Ruin me right

by SSASpencers_wife

Summary:

Minho, frustrated by failed hookups, realizes he just wants to be truly seen and desired. Jisung reveals he’s always seen him that way, leading to a heated moment where they finally give in to their feelings.

Notes:

I have many drafts and lots of time

The apartment was dimly lit when Minho stumbled in, the soft hum of a playlist Jisung must’ve left running filling the space. The door clicked shut behind him with a sharp finality, and he stood there for a moment — just breathing. He looked like hell. Hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, a smear of something on his neck that might’ve once been lipstick.

 

Jisung looked up from the couch, phone still in hand. “Damn, you look like a PSA.”

 

Minho shot him a withering glance and kicked off his shoes with more aggression than necessary. “Don’t.”

 

Jisung blinked, setting his phone down. “What happened this time? Another pretty boy with no rhythm?”

 

Minho dropped his bag by the door, then sank into the chair opposite Jisung like the weight of the night was physically pulling him down. “I swear to God, if I hear one more guy say he ‘knows what he’s doing’ and then fumbles around like he's never seen a body before, I’m going to lose it.”

 

Jisung raised an eyebrow, amused. “That bad?”

 

Minho dragged both hands down his face and groaned. “Worse. He spent more time admiring himself in the mirror than paying attention to me. I left before he even got his pants off. I’m so—” he gestured vaguely at the ceiling, like the word was hanging there—“over it.”

 

There was a silence. Not awkward, but charged. Jisung studied him, the frustration tight in his jaw, the disappointment etched in the slouch of his shoulders.

 

“You always come back like this,” Jisung said quietly.

 

Minho scoffed, trying for nonchalance and failing. “What, like a tragic slut with a broken compass?”

 

Jisung’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but didn’t. “No. Like someone who’s trying to get something from people who don’t have it.”

 

Minho’s eyes flicked to him then, sharp and too aware. “And what exactly is it that I’m trying to get?”

 

Jisung didn’t look away. “You tell me.”

 

There was something in Jisung’s gaze — not judgment, not pity — just a steady, maddening calm. Minho hated it. Hated how it made his skin crawl with awareness. Hated how it made the heat rise under his collar. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

 

Because he didn’t know how to say I don’t want them — I want you.

Not yet.

 

Minho groaned again, this time louder, and flopped back against the couch like the universe owed him a refund.

 

Jisung tilted his head, watching him unravel. “So... that bad?”

 

Minho snapped his head toward him, eyes wide and incredulous. “Bad? Bad doesn’t even cover it. I spent an hour—an hour—getting ready. I shaved everything, I wore the good lace, the one that cuts just right over my hips, I even did that thing with the garters—”

 

Jisung blinked. “...You wore lingerie?”

 

“Yes, Jisung. I wore fucking lingerie. And do you know what that man did? He looked in the mirror, flexed, and said, ‘Damn, I look hot.’”

 

Jisung’s mouth parted slightly, but Minho wasn’t done.

 

“He’s a top, right? A top. What the hell is he doing admiring himself when I’m sitting on his bed dressed like a goddamn sin? What is the point of being a bottom if your top has the attention span of a goldfish and the sex drive of a damp napkin?”

 

Jisung snorted, trying very hard not to laugh, but Minho was on a roll now.

 

“Like, I’m literally lying there, thighs spread, looking like a fucking gift—and he’s asking if his arms look good in the lighting. I swear, I’ve had more satisfying experiences with my laundry machine.”

 

Jisung gave up and laughed, head thrown back, voice low and warm. “Okay, that’s tragic. But also kinda impressive. Takes talent to ignore you in lingerie.”

 

Minho’s expression cracked for just a second — surprise, maybe — but he recovered fast, crossing his arms and glaring. “I don’t need your pity compliments, Han.”

 

Jisung leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Wasn’t pity.”

 

Silence dropped between them like a pin.

 

Minho looked away first, jaw tight. “It’s just…” he muttered. “I want someone to actually want me. Not just… perform around me. Not make me feel like I’m invisible even when I’m trying so hard to be seen.”

 

Jisung's voice dropped. “Then maybe you’ve been looking in the wrong direction.”

 

Minho looked back at him, startled.

 

And Jisung was already watching.

 

Minho stared at Jisung like he'd just grown a second head.

 

“Wrong direction?” he repeated, voice flat. “What fucking direction am I supposed to look, Jisung?”

 

He sat up sharply, eyes blazing.

 

“I’ve tried every direction. I’ve given every guy a chance — cocky, quiet, dom, soft, older, younger. All of them. And you know what I get? Lazy thrusts, fake dirty talk, and some half-assed choking attempt where I’m just lying there wishing I could disappear.” He let out a bitter laugh. “You know what one of them told me? That I’m too controlling — that I’d probably try to ‘top from the bottom.’”

 

Jisung raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”

 

Minho shot him a glare. “That’s not the point.”

 

He deflated, posture curling in on itself, voice dropping quieter.

 

“I wouldn’t have to say a damn thing if they actually tried. If they actually looked at me like they wanted me. If they touched me like I was worth the effort.” His fingers curled into the hem of his sleeve. “If they knew what kind of mess I’d turn into with just the right words.”

 

Jisung was quiet. Watching. Like a storm about to break.

 

Minho let out a breath, eyes flicking away. “But no one stays long enough to find out that with the right praise, I’d be a fucking whimpering, needy mess. All they see is attitude and lace and assume I’m impossible.”

 

The silence stretched.

 

And then Jisung spoke — low, steady, intentional.

 

“You’re not impossible.”

 

Minho’s head snapped up.

 

Jisung was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on Minho like he was seeing everything he just said — and maybe things Minho hadn’t dared to admit yet.

 

“You’re just waiting for someone who can handle you. Who sees the way you hide behind your sharp mouth and tight clothes — and doesn’t get scared off when you demand more than lazy fingers and bad dirty talk.”

 

Minho’s breath caught in his throat.

 

Jisung’s gaze darkened. “And if you really want someone to make you forget your own name…” He tilted his head, voice dropping a shade. “Maybe you don’t have to keep looking.”

 

Minho’s lips parted — but no words came out.

 

For the first time in a long string of disasters, he wasn’t in control of the room.

 

And it felt dangerously good.

 

Minho stared for a second longer, chest rising and falling a little too fast. But then — like flipping a switch — he tilted his head, and a slow, deliberate smirk curved his lips.

 

His tongue darted out to wet them before he bit down, just enough to make it infuriatingly distracting. His gaze raked over Jisung, slow and shameless — from the tousled hair, down his chest, and back up to those dark eyes watching him too closely.

 

“So…” Minho purred, voice lower now, silk over steel. “You’re saying you know how to handle me?”

 

Jisung didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. If anything, he leaned in slightly, like the words had only challenged him.

 

“I’m saying,” he said, voice smooth but heavy with something deeper, “you’ve been begging to be handled, and no one’s had the balls to do it right.”

 

Minho's breath hitched — just a little — but he didn’t back down. His smirk deepened.

 

“You think you’re the exception?”

 

“I know I am.”

 

There it was — that quiet, terrifying confidence Jisung always wore like a second skin. The kind Minho had tried so hard to ignore. But now it was aimed directly at him, and Minho felt it — like heat crawling up his spine.

 

He leaned forward slowly, their faces only inches apart now. “If you’re wrong,” Minho whispered, “you’ll just be another failed name on a very long list.”

 

Jisung’s lips quirked into something darker than a smile.

 

“Then let me be the last one on it.”

 

Minho let out a low, amused laugh — not cruel, but laced with something dangerous. He stood up slowly, like he had all the time in the world, and stretched his arms over his head just long enough to make Jisung’s gaze flick lower.

 

Then he looked down at him, lips curled in that infuriatingly smug way.

 

“Oh, Jisungie,” he cooed, voice sugary sweet with a razor edge. “You’re too sweet to be spitting in my mouth and calling me filthy names.”

 

He patted Jisung’s cheek gently — patronizingly — with two fingers. “But thanks for the offer, really. So thoughtful.”

 

He turned on his heel and walked toward the kitchen, hips swaying more than necessary, tossing back over his shoulder, “Let me know when you grow a mean streak.”

 

Jisung sat there, unmoving.

 

For a moment.

 

Then he let out a short, breathy laugh. Not angry. Not embarrassed.

 

Just... amused.

 

And interested.

 

“Minho,” he called after him, voice low and calm.

 

Minho didn’t stop walking, but he answered without turning around. “Hmm?”

 

“You really think I’m sweet?”

 

Minho reached the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, cracked it open.

 

“Tch,” he said between sips. “Like bubblegum. All sugar, no bite.”

 

Behind him, the couch creaked.

 

Minho glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.

 

Jisung was standing now, slow and deliberate. That calm mask hadn’t cracked — but something sharper had slipped beneath it. A glint in his eye. The shift in posture. The kind of tension that warned storms were brewing.

 

“Okay,” Jisung said quietly, approaching. “Then I guess it’s time I show you what happens when bubblegum snaps.”

 

Minho’s breath caught, the bottle halfway to his lips.

 

And just like that, he wasn’t so sure who was in control anymore.

 

Minho let out another soft laugh, barely turning his head.

 

“Hmm. Cute,” he said, like it was nothing. Like Jisung hadn’t just flipped the air between them upside down.

 

He poured the water slowly, calmly — too calmly — and took a sip, letting the coolness anchor him as his heart hammered like it was trying to punch its way out of his chest.

 

Jisung was still behind him. Watching. Waiting.

 

Minho didn’t look back.

 

“I’m tired,” he said lightly, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “It’s been a long night full of disappointment and delusion. I think I’ll go to bed before I add anything else to the list.”

 

He padded toward the hallway, casual in his walk but very aware of the heat still lingering on the back of his neck.

 

Before disappearing into his room, he glanced over his shoulder just once, expression unreadable.

 

“Sweet dreams, Jisungie.”

 

Then he was gone — door shut, back pressed against it, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.

 

His fingers curled into the hem of his sleep shirt.

 

Cute, he’d said.

 

But Jisung’s voice — low, steady, dangerous — echoed in his mind like a dare.

 

Then I guess it’s time I show you what happens when bubblegum snaps.

 

Minho exhaled through his nose.

 

Damn him.

 

He was never going to sleep tonight.

 

-

 

The scent of toasted bread and strong coffee filled the kitchen, warm sunlight spilling in through the half-open blinds. Minho sat at the small table, legs crossed, stirring his iced coffee with a long spoon just for the sound of it. He wore tiny sleep shorts and a too-large shirt that kept slipping off one shoulder — a look he didn’t have to try to weaponize, but absolutely did.

 

Jisung walked in, still shirtless and sleep-creased, rubbing at his eyes.

 

“Morning,” he mumbled.

 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Minho chirped, eyes not leaving his coffee. “Sleep well?”

 

Jisung grunted in response, heading straight for the kettle.

 

Minho let the silence linger, then casually leaned his chin in one palm.

 

“I was thinking,” he started, tone light and breezy, “about hitting the club tonight.”

 

That got Jisung’s attention.

 

Minho looked up at him through his lashes, spoon clinking softly in the glass. “You know… see if I can find someone actually competent this time. Maybe get railed into forgetting I even exist for a few hours.”

 

Jisung turned, coffee cup halfway to his lips.

 

Minho tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief.

 

“You should come,” he said sweetly. “Could be fun. You might even find someone, too.” He paused, adding with a too-innocent smile, “Someone who can handle you.”

 

Jisung stared at him over the rim of his mug, unreadable.

 

Minho sipped his drink, the straw making a quiet slurp.

 

The tension sat between them like a third person at the table.

 

Jisung set his cup down slowly. “You think I need a random hookup?”

 

Minho shrugged, twirling his straw. “I think you need something. You’ve been walking around here all pent-up and broody lately. Get laid, lighten up. Or at least get your hair pulled a little.”

 

Jisung’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek — that same calm, dangerous silence from the night before returning, except this time it was dressed in daylight and laced with caffeine.

 

Minho felt it again — that flicker of nerves just under his teasing smirk.

 

But he held his ground. Smiled a little wider.

 

“So?” he asked, resting his chin in his hand. “You in, Jisungie?”

 

Jisung stared at Minho for a long moment, lips pressed into a line. Then he let out a slow, resigned sigh, setting his mug down with a soft clink.

 

“Fine,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair, “I’ll go with you.”

 

Minho beamed like he’d just won a game only he knew they were playing.

 

But Jisung wasn’t finished.

 

“And first of all,” he added, voice low as he leaned slightly against the counter, “I’m not pent-up and broody.”

 

Minho hummed behind his straw. “You literally sulk when the toast burns.”

 

“That’s not—” Jisung stopped himself mid-defense, jaw flexing slightly. “Forget it.”

 

Minho raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself.

 

Jisung took a long sip of his coffee before muttering, almost too casually, “Also… I don’t look for guys to pull my hair.”

 

Minho blinked.

 

Jisung continued, eyes fixed firmly on the countertop. “I look for guys who want their hair pulled.”

 

Silence.

 

Minho’s lips parted slightly, something catching in his throat.

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

He blinked, smirk wavering just for a second as that implication hung in the air between them — hot, heavy, and undeniable.

 

“…Interesting,” Minho said finally, his voice a little more careful now, a little too even. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Jisung. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”

 

Jisung looked up at him with something unreadable in his gaze. “You never asked.”

 

Minho bit his bottom lip — not out of playfulness this time, but to keep from saying something reckless.

 

Then he stood up and stretched lazily, his shirt riding up just enough to be intentional.

 

“Well,” he said, reaching for his empty glass. “Should be a fun night, then. Let’s see if either of us finds someone worth the effort.”

 

He turned and walked to the sink — but he felt Jisung’s eyes on him the whole way.

 

And for the second morning in a row, his heart was racing for a reason that had nothing to do with caffeine.

 

-

 

The afternoon sun had shifted, casting golden light across the floor when Minho glanced at the clock on the wall.

 

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes widening slightly. “I need to get ready.”

 

Without missing a beat, he turned toward Jisung, reached out, and slapped his thigh — not hard, but just enough to make contact, to demand attention.

 

“That means you too, Jisungie,” he sing-songed, already turning toward the hallway with a little sway in his step.

 

Jisung blinked, then looked down at the spot on his thigh where Minho’s hand had just been. His jaw tightened.

 

He grunted in response, pushing himself up from the chair with a low sigh. “You’re bossy as hell.”

 

Minho didn’t turn around, just called over his shoulder, “Mmhm, and yet here you are — listening anyway.”

 

Jisung shook his head, dragging a hand down his face, but the smallest ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

 

As he padded down the hall toward his room, he muttered, “You keep smacking me like that, and someone’s gonna get the wrong idea.”

 

From behind his closed door, Minho’s voice floated out, muffled but smug:

“Maybe I want them to.”

 

Jisung froze for a beat outside his own room, staring at the floor.

 

He rubbed the back of his neck, then exhaled slowly through his nose.

 

“…This night’s gonna be a problem,” he muttered to himself.

 

And still, he went in to get dressed.

 

Minho’s bedroom looked like a dressing room after a hurricane — shirts tossed, makeup scattered across the vanity, the faint scent of expensive cologne hanging in the air like a promise.

 

And at the center of it all stood Minho, admiring his reflection with the same quiet satisfaction as a hunter sharpening a blade.

 

The leather pants clung to him like they were made for sin — impossibly tight, molded to every curve of his thighs and hips. His combat boots added a deliberate edge, heavy and unapologetic. If the jeans said trouble, the boots said I dare you to try.

 

Underneath?

 

His most lethal set of lace lingerie — delicate black that hugged him like a secret, every strap and curve designed to undo someone’s self-control. He hadn’t worn it for the randoms at the club. Not really.

 

Above it all, he wore a silk blouse in deep, smoky gray — open enough to suggest, sheer enough to threaten. It draped off one shoulder, teasing collarbone and smooth skin.

 

His eyeliner was smudged just right, as if he’d already been thoroughly kissed and pushed against a wall. Lip gloss glinted on his mouth like it was asking to be ruined. His hair was artfully tousled, that specific messiness that looked like someone had just tugged it while panting his name.

 

Minho gave the mirror a slow, satisfied once-over.

 

Illegal choice, he thought. But that’s the point.

 

He turned to grab his rings and slipped them on with precision — each one a little flash of metal, just enough to bite when his fingers dragged down someone’s chest.

 

Then, without knocking, Jisung’s door cracked open behind him.

 

“You ready or—”

 

Silence.

 

Minho looked over his shoulder and caught Jisung’s reflection in the mirror, frozen in the doorway.

 

The air shifted.

 

Minho smirked.

 

He didn’t need to ask what Jisung was thinking — the way his eyes dragged down and back up said enough.

 

“So,” Minho said, licking his glossed lips just to make a point, “should I ask what you think, or should we skip straight to the part where I leave you speechless?”

 

Jisung blinked once. Twice.

 

Then, throat tight, he muttered, “I need a minute.”

 

And shut the door.

 

Minho laughed — low, satisfied, and wicked.

 

Checkmate.

 

Minho stepped out of his room, hips swaying like he owned the hallway — which, to be fair, most days he did. He was still fixing one of his rings when he looked up—

 

And stopped.

 

“...Well,” he said, blinking slowly, lips parting around a breath he didn’t remember taking. “Fuck me.”

 

Jisung stood at the end of the hallway like he’d just stepped off a runway that served only sin and violence.

Black distressed jeans hugged his thighs, the rips in just the right places — a little careless, a little dangerous. His combat boots looked like they’d been through fights and won all of them. The skintight black tanktop clung to his chest and stomach like it had a vendetta, and the leather jacket — broken in, slightly oversized, and hanging off one shoulder — screamed trouble, and take me anyway.

 

Minho’s eyes dragged up.

 

Jisung had slipped in his piercings — silver glinting from his ears, one small ring at the corner of his lip that Minho immediately wanted to tug with his teeth. He’d done just a touch of eyeliner, smudged enough to give his eyes a cruel tilt, like he was used to being wanted and not lifting a finger in return. His hair was wild — like someone had had a fist in it.

 

Like he had just been fucked.

 

Or was about to fuck someone else’s whole life up.

 

Minho swallowed.

 

Hard.

 

“Jesus, Jisung,” he said, voice a little too quiet now. “You weren’t kidding about the hair-pulling thing, huh?”

 

Jisung looked up at him slowly — took his time scanning Minho from boots to glossed lips, jaw ticking like he was trying to behave.

 

But his voice came low and rough: “Right back at you.”

 

Minho bit his lip — not to flirt this time, but because he honestly needed to regain control of his face.

 

He cleared his throat. “You’re trying to outshine me, Han.”

 

“I don’t have to try.”

 

Minho stared.

 

And then laughed — breathless, just slightly shaky. “Okay. Well. We’re gonna cause problems tonight.”

 

Jisung gave a lazy smirk. “We already are.”

 

Minho headed for the door. “Let’s go make people fall in love with us and not call them in the morning.”

 

Jisung followed close behind, eyes fixed on Minho’s hips. “You gonna behave?”

 

Minho looked back over his shoulder, pure sin in his smile.

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

-

 

The club was loud.

 

Not just music-loud — too many people, too much cologne, too many flashing lights loud. Jisung already hated it. The press of bodies, the sticky floor, the way strangers brushed past him like they owned the space — it made his jaw clench.

 

Minho, on the other hand?

 

He was thriving.

 

“Come on,” Minho had grinned earlier, voice barely audible over the beat as he slid two shots in front of them. “It’s vodka, not poison.”

 

Jisung downed his without hesitation.

 

Minho winked and licked the salt off his hand — slowly — before following suit. His gloss caught the light. His laugh caught Jisung’s nerves.

 

“I’m going to dance,” he said, already moving. “Try not to look too grumpy, Jisungie. You’ll scare away the hopefuls.”

 

And just like that, Minho was gone — swallowed by the crowd, hips disappearing into a sea of limbs and lights.

 

40 minutes later

 

Jisung hadn’t moved from the bar.

 

He’d nursed a second drink — slow, bitter — while the night crawled on. People brushed past him, a few tried flirting. He barely registered any of them. His eyes were elsewhere.

 

And there Minho was.

 

On the dance floor, under violet lights, moving like he owned gravity.

 

Hair tousled, eyeliner smudged perfectly, hips grinding to the rhythm of the bass with a lazy kind of confidence that should’ve wrecked people on sight.

 

He was dancing close to someone now — broad-shouldered, decent looking. Tall enough to lean down, handsome enough to qualify. The guy had a hand on Minho’s waist. Said something close to his ear.

 

Minho laughed — too bright, too eager.

 

And then he leaned in. Said something back, fingers brushing the guy’s chest, his head tilted just so, lips parted just enough to scream please do something, anything.

 

And the guy?

 

He just nodded.

 

Didn’t touch him. Didn’t lean closer. Just stood there, awkward and slightly stiff, like he’d never seen someone offer themselves on a silver fucking platter.

 

Jisung’s eye twitched.

 

He stared, deadpan, as Minho arched his back a little more, as his hand lingered on the guy’s shoulder a little longer — and still, the man didn’t get it.

 

Jisung leaned back against the bar and muttered under his breath, “How the fuck do you miss that?”

 

Minho looked like sin, and he knew it. He was practically begging to be taken apart, and this guy was standing there like he was being offered a tax form.

 

Jisung felt his grip tighten around his glass. Jaw clenched.

 

It wasn’t just secondhand frustration anymore.

 

It was something else.

 

Something hot and ugly sitting under his skin.

 

And for the first time tonight, Jisung pushed off the bar, eyes fixed on one thing only.

 

Jisung watched as the first guy leaned down toward Minho, probably muttered some half-assed excuse like “I’ll be right back”, and then slipped off into the crowd without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

 

Minho stood there for a second, still as a statue. The flashing lights made his lip gloss gleam like a blade. Then — slowly — he exhaled, rolled his eyes, and gave the faintest shrug.

 

But Jisung saw it.

 

The tightness in his jaw. The way his fingers flexed slightly at his side. Minho wasn’t just annoyed — he was pissed.

 

Good.

That guy didn’t deserve the way Minho looked tonight. Didn’t deserve the soft vulnerability behind the smirk. Didn't deserve the effort, the heat, the offer.

 

Jisung expected him to come back to the bar. Maybe flop down dramatically and order another round while ranting about the stupidity of modern gay men.

 

But Minho?

 

Minho went hunting again.

 

Jisung watched, silent, as Minho made his way through the crowd like a shark in silk. It didn’t take five minutes before someone bit.

 

This guy was different — taller, broader. Buzzed hair, tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves of his fitted tee, hands that looked like they could crush. He leaned against the wall, drink in hand, eyes following Minho with a slow, deliberate sweep.

 

Jisung's jaw tensed.

 

Minho smiled, playful and wicked — but there was a strain behind it now, a sharpness in the way he tilted his head, like he wasn’t flirting anymore — he was testing.

 

He leaned in close, said something near the guy’s ear, hand brushing the man’s stomach, light and lingering. The guy looked down at him, gave a little smile…

 

And nothing.

 

No move forward. No hand on his hip. No lean-in, no whispered filth, no real reaction — just a drink sip and some boring ass comment, probably about the music.

 

Minho blinked once. The smile twitched.

 

Jisung gripped the edge of the bar so tightly his knuckles paled.

 

How?

How the hell could two guys in a row look at Minho — Minho in leather pants and lingerie, looking like temptation and destruction personified — and not immediately fall to their knees?

 

Was it the lighting? Were men just actually this dense?

 

Or maybe—

 

Jisung’s stomach twisted.

 

Maybe they just didn’t see what he saw.

The way Minho’s confidence was laced with hunger. The way he burned for someone to touch him right, speak to him right, pull at the sharp edges of him and watch him unravel.

 

They saw a tease.

 

Jisung saw the ache underneath.

 

And now, watching Minho push down disappointment for the second time in under an hour, Jisung realized something else.

 

He was done watching.

 

Minho rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull as the second guy mumbled something vague and wandered off—probably to text an ex, or cry in the bathroom, or whatever boring things boring men did when they were handed a living fantasy and chose to walk away.

 

"Whatever," Minho muttered under his breath.

 

He slid back into the pulse of the dancefloor, letting the music bleed into his limbs. No more talking. No more performing. Just motion and heat and the high of pretending he wasn’t tired of being misunderstood.

 

He let his body move again—slow, fluid, sin in motion. If people wanted to watch, let them. If someone had the spine to touch, they’d be lucky.

 

A few songs later, a third one found him.

 

Tall. Broad. Hands already greedy without being asked. He pressed in behind Minho with confidence, grinding to the beat like he knew what to do with a body. One hand rested low on Minho’s waist. The other skimmed his hip.

 

Finally, Minho thought.

 

He arched into it. Rolled his hips back. Tilted his head to the side just enough to invite breath on his neck. He moved like he was offering himself up—this is what you could have, if only you’d just take it.

 

They danced like that for a minute or two—sweat and friction and tension thick in the air.

 

Minho turned around, eyes half-lidded, lips parted.

 

They were close. One breath away. Practically kissing.

 

He let his fingers trace the guy’s chest, mouth twitching up in that soft, dangerous smirk.

 

And then—

 

The guy’s attention slid away.

 

Just like that.

 

Minho barely registered it at first—a flick of the man’s eyes over Minho’s shoulder. A brief pause.

 

Then a smaller guy walked past. Cute. Laughing. Not dressed for war like Minho was. Just... sweet and easy.

 

And the man—Minho’s man—turned.

 

His hand slipped from Minho’s waist. “Hey, uh... hang on a second.”

 

Minho blinked.

 

The guy slipped into the crowd, following the other one like a moth to a completely different flame.

 

Gone.

 

Minho stood there, heart still racing, skin flushed from dancing—but his face was unreadable. No scowl. No pout.

 

Just a soft exhale through his nose as he looked out over the dance floor, lips pressed together in a tight, neutral line.

 

Was he surprised?

 

Not really.

 

Was he angry?

 

No.

 

He was just... done hoping.

 

Minho closed his eyes for a moment, let the beat carry him again.

 

And this time, when he danced, it wasn’t for anyone else.

 

Minho eventually made his way back to the bar, the heat of the dance floor still clinging to his skin like a second outfit. His gloss was fading, eyeliner slightly smudged from sweat, and the sway in his walk had lost its usual sharpness. It wasn’t defeat — it was detachment.

 

He slid onto the stool next to Jisung with a quiet exhale, motioned to the bartender with two fingers.

 

“Something strong,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “Neat. No flair. Just... something that burns.”

 

Jisung glanced sideways but didn’t speak. Not yet.

 

Minho sat back, arms crossed over his chest, leather pants creaking faintly as he shifted. He looked like sin still — but now like a church someone had stopped believing in.

 

When his drink arrived, he didn’t even say thanks. He took a long, hard sip, swallowed, and then asked — quietly, almost like he didn’t want to hear the answer:

 

“Is it me?”

 

Jisung’s eyes snapped to him.

 

Minho stared ahead, voice level but soaked in something raw. “Am I not attractive enough? Not submissive enough? Too much? Not enough?” He scoffed lightly, the sound brittle. “I wear lace under leather and pour myself into their hands, and they still look past me. Like I’m a billboard they can’t read.”

 

He downed the rest of his drink in one go, then set the glass down with a hollow clink.

 

“I just...” he started, pausing like the words were stuck. “I want one guy. Just one. To look at me like I’m everything. Like he sees exactly what I’m offering and still wants all of me — messy, needy, loud, clingy, bratty, whatever the fuck.”

 

He finally turned to look at Jisung, eyes shining but defiant, like he dared him to judge.

 

“I want someone to ruin me, Jisung. Until I forget my own name. Until I can’t even think of anyone but him.”

 

Silence.

 

Minho swallowed hard, dragged his gaze away, and added — quieter this time — “I don’t think that’s asking for much.”

 

And it wasn’t. Not really.

 

But to Jisung, sitting there beside him, it felt like everything.

 

Minho stared down at his empty glass, fingers curling around it like it might keep him steady. He laughed once — sharp, humorless.

 

“Really though, am I doing something wrong?”

 

He looked at Jisung, finally — really looked at him. There was no smirk now. No glossed lips curled around a clever retort. Just Minho, bare and exhausted under the dim bar light, eyeliner smudged, heart cracked slightly open.

 

Then, before Jisung could even form a reply, Minho held up a hand.

 

“No — don’t say anything yet.”

 

He shifted in his seat to face him more directly, knees almost touching. His voice dropped, quieter, like this wasn’t something he’d ever thought he’d ask out loud.

 

“You’re a top, right?”

 

Jisung didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

 

Minho nodded slowly. “Then tell me… what do I have to do different?”

 

His voice cracked just slightly on the last word.

 

“I put myself out there. I flirt. I dress like this—” he gestured to his own body, to the blouse clinging to sweat-damp skin, the leather pants hugging his thighs like they were made for worship. “I make it so obvious. And they still don’t want me. Or they want the idea of me, but not enough to actually touch. Or stay.”

 

He leaned forward just a little, voice thick. “So tell me, Jisung. If you were some guy at a club, standing across the floor, and you saw me — what would you want me to do differently?”

 

His eyes searched Jisung’s face now, needing something solid. Some answer. Some truth.

 

Because the silence?

 

Was killing him.

 

Jisung stared at him.

 

Minho, glowing under the bar’s low lights, looking like a sin dressed in silk and lace — and yet, asking like he was broken. Like there was something wrong with him.

 

Jisung’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled slowly around his glass.

 

Minho’s voice was barely above a whisper now. “Tell me. If I were someone you didn’t know — just some desperate guy in lingerie on a dance floor… what would you want me to do differently?”

 

Jisung let the silence hang for a second longer. One beat. Two.

 

Then he set his drink down with a quiet clink and turned toward Minho fully.

 

“You want the truth?”

 

Minho met his eyes, defiant and vulnerable all at once. “Yeah. I do.”

 

Jisung’s voice came low and steady. Controlled — but intense.

 

“Stop giving yourself to men who don’t deserve to touch you.”

 

Minho blinked.

 

Jisung leaned in just a little. “You want to know what I saw out there tonight? I saw you looking like temptation — like something every man in that club should’ve dropped to his knees for — and instead of being worshipped, you got ignored.”

 

Minho opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

 

Jisung didn’t stop.

 

“I watched you dance. Beg. I saw the way you kept offering yourself like you were asking permission to be wanted. And every single one of those guys? Too fucking blind to see that you weren’t just flirting — you were pleading. You were saying: pick me, take me, see me.”

 

Minho’s lips parted, breath shallow.

 

“And you want to know what I would’ve done if I were one of them?” Jisung continued, voice dark and low and achingly real now. “I would’ve walked across that floor the second I saw you. I wouldn’t have asked questions. I wouldn’t have played it cool. I would’ve pinned you to the wall, kissed the lip gloss off your mouth, and made sure you forgot what air tasted like.”

 

Minho’s heart pounded in his chest.

 

“I’d pull your hair. I’d ruin your makeup. I’d fuck you so deep you’d forget the names of every man who ever didn’t see you.”

 

Silence crashed between them.

 

The kind that buzzed.

 

Minho stared, eyes wide — chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow.

 

Jisung leaned back slightly, swallowing hard, his voice quieter now. “You don’t need to change anything, Minho. You just need someone who actually knows what the fuck they’re looking at.”

 

And he looked at Minho like he was looking at everything.

 

Minho didn’t move.

 

He couldn’t.

 

His whole body felt like it had been set on fire — flushed, hot under the collar, under the leather, under the lace. His fingers twitched around the base of his empty glass.

 

And still, Jisung’s words rang in his ears.

 

“I’d fuck you so deep you’d forget the names of every man who ever didn’t see you.”

 

He could barely think past the rush in his blood.

 

Minho finally blinked — once, then twice — and shook his head slightly, like he was trying to clear it.

 

“Y–You’re bluffing,” he said, voice cracking around the words. He looked at Jisung with wide, stunned eyes. “You have to be. You’re just—”

 

He swallowed, suddenly unsure what he was accusing him of.

 

“Because how the fuck,” Minho continued, gesturing weakly with one hand, “can every guy I throw myself at look right through me — and then you—” he pointed at Jisung, voice pitching higher, “you say that like it’s nothing? Like it’s obvious?”

 

Jisung just stared at him.

 

Not amused. Not smug.

 

Just honest.

 

Minho’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Why is it only you?”

 

He looked away then, biting his lip, cheeks burning. He hated how raw he sounded — how small.

 

Because if Jisung meant it — if he wasn’t bluffing — then it wasn’t that Minho was unwanted. It wasn’t that he was doing anything wrong.

 

It meant every other guy was just too fucking stupid to see what was already right in front of them.

 

And that was almost worse.

 

He ran a hand through his hair, avoiding Jisung’s eyes now, flustered and spiraling. “You’re not serious. You’re just—trying to make me feel better or some shit. You don’t actually—”

 

He cut himself off. Because saying it out loud would make it real.

 

And if Jisung said yes?

 

Minho didn’t know what the hell he’d do.

 

Minho sat there, eyes cast down at the bar, lips parted like he still had something else to say — but no words came out. Just a shallow breath and a soft, bitter laugh.

 

“You’re probably just saying all that to make me feel better,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Because you’re my roommate, and you’re nice — and I’m pathetic enough to need it.”

 

That was it.

 

That was the sentence that undid Jisung.

 

He'd been gripping the edge of his control all night — through every failed flirtation, every guy walking away, every glance Minho threw across the dance floor begging someone to want him. And now, here Minho was, sitting beside him, glowing, vulnerable, perfect — and actually believing he wasn’t enough.

 

That he wasn’t worth it.

 

And Jisung snapped.

 

The stool screeched as he stood up fast, chest tight, jaw clenched, eyes locked on Minho like he couldn’t believe he was still saying this shit.

 

“Minho.”

 

Minho blinked up at him, startled. “What—”

 

“No.” Jisung’s voice was low, rough, but sharp as a blade. “I’m done talking.”

 

He grabbed Minho’s wrist — not hard, but firm, definitive — and pulled him from the barstool with purpose. The bar lights flickered behind them. The music was still pounding, people still moving, but for Jisung, the world had narrowed down to one person.

 

Minho barely had time to process what was happening before he was pinned against the wall just outside the bathrooms — not harshly, but solid, Jisung’s body boxing him in, breath close.

Minho opened his mouth.

 

“Jisung, wha—”

 

But Jisung didn’t let him finish.

 

He slammed his lips onto Minho’s, one hand cupping the side of his jaw, the other braced against the wall. The kiss was hot, messy, hungry — no hesitation, no holding back. It was claiming. It was proving.

 

It was everything Minho had been begging for.

 

Jisung kissed him like he wanted to destroy every doubt, every past disappointment. Like he was trying to replace every memory of those hands that didn’t know what to do with Minho with his own — rough, certain, desperate.

 

Minho gasped into the kiss — shocked, breath stolen — and for the first time that night, he couldn’t think.

 

Not about other guys.

 

Not about being enough.

 

Not even about his own name.

 

Just Jisung.

 

And finally, finally, he understood.

 

Minho froze for only a heartbeat.

 

Just long enough for the shock to spike through him like lightning — Jisung is kissing me, Jisung is kissing me — and then something inside him snapped.

 

He kissed back.

 

Hard.

 

Fingers fisting into Jisung’s jacket, he yanked him closer with a desperation that had nothing to do with the bar or the club or the crowd and everything to do with the fact that this was finally someone who wanted him like he wanted to be wanted.

 

Jisung let out a low sound — half-groan, half-growl — and pressed in harder, hips flush against Minho’s, his hand sliding from Minho’s jaw to his waist, gripping tight, possessive.

 

The kiss deepened — messy and all-consuming — tongues clashing, breath hitching, lips bruising in the best way. Minho tilted his head, lips parting wider, inviting more, letting Jisung take exactly what he wanted. His back hit the wall harder, and he didn’t care.

 

Minho let out a soft, wrecked sound into the kiss — helpless, needy — and Jisung swallowed it.

 

His hand slid down Minho’s waist to the curve of his hip, pulling him impossibly closer as he kissed him like he was punishing him for ever thinking he was unwanted.

 

And Minho kissed him back like he never wanted to be wanted by anyone else again.

 

Because maybe… he didn’t.

 

Not anymore.

 

Jisung finally broke the kiss — lips red, breathing uneven — but he didn’t move away.

 

Not even an inch.

 

His forehead pressed lightly to Minho’s, breath still mingling in the small space between them. His hands stayed exactly where they were: one gripping Minho’s hip, the other still braced against the wall beside his head, holding him there without force — like he needed Minho to stay close while he said this.

 

Minho’s eyes were wide, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling like he’d just run.

 

Jisung stared at him — looked at him like no one else had.

 

And then, low and raw, he spoke.

 

“You don’t even fucking get it, do you?”

 

Minho blinked. “Get... what?”

 

Jisung's voice was quiet but sharp. Honest. Like the truth had been waiting in his throat for weeks.

 

“I’ve been losing my goddamn mind watching you give yourself to people who don’t know how to look at you.”

 

He glanced down at Minho’s lips, then back up, eyes burning.

 

“You walk into a room and they should fall to their knees. You should never have to beg. Not with the way you move. Not with the way you look at someone like they could own you if they just reached out.”

 

Minho swallowed hard, lips parting, stunned silent.

 

Jisung’s grip on his hip tightened slightly.

 

“You think you’re the problem?” he whispered, like it physically pained him. “You think there’s something wrong with you?”

 

He shook his head, forehead brushing Minho’s again.

 

“There’s not a single fucking thing about you that needs fixing. You’re not too much. You’re not hard to want. You’re...” He exhaled shakily. “You’re impossible not to want.”

 

Minho’s breath caught — hard.

 

Jisung’s eyes softened just a fraction, voice dipping even lower, more intimate now.

 

“I’ve been trying to be respectful. I’ve been trying to be patient. But the second you asked what you needed to change just to be seen?” He shook his head. “That was it. I couldn’t keep pretending. Not when all I’ve wanted since the day we moved in together was to ruin you so good you never want to look at anyone else again.”

 

Silence.

 

Minho just stared at him, mouth slightly open, hands still fisted in his jacket, completely and utterly undone.

 

This time — for once — by words.

 

Minho stood there, breathing shallow, lips trembling between parted disbelief and something that looked dangerously close to hope.

 

Then, barely audible, he whispered, “You’re bluffing.”

 

Jisung let out a breath — not a sigh. A laugh — short, incredulous, slightly wrecked.

 

“Bluffing?” he repeated, pulling back just enough to meet Minho’s eyes dead-on. His jaw tightened. “You wanna know why I didn’t leave the bar all night?”

 

Minho blinked.

 

Jisung leaned in again, voice sharp and feral now.

 

“Because looking at you gave me a fucking hard on.”

 

Minho’s breath hitched.

 

Jisung wasn’t smiling anymore.

 

“You were out there in those leather pants and that silk blouse and those goddamn eyes, and every time you so much as breathed, I got hard. And the reason I was acting weird the past few weeks in the dorm?”

 

He let out another low, bitter laugh.

 

“Because half the time I was either jerking off with your name in my mouth, or trying not to pop a fucking boner just from seeing you walk into the kitchen in your stupid little sleep shorts.”

 

Minho’s mouth dropped open slightly.

 

Jisung kept going — breathless, confessional, past the point of return.

 

“You don’t get it, do you? I’ve been trying to keep it together. Trying to be good. You’re my roommate. My friend. I wasn’t gonna be the asshole who crossed a line.”

 

He stared at him, hard, chest rising and falling. “But you asked. You begged to be seen. And I’ve been seeing you this whole fucking time.”

 

Minho just stared.

 

Frozen.

 

Every wall he’d built? Crumbling.

 

Every doubt?

 

Exposed.

 

And for once, it wasn’t because someone didn’t want him.

 

It was because someone wanted him too much.

 

Minho's lips parted, his breath shaky, and something broke in his voice when he spoke — soft, high, disbelieving.

 

“You… jerked off to me?”

 

The words came out in a whimper.

 

Not judgmental. Not mocking. Just wrecked. Like his mind couldn’t wrap around the reality of it — that all the nights he’d come back from another failed attempt at being wanted, Jisung had been in the next room, hand down his pants, moaning his name.

 

Jisung didn’t flinch.

 

Didn’t blink.

 

Didn’t even hesitate.

 

He nodded slowly, his voice low, raw. “Yeah. I did.”

 

Minho made a sound — a breathy, stunned half-gasp — like the weight of those words hit him square in the chest.

 

Jisung stepped in again, impossibly close, eyes dragging down Minho’s lips, his flushed cheeks, the tension in his throat.

 

“You think I didn’t notice how you look when you stretch in the morning? When you bend over to grab shit from the fridge wearing those tight little shorts and nothing else? You think I didn’t hear you in the shower — breathing all soft and needy when you thought no one was around?”

 

Minho’s thighs squeezed together instinctively, his fingers curling into the front of Jisung’s jacket again like he needed to hold on to something.

 

Jisung's voice dropped even lower — filth and honesty and frustration all woven together.

 

“I’ve come in my fist more times than I can count thinking about having you like this. Pressed up against me. Whimpering.” He leaned in, lips brushing Minho’s ear, and whispered, “Begging.”

 

Minho whimpered again, full-body tremble, eyes fluttering shut.

 

Because it wasn’t a fantasy anymore.

 

It was real.

 

He was wanted.

 

Devoured.

 

By Jisung.

 

Minho’s head tilted back against the wall, lashes fluttering, lips parted — and then it slipped out of him.

 

A soft, wrecked moan.

 

Not performative. Not teasing.

 

Just pure reaction.

 

And it hit Jisung like a punch to the gut.

 

His whole body tensed — arms bracing harder against the wall, hips locked in place — eyes suddenly wide, dark, and full of something feral.

 

“Fuck,” Jisung hissed under his breath, barely holding himself back.

 

The sound had shot straight through him, hot and electric — because it wasn’t from some dream, or behind a closed door, or inside his head while jerking off into his fist. That sound came from Minho, right here, right now, because of him.

 

And Minho?

 

Minho felt it.

 

Felt Jisung press in tighter, felt his hands twitch on his hips, felt the way Jisung’s breath caught and broke with a sharp sound of his own — a moan, deep and quiet and undeniable.

 

Jisung moaned.

 

Because he had Minho pinned.

 

Because Minho wanted him.

 

Because the fantasy had just become real — and it was even more unbearable.

 

Minho’s eyes opened slowly, hazy with heat, mouth still parted. “You... moaned,” he whispered, almost in awe.

 

Jisung pressed their foreheads together, voice tight and low and shaking. “Because you’re driving me insane.”

 

His hand slid lower, gripping Minho’s waist tighter, like he wasn’t sure whether to kiss him again or ruin him on the spot.

 

“I’m trying to keep it together,” Jisung muttered, chest heaving. “But you keep making those sounds and looking at me like that, and I swear I’m gonna lose it.”

 

And Minho — flushed, panting, finally wanted — whispered back,

 

“…Then lose it.”

 

Jisung was shaking now — just barely — his breath ragged as he stared at Minho like he was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

 

Minho's back was still pressed to the wall, lips kiss-swollen, eyes glassy with need, body warm and trembling in Jisung's hands.

 

“Fuck,” Jisung whispered again, forehead still pressed to Minho’s. “You don’t get it. You really don’t.”

 

Minho’s fingers twisted into the front of his jacket again. “Then make me.”

 

And that was the last straw.

 

Jisung growled — low, desperate — and kissed him again, hard and fast, like he needed one more taste before he said what he had to say. And when he pulled away this time, it was only just — close enough that Minho could feel the way his jaw clenched, the way his body thrummed with restraint.

 

“I’m not,” Jisung panted, “fucking you dumb in some filthy place like this.”

 

Minho blinked, stunned — not at the words, but at the way Jisung said them. Not teasing. Not rough for the sake of it. It was possessive. Certain.

 

“I’m not letting the first time I have you be in some back corner of a club surrounded by noise and strangers and cheap vodka.”

 

Jisung’s voice dropped — lower, more dangerous, more honest.

 

“I’m gonna take you home. I’m gonna fuck you on my bed, the way I’ve done in my dreams. Over and over.”

 

Minho’s breath hitched — eyes wide, lips parted, body shivering like it heard the promise in Jisung’s voice before his brain could catch up.

 

“I want you spread out,” Jisung whispered against his mouth, “wearing that fucking lace, on my sheets, where I can take my time ruining you so thoroughly you won’t be able to walk past my room without blushing.”

 

Minho let out another soft, broken moan — because this wasn’t a fantasy anymore. This was Jisung. Real, shaking, hungry.

 

“And when I’m done,” Jisung said, voice wrecked now, “you’ll know exactly how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.”

 

Minho was speechless.

 

Breathless.

 

Gone.

 

And when Jisung finally pulled back, just enough to look him in the eyes, he murmured:

 

“So unless you want me to bend you over this bar and ruin my own self-control in front of thirty fucking people—”

 

His hand slid down Minho’s side, gripping tight.

 

“—I suggest we go. Now.”

 

Minho let out a loud, wrecked moan — not caring who heard, not caring where they were — eyes fluttering shut as his head hit the wall behind him.

 

“Fuck,” he gasped, “yes—please.”

 

His voice cracked on the word, breathless and shaking, fingers tightening in Jisung’s jacket like he might fall apart if he let go.

 

“Take me fucking home, Sungie.”

 

That name — soft, desperate, whined — made Jisung groan low in his throat like he was about to snap all over again.

 

His grip on Minho’s waist flexed hard, pulling their bodies flush for just a moment — just long enough to feel what he was doing to him. What they were doing to each other.

 

“Jesus fuck,” Jisung growled. “Say that again and I’m carrying you out of here.”

 

Minho, eyes dark and wet with want, just smirked — unsteady and dangerous — and whispered against his lips:

 

“Take me home, Sungie. Make me yours.”

 

That was it.

 

Jisung grabbed his hand without another word, laced their fingers together tight, and pulled — cutting through the crowd with a single purpose.

 

Minho followed, eyes locked on his back, heart pounding, body already burning with anticipation.

 

No more begging strangers.

 

No more hoping to be seen.

 

He was about to be ruined — just like he wanted.

 

And this time?

 

It was going to be real.

 

-

 

The car door slammed shut.

 

Minho barely had time to catch his breath before Jisung was manhandling him into the passenger seat — rough but careful, like he couldn’t wait another second but still didn’t want to break him yet.

 

The second Minho was buckled in, Jisung slammed the door, walked around the hood like a man possessed, and slid into the driver’s seat with a force that made the whole car jolt.

 

Engine on. Music low. Windows fogging already from the heat of their bodies and everything unspoken still crackling between them.

 

Jisung gripped the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, jaw clenched, teeth grit.

 

He said nothing.

 

Just drove.

 

Fast.

 

Focused.

 

Dangerous.

 

And Minho?

 

Minho couldn’t stop staring at him.

 

His hands. His mouth. The tightness in his thighs.

 

And then he looked down.

 

Minho’s breath caught.

 

He saw it — thick and straining against Jisung’s jeans, twitching every time Jisung hit the gas a little harder.

 

Fuck.

 

He bit his bottom lip hard, shifting in his seat, body already aching with need — still strung out from being pinned to that wall, from that kiss, from the confessions that had wrecked him more than any touch could.

 

He couldn’t stop himself.

 

Didn’t want to.

 

Minho leaned over, slow and sinful, hand sliding over Jisung’s thigh, inching higher.

 

Jisung tensed, eyes locked on the road, breath sharp through his nose. “Minho—”

 

But then Minho palmed him through his jeans, and Jisung groaned, head tipping back against the seatrest for just a second.

 

“Holy fuck—” he breathed.

 

Minho looked up at him, lips parted, eyes dark with something dangerous.

 

“You’re so hard,” he whispered, dragging his hand slowly. “Is this all for me, Sungie?”

 

Jisung’s jaw snapped tight.

 

His hands tightened on the wheel until his knuckles went white. “You’re gonna make me crash this fucking car.”

 

Minho grinned, and unbuckled his seatbelt.

 

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

 

And then?

 

He leaned down.

 

Jisung choked out a moan — one hand flying off the wheel to stop him, but too slow, too stunned — and when he felt Minho’s lips through his jeans, the breath he let out was shattered.

 

“Minho—!” he gasped, thighs tensing, hips twitching upward.

 

And fuck, this was so much worse.

 

So much better.

 

Because this wasn’t a fantasy anymore.

 

Minho was really in his passenger seat, mouthing at his cock, moaning for it — and Jisung was about to lose what was left of his sanity on the highway.

 

Minho didn’t wait for permission.

 

He didn’t need it — not when Jisung had already confessed to imagining this exact moment more times than he could count.

 

His fingers worked quickly at the button of Jisung’s jeans, breath hot against the fabric. Jisung let out a helpless, wrecked sound as his cock was finally freed — thick, flushed, already leaking, twitching with tension he’d been holding back all night.

 

“Jesus fuck,” Jisung hissed, one hand flying off the wheel to brace against the roof of the car. “Minho—”

 

Minho didn’t answer.

 

He just moaned — high and soft and so needy — as he leaned down and took him into his mouth.

 

Warm. Wet. Greedy.

 

Jisung swore, loudly, his hips jerking up involuntarily. “Fuck— fuck, baby, slow down—”

 

But Minho didn’t slow down.

 

He wanted this. Needed it.

 

He sank deeper, hand wrapping around the base, tongue sliding along the underside as he sucked — messy and eager, like he’d been waiting years for this.

 

And Jisung—

 

Jisung was fucked.

 

He growled something incoherent, hips bucking again, one hand tangling in Minho’s hair — not to push, but to ground himself.

 

His other hand still gripped the wheel, knuckles pale, but he wasn’t looking at the road anymore. His eyes were on Minho — lips stretched around him, eyeliner smudged, making those filthy wet sounds with every pull.

 

“Fuck, Minho— Minho, baby, I’m not gonna last if you keep— fuck—”

 

Minho moaned around him again, intentionally, and Jisung felt it.

 

Felt the vibration rip through him like lightning.

 

He tried to speak — to tell him to stop, to wait, to at least let him pull over—

 

But then Minho looked up.

 

Eyes wide, lips wrapped around his cock, spit dribbling down his chin, and Jisung lost it.

 

“Fucking hell—!” he gasped, as his thighs tensed and his hips snapped forward, fucking helplessly into Minho’s mouth.

 

Minho took it. All of it.

And when Jisung came — hard, loud, moaning Minho’s name like a prayer ripped apart — Minho swallowed everything.

 

He stayed there through it, soft sucks and gentle strokes until Jisung twitched and gasped and finally pushed him off with a trembling hand.

 

Minho sat back in the seat, panting softly, lips red and wet, lashes low over blown-out eyes.

 

Jisung’s head hit the back of the seat.

 

Silence.

 

Then:

 

“...You’re evil,” he breathed.

 

Minho licked his lips slowly. “You still gonna fuck me like you did in your dreams?”

 

Jisung looked at him — still dazed — and grinned.

 

“Baby,” he said, voice low and wrecked, “I haven’t even started.”

 

Jisung didn’t say anything else.

 

He didn’t need to.

 

Instead, he swerved the car hard into the nearest empty lot, tires squealing softly as he slammed it into park.

 

Minho barely had time to blink before Jisung was on him.

 

Fingers in his hair. Hand under his jaw.

 

And then—

 

Their mouths crashed together.

 

Hard. Messy. Claiming.

 

Jisung grabbed Minho’s chin, fingers pressing into his jaw, and licked into his mouth without hesitation — tongue hot, filthy, and needy, tasting the slick mix of Minho’s spit and his own cum still lingering on that wicked little tongue.

 

“Fuck,” Jisung groaned into the kiss, hand gripping the back of Minho’s neck as he kissed him harder, deeper, filthier — like he could still feel Minho’s mouth around his cock and couldn’t get enough of it.

 

Minho moaned again — whimpered, really — and tried to climb over the console, already pressing his hips forward like he wanted more, like he needed more—

 

But Jisung pulled back, just enough to speak, his breath hot against Minho’s lips.

 

“Behave,” he growled, low and dangerous. “We’re almost home.”

 

Minho blinked up at him, lips swollen, eyes glossy, panting like he’d just been dragged out of a wet dream.

 

Jisung’s thumb dragged over Minho’s bottom lip, wiping away the shine — only to smudge it right back in with another hard kiss.

 

“You act up again,” Jisung muttered darkly, “I’m pulling over and fucking you in the backseat. Doors locked. Windows fogged. Everyone watching.”

 

Minho whined, thighs twitching together, breath hitched.

 

Jisung grinned — dark and dangerous.

 

“Good.”

 

Then he shifted back into drive with one hand.

 

The other?

 

Still gripping Minho’s thigh like a warning.

 

They didn’t speak again the rest of the ride.

 

But the second the apartment came into view?

 

Minho’s breathing picked up again.

 

Because now?

 

There was no escape from what Jisung promised next.

 

The moment the apartment building came into view, Jisung’s hands tightened on the wheel — jaw clenched, teeth grit, barely hanging on.

 

He pulled into the lot fast and parked without a word, engine off before the car had fully stopped rocking.

 

Minho turned to say something — probably something smug or filthy — but before he could speak, Jisung was already out of the car.

 

A second later, the passenger door was yanked open, and Jisung was standing there, eyes dark, breathing heavy, the streetlight catching on the sharp line of his jaw.

 

“Out,” he said.

 

Minho blinked.

 

Jisung didn’t wait.

 

He reached in, grabbed Minho’s wrist, and hauled him up — not rough enough to hurt, but firm enough that Minho felt it in every nerve-ending. Like he was being taken.

 

“Jisung—” Minho gasped, stumbling slightly as his boots hit the pavement.

 

But he didn’t resist.

 

He couldn’t.

 

Because Jisung was already dragging him toward the building’s front door with single-minded focus, his grip tight around Minho’s hand like he was afraid he might change his mind if he let go for even a second.

 

They stormed into the lobby — late-night silence, cool air, and the soft hum of the elevator all blending into one unreal blur. Minho’s chest heaved, his pulse racing, and Jisung?

 

Jisung slammed the button for the elevator.

 

Then he turned to Minho, shoved him back against the wall next to the doors, and kissed him again — rough and fast, his mouth claiming, tongue pushing past parted lips without hesitation.

 

Minho whimpered, melting into it, eyes fluttering shut as his hands tangled in Jisung’s jacket again, dragging him closer, like he never wanted space between them again.

 

The elevator dinged.

 

Jisung broke the kiss with a low growl.

 

Minho looked up at him, dazed, panting, lips red and wet.

 

“Are you gonna fuck me the second we get inside?” he whispered.

 

Jisung didn’t answer.

 

He just dragged him into the elevator by the wrist, hit the button for their floor, and pinned Minho to the wall the second the doors slid shut.

 

And in his ear — low, growled, wrecked — he whispered:

 

“I’m not even waiting until you’re fully undressed.”

 

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime, and before the button for the 7th floor had even stopped glowing, Jisung had Minho again.

 

Pinned.

 

Breath stolen.

 

Their mouths collided, teeth and tongues clashing in a way that was far too messy to be called kissing and far too perfect to stop.

 

Minho moaned into it — high and breathless — one leg lifting instinctively, wrapping around Jisung’s hip. His hands were under Jisung’s jacket, fisting the fabric of his shirt, clinging, like the ride to the 7th floor was far too long.

 

Jisung’s hands were everywhere — gripping Minho’s waist, sliding over the curve of his ass, palming the backs of his thighs. He kissed like he was trying to memorize him. Like this wasn’t the first time — like it was the hundredth, and still not enough.

 

Minho gasped as Jisung bit his bottom lip, tugged, then soothed it with his tongue.

 

“F-Fuck,” Minho whispered, barely audible, eyes fluttering. “I can’t wait—”

 

And then—

 

Ding.

 

The elevator jolted to a stop at the 3rd floor.

 

They both froze.

 

The doors slid open.

 

A couple stepped in — older, well-dressed, maybe coming back from dinner. The woman’s eyes went wide. The man just frowned.

 

Minho was still pinned to the wall, one leg wrapped around Jisung’s waist, his blouse slipping off one shoulder, lips kiss-swollen and gloss-smeared across his cheek.

 

Jisung didn’t move. Just turned his head slightly, jaw clenched, breathing hard, hand still braced next to Minho’s head like he dared them to say something.

 

The couple gave each other a look — one of those tight, judgmental glances — then slowly moved to the opposite corner of the elevator.

 

Minho dropped his leg and cleared his throat, cheeks flushed, trying to blink the sex out of his eyes.

 

The doors slid shut again.

 

Tension thick. Silence suffocating.

 

The floor numbers ticked upward, painfully slow.

 

Jisung leaned in — not touching, but close enough that Minho could feel his breath on his neck.

 

And in the softest, filthiest whisper, he murmured:

 

“…I’m gonna make you scream into a pillow the second we’re alone.”

 

Minho whimpered — audibly.

 

The man in the corner coughed.

 

And the number changed to 7.

 

Ding.

 

Doors opened.

 

Jisung grabbed Minho’s hand.

 

Didn’t say a word.

 

And dragged him out into the hallway like a man on a goddamn mission.

 

-

 

The second the front door slammed shut behind them, Jisung didn’t slow down.

 

He didn’t even look at Minho — just gripped his wrist tighter and pulled him through the apartment, straight past the kitchen, down the hall, and into his bedroom like a man possessed.

 

The door hit the wall.

 

Minho barely had time to gasp before Jisung spun him, grabbed both hips, and pushed him down onto the bed.

 

The mattress dipped.

 

Minho sprawled onto it, breath knocked out of him, legs slightly parted, blouse half-fallen off one shoulder, leather pants creaking with the movement — his hair a mess, his lips still red from the elevator, chest heaving.

 

And Jisung—

 

Jisung just stared.

 

Frozen.

 

The door was still open behind him.

 

The hallway light poured in.

 

And Minho was there, on his bed, exactly like he’d imagined so many fucking times — late at night, under the sheets, hand tight around his cock, whispering Minho’s name into the pillow.

 

And now it was real.

 

Minho propped himself up on his elbows, looking up at him with that flushed, dazed face and a small, wrecked smile.

 

“Is this what you dreamed about?” he asked softly.

 

And Jisung — throat dry, chest rising — let out a quiet, shattered moan.

 

“Fuck,” he breathed.

 

His knees hit the edge of the bed.

 

He didn’t even realize he was moaning until it slipped out — low, desperate, real. His hands flexed at his sides like he didn’t know where to touch first.

 

Minho — lace peeking from beneath his waistband, eyeliner still smudged, lips wet — was perfect.

 

Too perfect.

 

And he was on Jisung’s bed.

 

Just like he had been in Jisung’s filthiest thoughts. Only now, he wasn’t a fantasy.

 

He was his.

 

Jisung stepped forward, knees pushing between Minho’s, hovering over him, his voice rough with heat and reverence.

 

“Exactly like this,” he whispered. “Every fucking time.”

 

Jisung didn’t say another word.

 

He climbed onto the bed — slow, heavy, deliberate — muscles tense like he was holding back a storm. His knees pressed into the mattress on either side of Minho, caging him in, eyes locked on him the whole way down.

 

Minho’s breath hitched.

 

He didn’t move.

 

Didn’t dare.

 

Jisung hovered over him, close enough for their lips to brush, one hand sliding up Minho’s side, dragging over silk and leather, the other braced beside his head.

 

Then — with a groan that sounded more like surrender than control — he kissed him.

 

Deep.

 

No hesitation.

 

No teasing.

 

Jisung’s mouth crashed into Minho’s like he’d been starving for it — tongue hot, slick, demanding, curling past Minho’s lips like he already owned the space inside him.

 

Minho moaned — loud and sweet — arms wrapping around Jisung’s shoulders as he kissed him back with everything he had. Their hips pressed together, friction hot and dizzying.

 

Jisung devoured him — lips rough, tongue unforgiving, sucking the air from Minho’s lungs like he needed to taste every inch of his mouth before anything else.

 

And Minho let him.

 

Offered himself up.

 

Let his legs fall open under the weight of Jisung’s body and moaned into his mouth, kissing like he was already his.

 

Jisung pulled back just enough to pant, their mouths still brushing, his voice low and wrecked:

 

“You taste like you’ve been mine forever.”

 

Minho whimpered, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him back down without a word.

 

So Jisung kissed him again — harder this time.

 

Because now?

 

There was no stopping.

 

Jisung pulled back just enough to look down at him — at Minho, flushed and breathless, blouse slipping off one shoulder, leather pants hugging every curve, that lace waistband peeking out like an invitation written in sin.

 

His lips were red. His eyes were wrecked.

 

And he was his.

 

Jisung groaned — deep and rough — the sound tearing straight from his chest like he couldn’t believe it.

 

“Fuck…” he breathed, voice hoarse. “This is really happening.”

 

Minho smiled — small, shaky, but soft — like he didn’t quite believe it either.

 

Jisung didn’t wait another second.

 

He leaned down, crashed their mouths together again — hard and messy — before dragging his lips away, panting, trailing kisses down Minho’s jaw, his cheek, his throat.

 

Then lower.

 

To his neck.

 

Jisung groaned again as he buried his face there, lips open and wet against Minho’s skin.

 

“You have no idea…” he murmured between kisses, his voice wrecked, reverent. “How many nights I’ve wanted this.”

 

Minho arched up into him with a soft gasp, head tilting to the side, giving him more.

 

Jisung took it.

 

He bit, just below Minho’s jaw — not hard, just enough to make him tremble.

 

Minho whimpered, legs shifting under him, hands sliding up to tangle in Jisung’s hair as his eyes fluttered closed.

 

Jisung sucked a mark into his skin, kissed it, then moved lower — tongue dragging along Minho’s collarbone as he pulled the blouse farther off his shoulder.

 

“You smell like sweat and sex and desperation,” he whispered, voice hot against his skin. “You’re gonna smell like me by the time I’m done.”

 

Minho moaned, body trembling under him now, fingers tightening in his hair.

 

Jisung just kept kissing down his neck — biting, licking, claiming — every inch of skin worshipped like it was sacred.

 

Because it was.

 

Because it was Minho.

 

And he was finally under him.

 

On his bed.

 

Exactly where he belonged.

 

Minho moaned again — soft, breathy, completely undone — as Jisung’s mouth dragged lower down his neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. The sound hit Jisung like a shockwave, and he groaned against Minho’s throat, hips twitching forward without meaning to.

 

He was so hard it hurt.

 

Every noise Minho made, every breathless whimper, every choked “Sungie” had his cock pulsing against the tight press of his jeans, straining against the zipper like it couldn’t wait a second longer.

 

“Fuck,” Jisung breathed, his voice tight, body practically shaking as he pressed his hips down just enough for Minho to feel it.

 

Minho gasped at the contact — high and sharp — and that alone made Jisung twitch harder.

 

“You’re…” he panted against Minho’s ear, “gonna fucking kill me with those sounds.”

 

Minho arched up into him, his fingers dragging through Jisung’s hair, pulling gently. “Then don’t make me wait,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of Jisung’s ear. “Do something about it.”

 

Jisung growled — low, guttural, wrecked — and rolled his hips again, grinding their bodies together as his hands slid under Minho’s blouse, pushing it up, baring lace and skin and heat.

 

And when Minho moaned again — soft, desperate, completely his — Jisung leaned down, kissed the sound right from his mouth, and whispered:

 

“Keep making those noises, baby, and I’m gonna come in my pants before I even get you out of yours.”

 

Minho grinned — ruined and breathless — and moaned again, on purpose.

Jisung snapped.

 

Jisung squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving, trying to breathe through it.

 

He could still hear Minho — whimpering under him, breath hitching, body squirming in those tight leather pants and lace. Every moan was like a match striking against his nerves, and it was all for him.

 

He groaned, jaw clenched tight, trying to will his body into restraint.

 

Minho, noticing the shift, panted out between moans, “Jisung…?”

 

Jisung’s voice cracked. “Give me a second—fuck, baby, just—just don’t make any more noise.”

 

Minho, of course, did the opposite.

 

He reached down, pulled his silky blouse up and over his head in one slow motion, lace catching the light, collarbones flushed and exposed, chest rising and falling as he bit his lip and looked up through his lashes.

 

And then?

 

He reached for Jisung’s shirt.

 

“Off,” he whispered. “I want to see you.”

 

Jisung’s hands shook as he grabbed the hem, dragged it over his head, and tossed it to the floor.

 

Minho moaned.

 

Long. Loud. Shameless.

 

And that was it.

 

Jisung gasped — “FUCK—” — and before he could even stop himself, his hips bucked, muscles tensed, and he came, hard, in his jeans.

 

His entire body shuddered, eyes squeezed shut as the orgasm ripped through him like lightning — too much, too soon, and so fucking real.

 

He collapsed forward onto his hands, panting, cursing under his breath. “Fuckfuckfuck—Minho—I didn’t mean to—”

 

But Minho was staring at him.

 

Eyes wide. Lips parted. Lace clinging to his thighs.

 

And the look on his face?

 

Not disappointed.

 

Devastated with want.

 

“That…” Minho panted, hips rolling up, eyes dragging over Jisung’s flushed body, still twitching from release. “That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

 

He reached down, unbuttoning his pants with shaking fingers, breathless.

 

“I need you to fuck me now.”

 

And Jisung?

 

Still panting. Still hardening again.

 

Lifted his head slowly, eyes dark, voice low and wrecked.

 

“Then turn over,” he growled, already reaching for Minho’s pants. “Because I’m not stopping this time.”

 

Minho was flushed, lips swollen, hair wild against Jisung’s sheets — and he was fumbling with the button of his leather jeans, hips lifting, breath shaky.

 

“Fuck, they’re tight,” he gasped, tugging them down inch by inch, lace waistband peeking through.

 

Jisung sat back on his heels, watching — dazed, fucked-out, entranced.

 

And then he saw it.

 

That soft black lace.

 

Thin and sheer, clinging to Minho’s hips like sin, hugging his thighs, his cock hard and leaking behind the delicate fabric.

 

“Don’t,” Jisung choked suddenly, grabbing Minho’s hands, stopping him mid-movement.

 

Minho blinked up at him, surprised. “What—?”

 

“Let me.”

 

His voice was low, trembling — reverent, almost. Like he was staring at something holy.

 

Minho swallowed and dropped his hands.

 

Jisung leaned down.

 

Slow.

 

Eyes fixed on the way those tight pants hugged Minho’s hips.

 

And with both hands, he started to peel them off.

 

Inches at a time.

 

The leather clung, dragging down over pale thighs, revealing the full picture: Minho in his most lethal lace. Black. Barely-there. Framing every inch of him like a gift Jisung wasn’t sure he deserved to open.

 

And when the jeans finally hit the floor, Jisung just stared.

 

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, voice breaking.

 

He dropped to his elbows between Minho’s knees, palms sliding up his thighs, trembling.

 

“You wore this…” he breathed, mouth inches from the lace, “and you really thought I wouldn’t want you?”

 

Minho moaned, legs parting wider for him, completely on display, completely his.

 

Jisung groaned — deep, guttural — and rested his forehead on Minho’s thigh, shaking.

 

“I’m gonna come again just looking at you.”

 

Minho whined, squirming under him, voice high and ruined. “Please, Jisung—”

 

Jisung looked up at him, eyes dark, lips parted, wrecked and hungry and so in love with the sight in front of him.

 

And then he whispered:

 

“Baby… you’re gonna feel everything I dreamed about.”

 

Jisung stayed between Minho’s thighs for a long moment, just looking.

 

Leather gone.

 

Lace hugging every sinful curve.

 

Minho was spread open like temptation, cheeks flushed, hair a mess across Jisung’s pillow, chest rising and falling like he was trying to breathe through everything they’d just become.

 

Jisung dragged his hands up the backs of Minho’s thighs, breath shaky, voice low and hoarse.

 

“Too perfect.”

 

Minho whined, hips twitching. “Sungie, please—”

 

Jisung leaned in and kissed the inside of his thigh, biting just softly enough to make Minho shiver — and then he sat up, hands already moving to his own jeans.

 

His fingers fumbled slightly, still shaky from his earlier orgasm, but Minho’s eyes never left him — wide, hungry, wanting. Watching every inch of skin as Jisung shoved the denim down his legs, tossing them to the side.

 

His boxers were damp.

 

His cock already hard again.

 

Minho moaned.

 

Jisung smirked — soft, unsteady, wrecked — and crawled back over him, hands bracing the mattress on either side of Minho’s head.

 

Minho reached up, pulled him in by the back of the neck, and their mouths collided.

 

This kiss was different.

 

Still messy. Still filthy. But slower.

 

Deeper.

 

Jisung kissed him like he’d finally been given what he needed, like he was drinking Minho in — mapping his mouth, savoring every gasp, every tremble, every whimper that vibrated between their lips.

Minho wrapped both legs around his waist again, dragging their bodies together — lace against bare skin, heat meeting heat.

 

Jisung groaned into his mouth, rolling his hips down, grinding slow and heavy against the thin fabric between them.

 

Minho broke the kiss with a gasp. “Sungie—” he whined, back arching. “I can feel you—”

 

“Good,” Jisung growled, mouthing along his jaw, his neck, breath hot and dangerous. “You’re gonna feel all of me.”

 

And he rolled his hips again, slower this time, deliberately, dragging his cock along Minho’s through the lace.

 

Minho shook.

 

Fingers digging into Jisung’s back.

 

“Fuck—take it off,” Minho begged, voice wrecked. “I want you. No more teasing—please.”

 

Jisung pulled back just far enough to look him in the eyes.

 

“You’re sure?”

 

Minho nodded, desperate, already lifting his hips to help. “I’ve never been this sure.”

 

And Jisung?

 

He kissed him again — long, slow, and filthy.

 

“Then let me undress you.”

 

Jisung’s hands slid down Minho’s body like he was unwrapping something sacred.

 

The lace was soft beneath his fingers, stretched taut over Minho’s thighs, the curve of his ass, the perfect outline of his cock pressed against the delicate fabric. Black. Barely there.

 

Every dream Jisung had ever touched himself to was suddenly less than this.

 

“You wore this for them,” Jisung whispered as he trailed his fingers along the waistband. “But you prepped for me, didn’t you?”

 

Minho’s head tipped back, a soft, broken moan escaping his lips.

 

“I…” he gasped, arching into his touch, “I didn’t know it would be you, but—”

 

Jisung hooked his fingers under the waistband, slowly dragging the lace down over Minho’s hips, his thighs. His mouth was slightly open, breath shaky as more of Minho’s skin was revealed, slick and flushed and gorgeous.

 

“But I hoped,” Minho whispered, cheeks burning. “In the shower… before we left…”

 

Jisung paused, lace caught around Minho’s knees, staring up at him with fire in his eyes.

 

Minho’s voice cracked — soft, needy, so sweetly honest it hurt.

 

“I prepped myself.”

 

Jisung’s breath hitched violently.

 

Minho looked up at him, wrecked and glowing.

 

“I wanted to be easy… in case someone wanted me.”

 

That snapped something in Jisung.

 

He let out a sound — deep, wounded, possessive — and leaned forward to press their foreheads together, his hand gripping Minho’s thigh.

 

“You fucking angel,” Jisung breathed, voice shaking. “You did all that—got ready, opened yourself up—just to be left on the dance floor?”

 

Minho nodded, lip trembling slightly.

 

Jisung kissed him hard. Desperate.

 

“Not tonight.”

 

He kissed down his chest.

 

“Not me.”

 

Down his stomach.

 

“You’re not gonna be just wanted tonight, Minho…”

 

He settled between his thighs, eyes dark, voice low and full of promise.

 

“…You’re gonna be ruined.”

 

Jisung’s eyes were locked on Minho as he knelt between his legs, breath uneven, fingers trembling slightly from holding back.

 

First, he reached for the waistband of his own boxers — soaked, sticky, tight from having come once already — and dragged them down over his hips. His cock sprang free again, hard and twitching, already leaking, flushed deep red.

 

Minho’s eyes dropped — and he moaned, wrecked and low and full of need.

 

Jisung caught it — felt it — and groaned back, voice tight and dark. “You want this again, baby?”

 

Minho nodded too fast, breath hitching. “God, yes.”

 

Jisung leaned forward, braced one hand on the mattress beside Minho’s shoulder, and used the other to finally hook two fingers under the waistband of Minho’s lace.

 

The last piece.

 

The final barrier.

 

And he took his time.

 

His eyes never left Minho’s face — not even for a second — as he dragged the delicate fabric down, slow, reverent, like he was unwrapping a secret. The lace slid down over flushed skin, over his cock — already hard, already leaking for him — and Jisung breathed in sharply.

 

Minho let out a soft, almost embarrassed whimper, eyes fluttering closed.

 

Jisung leaned down and kissed just above his hipbone — soft, gentle, worshipful.

 

“You’re perfect.”

 

Minho gasped, lifting his hips to help as the lace slid the rest of the way down.

 

And then?

 

He was bare.

 

Fully, completely his.

 

Jisung sat back on his heels for a moment — staring.

 

Breathing like he’d just been punched.

 

Minho’s legs were open for him. His chest was rising and falling in soft, broken rhythm. His cock was hard, flushed, glistening with precum. His thighs trembled slightly as the cool air hit slick skin between them — the evidence of just how ready he was.

 

Jisung’s voice came low. Shaking. Wrecked.

 

“I’ve never seen anything like you.”

 

Minho whimpered again — high and sweet — and reached up, grabbing Jisung by the wrist, pulling him closer.

 

“Then what are you waiting for?” he breathed. “Take me.”

 

Minho was spread out beneath him, bare, flushed, panting, perfect.

 

Jisung lined himself up, cock hard and aching, one hand on Minho’s thigh, the other braced by his shoulder as he hovered above him, eyes burning with everything he felt — want, awe, worship.

 

“You ready?” he asked, voice low, wrecked.

 

Minho nodded, eyes glazed, lips parted. “Please. I’ve been ready since the club—since before. Just… give it to me.”

 

Jisung groaned — deep and raw — and pushed in.

 

Slowly.

 

The head of his cock slid past the rim, and Jisung choked on his breath.

 

“Oh fuck—”

 

Minho was tight. Warm, slick, welcoming in the way that made Jisung's spine curl, his grip on Minho’s thigh tighten like a vice.

 

Minho let out a loud, shattered moan beneath him — legs wrapping around Jisung’s waist, hands sliding up his back, nails digging in.

 

“Sungie—” he gasped, “you’re so fucking big—”

 

That didn’t help.

 

Jisung hissed through his teeth, forcing his hips to stop. He was only halfway in.

 

He pressed his forehead to Minho’s shoulder, breathing hard, voice barely a growl.

 

“Fuck—baby—I need a second—”

 

Minho whimpered and clenched around him — on purpose.

 

Jisung shuddered violently.

 

“Minho—Minho, if you do that again I’m gonna come right now.”

 

Minho giggled — breathless, high-pitched, still shaking underneath him. “You already came once…”

 

Jisung pulled his head up — eyes dark, jaw set.

 

“Yeah, and I’ll fucking do it again inside you if you keep squeezing me like that.”

 

Minho’s grin faded, eyes going wide, lip trembling.

 

“…do it.”

 

Jisung’s breath hitched.

 

He closed his eyes, forcing every muscle in his body to not move.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ—” he whispered.

 

Then slowly — carefully — he pushed in the rest of the way.

 

Minho gasped — loud and beautiful and wrecked — as Jisung bottomed out, hips flush to ass, cock buried to the hilt.

 

And both of them just breathed.

 

For a long second.

 

Jisung's voice was wrecked when he spoke, trembling against Minho’s ear:

 

“…If I move right now, I’m gonna ruin you.”

 

Minho, voice barely a whisper, moaned:

 

“Good.”

 

Jisung stayed still — trembling, chest pressed to Minho’s, his breath hot against Minho’s ear. Every muscle in his body was drawn tight, every inch of him throbbing inside the sweetest, tightest heat he’d ever felt.

 

Minho’s thighs were wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, body arching just enough to press closer.

 

They were locked together.

 

One breath.

 

Two.

 

Jisung pulled back just an inch, just enough to feel Minho squeeze around him again, fluttering.

 

He groaned — low, filthy, voice already fraying at the edges.

 

“…Minho.”

 

Minho was gasping, eyes wet, lips kiss-swollen, and he nodded.

 

“Move,” he whispered. “I can take it.”

 

Jisung pulled out — slow, dragging the thick length of his cock until only the tip remained inside. Minho whimpered, already missing it.

 

And then—

 

He slammed back in.

 

Minho screamed, hands flying up to grab Jisung’s shoulders as his body jolted from the force, head tipping back, mouth open.

 

“Sungie—!”

 

That sound was everything.

 

Jisung growled through gritted teeth, fingers digging into Minho’s waist as he pulled out again, then thrust back in — harder.

 

Minho cried out again, hips rolling up to meet him.

 

He was loud — desperate, needy, moaning after every stroke like he couldn’t help it. Like the pressure, the stretch, the depth was everything he’d been waiting for.

 

And Jisung?

 

Jisung was gone.

 

He snapped his hips into Minho again and again, thrusts deep and brutal, grinding down to hit exactly where Minho needed it.

 

And Minho—

 

Minho was unraveling beneath him.

 

Legs shaking. Voice breaking. Fingers tangled in Jisung’s hair and pulling.

 

Every time Jisung slammed into him, Minho moaned louder, begged for more, took it all.

 

“Fuck— you feel so good,” Jisung panted, hips stuttering. “So tight— baby, you’re perfect—fuck—”

 

Minho gasped, eyes fluttering open, face wrecked.

 

“I prepped for this,” he whimpered. “I wanted to be easy for you—not them—you.”

 

Jisung lost it.

 

He shoved in deep and stayed there, grinding, rolling his hips until Minho screamed again, legs spasming around him.

 

And then he growled right into his ear:

 

“You wanted to forget your name? Then give it to me.”

 

Jisung was relentless now.

 

His hips snapped forward again and again, each thrust harder, deeper, more brutal than the last — fucking Minho into the mattress like he was made for it.

 

Minho couldn’t even think anymore — only feel.

 

His body was burning, overstimulated, trembling under the weight of everything: the pressure deep inside him, the sweat between their bodies, Jisung’s voice in his ear, breath hot and feral.

 

“Mine,” Jisung growled, grinding in deep again, cock hitting that spot that made Minho scream. “No one else gets this. No one else hears you like this.”

 

Minho’s voice cracked, wrecked and high and perfect.

 

“Sungie—please—please—inside—”

 

Jisung stuttered — hips faltering for the first time, the words slamming into him like a goddamn bullet.

 

Minho wrapped both arms around his shoulders, pulling him close, lips brushing against his ear, then his cheek, then finally—

 

“Come inside me.”

 

Whispered against his lips.

 

And Jisung moaned — loud and desperate, body convulsing with the effort of not letting go right then and there.

 

But Minho kissed him — mouth open, begging, trembling — and the sound Jisung made against his lips was filthy.

 

That sound did it.

 

Minho shattered.

 

His back arched off the bed, a loud, beautiful cry ripping out of his throat as he came hard between them, untouched, cock twitching, spilling between their stomachs. His whole body trembled as the orgasm crashed over him like a wave, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

 

And Jisung?

 

Jisung felt it — the way Minho clenched around him, body pulsing, that wet heat coating their skin.

 

“Fuck—fuck, Minho—” he gasped, hips snapping one more time—

 

And he came.

 

Hard.

 

Deep.

 

Buried to the hilt, shaking, moaning into Minho’s mouth as he spilled inside him, ropes of cum painting him where he’d always wanted to be. His body trembled above Minho’s, arms barely holding him up as his orgasm tore through him like fire — blinding, messy, real.

 

They stayed like that.

 

Still connected.

 

Still shaking.

 

Breathing into each other’s mouths, lips brushing, hearts pounding out of sync.

 

And when it finally settled — the afterglow thick and heavy and perfect — Jisung whispered, completely breathless:

 

“…I told you I’d ruin you.”

 

Minho let out a soft, dazed laugh, smile lazy, tears drying at the corners of his eyes.

 

“You did.”

 

Then quieter, almost shyly—

 

“Thank you.”

 

Jisung kissed him again — slow, sweet, his fingers sliding through sweat-damp hair.

 

And whispered back:

 

“Anytime.”

 

-

 

Jisung hovered above him, still inside, breath ragged, body twitching from the aftershocks. He was trying to steady himself — to breathe — when Minho let out the softest, sweetest noise and wrapped his arms tighter around his waist.

 

“Hmmm… no. Stay,” Minho mumbled, completely blissed out, eyes still closed. “You feel good.”

 

Jisung moaned, quietly, broken.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered.

 

He slowly pulled out, careful, and Minho whimpered at the loss. Jisung sat on the edge of the bed, grabbed the sweats from the floor with shaking hands, and shoved them on. His back was tense, shoulders curled in.

 

Minho watched him, still spread out, glowing, wrecked and beautiful.

 

“Jisung?” he said softly, concern starting to creep in. “What’s wrong? It felt good… right?”

 

Jisung let out a low, bitter laugh and dragged a hand through his hair.

 

“Minho… yes. It felt good.” His voice cracked. “It felt very, very fucking good. That’s the problem.”

 

Minho blinked, slowly sitting up, the sheet falling around his waist.

 

“…What do you mean?” he asked, voice shaky. “Was it me? Did I—Was I bad? Was I too needy, or too loud, or—”

 

“No.”

 

Jisung snapped, whirling to face him.

 

“No, Minho. Fuck. You’re perfect.”

 

Minho’s mouth dropped open.

 

Jisung was breathing fast now, fists clenched, voice rising. “That’s the fucking problem, okay?! You’re perfect. You’re everything. You’re—you’re the fucking fantasy, and I just…” He trailed off, throat tight, jaw clenching again before he spat, “I can’t do this if it was just sex for you.”

 

Minho’s lips parted, stunned.

 

“I can’t pretend it didn’t mean anything to me,” Jisung went on, voice shaking. “Because it wasn’t just fucking, Minho, I—” He swallowed hard. “I’m in love with you. And the thought that it was just a hookup for you—I can’t. I can’t.”

 

His voice broke.

 

“I already lost control, Minho,” he whispered. “I can’t lose you too.”

 

The silence afterward was loud.

 

Minho’s eyes filled, blinking fast, his voice small.

 

“…You love me?”

 

Jisung couldn’t look at him. His hands were shaking.

 

Minho moved — slow, careful — crawling across the bed until he was kneeling behind him. He wrapped his arms around Jisung from behind, resting his cheek between his shoulder blades.

 

“I didn’t want just sex,” he said softly. “I just didn’t think you’d want more.”

 

Jisung stiffened.

 

Minho pressed a kiss to his back. “I didn’t prep for a stranger, Sungie. I did it because I wanted to be ready… in case it was you.”

 

Jisung’s hands dropped into his lap, eyes wide, throat tight.

 

Minho held him tighter. “So don’t run from me now.”

 

Silence. Then:

 

“…You didn’t just fuck me.”

 

Jisung turned slowly.

 

Their eyes met.

 

“You had me.”

 

Jisung turned, eyes glassier now, lips trembling, voice rough and loud in the still room.

 

“Minho, don’t say that fucking shit if you don’t mean it.”

His breath caught in his throat, sharp and shaky. “I’m serious. I can’t do this if you’re just saying what you think I wanna hear—”

 

His voice broke again, and he looked away, jaw clenched. “You can’t fuck me like that, look at me like that, and then just—pretend it meant nothing. That’ll fucking kill me.”

 

Minho’s expression changed in an instant — no teasing, no heat, just something clear and stern behind his eyes.

 

“I’m not lying,” he snapped, voice suddenly solid and sharp.

 

Jisung blinked, stunned.

 

Minho sat up on his knees, sheet pooling around his hips, still bare, still breathless — but fierce.

 

“Did you not notice the guys I was throwing myself at tonight?” he demanded. “The ones I chased like I was desperate?”

 

Jisung opened his mouth — confused — but Minho kept going, voice cracking with truth.

 

“They all had broad shoulders. Tiny waists. Cute, short, edgy hair. They looked like—” He swallowed, hard. “They looked like you, Jisung.”

 

Jisung’s eyes widened, lips parting in shock.

 

Minho’s voice softened, but it didn’t waver.

 

“I wasn’t looking for a hookup. I was trying to distract myself. Because every time I looked at you in the apartment, every time you walked around in those low-hanging sweats, or wore that stupid tank top, or brushed your hair back with your fingers—”

 

He inhaled shakily.

 

“—I wanted you.”

 

Jisung stared at him, frozen, chest heaving.

 

Minho dropped his gaze, lashes fluttering.

 

“I picked guys who reminded me of you because I didn’t think I could have you.”

 

Jisung’s lips trembled.

 

“I didn’t think you’d ever want me like that.”

 

Minho looked back up at him, finally, eyes shining but fierce.

“So yeah, maybe I wore lace hoping someone would want me tonight.”

 

He reached forward and pressed a palm to Jisung’s chest — right over his heart.

 

“But I didn’t let anyone touch me.”

 

Beat.

 

“Because I wanted you.”

 

And Jisung?

 

He broke.

 

Voice cracking, hands shaking, he whispered:

 

“…Say it again.”

 

Minho leaned in, pressed his forehead to Jisung’s, and whispered against his lips:

 

“I want you. Only you.”

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

Heavy. Real.

 

Their foreheads were still pressed together, breaths mingling, hearts racing.

 

Then Minho leaned back just slightly, enough to look Jisung in the eye.

 

His lips were still pink, still kiss-swollen, still trembling — but his voice?

Clear.

 

Soft, but sure.

 

“I want you to love me, Jisung.”

 

He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like it hadn’t just ripped Jisung’s soul in half.

 

His pout formed slowly after the words, just the tiniest downturn of his mouth — vulnerable, honest, hopeful.

 

And Jisung?

 

He snapped.

 

No hesitation.

 

He surged forward, crawling back into Minho’s lap like he belonged there, hands cupping his face, eyes burning.

 

“You fuckin’—” he breathed, voice cracking, “you can’t just say that and look at me like that and pout—”

 

Minho started to smile, but it was swallowed whole.

 

Jisung kissed him.

 

Hard.

 

Full.

 

With everything he had left.

 

It wasn’t desperate like earlier — this was different. Slower. Deeper. Like he was pouring the words he couldn’t say into Minho’s mouth.

 

Minho kissed him back with a sound that could’ve broken glass.

 

When they finally broke apart, Jisung’s hands were still on his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks.

 

“I already do,” he whispered. “I love you. I’ve been loving you.”

 

Minho blinked — lips parted, breathing shaky.

 

“You do?”

 

Jisung nodded, nose brushing his. “Like it’s killing me.”

 

Minho’s eyes shimmered. His arms wrapped around Jisung’s waist and pulled him in tight, burying his face against his shoulder.

 

And then — barely audible:

 

“…Don’t stop.”

 

Jisung closed his eyes.

 

Held him tighter.

 

“Not a fucking chance.”

 

Minho was still clinging to him, arms wrapped tight around his waist, their hearts pounding between them. That confession was still echoing between their mouths when Jisung leaned in again, pressing their lips together — soft this time. Lingering. Warm.

 

Minho kissed him back immediately, smiling into it.

 

And Jisung smiled, too.

 

Actually smiled.

 

Not the cocky grin, not the teasing smirk — just something real.

 

Something that lit him up from the inside out.

 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered between kisses, brushing Minho’s hair back, cupping his jaw like he was fragile and holy.

 

Minho let out the softest breath, cheeks flushing pink.

 

Jisung kissed the corner of his mouth. “So pretty.”

 

Kissed the edge of his jaw. “So fucking hot.”

 

He kissed along Minho’s cheekbone, trailing to his ear.

 

“And you’re mine, right?”

 

Minho shivered, biting his lip, still smiling. “Yours.”

 

Jisung grinned — wide and soft and full of wonder — then kissed him again, mouth opening just enough to deepen it, tongue sliding in to taste him slow.

 

Minho let out the sweetest little sound — a mix between a sigh and a whimper — and Jisung pulled him even closer, like he never wanted to let go again.

 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” Jisung murmured against his lips.

 

“Same,” Minho whispered back, dazed.

 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.”

 

That made Minho kiss him again — messier this time, hands in his hair, tugging a little just to hear Jisung groan into his mouth.

 

And he did.

 

Gladly.

 

Wrecked, but smiling.

 

Wrecked, but home.

 

The kisses slowed.

From heated and hungry, to soft and tender.

Until it was just their mouths brushing. Lips resting. Breathing each other in like it was the only language they needed.

 

Jisung’s hands moved slowly along Minho’s back, soothing him. Memorizing the shape of him. The warmth. The way he fit in his arms like he’d always belonged there.

 

Minho’s breathing had started to even out.

His lashes fluttered against Jisung’s cheek. His body was warm and heavy in that way only utter trust allows.

 

Jisung pulled the blanket up over both of them, tucking it around Minho’s waist. His arms wrapped tighter, protective without needing to be.

 

Minho let out the softest little hum — something like contentment — and pressed one last, sleepy kiss to Jisung’s neck before going completely still.

 

And then…

 

Quiet.

 

Minho’s body rose and fell in slow rhythm against Jisung’s chest.

 

He was asleep. Peaceful. Safe.

 

Jisung exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling for a moment, letting it sink in.

 

He was holding the boy he loved.

 

Not in a dream. Not in a fantasy.

 

Here.

 

Now.

 

He smiled — small, real, and full of awe.

 

Then tucked his chin against Minho’s hair and whispered, barely audible:

 

“…Mine.”

 

And finally — finally — he closed his eyes.

 

The end