full of food home with him every time he visited. Oh, yes, this is Minseok’s department.
But Jongin powers through for the sake of his pride, animated with the precarious hope of Minseok's smile, Minseok's approval, that soft contented sound Minseok makes every time he eats something partcularly delicious.
Jongin catches his own flushed reflection on the surface of their microwave as he uses their cutting board, puts the rice cooker to work, stirfries meat and vegetables.
In the end, his rice is too crunchy and his meat and vegetables just slightly burnt, but Minseok still grins, inhales deeply when he steps through the door.
And Jongin’s heart predictably stutters in his chest, his breathing already slightly complicated because Jongin is so terribly lucky and so terribly aware of it.
With his tie loosened and his hair in his eyes, Minseok's handsome in the kind of way that makes Jongin's chest ache. And falling easily, familiarly beside him on the couch, he makes Jongin thrum with a desperate, debilitating sort of desire.
More, closer, Jongin wants to demand. Deeper, hotter, realer, hyung, please.
He stays still instead, croaks out some semblance of a “hello,” as he gestures to the food he’s already arranged on their table.
Legs tucked beneath his body, arm warm at Jongin's side, Minseok does make that soft, contented sound. He hums like the meal is the most delicious thing he's ever eaten, like it's on par with what they'd had on their wedding night when they had 5 star catering, the best chefs that money could buy, the kind of feast sure to impress Minseok’s wealthy coworkers, wealthier family.
“It’s delicious,” he says, almost like he means it. And Minseok is also terribly kind, Jongin thinks, swallowing thickly past the hard lump of anxiety in his throat, the harder lump of rice in his mouth. It's just another reason that Jongin is terribly lucky, his breathing slightly unsteady, tense eyes fixed on the television screen—the news—as Minseok periodically interjects with how amazing this is and did Jongin make it with love like the ahjummas do, because it tastes like it.
Bashful, at a loss for words, Jongin asks him to stop being so cheesy, he's trying to enjoy the face wash commercial. Minseok just laughs.
When they've both finished, they set the dishes in the dishwasher, strip out of their work clothes, tug on their kigurimis—Jongin turning away, his ears still burning with embarrassment, though this is a routine, too, though has Minseok has gotten dozens of peeks over the months. They'd been a wedding present from Chanyeol, Minseok’s a medium cat, Jongin’s a large bear, a gag gift, but Minseok still insists on making proper use. Fastening the last button, fixing his hood, Jongin glances at Minseok. The arms on his medium are still too long, and his fingertips just barely peek out from the excess fabric at his wrist.
Minseok, his husband, his hyung is so very small.
Jongin notices every time, feels that swell of affection every fucking time, too.
Minseok tugs the sleeves up—as he does every time, too—and the moment is broken, Jongin recovering easily enough with a self conscious laugh, subtle wringing of his hands as he follows Minseok back to their living room. They climb onto their couch once more, closer than before, better than before.
And on nights like these, curled around one another as they watch the latest inane drama on TV—Minseok calls them inane during commercial breaks, but really Jongin is so often riveted—on nights like these, with Minseok's breath warm and steady against his bicep, it's easy to imagine that this is something more, something concrete and real.
It's easier to want more, easier to justify trying for more, too.
Minseok smells like lavender laundry detergent, like him, and overtly absent, painfully deliberate, Jongin buries his nose into the fabric, inhaling him deeper as he burrows more fully into him. He wraps his arm loosely around Minseok’s waist. And overtly absent, but maybe painfully deliberate, too—maybe, hopefully so—Minseok does the same, snuggling softly against Jongin’s tense wrist.
On screen, the male second lead is confessing to the female lead, awfully awkward and earnest with it, stuttering and playing with his hands, not meeting her eyes as he tells her that he loves her, knows that she probably doesn't feel the same, but he still loves her, and Jongin lets out this involuntary distressed sound at it. Minseok puffs out a laugh near his forearm.
The show cuts to commercial before she can respond.
"They really don't—" Jongin starts, stops, grumbles.
Turning, Minseok looks up at him, smiling with his eyes, says something deprecatingly fond about how Jongin is such a sap, they've watched a couple of dramas but Minseok always manages to forget just how soft Jongin’s heart is. He underscores the statement with a slow, absent caress to Jongin’s chest, his small palm catching on the buttons at the front.
Jongin thinks of holding his wrist there, maybe dragging it higher, so that Minseok is cupping his face, meeting his eyes, knowing—finally knowing—how badly Jongin wants to kiss him.
He blinks the thought away, and Minseok’s hand does shift upwards. Bracing himself on one elbow, Minseok fixes the hood of Jongin’s kigurumi with a lazy hum, fingers lingering. Jongin can’t quite breathe.
Minseok’s so close like this, so potentially receptive like this, and oh today should be the day, Jongin thinks. The day of changes and risks and indulgences and breathless, reckless steps forward.
Entirely too unsteady, entirely too clumsy with the desire, he reaches forward, too, palm falling heavy and imploring at Minseok's neck. Minseok's throat vibrates with a soft question.
Jongin's name as Jongin's thumb grazes his pulsepoint, drags upwards to brush against his bottom lip. Pressing just slightly, he forces a kiss against the skin, swallows a soft moan at the whisper soft sensation of Minseok’s mouth against his skin, even like this, light and entirely too chaste.
Today's the day, and Jongin gives Minseok enough time to pull away, to halt the movement as he slides forward, quivering lips seeking his.
And in spite of—or maybe because of—his false bravado, his movements are hesitant, clumsy, Jongin a teenager before his first kiss, bold then too breathless to move.
But sighing, pressing forward into it, Minseok kisses him back after a beat, his lips, shy, slow, a testing, barely reciprocal brush of a response.
But even then, oh even then, it’s so much nicer, so much more perfect, Jongin decides, when Minseok kisses him of his own volition, kisses him in private, kisses him back. It tastes sweeter, warmer, makes his skin erupt in goosebumps.
And it's Jongin again, Jongin breathless and reckless with the desire that has to wrap a trembling arm around Minseok’s waist, Jongin that has to coax Minseok's mouth open, guide the kiss into something deeper, hotter, needier.
Jongin needs, wants. Minseok at least wants, too, responding in kind, his tongue sliding easily into Jongin’s mouth, fingers sliding easily into Jongin’s hair.
Breathless, reckless, Jongin tries his luck further. Surging forward, he lets his own fingers slide beneath the gaps between the buttons on Minseok’s clothing, and Jongin’s palms skate over smooth, defined skin, exploratory and entirely too needy.
In between increasingly messy presses of his lips, increasingly labored breaths, increasingly high-pitched moans, Jongin’s buttons come completely undone, Minseok’s, too, and Minseok’s mouth wanders to his throat, nails scrape over his shoulders, around to his tangled arms.
Minseok laughs breathlessly, maybe disbelievingly as he peels the material completely away. He grasps at taut, trembling skin, fingernails biting into Jongin’s shoulders as his teeth drag over Jongin’s sternum, and Jongin’s fingers clutch helplessly at Minseok’s strained shoulders, too, urging him closer, tighter, harder.
More, hyung, more. Please, please, more.
Breathless, reckless, Jongin collapses completely onto the couch, his hips jumping up towards the fleeting pressure of Minseok’s hips, and Minseok is quick to follow, quick to drape himself perfectly, drag once, twice, thrice. Jongin can’t quite stop moaning, can’t stop squeezing and clambering for more, gasping please, hyung, yes, hyung, more, hyung all the while.
Jongin kicks the material of the kigurumi completely away. And Jongin’s in his boxers, undershirt, Minseok’s for the taking—once more, but this time Minseok seems keen to take, sitting up, back enough to appreciate the sight, touch him slow and entirely too reverent.
Straddling Jongin’s tense thighs, Minseok maps the trembling expanse of his shoulders, his clothed, heaving chest, the dip of his stomach.
Minseok wants him, Jongin realizes with a bitten, desperate moan. Really wants him, at least in this, at least like this.
And Jongin lets himself be touched, explored, arching into the press of bare skin against bare skin when Minseok peels off his shirt, skates his warm palms over Jongin’s goosebumped skin. He feels precious like that, wanted, beautiful.
He tugs Minseok into another kiss to quiet his heavy, helpless moan, spilling his heavy, helpless feelings into the kiss as Minseok continues to touch him.
And Jongin wants to touch him, too, revere him with his fingertips, make Minseok feel precious, wanted, beautiful, too.
Tense, testing, deciding, his fingers flutter uselessly, but wanting at the jut of Minseok’s hipbone as Jongin loses himself in the perfection of Minseok's mouth, aches to touch, feel, explore more.
But even presented with the opportunity like this, given implicit permission like this, he falters once more, fumbles, fucks up.
But Minseok doesn't retreat like he did that night. No, he takes the initiative instead, makes the permission more deliciously explicit. Shifting atop him, he guides Jongin by the wrist, fingers tiny but firm as he drags him to the front of his tented boxers. Minseok curls forward to press readily against him, dragging over his palm breathlessly, insistently.
“Touch me,” Minseok breathes, breathless, barely audible over Jongin’s shaky groan. And he’s bracing himself on one elbow, surging forward against Jongin’s hand again and again. “Jonginnie, please touch me.”
Jongin, emboldened, compelled, does, his fingers skating slow and smooth to get a proper feel for the heft, the weight of it, hot and hard and heavy against his skin.
And Jongin chokes on a whined hyung, memorizing, appreciating as Minseok moans softly, mouths messily at Jongin’s collarbone. A longer stroke has a hot imploring yeobo shuddering near Jongin’s nipple. Another results in a hiss, a harder fuck forward, the scrape of teeth. And fuck, Jongin wants him so fucking badly.
He squeezes harder on the upstroke, pausing to let the heel of his palm grind hard, and Minseok quivers so heavily he collapses on top of him, trapping Jongin’s hand between their bodies, putting more direct, delicious friction against his own aching cock.
Jongin whimpers, and Minseok mouths at his neck with a rasped, reverent curse. “Can I touch you, too?” Minseok whispers against the column of his throat.
Jongin nods shakily.
Minseok rises, slides down enough to mouth at his nipple, groaning softly into his skin when Jongin tangles his fingers in his hair to hold him there.
He swirls his tongue, lets his lips drag and catch in the slowest, most delicious caress. He smiles this time when Jongin tugs, smirking as he disengages with an obscene, wet pop.
Jongin whines, and Minseok dips to mouth at the other, his tongue even bolder, more enthusiastic, Jongin all the luckier for it.
“Can I touch you more?” he appeals against his skin.
Jongin nods again, and Minseok’s mouth wanders lower, lower, lower, small fingers biting into his skin as they keep him in place.
And oh, oh, oh, Jongin is the absolute luckiest man in the whole fucking world.
A needy moan stutters and dies on his tongue as Minseok drags his tongue lengthwise down his clothed cock, dampening the fabric with a kittenish smile. He suctions his achingly ruddy, kiss-swollen lips over the jut of Jongin’s cock, sealing tight, sucking hard, smiling still with his eyes, and Jongin’s body surges upwards with a violent shudder.
“Hyung,” Jongin whimpers, scrambling for Minseok's arms, anchoring himself as his body jerks.
“Yeobo,” Minseok corrects, his nose wrinkling in something almost like shyness when Jongin catches his heated gaze. “I’m your husband,” he reminds him, cheek nuzzling along his thigh. “You should call me yeobo.”
“Yeobo,” Jongin says. “Yeobo.”
And Minseok’s smile is shy, then predatory, his mouth descending once more, tongue swirling damp and hot with a devastatingly shaky hum.
“Yeobo,” Jongin repeats. “So, so good.”
Minseok grinds absently against the couch as he sucks him down, fabric catching on fabric, the rustling barely audible over Jongin’s breathy whimpers, his own wet, ruined hums. Jongin watches through heavy eyelashes, a heaving chest as Minseok bobs just a little bit faster, presses down a little bit faster, harder, too.
Minseok is turned on for and because of him, getting off on this, too. And Jongin is so fucking lucky, yet still so fucking desperate for more, twisting sharply enough to buck more intensely into his mouth, heedless even of the occasional hard, painful drag of damp fabric against his overheated skin.
He just wants it all. Everything and more.
Clumsy, Jongin’s fingers fall to Minseok’s shoulders, drag him back towards his mouth, moaning against the seam of his lips when Minseok’s cock drags over his tense stomach.
“Can you—can we—I want you to fuck me.”
And it’s Minseok’s turn to moan, soft, near his cheekbone. Minseok flutters a kiss over his nose, his chin. “Do you have lube?”
“I don’t—I haven’t—”
Minseok presses his forehead to the crook of Jongin’s neck and groans, and the rush of hot, wet air has Jongin swallowing another moan, threading his fingers through Minseok’s hair to force him even closer.
“If I leave,” Minseok whispers after a beat, the words still so hot, so wet, so disconcertingly tight against his skin. “If I leave and come back, will you still want this?”
He pulls away after asking, pupils blown and breath labored, but face somehow still precariously vulnerable.
And there’s something vaguely unidentifiable in his eyes still, something guarded, but Jongin can catch the gist of his emotion, his want. And it makes warmth skitter beneath his skin, arousal and affection race through his veins.
“I’m just scared that—that this isn’t even real, that you don’t really...” Minseok trails off with a heavy sigh, a whisper-soft caress to Jongin’s hip. “I don’t want to break the moment. I’ve been wanting you so long.” Minseok sighs again, eyebrows tilting as he looks up at him. “Will you still want this?”
“Yes.” A bashful, breathless beat with Jongin burning beneath Minseok’s gaze. “I’ve wanted this for so long, too, hyung.”
Minseok smiles, rises, then comically fast, comically hard. Graceless in his eagerness, he tugs on a pair of pants, a hoodie, shoes. And sockless, he races out the door.
In the time he’s gone, Jongin has a chance to collect himself. He puts the dishes away, picks up their discarded clothing, decides it’s better to greet him naked on their bed, even if his knees are pressed together from nervousness, even if his fingers are tense at his side.
Minseok stumbles back a good 10 minutes later, an oversized white plastic bag in tow. His hood is crooked, his cheeks flushed, and Jongin knows he sprinted there and back.
His heart squeezes painfully with affection as Minseok pauses at the foot of the bed and just stares for a beat, then remembers himself, lifts the bag.
“I—I got all that I saw,” he explains a little sheepishly, setting down the bag, stripping off his hoodie, his pants, his boxers, too. He’s completely naked, no longer hard, but Jongin wants to fix that. “I wasn’t sure what brand you prefered, or if you wanted flavored.” Minseok kneels over the bed, crawls forward one slow step at a time. “And with the condoms, I—I also didn’t know, so I just grabbed whatever I saw.” Minseok pauses in his ascension, ruffles his own hair, laughs. And fuck, he’s adorable. Fuck, Jongin is so terribly lucky to have him.
Jongin sits up, his hand finds it way to Minseok’s, tugging gently, urging him even closer.
“I think I forgot my change actually. I think I paid with a 50.” Another laugh, this one huskier, hotter. “Poor teenager is probably making lots of assumptions about our sex life.” He bites his lip, bites back another laugh. He’s just as nervous, Jongin thinks as Minseok’s thighs graze Jongin’s, smooth skin skating against smooth skin.
And Jongin is equal parts endeared and aroused, overall eager to continue where they left off.
Minseok seems to feel much the same. He comes so easily, so willingly when Jongin pulls him completely forward, coaxes him into a kiss. It’s soft and hesitant at first but quickly evolves into something deep, needy, perfect, Minseok’s hands winding around Jongin’s shoulders, Minseok’s bare skin dragging so deliciously against his own.
Jongin falls back on the mattress, and Minseok falls onto him, their bodies slotting together in the most beautiful, perfect tangle of limbs.
“Use them on me, yeobo,” Jongin cajoles against Minseok’s mouth. “Dealer’s choice.”
Minseok groans, then smiles into another kiss, soft and slow, a quiet goodbye as he pulls away to reach for the discarded bag.
“How long has it been?” he whispers, nosing along Jongin’s heaving throat.
“A long time,” Jongin says. “And I haven’t—haven’t fingered myself in a while,” he adds.
Minseok groans again, eyebrows pinching as if in pain, fingers trembling as they peel the plastic seal off a bottle of lube.
“It’s harder to do that–without getting caught,” Jongin continues, and Minseok’s gaze is so hot on his skin. It makes him more reckless with his confession. “I kinda miss it. Fingering myself, feeling filled up.”
“Can I watch sometime?” Minseok asks. “Watch you—now that we have lube? Now that you don’t have to worry about getting caught?”
A fresh jolt of heady arousal just briefly overwhelms him, and he nods.
“And can I—can I do it tonight?”
And oh, there is something so painfully beautiful about Minseok naked and flushed and panting and so achingly hard falling onto him readily, wanting him.
Like before, Minseok’s mouth sears a wet, meandering, gorgeous path down his body—across his collarbone, along his chest, over his stomach, down, down, down to where Jongin is aching most. But he bypasses that, too, goes, even further, and Jongin is really honestly so fucking lucky to have Kim Minseok, his kind, gentle, handsome husband mouthing soft and hot and wet over the pucker of his rim.
Jongin’s entire body tenses at even that fleeting pressure and pleasure of it, and Minseok hesitates with a soft is this okay?, grins when Jongin hisses out a reedy yes, yeobo, yes, yes, yes.
Jongin lets himself appreciate the visual of Minseok’s messy hair, his tiny pale fingers between Jongin’s legs before Jongin’s being touched—really, really touched—being blinded with pleasure. His eyes clench shut with a monumental shudder, shaky moan.
And Minseok’s tongue is exquisitely hot, exquisitely nimble, fluttering, dancing as it traces over his rim over and over and over again.
Jongin’s fingers tangle in his own hair, tugging as his body writhes mindless, helpless.
“Yeobo,” Minseok breathes against his skin, before sparing another lick, spearing his tongue just just briefly inside. He swirls cruelly on the retreat, and Jongin feels his body clench around the muscle, grip desperately for more, greedy for the wet, wonderful sensation.
And fuck, fuck, fuck, Jongin can barely hear Minseok’s hot endearments over the rush of blood in his ears, the whimpery chorus of moans spilling from his own lips.
The pressure increases, firmer, steadier, drier, and oh Minseok’s finger. Oh, oh, no, Minseok’s fingers.
It’s been so long, but it still feels so fucking good, the stretch of it, the pressure, the slow drag against hypersensitive flesh.
Gasping, Jongin opens his eyes, and Minseok's dark, sharp, beautiful eyes are on his, utterly, painfully captivating.
They're the kind of eyes that a man could lose himself in, and Jongin does, so taken.
And Minseok is pulling back just slightly, sitting on his haunches, watching him, burning Jongin alive. He thrusts his fingers inside again and curls slow and steady, his thumbnail teasing over Jongin’s perineum. Jongin’s spine bows, the heels of his feet dragging over their comforter, his body quaking as he presses back with a wrecked moan.
And Minseok’s dark, sharp, beautiful eyes are fixed on him, as if utterly rapt, drinking in Jongin’s every reaction as his small, nimble, perfect fingers ease Jongin open. They’re so tiny, but feel so large, fill him up so perfectly, curl just right to have him whimpering and writhing.
It’s all too much, the heady pleasure, the perfection of Minseok’s touch, and Minseok’s fucking eyes—gorgeously arresting, hinting at something terrible and overwhelming, something that Jongin is still too terrified to conceptualize, much less demand aloud.
Minseok wants him. That’s—that’s more than enough.
Jongin feels vulnerable and exposed like this, eyes clenching shut after a good four thrusts, but he can feel Minseok’s gaze still, searing and utterly overwhelming, an almost caress as potent and disarming as every fluid press of Minseok's fingers
Jongin's hips twist, chase every press, and Minseok's free hand skates over Jongin's hipbone, warm palm soothing and grounding. The air crackles with the heady electricity of arousal, and he’s drowning in sensations, inundated with pleasure.
Another thrust, the delicious drugging drag of tiny, firm, firm fingers right at his prostate, and Jongin spine bows sharply, arms flail uselessly. "Hyung," he gasps. Another, firmer, longer thrust, and his body is suspended, fists twisting into the comforter, his chest heaving. ”Yeobo. Yeobo.”
Clumsy, sightless, he clutches, scratches at Minseok’s bare shoulders, drags him back to his mouth. He pants as he mouths messily at Minseok’s chin, and Minseok continues to touch him, fingers precise and all too perfect as he flutters kisses over Jongin’s cheeks, his nose, the corner of his mouth.
“I thought about this,” Jongin confesses, and Minseok's so close, so tight that his throat flutters against Jongin's shoulder as he swallows, trembles, affected, just—just briefly. 'Your fingers. Your—fuck—cock."
His swallow this time is heavier, his shudder deeper. "Yeah?"
And his fingers spear, press firm and deliberate over his prostate, hold there for one, two, three beats. Jongin's entire body fucks to follow the caress, a jolt of pure, crippling pleasure racing up his spine. He chokes on a moan, fingernails catching as he scrapes over the firm muscles, smooth skin of Minseok’s shoulders and spine.
"Does it live up to the fantasy?" Minseok asks, thrusts again hard before Jongin can even part his lips to answer. He sobs instead.
Jongin shakes his head around a shaky moan, forces his eyes open enough to catch Minseok’s gaze again, burn for it again. "It's—it's better."
Minseok smiles then—painfully fond and soft—and kisses his chin as he eases another finger inside. He spreads them with a lazy, perfect curl, and god, Jongin can’t breathe, has to cling helplessly at Minseok’s straining biceps once more at the sharp jolt of pleasure.
"I—I had to stay quiet,” he continues in a hiss. “When I thought of you. When I—I touched myself thinking of you. Didn’t want you to know or maybe I kind of did, too."
Jongin's neck twists sharply to the side, continuing around a whimper.
"Wanted you. Want you."
"I've thought about this, too," Minseok confesses against his bare shoulder. "Your work pants are too tight. Your sleep shirts hang too low." A pause. Another curl, longer this time right right right where Jongin wants them most. "This is better, too. Your skin—your mouth. You're more responsive than I could have ever dreamed.” All three fingers spreads once more. So full, so full, so full, nearly yo bursting. “Wanted you, too. Want you, too.”
“Yeobo, I’m right here,” Jongin whimpers. “Yeobo, please just—take me, just‐fuck—fuck me.”
Minseok is breathing heavily, his chest heaving with it, his lips red and kiss-swollen as they part with every shaky exhale, and Jongin feels a brief, nearly debilitating swell of pride burst in his chest.
He'd done that. He'd made Minseok breathless and flushed with want—for Jongin.
It makes him even dizzier with desire.
“Come on,” he presses, tilting his hips upwards in invitation, legs parting. He’s sure to smirk, bite his lip, level him with a beckoning come-hither look. “Come on, yeobo and please fuck me.”
Minseok’s fingers pull free, and his free hand grazes Jongin’s bare hip, brief as he smooths his hands up his body. It’s an appraising caress, and Jongin nearly collapses back from the sensation, so pathetically hypersensitve to Minseok’s mouth, fingers, gaze. Jongin trembles but maintains his pose, sultry, wanton. He tries for something soft, something pliant, something wanting, exposed like that and Minseok’s for the taking, deliciously vulnerable for his sake.
Minseok's smiles as he braces himself above him, arms bracketing Jongin’s shoulders as his cock drags over Jongin’s inner thighs. His smile is sweet and maybe almost placating as he repeats the caress, meets Jongin's eyes.
"You don't have to—" he starts, stops, then touches him again instead of continuing.
Minseok's fingers curl lazily around the base of Jongin's cock, stroking steady, provoking a heavy shudder, a heavier moan, and Jongin doesn't feel like belaboring the point.
He hear a faint metallic crinkle, and his head lolls forward in time to watch Minseok slide the condom in place, stroke himself with a slow slather of lube. His lips part with a shivery moan. It just might be the hottest sight he’s ever seen, and Jongin wants to ask if he can watch Minseok touch himself, too, but he chokes on the request.
Minseok shifts again, positions himself, and Jongin notes the startling strain in his muscles, the strength just simmering beneath the surface.
Taekwondo, that means he works out, he remembers Sehun, his best friend noting with a faint lip purse of approval when he'd reviewed Minseok's profile at the seon agency before their first meeting. He looks tiny but could probably bend you in half, if he's telling the truth about that black belt. Know you're into that, Jongin.
And yes, Jongin really, really is. A bone-deep appreciation, bone-deep arousal settling beneath his skin.
Next time, Jongin thinks deliriously. Next time, I'll take my time and appreciate it. Next time, I'll touch and kiss and lick every muscle on his body. Next time, if he lets me.
And then Minseok is pressing inside, stretching him full, full, full, and Jongin can hardly think, do much beyond moan, grasp at his skin as he bottoms out.
“Jongin,” Minseok pants near Jongin's mouth. "You're so fucking gorgeous,” he groans. “Feel so, so good, yeobo.” The muscles in his arms bunch, relax as he reaches up to Jongin's face, thumb reverent as it drags over his cheekbone.
Buried deep, devastating, he's stopping still to admire him, and Jongin's heart stutters painfully in his chest as he blinks at him through heavy eyelashes.
Minseok watches him with entirely too much fondness in his eyes, and fuck, Jongin, decides, he has the absolute best husband imaginable. The kind of husband that Jongin could maybe even see himself someday loving. With time, and they have oh so much time.
“Not—not so bad yourself,” Jongin breathes back. Fucking perfect, he means.
And lot less sure, a lot less steady, Jongin reaches out for him, too, palm smoothing over one soft cheek. Minseok turns to kiss his wrist, smiling against the skin, shifting as he does.
They both moan.
“This is better, too,” MInseok confesses against Jongin's mouth, pulling out slow, slow, slow, pushing back in slow, slow, slow. And there’s a shuddery moan, a brief tremble in the hands by Jongin’s shoulders. “You feel so fucking amazing. Much better than I could have imagined when—when touching myself.”
Groaning, Jongin seeks his lips, and Minseok kisses him back, hot, wet, as he sets a slow, slow, deep, deep pace, the utterly wrecking kind that makes Jongin feel precious, wanted, beautiful, so terribly lucky, so terribly vulnerable.
And Jongin loses himself in the utter perfection of a reality that he’s imagined so, so, so many times. Gasping and moaning and pressing back towards every excruciatingly intense thrust, reveling in it as Minseok pants into his skin, continues to whisper about how much he’s thought about this, too, how it’s even better than what he’s ever imagined, how fuck he thinks he’s gonna come soon, fuck Jongin feels so good, should have know his yeobo would, he’s so perfect at this, too. He’s so good to him.
Jongin soaks in each endearment, each thrust like a man starved, a man balanced on the cusp of something gorgeous and terrifying and utterly overwhelming.
Minseok’s hands find their way to his hair, tugging absently as his hips quicken, his cock stroking deep, deep inside in a way that has Jongin nearly sobbing.
Jongin’s fingers, mindless, helpless, stumble down his own body, grasp at his cock as Minseok continues to fuck into him, continues to press praises and kisses into his skin, fingers quaking as he pulls at Jongin’s sweaty strands.
“Yes,” Minseok hisses. “Yes, yes, touch yourself. Yes, please. Wanna see you come. I want it so bad. Come on,” he coaxes at Jongin's throat, teeth dragging over his pulse on every syllable.
“Jonginnie. Come on. For your husband. Your hyung. Your yeobo.”
And God, his voice sounds so deliciously wrecked, wrecked by Jongin’s body, wrecked by Jongin.
His head is dizzy with it.
“You first,” Jongin laughs, clenching in a way that has Minseok's eyebrows pinching n pleasure. And oh, Jongin already misses it when Minseok's recovers too, too soon, his face smoothing almost immediately after
He clenches again, then once more, breathless as it forces Minseok even full, more heaving against his inner walls. It's so so so so good.
"You first," he repeats, sure to force his eyes more heavy lidded, his lips more parted. He couples the look—sultry, he assures himself, so sexual that Minseok can hardly bear it—with another deliberate tightening of his lower body.
Minseok, above him, inside him, all around him, groans heavily.
"Yeobo," Jongin tries, letting his neck loll back, letting his voice bleed with needy imploring, drunk on the feeling. "Please, yeobo. Come."
He’s even drunker when Minseok does, a reverent curse hissing near his earlobe, ghosting hot over his skin as Minseok stutters, trembles, spasms, pulses deep, deep, deep inside him with the most beautiful, hitching moan.
“Yeobo,” he groans, maybe even whimpers, and Jongin is lost to it.
The pleasure, the sensation, the utter perfection of Minseok still buried impossibly deep, still pressed impossibly close, kissing over his neck, voice sated and so terribly fond as he tells him to please, yeobo, please, just for him, just like Minseok had come just for him. His husband should give him this gift, this pleasure, of Jongin’s pure, pure pleasure.
And yes, Jongin thinks, melting into the startling soft caress of Minseok’s fingers over his cheekbones, his lips, his eyelids, he has definitely lucked out as far as arranged marriages are concerned.