Archive of Our Own

“That’s cute.”

“Hyunggg. You didn’t even look this time!”

“Well, darling,” Minho starts, and Jisung blushes down to his toes at the pet name. He always does. “I’m driving. You don’t want us to crash, do you?”

No… maybe not. But. “But you looked all the other times!”

“Ah, yes. At the stoplights. How dangerous of me.”

Jisung pretends to sniffle, even rubs at his eyes for dramatic effect. “You... You wouldn’t risk your life for me? I’m hurt.”

Minho rolls his eyes. “I’m also hurt. By your bad acting.” But the corner of his lip is curled up into a ghost of an amused smile, and his eyes twinkle with mirth. Jisung's heart skips a beat. 

It’s not that he can’t make his own decisions (he can’t), it’s just. Ugh. He huffs out a sigh, swipes between the four options on his phone, back and forth repeatedly, until they all blur together and he can hardly even tell them apart anymore. 

He’s gotten a tattoo before, seven times before, actually. His most recent, a bizarre, sleeping kitty with angel wings and sparkles decorates his forearm, and he treasures it with his life. It wasn’t so hard to decide that time because he was very drunk, but now he’s painfully sober and a little nervous. They’re permanent after all, and this is his first tattoo date with Minho, his boyfriend of two years. In his brain, it’s a thousand times more special, even if his tattoo options are just four slightly different tramp stamps. 

Jisung groans. He can’t tell if the reference photo he’s looking at is number one or number two. Perhaps it’s three? He gives up. 

“You know, baby,” Minho’s voice cuts through the fuzzy silence, circles around the younger, and anchors him back to reality. Jisung looks up from his phone, blinks the blueish flecks of light from his vision as he looks around. He hadn’t even noticed they arrived, the car is off, and the air is quiet, still. 

He pouts. 

Minho reaches out, cards his ringed fingers through Jisung’s hair, scratches comfortingly at his scalp. “They all look really similar, you know?” 

Jisung’s eyelids flutter. The fingers catch a few fallen strands and tuck them behind the younger’s ear, before settling around the curve of his nape and pulling him closer. 

A ghost of a breath against his lips. The smell of black cherries and something husky. Then, Minho slots his mouth to Jisung’s, tightens the grip on his nape, and the younger exhales through his nose, shoulders sagging, practically melting in the security of his grounding hold. 

The kiss is short, but it leaves Jisung pink in the face nonetheless, mouth parted on a sigh when Minho pulls back with a last nip to his bottom lip. For a moment, he forgets they’re in a parking lot, feels himself move to chase that rose-petal delicacy against his lips again, always wanting more, but the hold on his neck keeps him in place.

Minho’s thumb rubs comforting circles into his skin as he studies Jisung’s face carefully, eyebrows drawn together. There are times when Jisung feels like Minho can see right through him, the way his heart rate increases, vessels dilating and blood rushing so quickly through his body that he feels lightheaded; a direct result of his mile-a-minute thoughts taking control of his psyche. And somehow, Minho always knows what to do. Never judges, never pries, only a grounding touch, a string of reassuring words dipped in the liquid honey of his voice. 

Recently, they’ve discovered, the press of Minho’s lips to Jisung’s has an overwhelmingly calming effect on the younger, even as needy for more as he becomes. Rather than serving as an anchor, it provides him with a sense of calm, safety, that cuts through the fog of uncertainty in his mind, leaves him more at ease and… a bit cross-eyed. 

He smiles, and Minho is like his reflection, mirrors the happiness with a love in his eyes that never wavers. 

“Better?”

Jisung nods, takes a moment to flit between the four photos again. They really are so similar…, he muses to himself, giggles as he realizes how ridiculous he’d been, when they all are practically carbon copies of one another. 

“That’s good, sweetheart,” Minho says, leans over and places a barely-there kiss to the slope of the younger’s jaw. The softness leaves goosebumps in its wake. “It’s okay to be nervous, you know? It’s our first tattoo together.”

“Are you nervous too, hyung?” Jisung tries to count the stars in his eyes, but Minho does that long, cat-like blink, and the stars glitter differently when they reopen. 

The older shakes his head. “Nope. Never been nervous a day in my life.” He unbuckles his seatbelt, and Jisung is met with a gust of chilly winter air when he opens his door. “Let’s go.”

Jisung scampers out after him, tripping over himself unceremoniously. “You’re lying !” he cries, voice carrying over the sound of the gravel kicking up under his boots. 

Minho keeps walking. 

“Remember that roller coaster we went on this summer at Devil’s Island? And you literally were sooo nervous at the top that you pee—” 

A hand clamps over his mouth, and the man it belongs to levels him with an annoyed glare. A gust of icy wind whips around them, and they both shiver. “We do not talk about Devil’s Island.” 

(Because Minho is terrified of roller coasters, only went on Eternal Doom because a cotton-candy-hyper Jisung told him he’d be the Best Boyfriend Ever if he did. Also, his whining was annoying, according to Minho. 

Honestly, it was fine at first, right up until reality hit Minho at the top of the ride, bated seconds before plummeting to their deaths (a bit of an exaggeration, Jisung thought), and then he… peed. Just a little, a smidgen, really, but it was enough to darken the front of his grey-washed jeans and make Jisung laugh loudly during the entire bloodcurdling drop, while Minho yelled at the top of his lungs in terror. 

Afterwards, when they’d rushed to the souvenir shop and bought Minho an oversized I Survived Eternal Doom!! hoodie to cover the wet patch until it dried, the older made Jisung vow to shut the fuck up about it until the open wound healed over. Apparently, the memory is still painfully fresh.)

The younger giggles, licks a fat stripe against Minho’s palm, expecting him to yank his hand off in disgust. But he only holds it there, presses closer as he leans into the delicate space between them.

“Behave.” It’s whispered against the shell of his jewelry-decorated ear, and Jisung feels the fragility of his defiance dissipate like vapor. 

Minho doesn’t need to say it twice, he never does. Not when Jisung is so quick to please, almost embarrassingly so. He nods, and only then does Minho remove his hand from Jisung’s mouth, wiping the spit-slicked palm on the swell of his cheek. The air immediately cools the wetness, runs a shiver through his body, but somehow, he feels like he’s melting, just from a single word. 

Their fingers intertwine. 

∞

The tattoo shop smells of sage and sandalwood, lit by the luminance of low-hanging lights and the lamps at each station. Gold-framed art decorates every red wall, and miniature skeletons hang from the ceiling, swaying gently with the heated air from the vents. It’s livelier than Jisung remembers, but it’s Friday night, and the smiling faces and buzz of laughter make him feel more excited than nervous. 

A warm hand slides across his exposed back, around his waist, tugs him close. Minho has a possessive glint in his eye as he surveys his surroundings, as if assessing for danger. Jisung welcomes the touch, the gentle circles rubbed into his skin, with a kiss to the older’s cheek. 

“Still not nervous?”

Minho playfully raises a brow, passes a lazy hand through his hair. His curtain bangs separate between his fingers, fan out, and frame the sharp angles of his face. Pink-tinged ears peek out from his hair, and his conch piercing glints in the fuzzy yellow shop lights. The choppy, wavy layers of his wolfcut fall into place, brush past his shoulders, and he is mesmerizingly beautiful. 

The older parts his lips to speak, but a voice cuts in before he can manage anything, catching the couples’ attention. 

“Hello! Are you here for an appointment? Oh! Jisung!”

The artist, Soyoon, and Jisung are familiar with one another, especially after his last tattoo. He was embarrassingly drunk, and while he and Felix (who was also a bit drunk) always look after each other well, Soyoon went beyond the boundaries of her position, coaxing water into his system and talking him through the initial stinging pain. He’s relieved to see her again, and he gives Minho another excited kiss, watches his calculating glare soften. 

For as much as he was nervous, Jisung’s tattoo goes by smoothly. He exchanges idle small talk with the artist, and his boyfriend sits nearby, scrolling through his phone and giving the occasional reassuring smile Jisung’s way. 

When the needle hurts a bit too much for Jisung to focus on anything else, Minho distracts him with exceptionally cringey dad memes and some weird posts he bookmarked from the black hole of twitter. It’s endearing when he looks back at his phone after each cursed meme, as if making sure it’s still funny, bursting into a fit of giggles that has Jisung’s cheeks tinted pink. 

And when Jisung’s social battery inevitably fizzles out, Minho fills in the lapse in conversation with the artist with his own quirky attempt at small talk. By the time his tattoo is finished, Jisung is half asleep, lulled by the sound of Minho’s voice (he settles on explaining the perfect way to roll sushi) and public ambiance. 

“Why don’t you take a look?” Soyoon waves Minho over, angling her light over the fresh, slightly inflamed angel wing tramp stamp etched across the expanse of Jisung’s lower back. She strides off, mumbles something about raiding her coworker’s drawers for more bandages, leaving the couple together for a few short moments. 

Jisung feels Minho’s presence looming over where he lays, and he stirs, wipes the drool from his cheek with a yawn. 

“Does it look pretty, hyung?” His voice is a bit quiet from disuse, still not feeling up to much conversation. 

Minho hasn’t stopped staring since Soyoon took her leave, doesn’t look up when Jisung speaks. His jaw clenches, protrudes on either side of his chiseled face. 

“So pretty, darling,” he says through his teeth. 

The blue haired boy blushes like a rose. “Yeah? You like it, then?” His voice pitches up in excitement at the ends, tinged with the undying need to please, to be pretty for Minho.

Minho drags his eyes up the younger’s body, settles his hungry gaze on his face. Jisung tries not to squirm. “I do.” He reaches a hand out and tugs at the cropped hem of Jisung’s shirt, rolling the soft fabric between his fingertips. 

Then, the most dramatic sigh Jisung has ever heard in his life. “Can she hurry up? I wanna go home and fuck you. And I’m hungry.”

Jisung doesn’t have time to wonder how Minho can switch from predatory to whiny in a second, or even if he has magic summoning powers, because suddenly, the artist emerges from nowhere, cradling new bandages in her arms. 

She snaps a quick photo of the tattoo, and his cheeks pinken when he sees how delicate it looks on the dip of his lower back. He exhales and sits up, entranced, relieved. The thin swirls of black ink, an addition to his other tattoos, decorate his body, a representation of his personality and imagination alike. It’s beautiful. 

The bandaging passes in a blur. He imagines Minho gliding deft fingers over the ink after it heals, pressing into the skin just enough that Jisung squirms beneath him. Hands soft, yet intentional in the way they control the younger, mold him, melt him at his will. The thought consumes him, takes the form of a shiver as it runs down his spine. 

Minho clears his throat. 

Within arms reach, the older is studying his face, eyes shadowed by the hair blocking muted light, and once their gazes lock, Jisung can’t look away. Minho’s head tilts to one side and he quirks an inquisitive brow. 

Are you okay? 

Feigning concern. Because he knows. 

Jisung knows he does, but he nods anyway, exhales the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when the artist begins giving aftercare instructions.

“Heal time is typically two to three weeks,” she starts. “But it can take longer depending on the person, so keep an eye out for any irritation. The bandages can come off anywhere from a few hours to a day.” Soyoon yammers on, and Jisung feels rejuvenated with excitement when she gives a clap of finality, causing the older to shift his gaze toward her. It’s Minho’s turn.

A few minutes after the area is tidied and disinfected, Jisung is quietly perched on the stool by Minho, scrolls absentmindedly through his phone as he waits. Even though his boyfriend insisted he’d be fine, Jisung stays within arms reach, a silent promise of moral support.

He twirls his midnight blue hair between his index and thumb as he watches the tattoo artist lift the sleeve of Minho’s black tee and roll it under itself at his shoulder. Muscles twist down his exposed arm, sculpted like art from the tools of weights and perseverance, and veins protrude from his forearm, ornamenting the top of his hand. 

Jisung tries not to stare, especially when he’s sure Minho can feel the intensity of it on the surface of his skin, will likely tease him for it when it’s just the two of them at home and he has nowhere to run. 

But he can’t help when his eyes settle on the older again; it’s natural, a moth drawn to the enticing glow of a flame. He scans for signs of nervousness, discomfort, finds none in the lax posture, the way his legs are parted comfortably. Between conversation with Soyoon and scrolling through his phone, Minho clicks his piercing between his teeth, a habit of his. In this moment, he embodies what it means to be cool, calm, collected. 

Minho told Jisung the tattoo would be a surprise. That was absolutely devastating to the younger (he’s dramatic), as patience is most certainly not his virtue, and he made sure to let his boyfriend know by pouting and whining about it, until even the sun grew tired and disappeared behind the horizon. The older didn’t relent, only fucked him speechless against the wall in the living room, leaving him dizzy and unable to tell up from down, let alone complain. 

He didn’t bring it up after that. 

Jisung shivers at the memory, busies himself with a phone game, Cosmic Run. It’s honestly kind of boring, but the repetitiveness of the little astronauts sprinting around the screen gives him something to think about. 

When the tattoo artist shifts her stool into position, rolling her table of tools within close reach, Jisung finally tunes into reality. He’s excited and nervous and giddy all at the same, a whirlpool in the pit of his belly. 

“Can I hold your hand?” Jisung asks. Maybe the older doesn’t need it, but Jisung does, always searches for Minho’s touch when the antsy butterflies flutter at his ribcage. 

Wordlessly, Minho extends his hand for Jisung to take, and he does, holds it between his own clammy palms. Jisung lifts the older’s hand to his mouth, presses his lips to it, then fits his palm against the swell of his cheek, hugging him close. Minho’s usually warm hands are ice cold, but Jisung doesn’t mind, not when the older caresses his peach-soft skin with his thumb, warms him from the inside with a lopsided smile. Jisung returns it, squeezes his hand tighter when he notices Soyoon finishing up her preparations. 

It’s only after she smoothes the alcohol swab over his outer bicep and her tool whirs to life that Minho lets the first hint nerves wash over him, using Jisung’s hand like a stress ball as he awaits the first pinprick to his untouched skin. 

A breath of anticipation. 

Minho sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth when the needle makes the first stinging prick to his bicep, squeezes his eyes shut, and Jisung watches a warm flush tint his collarbone, exposed from the awkward position of his shirt. 

“You alright?” Soyoon asks, sitting back. Minho nods wordlessly, eyebrows furrowed like he didn’t expect the feeling, and the artist says something about first times being painful. The couple exchange a look before bursting into a fit of immature giggles. After all, they’re just men. 

It eases the tension from Minho’s shoulders a bit, but he stills when Soyoon moves closer again, tells him to try thinking of something relaxing as a distraction. 

This time, Minho hardly flinches, but his body responds to the pain in the form of colors and a quivering inhale. Jisung watches the redness creep up his neck, dust his cheeks, tinge the peeking tips of his ears. It’s pretty, yet strange, how pain can look so mesmerizing on someone. On Minho . Only when he breathes out slowly, shakily, does Jisung finally exhale his own breath.

“Minho?” Jisung’s voice is soft, barely carries over the ironically poppy music playing over the speakers. “Are you okay?”

“This hurts like a bitch,” the older grits, exhales an incredulous laugh. His face is hardly visible through the curtain of bangs covering his downturned head, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that his jaw is clenched in pain.

He watches Minho take one, two steadying breaths, watches his shoulders deflate with the exhales, the heaviness of tension temporarily escaping him. 

Jisung wishes he could rub the tension from his jaw with the pad of his guitar-string calloused thumb, but he worries he’ll get in the artist’s way. Or something. Instead, he settles for doing what he does best; he garners up his last bit of energy and opts for filling the uncomfortable silence with his endless chatter.

“Hyung.” He giggles when Minho lets out a pitiful grunt in response, endeared at his effort to show that he’s listening, despite his pain. “Did you know starfish can have up to 50 legs?”

Another grunt.

“And then attached to the arms are like hundreds of slimy little feet. Also, they don’t have brains. Or blood.”

The younger fires off with a series of largely useless facts, and Soyoon breathes out an entertained laugh, clearly amused by Jisung’s efforts to minimize Minho’s suffering. “You know quite a lot.”

“He’s chronically online.” It’s a whisper, in all its strained glory. Minho’s grip is noticeably looser, albeit still firm and a bit clammy, and Jisung feels a swell of pride blossom in his chest.

“Not chronically, jerk. Just more than the average Internet enjoyer, I guess.”

“If that helps you feel better, sweetheart.”

Jisung shuts him up with a kick to the shin.

Eventually, the social exhaustion gets the better of him again, and their small talk lulls into a comfortable silence, save for the buzz of the needle pushing ink into Minho’s skin, the breaths that escape his parted lips at any particularly sharp sting.

Jisung tries. He tries hard, so very hard to ignore it, the occasional, soft gasps and breathy inhales coming from his boyfriend, but once he notices them, not even the little astronauts frantically running about can serve as enough of a distraction.

“Ah, fuck, that hurts,” Minho curses, followed by the apology of the tattoo artist, the promise that he’s halfway finished sweetie. 

Just hang tight.

Jisung shifts in his seat; he suddenly feels too warm, and the air is thick when he breathes in. He braves a glance at Minho through his fan of bangs and is enthralled by the sight of the older’s flushed appearance. His head rests against the shiny leather chair now, gaze settled somewhere on the ceiling. An angry blush has settled across his face, down his neck, to the tips of his ears, and the plush of his top lip is curled up in a grimace, revealing a few tightly clenched teeth. 

There’s guilt lodged in Jisung’s throat, and he swallows, but it only becomes more apparent. From the first prick of the needle, the first strained gasp of pain tumbling from Minho’s parted lips, he felt it. An almost negligible hum in the pit of his belly, sweet electricity down his spine. 

He tried to reason it away, justify it somehow. After all, Minho is sex personified, chiseled out of pearlescent marble by Michelangelo himself, a dizzying juxtaposition of sharp angles and softer curves. And it’s normal that his boyfriend’s velvety voice would affect him like this… Right? 

But now, it’s white hot, swirls right above his groin. And the next time Minho sucks air through his teeth, redness on his neck deepening at each pinprick of discomfort, jaw tensing to bear the sting, Jisung realizes it’s… it’s more than that. 

He likes seeing Minho in pain. 

Jisung squirms, worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Every sharp inhale from Minho takes the breath right from the younger’s own lungs. He’s entranced, but confused, conflicted. 

And guilty. So guilty. 

But then Minho curses again, squeezes his hand firmly, and the younger feels a burst of glitter in his tummy, flecks of excitement and arousal fluttering around aimlessly.

By the time his tattoo is finished, Jisung is pink in the face and almost as breathless as Minho, who finally deflates in his chair. 

The tattoo is gorgeous, and he tells Minho he loves it, because he does. Minho studies him carefully, he always does, and Jisung wonders if he can tell what he’s thinking. The younger wills the blush from his face, and after thanking and tipping a smiling Soyoon, he pulls Minho by the hand toward the exit. He stumbles his way through a few sentences, something about ordering food so it’ll be there when they get home, but his ears are ringing; he can hardly hear himself. 

The door of the shop opens and shuts with a finality that eases Jisung’s tension. 

He sighs. 

∞

Jisung tries not to think about it. 

And for all of one day, he succeeds. 

“Do you like it?”

Jisung whispers it into the kiss, traces his fingers delicately over the fresh ink swirling on Minho’s bicep. They removed their bandages this morning, took the time to care for the fresh tattoos properly, and Jisung has been looking (so intensely he’s sure the image is seared to his retinas) at Minho’s all day. 

On his arm, two koi fish. They swim around each other, fins trailing behind them, curved and flowing through imaginary water. One is pitch black while the other is lighter in contrast, yin and yang. It’s delicate, akin to the billowing fabrics of a silk dress, or a meadow of wildflowers, rippling in the wind. 

The sun teases its goodbye in shades of pinks flitting between the curtains, and with the translucent canopy of their bed drawn, Jisung allows himself to touch it, gently, so gently.

Minho breathes a Yes, sweetheart, against his lips, gives him a chaste peck before kissing a wet trail down his face, his neck, glosses his pierced tongue over Jisung’s collarbones. The younger shivers beneath him, an almost constant tremble of sheer need vibrating under his skin. 

Minho takes him apart slowly, tenderly, makes sure to kiss the fading bruises on his hips when he tugs the fuzzy pajama pants off his legs, passes a delicate touch over the sensitive buds of his nipples when his shirt follows. Jisung basks in the attention, returns it with gentle caresses and whispers of praise, affirmation that stains Minho's ears a soft petal-pink.

Jisung tries to keep his composure, always tries. But Minho, strong and made of lean muscle, soft skin, hovers over his smaller frame and kisses him until his cock leaks against his tummy, and he feels his mind slip away.

When Minho’s cock breaches his hole, pushes all the way in, hot and heavy, Jisung circles his arms around his neck, hands finding purchase on the wide surface of his upper back. He’s fucked into the matress until he sees stars and hears colors, and then, oh , Minho is close, thrusting faster, deeper. Jisung presses his hands into the skin until it dents, overwhelmed, high strung, so sensitive , doesn’t realize what he’s doing until Minho hisses in his ear. 

“C-Careful, darling,” he gasps, but Jisung is already dragging his fingers up his back, marking him with the intensity of his love. It’s wet, and there’s something under his nails, almost like he… he broke skin. 

“Fuck, b-baby, fuck,” Minho curses. It’s so sudden when he comes into Jisung, and the wince, the way he grits his teeth and dips his head, capturing the younger’s lips in a filthy open mouthed kiss, has Jisung falling apart at the seams, coming between their stomachs in strings of thick white.

Fuck. 

Fuck.

Minho encases Jisung with his body when he lays on top of him, cock softening inside his hole. Jisung runs delicate fingers along his lover’s arms and over his back, careful to avoid the angry scratches. 

For a few minutes, they bask in the comfort of each other, the serene silence that comes after sex, but before long, that sticky guilt creeps into Jisung’s throat, makes his chest ache. He opens his mouth to speak, but the connection between his brain and vocal chords is lost, and nothing comes out. He wants to praise Minho, but it doesn’t feel right, not when he selfishly marred the skin of his lover. Nervously, he wonders if the older can feel the way his heart thuds against his ribcage.

The silence eats away at him, and as the calm breath puffing onto his chest slows, relaxed, his own quickens; he slides his hands up Minho’s body, wraps his arms around his head, and hugs him close. 

The first sob is quiet, muffled in the fluff of Minho’s downy black hair, and the older stirs immediately, moves to push himself up. Jisung only hugs tighter, hopes that Minho understands. And he does. He relaxes his weight back onto the younger’s smaller frame, still deep inside him. 

“I’m so sorry.” Jisung exhales a spit-slicked whimper when he feels the older place a honeydew kiss to a hickey on his chest. “‘M so— I-I don’t know why I—”

“Sweetheart...”

“—did that, it just happened, and—”

“Jisung.” Minho shushes him gently, tells him that it’s going to be okay, until the tears subside and he’s not shaking anymore. “Can I sit up? I wanna look at you, sweetheart.”

He waits and waits, patient as an owl, until he’s given a hum of affirmation, and he gently pries the younger’s arms off, pulls out, catches the whimper that falls from Jisung’s lips with a kiss. 

Jisung sits up too, and when Minho reaches for the water on the night table, he sees the scratches. They’re not nearly as bad as they felt on his fingers. Some broken skin, but only just barely, and a few cherry pearls of blood. He exhales. 

“Hyung, can I- I mean. I want to clean you up first,” Jisung says, just above a whisper. 

Minho doesn’t argue with Jisung’s fragility, only watches carefully as the younger peels himself out of bed and fetches the first aid. 

He almost bursts into another bout of tears when Minho hisses at the alcohol swab on his skin, but he holds it in. He can be brave about this. 

“I’m really sorry, Minho.”

They’re in the living room, seated on the couch with a bowl of sliced nectarines between them. The older figured a change in scenery would be nice, and he was right; Jisung does feel a little better. Cotton, their Persian cat, brushes up against his leg. 

“Hey,” Minho says. He sets the bowl aside, rubs his thumb where Jisung’s knee is bent. “It’s okay. Okay? You trust hyung right?”

Jisung nods without hesitation. Of course he does. Wholeheartedly. 

“Then believe me when I say I liked it, yeah? I wouldn’t lie to you, baby.”

His heart swells. He nods again, albeit a bit slower. “I just… Are you sure? Like, just ‘cause I enjoy it doesn’t mean you— ouch!”

A flick on his nose cuts him off. Minho smiles. “That’s better.”

Jisung giggles, rubs his at his nose. “You’re a meanie.”

“Yeah, yeah.

“And you’re sure you… you’re sure?”

“I’m positive, sweetheart.” So patient. “What can I do to get you to believe me, hm?”

Jisung stares at the hole in Minho’s worn pajama pants, takes a moment to think before meeting his eyes. 

“Let me hurt you again.”

He means it mostly as a joke, says it with a light tone, but Minho’s grin turns wicked, eyes dancing with something the younger can’t name. 

“Of course, baby.”

Jisung takes a breath. “Do you think you can handle it?” Challenging him. 

The older leans in, suddenly so close. His gaze flicks down to Jisung’s parted lips, before slowly dragging back up, and his voice is low when he speaks. 

“Can you?”

∞

Jisung can’t stop thinking about it.

He’s a Jack-in-the-Box, cranked to the limit of his fraying sanity, and he’s just about ready to burst. 

And it’s only been three days. 

Minho is cooking dinner when Jisung comes home from classes, and the warmth of a home cooked meal settles on his skin as soon as he walks through the door.

“Hey sweetheart,” Minho calls. 

He has on his favorite apron, the one that says, Never Underestimate An Old Man With Cats And Cooking Skills, and a black headband pushes his bangs from his forehead. 

Jisung positively melts into the warmth of his embrace, belongings abandoned on the couch. “You smell good.” 

Fingers comb through his wind-tousled hair, hold his head to the warmth of Minho’s chest. When he hums in acknowledgment, Jisung feels it against his ear. 

“How was class?”

“Oh goddd,” Jisung groans, extracting himself from the older’s hold and rummaging through the fridge for some fruit. He plucks a few strawberries from their plastic confinement and spoons a mound of weightless whipped cream into a bowl. “Don’t get me started.” 

Minho leans into his space and opens his mouth for a bite, does a happy shoulder wiggle when Jisung feeds him a half-eaten strawberry.

“You know I like the gossip.”

So naturally, Jisung vents. He complains about how his professor clearly has favorites (“Clearly,” Minho echos, supportive as always), and how he left his snack in the fridge and didn’t realize it until his stomach roared at him in the middle of lecture. 

“You mean the old blueberry yogurt cup?” Minho raises an eyebrow when Jisung nods. “Oh baby, I threw that shit out two days ago.” 

Jisung is beside himself. “What? Hyung, it had my name on it!”

“It also had mold, darling. Like. Fuzzy mold. Just get another one.”

“I don’t have that kind of money!”

Minho pouts at him. “Oh, the entire two dollars? Poor baby.”

“Hyunggg, you don’t understand! That brand has the perfect blueberry to nut to yogurt ratio. No other yogurt comes close!”

Sometimes, they bicker just to hear the harmonic sound of each other’s voices. They’re both smiling, on the verge of laughter, and Jisung notices when Minho’s eyes grow a bit gentler, expression softening ever-so-subtly. “If you really want it, I’ll buy you another one tomorrow, yeah?” 

The younger stifles an endeared giggle behind his hand. “Are you my boyfriend or my sugar daddy?”

“I can be whatever you need me to— Ah! Shit!”

Minho’s neck reddens when the kitchen knife slips from the bell pepper and cuts his index finger, and he sucks it into his mouth to ease the sting. His eyebrows are screwed together in pain, but Jisung can’t take his eyes off the way his tongue soothes the ache, wets the skin right above one of his rings. 

Perched on the countertop just a few feet away, the younger feels his mouth go dry, cottony almost. He swallows, blinks the fuzziness from his vision as the memories flood back to him. His body remembers too, remembers how it felt when Minho gasped against mouth before, and a shiver makes its way down his spine, morphs into a dangerous arousal in the pit of his tummy. His cock twitches. 

“Get the first aid for me?”

For me. It frays the faulty wires of Jisung’s mind, and he obeys instinctively, albeit on shaky legs. 

When he returns, Minho is seated at the island, lips suctioned to the side of his finger. He separates his mouth with a wet smack and extends his finger to Jisung when the younger sits beside him.

It’s quiet, save for the featherlight sound of breathing, but Jisung feels the weight of his stare, and it makes him blush. The cut isn’t bad, just a streak of irritated skin and a bit of redness where the blood was sucked, but Jisung kisses the Hello Kitty bandaid anyway, tells Minho that his love will heal it faster. 

“C’mere, sweetheart.” The older catches his wrist before he can walk off to put away the first aid kit, pulls him to stand between his legs. 

The stools at the island are tall, and because of the proximity, Jisung is forced to look up. Minho grips his chin, thumbs at his bottom lip, coos when his lips part. 

Jisung swallows, tries so hard not to kiss the pad of his fingers. 

“You alright?” Minho asks. His voice is the color of worry, but his eyes are devoid of compassion, only holding a knowing glint, as if he already has the answer. He dips his head lower when Jisung fails to meet his eyes and tightens his grip on his chin, forcing his gaze back up. His dark hair curls around his neck, falls over his cheek. 

Jisung tries to nod, but then grip doesn’t allow him to. Instead he clears his throat, knows better than to ignore the older’s question. “M’ okay… I should be asking you that, though.”

Then, Minho presses his lips to the corner of his mouth, another to his jaw, smirks against the skin, and Jisung lets out a hiccuped gasp. 

“It’s just a little cut,” he whispers into his neck. He straightens, and Jisung gulps. “Not a big deal. Right, sweetheart?” 

Toying with him, teasing. 

It is a big deal. The biggest deal actually, Jisung's body tells him. The blush tainting his cheeks rose and the goosebumps on his arms are obvious, but Jisung agrees with Minho anyway; maybe doing so will keep his sanity from fraying. 

∞

Jisung’s final straw comes as a slap to the face. 

Literally. 

Minho isn’t nice about it when his palm meets his cheek, and the younger yelps, cock leaking with precum. 

They’re pulled over on the side of the road because Jisung was touching himself in the passenger seat, and now, with Minho’s full attention and his pants around his thighs, the younger’s defiance is gone. He is pliant and dazed, whimpers when the older slaps him again, forces him to spit on his own cock. It’s humiliating. 

Cars fly by in a blur of red lights. Unsuspecting. 

“Bet you wanna slap hyung like this too, don’t you, darling? Been aching to try? You can. Don’t have to be scared.” Minho grabs Jisung by the wrist, guides his hand to rest on his cheek. “Go ahead, baby. Hit me.”

But he can’t. He can’t because he comes all over himself with a cry and the sound of Minho’s pretty laugh, nearly blacks out at the overwhelming force of his orgasm. 

He doesn’t even feel guilty this time, because Minho initiated it, gave him permission to— to hit him, and it gets to his head, clouds his judgment, ruins him.

Minho cleans him up, praises him, tells him he loves him, and he makes sure Jisung’s seatbelt is secure before taking off again. The world is fuzzy, but when Jisung casts his eyes down, he thinks he sees a bulge, prominently denting the fabric of Minho’s black jeans. 

Fuck. 

∞

Spit cobwebs between their lips when they part, cold as it falls against Jisung’s chin. He can feel Minho’s stare without having to look up, and though it’s intimidating, calculating, Jisung’s need is overwhelming; he can’t ignore it this time. 

Today was as wholesome as wholesome can be. A rare overlap in their days off led them to Sunshine Meadow, a field of daisies with manicured flats of land for picnics. 

The weather was nice, Minho had said, and it was , beautiful even; uncharacteristically cool for such a biting winter season, and the combination of the crisp gusts of wind with the warmth of the early morning sun felt amazing on Jisung’s face. 

Too lazy to cook, they picked up sandwiches from a small, family-owned shop nearby, ate them with the refreshing accompaniment of mango slices and sweetened strawberry green tea. Jisung is sure they dozed off somewhere along the way, and between conversations as free-flowing as the wind and the warmth of Minho’s arms around him, it was pretty much a perfect day. 

It was mid-afternoon when they entered the animal shelter. They were planning on adopting a new rescue kitten for Cotton to play with, and looking at all the big-eyed faces was like heaven for Minho; Jisung watched the way he gently cooed at them, extended his hand to the scared babies until they trusted him enough to nuzzle against his palm. 

He should have known Minho had something up his sleeve.

After all, the older had been toying with him all day. It started when Minho cornered him in the closet while they readied themselves for the day. Nuzzled his neck, nipped at the skin, while Jisung trembled against the wall with nowhere to go. But then he smiled, pecked the younger on his lips like he hadn’t just crowded into his space with hooded eyes, and walked off. 

At the meadow, as the breeze tousled the hair atop their heads, Minho matched its delicacy with barely-there caresses to Jisung’s inner thigh. Despite its tenderness, the younger felt the burning touch through his jeans, inching upwards, hot. He squirmed, sensitive between his legs, but if Minho noticed (and he always does), he didn’t comment. 

The moment Jisung broke was when Minho started a shower for them, steamy and warm to wash away their wind-bitten goosebumps. He was shirtless, in tight fitted underwear for fuck’s sake; so naturally, when he turned the faucet, burned his hand on the scorching water, causing the muscles on his back to tense, ripple, relax, Jisung’s sanity dissipated. 

Minho rinsed it under cool sink water, eyes trained on Jisung through the mirror, and his lip was slightly curled up, a ghost of a smirk. Jisung gulped, shivered when he saw Minho’s eyes trace the movement of his adam’s apple. All-knowing. Terrifyingly so. 

In the shower, his back was to Minho’s, which was nothing out of the ordinary when they shared the small space, but it was different this time, because Jisung was trying to hide the redness in his face, his half-hard cock. 

But then, Minho’s fully hardened cock was against his ass as he pressed himself against the younger, rested his hands on his little waist. Jisung exhaled as a full body tremble wracked his body, almost falling limp in the older’s explorative hold when he whispered, Feel me, baby? I like it, too.  

“W-Wait. Hyung… Minho.” 

They’re in bed now, towel-dried hair and brown sugar and coconut scented skin. Minho hums, a low, drawn out rumble, traces his fingers over the tattoo on the younger’s lower back. By now, it’s a few days old, so it doesn't hurt anymore, but Jisung still gasps when the older presses down a bit. Minho rests his head against the cushioned headboard, and a few strands of hair fall from where they were tucked behind his ear. “Mm, what is it, darling?”

Minho’s hands wander under Jisung’s shirt. They travel the expanse of his back, slide over his arms, taking the time to outline the inked art on his arms, the twin stars on his navel, the enchanted sword on his upper thigh, before settling around his little waist. The perfect fit. 

A shiver wracks Jisung’s body, and he exhales, peers at Minho through his bangs. “I… I.” A shuddering breath. His failed attempt at maintaining sanity. “Can I play with you, hyung?”

The grip on his waist tightens, but its intensity contrasts the soft sigh that falls from his boyfriend’s lips. Jisung feels the older’s clothed cock twitch against his ass. “Yeah? You wanna play with hyung, sweetheart?”

Jisung whimpers, nods desperately and waits, always waits, for permission. Even with this, he aches to be good. “Yeah, I— Please.”

“Do you think you can handle it?” 

Jisung’s own words, echoed back at him. It’s almost too much already, the way Minho affects him, and truthfully, while he’d been half-joking the first time, he’s not really sure he knows the answer. 

But still, he nods anyway, clears his throat to speak because he knows the older won’t tolerate his silence. “Yes, hyung.”

“Go on then, baby.”

Permission. Jisung sighs.

It’s not like he’s never touched Minho before. Quite the opposite is true; Minho never minds when his hands wander, and Jisung uses every opportunity he can to brush his fingers over the older’s arms, though his hair, wherever his curious fingers take him. But not like this. 

Rain accompanies the silence, pelts against the window, a stark contrast from the earlier clear, cloudless sky. Jisung is trembling when he finally moves his hands from their spot on Minho’s shoulders. His fingers are featherlight as they slide down his arms, splay over the muscle. The inky koi fish peek from between his parted fingers, a reminder of how this all started, and Minho’s skin is warm to the touch. So warm. 

Jisung shifts his touch to the older’s tummy, still so gentle it doesn’t even dent the soft cloud beneath his fingertips. Slides his hands up, hesitantly passes his fingers over his budded nipples. 

Minho shivers, beautifully sensitive; a sheet of goosebumps lays on his skin like snow. He doesn’t say anything, only watches, allows Jisung to do as he pleases, even if just for this moment. His thumb makes reassuring circles on the younger’s waist as he watches with hooded eyes. Though he is complacent, generous, his grip is anything but; firm in the way they keep Jisung in place, still atop his lap. 

Who’s really in control here?

Jisung adds the slightest pressure to the older’s nipples, flicks the buds with his thumbs, and Minho’s moan is like music to his ears. It spurs a bit of bravery in the pit of his tummy, or arousal, maybe both, and he gives the buds an experimental pinch, holding his breath as he does so. 

He exhales a broken whimper when Minho bucks up his hips, hard cock pushing against his ass, chest pink under his hands. 

Jisung dares to glance up. His gaze is met with eyes of unfiltered desire, pupils fully dilated, dark, and the younger’s hands shake at the sight of Minho’s poorly contained lust. 

He pinches again. 

“Ah, baby,” Minho breathes, grip on the younger’s waist impossibly tight. Tighter. “It hurts.”

“I know, hyung, I know…”

But he doesn’t feel guilt anymore. It sparks something within him, the exhilaration of having Minho breathless, trembling under him, such a shift from their norm. But Jisung knows better; even if Minho were completely bound, helpless, the younger would look to him for direction, do everything he can to please. 

He takes a grounding breath before leaning in and nosing the junction between Minho’s neck and shoulder, breathes in. His senses are overcome by the familiarity of his lover’s scent, the fresh soap, and he exhales a shaky sigh. He flicks out his tongue, wets the skin with an experimental lick. 

Hesitantly, he sinks his teeth into the skin, and it’s soft as his favorite vanilla mochi ice cream. Closing his lips, then his eyes, he sucks, and ecstasy bursts in his brain, glitters behind his eyelids. It’s easy to get lost in the feeling, especially when Jisung dizzies when any part of Minho is on his tongue. 

Jisung whines into the skin, shifts lower to suck another dark hickey right above Minho’s collarbone. The older curses, hot beneath him, but there’s white noise in his ears, and everything is fuzzy, a little staticky. Mind blanking, he rolls his hips, and the cock against his ass presses deeper. Warm, hard. 

Minho anchors him to reality with a harsh yank to his hair, wincing when Jisung’s teeth pull at the marred skin. The younger is dazed, jaw lax as spit coats his chin and part of his cheek. He’s sun-softened and pliant, can hardly hold his head up if not for the tight fist keeping him upright. 

Jisung blinks, extends a shaky hand to the older’s cheek, caresses the skin. “You’re so pretty, hyung.”

The compliment is blush-red, stains Minho’s ears, his chest. “You’ve ruined me, sweetheart,” he says, glances down at his marred chest, his collarbones, then back up. “I look like I’ve been attacked by a bear.”

Jisung giggles, a bit delirious. “I made you prettier.” 

It’s uncoordinated, the way Jisung hurts him, nips, bites, tugs just enough to leave temporary marks. It’s minimal, but it works, not too much or too painful for Minho, who is also discovering this new side to himself. 

For a few moments, they study one another. The hand is still tight in his hair, but Jisung likes it that way, the physical reminder of the older’s control. 

Then, it’s gone, the tension, when Minho massages his scalp, brings his hand down to his thigh, and Jisung sags a bit, having to hold himself up on his own. 

The younger thumbs at Minho’s cheek. Pretty, chiseled, not as red as it could be.  

“Do it.”

“W-What?”

“Hit me.”

Oh.

“Oh…” Jisung thumbs the skin under his hand, eyes glazed with need. “Hyung…”

“What is it, sweetheart? Scared? Hyung knows you can— fuck.”

The slap is light, not nearly the force of Minho’s when the sadism is in his hands, but the snap it makes shatters the silence between them. Minho hisses, eyes squeezed shut. Beneath Jisung’s palm, it’s warm, and splotchy red blossoms like a flower. 

The older stills for a second longer than Jisung expects, but just as his heart prepares to drop into his tummy with worry, Minho opens his eyes, and his lips curl into a grin. 

“That’s a good boy.”

The older pulls Jisung down onto his cock, lazily makes him rock back and forth on his lap, and Jisung’s head falls forward. He lets his body be manhandled by Minho, pliant as a marionette for his puppet master. There’s nothing in his mouth, but he drools anyway, and the way it runs down his chin and pools onto Minho’s stomach would be humiliating if not for his brain being replaced with sticky-sweet cotton candy. 

“Oh, sweet thing. You liked that a lot didn't you?” A hand pushes on the bulge in Jisung’s shorts, and a pathetic sound escapes his already slack mouth. 

His lips are moving, saying nonsense, and Minho lets him babble as he coos, gently lifts him off his lap and onto his back. It’s all a blur; the sound of rustling fabric as Minho discards his underwear to the edge of the bed, the telltale snap of a lube cap. He tugs off the younger’s shorts so harshly his cock slaps wetly against his tummy, covers the black ink on his navel with a smear of precome, before settling between his spread legs.

A firm grip wraps around his thighs, and suddenly Jisung’s yanked, ass flush against pure muscle. He gasps. 

“Mind if I take over, baby?” Minho whispers, and when he leans into the space between them, his cock presses to Jisung’s leaking one. The initial contact is cold from the lube, mind-numbingly delicious nonetheless. The redness on his cheek lingers. “Let hyung have a turn to play.”

Jisung’s eyes cross when Minho peppers wet kisses to his face, rocks his hips once, twice. “O-Oh god, hyung, hyung it’s. It’s so— Ah—”  

The kisses inch dangerously close to his mouth, leaving peachy wetness in their wake as Jisung squirms mindlessly under the older. Blue hair fans out on the pillow, cheeks stained with rose; he is a colorful mess of desperation. 

“Mmm. Sweet baby, my Sungie.” 

“You’re s-so hard, hyung.”

Jisung’s jaw goes slack when Minho rolls his hips harder, more intentionally against his cock, takes advantage of his daze and slots his mouth to the younger’s open one. He licks inside, moans when Jisung struggles to keep up, only returning his kisses sloppily. Minho’s bangs brush against Jisung's forehead, a soft tickling sensation he hardly registers over the wet tongue sliding along his teeth. The ball of his piercing presses against Jisung’s tongue, clicks against his teeth, and it’s a mind-numbing feeling. 

He’s not thinking, doesn’t think, when he sinks his teeth into Minho’s pillowy bottom lip, earning a pained hiss and a full body shudder above him. It excites him, the taste of metallic on his tongue, and he can’t help himself when he sucks his lip between his teeth again. 

Before he can bite down, Minho pulls away, spit connecting their kissed-stained lips. Neither of them bother wiping it.

Minho tsks. “Careful, baby. You don’t wanna hurt hyung anymore, do you?” 

Please. Please. 

“I-I—”

“Hm? Speak up.”

“I do…” 

“Oh?” Minho raises a brow, grins wolfishly at Jisung. “My little Jisungie’s gotten so fucking greedy, hasn’t he?” 

He stares down, studies the younger like he’s contemplating. Jisung squirms under the attention. Greedy.

Impossibly close, he whispers, “Say ahh.”

It’s beautiful, or perhaps pathetic, how Jisung’s body responds to the command. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, and he blinks up at the older, eyes wide, hunger and lust disguised as innocence. 

“Ahhh.”

And he spits. 

It’s slightly off, hits Jisung’s tongue before it slides further into his mouth, down his throat. Minho watches, patient, always patient, but his expression twists into one of sheer desire when Jisung’s throat constricts around the liquid, instinctually trying to swallow, even with his mouth wide open.

He grabs Jisung’s chin, spits again, steadier this time. 

Jisung shakes like a leaf as he watches it drop from the older’s bitten lips, almost cross-eyed from their proximity. It’s warm when it falls, and he shivers. 

Then all at once, three fingers dip into his mouth. 

“Want them nice and wet. Can you do that, sweetheart?” Spoken softly, but firm. A command. “For hyung?”

Jisung almost blacks out at his words, cock twitching pathetically against his tummy. He circles his tongue around the fingers while he sucks, stars sparkling in his vision from the pleasure of having his mouth full. 

The whine falls from his lips before he can help himself, but Minho only coos, praises his Jisungie for being so good, such a sweet boy for me. 

Jisung exhales a broken moan when Minho pushes his glistening fingers into his hole, and the instruction of three at once, so suddenly, makes his eyes well with unshed tears. 

“F-Fuck— ahh, hyungggg ow it— f-fuck fuck, hurts—”

He squirms up the bed, but Minho only pushes his fingers deeper, leans over him again to lick into his mouth. “Shh, baby.” He muffles the younger’s gasp with a languid pass of his tongue over pouty lips. “It’s my turn isn’t it?” 

Jisung doesn’t know. But if Minho says so, then it’s probably true. He’ll believe anything, trusts the older to take care of him when it’s all becoming too much. And it is, it’s too much, the feeling of Minho’s fingers knuckle-deep in his ass, the leftover metallic on their dancing tongues. 

The older laps up all his whines, swallows his moan when he removes his fingers from his hole. 

Minho’s cock is already lubed up, and Jisung can hear how obscenely wet it is when he strokes himself; he uses all of his remaining strength to push weakly at the older’s sturdy shoulders, trying to get him off. 

“What is it, baby, hm? You okay?” He moves back and sits on his haunches, head tilted to one side and knocked back slightly, and his eyelashes flutter when his palm shines over his slick cockhead. His hair curls a bit where it touches his shoulder, lips parted on an exhale. 

Even through his pleasure, he takes this moment to check in on his lover, and suddenly Jisung’s body is hot, blush-pink under the loving attention. 

“W-wanna watch,” Jisung says, eyes trained on Minho’s cock. 

“F-fuck.” The older squeezes at the base of his own cock, and his head falls forward from the effort of trying not to come. He speaks through gritted teeth, strokes himself slowly, catches Jisung’s eyes through his curtain of bangs. “Yeah, baby? Like watching me get m-myself off? Bet you could come like this— fuck, look how much you’re leaking, sweetheart. You’re a mess.”

Jisung can hardly see through the veil of tears blurring his vision, and his cock jumps, twitches against his tummy. Filthy, Minho says, beautiful. Every exhale Jisung takes sounds like a whine, and it’s pathetic truly, how close he is to coming without even being touched. 

“C’mere,” Minho groans, pulling Jisung’s pliant body by the thighs toward him once more. He runs his hands all over his body, presses an open mouthed kiss and a bite to his tummy, making him wince in pain. 

Then, he’s lining up his cock and pushing in, and the stretch is delicious and so fucking painful. Jisung struggles to find purchase in the sheets when Minho sets a slow pace, making sure to thrust deep enough into the younger that it tents in his stomach. 

“Open your eyes, baby. Y-You wanted to watch didn’t you? Ah, look at how well hyung f-fills you up.”

Tears fall when Jisung opens his eyes, and oh . His belly bulges slightly, flattens and bulges again with each languid thrust to his prostate. He slides his hand down his body and places it on his tummy, watches it raise when Minho fucks him full. 

“Oh, hyung, you’re s-so big, you’re so big, hyung ‘m s-so, so f-full,” he babbles nonsense, so fucked out that each word blends into the next, slurred, fuzzy.

His scream comes out as a silent cry from parted lips when Minho places his hand atop Jisung’s and presses, and on his next pained exhale, he’s crying, shaking uncontrollably as he’s forced to massage the belly bulge. 

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” Minho coos. His wicked grin betrays the tenderness in his voice, but it’s all the same to Jisung now, love and hurt. “Hyung’s got you, shhh.”

The pain on his stomach is gone, and the hand finds its way to Jisung’s mouth. Minho slips his fingers into the wet heat, moans when the younger immediately seals his lips around them, sucking feverishly as his body is jolted with every roll of his lover’s hips.

“That’s it. Easy, baby.”

Jisung’s eyes cross. He’s overwhelmed by the weight on his tongue, the way it blurs his vision and makes his cock leak pathetically onto his tummy. And he can’t help himself, mindlessly bites down on the fingers, only registers what he’s doing when Minho curses and buries his cock to the hilt in Jisung’s ass, sucks a pained groan through his teeth. 

Time freezes. 

“F-fucking hell, fuck.” 

Minho is breathtaking, pretty and flushed red, with veins running along his arms, bulging from his hands and neck. Like the other times, his teeth are gritted, eyebrows furrowed, but now, he’s trembling, his nostrils are flared and his eyes… They’re misty, eyelashes fluttering rapidly as the tears threaten to fall but never make it. And it’s different this time; Jisung is full of cock, of Minho’s cock, watches him struggle to keep composure, and he feels his own sanity dissipate into nothingness at the sight. 

Jisung exhales a spit-slicked moan around his fingers when he feels a twitch inside of him, and the sound seems to anchor Minho to reality again. 

Their eyes lock, and then Minho pushes his fingers deeper into his mouth, gags him, picks up the pace of his hips. Suddenly, it’s overwhelming, and Jisung can hardly keep his eyes open. Through his tears and narrowed vision, he sees the older watching him, cooing, and the pleasure is like a volcano, builds impossibly fast and threatens to release before he even registers that he’s close. Minho’s fingers slip out of his mouth, and he plants one hand on the side of Jisung’s head, the other tightly on his waist, dipping his head down as he pistons his cock in and out, in and out. 

“C-Close sweetheart?” Minho says against Jisung’s lips, and they’re so fucking close that they’re sharing air, breathing into each other’s mouths and kissing wetly when their lips slot together. “Ah— you’re clenching s-so much fuck, so tight, baby, my baby.”

“Hyung, I-I— mmm I— ‘m g-gonna ah ah—”

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, and they somehow tangle themselves in the soft layers of Minho’s hair. If he were more coherent, less brainless, he’d feel apologetic by how tight his grip is, but the hiss against his lips tastes like heaven, and he can’t be bothered. 

A harsh tug has Minho whining into Jisung’s mouth, and the younger feels hot all over, driven to the edge of his sanity by the brokenness of the sound. 

“Y-you’re hurting hyung, sweetheart, fuck— ”

An apology hangs off the tip of his lolled tongue, but it’s saccharine, sticky, never falls, and a broken moan tumbles out in its place. 

His body seizes, back arching high off the bed as he comes with a strangled cry. And Minho swallows each sob, whispers praise against his mouth, tells him how much he loves when Jisung is so horny he can’t help but to be rough with hyung. 

Dazed, pliant, soft. Flecks of stardust ornament Jisung’s vision, and he vaguely registers how violently he’s trembling, overstimulated from Minho continuing to fuck into him, riding out the pleasure for as long as he can.

“H-Hurts…,” Jisung whispers, but the older shushes him gently, tells him hyung is almost done playing, sweetheart in that oh-so-broken voice. 

Every thrust punches spit-slicked ah ah ahs from the younger, and it’s too much, it’s so. So much. 

Minho picks up one of Jisung’s limp hands and places it on his chest. The implications of the gesture makes the younger’s spent cock twitch embarrassingly against his tummy, and then Minho says he’s so close, and and and— 

Jisung swipes his thumb over his nipple, exhales a quivering moan, pinches. The response is immediate; Minho moans beautifully, high in his throat, mesmerizing in the way his whole body trembles when he buries his cock to the hilt and comes deep inside the younger. 

The unforgiving grip on his waist relaxes. 

Jisung is sated, full of come, in that blurred space between reality and utopia, and when Minho rests his weight onto him, nuzzles into his neck, he can’t stop the emotional tears from falling.

Circling his arms around Minho’s neck, he whispers, hoarse, “I love you so much, hyung.” He cradles the older close to him, feels an I love you too, sweetheart vibrates against his neck. They’ve been here before, but it’s better now. So much better. A wet giggle falls from his lips. 

In the canopy of their bed, it’s as if they’re the only two people in the universe. Raindrops accompany the sound of their breathing. Jisung’s chest swells with gratitude, giddy with love when the older presses a kiss to his heated skin. 

“Hyung,” he says quietly. “How do you feel?”

Minho shifts, props his chin up on Jisung’s chest so he can look at him properly. “Like a million bucks.”

Jisung groans. “Oh my gosh, you’re so corny.” 

“Well, you think it’s hot, so I win.”

“And when exactly did I say that?”

“I dunno.” Minho gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Ask my cock in your ass.” 

He has a point. A great point actually. 

“Ughhh,” Minho groans as he hoists himself up, grumbles something about creaky grandpa bones, and Jisung swats at him because that’s so unsexy. 

When he pulls out, Jisung whimpers at the loss. It’s a brief feeling of emptiness; Minho hauls himself out of bed and rummages through their Treasure Box, which is really just a plastic storage container that Jisung decorated with stickers to hide the fact it’s full of sex toys. 

“I still don’t know how we came up with the name Treasure Box,” Minho mumbles. “I never agreed to that.”

“I’m a genius,” is Jisung’s simple reply, muffled by pillows as he rolls around to find a comfy position.  

“And I’m the corny one. Okay.”

Minho picks a heart-shaped plug and pushes it into Jisung’s loose hole. He snuggles up to the younger once more, hugging him close from behind. 

A kiss to his shoulder. “You okay, sweetheart?”

The younger sighs, content, full. “Very. Thank you, hyung.”

They always do this, drift off after their more intense sex, enjoying the feeling of warm skin-to-skin contact and their breaths syncing as one. 

When Jisung stirs, moonlight flits through the translucency of the canopy. He untangles himself from his lover, kisses his forehead. 

The trip to the kitchen is as fast as it can be with how sore his ass is, but when Jisung returns, armed with ice cream, snacks, and two icy water bottles, his heart softens at a stirring Minho. 

He situates the snacks on the bed, draws open the canopy, and puts on the dumbest movie he can think of (Zootopia), before peppering kisses on Minho’s face to fully wake him. 

“My Jisungie,” he whispers, pulls him close. “What’s all this, hm?” 

Jisung tangles his legs with the older’s, eyes fluttering shut when he receives a kiss to the blue crown of his head. He feels so sleepy. “Mm. Aftercare.”

They take turns rubbing aloe on each other’s skin, exchanging praises, kissing their scratches and bruises. Sometime during the middle of the movie, Jisung nudges Minho’s shoulder. The older tears his eyes from the screen, pops a Sour Patch Kid in his mouth. 

“I hope this is important,” Minho jokes, making the younger giggle. “Nick Wilde is giving his backstory.”

Jisung certainly thinks it is. 

“Can I tie you up next time?”