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Jisung holds the offending item between his hands, staring down at it while Changbin rants and whines about it, his voice floating completely over Jisung’s head. He’d started listening at first, but now his head is a little busy. He rubs his fingers over it, feels the fabric of the panties.
They’re pink, all shiny satin frills and lace trim with a large bow on the back. A little over the top, really. Jisung tries to picture Changbin in them and almost falls into a coughing fit. Not even because the idea of what he’d look like in lingerie is funny on it’s own, but because he just picture it happening seriously. He can’t imagine Changbin putting on something like this—specifically for Minho—and showing himself off in them to him in seriousness.
The image comes unbidden to the forefront of his mind, but it’s not his irritably ranting hyung wearing them, but himself. He tries to imagine himself putting them on and more laughter splutters out of him. Somehow that one feels even more hysterical, and he’s not sure why. No point looking too deep into it. He’s sure it’s just because he already knows he would look and feel very silly in them.
He clears his throat. Tries to look serious.
“Oh, yeah, for sure,” he croaks out, throat straining painfully with the effort of not barking out a loud cackling laugh that no doubt would send him to the floor in fits. The funniest part of all this really is just Changbin’s reaction to it. Pity Minho never got to witness that. “Our Minho hyung. Tsh, what a menace.”
Changbin’s complaining stops, his eyes narrowing accusingly in his silence. As if he’s about to start yelling at Jisung for it too. Well, he’s already yelling at Jisung about it, but he’s yelling at Jisung about it being Minho’s fault. He opens his mouth, lifting a finger to point, and Jisung immediately throws up both hands in defense, a stifled giggle escaping him before he can stop it.
“I had nothing to do with this,” he says quickly before Changbin can start having at him with accusations.
He doesn’t even know what’s got Changbin so riled up about it. It’s not like he’s ever afraid to get a bit feminine on camera. Maybe this is just one step too far for him. Maybe it was the audacity to ask for pictures of him wearing them—one of the few things in his rant that Jisung’s ears managed to catch onto before spiraling off into… thoughts.
Oh, Changbin is leaving. He’s complaining himself right out of the dorm, still ranting all the way to the door of Jisung and Minho’s apartment. Jisung isn’t even sure of what he spent this whole time saying, but he is sure that it’s a shame that Changbin’s only reaction was to have a ten to twenty something minutes long whinge, and not even where Minho could have the honor of witnessing it.
No one ever commits to the bit on their level. On Jisung’s and Minho’s level, that is.
Wait…
“Wait, Changbin! You forgot your—” The front door slams closed and Jisung is left standing there by himself in his living room, holding out the pink panties as if for a ghost to take them back. “Oh, okay. I’ll just… hang onto them for you, I guess.”
He looks at them again.
Why did Minho buy them for Changbin? Obviously he thinks it’s funny. Why did he ask for a picture of Changbin in them? Obviously so he can laugh when he sees it. It would be funny. Jisung likes it when Minho laughs.
There’s a little wiggle of warmth in his tummy when he thinks about it.
A plan is already forming.
*
Finding a time when they have a break from their schedules is difficult at the best of times, but finding a break in their schedules when he has something he urgently wants to do—like bursting at the seems to do—is near impossible.
What’s even harder is finding that break and getting Minho to leave the apartment. Usually not a problem in the slightest, because either they already have plans together or wherever one goes, the other follows. Getting him to leave Jisung behind is another story.
Normally, when Minho mentions that his friends have asked him to hang out, Jisung whines and begs to come along. Minho will make his obligatory show of complaining about it and pretending not to be just as eager for him to come too, but it’s all old games by this point. They both know that if Jisung didn’t bother to ask, Minho would just drag him along anyway.
Like right now, where Minho is huffing and grumping at him for refusing to join them.
“You said you wanted to go,” he says. He has one hand on Jisung’s chest over the blankets he has pulled up over him, pressing down roughly so that he wheezes as he makes Jisung bounce on the bed. “I literally agreed to go with them today because you said you wanted us to go.”
Of course, as he usually would, Jisung had jumped on the chance when Minho had received a text from his friends inviting him out. Jisung had pestered him into agreeing so that he could tag along, because at this point Jisung is pretty sure he’s just Minho’s expected accessory. His plus one that needs no explicit invitation.
“I just don’t feel well!”
“You’re lying. You think I can’t tell when you’re lying?”
Of course he can. Minho knows every inch of Jisung’s brain like they share the same cluster of cells ping-ponging eternally back and forth between their two skulls.
“I’m not lying,” Jisung lies even harder, forcing out a cough and shoving Minho’s hand off him. “Just go without me. Your friends are expecting you to be there now.”
“They’re expecting you to be there too.”
“I told you, I don’t feel well.”
Minho’s glare is ice cold, but that doesn’t fool Jisung. “This is our only weekend off for who even knows how long and they’re only in Seoul for today. You won’t get another chance.”
“Why do you care so much?”
Minho rolls his eyes so hard that his head rolls back with it, and he scoffs. He gets up from the bed, finally giving up.
“I don’t,” he also lies. “I don’t care. Why would I care? I just know you’re going to be really whiny about it when I get back and you missed out just because you couldn’t be bothered. I don’t care.”
He then definitely does not leave Jisung’s bedroom to stomp moodily around the apartment, fighting a sad pout while he finishes getting ready to leave. He definitely does not huff and sigh every fifteen seconds while throwing sullen looks at him again whenever he passes by Jisung’s still open door. The big baby.
Jisung’s heart squeezes. He will actually be sad to miss out on the activities with Minho and his friends. His friends that have so graciously accepted Jisung into their little group, essentially as Minho’s permanent plus one.
But this will be worth it in the end. To make Minho laugh.
From out in the hallway, taking so long to put on his jacket and shoes that Jisung is almost tempted to ask if he’s forgotten how to do it alone, Minho eventually calls back to him, “I’m still going.”
There’s a stretch of silence after the door opens where Jisung holds his breath, expecting to hear it click shut again.
“Don’t try to make me stay here with you instead.”
Jisung presses his lips together tight to stop himself from speaking up. After the pause grows too long, he starts to wonder if Minho has already left and he somehow missed the sound of the door closing, but before he can talk himself into getting up to check, Minho calls back to him again.
“I said don’t try to—”
“I heard you,” Jisung calls back. “Have fun. Bye!”
More silence. A longer, even more petulant sigh. Jisung fakes another cough, just for good measure, and then Minho is grumbling a goodbye before the door slams shut behind him.
Jisung doesn’t move at first. He waits until he’s sure Minho will have walked away from the door before throwing the covers off himself and getting out of bed. He crosses the room in a hurry to the window, and waits. It takes longer than he expects, but eventually he sees the top of Minho’s hooded head leaving through the front doors of the building. He readies himself to duck out of sight if Minho should look up, but he’s occupied, head tilted down at his phone.l and texting someone.
Jisung still watches until he’s gone, and then for a little longer, a drop of trepidation at what he’s planning to do finally settling in.
For the bit, he reminds himself. Because making Minho laugh makes it worth it.
Not that there’s any reason for him to look too deep into why he’s so prepared to reach for incredibly lacy lengths to make Minho in particular laugh when the thought of doing this in front of anyone else makes his toes curl unpleasantly. They’re best friends, that’s all there is to it.
He can admit to himself that there’s an edge of nervousness here, but that’s understandable, given exactly what the little joke is that he plans to pull. It’s totally normal that he feels a tingling under his entire skin at just knowing he’s going to do it—that it’s not just a silly idea anymore, he is actually about to do this right now—and that Minho is going to see it.
There’s an odd lurch in his stomach any time he thinks about that properly. About Minho receiving the results of this prank. It’s not a bad lurching feeling though. It’s something more like excitement. Weirdly warming through his whole body.
That’s probably nothing worth thinking about any further.
Probably it’s anticipation, because it’s such a funny prank he’s about to pull on him, Jisung reminds himself with a giddy little giggle.
He checks the window one more time, just to be sure Minho isn’t still there, and he goes to get the stuff hidden in his closet.
Okay, so this was a lot of effort to put into a silly little prank, but he reminds himself that it’ll pay off. He didn’t exactly need to doll himself up for real, but it kind of felt weird doing it and not going the whole way. Something something photoshoot mentality or whatever. Sue him, he didn’t feel like doing it without getting pretty first.
So he’s freshly showered. The whole everything shower. Clean as a whistle, smooth shaved everywhere he hasn’t already been recently waxed. And he means everywhere. Had to do a whole downstairs mowing and everything, considering the nature of the prank.
Not because he needs to look good down there for Minho in particular. He just. Can’t imagine taking these photographs and actually showing them to him if he’s looking all unkempt and shit. It’s about his pride.
He’s vain. He can admit that.
It’s supposed to be funny, that doesn’t mean he has to look bad. Won’t it be funnier if he goes all in anyway? Like, fully commit to it?
Han Jisung does not do lazy when it comes to these things.
(Sure, he does do lazy when he wants to, but not when it comes to things like work and other certain things. These things in particular. He’s not sure what else ‘these things’ are—not sure what else exactly falls into specifically the same vein of thing as putting on an entire at-home lingerie photoshoot just for the chance to hopefully give your bestie a giggle—but whatever those things are, Han Jisung doesn’t half ass them.)
He already covered himself in a creamy body butter after that, just because he’s had his everything shower and he has a tub of the stuff right there in the bathroom so like… he just might as well, you know? Not because he needs his skin in the pictures to look supple smooth and silky soft. That’s just a bonus. A total side point. It’s not even for the photos, it’s just… well he might as well do it now seeing as he’s had his shower.
Throwing on a towel (because what would be the point in getting dressed?) he’d then almost decided to do his own makeup. He’s glad he’s already had plenty of practice at because when he first started playing about with it on his own without the makeup noonas to help him he wasn’t nearly half as good as he is now.
In the end though, he decides against it. It feels… too much. Like he’s taking it too seriously. He did a face mask yesterday anyway, and another this morning. Besides, Minho said before that he likes Jisung’s bare face better. Which doesn’t like…matter or anything. It just means he needn’t bother if he’ll think he looks good either way.
Not because he needs to be especially attractive to Minho for this to work, but just because… well. Whatever.
He’s done now.
So.
He takes a deep breath and takes out the offending item that’d had Changbin’s hackles raised. He’ll put that on at the last moment, obviously. He sets it aside on the chair by Minho’s desk. Minho’s desk and not his own, because he had decided it would be funniest to do this on Minho’s bed. He can’t remember his reason why exactly. It had come to him in a lightning strike to the prefrontal cortex while he was falling asleep one night earlier in the week.
His genius knows no bounds, but sometimes it keeps things from him. Like what the point of some parts of the plan is. However, he won’t let not knowing his own reasons stop him from executing what simply must be a good idea because he’s the one who came up with it.
He nods to himself.
Pep talk done; check that off the list. Next item on the agenda is…
He picks up the bag of rose petals, ordered specially for this, and takes a handful of them out, scattering them over Minho’s freshly made bed. He bought a few actual roses too, just because obviously they’ll make great props.
For a second he worries that it’s too much and he almost feels stupid, but then he remembers that stupid is kind of the whole point. It’s supposed to be ridiculous. He’s doing this specifically to get laughed at, so the stupider the better, right?
The rest of the room is done. He’s put up some of his own lighting, but he’s honestly not sure if the pink lights will wash out the pink panties too much. He likes how he looks under the pink lights though, so it can’t hurt to try. He has all day. Or at least a good several hours of the day. He could try purple later.
Minho should have met up with his friends by now, and they’ll soon be going out for food and all the fun that Jisung had to pretend to be excited for while already knowing that he would be passing it up once it came around.
He does feel a pang of sadness that he’s missing out on it, now that it’s come to the time. Maybe if they extend their outing later into the evening for karaoke or something, as they sometimes do, he can make a miraculous recovery and go join up with them in a few hours. He can wait until they’re back home to send the pictures.
Or send them while they’re out! That would be quite funny, seeing Minho’s reaction while they’re already in public.
A hot flush steams up his spine when he imagines it though, and he quickly shakes his head at himself. There’s no way he can do that. What if Minho’s friends see it? Not that he suspects Minho the type to show it around—not that it matters! Because it’s just for a joke! He reminds himself—but accidents happen.
He hadn’t honestly put any real thought into when he was going to send the pictures when he came up with this little plot. The extent of his planning had been just to seize the opportunity when Minho had gotten an invite out from his friends and use whatever ideas dropped into his head by the time he got to doing it.
Now he’s just standing around. Looking for extra things to have to do. Holding his phone with a slight shaky grip while the panties stare up at him from their spot on the chair, waiting for him.
Well… YOLO!
He drops his phone on the bed for a moment and picks up the underwear, holding it out with both hands between his fingers. He twists his face a little at them. They really are quite frilly and kind of ugly. It makes sense because Minho obviously picked them out to be funny.
The fact that he feels kinda dizzy about really doing this right now is probably totally normal. It’s the prank excitement. Just funny guy things.
Jisung is struggling though with the strange sensation that he doesn’t like them, not because of what they are, but because were he to like wearing lacy underwear—not that he does, mind you, but were he to like wearing them—these ones simply would not be his style.
But who needs to waste time looking into their own psyche like that?
He ditches the towel, throwing it off to the side out of sight, and then steps into the panties. He has to wiggle his hips a little as he pulls them up to get them on over his butt. They might be a smidge on the small side. How Minho expected Changbin to get into them he’ll never understand, because that man’s muscular thighs would be choked to death if he tried to put these on. Most likely Minho was just so busy with the thought of how funny it would be that he must have forgotten to check the size.
It takes some rearranging and patience to get himself situated at the front in a way that doesn’t make him feel like he’s bulging out weirdly. Somehow he feels more naked now that he has them on than he had when he was actually naked.
He spends a few minutes just getting used to the feeling of them first, doesn’t turn around to look in the mirror behind him right away, taking a few deep breaths. Looking down at himself, he finds he isn’t as put off as he thinks he should maybe expect to feel. Sure, they’re a little… much, but well, he doesn’t feel as stupid as he’d been prepared to feel.
He still doesn’t turn around, but just looks over his shoulder instead at the floor length mirror he’d had to bring in from his own room. They’re not as tight as he’d first thought they were either—he suspects now it’s just a strange feeling in comparison to the boxers he’s more used to wearing.
They are still just a little on the smaller side than they could stand to be though. No matter how much he pulls and fiddles with them around the leg holes, they won’t stay put covering everything, leaving a little peek of his ass cheeks out the sides.
Oh well. He reminds himself the reason he’s doing this in the first place.
“It’s supposed to be funny,” he mutters to himself, quietly alone in the room. “It’s supposed to be funny.”
Finally, he turns to look at himself properly.
And actually…
Maybe…
A snort of laughter bursts out of him, lips spluttering as he snaps his head away quickly. Then another when he looks again, lifting an arm up to cover his face as he breaks into giggles into it. Every time he tries to peek again, he gets another flurry of hilarity erupt right from deep in his stomach.
Taking another deep breath, he has to fan his face with his hands, blowing out a little ‘phew’ to calm himself. At least his body looks good. Once again, not because he needs to look good, but it helps him to not feel like backing out. A little confidence boost.
He twists his hips to check out his ass again. Yeah, they definitely don’t fit right. That’s better though. That’s good. He’s not even supposed to be taking this seriously.
He can’t stop laughing now though. As unserious as this is, he doesn’t want to be smiling and giggling in the pictures, not to mention the fact that it’s visibly clear how red he’s gone. He needs a moment. Or ten.
Borrowing Minho’s bathrobe to throw over himself for a bit, he leaves the room to get a glass of water and calm down first.
A good deal of water chugged and a little time spent scrolling social media to take his mind off the way he’s buzzing under every inch of his skin helps him to calm down. Contrary to what he expected though, it’s not that he feels uncomfortable exactly. The silky fabric snug against his skin, naked under the robe. It’s…
He doesn’t waste too long with thinking, oddly eager to get started. Discarding the robe, he clutches his phone tight and climbs onto Minho’s bed, careful not to disturb the sheets or his artfully arranged flower petals too much as he gets into position.
The first few pictures he takes are close up, easing himself into it before he attaches his phone to the stick and takes another down to his chest. It only takes a few minutes for him to decide that he actually doesn’t want the pink lights, and he pauses for a moment to turn them off.
Looking at himself on the screen though before he takes the next one, he feels a strange tug inside. Just a weird little warm feeling wriggling through his right from his stomach to his toes.
Emboldened, he finally takes the plunge and stretches the stick out farther, getting an almost full shot of his whole body. There’s that tingling under his skin again as he snatches his phone up back again to look at them so far.
Honestly, probably one is enough. But something in him doesn’t want to stop there. It seems a shame to have gone to all this effort just to stop there when maybe, if he plays about with it a bit, he can get an even better shot. Maximum funniness. Maybe… maybe one of the back of them. Just, you know, to show the ridiculously big bow.
Jisung checks the time. Plenty left.
He rolls up onto his knees, holds the phone up until he can see himself in the mirror behind him, and bites his lip as he arches his back.
Looking through his camera roll in one hand and twirling one of the roses in the other, Jisung finds himself giggling and beaming while he picks his favorites, his feet kicked up behind him swinging back and forth.
Due to a totally reasonable and perfectly physiologically natural reaction to the satiny stimulus (and no other reason!) he’d been embarrassed to find himself inexplicably starting to chub up at the front in them. He’d tried to angle himself for a few so it wasn’t obvious, but there was no hiding the way the fabric was beginning to tent. So the last few pictures are entirely ass shots.
He can’t stop. He flicks through them, one by one, getting pulled in deeper. That same giddy pressure rises in his chest, light and fizzy and a little overwhelming.
God, he’s funny.
He gives himself a mental pat on the back. Not just for his commitment to the bit, but for pulling it off and looking so good while he does it. Which he shouldn’t, right? Because it’s silly. Him—a guy—in these pink frilly panties made for someone else entirely.
He swipes again, and there’s a lightheaded feeling about seeing that little slip of ass cheek under where the garment squeezes around him. Warmth rushing to his face, he drops his arms to the mattress and buries another giggle into them.
“Jisung-ah?”
Cold panic shoots through him so fast as he jumps to sit upright that it leaves his toes tingling. It pools like icy lead in his stomach, and for a second he just stays frozen there, listening to footsteps crossing the hallway. He hasn’t even heard the door at all. He wasn’t prepared for this!
It’s fine, it’s fine. He reminds himself that he’s not getting ‘caught’ doing anything. This was a joke to surprise him with anyway, it’s just that now the execution will have to take a sharp turn and a shortcut.
“Are you awake?” He hears Minho call softly, the quiet creek of Jisung’s bedroom door being pushed open. “I brought… Jisung?”
This is better actually. Even funnier to do it in person.
Minho crosses the apartment and knocks on the bathroom door, calling his name again, and Jisung uses the pause while he waits for an answer to think fast. He snatches up the rose again, putting it between his teeth, and poses on his back, propped up on his elbows with one leg bent at the knee. It feels funny. He’s going for something he’s sure is akin to ‘cartoon romantic’ adjacent.
He changes his mind quickly and rolls back onto his stomach, side facing the door with his chin propped in his hands, just in time for the door to open. It swings in, revealing to Jisung an adorably confused frown and pout on his roommate’s face.
Minho stops in the doorway, his expression dropping away.
A paper bag falls from his hands. It’s contents spills out when it hits the floor, and Minho doesn’t move to pick it up. Calm, almost emotionless except for widening, his eyes travel from the rose in Jisung’s mouth, down his naked back to the obnoxious frills barely covering his ass, and he blinks.
He blinks again.
Jisung feels a little shiver, and at the same time he’s sure that’s sweat prickling at his brow. And Minho just blinks again.
“Shuh-hrije!” Jisung tries to say around the flower stem.
“Uh,” is all Minho says. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying to work out what to say, maybe more like how to undo having come in the room at all.
Suddenly cataclysmic levels of feeling exposed, Jisung drops the rose, spitting it from his mouth, and manages to push out a little nervous laugh as he sits up with his legs folded under him, hands clenched into fists on his knees. The smile is shaky on his face. He tries to hold it, to force another little laugh, but Minho’s silence is pressing on him from all sides.
“I mean; surprise?” He didn’t mean that to sound like a question. “Hyung, isn’t… isn’t it funny?”
Minho’s eyebrows raise, his eyes widening almost comically large, and they finally snap back up to meet Jisung’s again. He still says nothing.
In a small voice, trying to keep it light, Jisung tells him, “You um. You’re supposed to laugh.”
“Laugh…” Minho breathes out, like he’s not sure what the word means.
Jisung nods. “I thought it would be funny. I took pictures to send.”
“Funny…” Minho blinks. He closed his eyes. When he opens them again his gaze goes off to stare away somewhere at a wall for a moment before he says, in the most dazed and absent voice, “Could you… I need to… go do something. Wait here. Just… just don’t move for a minute.”
He leaves the room without another glance back, pulling the door closed behind him and not even noticing the way the bag he’d dropped and its contents is scraped over the floor by it.
Left alone in the room, Jisung suddenly wonders why he ever thought this would be funny at all. He quickly snatches up one of Minho’s pillows to hug close to his chest, covering himself while he scans the room for where he left Minho’s bathrobe. Before he has time to do anything else though, he gives a little jump when the loud sound of their noisy vacuum cleaner suddenly starts in the next room.
For several long confused seconds, Jisung just sits there, brow furrowed in bafflement while he waits for Minho to come back. He does snap himself out of it before that happens though, and he scrambles down off the bed, wrapping the robe around his shoulders just in time for the vacuum cleaner to power down again.
When Minho walks back into the room he has one of their couch cushions in one hand and his face extremely red, breathing hard, hair all messed up. He opens his mouth to speak, but then pauses and looks down at the cushion like he’s confused how it got there, or embarrassed that he has it, and he tosses it aside.
“Okay,” he says. He nods. “Okay.”
And then he laughs.
It’s just a breathless little burst of a sound at first, but it grows into real giggles. More, until it’s almost hysterical, his eyes wide like he’s gone crazy. Somehow this isn’t as fun to Jisung as he expected it to be.
“You’re right,” Minho says, his voice high and strung out from all the laughing. From laughing so hard that he has to wipe a tear from his eyes. “This is funny! This is very funny. This is so…” he trails off—but his sentence and the laughter—glancing down at the bathrobe now hiding the stupid prank, and mumbles, “It’s funny…”
Neither of them speak for several minutes, Jisung staring holes into Minho’s head and Minho becoming so interested in a corner of the room that he can’t tear his eyes from it. It goes on for so long that Jisung thinks his bones are going to shake until his joints fall apart with how tense he holds himself.
Several minutes and perhaps a year later, Minho turns in the doorway and walks away without looking back at him. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
Jisung can’t put his finger on what exactly the problem is, but he has the awful feeling like he’s somehow fucked up catastrophically.
He spends five solid minutes just standing there. Standing in Minho’s bedroom, in Minho’s bathrobe with a pair of slightly too tight frilly pink panties on underneath. By the time he realizes he doesn’t want to still be in the room when Minho comes out of the bathroom, he’s already lost track of how long it’s been since he went in the shower.
He almost rushes out as he is, but makes himself stop to at least take the time to clear away the mess, flushing furiously to himself while he scoops up handfuls of rose petals, crushing them in his hand in his hurry to stuff them back into the bag. He doesn’t stay there to change back into his clothes, but grabs his stuff and the spilled contents of the paper bag—medicine, with a surprise order of guilt—and leaves the room to go back to his own.
When he finally convinces himself to come back out of his room over four hours later, now fully clothed to return the bathrobe, Minho is dressed in his ‘lazing around’ clothes and has properly remade his bed. He doesn’t look up from his phone at Jisung when he hovers awkwardly at the bedroom doorway with the robe in his hands, but he does ask, “You hungry? I was just going to order something in.”
“Um… sure…?” Jisung says, his throat feeling tight.
This is weird.
Not that anything weird is actually happening, but there’s just a weird energy. The vibes are just off. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, but it’s driving him crazy that whatever it is isn’t happening.
“Why don’t you go find something to put on for while we eat?” Minho suggests, and he’s still not looking at him. That’s fine. That’s not… like, he’s clearly just busy ordering food. It’s not as if Jisung has gone and made it so that Minho will never look at him the same again.
“I already put my clothes on,” he mumbles, but to his horror, Minho’s head snaps up and he bursts into more giggles, face turning immediately red to mirror Jisung’s.
“I meant put something on… on the TV. To watch.”
“Ah.”
Jisung should have just stayed in his room forever.
It’s more of a problem than Jisung expected it to be, while at the same time not enough of a problem that he won’t sound crazy if he tries to tell anyone. No, Minho isn’t avoiding him or technically acting weird, but he sort of still is.
He’ll talk to Jisung as normal, but with his eyes averted nearly the entire time. Jisung hadn’t even noticed before just how much of Minho’s full attention he’s used to getting until suddenly he’s found himself not getting it. Every glance starts at Jisung’s face but immediately drops to his body and then quickly darts away, like he just can’t get what he walked in on out of his head.
What if he’s gone and managed to ruin what he thought was the most unruinable friendship he’d ever have in his life? That anyone could have ever had in any life? What if he’s fucked up so spectacularly that Minho never wants to look at him again?
What if he wakes up tomorrow and Minho has packed his stuff and demanded to swap with someone because every time he looks at Jisung he thinks about how mortifying it is to have to know him after all this?
The overthinking about this is bad enough, but to make matters worse, Jisung also can’t get it out of his head. Not just in the ‘oh god, I can’t believe I embarrassed myself like that’ way, but also in the way that he keeps kind of… sort of… thinking he maybe wants to do it again.
Not the getting caught part—that part makes him cringe more every time he remembers it. The rest of it though, he feels… an itch for.
“Hello?”
A hand waves in front of his face, and he blinks around to see Minho giving him a concerned look. They’re already sat on the couch and he quite honestly doesn’t remember how they got there.
His mouth hangs open slightly, and all he manages is a little, “Uh… huh?”
Minho looks like he’s going to say something, but then his eyes flick down—down at Jisung’s body, even though it’s now covered up as fully as it possibly can be without a hazmat suit—and suddenly he’s glowing red and looking away again. And Jisung realizes that he himself is the vibes that are off.
“I said,” Minho starts, but it takes him several seconds longer than it should, each one of those seconds making him somehow impossibly redder than the last. “Are you going to send them yet or what?”
“Send… send them? Them?” Jisung’s eyes are going to pop out of his head. He can’t surely mean—
“You said you took pictures to send.”
Jisung feels like his face is melting off. It must be melting off.
Because honestly, what.
“Um,” he croaks. He wish he could remember how to blink. Or that Minho would remember how to blink. Or that the ceiling would collapse on him—sparing Minho, of course—and then he could burrow into the rubble and never come out. “I think they’re probably not as funny as I thought they’d be. You already got all the funny out of seeing it in person.”
Stuttered the entire way through. Well done Han Jisung. What a loser.
“So?”
Minho’s eyes drop lower again, and Jisung finally manages to tear his eyes away back to the TV. He grabs one of the couch cushions and cuddles it close to his chest, sinking further down as if he’s melting onto it.
“I mean,” he says, and just because he has to be the most humiliating he can possibly be, his voice cracks a million times as he says it, “if you want?”
“Sure,” Minho says.
Sure.
Why does he sound so fucking casual now?
Jisung sinks even further. If he doesn’t stop soon they’re going to have to send a rescue team into the space down the back of the couch to find him. He doesn’t even know if he wants to be rescued at this point.
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps his eyes on the TV, but picks up his phone. His hands shake while he unlocks it and opens his photos. Minho is looking back at him again, he can feel it, but his stare must surely be on the haze of heat that Jisung is pretty sure is distorting the air he’s occupying because of the steam that has to be coming off the tops of his head.
At least he can just send some of the least embarrassing ones. He’d never meant to send all of them anyway, he’s just taken so many because he got carried away.
“You took a lot,” Minho says right into his ear, making him jump so hard he almost drops his phone.
He drapes an arm over the back of the couch behind Jisung and moves closer to look over Jisung’s shoulder down at his phone with him, his hand resting on the other shoulder. Not even the whole hand, just the tips of his fingers, and for some reason that’s enough to make Jisung feel like there’s an explosion in his stomach. More like a bunch of explosions. A whole cluster of stars bursting into smithereens. Su-su-su-supernova.
A poke in the cheek brings him reluctantly back.
“You’re spacing out,” Minho tells him, his voice so close in Jisung’s ear that it almost sends him right back out there again.
“I’m just…” Just what? What is he going to say here?
‘I’m just trying not to fall apart at the seams.’
‘I’m just trying to figure out why instead of feeling like this is funny it’s just making me feel funny.’
‘I’m just going to die if you don’t stop looking at me like that.’
“Just?” Minho prompts when Jisung has spent at least a whole minute or two just open-mouthed gaping at him.
“Just… thinking.”
Minho rolls his eyes. “Don’t strain yourself.”
He giggles when Jisung jabs him with his elbow, even if it makes him half double over in his seat when it digs into his ribs.
Jisung looks back at the photos. He’s pretty sure his phone will stop working soon because the heat is going to make him start sweating out of his thumbs until the screen won’t register touch anymore and he hopes it happens soon and that the phone explodes into pieces when it does.
Nothing happens to the phone. He keeps staring at the thumbnails, feeling so hyperaware of Minho’s eyes also being on them, that he can’t even see them even though he’s staring directly at them. Fortunately he has them set pretty small, so even though it’s embarrassingly obvious with a glance how many he’s taken, you can’t really see anything too clearly on them.
But now he has to pick some to send, and with Minho looking over his shoulder his choices are to either open them up one by one to full size so that Minho sees them all anyway, or pick them kind of at random and hope for the best. Would it be too obvious if he accidentally fell off the couch and accidentally threw his phone out the window?
Knowing his luck, Minho would offer to go get it back for him and the damn thing would still work. And be unlocked. And open on the pictures.
His hand hovers over the screen for several seconds longer before he can make himself do something, and then he taps a few pictures to select them. He does try to choose carefully, taking his time between each image before picking the next, but he’s half blind without his glasses or contacts so it’s still a little bit at random.
A hand reaches around, a finger getting in the way and dragging down his phone screen to select them all at once.
“Isn’t that easier?” Minho offers, and Jisung tries (and fails) multiple times to look him in the face before simply swallowing.
His head gives a sharp little jerk that’s supposed to be a nod, and he clears his throat. “Right. Yeah.”
Okay. Whatever. Right? Whatever. So…
He’s pretty sure he leaves his body for a moment when he hits send, and then a moment later Minho’s phone screen lights up where it’s sat on the opposite arm of the couch.
Minho picks it up to look, but doesn’t unlock it. Just glances at the notification on the screen. And then puts it down again, eyes on the TV. Meanwhile Jisung can feel himself shaking so much under Minho’s hand that his joints have got to be vibrating out of their sockets.
He doesn’t know whether this is better or worse than the laughing. Minho brought it up, then didn’t even have enough interest to look—and somehow that feels worse. More humiliating. Jisung doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t nothing. Now he just feels stupid. Stupid for thinking Minho would even want to see them.
Maybe, with luck, Minho only told him to send them out of politeness because he had already said he intended to, and now he’s never going to bother actually opening them.
That makes sense. Okay.
He looks back at Minho, who just watches the TV without a single thought in his expression.
Yes, that’s definitely what’s happening here. That’s such a relief.
A buzzing from the door makes Jisung leap off the couch and nearly out of his skin.
“I’ll get it!” He calls, already running from the living room to get the door.
It’s fine. The rest of the night is so normal. Well, closed enough to normal. They watch TV, they eat their food, Minho makes a few quips about what they’re watching while Jisung nearly throws up every time he opens his mouth. He hasn’t had anxiety to that degree for such a long time he’d actually forgotten how heavily it sits in the stomach.
“Are you not hungry?” Minho asks, looking at the half eaten food Jisung has barely picked at the entire time they’ve been sat with it.
“I’ve eaten some of it,” he says, a little defensive.
“I’ve eaten most of it.”
Jisung looks around the different dishes he’s hardly touched, and he mumbled a small apology. He does feel bad for making Minho waste his money, but he does actually genuinely feel unwell now. Immediate karma from the universe for faking it that morning, he supposes.
Minho shakes his head at the apology, frowning, but before he can start prodding at it, Jisung makes a big show of stretching and yawning. He says he’s tired, has to go to bed early, and Minho just blinks up at him with those big eyes and says, “Oh. Um, okay. Goodnight, jagi.”
Jisung cracks a smile. The term of endearment, as much as it started almost as a joke, never fails to make him feel warm.
*
It takes him a few days for things to start feeling normal again. Sure, he has to put it on for a while—act like every time he looks at Minho when they’re alone he’s not cringing into his shell remembering the moment Minho had walked into the bedroom and the confused shock on his face—but he gets there, for the most part.
Several times he tries to google the situation, as if there’s going to be some magic tutorial online for how to fix what he’s sure is just his own paranoia. There are no problems coming from it besides the pressing feeling in his own head. He stops opening google and refuses to let himself do it again. His government assigned tracker must be laughing so hard at him.
Neither of them brings it up again, and they carry on with their lives. Even if Jisung maybe accidentally lets his mind wander back to the stupid giddy feeling of preparing for the prank, looking at himself in the mirror and remembering the moment he’d put them on. But that’s fine. He can shove that feeling down. No need to look any further into it.
Until a few weeks later.
They’re all in the practice room, running through the new choreographies they just got, but they’re making a lot of mistakes. And by they, it’s mostly Jisung. Actually by this point it’s only Jisung.
He has to be corrected multiple times, but the more he gets corrected the more frequent his mistakes get, until everyone else is getting varying degrees of annoyed by it. They don’t say so, but he can tell. It’s not paranoia if you’re right.
Minho is sweating, face pulling tight in that way he does when he’s having to remind himself to be patient when he comes back to try to fix what he’s doing wrong yet again.
“Sorry,” Jisung mumbles, chewing his lip. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with himself today. It’s embarrassing to be fucking up so much like he’s still a trainee.
“It’s okay,” Minho tells him quietly. “This part is a little tricky.”
And Jisung is the only person still fucking it up, so now what.
He bites his tongue on a thought and lets Minho show him again, slower. When he copies, Minho’s eyes go down to watch what he does, and Jisung knows he’s just checking his form. He knows that, but all he can think about is, “Is he remembering? Does he still see it when he looks at me?”
He wobbles and fucks up again.
Both Changbin and Hyunjin start complaining at once, and Jisung knows it’s meant to be more lighthearted than it comes out, playful even, but it still makes him wince. He doesn’t even have it in him to snap back, playfully or not.
Minho shoots a hard look and someone else shushes them gently—Jisung doesn’t even want to look around and check who—and his frown deepens when he looks back at Jisung. He stands closer, reaches out with his hands and physically repositions him himself.
“Try there.”
Jisung stays frozen, the back of his neck prickling. Somehow, in the time it took for Minho to move his limbs for him, he’s completely forgotten the move. He doesn’t know what to do. His brain is so fucking empty besides, ‘What if he’s thinking about it too? Can he also not help remembering it every time he looks?’
He thinks he starts shaking, he’s actually not sure, but Minho takes his hands away a moment later anyway and suddenly whines to the room at large that he needs a break now. The relief nearly makes Jisung’s knees buckle, but the phantom feeling of Minho’s hands still presses on his skin. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since Minho had touched him last, or how used to getting so much more of it he’d become over the years.
Unsteady, he takes a few steps forward and turns to let himself fall back against the tall mirrors, closing his eyes to wipe both hands over his face instead of letting himself look at everyone else.
They won’t be mad. Even if they’re annoyed right now, it’s just because they’re tired and worn out from repeating the same dance so many times, so it’s a mystery to him why he feels such a deep pit of guilt right now.
Minho goes off to the corner of the room, returning with two bottles of water, and he opens one, handing it to Jisung before opening his own.
“Thanks,” Jisung says, almost under his breath. Almost moodily. He doesn’t drink right away.
The back of his neck prickles again when he feels Minho looking at him, but he doesn’t return the stare to check where his eyes are wandering.
Is he thinking about it?
He quickly lifts the bottle and starts gulping down water.
Is it arrogance? That he feels like this?
Minho turns and leans back against the mirror next to him, taking a few short swigs from his bottle. He doesn’t try to make Jisung talk—doesn’t ask why his mind is so far away that he can’t even remember the steps they just learned, or where exactly it has gone—he just stands there with him.
Which would be fine, perfect even, if Jisung wasn’t feeling little sparks of fire blossoming all over him when he feels Minho give just another short glance down at him.
Minho looks at him all the time. It’s fine. It’s normal. It’s fine. Why now does it feel like he’s dying? Like it’s unraveling him.
He lets himself slide down the mirror to sit on the floor. He doesn’t even know why he’s so obsessed over this. Minho hasn’t mentioned it once since that day. Not a single joke or teasing jibe, no lighthearted comments, nothing. He’s probably forgotten it already, and Jisung is just being weird for no reason.
He wishes he could forget too, but his mind is never not going back to it.
He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. Anything to take his mind off it. He flips through different apps, leaves a like on Felix and Jeongin’s recent Instagram posts from his private account, watches a few TikToks that he doesn’t really pay attention to, scrolls whatever app his thumb moves to next and lets himself zone out so he can take a break from the stress of the practice room.
An ad comes up and he flicks past it without a thought, and then he goes back. Hot liquid fire floods him inside at the sight of it. The reminder.
It’s a women’s lingerie ad. He’d cleared his search history after those embarrassing attempts to find magic answers to a question he didn’t even know how to ask, but it must have fucked with his targeted ads anyway. It can’t just be a coincidence.
He’s… tingly. The set on his screen aren’t a lot like the ones he tried on last time. They’re all lace, deep red and no frills but there is a heart shape cut out of the back. The urge to reach into the phone and feel the material between his fingers makes him twitch. He moves without thinking and screenshots it.
“Hey, pervert, do that in your own time!”
Jisung’s head snaps up, finding Seungmin pulling a face at him. A cackling laugh bursts out of him at Jisung’s sudden gaping look of shock and the others’ confusion, and to Jisung’s horror, when several of them ask what he’s talking about, he points and says, “He’s looking at dirty stuff on his phone.”
“I am not!” He yelps, swiping the app away quickly.
“No, I saw too,” Hyunjin adds, his nose wrinkled in distaste to tease him. “He’s taking screenshots of naked girls.”
“I wasn’t!”
Technically the underwear was modeled on a woman’s body, but he’d barely registered that part, and anyway, how the hell could they even…
Jisung turns to look over his shoulder, realizing he’s sat with his back to the mirror. His strangled little ‘oh…’ gets a snickering laugh from most of the room, feeling his face burn.
“I…” His face is practically steaming off his skull, but they’re all looking at him and what is he supposed to do, correct them to the truth? The truth? Ha… He gives a weak laugh and a smile that definitely looks more like a grimace, and says, “Ah, you caught me. Forgot where I was for a second. And yes, hyung, I know,” he cuts in front of Chan as soon as he opens his mouth before he can say anything, “inappropriate. Time and place. I’m sorry!”
There’s about half a minute more of ribbing from anyone with the energy left to give it and various flavors of ‘I’m frowning at you over this’ looks from some others.
Minho says nothing, but when Jisung looks up he finds his favorite hyung already looking silently back down at him from where he’s still leaning back against the mirror. Expressionless. If he had looked down at all during that time then he would have also seen what Jisung was looking at.
Jisung watches him back—tries to anyway, but a few seconds under the pressure is all it takes for him to crack. He looks away fast, back down at the blank screen of his now locked phone, and swallows.
He pushes himself up to his feet.
“Come on, lets get back to it,” he says, slapping on his best ‘everything is totally fine’ voice before looking back at Minho with a smile. “Otherwise I’ll never get this move right.”
There are several more seconds of silence between them. Stretched out until Jisung feels them like something physical in his chest. An elastic band threatening to snap back at him. One that’ll sting.
But eventually, Minho takes one more drink and throws his water bottle aside before he pushes off the mirror. He puts one hand on Jisung’s head and then spins him by the shoulder with the other to face the other way. Placing both hands on his waist, he gives the briefest little squeeze and then marches him forward back into place.
“Make the next one a perfect run through and I’ll take you out to eat after. Anything you want.”
They get barbecue.
*
Jisung is still yawning bleary eyed when he pulls open the front door, having been knocked awake after a late night anime binge that he probably should have cut shorter than he did. He’s barely even registering who’s face he’s looking at before a box is shoved into his arms.
“Huh?”
He peers down sleepily at it.
“Tell him it’s not funny anymore,” Hyunjin says to him. “The first one was funny, but now it’s getting kinda weird.”
It doesn’t make any sense so Jisung has to shake himself to make sure he’s not still sleeping.
“What’s weird?”
Hyunjin rolls his eyes with a little smile. “Just rein him in, will you? Tell him to cut it out.”
“I’m confused. What?”
But Hyunjin is gone with a little wave before he’s finished asking.
Taking the box back inside, Jisung pauses in the hallway to balance it in one arm while he pulls at the folded lid. He yawns widely again, eyes scrunching up with it, and then gives his head a little shake. He’s so going to regret that delayed bedtime later when he’s in the studio with Chan and Changbin.
He blinks against the tiredness and peers down into the box. And then shuts it again quickly, his pulse suddenly hitting a gallop.
“Sung-ah?” Minho calls from the kitchen. “Who was it?”
Feeling terribly awake now, Jisung rushes to his room and practically throws the box under his bed before hurrying to join him. There’s no need to hide it—in fact he already knows it’s a very silly thing to do. He should have just dumped the box on the kitchen table and asked what the fuck. Because why is he sending these? And to Hyunjin?
But if he does that then that takes away his chance to… what?
Well, he knows exactly what, but he doesn’t want to even admit it to himself yet otherwise he simply will not get through sitting across from Minho and eating his breakfast like everything is normal.
“Jagi?”
Jisung blinks. He realizes he’s just standing in the kitchen doorway staring blankly at nothing with eyes as wide as ramen bowls. Minho is standing there with a plate of waffles in each hand.
“Oh. Um,” he looks around frantically until his eyes find an excuse for him. “It was that old woman from down the hall. She wanted to… borrow some sugar.”
“Ah,” Minho nods, but then he frowns, eyes darting to the hallway behind Jisung like he’s trying to see round the corner to the front door. “Aren’t you going to get her some then?”
“She already left.”
Minho bats his big beautiful eyelashes in confusion. “Without any sugar? What did you say no?”
“She… remembered she already had some. Back at home. So she doesn’t need any after all.”
He takes the few steps forward without looking back at Minho’s face, until he’s standing right in front of him. Minho doesn’t move while Jisung takes the chocolate covered waffles from one place and then starts shoveling them whole into his mouth, cheeks filled to bursting until his words are barely intelligible when he tries to say thank you.
He turns on the spot and marches out of the room to lock himself in the bathroom and take a shower, Minho’s slight scoff and confused little “Okay… you’re welcome,” behind him.
*
Jisung has to wait so long until Minho leaves the apartment without him again. The first time he gets the chance, he pulls out the box and looks through them. He has that ‘face steaming off’ feeling again while he picks out the panties, packed in pretty black glitter packing paper.
There are several of them in different colors. Another pink, but they’re not like the first ones; less satin frills and more delicate lace patterns. Also a red, almost like the ones in the since deleted screenshot, except without the little heart cut out of the back. Instead, the entire back is near transparent.
This time though, they come as sets. His hands shake a little while he holds up a lacy bralette in a pale watery blue to take a proper look at it. There are little gems woven into the lace, a few tear drop gems dangling from it, and when he pokes around the box a little—biting his lips together so hard that they start to tingle—he finds the thong that matches.
A burst of hysterical laughter makes him frantically stuff everything back into the box and shove it away again, back under his bed.
No way… There’s just no way.
They’re pretty, but he can’t put something like that on!
And it’s fortunate that he doesn’t, because not ten minutes later and Minho is back from the brief errand he’d gone out on. He walks into the kitchen, finding Jisung dazedly staring into a pot of still dry instant ramen, and stops. Folding his arms, he leans a hip against the counter and just looks at him, an oddly warm smile on his face.
Jisung looks up at him, blinking away the daydream behind his eyes, and lets out a kind of nervous chuckle. “What are you looking at me like that for? You want one?”
He points down at the pot, and for some reason that only makes Minho laugh and shrug, his smile going even brighter.
“I don’t know,” he says, head tilting to one side, “why are you smiling so hard at ramen?”
Jisung hadn’t even realized he was smiling, but now that Minho mentions it, his cheeks do ache a little. He drops the chopsticks in his hand to the counter and covers them with his hands. His jaw aches when he has to force a more neutral expression, prompting a snort of laughter from Minho that makes Jisung narrow his eyes at him.
“Here, let me,” Minho playfully shoves him out of the way to finish it for him, pouring the already boiled water.
Jisung makes a show of stumbling after the gentle push and lets him take over.
The second time he gets a chance he almost does it. He spends so long kneeling over the closed box and getting back up again to nervously check the window that he starts to feel bruises forming on his knees from dropping back down again after every check.
He reaches into the box—going in blind because the thought of choosing one makes him feel like he’s swallowed a live eel—and pulls out a pair of white panties with butterfly patterns and a complicated looking set of straps on the hips. His head immediately fills with heat and he stuffs it quickly back into the box, jumping up to run to the window again.
He’s managed to reach the point where he’s convinced himself every little noise is Minho arriving back home. Double and triple checking is only making it worse, so he hides the box again and spends the next two hours fidgeting on the couch and straining his ears for the sound of the door.
When he can’t take any more, annoyed by the fact that he had all of this time and spent it in sickening anxiety at being interrupted instead—without even the cover excuse this time that it was all in the name of a prank for funsies—he gives a mean glower to his phone, ready to call Minho’s number.
It’s only started ringing when the front door opens, and Jisung takes long enough to register that he’s home that Minho gets time to take off his shoes at the door and answer it before he hangs up. He hears Minho’s voice echoed on both sides.
“Hm?” Minho answers distractedly, but Jisung doesn’t answer because he’s already walking past the living room door, head ducked and looking at whatever he has in his hand inside the shopping bag he’s carrying. He stops, notices Jisung, and then does a funny little jump in surprise, yanking the bag back around behind himself. “Why are you still here?”
“What?” Jisung stares. Is he dreaming? Is this some kind of nightmare? He hangs up on Minho. “Do you not want me here anymore?”
“I—what?” His shock falls for a second into confusion, and he frowns, shaking his head. “Jisung, no. You said today you were supposed to be at the—”
Jisung gives a startled little jolt when the phone rings in his hand, making him fumble and almost drop it.
Chan is calling him.
“Shit,” he pulls his mouth wide in a grimace and then jumps up, rushing into his room to grab a hoodie to throw on. “Sorry, hyung, I have to go! I’m supposed to be at the studio!”
“That’s what I—never mind. Yeah okay, go.”
Jisung is halfway out already when curiosity catches up to him, and he stops and pokes his head back around the door to where Minho is standing like a broken NPC in the middle of their living room.
“What’s in there?”
Minho hides the bag behind his back again. “In where?”
“In the bag you just hid behind your back!”
“I didn’t,” Minho lies, only to change tactic a moment later. “Nothing.”
“You—” Jisung’s phone interrupts him, ringing again. This time it’s Changbin, immediately followed by a text asking if he got lost that translates to ‘did you forget?’ “Shit. I have to go. Bye!”
“See ya, jagi,” Minho says, voice a little sing-song as he waves him off.
*
A parcel comes with a fake sounding name on the label and to Jisung’s knowledge, neither of them are waiting for any deliveries. He’s almost concerned enough to call a manager to check it, but Minho, for whatever reason, insists it’s probably fine and that it’s probably just delivered by mistake.
“Then we should send it back,” he says.
“There’s no return address,” Minho counters. “Where would we send it back too?”
Jisung narrows his eyes, but Minho isn’t looking at him. He’s not even nearly interested enough in a mysterious package arriving at their home. He stares down instead at the table where his Sudoku puzzle that he hasn’t touched since the doorbell rang sits.
The box is blank besides their address—no brand names, no company logos, no sender details. Jisung slides a finger along the taped lid of the box. He notices Minho’s eyes jump to it, though he keeps his head down like he thinks Jisung can’t tell he’s looking.
“Then… do you think we should look inside?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Minho nods, like he’s not agreeing to go through someone else’s post.
“Okay…”
He doesn’t wait for Jisung to get to unboxing it though. The moment he picks it up and starts pulling at the tape on one side, Minho jumps to his feet and walks out, leaving the unfinished puzzle behind.
“Where are you—”
“Going to buy stuff for dinner,” Minho calls back, already at the door and stumbling around to get his shoes on as quickly as possible. “I’ll be a few hours.”
“A few hours—”
“Text me if you want anything!”
The door shuts and he’s gone.
Jisung stands in silence for a long while after. It takes a car honking outside to startle him out of his stupor, and he finishes pulling a strip of tape back from the top of the box. Without peeking or pulling it all the way, he slips his fingers into the opening and feels around for a few seconds.
Feeling exactly what he almost didn’t dare expect to feel but still somehow did at the same time, he snatches his hand back out.
Yeah, no. That’s going under the bed.
Minho comes home forty-five minutes later with no groceries and says he realized he’d forgotten he already got stuff in to make today, only to end up ordering them takeout when it turns out their kitchen is in fact woefully understocked.
*
The third time he ventures to take the box out from it’s hiding place—boxes, he remembers, sliding out the second one to sit it next to the first—he’s prepared and ready. He knows he has the place to himself, because Minho has gone to his parents house for the weekend.
Jisung normally would go with him if he didn’t already have plans, but they’ve been so busy at the studio recently it would be unfair of him to go frolicking off with his best friend for a few days. They’re so close to pulling this new album together.
He sees the pout threatening to push at Minho’s mouth even as he shrugs and tells him okay, pretending he doesn’t care and won’t get lonely at all. But he tells Jisung to work hard and pulls his little cat smile before smacking Jisung on the butt on his way out the door without him.
“They came to climb on me as soon as I sat down,” Minho tells him over video call, voice warm and happy as he shows off the three cats all over him. Jisung gets an odd feeling in his chest. Kind of like he’s… jealous. Almost. He misses Minho when he’s gone too!
It’s cute when they do it, but if he went crawling onto his friend’s lap about it then he’d be a weirdo, right? Unfair. He’s kind of judging himself for even thinking it in the first place, but that’s another thing that’s totally unnecessary to look into any further.
“You’re having conversations with your eyebrows again,” Minho tells him, eyes twinkling with amusement. “What are you overthinking?”
“Ah, just some lyrics I was working through,” he says. It’s becoming his go-to answer whenever his Minho-thinking time is interrupted.
“Oh? Are you going to the company soon?”
Jisung’s eyes flick guiltily to the boxes set out on his bedroom floor, way out of sight of the phone camera. He’s not going to be leaving the house for several hours yet.
“Yeah,” he sits up, making a show of picking up his things. He has his shoes on and it out the door before Minho tells him he’s hanging up, and he hovers there for a moment in the corridor, biting his lip with guilt.
Why does it feel so bad?
He shakes it off. He’s allowed to have things he doesn’t tell his friends! Even Minho…
Shaking it off takes a bit more effort the second time, but he goes back inside and makes sure the door is locked behind him.
This time when he goes into Minho’s room, he doesn’t bother with the extra props besides his mirror. It’s just because his room is bigger than Jisung’s. It gives him more room. And Minho wouldn’t mind, it’s not like he’s raking through things. The amount of times he’s come back from the studio to find Minho already lying around on Jisung’s bed, grumbling about how long he’s been waiting for him and how bored he’s been.
There’s an odd forced emptiness in his head while he picks out which one of them he’s going to try, not letting himself think too hard about why he’s doing it. It was funny last time, right? Before he was caught?
All he knows is that that giddy feeling has been creeping up the back of his mind and poking at him ever since he took off the frilled panties from his failed prank and threw them out of sight. Shoved them to the bottom of his laundry basket, where he’d told himself then that he hopes never to get caught up enough on cleaning his clothes to have to face them again.
These ones have… the slightest frill around the top. Nothing over the top, he thinks—for whatever his knowledge of lingerie is worth—but something just kind of dainty. Almost mermaid-like.
They’re in a deep plum purple that looks like it’ll go well against his skin tone. He doesn’t bother telling himself ‘not that it matters’ because he can’t come up with a single justification of why he’s doing this otherwise, so it’s best he lets himself play ignorant. Even more so when he searches the rest of the box to see what else there is and finds a pair of sheer purple stockings with it.
His brain boils in his head for a moment while he tries to decide whether or not to tell himself that it’s too far and to stuff those back out of sight. In the end, as much as he tries to tell himself that it’s too much, the voice saying it in his mind sounds an awful lot like every asshole he ever heard forcing the whole macho manly act just hard enough to make it a little unbelievable.
Somehow, putting it down to letting his rebellious streak out helps, and he lays them on the bed with his heart beating hard in his throat.
His phone buzzes.
Channie hyung: got bored, going early if you want to join?
Channie hyung: binnie has stuff on and i could use an extra set of ears on something
Jisung bites his lip, reading it over and over with a sideways glance like he doesn’t even want to look directly at it. Like somehow Chan will be able to see into what Jisung is doing if he sees the messages properly.
Guiltily, he ignores it for now, flipping the phone over on Minho’s bed so he won’t have to see if the screen lights up again yet. He’ll answer later and say he was taking a nap or something. Whatever Chan wants him to help with, it sounds like he can just do it when he goes in later like he planned.
He looks back at the item laid out on the bed, his fingers tingling and twitching at his sides. There’s no way for him to be interrupted. No one has a key besides Minho. Well, and Chan. But it’s only for emergencies; he would never walk in without asking and having a good reason first, plus he already said he’s at the studio, so no need to worry about that. Anyone else turning up would just have to knock until he changed.
He’s stalling now, just standing there staring down at it and chewing his lip half off as if he’s waiting for something. For someone to give him permission, or an order to just go on and do it already.
It feels weirder somehow that he’s doing it from fully dressed this time, but he already had a shower and doesn’t want to procrastinate any more just to give himself some weird out from feeling stupid about taking his damn pants off.
Whatever. Whatever! He’ll just do it.
He pushes his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and hesitates only for a second, moving his hands back and forth over the fabric before taking a breath and shoving them down. He steps out of them and lets out a breath.
Well, he thinks, standing looking at himself in his boxers in the mirror, that was far more dramatic than it needed to be.
His underwear comes off next, and he feels that giddy feeling tiptoeing it’s way back up his spine again already. He starts to take off his shirt—his favorite Supreme t-shirt—but then changes his mind and lets go of it again. It’s old and getting a little worn and tattered, but it’s comfortable. He’s not doing this for some kind of photoshop, he doesn’t have to look a certain way, he just… wants to try them on, that’s all.
He doesn’t face the mirror while he steps into them, slipping them up his legs and wiggling his hips a little while he adjusts them when they’re on. These ones fit perfectly, even accounting for him having to arrange his junk in the front of them.
He almost doesn’t bother with the stockings, but then thinks; fuck it. Why the hell not.
The process does take him longer than he can honestly say he would have expected it to take, and he falls over twice. Somehow he manages though, and amazingly, without tearing them. The secret, he realizes after trying to just stuff his leg into the first one while he’s still standing, is to carefully roll it up and start from the toes, which he wiggles now in their purple nylon prison.
At first he wonders how the hell they’re supposed to stay put and not slide down without anything to hold them up, but they stay just fine once he’s rolled them up to his thighs.
He still hasn’t looked at himself in them yet. He’s waiting, fixing his hair first and taking a few steady breaths, then he gets up and walks closer to the mirror, eyes on where his purple covered feet move over the carpet on tiptoes.
Finally, he pinches the bottom of his shirt between his fingers to lift it just enough that he can see everything properly, and he looks up—looks at himself in the mirror.
He squeezes his lips shut on a scream, spinning away on the spot. Eyes shut tight, he drops himself face first onto Minho’s bed and buries his face into the blankets, his legs kicking out behind him. It takes a moment to get that out of his system, thrashing ridiculously and making a mess of it, and then he lifts his head again to gasp for air.
There’s too much energy in him. Something telling him he needs to get outside into the fresh air and scream and run in circles until he can’t move any longer.
He is not, of course, going to go outside like this. He’s pretty sure his manager would have a fit and a heart attack at the same time, though at least Jisung wouldn’t have to be there to see it, because he would have simply died.
No, what he has to do instead is take another giggly breath to try to stabilize himself, and turn back around.
He doesn’t get off the bed this time, staying on his knees in case he should happen to need to lose his shit and throw himself face down again. He does snatch up one of the pillows though and hold it close for a moment, hugging it to his chest and resting his head on it in his arms before he turns to face the mirror again.
He doesn’t drop the pillow just yet—there’s something comforting about having a part of his best friend there, sue him—but he does move to look sideways at the mirror, admiring the way his body curves when he leans forward on one arm, the bottom of his shirt slipping up his back a little.
Arrogance, maybe, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t look good.
Emboldened, he drops the pillow back behind him on the bed and turns to full face himself again. The lighting could be prettier, but he’s not going back to his room to drag them in here again now that he’s already started.
He sits. Leaning back on his hands, he tries opening his legs to see the panties between them with the stockings. The ring of silicone elastic around the top squeezes when he bends more, pinching at his thighs, but it’s not bad enough to make him take them off.
Another laugh cackles out of him, and he lets himself fall back.
It’s not a funny laugh. He’s just… excited.
Lying there on his front, one arm tucked under his face so he can half hide behind it, he looks back at the mirror. He looks, biting his lip as he reaches back with the other hand to pull on the bottom of his t-shirt, dragging the material up until his lower back is bare. It shows off the curve of his ass down to his thighs.
He has to bury his face in the blankets, and then take another look. That so silly feeling he’d gotten the first time is still there, but he wonders if it’s even silliness at all. Or maybe.
He just… likes it.
He likes it. He likes how he looks in it.
He likes how he feels in it.
Another giggle. He kicks his feet up behind him. He can look into the vanity of it some other time, probably. It can’t be worse than when he got mad at the man who would be his future best friend just because he’d thought until the moment he laid eyes on the guy that he was the most handsome guy there.
A grin pulls at his lips at the memory, and he rolls over to pick up his phone. Ignoring Chan’s messages, just for now, he opens the camera. It won’t hurt to take a few pictures of himself like this. He does look good. Someone should get to appreciate it, even if it’s only himself. It’s not like he’ll have to send these ones to anyone.
He poses, pushes out his lips as if to blow a kiss, and giggles again at the resulting photo. The panties can only kind of be seen, but there’s something about it that makes him tingle under the skin.
He takes another. And another.
One more, a little daring, he sits on the edge of the bed with his feet on the floor. Tiptoes pointed, and he holds his breath.
It’s dizzying, opening his legs—spreading them wide. He lifts the front of his t-shirt enough to show his stomach, snaps the shot, and then immediately squeals, throwing himself back to bounce onto the bed.
Reaching round to grab one of the pillows behind him, he holds it clutched tight to his chest. It covers his nose and mouth, hiding, and he smells something comforting in the fabric while he looks at the photos again.
Yeah, this is good. He likes himself like this.
*
The newest box gets thrown into the corner, empty. Everything is laid out on Jisung’s bed, except for the steady pile building on his chair. Half humming along with the Twice song playing from his speaker, Jisung stands in front of his mirror twisting and turning to see his back side.
This one, the butterfly thong, he’s not too sure about yet. It does make his ass look nice—round and perky—but it’s not his favorite.
It goes onto the pile, and he gets to turn and select a new one.
He’s been trying more of them on whenever he gets the chance. Chances are rare though, and usually he only gets time to try one before he kind of chickens out like a loser and tucks them all away again.
Today though, Minho has vocal practice, and then lunch with Seungmin after, so Jisung has plenty of time and the apartment all to himself. Obviously he couldn’t miss an opportunity to play around. Have a little dress-up time.
And oh… the red one he likes. The red one he really likes.
He turns to look over his shoulder, biting his lip.
Of course he has to check how his ass looks in them—that’s like… ninety-five? Percent of the entire point?
The way the lighting is soft through the closed blinds works nicely, puts the room in a mood. He wants to stop and take pictures again, but he’s too excited to get through the rest of them. Too excited to see them all on.
All of them are… well, he doesn’t exactly know the cost of lingerie, but they’re certainly not cheap, he can tell that much. And they all fit him quite beautifully.
The red ones get placed on the ‘tried on’ pile somewhat reverently. They’re beautiful. He does want to try these next ones on though—black, almost see-through, and it’s a full set. When he turns, he can see his entire butt through it. The bralette too, after he spends a moment looking at it in his hands.
He thought he would feel too silly in it, but his fingers trail over it on his chest, his tattoo and nipples showing through the fabric, and he smiles. That giddy feeling is familiar now. He’s not laughing at himself, he’s just… too happy to contain it.
There are a pair of wide-spaced fishnet tights too in one of the boxes, and he puts those on over it.
Standing in front of the mirror, he tucks his thumb under the elastic waistband of the tights, slowly tugging them out, stretching it. He waits, holds it for a second as he takes a breath, and then lets it snap back on his stomach, giving a little jolt at the sting. An exhale.
His knees turn in, thighs squeezing together a little. He swallows.
The front of the panties have been getting a little more difficult to fit over himself as he went through them. Especially with that red one. Now he’s really starting to fill them out, but he doesn’t want to stop.
He turns, bends to put one hand on the bed and looks over his shoulder. This one is too good to pass up the chance for a photo. He puts one knee on the bed to reach over it for his phone.
The rattling noise he hears doesn’t even register for a second. Jisung, looking back over his shoulder while he picks up his phone, is too focused on how good he looks bent over the bed like that to realize he can hear it.
Irinoring: did you eat yet? seungmin went home early with a stomachache so i got it to go
Jisung blinks at the message on his lock screen, finger still hovering over the camera button where he was about to press and ignore notifications before it caught his eye. His stomach tightens. Twists.
Eighteen minutes ago. More than enough time to get here from—
The front door shuts. Jisung fumbles his phone, dropping it with a startled gasp.
“Hey, jagi,” Minho calls from the hallway, a little sing-song in his voice like he’s in a cheerful mood. His vocal lesson must have gone well. “You home?”
Jisung remains frozen in place, sinking ice in his tummy—right until he hears keys being tossed into the bowl on the stand by the door, light little whistling coming closer, and he scrambles down from the bed, eyes darting around the room fast until he spots his bathrobe and makes a dive for it.
Footsteps coming up outside of his bedroom door make him spin to face it, standing there in the middle of his room, shaking with his bathrobe clutched to his chest.
“I’m just changing,” Jisung says, quickly, breathlessly, but as close to normal as he can manage.
Minho stops. Right there outside the room.
“I brought extra,” he tells him cheerfully through the door. “You hungry?”
Jisung swallows. He tries to breathe past the tightening in his chest, and then swallows again before managing a croaky, “Yeah. I’ll be out in a minute.”
His eyes stay fixed on the door handle, heart thudding against his ribs. Minho is going to come in. He’s going to see him. He’s going to see Jisung like this, and Jisung’s arms have gone too weak to even put on the bathrobe properly, still clinging to it in front of himself, fingers squeezing where they’re gripped right around it.
His legs feel like they’re one wobble from dropping him to the floor. He can’t take his eyes from that door handle. He can practically feel it about to turn—can hear the slight creak of it echoing in his head.
“I’ll go put the food out then,” Minho says, voice already moving to the kitchen. “Make sure you come get it while it’s still hot.”
Jisung thinks he says okay.
He still hasn’t moved from the spot when he hears plates being taken out and put down in the other room. His legs are still threatening to collapse under him. His hands are held so tight around the bathrobe that his knuckles have turned almost as white as it is.
And there’s an inexplicable throbbing between his thighs. He’s rock hard. Even still trembling all over from almost being caught. Again.
Minho talks while they eat, normally at first, but then with an odd little look on his face like he’s trying to work something out.
“Is something wrong?”
Jisung blinks, not taking the chopsticks from his between his lips for a moment while he looks up to stare at Minho. He forgets to answer out loud right away.
“Who, me? Pfft, yeah, I’m cool—totally fine,” he says when he remembers, and he offers a grin to Minho, who continues to just look at him, like he’s waiting for the truthful answer. Jisung pushes out a laugh, just a small one, and he says, “Seriously, I’m just… I’ve been working on a new song, and the lyrics aren’t really coming together yet, so my head’s still away in the studio. Don’t mind me.”
“Hmm?” Minho raises his eyebrows in question. Not disbelieving, just waiting to see if he wants to continue talking about it. Jisung pretends not to notice though, ducking his head down and shoveling food into his mouth quickly to make up for it.
Something is nagging at him. Before he’d come in to eat, he’d had to sink down to sit on the end of his bed, pulling the robe around himself to put his face in his hands for a moment. Still hard. Still shaking.
He had to calm himself before he left the room, but what bothers him the most is that he didn’t even feel relieved.
He should have been able to relax again once he knew he wasn’t about to be walked in on a second time, but it had felt like all that tension had wound tight enough to snap, only to end up petering away to nothing instead. The feeling had lingered in the air, like something was… incomplete? He’d tried grasping at it, to figure out what it was, but it slipped through his fingers.
Even after he’d gotten changed and put everything away, dainty little lace sets all pressed neatly into a drawer for next time, something felt off. It wasn’t Minho acting strangely this time, calling Jisung from the other room in case he’d forgotten to come eat.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Minho asks, splitting this thoughts wide open with a touch when he presses a hand to Jisung’s forehead, and something wriggles nervously in his tummy. Like he thinks now he’s going to be caught. Or… or something. It’s something. “Oh, jagi. You’re really warm. Are you sick?”
Jisung nods. Yes he is.
Minho gets up immediately. “I’ll make you some tea. Lets watch that new anime you wanted to see.”
They curl up on Minho’s bed. Minho props up all the pillows behind himself, and then indulges Jisung, waving him closer and letting him to cuddle close. He rests his head on Minho’s shoulder, and for once definitely pays the least attention to the TV out of the two of them.
There’s still something itching there, just under the surface, like he needs to scratch back a cloudy layer of his brain to find what it is that’s leaving him so flat. What’s making his skin prickle where Minho’s hand holds his waist while they watch, but not… unpleasantly. As if it’s not a perfectly casual touch that Minho gives him all the time.
So no, it’s not Minho who’s being weird. It’s Jisung.
And yes, there is something wrong.
It’s not until after he’s finished his tea, stared his way through multiple episodes without absorbing a single detail, and said goodnight, dragging himself back to his own bed. It’s not until then, while he’s lying awake hours past the time he put his head on the pillow and staring at the ceiling like he’s searching it for answers.
Something finally sinks in. It twists in his stomach, hot and spreading, tingling over his skin. He realizes.
He thinks… he was disappointed.
*
Jisung snorts at a stupid picture of a few of the members on Fans. Lounging back on his bed, phone held over his face, he replies. He makes it just a little teasing, poking fun with this tongue between his teeth. He’ll get a text from someone later with an equally teasing insult, maybe a threat to post one of the more ridiculous pictures they have of him from their group chat.
The air is a little cool in his room right now, but it would be warmer if he actually had pants on. He doesn’t want to put pants on, that would hide the fancy champagne gold lace he’s wearing. The hand not typing trails light touches absently over where the material sits against his hipbone, fingers tracing the tiny embroidered star patterns.
It’s pretty.
It’s pretty on Jisung.
He has a hoodie on, that’s enough to keep him warm, though it’s a short enough one that it didn’t obstruct his view when he stood in the mirror. Having the place to himself for the first time in a couple weeks now, he hadn’t wanted to take these ones back off right after trying them on. A few minutes in front of the mirror doesn’t feel long enough, but there’s only so much time you can spend preening over your own ass in lace before you fall into the pool water.
He’s just quietly scrolling social media, giggling to himself over a funny cat video that he’s considering sending to Minho with nothing but ‘you’ as the caption, when a crash from out in the hallway makes him jump out of his skin. He startles so hard he drops his phone right onto his face, yelping when it smacks him on the cheek.
“Oops, sorry,” Felix’s voice comes from out by the door, where he appears to be apologizing to it for slamming it open. Jisung is in half a mind to laugh and ask Felix where the fire is, when he hears him again, coming closer fast, “Sung-ah! Wake up!”
It hits him like a block of ice in the gut. The state he’s in. Felix is coming to his room.
He launches himself from the bed, crying out a little as he hits the floor with a thud and scrambles to snatch up the first pair of pants he can get his hands on—jeans, lying in a pile of to be folded laundry, and he pulls them on lightning fast.
He barely gets them up in time, catching on the lace for a second before he yanks them into place.
His pulse is beating in his ears when Felix walks in. He doesn’t knock, just strolls right through the door, eyes widening in disbelief at Jisung’s disheveled, just rolled off the bed appearance. He scoffs, but shakes his head with fondness, “Did you really just wake up?”
Jisung barely gets a chance to give a shrug and make a noncommittal grunting noise like he’s not suddenly sweating before Felix is grabbing up Jisung’s phone from his bed with one hand and Jisung’s arm with the other, yanking him from the room.
“You’re lucky I was passing here on my way there anyway!”
“On—” Jisung trips over the bottom of his jeans. “On the way where?”
“Check your texts,” Felix tells him. He stops them at the door and picks up Jisung’s shoes, shoving them into his arms along with his phone. “Did you sleep through Chan’s messages?”
Jisung’s head is whirling. He was lying back relaxing literally minutes ago.
Vaguely he does remember receiving some texts from Chan, but they looked like they were probably about… well, about practice. Which wasn’t going to be for several hours yet. So he had just flicked away the notification banner to read those later, and then forgot about them.
“Put them on, put them on,” Felix encourages him, and Jisung blinks quickly, moving on autopilot to pull on the shoes he’d been handed.
Felix is yapping away. Probably telling him why practice time has changed today. Jisung’s jeans don’t feel like they’re on quite right. He hopes he didn’t forget to fasten them.
“Wait,” he says, freezing as he gets the last shoe on. “Wait, you’re taking me there now?”
His mouth goes dry, lead sinking to the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t even hear what Felix is saying. Something about a car waiting.
“H-hold on! I need to uh… go do something,” he says. “Just… just real quick.”
“Do what?” Felix asks, checking his watch.
Jisung’s phone buzzes again in his hand. Like the warning rattle of a rattlesnake’s tail. He doesn’t have an excuse ready.
He can feel the denim of his pants rubbing against the lace.
Still, he doesn’t say anything. Can’t think of a single reason to go back in that doesn’t involve blurting out, “I’m wearing luxury panties and you’re dragging me outside in them.”
Even the thought alone ties his insides in a hot little tangle, and then his tongue along with it. Everything down to his toes clenches when he pictures himself in the practice room with everyone like this, and his stomach gives a searing hot lurch low down inside.
And then he’s being dragged again, out of the apartment and down the corridor to the waiting car, gripping onto his jeans with one hand and a slippery hold on reality with the other, because this cannot be how his day is suddenly going.
*
They arrive at the company too quickly. One moment he’s being bundled into the back seat while Felix continues chattering cheerfully away, and the next he‘s outside the practice room. Everything in a blink, like moving through a dream.
Jisung still doesn’t know why practice was moved forward. He didn’t listen to Felix’s explanation, and to be honest, whatever it was, he’s just so past caring. He wants this over with so he can leave and get changed.
He presses his lips into a tight smile when someone greets him, giving a half nod of acknowledgement and not disagreeing when Felix jokes that he’s brought him here still half asleep.
When he sits down to do his warmup stretches, he feels it. The pull of the fabric where it sits tight against his skin under his clothes. Where the waistband presses against his stomach when he bends forward.
He feels naked fully dressed.
A water bottle appears in front of his face, and he looks up following the arm holding it the find Minho’s unreadable stare.
“Thanks,” he says. He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a whisper though, and has to clear his throat and try again. Minho doesn’t leave his side after. He probably already finished warming up, so Jisung just gets on with it, and acts as normal as he can.
When he stands though, the way Minho’s eyes trail down feels like it strips him bare.
What if he’s still thinking about it? What if he’s seeing it again?
The thought gives him even more of a jolt than it did before. He has to remind himself that Minho cannot see through his clothes. He’s just looking.
He’s just looking.
Like he always does.
“Ground control to Lee Know and Han,” Seungmin says lightly to a smattering of giggles. “Lovey-dovey eyes later, dance practice now.”
Minho only snorts at Seungmin’s teasing, and moves to get into position at the front. Jisung tries to as well. They’re so used to this. There’s nothing catastrophically new about the gentle poking fun at all.
But there’s something in Jisung’s tummy that he doesn’t want to call butterflies, and they get stronger when he takes his spot several paces behind Minho, and meets his eyes in the mirror. It’s just a glance. Minho’s gaze moves over everyone, checking they’re all in position, and then someone starts the music.
But Minho looks again. His eyes flick lower, dragging down Jisung’s body to his…
Oh. Oh so that’s why. Jisung only sees it now that he looks at himself in the mirror too, a flush of heat rising to his face. He’s wearing Minho’s jeans. That’s why they don’t fit. That’s why Minho keeps looking at him like that.
He doesn’t have time to give much thought to this or to do anything about it, they’re already moving. A belt would be very appreciated right now, and the legs are a little too long for him, but it’s manageable. He just has to get through this practice. Just get through it.
He knows the dance now, so it’s more following the muscle memory than anything else. He could do better in more comfortable clothes, but he doesn’t trip up and he doesn’t miss a move. He just keeps his eyes on Minho up front, making sure he’s following his lead.
The lace presses on his skin, the edges of it rubbing slightly when they have to make bigger moves with their legs. He tries so hard to concentrate on what he’s doing, on following the choreography that he knows now, so he has no excuse if he starts forgetting his moves, but it’s difficult to focus on that when the stiff material of the slightly loose jeans moves so easily against the lace, friction scraping gently, so easily felt through the thin fabric of the gold panties.
A glance from Minho steals his attention back, and then a double-take, like Minho caught him do something he shouldn’t have. Jisung probably fucked up one of the steps. He doesn’t remember fucking one up, but Minho is too nice to him to call it out so bluntly like he would to the others.
Memories of having his position corrected flood him with a hot bubbling sensation inside—of Minho’s hands on his hips, moving for him.
If he did that… if he felt what was under his palms on Jisung’s hips…
His stomach flips. Suddenly he’s standing taller, dancing harder, determined that he give Minho no reason to have to do that. He gives the dance his full attention—every kick, every twist, every jump.
When he spins around to follow the next formation, he makes sure to give it a renewed energy, to not slack at all. He forces his mind to think of the routine. Only the routine. Ignore the way the inside of the zipper brushes a little roughly over the embroiders stars.
Cool air rushes under his hoodie when it lifts, a soothing breeze against his rapidly heating skin.
There’s a sound behind him. The squeak of shoes and then a thump, off-beat. A slap like someone’s palms hitting the polished floor. The music doesn’t stop, but someone barks a short startled laugh, and the dancing slows to a halt.
Jisung turns back in time to see Minho straightening from a crouch, pushing himself up with one hand on his thigh like he’d just taken a fall and had to scramble back to his feet.
“You uh,” Chan starts, holding back a laugh of his own. “You okay?”
Minho turns his face to Chan, eyes wide as if in shock at himself for the mistake. Jisung could track in real time the shade of red quickly taking over his neck. He doesn’t even say anything. No snarky comment, no silly giggling, nothing.
His eyes flick straight to Jisung and then drop, hovering around his waist for a second before he looks away again .
Jisung’s stomach twists.
Minho licks at the corner of his lips, won’t meet Jisung’s eyes, and doesn’t even seem to notice the others poking lighthearted fun at him for tripping over his own feet in a dance routine that he could probably do in his sleep. He doesn’t even speak, just does a motion for everyone to get back into position.
But Jisung is rooted to the spot. He has to be shoved lightly, knees quaking and weak under him, before he’s able to take a few steps forward again.
Minho keeps darting glances at him, eyes still wide and his mouth a little open, like he’s not even sure what he saw. And Jisung is molten inside. He’s a million miles up in the sky and spinning on an office chair made of fire.
Minho saw him. Jisung’s sure he must have.
Jisung’s stare has to be burning holes into Minho’s reflection, but he avoids looking back anywhere higher than Jisung’s bellybutton.
The music restarts from the beginning.
Jisung finally catches Minho’s eye as they start. It’s barely for a second before he ducks his head away again, but Jisung sees it.
The back of his neck is so red…
And he keeps stealing glances, eyes sliding back to Jisung’s middle more often that he could really pass off as just watching his dance for mistakes. Like he’s trying to see it again.
Jisung has to bite his lips together on a sudden delirious laugh threatening to bubble it’s way out of him. There’s something hot and stupid swelling like a balloon inside of him while he moves.
The jeans sit low on his hips, barely holding on, and he lets them. Doesn’t try tugging them back up only for them to inevitably slip again.
He waits for the jump, turns just a little slower, angling his hips and lifting his arms more than he needs to on the drop back down, letting his hoodie lift higher with the motion. Just enough for the stars to catch on the light.
Minho stumbles again, just a tiny step out of sync. He doesn’t fall this time, but he does miss a move as everyone else spins, caught halfway between frozen and moving on autopilot.
“Yah!” Changbin growls from the other side, though he sounds more amused than actually angry. He would know that Minho must be dazed to be forgetting the dance. “You need a nap or something?”
“Sorry,” Minho mumbles, not really listening.
Jisung can barely contain himself.
Minho saw him. That should be terrifying, but instead of the sickening plummet he expects to feel, there’s an explosion of something loud going on in parts of him he never knew existed. Something like the sheer exhilaration of being on stage—being in the spotlight—but better.
They move back to the start, a few of them grumbling a little, gently ribbing Minho for being the one who’s supposed to be picking on them for slip-ups, not the other way around. He nods stiffly, jaw clenched so hard like he’s grinding his teeth to powder. His face is so red, but everyone else will mistake it for embarrassment that he messed up.
Jisung gets back into position along with the rest of them. He’s insane. He’s out of his mind. He’s going crazy and Minho is trying so hard not to look at him, but he’s failing. And Jisung… he likes it.
His heart hammers, excited. He waits for Minho’s eyes to inevitably be dragged back to him again, and he slips a hand under his hoodie. Making a little show of scratching his chest, he lets the front of it rises up to show off his stomach, the top of the panties peeking over the waistband of the low hanging jeans.
Minho’s reaction is almost subtle, but Jisung has never been so zeroed in on someone in his whole life. He doesn’t miss the jerk of Minho’s chest, like the breath gets punched out of it.
There’s that giddy feeling again. Something that squirms hotly in his gut, sinking slowly inside, through his stomach, heat going right to his—
“Are we gonna start or what?” Someone asks.
Jisung remembers he’s in the fucking practice room, and he drops the front of his hoodie fast. The music starts. Everyone dances. Jisung doesn’t move a muscle.
“Oh, what now—?”
Jisung doesn’t look around to find out who just spoke up or if they’ve all stopped again, he just bolts from the room, calling back a hurried, “Bathroom!”
*
In the corridor, he tries not to run.
It’s fine, no one saw him bolt. He’s not drawing attention. A casual sprint to the toilets, hoping nobody is already inside. Holding his jeans—Minho’s jeans—at his hips while he does to stop them slipping any lower.
They must have gotten mixed up in the laundry. It’s fine. Totally fine. They live together, it happens. Neither of them ever says anything when they notice the other has accidentally borrowed an item. It’s not like it happens on purpose. It’s not like realizing “oh, I took hyung’s hoodie today” or “ah, so that’s where my shirt went… hyung looks good in it” brings him a sense of comfort in any weird kind of way.
He slams into the bathroom, thanking the lavatory gods that it’s empty.
Dropping himself back against the door, he stops for breath. Panting. His palms sweat where he presses them back against it, his pulse trembling wildly. He inhales—sucks in a slow breath and holds it.
On the exhale, he can’t stop himself any longer from pressing one hand to the front of his jeans, stifling a groan behind his teeth and a bitten lip. He’s so hard, just from that. Just from letting himself be seen. The heel of his palm grinds down on it, hips jerking forward, and then he snatches his hand back.
It’s fine. It’s fine. This is probably a reaction to the adrenaline. A perfectly normal thing for his dick to do in those circumstances, no matter who’s involved.
His heart is still racing, the heat between his legs pulsing.
“I’m fine,” he whispers to himself, and he pushes off the door to rush to the sink, turning the tap on high and cupping his hands under it. “This is fine.”
He splashes his face, avoiding making eye contact with the mirror while he runs his wet fingers through his hair to push it back.
This is a normal reaction.
The fabric feels so tight on him now. Every movement, every brush against the roughness of the jeans, sends a spark up his spine. He pops open the button, hoping for it to give him some relief, but then he makes the mistake of looking up—of letting himself catch sight of his reflection in the mirror where he looks so flushed and wrecked. His hair is damp, falling back from where he’d pushed it to hand over hooded eyes, and the gold stars are even more visible with the button open and his thumb hooked in the front of the jeans.
If he tugs that thumb just slightly, lowers the fabric just the tiniest bit, he can see the head of his cock through the sheer part of the panties, hard and flushed pink.
A soft noise crawls its way out of his throat.
His hand pushes down inside before he can stop it, his fingers squeezing himself through the lace and feeling it kick back against his palm urgently. The sight of himself like this has him doubling over, one hand braced on the sink to hold him up, his hips twitching forward into the other.
“Fuck, oh fuck,” he gasps, forcing himself back up straighter and yanking his hand back out of his pants.
What the fuck is he doing?
At the company. In the middle of practice.
But he’s so hard. It hurts so much. He feels it twitch again, begging for his hand back.
“No! I can’t, I can’t,” he whines under his breath, fingers gripping the edge of the sink like he’s trying to break it from the wall.
He glares at himself, and his reflection stares back, wanting.
“This is your fault,” he tells it, and then he turns around, puts his back to it so he won’t have to see the blush on his face or the desperation in his own eyes.
He’s horny at work and arguing with a mirror. What a fucking loser.
Closing his eyes doesn’t help, he just sees the practice room again instead. The way Minho was staring, entire face and neck glowing red and his mouth hanging half open, eyes searching for another glimpse in the mirror like he didn’t even realize Jisung had already catching him looking.
Jisung drops his face into his hands and groans, long and low, and he bounces his legs a little. He refuses to call it stamping his feet, but fuck if he doesn’t just feel like doing that too. He keeps seeing it. Over and over. Minho’s eyes following the movement as he lifted his hoodie. The little hitch of breath. The way it distracted him so much that he forgot to dance—just staring.
It’s not even a decision at this point, his hand just ends up back between his wobbling legs, pressing down on it and dragging an open-mouthed gasp out of him.
He tells himself it’s to ease the pressure, just one more touch to take the edge off before he stops, but his thighs are clenching and his eyes rolling shut while he does it again.
This is bad. He needs to stop or there’s a serious chance he might actually risk coming in his pants like this.
He needs to cool the fuck off right now before someone comes looking for—
Footsteps.
Jisung freezes solid, eyes wide and breath held in panic. They’re coming this way.
Managing to unfreeze himself when he realizes this, he dives into one of the stalls, locking the bolt and leaning back against the door just before the footsteps come to a halt outside the room. The quiet squeak of the hinges tells Jisung when they’ve come inside, but they don’t walk any close, waiting.
So not someone here to use the facilities then. Looking for him?
His cock gives a tight thump of heat where the starry panties hold it pressed to his stomach, leaking sticky fluid into his jeans—Minho’s jeans, he reminds himself again—and he has to press a hand to his mouth to hold his reaction in.
That could be Minho right now. Come to check on him, maybe he’ll ask if he’s okay, insist on coming into the stall. He might be curious, take a peek down and make Jisung move his hand out of the way so he can get a proper look at the pretty gold lace on him. Oh god, with the button open like this, he would be able to see how Jisung’s cock is aching in it.
Jisung doesn’t realize he already has his hand back down there until it’s too late. His thumb rubs damp lace over his leaking tip, and his whole body convulses, a sob locked in his throat.
“Hyung?”
Jisung freezes, and this time it’s like bucket of ice water gets dumped over his head. He tries to breathe steady against the hand still pressed over his mouth, the other paralyzed in place on his dick.
Jeongin takes a couple steps further inside. He’s clearly not leaving. “Hyung, is that you?”
“Uh—yeah,” Jisung croaks out. He grimaces at his own breathlessness.
“Are you okay? We were just worried when you didn’t come back.”
“I’m fine,” he says, telling himself the voice crack is barely audible. His boner is disappearing faster than his pride, cooling into something heavy and miserable. He quietly removes his hand from his pants, the precum on his fingers drying tacky—a shameful reminder of what he almost let himself do.
“Are you sure?” Jeongin asks slowly when Jisung doesn’t respond again for a long moment.
“I… got a funny tummy,” he says, grasping at the first thing that comes to mind for an excuse. “Had some bad sushi last night. You might wanna get out of here before the smell hits.”
Jeongin makes an odd sound between disgust and a laugh. “That bad?”
Jisung swallows. “You don’t even wanna know.”
His ears are ringing, blood finally flowing back to his brain. He barely hears Jeongin telling him that he’ll let the others know that he’ll be back when he’s done. He manages a thick “sure, thanks,” before the squeaking hinges announce Jeongin’s departure, his footsteps fading into the distance down the corridor.
Eyes falling closed, he lets his head drop back against the stall door, and then blows out a slow breath. He’ll go back in. He will. Just… in a moment. When the shame has had time to settle in his chest. And his hands have been washed.
He stays like that for a while—quiet, embarrassed, and somehow still glowing a little on the inside.
*
Jisung reenters the practice room with clean hands, a freshly splashed face, and something settled in his chest, buzzing faintly under his ribs. Something big, but warm and bright.
He flashes a grin at them when he’s asked if he’s all good, makes a flippant comment about checking the dates on supermarket sushi in future, and takes his place back in the starting formation.
Minho watches him get into place, and Jisung gives him a sunny smile back. He fights down the urge to let it go shy, watching Minho’s gaze drop as if automatically down to his now covered waist and away.
His ears, still not yet fully cooled from before Jisung made his escape, have already reddened several shades again.
Jisung bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too wide, and nods that he’s ready now.
*
The sound of the shower starting down the hallway sets Jisung tingling down to his toes. It’s still early, but that only makes it better—gives him a perfect excuse.
He slips out of bed, tiptoeing to his drawers to take out the one he’d already decided on. He’d lay awake last night, deliberating. Deciding. Turning the idea over in his head. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since coming home from practice yesterday, sitting in the back of the car with Minho pretending not to sneak glances at him the whole way.
It’s… a test. Of sorts. He’s testing something. Himself, maybe? It’s a personal experiment.
He just wants to see what will happen. If he can do it. What Minho will do if he does.
The wooden drawer scrapes softly as it slides open, not nearly loud enough to be heard over the running water, but it still sets his nerves on edge. His heart is already thumping hard in his chest. Those nerves don’t feel bad now, but he doesn’t want to be interrupted early this time.
He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, smiling as he picks them out. Excitement bubbles in his stomach. They’re beautiful—a soft silver-gray, designed like a pattern of feathers, a matching set. Pity the bra won’t be fully visible, but he has to be more subtle than that.
Baby steps.
He pulls the panties on. No time to savor it today; he’ll have precious little time between Minho leaving for his schedule, and Jisung’s car arriving to take him to his. He’ll not get to see Minho again today until a few hours after that when they plan to meet up for lunch with Seungmin and Felix.
Imagining arriving at the restaurant, sitting next to Minho at their table—it being the first time Minho will see him after he does it. A swooping inside of him makes him have to clamp his mouth shut on a giggle.
He wants to do this. Wants to do it so bad. He wants to be brave. To show this to someone.
The water stops. Jisung goes still, midway through pulling his t-shirt off. He listens to Minho stepping out of the shower, how he does a little groan as he stretches that makes Jisung huff in amusement before he finishes removing his t-shirt.
Obviously it has to be Minho. He’s Jisung’s best friend. That’s why he’s the only person Jisung’s remotely comfortable doing this with. When he remembers Jeongin walking into the bathroom yesterday, or tries to imagine doing this with anyone else, there’s a cold feeling in his stomach that chases away any of the pleasantness of the idea.
He puts the top piece on in the mirror, caught somewhere between the quiet thought ‘am I really sure I won’t look stupid in this?’ and the slightly louder ‘Does that even matter anymore when I look this hot in it?’
And Minho was curious enough yesterday to keep trying to steal a look. Jisung had had to keep himself in check so not to risk giving himself a little problem again in front of everyone by doing it on purpose, but it was still fun to watch him crane his neck at every moment of potential wardrobe mishap.
He hears Minho go into his own room just as he’s pulling his t-shirt back on, and he sneaks back onto the bed. His mirror is already positioned perfectly, he just needs to take the picture from the best angle to catch it with.
Facing the other way, mirror behind him, he sits on his knees and opens the camera. In his head this had worked out the best way to take the shot without being obvious, but the moment he does and he sees that it doesn’t show enough to actually see what he’s wearing under the long shirt, he frowns. Trying to lift the t-shirt out of the way slightly when he’s sitting like this only makes it obvious he’s doing it on purpose, and so does rising up on his knees a little, leaving a space where he’s clearly hovering to make the panties visible.
This isn’t working. And it makes his thighs ache and shake far too quickly.
Eyes darting around the room for a fast solution—something he can do to fix this before his time runs out and Minho finishes getting ready—he has a stroke of genius. Snatching up his thickest, firmest pillow, he puts it down under him in the spot he needs to be for the mirror, and straddles it, leaning slightly forward to balance his weight on one hand.
Now, when he lifts the camera, he can see over his shoulder into the mirror where the pretty design of the back shows, just sheer enough to tease, and his legs on either side of the pillow.
He hasn’t even taken the picture yet and his dick is already twitching. No point worrying about that though—it can’t be seen from this angle anyway. From the front it just looks like a normal selfie; tatty old t-shirt hanging off him, his hair a mess, doesn’t even look like he’s leaning forward as much as he is.
Giving the camera a sultry look, he snaps the photo. A second look at it makes him frown though. That’s not the right mood, really. So he lifts the camera again. This time, he tugs the side of his shirt neck more to one side, making sure the ‘slip’ of it down one shoulder makes the bra more obvious. He arches his back a little more too, just for emphasis, but he changes his expression to wide-eyed surprise. More innocent. Less ‘this was an obviously planned move’ than before.
He takes the picture again, and this time it’s perfect.
Minho’s door opens just on time, and Jisung quickly gets himself back under the covers as quietly as he can, pillow back under his head and not his butt, blankets pulled up to his neck.
As he expected, there’s a soft tapping against his door, and then the handle turns, opening slowly so Minho can peek inside.
“Sung-ah, your alarm didn’t go off,” he says, and when Jisung doesn’t appear to stir, he opens the door full, stepping into the room.
Jisung feels a hand on his shoulder, shaking lightly, and he makes a show of waking with a little start.
“Mmnh? Time ’s it?” He mumbles, yawning wide and starting to stretch under the blanket. When he blinks open his eyes sleepily, he finds a smile waiting for him, and Minho holds up his own phone to show Jisung the time. He raises his eyebrows and yawns again. “Oh, shit. Thanks.”
Minho hums, smile turning softer, and it makes something extra tight tug in Jisung’s stomach suddenly. Guilt, probably, he tells himself. At the fact that he’s being a manipulative little shit to get a reaction out of him.
“Do you have much time before you have to leave?”
Jisung nods. “Mm. Still got time.”
“Then I’ll leave breakfast out for you before I go,” Minho tells him, and that feeling tugs again. If it’s guilt, it’s the most pleasant feeling of guilt he’s ever had.
“Thanks, jagi,” Jisung says quietly.
Once Minho is gone from the room and out to the kitchen, he swallows. Pulls his phone from under the covers to look at the phone again, and feels heat rush through him so hard he has to wriggle against the mattress.
No! He’s still sending it!
He won’t back out now.
When Minho gets a call to say that his car is waiting, he makes sure to check in on Jisung again, already making another show of stretching and promising he’s not falling back to sleep, and then he has to leave.
The moment the door clicks shut, Jisung throws the covers off and grabs his clothes to change. He runs into the kitchen and shovels down the breakfast that Minho left out for him, not wanting to waste a single piece even though he barely has time for it, then he throws himself into the shower.
He told Minho he still has time, because he wants it to be believable. Giving himself wiggle room to let Minho get at least down to the garage, into the car, and away into the streets before he sends it like he just took it in that moment.
When it comes to getting redressed though, he looks down at the set. It would be such a waste to only ever use them for a photo. His schedule isn’t exactly physically demanding today. He could just.
Leave it on.
He thinks again to their lunch date with Seungmin and Felix. Imagines letting a little of his clothes slip from his shoulder, just enough that Minho recognizes the strap where no one else would notice.
He recognizes the giddy feeling that comes with that now. Welcomes it. Even the embarrassment that comes with it.
So he showers, and he puts them back on. The clothes that go over it do a better job of hiding it this time, so he won’t have any slip-ups—unless he wants to. Checking the time, he figures Minho must be at least on the road by now, but he gives himself another minute.
The nerves aren’t bad, but they’re still there. He has the photo in the text box, waiting to go, his phone on the bed in front of him. He bites his lip—chews on it. His knees bounce where his legs are crossed. His finger shakes over the send button for several long seconds, heat tickling up his spine.
In a moment of impulse, he makes himself jab his finger down.
Jisung: hyung look at my bed hair this morning kkkk it’s crazy
It takes only a moment for Minho to read the message, the little ‘delivered’ under it changing in front of Jisung’s eyes and making him squeal into his knuckles, cutting the noise off when he clamps his mouth shut.
No taking it back now.
Jisung throws himself backwards on the bed, burying his face into the blanket where he bunches it up in his hands to muffle a scream. He rolls onto his front for a second, then ends up rolling back. And again. He doesn’t dare look at Minho’s response until he has to come back out of the blanket for air, and he can’t hold himself back anymore.
Scrambling upright again, he grabs for where his phone has been knocked in his flailing, grinning like an idiot while he turns it over to see the chat.
Minho hasn’t responded yet.
He must be wondering what to say. Or maybe he’s still looking at it!
Jisung pictures him sat in the back of his car, face flushed and stunned silent. He’s probably very red—flustered. He definitely has to have noticed. He usually would have text him back by now, and he can’t have reached his schedule already, so he still has time to think of a response.
He waits, watching for the response. Even if Minho likely won’t mention the reflection, he wants to know what he’ll say. How he’ll try to play it cool for this one.
Another minute passes. Two. Then five.
Jisung decides it’s probably like boiling a pan. The water won’t bubble if you’re watching it, so he puts the phone face down on his bed to avoid glancing at it, and gets up to quickly finish getting ready to leave for his own schedule.
By the time he finishes putting on his shoes, his phone buzzes, and he scrambles to pick it up. Welling excitement threatening to burst out through his ribs.
The excitement deflates immediately, a fizzling pathetic thing in his chest. It’s just the car letting him know they’re ready to collect him now.
That’s fine. And anyway, Minho probably had bad signal in the car. Maybe he’s trying to respond and Jisung just isn’t getting it yet. Or the image hasn’t loaded for him to see it yet.
Or… he’s probably with staff. Maybe he just hasn’t been able to open the message privately yet, or he’s had to hide so he can reply where no one will see it.
Maybe—
He’s already out of the apartment, down to the garage, and climbing into the back of the waiting car by the time he runs out of reasons to reassure himself.
He checks again (even though he would feel it buzz in his hand if anything came through) and pretends to himself like he doesn’t feel something sinking like a lead weight inside his gut.
The car pulls away, his manager is in the front seat, talking away to him about something, but Jisung can barely hear him. He’s watching the bottom of the text chat like staring at it hard enough will make those three little dots appear through wishful thinking alone.
Even if Minho doesn’t actually say anything, that would be something. At least then he would know that it’s because Minho is trying to respond. When does Minho ever leave him on read like this? Even when he’s busy he usually tries to say something—even if it’s only to tell him he’s busy and will answer later.
Unless he’s already so busy that he can’t actually use his phone right now. Or his signal is just so bad that he can’t send anything—
He recycles back through all the reasons in his head as they drive, alternating between staring at his phone and trying to catch Minho attempting to text back, and pointedly looking away from his phone, hiding the screen from himself so that he’ll stop metaphorically pulling his hair out over it.
All this worrying is going to feel so silly when he gets his reply and finds out Minho has been waiting to send it for as long as he’s been waiting to receive it.
*
When Jisung arrives at the restaurant for lunch slightly early, Felix and Seungmin are already seated. They’re in a booth, pouring over the menu and chatting easily. Usually Jisung would excitedly join in, but the moment he slides onto the bench opposite them, Felix glances up and then does a double-take.
Jisung quickly tries to look less like he’s been spiraling into insanity for the past few hours, offering them a tight smile.
“Are you okay?” Felix asks anyway.
Jisung shrugs. It feels weird so he immediately regrets it—then, for some reason, shrugs again.
“Why? Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks, and then, pretending like he totally got away with that without sounding weird, he jerks his head at the menu they’re holding between them. “What are you guys getting? I’m starving.”
Minho still hasn’t replied. Not one word. At this point even a single emoji would give him some relief. The eye-roll one. A thumbs up. Even the laughing one… actually, no. Definitely not the laughing one. He would cry.
He’s spent all that time with the reminder of his stupid decision right against his skin. And the worst part is how it still feels nice. Nice enough to remind him; he’s the freak here who can’t stop putting on lingerie. Wearing it to work.
Sending it to his best friend and member, who definitely did not ask to be shown someone’s whole ass before 10am on a weekday.
But surely there’s a reason. He keeps teetering on the edge of a miserable abyss, clinging onto the memory of just this morning to stop himself toppling down into it. Minho had smiled at him like that. The gentle voice, the soft expression. Making breakfast for him even though he had to leave first. Sometimes Minho looks at him like he’d do anything for him.
Surely a picture of Jisung’s ass—even unsolicited—wouldn’t make all that care melt away!
Although.
There was that one time on stage when he was asked who had the best butt in the group and he’d said Hyunjin.
Maybe Jisung’s ass is disappointing.
God. Is his ass disappointing?
What if his ass is so mid that Minho can’t even bring himself to comment on the photo? What if all his confidence is just unearned hubris and Minho does think he looks stupid? What if sending it was some kind of sexual harassment, and the reason Minho hasn’t even shown up for lunch yet is because he’s filing a restraining order and gagging behind Jisung’s back every time he thinks about that stupid picture?
A couple times through the morning, he had considered unsending the message, but that feels like it would only look guiltier. It would make it more obvious that he did it on purpose. Besides, it’s not like that would make Minho unsee the photo.
He could maybe send a follow-up message. Something to try cushion the blow. Laugh it off, call it another prank. Add something self-depreciating to make it clear this is so unserious and Jisung is so unbothered—
The restaurant door opens, and Jisung turns to stone in his seat as Minho walks in. He looks around, spots them in their booth, and then also turns to stone.
For one horrifying moment, Jisung can see the decision wavering in his eyes. Minho’s hand starts on the door, flight instinct ready to kick in the moment he can unfreeze himself.
“Hyung!” Felix spots him, leaning on the table to raise himself a little higher, hand waving in the air so no one could miss it. “Over here!”
Left with no other choice and half the restaurant glancing over at the noise to watch him, Minho lowers his head and lets go of the door, coming over quickly to sit with them.
He slides into the only seat that’s there—the one next to Jisung, leaving a gap that looks like a couple inches and feels like you could back a truck into it. When he looks up, he gives them a little smile and a wave, saying a tiny, “Hi.”
‘Them’ being Felix and Seungmin.
He doesn’t look at Jisung.
The way Felix’s eyes dart back and forth between them without his smile ever leaving his face makes Jisung want to crawl under the table and die. Thankfully though, Seungmin asks if they can hurry up and order now before he withers away, distracting Felix from whatever he might’ve said.
Minho doesn’t speak much. Not while they’re deciding, not while they order, and not even after. He gives Jisung the occasional sideways glances whenever he speaks, but the moment their eyes meet, Minho’s drop again, and he turns his face away completely, the back of his neck visibly burning.
Maybe he’s embarrassed for Jisung. Was it such a desperate move that that’s why he can’t even look at him? Does it make his stomach turn remembering it?
Jisung clenches his hands into fists on his lap, nails digging into his palms to stop himself dropping his face into them and wailing. There’s a sob and a whine warring for first place out of his mouth, so he clamps it shut to keep them both in.
Minho stands abruptly, and the three of them go silent, blinking up at him.
“I have to go.”
“Huh?” Felix gapes. His eyes flick back to Jisung for a second before moving right back to Minho as he shuffles out of the booth. “The food hasn’t even come yet.”
“I uhm. I’m not hungry,” he mumbles, pulling his wallet out without looking at any of them. “I don’t feel well. Had some bad sushi. Here, use this to pay.”
He tosses his credit card onto the table in front of them with a barely audible apology, and leaves in a hurry. Red as a chili pepper over every visible inch of him. They all watch him leave, Felix picking up his credit card in confusion, and they continue staring at the door after he disappears through it.
Eventually, Seungmin turns back around to look at Jisung, picking up his drink and pointing it at him before he says, “You two really need to start shopping somewhere else for your sushi.”
The food is good, but it turns to dust in his mouth. It clogs his throat and won’t go down properly when he swallows. He keeps laughing along every time the others do, but he hasn’t been listening since the food was put down in front of them.
Minho really wanted to try this place. Jisung wanted to try it with him.
He really fucked everything up.
He checks his phone. Still nothing, but at this point he doesn’t expect it anymore. His leg is bouncing under the table and there’s no one there to make him stop it. Minho would have. With a gentle touch on his knee he would have called him.
Jisung tries to do it himself, but his fingers dig in and it still doesn’t stop. He’s getting agitated. Impatient. Like he’s broke something precious and the time he can fix it is running out.
He takes out his phone. He’d kind of rather throw the thing and smash it right now than open that cursed text chat again, snakes writhing in his stomach at the thought of sending anything to make the situation worse, but he can’t go any longer. He’ll explode.
Jisung: are you okay?
Nice and simple. Friendly. Nothing that can disgust him any further.
He stares down at the chat. Rests his face in his hand while he waits, palm covering his mouth. Someone walks past, not close enough to see but close enough that Jisung gets that uncomfortable watched feeling. He quickly locks the screen and turns down the brightness, hiding the photo that still keeps staring back at him.
Should he send something else? Explain himself? Make a joke?
Should he take a fucking hint already and stop?
Seungmin says something. It must be funny because Felix is falling over himself laughing, hands clapping and everything. Jisung smiles, and he makes sure it’s wide enough to be believable. He swallows down the urge to do something stupid like cry. Swallows it several times more. If he opens his mouth it’ll just come out.
Fuck. What if Minho wants him to move out? He might ask to swap with someone. Jisung is going to get home to find him half packed.
They’ve been so happy living together and Jisung just had to go and spoil everything by pushing his weird little—
Minho responds. Jisung nearly drops his phone into his food in his hurry to unlock it again.
Irinoring: fine
Irinoring: feel sick
Irinoring: have fun
Well. It’s… something.
The next breath he takes is painful. His eyes start to blur as he reads the messages over and over. The only things Minho has said to him all day since offering to leave breakfast out for him.
It’s at least something, but it’s not what he wanted.
What did he even want though? What did he expect? What is Seungmin waving a hand in front of his face for?
“Huh?” He blinks, eyes focusing back onto the present where both men in front of him are staring at him like he’s a zoo animal that just started unzipping its costume.
“You look like you’re gonna throw up.”
A humorless laugh punches out of him. It’s not far off the truth. He does feel like he might just do that. Word vomit or actual vomit, his feelings will come out one way or another if he doesn’t do something about this soon.
What the hell does “fine” mean? What does he mean by that?
“Are you two fighting?” Felix asks, eyebrows raised and his eyes on Jisung’s phone like he’s trying to see what’s on it, though he doesn’t try to lean over the table to steal a look.
“I—No I… I have to go,” Jisung croaks out, placing his chopsticks down slowly. “I um…”
“Had some bad sushi. Yeah, yeah,” Seungmin finishes for him with a scoff and a smirk. “Go on. But leave his card. He’s still paying.”
He could call a car to come collect him and take him home, but the agitation has born down into his bones now, and if he has to sit still for another minute he’ll lose his mind and maybe even physically fall apart. And he means that literally. He’ll just be a bag of bones, rattling and quaking in his skin that doesn’t fit right anymore.
He walks home.
Minho’s keys are in the bowl by the door. His shoes are by the wall, neatly placed where they always go. Jisung slips his off and sets them beside Minho’s, where they always go.
He puts his keys in the bowl next to Minho’s too. With a soft clink as he sets them down gently. Carefully. Like a noise might make them disappear.
His eyes are misting up—have been the whole way here. But he’s clinging on. He’s determined to hold it together until he can at least make sure Minho isn’t mad at him. Disgusted by him. He’ll take ‘will still tolerate him’ if it’s what he can have.
Usually, he prides himself on his ability to read Minho like no one else. But his ability to overthink has a Red Bull in each hand and is currently wielding laser eyes at everything he cares about.
He comes inside, timidly almost. Like if he makes a noise it’ll snap the apartment into remembering that it’s supposed to be punishing him with packing boxes laid out.
The TV is on in the living room, volume low. Jisung glances in as he passes, but the couch is empty. Just a single untouched mug of coffee left on one of the stupid colorful cat coasters they bought the day they moved in.
Jisung’s throat tightens. He looks away fast before he starts crying over a fucking coaster.
Minho isn’t in the kitchen either. Jisung pauses there for a second in the doorway, the sound of traffic and city noises drifting up through the open window, and a sudden guilty thought twists in his stomach.
What if Minho really is sick?
He could be lying down somewhere right now feeling awful, and Jisung is just out here worrying more about his own freak problems and sulking over not getting the reaction he wanted for completely unasked for harassment.
His lips press together, brow furrowing as his face tugs into a frown, and he pads down the hall to Minho’s room. He stops outside the door. Then, quietly, just in case Minho is sleeping, pushes it open.
“Hyung…?”
Minho is lying on his bed. Flushed red, eyes dazed, his lips parted.
The door swings open, and his eyes slide sideways from the phone in his hand to see Jisung standing there. He jolts upright on the bed like he’s been electrocuted, yanking his other hand out from where it was moving inside the front of his sweatpants. Fumbling the phone between both hands, he drops it, tries to catch it—and fails.
It bounces over the edge of the bed, landing screen-up on the floor with a loud smack. Jisung barely gets a second to look down at it before Minho is launching his legs off the bed with a little yelp, and he kicks his own phone, sending it clattering across the room to disappear under the dresser.
They both watch it vanish, then he turns to look at Jisung in wide-eyed horror.
Jisung jumps, squeaking out a panicked, “Sorry!”
And then grabs the door again, slamming it shut and bolting down the hallways to his own room. He slams his own door shut behind him too, dropping himself back against it.
His heart is slamming wildly against his ribs. He doesn’t even realize how out of breath he is already until he’s stopped, wobbling legs letting him slide down. He has to stop himself from going right to the floor.
Panting, sweating, he looks down. He’s rock hard.
He lets a gasping breath out of his open mouth, one hand jumping to grip himself over his pants.
That was… it was his photo. Jisung’s selfie that he sent this morning. That’s what Minho had been looking at with one hand buried under his waistband, fist jerking under the fabric.
Jisung bites his lip to hold back a moan, his hand slipping down the front of his pants. Down inside the lacy panties that Minho was just touching himself to. He barely got even a second to take it in, half a glimpse and it was gone, but he’s so sure that’s what it was.
No, no. He pulls his hand back out and tries to breathe. He can’t do that. He shouldn’t. Not right now.
He tries to close his eyes, but all he sees is the flush on Minho’s face, the shuddering breath through his parted pink lips before he realized someone was there.
The image of Jisung bent over a pillow—how Minho has stared at it on his phone, eyes lust-fogged and hungry.
Jisung groans, pushing himself off the door and—falling forwards on his feet more than walking—takes himself quickly to his bed to flop face first into it. Buried in the pillows, he groans again, harder, and has to push his face into them to stop himself.
That was his photo. It definitely was. Minho was jerking off over him. Right? He was touching himself to it?
Everything happened so fast, but he doesn’t think he’s wrong.
He realizes he’s grinding his hips down on the mattress, and he can’t bring himself to care now. It feels so good. All he can think about is the way Minho was looking at it. The way he hadn’t even bothered taking off his clothes yet because he was too busy touching himself to it.
The drag of lace on his cock where it’s trapped against the bed makes him shake, heat licking up his spine from the inside. Grabbing the first pillow his hand reaches, he yanks it down and shoves it under himself with a weak little gasp. He circles his hips on it, twitchy little movements, knowing the tip is leaking through the lace.
He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to. It feels so good he could come just from doing this—from just rutting down in uncontrolled little motions on his pillow. He reaches up blindly to grab onto the top of the mattress, bracing himself while he pushes the pillow between his legs more with the other hand.
It feels so good. He gasps against his sheets, his mouth slack, panting.
Minho wasn’t just looking at him. He liked it. Enough to get hard. Enough to feel like this.
The realization that Minho is in the other room right now—probably not feeling like this anymore, but upset and embarrassed after being walked in on—makes his grinding come to a stuttering and reluctant halt. His hip movements slow down, and he whimpers between bitten lips while he lifts himself up off the pillow to try to stop himself.
The door knocks—a habit Jisung should probably exercise more often—and he jumps, scrambling. He pulls himself back off the bed and onto his feet, shaking his pillow out where it had gotten smushed up under his… attentions.
“Um—Sung? Jisung-ah?” His voice wobbles, high and thin.
“Ah, just—just a second!”
God, Minho is fucking brave. Jisung thinks anyone else would’ve buried themselves by now. He definitely would have—
Oh, actually…
He stills. The imagined scene flashes through his head, Minho walking in and seeing him jerking off, somehow knowing it’s about himself. In the scene, Jisung still has the lingerie on too. He feels himself leaking even more into the panties.
Well, okay then. That’s something to look at later. After he deals with the current crisis.
His cock throbs while he tries to tidy himself up a little—tries to look like he wasn’t just humping his pillow like a feral animal—and he rushes to the door. He catches sight of himself in his big mirror before he gets there, seeing his face red and his hair a worse mess than it was this morning, but that doesn’t stop him from grinning ear to ear as he reaches the door.
He tugs the front of his hoodie down over his stupid boner and throws the door open.
“Hey, hyung!” He says, with very casual excitement.
He’s leaning forward a little. That won’t make it obvious, right?
“I’m sorry! It wasn’t… I mean, I shouldn’t have—” Minho starts blurting out right away. His voice is hoarse, stuttering over words that sound like they’re being strangled out of him, and his face is even redder than Jisung’s. The strawberry tone stains right down his neck and under the collar of his t-shirt.
Something a little twisted in Jisung is loving this. He did that. He made this happen. With nothing but a bit of lace and a camera.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Jisung smiles even brighter. “I barely saw anything.”
That only makes Minho’s blush burn deeper. His stammering even more flustered as he tries to speak and just chokes around his own voice instead, until he malfunctions himself right into painful silence. Clearly, he wants to give what he obviously thinks is a necessary apology. It’s cute.
Jisung subtly tugs down the front of his hoodie again, because this is really not helping to make his little problem get any smaller.
He likes that Minho cares enough to come right to him with an apology for soiling his dignity or whatever he thinks he’s done wrong, but Jisung can tell a ‘you can keep doing it, if you want,’ isn’t going to make him any less strung up about it right now. Might just make him combust on the spot, actually. Especially when saying it would let on that Jisung not only caught him literally with his hand down his pants, but knows what he was looking at too.
Tugging his bottom lip between his teeth to stop himself from smiling like an idiot, Jisung fights down a giggle that tries to fly out with the butterflies swarming his insides. He can totally play it cooler than that.
“So…” he says lightly. “I guess you’re feeling better—” (Minho’s face falls into his hands, and it makes it kind of hard for Jisung not to let that giggle burst out of him) “—wanna get lunch for real now? Just us?”
Minho drags his hands down, dropping them again, and he narrows his eyes at Jisung. The effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that he is currently a tomato with a face, but Jisung continues to smile innocently at him.
“Are you serious?”
“I’m actually starving!” He says, eyes widening earnestly. He’s not even playing—he’s suddenly ravenous. “Come on, it’s not like none of us have ever walked in on each other jerking off before. I had to live with Chan hyung—this was literally nothing!”
Minho blinks at him, processing.
“So… you didn’t—” Minho stops himself, blinks again, and looks up to take a breath.
He did. He saw the picture. But Minho isn’t the one slipping towards the acceptance stage of a developing kink for getting embarrassed, so Jisung will save him from that one. Or, well, he’ll ease him into it at least.
“I’ll pay this time,” he says, knowing full well that Minho will pay anyway. He reaches out to hold onto Minho’s arm, swinging it a little while he whines, pleading, “Hyuung…”
Minho lets himself be swung side-to-side by the arm, sighing loudly and rolling his eyes like it’s some big demand being asked of him, and then he groans, “Fine, fine, okay. Let’s go.”
Jisung makes a show of biting his lip on a smug little nose-scrunching grin, fist pumping the air like he just won something. It’s just obnoxious enough to have Minho scoff fondly at him instead of dwelling on his own shame.
“Let me go get my wallet,” he says, like Jisung didn’t already offer to pay.
*
Alone at home again, Jisung takes his time selecting something to put on. He already knows what he’s going to do now.
Lunch went well—it was so easy for him to pull his Minho back from mortified awkwardness once he had him talking. So easy to joke around and laugh with him again, even if it does now come with little sideways glances down at Jisung’s body that Minho doesn’t think are obvious, his ears tinging pink every time. Or how halfway through telling a story about something funny he’d seen that morning, Minho’s sentence had stumbled right as Jisung had casually tucked an ankle around his, nodding with a smile for him to go on as if nothing was happening.
This is fun. It’s more fun because it’s with Minho. Because once he gets past his overthinking and the trained instinct to think of it as weird, this feels safer with Minho than he knows it ever would with anyone else.
He takes out a pair and puts them on, admiring them from all angles in his mirror, and then be goes to the bathroom. The lighting is better in there. Brighter. Good for catching the glitter covering the deep midnight blue fabric.
Minho had already scheduled time with his personal trainer for after lunch, but he had still come back home with Jisung first, even when Jisung insisted he wanted to walk instead of getting a car.
When they’d passed an ice cream shop on the way, a single hopeful look, wide puppy eyes in Minho’s direction, was enough for him to be walking back out with a cone in his hand and a happy smirk on his face. He said thank you so cutely, leaned his head onto Minho’s shoulder for a second, and Minho had grunted like it was just whatever.
Jisung isn’t exactly new to this kind of power. He knows what he can do to fans—knows how he looks and when he looks good. But this feels like teetering on the edge of something more. Like unlocking a secret.
They’d walked slowly, killing the time before he had to leave. Jisung had happily yammered away about nothing, licking his ice cream between words. Minho hadn’t said a word, and Jisung expected he was just being quiet, listening. When Jisung had paused to look at him though, he was just staring—eyes slightly unfocused, fixed on Jisung’s mouth, breath a little uneven while Jisung licked the corner of his lips clean.
It’s this.
This is what feels new.
Seeing Minho’s ice cream left practically untouched, melting down the cone and over his knuckles in streaks of white, knowing what he was thinking that made him forget to even eat it. He hadn’t even noticed that Jisung had stopped talking.
“It’s been a little while since I posted something to Bubble,” Jisung had said, noting Minho’s easy mindless agreement. “I guess I should post something today? Maybe a selfie?”
“Oh, yeah,” Minho had nodded, barely present enough to process it, his eyes following the slow drag of Jisung’s tongue over the ice cream. “Yeah, you should… you should do that.”
Well, Jisung is good at doing as he’s told. Sometimes.
He leans back against the bathroom wall, one hand pressed flat to his chest where he lifts the front of his hoodie up, the other holding up his phone, camera open. Tensing his abs to make sure he gets a good shot of them, he angles his hips and parts his lips.
The glitter sparkles, just the top of the lacy pattern against his lower stomach making the shot. It’s not front and center, but it’s obvious enough. And Minho will know. He’ll see that pattern and he’ll know.
The shutter sound when he takes the shot has some kind of Pavlovian fucking affect on his dick. Or maybe it’s the knowledge of where the photo will be going—or rather, the effect it’ll have when it does.
He pulls the phone further back to get everything in the next shot, this one just for himself. For now. The lace frills at the edges without looking over the top, a slight floral pattern in it if he looks hard enough. But he’s not looking at the pattern right now, just how it stretches over his filling cock.
Tugging the hoodie a little higher, he spots the bottom of his tattoo poking out from under it on his chest. He turns, admiring from the side, and pictures another tattoo right there, running down his ribs. How hot that would look like this.
He turns more to take a picture from the back in the mirror, giggling to himself at the imagined scene of Minho getting that one in the middle of his workout. These ones aren’t as revealing as the others, but they do make his ass look great.
Jisung won’t be that mean though, not today. And besides, he doesn’t want to risk having to wait until Minho is finished at the gym altogether for him to see it. He still has just a little time before Minho is scheduled to start.
Jisung: [image attached]
Jisung: so do you think this is too much for bubble or should I stick to the group chat for this one?
Jisung leaves the bathroom with his eyes glued to the screen as he walks back to his own room. He’s not expecting a reply immediately. Unlike last time, he’s prepared for the fact that he might not actually get to see the reaction, so when the read receipt appears and a reply follows just seconds later, it catches him off guard.
Irinoring: no
Jisung: no?
Jisung: no it’s not too much? been working on my abs for the comeback
Irinoring: no
Irinoring: don’t
Irinoring: don’t post it
Jisung: oh so just the group chat then?
Dropping himself down onto his bed with a little bounce and a wide smile he couldn’t restrain if he wanted to, he holds the phone in front of his face and watches those little dots at the bottom. A flurry of anticipation makes him grab his pillow, clutching it tightly to his chest and half hiding his face behind it.
It takes a little while. Minho starts, stops, starts again. Twice.
Irinoring: don’t
Jisung: ah does it not look good? :(
He buries his face deeper into the pillow, biting down a smile behind it and feeling a squeal of excitement trying to burst its way out of his chest.
Getting Minho flustered is satisfying on its own. But this… him not wanting anyone else to see…
Jisung’s heart flutters in his chest. He tries to keep his breathing slow, to retain just a modicum of chill.
Irinoring: it’s f
Irinoring: fine
Irinoring: don’t post it
Jisung: oh?
Jisung: then why?
He’s barely holding himself back from the urge to kick his feet wildly around the bed. Watching those three dots again, except this time they appear and vanish in rapid bursts, like Minho can’t settle on what to say. It keeps going, until eventually they stop altogether.
He waits, but it seems like that’s all he’s going to get out of Minho right now.
Hyunjin: you two having a fight or smth kkkk he just got up and started demolishing the punching bag
Oh…
There’s a low swoop in Jisung’s stomach. His thighs clench, pressing together a little tighter.
That’s… kind of hot, actually.
That’s really…
Jisung: nope! all good here! he’s just working hard for the comeback
Hyunjin: okay well he’s gonna work that bag off it’s chains with his fists if he keeps going lmao
Jisung: send a video
*
Jisung sits in stunned silence, the box between his knees on the living room floor. He’d brought it in, heart racing with excitement for the new gift, but he hadn’t expected this.
His fingers brush lightly over them. They’re exactly like the ones he’d seen back then that day in the practice room. A deep, vivid red. Heart cutout on the back. He still has the screenshot on his phone, despite the mortifying memory of having half the room catch him doing it.
Checking the rest of the box, he digs through the ruffled strips of pretty packing paper. There’s no note, as usual, but it does come with something else.
He doesn’t know what it is at first—a loop of fabric and elastic strips with clips on the end. It takes just a moment for it to click when he also sees the red sheer stockings.
He doesn’t even hold back the excited noises. There’s no need. No one else is home and there’s no risk of him being interrupted, because Minho went to visit his parents for a few days. One last breather before they’re too busy to even think of it.
With the next album out soon, and another already planned very shortly after it, Jisung doesn’t have the luxury of that time away. He doesn’t begrudge him for it though, it’s nice getting cat updates a million times a day, or random thoughts Minho just needs to get out to someone.
Jisung likes that he’s that someone. That Minho isn’t afraid of being too much for him.
The timing of the gift arriving is funny though.
He doesn’t waste any time debating with himself about it. He has the next few hours completely free, half the members are away visiting family or tucked up doing whatever they do to recover from a late night session in the studio. He’s already wriggling out of his pants right there on the living room floor.
He puts on the panties first, lip tugged between his teeth and smiling so hard. They’re so bold. Sexy in a way that already has him squirming before he even finishes pulling the stockings up to his thighs. The garter belt goes on next, wrapping around his middle to his back and then sitting snug on his waist, just above the waistband of the panties. He’s already rubbing his knees together subconsciously while he clips the little straps onto the stockings.
The walk through the apartment to his room makes his stomach do somersaults, his nylon covered feet padding past the kitchen and to his room. He goes right to the mirror, pulling the t-shirt off over his head.
Standing there, looking at himself in it, he has the stupidest smile on his face. Turning on the spot, he looks over his shoulder, and his hand comes up to his mouth, covering it as though to hold the excitement inside. To stop it spilling out over him.
It’s perfect.
His laugh spills out anyway, so happy he feels it bubbling over from inside of himself.
His phone buzzes, and Jisung jumps to pick it up immediately. There’s no caption at all, just a photo of a cat. Not one of Minho’s cats—a tortoiseshell, stray probably. Minho must have bumped into it just now on a walk.
An impulse decision snatches him immediately, and he swipes off the picture, going to calls instead. He almost presses it, stops himself still for a moment, and then runs back to the other room to grab something from the folded laundry pile. Tugging it on as he gets back to the room, Jisung presses call and makes himself comfortably casual on his bed, the phone propped against a pillow and angled up to only see his top half.
Minho answers quickly, his face red and sweating, panting.
“Hey,” Jisung grins. He gives an unnecessary little wave with his fingers. “Were you running? Am I interrupting?”
Minho, clearly too out of breath to take a call, shakes his head anyway.
“You can interrupt,” he says. Gasps it more like, blinking all pretty with that flush on his face. “Was there a reason, or…?”
Jisung traps his hands between his thighs, tugging the bottom of the slightly-too-large-on-him black t-shirt down a little more and shrugging. He leans forward, presses his fists into the mattress, rocking slightly and trying very earnestly to calm himself down.
“No reason, I just missed you,” he says. He gives Minho a moment to just pant silently about that. His expression doesn’t outwardly change, but it doesn’t need to. Jisung has to look away from the screen for a moment to stop himself from letting a giddy little laugh burst out. He doesn’t quite fully manage it, but he pushes on and asks, “Did you see anything else interesting while you were running?”
“Just the cat,” Minho says. There’s just a beat of hesitation before he casually adds, “and a pretty cute squirrel.”
Jisung laughs, almost made pleasantly shy again, but he doesn’t let the conversation go into rest, launching himself into a description of his morning and his breakfast with Hyunjin—just whatever he can think off to prolong the delay a little, his tummy tightening with anticipation.
Minho continues his route at a walk instead of a run, with a warm expression like he could just listen to Jisung talk about any old garbage for hours (he does sometimes) and interjecting only to prompt questions—to get Jisung to talk more.
He talks too much, probably. Too fast, nerves making him a little jittery. Minho doesn’t mention it though, thankfully. He asks about Minho’s parents and how they’re doing, tells him to tell them he said hi, and Minho promises to do that when they get back from their shopping trip later. All normal stuff.
Jisung finds his opportunity when he mentions the funny bedside clock he’d bought, and Minho—somehow not bored of his rambling yet—encourages him to show it and tell him more.
“Oh, sure,” Jisung says, blinking for a second before he does anything, his entire insides doing some kind of triple loop de loop between his bellybutton and his throat.
Not wanting to let on that he feels any kind of hesitation at all, he gives Minho a quick, easy smile, and then turns to lean over the side of the bed to get the clock, lifting onto his hands and knees to reach it.
Minho starts to say something just as Jisung starts to move, but he makes a strangled choking noise mid-sentence, and Jisung has to use every ounce of willpower in his little body not to squeal happily at that. He moves to sit quickly back down, hoping his flush won’t show too well, and lifts the clock up in one hand like that’s what he’s struggling to hold his giddy smile back for.
Before he’s finished turning to look back at the screen though, there’s a sudden loud metallic clunk from the other side of the phone.
He drops back onto his butt and stares wide-eyed at it.
“What—hyung, oh my god! Are you okay?”
Minho stands still on the screen, his face half in view and wincing with one hand rubbing at his forehead, leaning himself a little against a tall metal pole in front of him.
“Hyung,” Jisung says, pressing his lips together for a second before he goes on, “did you just walk into that lamppost?”
Minho keeps rubbing his head, making it pinker with how hard he does it like he can’t stop, until eventually he says, “…no.”
“Oh, okay!” Swallowing down his laugh right then is the hardest thing Jisung has ever had to do. He manages it through sheer willpower to commit to the bit, and holds up the silly banana clock. “Here it is.”
“Nice carrot clock,” Minho says, breathless. “What, um—what. What are you—uh.”
Jisung resists the urge to ask if he’s sure he didn’t bump his head and lets him finish instead, curious where he’s going.
“What are you wearing?” He eventually stutters out, voice trying so hard to be casual.
“Oh,” Jisung looks down, and then he pinches the front of his shirt with both hands, lifting it forward so that it lifts slightly, but not enough. He doesn’t miss the way Minho’s eyes drop to the bottom of the screen, trying to catch another glimpse. “This? I borrowed one of your shirts. You don’t mind do you?”
Minho shakes his head vigorously. “No. No, you can—whenever you want—”
“Ah, good,” Jisung already knew he wouldn’t mind. He presses a hand to his tummy over it, lets the hint of something underneath show. “It’s so comfy, hyung. Your clothes are so big on me.”
“But… are you uh—are you—um…”
Jisung lets Minho stammer away, not even knowing what he’s trying to say and still dazed from everything else—not to mention the lamppost he didn’t walk into while probably definitely not gawking at the red straps against Jisung’s thighs or the lace on his ass. He just smiles, blinking down innocently at the phone, like there’s not so much pressure building between his own legs that he has to lean forward on his elbows to hide it.
Minho starts up again—doesn’t say anything else, just starts running, the phone still in his hand. Jisung snorts a little, watching the blurring motion of the street whipping back and forth into view as Minho continues his run without hanging up.
He does his best to behave. Ignores the insistent heat pooling as if his life depends on it. The idea of Minho just getting so overwhelmed that he immediately has to start running again… Jisung drops his head down onto the mattress and lets out a breath, reaching out blindly to knock the pillow holding his phone so the screen won’t capture the way he can’t help bouncing himself back on empty air.
A door slamming a little too loud makes him look up, flustering to stop and pick up the phone again. He sees where Minho is as he lifts the phone in front of himself again but avoids making eye contact with the camera, the walls of his parents hallway behind him.
He definitely wasn’t in his own street when he’d stopped at the lamppost. He must have taken a shortcut back to the house—or he ran back there really fucking fast.
“You okay?” He asks. “Ending your run early?”
“I—yeah,” Minho manages. Jisung hears him kick off his shoes in a hurry, see him walking fast through the house like he couldn’t just relax after that sprint. He swallows, still breathless, still not able to look right at him. “I have to… I have to go. Shower—I need a shower.”
“Mm,” Jisung nods, smiling sweetly. “Yeah. I bet you’re all hot and sweaty now, huh?”
Minho does look at the camera then. Does a double-take at Jisung’s waiting expression and then closes his eyes, visibly shaking some thought from his head before he opens them again.
“Yeah, I—” he swallows. “Running. Yeah. I have to… I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay,” Jisung says, as eager as Minho is. He does another little finger wave at the camera, and only resists the ridiculous urge to blow a kiss to it because Minho looks like he couldn’t handle the extra teasing right now. “Bye, hyung-ah. Enjoy your shower.”
The call clicks off, his screen goes dark, and Jisung drops it with a groan, hand already reaching between his legs to press. He pushes into it, grinds down on his hand for a minute with his face in the sheets until he can’t take any more waiting, and then pushes himself back up.
He tosses his phone out of the way and doesn’t know or care where it lands. Grabbing the pillow, he crawls quickly to the end of the bed—to where the mirror is pointed right at him—and he swings a leg over it, watching his reflection while he starts rubbing on it.
He doesn’t go slow. The sight of himself there, the sultry red against his skin, the straps of the belt pulling taut with every roll of his hips, he knows he’s not going to last long. He doesn’t take Minho’s t-shirt off, doesn’t want to, but he does grab a fistful of it at the front, pulling it up to show everything to himself in the mirror.
The pillow is too soft, too frustrating. He throws it somewhere—doesn’t care where that lands either—and reaches for the better one. The same one he took the first picture with.
This time the drag is perfect. He lets his mouth fall open as he rocks his hips, watching, eyes fixed on the way he moves against it. On the red against his skin, the curve of his back where he holds up Minho’s shirt.
He pictures Minho behind him, gasps and bites his lip at the image of it. What expression he would have, where he would look first…
He would sit behind Jisung, back against the headboard, eyes on his ass as at it moves on the pillow. Hands on it too, maybe, if Jisung let him touch.
Jisung gets more frantic. He’s afraid he’s going to ruin them, but it feels so good. It looks so good. He bites his lip, watching his own expression change, and fumbles with one trembling hand at the garter clips to unfasten them. Free to move more once they’re off, he grips tighter onto the front of the pillow, rougher movements, breathing hard.
Minho would like it. He would want to touch himself too, watching him like this. Jisung knows it. Can almost feel the way he’s be looking, eyes heavy, hand working himself slow.
He’s probably touching himself in the shower right now.
A moan tears its way out of him at the sudden realization, loud and unrepentant.
Minho is probably wet and desperate and stroking his cock to the memory of nothing but a glimpse of ass cheek in red lace. Of Jisung in it.
He scrambles up onto his knees, hands fumbling to pull himself out of the underwear, already wet enough to slick the way when he starts fisting his cock noisily. He throws his head back, and then he’s coming. He lets it shoot all over his pillow and the bedsheets, not stopping until the oversensitivity makes him twitch and shake.
Slowly, he stops, his chest heaving as he pants for air, and he drops himself forward onto his hands. His arms are shaky though, and he pushes back again to fall onto the mattress where it’s still clean.
There’s no shame, not like he would’ve expected. There’s only the euphoria, still zinging pleasantly under his skin all over. He lets himself lie there for several minutes, just glowing. Letting his breaths even out again slowly.
When he has his body back under control, he looks around for his phone. He has to lean over the bed, sighing when he sees it half way across the floor, and crawls lazily to stretch out and reach for it without getting up.
Flopping back down—and avoiding letting his red stockings drag through the steaks of cum splattered around the bottom of his bed—he brushes back his hair from where it hangs over his eyes, and he opens his texts with Minho.
Jisung: so
Jisung: how was your shower?
He waits, watching, and grins when he eventually sees that Minho is typing, only to delete it several times again. He gets an answer after a few minutes of that. A single word.
Irinoring: fine
Jisung snorts, locking his phone screen and tossing it onto the side table. He’ll clean up the mess soon. For now, he just wants to bask in this feeling. Let it settle warm in his chest while he floats. Just a little longer.
*
It’s late—maybe not late for some, but later than the members should still be out when they all know they’ll have to be up at the crack of dawn the next morning. None of them seem to care though.
They’re working hard, pushing themselves harder for an upcoming comeback as they always do, but someone mentioned they didn’t think Chan had left the studio in about a week, a couple of them were caught accidentally still practicing at four-thirty in the morning multiple days in a row, and someone only realized that he’d forgotten breakfast (and every meal that followed) as the sun was setting—so an intervention was staged.
They’ll be scolded for going out and eating such a big meal, but no one cares. Once Chan was dragged bodily from his laptop and the recording studio, rounding up the rest of themselves was easier.
After stuffing themselves to the point of sleepiness, someone (no one seems to know who) called for karaoke, and like a kitty to the dinner bell they all perked up and found themselves in a room with disco lights and drinks.
They have a few turns at the mic, some alone, some with the others. They sing one together, something from a drama they watched recently, and then Jisung gets to sit down and rest, laughing while Minho ends up dragged into singing the silliest anime track Hyunjin could find on the list. He acts like he doesn’t want to, exaggeratedly so, but then throws himself into the ridiculousness as soon as his part in the song starts.
Jisung relaxes into his seat, laughing along at the antics. He’s still nursing the same drink he got when they first walked in, too sleepy to handle more, but he delights in watching the way Minho turns redder and cuter with every beer he cracks open.
When he finishes the song and comes back, plopping himself heavily by Jisung’s side on the seat, he pretends to faint, his head dropping onto Jisung’s shoulder.
Chuckling a little, Jisung rearranges them so that Minho is more comfortable, resting an arm around his shoulders.
“Sleepy?” He asks. He has to get close to be heard over Changbin and Felix screeching out the drunk rendition of something that otherwise wouldn’t have been out of place in a tragic romance.
Humming just quietly enough that Jisung feels instead of hears it, Minho nods his head. He doesn’t stop until it turns into nuzzling it aggressively into Jisung’s ribs, making him yelp and laugh at the same time. He smiles back just as wide though when Minho gives him that ‘everything I do is to make you laugh’ grin.
Minho leans in, one hand coming to rest on Jisung’s thigh to balance himself, fingers curling, squeezing just enough to know it’s intentional. Their cheeks pressed together, he says something into Jisung’s ear with a giggle. A warm breath against his neck makes his eyes almost flutter closed.
Jisung doesn’t hear what he says.
His palm is warm, even through Jisung’s jeans, a steady anchor that stops Jisung from floating out of his body, but still makes the rest of the room fade away.
Minho doesn’t move his hand after he pulls back. Even when he reaches for his drink with the other, he keeps it there.
Someone knocks over a drink and curses loudly. Jisung looks up reflexively, and the bubble pops for a second. Noise, light, and laughter all come rushing back in. Then someone grabs him by the arm, yanking him to his feet with demands to do another duet. He stumbles up with a dazed laugh, already looking back at Minho. He doesn’t even register the song choice at first, having to fumble for a moment to catch up with a giggle along with the others when it starts.
He goes right back to Minho’s side, and Minho’s hand goes right back to his thigh, even while he argues with someone about something Jisung can’t possibly pay attention to, because nothing else seems to matter right now besides this.
He tips his head to rest on Minho, and it’s just as automatic for Minho to wrap an arm around him as it had been the other way earlier. He feels himself immediately melt into his side. It’s so easy.
When Minho’s hands do leave him to clap at something, they don’t come back, and Jisung finds himself pouting. He waits, and when they still don’t, he reaches out himself to take Minho’s hand in his own, clasping their fingers together so he can keep it there, back on his lap where it belongs.
He pretends not to realize Minho is staring at him for it. Pretends not to be greedily pleased when instead of pulling it back away, Minho’s hand gives a little squeeze, his thumb brushing once over Jisung’s.
Minho resumes his argument, laughing while he does, and Jisung continues watching him. Holding his hand.
Somehow, nothing has changed and everything has changed. Like something is trying to click right into place, he’s just waiting for the final piece to drop.
Minho notices him looking, and he turns, looking right back. Eyes locked, laughter fading slowly. The room keeps moving around them but Jisung barely hears any of it. Like Minho becomes the only thing in it that matters.
His eyes move over Jisung’s face, taking him in, and then, slowly, he leans closer. Jisung’s breath gets trapped, his lungs seized. He holds so still. Doesn’t move. That well trained reflex is there somewhere—to duck away, to pretend it’s all for a joke like they always do—but the feeling gets caught somewhere in his body, held fast between ‘I’m supposed to stop him’ and ‘…but what happens if I don’t?’
But then, just a breath away, Minho stops. He veers off course, tucks himself to Jisung’s ear instead, and teases, “Who’s sleepy now?”
When he pulls back, Jisung can’t even pretend to laugh at it. There’s something almost off in his smile—or Jisung is just more drunk than he thought.
He recognizes that feeling—the sinking in his gut of disappointment for something he never considered wanting.
His expression makes Minho’s expression sober up a little, enough that he leans back in and asks a little more seriously, “Do you want to go home now?”
Home. With Minho. Where they already live together.
They’ve never not been close, but Jisung feels like a blind man able to see for the first time.
He nods, and Minho is already pulling out his phone to get them a ride.
Jisung turns his head and rests it against Minho’s shoulder again, and lets himself stay there. He wants Minho to want this. Which means he wants this. He wants Minho.
He’s in love with him.
It’s not a game, it’s not prank, it’s not something that just gives him a rush. He never wants this to not be something.
*
Another grueling day ends. Aching, sore, tired, they drag themselves from the set of a physically taxing SKZ code episode. They do well not to show it, but they were already tired from the way they’ve been drilling the dance practices lately. Not only for a comeback, but for the world tour too. Good thing the codes are fun and they all love their jobs.
Even so, they’re chatting as they leave to go home, making plans. It’s not late yet, but Jisung is tired. You couldn’t convince him to want to go out with a billion won on a stick.
Someone turns to Minho, Minho glances at Jisung to gauge his mood, and he tells them no, that he’s too tired—gives Jisung a guilt free pass to say, “Yeah, me too,” without being the one buzzkill who doesn’t want to go.
So they get in a car alone and go home.
“You want to watch that movie you were talking about the other day?” Minho asks when they get in.
Jisung doesn’t stop, but he slows in the process of taking off his coat, and says, “I thought you didn’t want to see it?”
“I said I didn’t care about seeing it,” Minho shrugs. “I just want to relax and watch something with you, and you wanted to watch that, so…”
He shrugs again, and Jisung smiles down at his shoes while he kicks them off. He places them neatly against the wall, next to Minho’s.
He pushes again, just that little bit.
“So you’re not too tired?” He asks, leaving the ‘like you told everyone else’ unsaid.
Minho looks like he wants to shrug again but stops himself before it happens.
“You didn’t want to go out.”
How has Jisung been blind and stupid for this long?
“Okay,” he nods. It’s stupid that his smile turns shy. It’s not like Minho can read his mind. “You mind if I take the shower first?”
“Sure, you—”
He stops like he forgets he was even speaking when Jisung takes his hand, squeezes gently, and then lets go again, walking away immediately to take that shower.
The shower is still running. Minho just got in after waiting for him. And Jisung has a moment alone in his room now.
He breathes himself through it, dizzy with anticipation.
He’d already been nervous enough for the shower—and on top of that, afraid Minho might come knocking and ask what was taking so long. He didn’t though. Jisung should already be aware of the other man’s endless patience for him.
The box he takes out this time is a little different—still under the bed, unworn, unlike all the ones now stashed like a dragon hoard in what’s now essentially just a lingerie drawer. It’s more presentable than the others that arrived plainly packed in cardboard parcel boxes.
This one is a clean white with a bow on it, and when he slips the lid up and off of it, he still has a moment of hesitation, wondering if he’s crazy for this. If it’s too much. But then again, it’s not like he’s the one who picked it out for himself in the first place.
The shower stops and Minho comes out, but he doesn’t rush Jisung to come out already, just calls through the door to ask if he’s hungry.
Once he’s dressed, Jisung slides the box back under the bed. It feels like there won’t be any coming back from this once he leaves the room, but rather than anxiety, it makes him excited. He doesn’t hesitate out of fear, but to savor the moment when he does.
When he steps out, Minho is already setting down two glasses on the coffee table next to two bowls. Jisung is glad he finishes putting them down before he looks up, because he’s not sure he wouldn’t have dropped them with the way he goes slack with surprise when he does.
“Ooh, ramyeon?” Jisung asks, cheerfully, rushing forward. He gives Minho a nose-wrinkling smile. “Ahh, thank you, jagi. You take such good care of me.”
Minho just stares down at the oversized t-shirt. His own—the same one from the video call. And his eyes keep going down to Jisung’s bare legs.
Jisung doesn’t wonder if he’s picturing it. He doesn’t need to.
He’s careful when he sits himself down on the couch. Not too carefully, not slowly, he just makes sure to tug the bottom of the shirt down just right as he does, and he doesn’t bother to be subtle about doing it, either.
They eat, Minho glancing down at Jisung more often than he can possibly think he could make excuses to pass off as normal. Jisung doesn’t call him out yet though. He’s enjoying the tension.
When they finish eating, Jisung starts the movie, and neither of them pay it the slightest bit of real attention. He leans into Minho’s side, pretending like he doesn’t notice Minho’s whole body go stiff before he puts an arm around Jisung’s shoulder.
He waits until the movie is a little way in, and then pushes back out of Minho’s arms. Minho doesn’t let him go right away, a barely there frown tugging at his brow when, despite the slight resistance, Jisung still lets go. He doesn’t leave the couch, just lies back on it, resting his legs over Minho’s lap and continuing to watch the movie.
Minho doesn’t look back at the TV. His eyes stay down, fixed, his chest moving like every shaky little breath is a fight to control.
Following Minho’s gaze down to his own thighs, he sees the thin white edge of the garter, just barely peeking out from under the hem of the borrowed shirt.
He lifts his arms, stretches a little, and can’t help but beam at the audible swallow from Minho when the black fabric rises just the tiniest bit higher. It gives Jisung that little bit of extra confidence he needs, and he pinches a bit at the top of the shirt, at his chest. Very slowly, he pulls, making it slide up the rest of the way over the strip of satin and lace around his thigh.
Minho doesn’t seem aware of his own reactions. His head tilts, eyebrows raising even while the rest of his expression seems to go slack, like every thought just emptied from his head in surprise.
Jisung gives it another second, lets himself take one more breath through the butterflies, and asks, “Do you like it?”
Minho’s attention snaps back to Jisung’s face, his mouth opening wordlessly when he sees Jisung’s ‘I know you do’ smile.
“Do you want to see more?”
Minho’s shudders, like the air is stolen right from his lungs, and Jisung is so giddy from it he can’t stop himself from letting out a breathy laugh.
“Go on,” he says, surprising himself. He’d only planned to tease it himself, but Minho’s total brain shutdown is driving him crazy. Jisung nudges him with his heel, and tells him, “Take a look.”
Minho blinks at him. Keeps blinking fast. Like he’s trying to reboot his brain. He hasn’t even said a single word and Jisung thinks he might be able to stay high on that silence for the rest of his life.
He thinks he’ll have to prod him again, or do it himself, but Minho pulls himself out of his stupor enough to move his arms, hands coming to rest on Jisung’s legs. Glancing back at his face as if to check this is really okay, he moves, palms slowly pressing higher up Jisung’s thighs, pausing to thumb at the garter.
He stops just under Jisung’s hips, his fingers curling tight like he’s holding himself back, enough that his fingers dig in a little. The pressure makes Jisung gasp—just a soft sound, small, but it spills out helplessly, his hips twitching under Minho’s grip.
A quiet groan claws up from Minho’s chest, and he pushes the t-shirt just that little bit higher, revealing the white lace panties.
“Fuck…” It’s the first word Minho has said since Jisung came out of his room, and it punches out of Minho in a ragged breath. “Sung… you—fuck, you’re…”
It doesn’t seem like he can even finish whatever he was going to say there. He chokes on it for a second, and then, glancing up at Jisung like he’s afraid he might tell him no, he keeps pushing the t-shirt higher.
A real moan slips past his lips when he finds exactly what he was looking for—the white silk and lace corset, tied up all nice with a satin ribbon at the front, in a bow that took Jisung several tries to get just right.
“Was it worth it?” Jisung asks, voice low. It takes Minho a moment to tear his eyes from it all, where Jisung is displayed out half on his lap. There’s a moment of silence, thick in the air, and Jisung tilts his head. “The money. The sneaking around. All the time picking them out. Does this make it worth it?”
Minho chokes. He splutters, snapped out of his daze and already starting to turn such a pretty shade.
“You knew?!”
Jisung can’t help the quiet little scoffing laugh he gives, and he pushes himself up, swinging a leg over Minho’s to sit squarely in his lap. Minho gasps, hands coming up to hold Jisung by the waist—over the shirt that’s fallen back down, and over the corset that’s hidden by it again.
Jisung leans closer, smiles as the noses brush. He sighs, and feels Minho’s hands tighten on him. “Jagi… of course I knew.”
He kisses him.
Leaning in for just a brush of the lips, but he finds himself pressing harder, wanting more. He’s hungry—greedy for it.
And Minho doesn’t even scramble to catch up. He just lets him take.
He makes a noise under Jisung, like the world just cracked open beneath him, and wraps his arms around Jisung’s waist to pull him in tighter, kissing him back like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
It’s Jisung that pulls back too, feeling a smile tug at his lips at the way Minho tries to follow. To chase it before he realizes Jisung moved on purpose. He watches the moment that realization settles in Minho’s eyes. How he blinks, breathless, like he’s trying to ground himself again.
Trembling a little, he looks down at the shirt. At his own shirt on Jisung, covering what’s underneath.
He grips it at the sides, but looks up at Jisung before he does anything else. “Can I…?”
He waits for Jisung’s nod, and then pulls it up, right off over his head, tossing it aside somewhere. He stares again. With an open reverence that makes Jisung’s heart thud painfully.
He’s exposed, decked in white lace and sporting an extremely obvious erection that isn’t even just half hard. And he doesn’t for one second feel the need to cover up.
Instead, he leans back a little. Welcomes Minho’s eyes to take him in.
“I’m—fuck, Jisung,” Minho looks up to the ceiling, eyes breaking away like he can’t think unless he gives himself that moment first. He lets out a laugh that sounds like it’s on the edge of breaking. “If I wake up right now, I swear to god…”
Jisung smirks. He doesn’t restrain it.
“Oh yeah? Had this dream before, have you?”
Minho shakes his head. He wets his lips, swallowing harshly before he whispers, “You don’t even know.”
It stills Jisung, hearing that. Soft, pained. He tucks his hands around Minho’s shoulders, behind his neck where his fingers can tug gently at where Minho’s hair is getting longer.
“Jagi…” he pauses, waiting for Minho to look back at him properly. To look back at his eyes, and gently, he asks, “How long?”
A heavy breath. Another. Minho’s chest rising hard.
“A while,” he says eventually. It’s not a real answer, but it’s all he can give right now. Jisung can wait—Minho did.
He leans in again, kisses him slowly. Minho is good. He kisses back, lips and tongue moving like he wants to drive Jisung insane with it, and it’s so good that Jisung is afraid to wonder why.
His fingers curl a little tighter in Minho’s hair. Not pulling, just holding on.
When they break apart again, Jisung is panting, needing to be closer in any way he can. He doesn’t say anything right away, just watches Minho breathe, eyes half-lidded. He’s never been so sure about anything in his life.
“Minho,” he says, quiet, but steady. He waits for Minho’s answering noise, just a short, desperate little sound, and then tells him, “Take me to bed.”
Minho doesn’t move for a beat, suspended in silence, and then all at once, he guides Jisung to stand before he follows, scooping him up in his arms—one under his knees and the other around his back.
Jisung makes a little noise of surprise as he goes up easily, clinging on with his arms holding on around Minho’s neck—and he’s pretty sure he sees a smile before he tucks his face against it too.
This part he’s still a little anxious for. He wants it, wants Minho like this, and he wants Minho to know it. But he’s still nervous. A good nervous.
Minho takes them to his own room, passing Jisung’s door and leaving it closed. He sets him down on the bed, climbing on over him. His position makes it so obvious how hard he is that Jisung almost doesn’t hear it when Minho asks, “What do you want?”
What takes Jisung so by surprise is just realizing how much he already knows he means it. Minho is asking, and he would do anything.
Jisung bites his lip, then leans up to press another kiss to Minho’s lips, just once, and then he slips a hand down his own front. Minho watches, eyes following the way Jisung’s fingers trail down to cup himself through the lace.
“I want you to watch me.”
Jisung’s stomach swoops the moment he lets it out, but that’s nothing compared to the burning eruption that happens inside of him at how Minho is affected by him saying it. Mouth open, his hand immediately goes to his own cock, squeezing it through his own pants. How he shuts his eyes tight and swears through gritted teeth.
He sits back on his heels, and doesn’t tell Jisung to go ahead. He just waits, eyes already fixed on where Jisung’s hands play at the edge of the panties.
Jisung wishes he could do something sexier. That he could slow it down and make a real show of it for him. And maybe one day he’ll do better, but right now, his fingers are shaking. He’s already close and he hasn’t even touched yet.
The moment he pulls down the front of the underwear and takes himself in hand, he’s already gasping hard.
He goes slow, purely to prolong it, because if he went any faster he would be finishing in three seconds flat. His cock leaks in his hand. Scattered whimpers tumble out of him as he tries to glide his loose fist over the sensitive head with busting all over himself already.
Minho does as he’s asked. He doesn’t touch Jisung yet, but his breathing gets heavier and his hand disappears into his own pants. Jisung watches. Watches Minho watching him, and he’s barely even started, but his thighs are trembling. The slick sound of his own fist moving and the way Minho’s eyes look so desperate with want, focused on it, just like he asked for—he can already feel a tug inside.
“Hyung,” he gasps out, voice breaking.
He stops, pulls his hand back fast before he can’t make himself stop at all. Shaking, twitching, he leans back on his elbows, legs falling open wider, and he feels Minho’s hands grip his waist over the corset.
“Can I open this?”
Jisung nods, fast, and he wets his lips. He watches Minho reach out, hands shaky but not at all hesitant. The ribbon tying the front is undone, pulled loose and unwound bit by bit, unwrapped like this time Jisung is the gift. Until Minho can pull apart the fastenings and open it out, letting Minho see his chest.
He takes nothing else off, leaves the corset open under Jisung’s back, and bites his lip.
“You’re unreal,” he breathes, and Jisung feels it drop right through him, hot. “I can’t… I can’t believe this is real. Do you… do you really—”
He doesn’t get it out, the words get caught in his throat. Jisung takes the moment, pushing himself up and keeping his eyes on Minho’s. He pulls Minho by the shoulders to come closer, and takes his hand, guiding it to where he’s hard.
“You feel that?” He asks, mouth moving to press kisses over Minho’s jaw. “I want this so bad. I want you, hyung. I want to make you come—”
Minho’s high moan cuts him off, lips still pressed to Jisung’s absolutely fucking delighted grin. He loves this. He loves it so much.
“You want that, hyung? Want me to make you come?”
Minho is nodding, fast. Needy and eager and not holding it back at all.
“Kiss me,” he demands, and Minho obliges. He breaks it a moment later though, puts a hand on the back of Minho’s neck and guides him down instead.
Minho takes the hint well, mouthing at Jisung’s chest before he needs to say it. He moves his lips lower, pressing kisses into his skin, closing them around a nipple and dragging a gasp out of him.
“Hyung!” He tightens his grip on Minho, just enough to let him know to stop when he starts licking down Jisung’s abs.
One day, he’ll explore everything with Minho. Right now, there’s one thing he wants too much.
“Hyung, do you—do you have any lube?”
Minho pills back to stare down at him. He blinks twice, mouth opening without finding anything to say as his face turns beat red. He reaches down under the bed, on the side closest to the wall, and starts pulling bottles up, tossing them onto the bed in a scattered pile next to Jisung.
When he sits back again, watching Jisung for a reaction, Jisung can only gape at it.
“Living with you is…” Minho starts. His mouth twitches, a shaky laugh rushing out of him. He gestures at all the bottles. “Well. I got different flavors. So.”
Jisung needs another second to process, and then he grabs a bottle at random, and tosses it back to Minho.
“We’re going to have an extremely fun conversation about this later,” he warns him. “Right now, I want you to fuck me so bad I think I’m going to die if you don’t.”
Minho fumbles the bottle, managing to catch it again before popping it open.
“Are you… I mean, have you ever—”
“I fingered myself in the shower,” Jisung tells him quickly, his face heating as he admits it.
Minho looks about three seconds away from busting in his pants, so Jisung sits up, generously helping him to pull them down.
“You want to, right?” He asks, looking up at Minho through his lashes.
Minho takes one look and has to tip his head back with a groan, keeping his eyes pointed anywhere else while he tells him, “Want to? I’m kinda worried I accidentally sold my soul for this to be happening right now.”
Jisung lets out a laugh, his finger curling around Minho’s cock, but barely doing anything, just teasing the pressure.
“You did,” he tells him. Minho’s hips jerk forward when Jisung gives it one agonizingly slow stroke upwards. “You sold it to me. You’re mine now, right?”
He says it jokingly, but watches Minho for his reaction. Minho senses this without seeing it first, and he looks down.
“Sung-ah,” he says, sighs it as he reaches down to grab Jisung’s hand and stop him. “Jagi. I always have been.”
The world feels like it tumbles—spins out of control for a second—and then he’s back. He’s here, and he feels Minho’s fingers slip inside the panties, already slick with lube and circling his hole. He knows Minho is distracting him from it, that he doesn’t want to risk ruining anything with the weight of that confession, but for now, he’ll let him.
I always have been.
Jisung’s eyes fall closed, his head thrown back as Minho presses a finger in. This felt good when he did it alone. It feels so much better now, like this. He squirms, wriggling down on Minho’s fingers, especially when he gets that second one in, and not even caring if it makes him look desperate. He is desperate.
“Fuck me,” he breathes. “Hyung—please—”
Minho is nodding eagerly, still looking dazed like he half doesn’t believe it while he slicks himself up.
“Wait,” he stills, eyes flicking down, his chest rising. Jisung holds in a huff about it until he hears what he has to say first. “Should we get a condom?”
“Only if you hate me!”
Minho drops, half falling on top of Jisung, who immediately wraps him in his arms, feeling him gasp against his throat, hiding his face while he asks, “Can you keep these on?”
Jisung feels a finger tuck into the side of the white panties, tugging a little, though obviously not in an effort to remove them. He nods, feeling himself smile with almost ridiculous joy at the moan Minho makes against his shoulder.
He reaches down, takes Minho’s cock in his hand himself, and gives it a few exploratory strokes. It’s not like he’s unfamiliar with stroking a dick. He’s kind of a well educated expert with one in particular. But the fact that he’s doing it right now, and that’s Minho’s dick in his hands… He’s dizzy.
Minho lets out a little cry into his shoulder, mumbles something about getting too close, and Jisung bites down on a smirk, tugging the bottom of the panties aside instead and lining him up.
“Go on, hyung-ah. Fuck me,” he whispers into Minho’s ear, his voice climbing higher, still begging as Minho presses inside. “Please—oh god—”
Minho swears. He shakes, pushing in inch by inch while Jisung whispers into his ear. He doesn’t even know half of what he’s saying anymore. He feels impossibly full, but it doesn’t stop. He keeps going. More, until his hips are pressed flush to Jisung’s ass, and all Jisung can do it gasp for air.
“Jisung, god, fuck—Jagi, I’m—”
“Move,” Jisung pants, his hips rocking down on it. “You can move!”
Minho groans, pulling back just a little before pressing in again, slow at first. Like he has to.
“Faster,” Jisung tells him. He wriggles, tries to press himself back on it. “Please, hyung, faster!”
Minho pulls back, looking at him like he’s assessing something, and then he sits back on his heels, holding Jisung’s hips between his hands.
“Faster?” He breathes. Jisung nods, he cries something unintelligible, and Minho nods back, like there’s some subliminal communication going on, and he can understand everything Jisung wants.
He pants, mouth open. “H-harder…”
Minho looks down at him with his lip caught between his teeth, curls his fingers into the lacy sides of the panties and grips onto him tight, holding them to the side out of the way.
“You want it harder?” He asks, and there’s a glint in his eyes.
His hips snap forward, and Jisung is already seeing stars. He feels his own hips lifted, hoisted onto Minho’s lap so Jisung is forced to brace his hands against the mattress under him, like it’s all he can hold only while Minho does exactly as he’s asked, and fucks him faster, harder.
Jisung sobs out little moans, head falling back, the world turning white at the edges. He can’t even think. He can hear his mouth saying things, babbling or crying or spurring Minho on, he doesn’t know.
“I’m not—I’m not gonna last—” Minho warns him, and his movements don’t falter, but when Jisung blinks away the haze to look at him, he sees him on the edge of losing it.
Jisung unclenches one fist from where it’s gripping onto the bedsheets, reaching for his cock and stroking with every thrust of Minho’s hips. It takes him barely a few strokes, crying out Minho’s name as he comes over himself.
Minho whines at the sight, a high, broken noise. His hips stutter, and then he’s spilling inside him, curling over Jisung, clinging on so tight it’s like he wants them to fuse together. His moans are quieter than Jisung’s, choked-off, breathless little gasps like he can’t even find the air in his lungs to cry out.
Jisung rubs his back, lets him come down from it slowly. Until he lifts himself off Jisung’s chest again, lips pressed together in a sheepish look.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, “if that was a bit…”
Jisung shakes his head fast, tugging Minho back down in to a soft kiss. “You’re perfect.”
Minho doesn’t pull away. He stays curled in, one hand still holding Jisung’s waist like he’s afraid he’ll vanish if he lets go. Jisung strokes his hair, breathing slowing, body loose and warm.
Jisung is already on the edge of falling asleep when he feels Minho start to gently slide down the panties and the garter, carefully moving them aside and tucking the blanket around them both.
“I’d pay it again, by the way.”
Jisung blinks, sleepy, and he tilts his head a little to see him better. “Hmn?”
“You… you asked if it was worth it,” Minho mumbles against his skin. He pushes himself up enough to look down at him, and says, “Every penny, and every minute. I’d do it again. I’ll do double!”
Jisung huffs a soft laugh. He gives him that wrinkle-nosed smile and he presses a kiss to Minho’s cheek. “You don’t need to do that anymore though.”
Minho scoffs, letting his head fall back down onto Jisung’s chest. “You think it was selfless?”
“Hhm. I mean, if you want to. Maybe we could go shopping together next time?”
“Oh,” Minho nods. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”
“Hyung, can we sleep like this tonight?”
Minho’s hand comes up blindly to pet his hair, and he nods, sighing contentedly. “Yeah, jagi. Just like this.”