Work Text:
Minho is lying in his room in the dark. His finger is hovering over the paused video on his phone, his heart pounding, mouth half-open in shock.
What the fuck.
He shouldn’t be so surprised at what he’d just watched—he was there, after all. He was part of it—he’d experienced it, even, laughed it all off after the fact.
It really shouldn’t be a surprise. And yet…
And yet.
It’s just that it’d slipped his mind that it’d happened at all, until the video popped up on his feed today, during his post-workout scroll.
(This is a lie, actually. In reality, he had to force himself to forget, to shove the memory down and away in a tight little box, just like he does with every other thing concerning Han Jisung that’s just a little bit Too Much. Which is a lot of things. But it’s fine. He’s fine. He just has to turn that part of his brain off sometimes, has to stop acting without thinking before it gets him in trouble, has to make sure he’s monitoring the cameras as closely as possible just in case. He’s made it this far. He’s fine.)
But then Han Jisung goes and… and exists. And does stupid, stupid things, like kissing him. On the neck. On camera.
Minho’s mouth is cottony dry. He swallows once, then again; it barely helps.
He rewinds the video and presses play.
Jisung is standing, saying he’s going to kiss him—which, okay, fine. It’s not like Minho believed him, back then. He thought at worst he’d get a slimy, overplayed cheek kiss, complete with Jisung’s loud cackle in his ears, and that would be the end of it.
Instead he got…
He got…
Fuck.
His ears burn. He watches as Jisung sits behind his past self, hugs him from behind; his heart is pounding so loud he can barely hear the video.
Jisung is smiling so big and so soft and—fuck.
He looks so happy.
Who gave Han Jisung the fucking right to kiss Minho looking so happy like that? Who gave Jisung the right to kiss him at all?
Minho can’t help but keep watching—his eyes are glued to the screen, to Jisung’s face, as Jisung leans in and presses them softly to Minho’s neck.
God. Holy shit. It’s barely three seconds, but Minho can almost feel it all over again, the ghost of Jisung’s lips warm on his skin. It felt… so nice, to be close to him like that. It smelled like Jisung, and if only they hadn’t been on camera…
Fuck.
He lets out a shuddery sigh, watching the moment when past-Minho realizes that they are, in fact, still recording, and that he has to—well, react, or it’s weird, God—watches the fucking heart rate monitor go insane afterward because of course it does, how could it not, Jisung kissed him—
Fucking Han Jisung.
Fuck.
He pauses. Turns. Lets out a muffled groan into his pillow.
Rewinds.
Presses play.
He can barely watch this time. Flashes of images blur before his eyes—Jisung wrapping himself around Minho, his warm smile, his soft lips, oh God, oh God—
He slams his phone face down on the mattress.
Fuck.
See, here’s the problem.
Minho is fine. He’s fine, right? Just, in order for Minho to exist in the same world with someone like Han Jisung, he has to deny himself of certain things. A lot of things. All the time. Things like kissing, and touching, and being a little too fond, a little too playful, a little too—fuck, in love, okay?
He’s careful. He knows what he can get away with and what he can’t; he’s even a little more relaxed with it lately, now that they’re a more established idol group.
Jisung is. He’s. He’s everything, to Minho. Sometimes Minho swears Jisung knows it, and sometimes he thinks he has no clue. And it’s fine either way. He’s absolutely fine with being Jisung’s best friend and—and soulmate and whatever Jisung wants to call him, because… well. Because he knows Jisung doesn’t want him like that.
They’re close. Really close. Closer than Minho’s ever been to anyone in his life, even the boy in his school days that he used to get up at dawn to wait in their classroom for, and he thinks the same could be said for Jisung. Which is honestly more than enough for Minho, considering Jisung is a normal person, with normal desires, like food and cuddling and… and girls.
Sure, okay, it’s not like they talk about it often. Or at all. Minho really doubts Jisung’s going off and sleeping with people regularly, because they’re busy as fuck and also he’s usually with Minho anyway.
But. They’re best friends. Minho would know if Jisung liked boys, wouldn’t he?
…Wouldn’t he?
But then.
But then Han Jisung goes, and—and kisses him like that, with the biggest fucking smile on his face, and Minho—
Fuck.
How does he even begin to handle that?
He didn’t know Jisung was looking at him like that! What the fuck! It’s not his fault he didn’t notice at the time, because, okay, maybe he was kind of panicking afterwards because the literal love of his life had just kissed him, so like, sue him. But now he knows exactly how Jisung was looking at him, and his thoughts are spinning dizzying circles in his brain because he doesn’t know what it means.
That didn’t. It…
It didn’t look platonic.
Maybe it did. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe Minho’s making a big deal about this because he’s stupid and biased and in love, and if he were to bring it up, Jisung would just laugh in his face, and that would be that.
Or maybe…
Fuck. No. Fuck. He can’t. He can’t he can’t—
He’s going to implode if he thinks about this any longer. They’re off schedule tonight; he should really just take a nap and watch some anime later and never, ever think about this ever again.
Fucking Han Jisung.
He rolls onto his back, sighing, letting his head fall onto the pillow with a thunk. His entire chest—his entire body, even—is so full of yearning that he wants to scream. He just saw Jisung this morning, and yet he misses him so much it’s hard to breathe, because he knows he can’t ever have him in the way he really wants…
Without looking, he reaches out a hand, feeling beside him in the sheets for his phone.
He rewinds the video.
He presses play.
--
“Hyung?”
The door cracks open, startling Minho so much that he jumps about a mile high. His phone flies into the floor, and he just barely holds back a screech of dismay as he scrambles to grab it and press pause. He’s not sure what he would do if whoever’s just interrupted him realized what he was watching for the last fucking hour, and he’s about to turn to scold them when the other boy clicks the light on and he catches sight of who it is—
It’s Jisung.
Of course it’s Jisung, shutting the door behind himself and leaning on it, peering at Minho. Who’s still leaning half off of the bed.
He sits up, attempting to look normal, checking and double checking that his phone screen is off. “Did you need something?”
“Weren’t we gonna go get sushi?” Jisung asks, looking confused, his cheeks puffed out. Pouty. Cute.
And fuck. That’s right. Minho got way too distracted by that damn video. He’d told Jisung at practice this morning to come by whenever he was ready later, and it’d completely slipped his mind.
“Right,” Minho says, sliding his legs off the side of the bed, shoving his hair out of his face. “Sorry—lost track of time.”
“S’okay,” Jisung says, pushing off the door, and oh, fuck, he’s coming closer. God. His hair is all rumpled and he’s bare-faced and his cheeks are so round and Minho’s just spent the last hour thinking about his mouth—
Okay. Okay. He can be normal. He can absolutely be normal.
“But, hyung, are you okay?” Jisung is saying, and his voice sounds like it’s underwater—Minho can barely hear him because Jisung is sitting right there next to him.
His brow is furrowed and he’s wearing—fuck, one of Minho’s hoodies—and. Fuck.
Fucking Han Jisung.
Minho can’t say anything, so he simply doesn’t—just settles for staring down at his own hands.
“Hyung? You’re all red,” Jisung says, and of course he notices. He notices everything about Minho—when he’s happy, when he’s sad.
When he’s lonely—when all he wants is for someone to hold him—Jisung is there.
Always, always.
Minho can barely fucking breathe.
He presses all his air out in a sharp sigh, and says the first thing that comes to mind, even though he shouldn’t say it, he shouldn’t—“You kissed me.”
For a split-second, it’s silent, and Jisung’s eyes go all wide. “What?”
It’s painful to speak, so instead Minho unlocks his phone, thrusts it huffily over at Jisung.
He can feel it in Jisung’s posture when Jisung sees the frozen video, when he realizes what it means—Minho doesn’t even have to look.
“Oh,” Jisung breathes out, his body all tense. “I remember that… I did.”
“Yeah,” Minho says, and somehow speaking isn’t getting any easier. “You did.”
Slowly, Jisung’s knee starts bouncing up and down—he’s nervous, too. Is that better or worse? Minho’s not sure, but he only counts three breaths before he relents and reaches out to hold Jisung’s knee down, to anchor him. And then he thinks fuck it and leaves his hand there, because he’s honestly really fucking scared of what Jisung’s going to say and he can’t not be touching Jisung right now.
“Does it…” Jisung starts, then swallows audibly. “…Bother you?”
Of course, Minho wants to say, but Jisung would take that the wrong way—what he means is of course, because after that you never kissed me again, and he doesn’t know how to say that without promptly falling over and dying, and also he shouldn’t say that because it’ll jeopardize their fucking jobs and Jisung doesn’t even want it in the first place, but.
But.
He can’t stop thinking about it.
He’s watched that fucking video way too many times. It’s seared into his brain, Jisung’s lips on his neck, his soft smile, and Minho’s never going to be able to erase it no matter how hard he tries.
What the hell is he supposed to do now?
“Jagi?” Jisung asks, low, quiet, and Minho’s heart thumps loudly.
“It doesn’t bother me,” Minho says finally. He doesn’t look at him. If he looks at him, he’s going to look at his mouth and probably definitely do something he’ll regret.
“Okay,” Jisung says, relaxes a little. “Good.”
Minho nods barely, just enough that he knows Jisung will see it. If he gets up now, brushes it off, he knows everything will be fine—they’ll go to get sushi and have a good night out together; maybe Jisung will even end up snuggled up close in his bed. Minho can be happy with this. He is happy with this, he has to be, he has to be—
“Hyung, please…” Jisung says, and his voice is so small that Minho’s eyes dart to him on instinct. He looks worried, his brows drawn together, a tiny pout on his mouth.
He’s so fucking cute.
Minho loves him.
He has to shut his eyes for a moment. “What?”
“Tell me what’s wrong?”
Minho lets out a short sigh, and he knows he’s being a little dramatic, a little ridiculous, but he can’t hide this—this feeling in his chest, not right now, when the metaphorical wound is so raw and open. “I just told you.”
“I thought you said it didn’t bother you,” Jisung protests, and he’s getting all whiny, and Minho wants to shut him up. With his mouth.
Fuck. He’s intrusive-thought central tonight.
He lets out a long, slow sigh. “It doesn’t. Forget it. Let’s go eat.”
“Mm, nope. I don’t think so,” Jisung says firmly.
Minho blinks at him. “What?”
“You’re not telling me what’s wrong, and I’m just gonna obsess about it all night if you don’t, cuz obviously it’s about me, and—and I just wanna know what I did,” Jisung says, his voice going all small at the end.
Fuck. He thinks he’s done something. And okay, like, he did, but it was months ago, and it’s not like Minho’s mad at him. No, Minho’s only mad at himself, for thinking about it so much that it won’t leave his own stupid brain.
So Minho says, “You didn’t do anything,” which is kind of true and kind of not, but like, it’s fine.
Except Jisung calls him on his bluff. “I think I did, and you just don’t wanna upset me.”
God fucking damnit. Jisung knows him way too well. “Says who?”
“Says me,” Jisung says, a little childishly. Then he huffs a sigh. “Fine.”
“Fine?” Minho asks, arching a brow. Maybe Jisung’s giving in at last, and they (or well, Jisung at least) can finally put this whole thing behind them.
“Fine,” Jisung says, standing—and then, abruptly, Minho has a lapful of Han Jisung.
“Hmfphhh—what are you doing?” Minho gasps out, leaning back on his hands, looking anywhere but at Jisung who for some godforsaken reason is straddling him.
“If you won’t tell me, then I’m gonna recreate the problem,” Jisung says, the same determined look in his eye that he gets when he’s got a particularly good song idea, and like, it’s kind of hot—
And then Minho registers what he just said, which. What.
“What?” he asks—almost shrieks—aloud.
“Come here,” Jisung says, settling down further on Minho’s lap, and okay, Jisung’s in his lap all the time, this isn’t new. Except he’s not normally straddling him, and he’s not normally sliding his hands up Minho’s waist—
“Han Jisung!” Minho says, as threateningly as he can manage considering it comes out half-choked.
“Hmm?” Jisung asks—and then he smiles.
Minho’s breath catches in his throat.
He looks—fuck.
He’s so fucking beautiful, even though he also looks so fucking cocky right now, and Minho thinks he could choke with how close Jisung is. Fuck, fuck. This is so much better than the video, or even than in his memory; back then it was all over in a split second, but there’s no camera to rush anything along now.
Just him, and Jisung, and Jisung’s soft smile as he leans closer, closer—so close his breath ghosts over Minho’s cheek.
“Jisung,” Minho threatens—or tries to, really, because somehow his hands have found their way to Jisung’s hips, clinging there tightly. He’s sending mixed signals, he thinks. He should let go. He should push him off.
But his heart is racing and his brain is all staticky and, really, he doesn’t want to.
“Jagi,” Jisung murmurs, deep and alluring and right in his ear, and Minho can’t help the little gasp he lets out in response. Jisung chuckles then, like the absolute brat he is—and fuck, he has to know what he’s doing to Minho at this point, doesn’t he? Or maybe he doesn’t at all. Minho doesn’t even know which would be worse.
“Jisung-ah,” Minho sighs out. He’s so, so shaky.
He wants this so, so bad.
One of Jisung’s hands slide up over Minho’s chest, leaving the skin tingling through his sweater as he settles it at the juncture of Minho’s shoulder and neck. He thumbs at the skin there, and it sets Minho on fire—he feels himself falling just absolutely-fucking-apart, his head tipping to the side, baring his neck, begging with everything but his voice.
Please, he thinks, please.
“Oh, jagi,” Jisung whispers—and then finally, finally, Jisung leans in and presses his lips to Minho’s neck.
It feels so fucking sensitive, enough that Minho is trembling barely seconds into it. His mind goes so fuzzy he can’t think. His eyes fall shut; he’s probably squeezing at Jisung’s hips way too tight, but he can’t help it, because Jisung’s lips start moving and he hadn’t done that on camera. Jisung mouths at his neck, soft and warm and fluttery—moves his mouth a little higher, making Minho gasp—and then Minho feels the sudden, hot swipe of his tongue and he moans.
He has to jerk himself away. Jisung is smiling at him softly, but Minho’s own chest is heaving; his heart is a tight wreck in his chest and he’s half-hard in his pants. He’s so, so embarrassed—what does Jisung even think of him after this? It took literally less than a minute for Minho to be so gone for him it’s stupid, and Jisung probably was only trying to figure out was wrong in the first place, not trying to—to turn him on, or to literally fucking blow his mind, or to find out Minho’s very, stupidly in love with him—
God. Fuck. So much for hiding it.
“Hey, hey,” Jisung is saying, finding Minho’s hand, squeezing, and Minho realizes his own breath is coming fast—too fast. “It’s okay.”
“Jisung—I… I can’t. You—we can’t…”
“Shh. Shh, jagi,” Jisung says, and then he’s gathering Minho into his arms, and Minho goes.
Jisung, he thinks, the moment his face presses to Jisung’s chest. God. Warm. Safe. Jisung, his Jisung.
Fuck, he loves him.
That’s all he can think of when Jisung is holding him—how much he loves him. How much he loves being in his arms, safe, and—just for a little bit—his.
Anything, everything is okay, as long as Jisung will still hold him.
“Breathe, hyung,” Jisung says, quiet and soothing, and Minho listens, and breathes.
When Jisung finally sighs and pulls away, Minho feels almost calm.
Maybe Jisung knows how he feels now—maybe he’s known from the beginning. But it’s fine. As long as he’ll still hold him, it’s fine.
He’s fine.
He’s fine. Right?
He has to be.
“Hyung,” Jisung says quietly, reaching over and taking his hand. “I’m so sorry. We don’t have to do—that, again. If you don’t want to.”
Minho blinks up at him, puzzled. He doesn’t understand. Wasn’t it just Jisung trying to push Minho into talking about his feelings? Why would they be doing it again? “Wait… what?”
“I… fuck. Okay. Maybe we’re not on the same page here after all, uhh.” Jisung’s eyes go wide. He looks like he’s starting to panic, and Minho’s stomach twists.
“I mean. You can do it again,” he says without thinking, and feels Jisung freeze at the same time his own heart falls into his stomach. Fuck. He’d just dug himself out of this terrifying, metaphorically icy hole only to turn around and jump right back in it. What is he doing?
“I… can?” Jisung’s mouth drops open a little.
“You can do—whatever you want to,” Minho says, quickly, as if the words will poison him if he leaves them in his mouth for too long. He can’t look at Jisung anymore. He’s so fucking nervous. “If you want to.”
“Oh,” Jisung breathes. He squeezes Minho’s hand. “Wait. Really?”
Minho shuts his eyes. He’s fucking terrified. “Yeah,” he says, willing his voice not to shake. “Anything, I—I’m fine with it.”
“Like…” Jisung swallows, a sharp click in the quiet room. “Casually, or?”
Minho’s heart drops. There it is. Of course that’s what Jisung would want—and like, it’s fine, he’s allowed to want that, and Minho will give it to him because Minho would give Jisung literally the world if he asked, but—still.
It hurts.
“If that’s what you want,” Minho says, forcing his voice as level as he can make it.
Jisung sighs. “Hyung. Look at me.”
Stubbornly, Minho doesn’t. “Why?”
“Look at me. Hey. Hyuunung…”
Despite himself, Minho’s lips twitch, even though he’s literally about to have a fucking crisis because Jisung—Jisung, fuck. He finally looks at him, and Jisung meets his eyes, gaze serious for once. “What?”
“What if…” Jisung’s brow furrows, and he swallows, hard. “What if I don’t want it to be? …Casual?”
Minho’s mouth falls open. He blinks rapidly, a few times. “You. You don’t?”
Jisung reaches up to pinch at his own neck; without thinking, Minho bats his hand gently away. “Would that be bad? If I didn’t?”
“No,” Minho admits, barely a breath of air. “I just… thought you wouldn’t. Want that.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Jisung asks, fond, incredulous.
Minho still can’t look at him. “You… you don’t. I mean. I…” He huffs out a sigh. “It’s just different, okay?”
“Different?”
“Different, between…” Minho’s mouth twists. His heart clenches painfully in his chest. “Between you and me.”
Jisung huffs a tiny laugh. “Different?”
“I don’t know, it just is!”
“I don’t think it’s different,” Jisung says, and Minho’s heartbeat stutters. “I think we’re exactly the same.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Minho says gruffly, but this time when Jisung laughs he can’t help sneaking a look up at him.
He’s so, so pretty, even in the dim lamplight of Minho’s room, biting back a smile in Minho’s lap.
“I think I do,” Jisung says, low, almost provocative, and Minho’s whole body fucking thrums with it.
“But…” Minho starts, and he can’t even think how to finish it, there are so many things he could say.
“We don’t have to do this, you know” Jisung says, looking down at their laps, and Minho can tell then that he’s choosing his words carefully. “There are… a lot of reasons you might not want to.”
Minho frowns at him. “And not you?”
“I…” Jisung tugs at his ear, suddenly looking bashful. “I guess there are, but. I dunno. I want it too much to care.”
Minho’s mouth drops open. He stares. “Han Jisung.”
“What? It’s true.”
“You can’t just—say things like that!”
“I can, and I will,” Jisung says, a little smug. “It’s true, baby.”
Minho’s going to implode. He’s pretty sure his entire body has gone red at this point. “Jisung.”
“What?” Jisung asks, smile turning soft, a little serious. “Don’t you feel the same way?”
Oh. Well. Minho bites his lip. “Okay, yeah, but…”
“See? We’re exactly the same,” Jisung says, eyes crinkling when he smiles, and God, Minho loves him.
He swallows, hard. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to survive after today, knowing Jisung exists and also, bizarrely, maybe wants him back—and like, Jisung is still straddling him, and basically just confessed without really confessing, and—and fuck. It’s so much.
“What were you thinking back then, anyway?” he asks, because it’s one of the burning questions that’s been on his mind all evening. “When you kissed me months ago. I mean—we were on camera!”
“Oh, hmm,” Jisung hums, pausing to think. “Well, I wanted to win the game. But also, I just… wanted to? I thought it’d be funny. And it seemed like a good opportunity.” He stops, grinning. “You liked it, didn’t you?”
“It was awful,” Minho lies immediately.
“Don’t lie to me,” Jisung says, deadpan. “You would’ve pushed me away sooner if it bothered you.”
“I was in shock.”
“I’ll show you in shock,” Jisung says, and with the stupidest, cutest grin, he presses Minho down against the bed.
And then Jisung is there, holding himself over top of him.
Minho is going to go fucking insane, he thinks, his heart in his mouth as he looks up at Jisung, his round cheeks, his soft mouth. “What…” he tries, but he can’t even form a full sentence, which unfortunately means Jisung won this round of their game or whatever. Minho doesn’t care. Because Jisung is on top of him.
This can’t be real—it can’t be. Jisung can’t want this as much as Minho does. It doesn’t make sense.
“I’m dreaming,” Minho mumbles, resisting the urge to pinch himself.
“Hm, maybe,” Jisung says, lips spreading into a slow grin. “If you’re dreaming, does that mean I get to do whatever I want?”
Minho’s pulse jumps, thundering and slow. His cock starts to thicken, and he’s going to get hard, he realizes, with Jisung here on top of him. Maybe Jisung will even feel it.
Maybe he’ll like it.
Fuck.
“What…” he says, swallows thickly. “What do you want?”
Jisung tilts his head, and because he’s the softest, sweetest boy Minho’s ever met, he smiles a little and breathes, “You.”
Minho can’t believe it, but he also can’t wait any longer—he needs to be touching Jisung. So he reaches for Jisung, and Jisung goes, lying fully on him, reaching one hand up to stroke Minho’s cheek. The touch burns, and Minho slides his arms around Jisung’s back and hugs him closer. “Is this really okay? Like—all of this?”
“If we’re careful,” Jisung says, his thumb swiping over Minho’s cheekbone, making it hard to think. “Nothing crazy in public. But… I think we’re okay at keeping things quiet, yeah?”
“I… you really want…” Minho stares at him, lets out a startled little laugh, because oh. Oh.
It finally registers—Jisung wants everything.
Not just kissing, or touching, or sex.
Jisung wants him.
Jisung frowns. “Do you not…?”
“I do,” Minho says hurriedly. “I just. I thought…” He clicks his mouth shut, a little dizzy with all the feelings swimming in his chest. “I didn’t even know you wanted any of it, before today.”
“Oh, hyung,” Jisung says, and laughs a little. “How could I not?”
“You’re just a touchy person, okay?”
“Yeah, and you’re my literal soulmate. I write love songs about you. I—oh. Shit. Just kidding, uhh, anyway, you never heard that—hey, shut up—”
Minho is laughing so hard that he doesn’t notice Jisung moving until it’s too late.
Then Jisung’s mouth is hot on his neck, and the breath is punched right out of him.
“Han Jisung,” he mumbles, his eyes fluttering shut as Jisung starts to suck. “Don’t—nothing visible—”
“Course not,” Jisung mutters into his skin. “S’okay, hyung. I’ve got you.”
Jisung has him. Jisung is kissing his neck, and wants him, and—and writes fucking love songs about him—
“Come here,” Minho gets out finally, tugging at the back of Jisung’s hoodie until Jisung sits up. Jisung looks perfect, eyes all glazed over and mouth cherry red, and fuck, Minho wants to taste him.
Jisung must see him looking at his lips, because seconds later Jisung is leaning in, and then his mouth is pressing soft against Minho’s.
It’s better than any kiss he’s ever had.
Minho scrambles to hold him closer, clutching at the fabric of his hoodie as their lips move gently together. Jisung groans a little, sliding one hand into Minho’s hair, scratching his scalp a little just like he knows Minho likes, and Minho hums and deepens the kiss.
It’s good. It’s perfect. Minho feels hazy and warm and in love, body thrumming with sweet pleasure and the taste of Jisung on his lips. Jisung swipes his tongue into Minho’s mouth and Minho doesn’t even try to hold back a groan, his hips stuttering upward of their own accord, and Jisung’s answering gasp sets his blood on fire.
“Jagi…” Jisung mutters, kissing him, kissing him. “Minho-yah.”
“Hnngh. Yeah, hm?”
“Should we stop?”
Minho groans, letting his head drop back onto the bed. “If you want to.”
“Well, I don’t,” Jisung says, nosing at Minho’s jaw.
Minho lets out a surprised laugh, glaring playfully at him. “Well why’d you bring it up, then?”
“I was just asking!”
“Sung-ah—you’re so, so ridiculous, and I can’t believe I’m—” Minho stops then; the words get stuck in his throat.
But he wants to say it.
Jisung deserves to hear it.
“I can’t believe I’m in love with you,” he presses out quietly, and then Jisung whimpers and hugs him close.
“Fuck, hyung—Minho-yah.” Jisung pulls back and he’s smiling, so softly he looks almost like he could cry. “I love you too. So much.”
Minho’s heart is so fucking full. He pulls Jisung closer and kisses him, kisses him, and when Jisung slots one of his thighs between Minho’s he swears he whites out for a second.
“Jisung,” he gasps out. Then he reaches down and grabs Jisung’s ass with both hands, because he can and also because it’s funny—but this time when he does it, it causes Jisung’s hips to buck against his own.
Both of them groan.
“Holy shit,” Jisung says, laughing. “Fuck. We should probably, like. Be quieter.”
“Fuck,” Minho mumbles. Then he shrugs and pulls Jisung’s hips up against his own again, because it feels too fucking good not to, and the slow drag of friction against his cock is everything.
“Jagi, oh my God. Do that again,” Jisung mumbles, low and intense.
Minho does.
They rut up against each other, slow and hazy and heated, and it’s a little too warm with all of their clothes on but Minho can’t even bring himself to care because it’s Jisung.
He wants to take his time with him anyway—trying anything, everything. He wants to open him up, to make him squirm as he presses inside him; he wants Jisung to fuck him senseless, until he can’t think, until there’s nothing in his brain except Jisung, Jisung.
But this moment is perfect too—Jisung’s mouth soft on his and their bodies tightly intertwined, the hot friction of their hips against Minho’s swollen cock, and Jisung’s leaning down to mouth at his neck when he finally shudders and comes in his pants.
“You know I’m not gonna let you go,” Minho mumbles, rolling them onto their sides, still catching his breath as he slides his hand into Jisung’s sweatpants. “If we date, you’re like. Not allowed to leave me. I’ll be like an octopus or something. All eight legs.
“Mm, I know. Hot,” Jisung murmurs back, and moans when Minho gets his hand around him.
(Jisung is thick and warm and Minho can’t wait to get his mouth on him but—another time. They have time, thank fuck.)
“I’m joking, a little,” Minho says after a minute, Jisung’s breath coming out in cute whimpers as he shudders into Minho’s shoulder. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Jisung says, and kisses him. “I’m literally not lying when I say you’re my soulmate, okay? I’m sticking with you no matter what. Also, stop talking and touch my dick.”
Minho snorts. “You’re so romantic, jagi-yah.”
“I know,” Jisung says, grinning cockily, and in retaliation Minho twists his grip in a way that makes Jisung moan.
In no time Jisung is panting out his name and spilling into Minho’s hand. It’s good, so good, and Jisung is so sweet after, his hair all rumpled as he leans up, eyes half closed, to kiss Minho again.
Afterwards, they clean off perfunctorily and snuggle up together, and Minho grabs for his phone to check the time. “I think the restaurant might be closed by now—oh, fuck,” he mutters, because the moment he unlocks his phone that damned video pops up on the screen again. Acute embarrassment floods his senses—he’d stared at it for—what, an hour earlier? God, how literally, stupidly mortifying—
“Oh, can I watch? I didn’t actually see it,” Jisung says, hooking his chin over Minho’s shoulder to peek.
Minho lets out a long, belabored sigh. “This video is my enemy.”
“You’re so weird,” Jisung says, grinning. Then he leans up and kisses him. “Can we watch it anyway?”
“Fine,” Minho relents, because—again—he’d do anything for Jisung, and also now that he has Jisung maybe this video won’t be quite so embarrassing after all.
Or maybe it will be, and he’ll be all red by the end of it, and Jisung will absolutely make fun of him—but maybe Minho almost likes that better, because now he can shut Jisung up with his mouth—ha!—just like he’d wanted to earlier.
He snickers a little, catching Jisung’s eye, and the fond, confused look on Jisung’s face does something funny to Minho’s heart.
Fuck, he loves him.
“Pay attention,” he mumbles, pointing at the screen. “We’re not watching it more than once.”
He rewinds the video.
He presses play.