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They’d just announced the tour. Socials were on fire—Stays were losing their minds. Everyone had known it was coming, but no one knew when .
The element of surprise.
All eight of them were crammed into the Minsung dorm, sprawled across the living room, reading comments and posts, watching Stays freak out in real time. They lived for it.
There was something deeply satisfying about dropping a bomb like that and then sitting back to watch the world burn. The eight of them always got a kick out of it.
Jisung was stretched lazily across Minho on the sofa, head resting on his hyung’s chest, phone in hand as he read tweets aloud with increasingly dramatic flair.
“ AHH I’M QUITTING MY JOB FOR THIS TOUR ,” he shrieked, and Hyunjin actually screamed in response, throwing himself backwards in exaggerated support.
The energy was loud and giddy, buzzing with anticipation. Phones were passed around. Jokes flew. Someone started arguing about stage outfits that hadn’t even been finalised yet.
But eventually, one by one, the others peeled off—tired or hungry or just ready for their beds.
Until it was just Jisung and Minho left.
“You okay, bug?” Minho asked, noticing Jisung had gone quiet. He dipped his head to try and catch a glimpse of Jisung’s face, but Jisung just pressed himself deeper into his chest, hiding.
“What’s wrong, baby? Nervous about the tour?” Minho asked softly, fingers cradling through his hair. “You’re gonna smash it with your song.”
“I still can’t believe we’re touring again,” Jisung said. “I missed being on stage like that.” He tilted his head a little. “And you’re gonna kill it with Youth , hyung. I really love that song.”
“Thanks,” Minho smiled. “You helped me find the energy for it.”
He stared up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused as a memory played in his mind—something soft and golden.
He’d written Youth with Jisung in mind. Specifically, a day they’d spent together, one of those rare, carefree afternoons that felt like they were teenagers in love. No cameras. No choreography. Just the two of them, wandering aimlessly, holding hands, laughing like the world was theirs.
They hadn’t had many chances like that, not during their actual teenage years. And as much as neither of them would trade their path for anything, sometimes Minho caught himself wondering what it would’ve felt like to meet Jisung in a different life. As ordinary boys. As first loves. Without the pressure. Without the fear of losing everything just for loving each other out loud.
Being in Korea already came with limits. But being an idol, it multiplied those limits by a hundred.
He still remembered how scared they’d both been to confess. How terrified they'd been of ruining everything, only to find out the others had known all along.
Chan had said it first, that what the two of them had was rare. That he'd do anything to protect it.
And he had. They all had.
Their groupmates’ support was what got them through. What still carried them, even now. They made space where they could. Covered for them when the staff started to sniff too close. And when the company realised the fans’ response was more love than scandal, they stopped trying to fight it and started letting them breathe.
Ah. Minho could feel his eyes start to sting. Getting sentimental again, he thought.
Jisung must’ve felt the shift in mood because he broke the silence before it swallowed them both.
“I saw your laundry pile this morning,” he said, nudging Minho’s leg with his knee. “Didn’t know someone could own that many black T-shirts.”
Minho blinked, caught off guard. “They're all different.”
“Sure they are. One even had a slightly different hole in the armpit.”
Minho huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You should talk. You wore the same hoodie three days in a row last week.”
“Comfort is timeless, hyung.”
Minho smiled, tension slowly uncoiling in his chest. “You're such a little shit.”
Jisung leaned in, eyes warm. “Yeah. But I’m your little shit.”
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
It wasn't until they were both in bed, pressed against each other in the warm afterglow, that Minho noticed that uncertain look in Jisung's eyes again. The same look he'd caught earlier, when everyone else had left the room. A flicker of something different behind the excitement about the tour.
Jisung's skin was still flushed, his chest rising and falling with slowing breaths. Minho traced a finger along his collarbone, feeling the slight dampness of sweat there, watching as goosebumps followed his touch.
“Talk to me,” Minho said gently.
Jisung's eyes darted to meet his, then away again. He bit his lower lip, a habit Minho had come to recognise as his thinking face.
And Jisung knew he probably should talk. The thought wouldn't leave his mind, no matter how hard he tried to push it away. The first time it had popped into his head was during the early planning stages of the tour. He'd shoved it aside, thinking it would pass like most fleeting fantasies. But it never did. If anything, it had grown more insistent, more detailed in his imagination.
He rolled onto his back, the sheets cool against his heated skin, and covered his face with both hands. The mattress dipped slightly as he shifted. Minho didn't move, just waited with the patience that had always made Jisung feel safe enough to be vulnerable.
“There's something I've been thinking about,” Jisung started, his voice muffled behind his palms. Then he groaned. “Ahh—it's so embarrassing.” Just when he was ready to actually say the words, he suddenly found them so cringeworthy he wanted to bury himself under the blankets.
“I'm sure it's not,” Minho said, his voice holding no judgment. He reached out to gently pull one of Jisung's hands away from his face. “Out with it, Jisungie,” he added playfully, giving Jisung's fingers a reassuring squeeze.
Jisung took a deep breath, his chest expanding with it. He could feel his heartbeat quickening, not from arousal now but from nervous anticipation. The ceiling above them became his focus point.
“I know we're not exactly vanilla,” he started slowly, testing each word as it left his mouth. “We've tried... a lot. And I love that we have. I love how safe it feels with you.” He paused, swallowing hard. “But there's something I want to try. And it's not like—I mean, I know it's not everyone's thing. So only if you're into it too, obviously. Like really, really only if you want to.”
Minho shifted closer, the warmth of his body a comforting presence as he propped himself up on one elbow. His hair fell softly across his forehead as he looked down at Jisung, eyes curious but kind. “Okay, baby, but you're going in circles. In order for me to know if I want it, you do actually have to tell me what it is,” he said, his lips curled into that lopsided grin that never failed to send a flutter through Jisung's stomach.
Jisung groaned and threw an arm over his eyes like the very idea might burn if he looked at it directly. The fabric of the pillowcase rustled against his ear, and he could smell the faint scent of Minho's shampoo mingling with the lingering musk of their earlier activities.
“I want... okay.” He took another steadying breath. “I want to do something that's, like—pretend. A scenario. Kind of.”
Minho raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting the silence give Jisung space instead of pressure. His fingers continued their gentle exploration, tracing abstract patterns on Jisung's shoulder.
Jisung felt heat rise to his cheeks, not from embarrassment anymore but from the thrill of finally giving voice to the fantasy that had been living rent-free in his head for months.
“I want you to... take me. Like, take me.” His voice dropped lower. “No warning. No prep. Just... surprise me. Like it's real. Like it's not planned. But obviously it is, because I want it and we'd set the rules and stuff. I just—” He paused, heart hammering against his ribs. “I want to feel that panic. The thrill of it.”
He peeked at Minho again through his fingers, gauging his reaction. Minho's expression was unreadable, his dark eyes intent on Jisung's face.
“I want you to kidnap me,” Jisung finally said, the words tumbling out in a rush. He held his breath, waiting for Minho to laugh, to recoil, to question—anything.
Minho's hand stilled on his skin “Tell me more,” he said. “How exactly do you see this happening?”
Jisung's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, gathering courage, then opened with newfound determination. “After a concert. When I'm still riding that high, that adrenaline rush from performing.” His voice grew steadier as he continued. “I want you to be like... someone who's been watching me. Someone obsessed. Someone who can't take it anymore and just has to have me.”
Minho’s attention was fully captured. “Go on.”
His cheeks flushed crimson as he continued, “And I want to fight it. I want to say no, to resist, but I want you to—” he paused, searching for the right words, “—to not listen. To take what you want anyway.”
Minho's breathing had changed, becoming slightly deeper. His hand moved to cup Jisung's jaw, tilting his face so their eyes met directly. “You want me to force you,” he said, not a question but a statement of understanding.
Jisung nodded, relief flooding through him at not having to say those exact words himself. “Yes. And I don't want to know when it's coming. Just that it'll be after one of the concerts, I want that real fear, that real surprise.”
“Safeword?” Minho asked immediately, his tone shifting to serious.
“We’ll use our usual traffic light system,” Jisung replied without hesitation.
Minho nodded, his thumb gently brushing across Jisung’s lip. “And if you can’t speak?”
“Three taps, anywhere I can reach you,” Jisung answered, demonstrating by tapping Minho’s forearm three times in quick succession.
A small smile played at the corners of Minho's mouth, his eyes reflecting tenderness but also desire. “You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?”
Jisung nodded, feeling a little exposed. “Too much, probably. But I trust you completely. I want to give you control of all the details—where, how, everything. I just want to be surprised and…” he trailed off, “...taken.”
Minho leaned down and pressed a kiss to Jisung's forehead, so gentle it made Jisung’s heart swell.
“I want to do this,” Minho whispered. The words pressed in close, just under his ear, low enough that they seemed meant for his skin rather than his mind. “I think it's super hot.”
“You do?” Jisung's eyes widened, searching Minho's face for any hint of hesitation or discomfort. Part of him had been bracing for rejection, or worse, for Minho to agree just to please him. That was the thing about Minho; he would walk through fire if Jisung asked him to. “You're not just saying that because you think it's what I want to hear?”
Minho shifted his weight and turned to face him. “I know I never really said it before,” he admitted, running his thumb across Jisung's lip, “but I've definitely thought about it. Not that exact scenario, but CNC in general.”
His gaze dropped to where his finger was tracing Jisung's mouth. “The idea of you giving yourself over to me completely like that... trusting me that much…”
“Oh.” Jisung's mouth parted slightly under Minho's touch, a small exhale escaping him. Always the same damn wavelength. After all these years, it shouldn't surprise him anymore how often their minds aligned, but it still sent a thrill through his body every time. “I thought I was being weird.”
“If you're weird, then I'm weird too,” Minho said with a soft laugh. His expression turned serious as he pulled back, creating enough space between them to look directly into Jisung's eyes. “But we need to set firm boundaries, jagi. This isn't something we can just dive into.”
The mattress dipped as Minho sat up straighter, the sheet pooling around his waist. The air felt cooler against Jisung's skin now that Minho's body heat was no longer pressed against him.
“You need to tell me what your limits are,” Minho continued. “If there's something you absolutely don't want to do, I need to know.”
Jisung lifted his head, brows pinching slightly in confusion. He'd been so focused on the fantasy itself, on the things he wanted to happen, that he hadn't given much thought to what he didn't want.
“I thought you'd given this too much thought?” Minho chuckled.
“I had,” Jisung protested, pushing himself up to sit cross-legged on the bed, facing Minho. The sheets tangled around his legs. “But I was thinking about the things I want, not the things I don't.”
Minho smiled. “Okay, let's begin with things you want to do, then, how's that?” He reached out to brush a strand of hair from Jisung's forehead.
“Um, okay,” Jisung agreed, leaning slightly into Minho's hand. He took a deep breath, organising his thoughts. “I want it rough, but I don't want extreme pain.”
“So you want to be manhandled and thrown around,” Minho clarified, “but no harsh slapping or beating.”
A shiver ran down Jisung's spine at Minho's tone. “Yes, exactly. But you can slap my ass and thighs a little.” He felt his cheeks heat up as he added, “But nowhere else, please.”
“So that's like the usual,” Minho said with a teasing smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“I guess?” Jisung giggled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. This was Minho—his Minho. The person he trusted most in the world. The conversation didn't have to be awkward.
“Anything else, baby?” Minho gently prompted, his hand finding Jisung's knee, thumb rubbing circles there.
Jisung bit his lip, considering. “I want you to be rough with your words, but in an obsessed way, if that makes sense.” He paused, trying to articulate what he meant. “Slight humiliation is okay, but no heavy degradation, please.”
Minho's eyes never left Jisung's face, attentive and thoughtful. “So you want me to tell you how obsessed I am with your body, praise you, call you names, but not be too mean.”
“Yes,” Jisung nodded, relieved that Minho understood. The way Minho could take his jumbled thoughts and make them clear always amazed him.
“Blindfolds?” Minho asked, his voice casual but his eyes intent.
Jisung's pulse quickened. “Yes.”
“Restraints?”
“God, yes, please,” Jisung almost whimpered, the image of being bound and helpless under Minho's control sending heat pooling low in his belly. His fingers twisted in the sheets.
“Mouth gag?” Minho's fingers trailed up from Jisung's knee to his thigh.
Jisung thought for a second, imagining the scenario—being unable to speak, to beg, to make any sound at all. Something about it made his chest tighten with anxiety rather than excitement. “No, don't take my voice away. I don't think I would like that.”
“That's good to know,” Minho said, his hand squeezing Jisung's thigh reassuringly. “What about choking? We've done it before, but this would be different.”
Jisung's hand instinctively went to his throat, remembering the pressure of Minho's fingers there, the way it made everything more intense. “Yes to choking, but not for too long. I like it when you do it right before I come.”
Minho's eyes darkened at that, his fingers tightening slightly on Jisung's thigh. “Noted,” he said, voice rougher than before. “What about after? What kind of aftercare do you think you'll need?”
The question caught Jisung off guard. He'd been so focused on the fantasy itself that he hadn't considered the aftermath. “I... I'm not sure. I think I'll need you to hold me. To tell me I'm safe. That it was just pretend.”
“I can do that,” Minho said softly. He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Jisung's forehead. “I'll always take care of you, bug. Before, during, and after.”
Jisung felt a rush of emotion, a lump forming in his throat. “I know you will.”
“Is there anything else you want to tell me about this fantasy?” Minho asked, his hand moving to cup Jisung's cheek. “Any specific details that are important to you?”
Jisung hesitated, another image flashing through his mind—something he'd thought about but wasn't sure if he should voice. “I…” he started, then stopped, uncertain.
“Tell me,” Minho encouraged, his thumb brushing across Jisung's cheekbone. “Whatever it is, I want to hear it.”
Jisung swallowed, pulse skittering, as he tried to force out the part that had been clinging to the edges of his fantasy. “I want you to... to take photos. While you have me.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Whatever spell had broken inside him, it kept spilling. “I want you to document it. Like you're collecting evidence of what you've done to me.”
Minho's breath hitched, his pupils dilating. “Fuck, Jisung,” he breathed, his grip tightening on Jisung's cheek. “You want me to photograph you while you're helpless?”
“Yes,” Jisung nodded, emboldened by the heat in Minho's eyes. “I want you to tell me how beautiful I look, how perfect I am for you. I want you to make me pose for you, even when I'm trying to resist.”
“Jesus,” Minho muttered, his other hand moving to grip Jisung's waist. “You're going to kill me before we even get to do this.”
A small smile appeared on Jisung's lips. “So you like that idea too?”
“I love it,” Minho admitted. “The thought of having those photos, of capturing you like that…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “We'll have to be careful, though. Make sure they're on a secure device.”
“I trust you to figure that out,” Jisung said, then bit his lip again.
Minho hummed in response, a furrow forming between his brows as he processed everything. Jisung could practically see him sorting through all the details. He watched Jisung’s face, memorising the soft flush across his cheeks. So brave in asking for what he wanted, yet still shy about it.
This wasn’t just about fulfilling a fantasy; it was about holding Jisung’s trust in his hands, cradling it with the care it deserved. Minho was more than willing to take control. But with full control came full responsibility. He knew himself well enough to know that if anything went wrong and Jisung was hurt in any way, even unintentionally, he wouldn’t be able to let it go.
“So, to summarise,” Minho said slowly, meeting Jisung’s eyes. “You want me to have full control—when, how, where. All of it. Right?”
Jisung nodded without hesitation. “That’s right.”
“And you want me to build the whole thing—the setting, the scenario—based on what you’ve told me, but keeping everything we’ve discussed in mind.”
“Yes,” Jisung said again, voice firmer this time.
Minho nodded, like he was locking the terms into place in his mind. He reached for Jisung's hand, intertwining their fingers. “We're going to check in every once in a while, though, okay? Just to make sure you still want this. And if anything changes—if you start having second thoughts or want to adjust any details—you tell me immediately. Promise?”
“I promise,” Jisung agreed, squeezing Minho's hand and leaning forward slightly. “But that goes for you too, hyung. This isn't just about me. I want you to enjoy it too, so keep what you need in mind too, when you're planning.”
A slow smile blossomed on Minho's face. “Oh, trust me,” he said, “I will definitely enjoy this.”
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
Seoul was too familiar and too safe. They were home. There were cameras, family, staff they'd known for years. Jisung hadn't expected anything to happen there, though part of him still flinched when Minho brushed against him backstage, or stood a little too close. His heart would skip, his breath catching in his throat, only for nothing to happen. Just Minho being Minho, professional as always when they needed to be.
Japan was tempting. It had the lights, the energy, the type of vibe Minho would go for. After their Tokyo show, Jisung was wired with electric anticipation. The way Minho had looked at him during the performance had Jisung convinced. He was sure when Minho whispered something just a little too dark in his ear as they exited the stage.
“You look so fucking good tonight,” Minho had murmured, fingers brushing the small of Jisung's back where no one could see. “I can't stop thinking about what I'm going to do to you.”
Jisung's knees had nearly buckled. This is it, he'd thought, heart hammering against his ribs. But then they'd all piled into vans together, and Minho had just winked across the seats at him. Not yet.
That night, Jisung had taken a cold shower, trying to wash away the disappointment and lingering arousal. The anticipation was becoming its own form of torture.
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
Bangkok felt like a trap. The corridors of the stadium were long and empty, perfect for an ambush. When Jisung found himself alone after the show, he'd actually held his breath, listening for footsteps that never came. Later, the hotel suite had a second keycard waiting on the dresser, and Jisung's heart had thudded when he found it. His fingers trembled as he picked it up, turning it over in his hand. For a moment, he thought: this is it. But the keycard was just a spare. Minho kissed his forehead and said goodnight, leaving Jisung alone with his thoughts as they had to stay in separate rooms this time.
Jisung stared at the ceiling for hours, hard and aching, imagination running wild. He'd touched himself eventually, biting down on his pillow to muffle the sounds, Minho's name on his lips as he came. It wasn't enough.
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
By the time they reached Santiago, Jisung was a mess of nerves and anticipation. Every look from Minho felt loaded, every casual touch electric. He was starting to wonder if Minho had changed his mind, if he'd decided the fantasy was too risky after all. But he hadn't said anything.
It was a quiet night, just before their show in Santiago. They'd prepared entirely new stages and made changes to the setlist for this leg of the tour. The hotel room was peaceful, with city lights twinkling beyond the window as they lay together on the bed. Jisung's head was at the foot of the mattress, his feet nudging Minho's shoulder.
“I actually can't wait for the Cinema stage,” Jisung said, nudging him again with his socked toes. “When they see their names going up on that screen? That's fucking perfect, hyung.”
Minho caught his foot, fingers wrapping around Jisung's ankle in a gentle hold. The touch was innocent enough, but Jisung's skin prickled with awareness anyway. Everything Minho did these days felt like it could be the start of something more.
“Me and Seungmin really wanted to give this one to Stay,” Minho said, thumb absently stroking the bone of Jisung's ankle. “We wanted them to feel how much we meant it. This felt like the way to do that.”
He paused, his eyes crinkling at the corners as a fond memory passed through his mind. Then he added with a faint grin, “Seungmin won't admit it, but he cried so much while we were working on it. Like, ugly crying. Snot everywhere.”
Jisung laughed, the sound soft and warm in the quiet room. He could picture it perfectly—Seungmin trying to maintain his composure and failing spectacularly. “He really loves Stay. We all do, but Minnie's love is different. It's special.”
“It is,” Minho agreed, eyes lingering on Jisung's face.
Minho's fingers tightened slightly around his ankle, and Jisung felt his pulse jump in response.
“What?” Jisung asked, voice coming out slightly breathless.
Minho's lips curved into a slow smile, but he didn't answer. Instead, he tugged lightly on Jisung's ankle, pulling him a few inches closer across the bedspread.
“Nothing,” Minho said casually. “Just thinking about tomorrow's show.”
Jisung swallowed hard, unable to look away from Minho's face. “What about it?”
Minho traced the inside of his ankle, the touch deceptively casual. “I think it's going to be a night to remember.”
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
But Santiago came and went, and nothing happened. The show had been electric, the crowd deafening, but afterwards, Jisung found himself safely tucked into a van with the others, Minho sitting three seats away, scrolling through his phone like nothing was different.
The rest of Latin America passed in a blur of stages, screaming fans, and hotel rooms that all started to look the same. Jisung began to wonder if the fantasy they'd discussed had been forgotten, buried under the gruelling schedule of their world tour. Every night, he would find himself scanning empty corridors, tensing when Minho approached, only for nothing to happen.
Then they were in America. The energy was different, wilder, but still, nothing. Seattle, Atlanta, New York. Jisung performed with everything he had, gave every ounce of himself to the stage, partly because he loved it and partly because he thought maybe, just maybe, if he looked irresistible enough on stage, Minho would finally snap.
But America came and went with nothing more than Minho's teasing smirks and the occasional whispered comment that left Jisung aching for more.
It's not like they weren't having sex. Their regular bedroom activities continued just fine—sometimes slow and sweet in hotel rooms, sometimes quick and desperate when they could sneak away. Jisung had zero complaints about their sex life; Minho always left him satisfied, wrung out in all the best ways. But as weeks passed with no sign of their fantasy materialising, Jisung started to wonder if he'd broken something in Minho's brain by bringing it up in the first place. Maybe the whole kidnapping thing had been too much, too weird, and Minho just didn't know how to tell him.
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
Now they were on their flight to Europe. Only a handful of shows remained before the tour would be over. Jisung stared out the airplane window, watching clouds drift by beneath them, trying not to feel like he'd somehow imagined their entire conversation months ago.
“You look like you're thinking too hard,” Felix said, dropping into the seat beside him. “Penny for your thoughts?”
Jisung forced a smile. “Just tired, I guess. Tour's almost over.”
Felix studied him for a moment, head tilted. “You've seemed distracted lately. Everything okay with you and Minho-hyung?”
“Yeah, we're fine,” Jisung said quickly. “Why would you ask that?”
Felix shrugged, unwrapping a piece of chewing gum. “I don't know. You keep looking at him like you're waiting for something.”
Jisung felt heat rise to his cheeks. Was he that obvious? “It's nothing,” he mumbled, turning back to the window.
Felix didn't push, just offered him a piece of gum and changed the subject to their upcoming Amsterdam show. Jisung was grateful for the distraction, even as his mind kept circling back to the same thought: maybe Minho had changed his mind. Maybe he'd decided the fantasy was too risky after all. Maybe Jisung should just let it go.
The captain announced their descent into Amsterdam, and Jisung closed his eyes, trying to push away the disappointment that had been his constant companion for weeks.
“Hey,” Felix nudged him gently. “We're landing soon. You should see the city lights—they're beautiful.”
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
Nothing happened in Amsterdam. The show was brilliant, though—fans packed in so tight they moved like one breathing body, the kind of crowd that blurred faces into motion and sound. The energy hit like a wave, and Jisung rode it long after the stage had emptied, muscles still buzzing hours later.
Frankfurt wasn’t much different. The moment they stepped on stage, the entire venue roared to life. STAYs shouted every lyric back at them, lightsticks flickering in sync like some massive heartbeat. They’d been blown away by every stop on tour, but Europe had its own kind of fever. Like the fans had been waiting their whole lives for this and weren’t going to waste a second of it.
“London’s gonna be crazy, man,” Hyunjin said as he wandered past Jisung and Felix.
“Fuck yes,” Felix grinned. “Last time was nuts.”
“You were unstoppable,” Hyunjin laughed. “The megaverse rap? I recorded the crowd—dead serious, they nailed every word.”
“C’mon, guys!” Chan’s voice called from somewhere down the hall, already corralling them toward the green room.
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
And Hyunjin had been right. About London, that is.
From the moment they stepped on stage, the crowd was electric. Not just loud, it was feral, euphoric, like they’d come there to tear the walls off. They were shouting lyrics before the tracks even kicked in, waving signs and flags, crying, screaming, laughing—all of it messy and beautiful and way too big to fit inside one stadium. They gave everything. And the boys gave it back.
After the final encore, when the confetti settled and the lights dropped and the bows were done, they stumbled offstage in that adrenaline blur—clothes clinging to them, breath short, skin overheated. Someone handed Minho a towel. Someone passed Jisung a bottle of water. Everyone was talking at once.
But none of it really registered.
Because that London noise was still in their veins. That high. That impossible roar of thousands of people loving you all at once.
“Holy shit,” Chan gasped, scrubbing at his face. His voice was hoarse, eyes wide. “I couldn’t even hear myself in the last chorus.”
“I think I might be permanently deaf,” Hyunjin muttered, dropping onto a flight case. His eyeliner had smudged down to his cheeks. “Like, no joke.”
They were all breathless, talking over each other, grinning like idiots. Jisung felt it too—the high, the aftershock. That weird, weightless feeling of having given yourself away completely and getting flooded in return. His body ached, but it still felt too alive to sit still.
He looked around, scanning the backstage chaos for one face.
“Water?” Felix asked, suddenly beside him. His cheeks were still red, hair sticking to his forehead.
Jisung took the bottle with a grateful nod and drank. It was cold enough to sting as I went down. “Have you seen Minho-hyung?”
Felix shook his head. “Not since we came off. He might’ve gone straight to the dressing room?”
Jisung nodded and pushed himself up from where he'd been sitting, muscles already stiffening from the show. The backstage corridor was a maze of equipment cases, cables snaking across the floor, and staff members rushing in every direction.
“Wait, I'm coming with you,” Felix said, his fingers suddenly wrapping around Jisung's wrist. “I wanted to show you something.”
“Can't it wait?” Jisung asked, but Felix was already pulling him forward, weaving through the post-show chaos with weird determination.
They moved quickly, ducking around tech crew members who were dismantling equipment and staff members boxing up merchandise. Jisung let Felix lead, his mind still half-searching for Minho in every face they passed.
It wasn't until they'd been walking for nearly a minute that Jisung realised they weren't heading toward their dressing room at all. They'd passed the familiar corridor, taken a left where they should have gone right, and now Felix was pulling him toward a black curtain partition he didn't remember seeing earlier.
“Where are we—” Jisung started, frowning as Felix pulled back the heavy fabric.
“I was gonna show you something, but I forgot something backstage, hold on,” Felix interrupted, his words coming out just a touch too rehearsed. His eyes didn't quite meet Jisung's. “Wait for me here?”
“Um, sure,” Jisung answered, confusion settling in his stomach as Felix disappeared back through the curtain, leaving him alone in what appeared to be some kind of storage area. The space was dimly lit, with stacks of road cases lining one wall and a small service door at the far end.
Jisung sighed heavily, leaning against one of the cases. His stage outfit clung uncomfortably to his back, still damp with sweat. Minho might be looking for him by now, wondering where he'd disappeared to. He hoped that whatever Felix wanted to show him was worth the detour.
He rubbed at his eyes, feeling the grit of dried sweat and stage makeup. The eyeshadow smudged beneath his fingers, leaving dark traces on his hands. The post-performance crash was starting to hit, his body suddenly aware of how hard he'd pushed himself on stage.
Then, without warning, two hands grabbed him from behind. Strong and gloved.
A sharp inhale escaped him, the sound cutting off abruptly as a fabric blindfold was yanked over his eyes, plunging him into darkness. In the same second, a muscular arm wrapped around his middle, lifting him clean off the floor.
“What the fu—Felix!” he yelled, his heart slamming against his ribs. He thrashed instinctively, legs kicking out at nothing, arms flailing to find purchase on something, anything. But the grip around him was iron-solid.
The hallway had gone eerily quiet. No footsteps, no voices, just the sound of his own panicked breathing and the soft grunt of whoever was carrying him as Jisung's elbow connected with what felt like a shoulder.
The hands holding him didn't hurt; they were firm but careful, almost practised in the way they contained his struggling. He was carried like a package, hauled a few steps forward, then suddenly shoved through what felt like an open door. His knees hit something soft—a seat—and before he could regain his balance, the door slammed shut behind him with a loud, metallic thunk.
A van. He was in a van.
The engine rumbled to life beneath him, the vibration travelling up through the seat and into his bones. His fingers scrabbled at the blindfold, but before he could pull it off, another hand caught his wrist.
“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” a low voice murmured close to his ear, so close he could feel warm breath against his skin.
Jisung froze, his heart fluttering wildly. That voice. He knew that voice, but it was darker. Possessive.
Outside, Felix watched the van pull away, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. “Have fun, lover boy,” he whispered to himself, eyes following the vehicle until it disappeared around a corner.
“Are they gone?” Chan appeared just behind him, his voice hushed despite the empty corridor.
“Yeah,” Felix nodded, turning to face him.
“Good.” Chan stepped closer, one hand coming up to brush Felix's cheek. “Now let's cover for them and get the fuck out of here. I'm dying to get my hands on you, baby.”
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
Back in the van, Jisung's world had narrowed to darkness and the sound of his own ragged breathing. The hand around his wrist tightened, thumb pressing into his pulse point.
“You look so pretty when you're scared,” the voice said, and this time Jisung was certain—it was Minho. But a version of Minho he'd never heard before, one whose voice dripped with something predatory and possessive.
The realisation hit him fast. This was it. This was happening. After months of anticipation, of wondering if Minho had forgotten or changed his mind, it was finally happening.
And despite knowing, despite having asked for this, having planned for it, the fear that flooded his system felt completely, terrifyingly real.
Jisung didn't waste a second, throwing himself into the part with everything he had. “What the fuck?! Who are you? Let me go!” He thrashed against the grip, heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat.
In response, a palm slammed flat against his chest, shoving him back against the bench seat. Not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to make him feel small.
“Ah, ah,” came the low, amused voice. “Keep your voice down, will you?”
“Fuck you! Let me go right now!” Jisung shouted again, his voice breaking slightly, the edge of real adrenaline threading through his act. He writhed beneath the grip, hips lifting off the seat in a futile attempt to buck Minho off.
But Minho didn’t budge. His body pressed close, his weight a terrifying cage.
“Nobody is going to help you,” he said, voice near a growl now. “You are mine now, Han Jisung.”
The way he said Jisung’s name punched straight through his core. He felt it like a spike, right into his cock, heat blooming hard and fast beneath his waistband. He tried to twist his face away, but Minho caught his jaw in one gloved hand, holding him still.
“I’ve been watching you,” he whispered, breath brushing hot against Jisung’s cheek. “You smile too much. Flirt too easy. You think I didn’t see how you touched him on stage tonight?”
Jisung flinched. He hadn’t expected this kind of detail. Minho’s obsessive persona painting a whole backstory, making it feel real .
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about—” he stammered, voice trembling now.
“Yes, you do.” Minho leaned in closer, lips ghosting Jisung’s ear. “You were begging for this. Every time you looked over your shoulder. Every time you bent over just a little too far.”
Jisung bit his lip hard, and his heart raced in his chest. The fear was real now, tangled up with the heat curling through his gut. His body couldn’t tell the difference, and maybe that was the point.
“No,” Jisung whimpered, the word coming out weak. He could feel Minho's smile against his skin, predatory and satisfied.
“Such a pretty little liar,” Minho murmured, his gloved hand trailing down Jisung's throat. “Do you know how long I've been planning this? How many nights I've watched you perform, imagined what you'd look like when I finally had you?”
The van hit a bump, jostling them both, and Jisung felt Minho's body press closer. Through the darkness of the blindfold, every sensation was magnified—the leather of the seat beneath him, the rumble of the engine, the warmth radiating from Minho's skin.
“Please,” Jisung gasped. “I have to get back. They'll be looking for me.”
“No, they won't.” Minho's voice was dark silk, confident. “Your little friend made sure of that. He's probably telling everyone you went straight to the hotel. Aren't you lucky to have such helpful friends?”
The revelation struck Jisung. Felix had been in on this. How long had Minho been planning this? How many people knew?
“You're lying,” he said. He remembered Felix's strange behaviour, the way he'd pulled him away from the others, the rehearsed quality of his excuse.
“Am I?” Minho's hand moved from his jaw to his throat, not squeezing, just resting there like a threat. “Face it, baby. Nobody is coming to save you.”
The pet name sent a shiver down Jisung's spine. It was the same word Minho used when they were alone, when he was being gentle and loving. However, it now carried a tone of ownership, almost threatening in nature.
“You're insane,” Jisung breathed, trying to sound defiant even as his body betrayed him, responding to every touch, every whispered word.
“You made me like this, Jisung,” Minho said, his gloved fingers tracing the line of Jisung's jaw, leather cool against feverish skin. “I never wanted anything more than I want you. And you wouldn't let me have you, so here I am, taking what I want instead.”
The laugh that followed crawled over Jisung’s skin, a sound so unlike Minho's usual warm chuckle that for a moment, Jisung almost forgot this was his boyfriend. Almost forgot this was planned. The blindfold pressed against his eyelids, the darkness complete and disorienting.
“What do you want?” Jisung asked, trembling. He twisted his wrists against Minho's grip, feeling the strength there, the control. “Is it money? I-I can give it to you, just please, let me go.”
The van hit another bump, jostling them both. Jisung's head knocked against something solid—the window, maybe—and he felt Minho's weight shift, pressing him deeper into the seat. The leather upholstery creaked beneath them.
“Oh jagiya,” Minho mused, the endearment slid from his mouth, sweet as honey with a venomous edge. Then he paused, his breath burning against Jisung’s ear. “Can I call you jagiya? Or is that reserved for your little boyfriend?”
Jisung’s heart kicked against his ribs like it wanted out. The way Minho spoke about himself in the third person, creating a separate persona, was unsettling and thrilling all at once. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out.
Minho laughed again. “Ah, that was a silly question.” His hand slid from Jisung's jaw and pressed lightly over his pulse point, like he owned the rhythm beneath it. “I can call you what I want. You don't have a say anymore.”
A whole-body shudder worked through Jisung, goosebumps rising on his arms. Minho was talking about himself like it wasn't him. Shit. Jisung felt a pang of guilt for ever doubting his boyfriend would follow through with this fantasy. The level of detail, the commitment to the role—Minho had thought of everything.
“Keep your money,” Minho scoffed, the suggestion clearly offending him. “Money is the last thing I want from you.”
His lips grazed Jisung's neck, deliberately light, not quite a kiss but a promise of one. “I just want you,” he murmured against the sensitive skin. His free hand travelled down Jisung's chest, fingers spreading possessively across his stomach. “This pretty body of yours—” his voice dropped lower, “—those perfect lips.”
When Minho's mouth finally claimed his, Jisung kept his lips firmly sealed, turning his head away as much as the grip on him allowed. He made a muffled sound of protest, his hands pushing against Minho's chest as he tried to create distance between them.
Minho responded by shifting his weight, pressing his knee between Jisung's legs and pinning him more securely against the seat. The pressure was firm enough to make Jisung gasp.
With a swift motion, Minho peeled off one glove and tossed it aside. His bare fingers found Jisung's jaw, gripping it with sudden harshness that drew an unexpected whimper from Jisung's throat.
The sound wasn't part of the act, and Minho's lips curved slightly, recognising genuine pleasure beneath the pretend resistance. His thumb pushed between Jisung's lips, forcing them apart and dragging across his tongue.
“You open your mouth when I kiss you,” Minho commanded. “Understood?”
Jisung's throat tightened as he swallowed. Words failed him, trapped in arousal. His stomach knotted with tension, fingers digging into Minho's shirt like an anchor.
Minho leaned in for another kiss, but the van slowed to a stop. He pulled back, brushing his lips against the corner of Jisung's mouth before murmuring, “Don't speak unless I ask you to. Understand?”
Jisung paused, then gave a single, hesitant nod.
Minho tightened the blindfold and gripped the back of Jisung's neck. “Come.”
Jisung wobbled as he was pulled upright, his legs unsteady and his body still halfway to arousal from the kiss. Blind to his surroundings, he could only follow Minho's lead, their hands locked together as they navigated an unseen path.
They moved through what felt like a service entrance, then a hallway with carpet underfoot. Into a lift, the doors sliding shut with a soft chime. Jisung's pulse hammered in his ears. Minho maintained his silence in the lift, but his grip on Jisung's wrist spoke volumes. Jisung shifted nervously, trying and failing not to imagine what awaited him. When the lift stopped, Minho led him through more turns, then came the sound of a keycard and a door unlocking.
The first thing Jisung noticed was the smell—polished wood, subtle spice, fresh linens. Expensive. The kind of scent that clung to old money.
Minho guided him forward two steps before stopping. Fingers brushed against the knot of the blindfold.
“Ready to see what I prepared for you, sweetheart?” Minho asked, his voice deceptively gentle.
“Please don't hurt me,” Jisung whispered back.
Minho leaned in close, fingertips toying with the edge of the blindfold. “You think I’d bring you all this way just to hurt you?”
The blindfold slipped off in one smooth motion.
Jisung blinked rapidly against the dim glow, eyes adjusting. The room was beautiful in the most unnerving way. Overwhelming. All heavy carved wood and dark velvet, like something from another century. The bed was a towering four-poster, like it had been built to house sin and nothing else. The walls glowed under the amber light of old lamps. The rug was a rich, wine-red, thick, and patterned.
Minho stepped in close behind him, hands moving up and down Jisung’s sides in a slow, possessive drag. He pressed a kiss to the back of Jisung’s neck, and Jisung closed his eyes. He let himself get lost in the feeling for a few seconds before remembering he was supposed to fight.
He twisted around, taking advantage of Minho's momentary gentleness to slip from his grasp. Backing away, he pushed against Minho's chest with both hands, creating distance between them.
Minho didn't budge. Just stood there with that infuriating smirk, because Jisung's resistance was exactly what he'd expected.
“Please,” Jisung begged, his voice breaking. “I won't tell anyone about this. Just let me go.”
“I watched you tonight,” Minho said, stalking forward with deliberate steps. “Every hip roll, every smile you threw into the crowd—that was all for me.”
“It wasn't!” Jisung's denial came out as a shrill scream. “You're fucking insane!”
Minho's laugh was soft and chilling, almost intimate in its delight. “You have no idea how insane.” He closed the gap between them until Jisung could feel his breath. “And yet, here you are. In my hands. Just like I dreamed.”
“Why me?” Jisung asked, writhing away from Minho’s grip.
Minho tilted his head, eyes tracking every movement like Jisung was prey. “That’s the question?” he said, soft and amused. “Not what are you going to do to me? ” His hand trailed down Jisung’s chest, fingers light, impersonal. “Why you .”
He laughed, the sound rich and cold. “You're beautiful when you're scared.”
Jisung flinched, but Minho caught his chin, turning his face up with calculated gentleness. His thumb brushed the corner of Jisung's lip before sliding lower.
“Bet your boyfriend doesn’t even look at you properly. What’s his name again?” Minho didn’t wait for an answer. “Lee Know,” he said with mock sweetness, lips curling.
He glanced down, slow and heavy. “He must not touch you right, though. Because look—” His hand ghosted over the front of Jisung’s shorts. “You’re so hard. Poor thing. Is he not paying attention to you?”
Jisung jerked back, chest heaving. “Don’t—”
Minho clicked his tongue. “Still pretending this isn’t what you need.” Then his voice dropped, all warmth vanishing. “I’ve had enough.”
He stepped back, eyes never leaving Jisung's.
“Strip.”
Jisung shook his head once. “No.”
Minho smiled—too pleased. Like he’d hoped for that. “No?” he repeated gently. “It’s okay. I prepared for that.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of black silk rope. Held it up between two fingers like it was precious.
“I’ll tie you up like a masterpiece,” he said. “Not to hurt you. To keep you. Exactly where you belong.”
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
Jisung felt a warmth unfurling within him. Holy shit—Minho had really gone all in. The fantasy he'd whispered to Minho months ago in the dark was unfolding perfectly before him. A flush of want twisted behind his navel, and for a second, he nearly broke character to grab Minho and kiss him senseless. But the anticipation was too delicious to waste. He wanted to see what else Minho had planned, wanted to stay in this world they'd created together. And fuck if Minho didn't look like he was enjoying every second of this too—eyes darker than Jisung had ever seen them, completely lost in the role. That alone was worth everything.
“I'm not going to let you touch me,” Jisung said, backing away until his legs hit the edge of the bed.
“Oh, Jisungie,” Minho whispered, advancing slowly. “You already are.”
Jisung darted to the side, but Minho caught him effortlessly, spinning him around and pinning him face-first against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs without actually hurting.
Minho pressed his body against Jisung's back, one hand securing both wrists above his head while the other traced down his side in mockery of comfort.
“Shhh,” Minho murmured against his ear. “Don't fight it. You'll only make it harder on yourself.”
He steered Jisung back toward the bed. When Jisung twisted sharply, trying to break free, Minho's grip just tightened, a low warning growl rumbling from his throat.
“I like it when you struggle,” he said, savouring the thought more than the words. “Makes the game more interesting.”
Jisung caught the hidden reassurance in those words—Minho was enjoying this as much as he was.
Minho pushed Jisung down onto the edge of the mattress, then dropped to his knees before him. Jisung's eyes widened, confused by the position until he felt Minho's hands at his wrists again.
The rope flowed through Minho's fingers like a stream of silk come to life.
He wrapped it first around one wrist, then the other, so unhurried and certain it left Jisung reeling. He couldn't tear his eyes away as Minho worked, creating intricate patterns with each precise loop of rope. The binding taking shape around his wrists was both beautiful and utterly secure.
“How—” The question slipped out before Jisung could stop himself. “How do you know how to do this so well?”
Minho glanced up, met his gaze, and smiled, just enough to let Jisung know he understood. But he didn’t break character. “I've been practising,” he said simply. “Just for you.”
With a sudden tug, Jisung felt himself being pulled upward, his bound wrists guided toward the imposing bed frame. He glanced up, realising the four-poster bed wasn’t just decorative tonight.
At the top corner, a sleek black attachment strap waited, clearly installed beforehand. Minho threaded the rope through it with ease, pulling until Jisung's arms stretched above his head, elbows straining, back bowed slightly.
The restraint was cleverly designed so Jisung could remain seated on the edge of the bed, but any attempt to stand would instantly pull his arms taut. He tested it with a subtle movement, feeling the immediate resistance.
“Comfortable?” Minho asked in mock concern as he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
Jisung pulled at the bindings once more, confirming what he already knew—he was completely at Minho's mercy, trapped and vulnerable exactly as he'd fantasised.
He'd been too distracted to really look before, too caught in the rush of being blindfolded, grabbed, tied. But now Minho stood a few paces back, arms folded, watching him like a prized catch he’d finally cornered. Jisung swallowed hard. Fuck. Minho looked like he'd raided the wardrobe department of every villain Jisung had ever found himself attracted to.
His trousers were made of leather and were slim-fitting, pressed to perfection, and ended in polished boots that caught reflections. His black shirt was unbuttoned just enough at the collar to make Jisung's mouth go dry, sleeves rolled up to the elbows with military precision, exposing forearms dusted with veins and muscle. A deep red band was buckled tight around his one bicep, leather and brass, the kind used by barbers or tailors, except that this one held a pair of elegant, sleek scissors in a custom holster.
Wait, what? Scissors?
Minho stepped forward, the space between them folding into nothing. His fingers brushed against Jisung's collarbone, his thumb slipping beneath the neckline of his t-shirt, testing the grain of the fabric.
Then, with a small click, he unfastened the strap on his arm and slid the scissors free. He opened the blades once, testing the tension with a slow squeeze, then pressed the flat edge against Jisung’s shoulder.
“You’re wearing far too much for my liking,” Minho murmured, as though it was an unfortunate oversight. “Let’s fix that, shall we?”
The steel kissed Jisung’s skin, and he inhaled sharply, frozen in place as the blades travelled up his arm. They moved with clinical care, brushing his skin just enough to make every nerve pay attention. The cut was clean, deliberate. The cotton parted and dropped away, limp against the floor.
The other sleeve followed, just as precise. Minho stepped back for a moment, eyes trailing over Jisung’s now-bare arms, the faint lines of muscle, the soft tension beneath the skin.
“That’s much better,” he said, gaze warm and hungry. “But still not enough.”
His fingers skimmed down the centre of Jisung’s chest, pausing at the hem. The scissors followed. This time, the tip pressed lightly into Jisung’s stomach through the fabric.
He cut upward, slow and smooth, parting the shirt open down the middle and pushing the fabric aside. Jisung’s chest emerged, taut and breathless, the gleam of sweat rising along his collarbone.
Minho traced the ink across his chest with one fingertip, pausing to press into the curve of the tattoo.
“So pretty,” he said, almost to himself.
Then Jisung felt a second hand at his side, warm and steady, resting just beneath his ribs where the lines of his side tattoo dipped under the waistband of his shorts, vanishing into the muscle of his thigh.
“Resplendent life, huh?” Minho said softly, thumb brushing over the words Jisung had once revealed online. “Resplendent indeed.”
The cool brush of metal faded, and Jisung felt like he was on fire. He didn’t know where to look—Minho’s hands, the shredded fabric on the floor, the glint of scissors still in his grip.
“How long?” Jisung asked.
Minho looked up. “How long what, baby?”
Jisung stayed in character, eyes flicking down then back. “How long were you watching me?”
Minho’s mouth twitched. “You came up on my feed one day,” he said casually, almost fondly. “And I knew then I had to have you.”
He leaned in, nuzzling into Jisung’s neck. The warmth of his breath made Jisung shiver.
“Everyone talking about you and that Lee Know guy—it fucking pissed me off,” Minho muttered, words harsh against skin. “He doesn’t know how to treat you. Not the way you need. I knew you needed me.”
“You’re wrong,” Jisung protested weakly.
“Am I?”
Minho pulled back. His fingers flexed around the scissors, and Jisung didn’t have time to prepare before hands were yanking at his waistband. The change in pace snapped like a whip. The reverence was gone. Minho gripped hard, and then—
—rip
The sound was loud in the quiet room. The blades were back, tearing through denim with zero ceremony. Threads snapped. Seams hissed. The ruined fabric dragged against his thighs before falling away, leaving his boxers as the last flimsy barrier between them.
“You sure?” Minho asked a little mean. “Because your cock says otherwise.”
His palm cupped him through the thin cotton, so bold and possessive that Jisung gasped.
“You ever get this hard for him?” Minho’s thumb pressed into the head of his cock, rubbing slowly in taunting circles. “Ever leak this much?”
Jisung had said no degradation. But that was when it was about him. Minho talking down his own alter ego—fuck, that did things to Jisung he hadn't anticipated. His mind scrambled to understand why this was turning him on so much, but coherent thought vanished when Minho pressed down harder, thumb dragging through the wet cotton. Jisung's hips jerked up involuntarily.
“That's what I thought,” Minho said, satisfaction dripping from his voice. His eyes were focused entirely on Jisung's reaction. “Your body can't lie to me.”
The scissors clattered to the floor, and Jisung glanced at the sound, momentarily distracted, which allowed Minho to change tactics. With a low growl, he tore away the waistband of Jisung's boxers.
“Fuck,” Jisung gasped, feeling more vulnerable than he had with the scissors.
Minho's palm pressed flat against Jisung's chest, pushing him backwards with enough force to make him fall onto his ass on the mattress.
“Look at you,” Minho murmured, eyes raking over Jisung's exposed body. “All mine now.”
Jisung felt his skin heat under the intensity of that gaze. Completely naked while Minho remained fully dressed, the power imbalance was insane. Vulnerable didn't begin to cover how he felt.
Minho knelt between his legs, lifting Jisung's feet one by one carefully. His fingers wrapped around Jisung's ankles, grip firm but not bruising. He pulled the torn fabric of the boxers down and off, discarding them carelessly to the side.
The cool air made Jisung keenly aware of his exposed position—spread open, tied up, cock hard and leaking against his stomach. His instincts urged him to protect himself from Minho's hungry stare.
A thought formed in Jisung's mind. He could push Minho away with his foot. Not hard, just enough to maintain the illusion of resistance, to keep the game going. His muscles twitched with intention.
“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Minho said as if he'd read Jisung's mind. His hands slid up from Jisung's ankles to his calves, fingers digging slightly into the muscle there. The warning was clear, but almost as if he was hoping Jisung would disobey.
Jisung hesitated, caught between the desire to submit and the thrill of continuing to fight. His heart raced, pushing heat through his limbs, thick and slow like a venom. Minho's thumbs pressed into the sensitive hollows behind his knees, making his legs tremble.
Jisung's defiance won out, and his foot kicked forward, catching Minho squarely in the chest, not hard enough to hurt but enough to push him back a step.
“Fuck you,” Jisung spat, channelling every ounce of his acting skills into sounding genuinely afraid and angry. “I'm not your toy.”
Minho didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he stood without a word, turning his back on Jisung slowly. The sudden shift in energy made Jisung’s nerves go taut. Had he gone too far? Had Minho decided to stop the game?
Jisung watched as Minho knelt beside a small, black zip-up bag that had been discreetly tucked against the wall. He carefully unzipped it, the sound of the zipper echoing in Jisung’s ears. He strained against his bindings, trying to see what Minho was doing, what he was reaching for. The rope bit into his wrists as he pulled, just painfully enough to remind him of his position.
“Why so mean, Jisungie?” Minho asked at last, his voice showing the disappointment that felt more threatening than angry. His back was still turned, shoulders moving as he rummaged through whatever was in the bag. “After all I've done to make this special for you.”
Wounded pride, a quiet sting of offence curled beneath Minho’s tone. Jisung had never heard him sound like that—controlled, but bruised—and it lit something in him. He drew a sharp breath, body buzzing like a live wire, drunk on the edges of the scene unfolding between them.
When Minho finally turned around, Jisung's eyes widened. Dangling from Minho's fingers was a bodysuit that caught the light, shimmering like liquid. Deep emerald green satin contrasted with panels of sheer mesh that would hide nothing. Thin, adjustable straps connected to delicate lace cups with scalloped trim and keyhole slits, each adorned by a miniature bow that seemed to mock with its innocence. A gold-toothed zipper ran down the middle, promising both access and control. Ruffled lace framed what would be high-cut hips, the kind that would make his legs look endless. Gold zips marked the back as well—whether practical or purely ornamental, Jisung couldn't tell from this distance.
“I brought you a gift,” Minho said, eyes trailing over Jisung's body with appreciation. His smile turned a little mean at the edges. “As pretty as you.” He paused, letting the implication sink in before adding, “For the photoshoot.”
Jisung's cock twitched pathetically at the words, a fresh bead of pre-cum leaking from the tip and sliding down his length. They'd talked about photos, yes, but not the lingerie. Minho had added this detail himself, and the unexpectedness of it made Jisung's head spin. How long had Minho been planning this? How many nights had he spent imagining Jisung wrapped in that emerald silk?
A desperate, primal need flooded through him. He wanted to break free of his restraints, but not to run away—no, he wanted to drop to his knees right there on the plush carpet, let Minho use him however he wanted. He wanted Minho to stuff his mouth full of cock until he couldn't breathe, then turn him around and fill his ass just as completely. He wanted to be owned, possessed, taken apart piece by piece—
—focus, Jisung.
He had to stay in character. Had to keep up the resistance, the fear. That was part of the fantasy, after all.
“I'm not wearing that,” Jisung said, forcing defiance into his voice even as his body betrayed him. His thighs trembled slightly, cock still painfully hard against his stomach. The lie tasted sweet on his tongue—he was dying for Minho to dress him up in this, to arrange him like a pretty doll, to capture every moment on camera.
Minho laughed, the sound low and cruel. “Oh, you are.” His eyes raked over Jisung's body again, lingering on his cock, the flush spreading across his chest, the way his nipples had hardened from arousal. “And you're going to look beautiful for me.”
Minho walked like he was already touching him, his hands still at his sides, but the weight of his gaze doing the work. When he reached Jisung, he tugged at the restraints slightly, testing. Jisung gave a subtle nod— yes, I'm okay, keep going —and Minho pulled harder, forcing him to stand on unsteady legs.
He placed the garment carefully on the bed, freeing both hands. They came to rest on Jisung's waist, fingers splaying across his skin, thumbs pressing into the dip just above his hip bones. Minho leaned in close, his fully-clothed body pressing into Jisung's naked one.
“Would your boyfriend ever think to dress you up like this?” Minho asked, his breath hot against the shell of Jisung's ear. His hands drifted lower, settling on Jisung's ass, pulling his cheeks apart with sudden harshness that made Jisung gasp. “To make you feel this pretty?”
The cool air hit Jisung's exposed hole, making him aware of how much he wanted to be touched there. His face burned with arousal so potent he could barely stand it. He turned his face away, not meeting Minho's eyes.
Minho caught his chin immediately, fingers digging in slightly, forcing Jisung to look at him. “I asked you a question,” he said.
Jisung swallowed hard, feeling the subtle pressure of Minho's fingers against his throat as he did. “No,” he whispered, playing along with the fantasy Minho created. “He wouldn't.”
They both knew the admission was false, but it was intoxicating to pretend Minho was someone else, someone dangerous who had taken what he wanted. Someone who knew how to make Jisung feel things his ‘boyfriend’ never could.
“Good boy,” Minho murmured, releasing Jisung's chin. “Now let's get you dressed properly.”
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
Minho unfastened Jisung’s wrists from the overhead restraint, though the rope around them remained bound together. Jisung flexed his fingers, blood rushing back to his hands as he stood draped in front of Minho like his favourite doll.
Minho guided Jisung into the bodysuit, pulling the soft lace up over his thighs, smoothing it over his hips. When he zipped it up, Jisung felt the movement snake along both sides at once, realising with a jolt that the two gold zippers were connected. One mechanism, front to back. Minho could unzip him anywhere he pleased. He could fuck him without even taking the suit off.
The thought made Jisung sway.
Minho paused to admire the delicate slits that framed Jisung’s nipples, tiny bowties resting over each bud like something innocent. But they weren’t innocent, not with how his nipples jutted out through them, flushed and hard, begging for attention.
Minho pinched one.
Jisung moaned, spine arching backwards into Minho’s chest. His arms strained instinctively, but Minho only shifted to the other nipple, rubbing it between his fingers, ripping more moans from Jisung’s throat.
“Mhm,” Minho hummed, pleased. “Sensitive baby.”
Then, without a warning, Minho lifted Jisung and tossed him onto the bed. A casual display of strength. Because Minho could. Because Jisung was drowning in it.
His round eyes were staring at Minho, awaiting further instruction. But Minho knew him, knew that the obedience wouldn’t last. But that was fine; Minho was prepared for that too.
So when Jisung started to shift, subtly resisting, Minho just grinned.
He grabbed his bound arms and dragged him into position—manhandling him, folding his legs up beneath him, spreading him over the pillows with a brutal kind of grace. Jisung let out a breathless whimper, but didn’t stop him.
The tripod came out next. A sleek, professional camera already mounted. Jisung blinked at it in confusion. When the hell had Minho even gotten that here? When did he have time?
But those were questions for later. Now, all he could do was obey as Minho gave him directions.
“Knees apart.”
“Back arched.”
“Eyes on the lens.”
Click, click, click.
Jisung posed obediently for a moment, but when Minho told him to reach and spread his ass cheeks, Jisung deliberately tucked his bound hands beneath his chest instead.
“No,” he said, the word small but firm.
Minho stilled. “What did you say?”
“I said no,” Jisung repeated, injecting more strength into his voice. “I told you, I’m not your fucking toy.”
A sharp, loud slap came down on Jisung’s ass.
“Ah!” he gasped, more from surprise than pain. The sting bloomed across his skin, heat radiating outwards from the point of impact.
“You are exactly what I say you are,” Minho growled, grabbing a fistful of Jisung’s hair and pulling his head back.
The camera continued to click, capturing Jisung's shocked expression, the arch of his throat as Minho forced his head back. “And right now, you're being very disobedient.”
Minho positioned himself behind Jisung, one knee dipping into the mattress, the other foot planted firmly on the floor for leverage. He leaned over Jisung's back, lips brushing against his ear.
“Fine. If you won't pose willingly, I'll arrange you myself.”
In one fluid motion, Minho pulled Jisung onto his lap, hands moving quickly. He spread Jisung's thighs wider, positioning him like a doll. His palm slid up to Jisung's throat, fingers applying just enough pressure to make Jisung's breath catch.
“I wonder,” Minho mused, thumb stroking the pulse point beneath Jisung's jaw, “what would your boyfriend think if he saw you like this?”
Jisung felt something cold press against his thigh. When he looked down, he saw Minho's phone, camera app already open, switched to selfie mode.
“What are you doing?” Jisung's voice cracked slightly.
“Taking a few personal shots.” Minho's smirk was audible in his voice. “The professional ones are nice, but I want something more intimate. Something I could send to him, maybe.” His grip tightened slightly. “Show him how his precious Jisungie looks when he's being properly taken care of.”
“Don't,” Jisung pleaded breathlessly.
“No?” Minho tilted his head in consideration, his reflection visible in the phone screen. “But you look so pretty like this. Wouldn't he want to see?” His lips returned to Jisung's ear, teeth grazing. “Wouldn't you want him to know exactly what you've been doing? How much you're enjoying being mine?”
The camera clicked in rapid succession, capturing Jisung's parted lips, Minho's mouth against his throat, those possessive fingers wrapped around his neck. The final shot caught Minho's hand splayed possessively across Jisung's chest, Jisung's eyes fluttered shut in surrender.
Minho tossed his phone aside and reached around, fingers ghosting over Jisung's hard cock through the suit.
“You look so fucking lewd like this,” he whispered, slowly unzipping the back of the suit downward until Jisung's cock spilt out, flushed and dripping against the sheer lace.
Minho wrapped a hand around it and gave two slow strokes. “So wet.”
Jisung bit his lip, barely containing a whimper.
“Fuck your hand and look at the camera,” Minho commanded.
Jisung wrapped his fingers around himself, but not without grinding his hips back, feeling Minho's reaction. Even through the leather trousers, Minho's cock was rock-hard against his thighs. The thought of making Minho lose control just from this friction made Jisung smirk. His wrists were still bound, forcing him to fuck himself with both hands awkwardly—less control, but still obscene. He knew better, though—Minho's self-restraint was legendary. Still, the mental image of Minho coming in his pants made him let out a small giggle.
“You having fun, baby?” Minho's voice had an edge.
Jisung froze, suddenly remembering his role in their game.
Without warning, a slick finger slid between his cheeks, circling his hole before pushing inside with teasing slowness. Jisung instinctively rocked back, working his hands and trying to force Minho deeper. A second finger joined the first, then almost immediately a third, the pace ramping up until Jisung abandoned all pretence of composure. Desperate sounds tore from his throat as he writhed shamelessly against each thrust.
“Ohhh fuck.”
Pleasure prickled through every nerve ending, spreading like wildfire through his body as the camera continued its relentless work, clicking mechanically every ten seconds to document his surrender.
Minho worked his fingers with the cruel elegance of someone who knew Jisung’s body better than anyone else. Like tuning and instrument he’d played a thousand times, always coaxing something new. Jisung’s skin prickled, tension rippling through his thighs as they strained. His hips twitched like they were resisting their own instinct to chase more. A cool draft teased the sweat at the back of his neck as every curl, every drag hit just right.
Minho knew he was right there when Jisung's rhythm broke, his muscles tensing, his back arching without control. He swatted his hands away with sharp authority.
“No touching. You come like this or you don't come at all,” Minho commanded.
Jisung came hard, cock twitching helplessly as his release spilt across the front of the bodysuit. It hit him hard, mess landing on the bodysuit and his belly, the aftershocks making him jerk as Minho's fingers slid free with a wet sound.
Before he could catch his breath, Minho had his phone in hand, angling it low to capture Jisung’s flushed face, tear-rimmed eyes, and ruined body.
“Look here, pretty thing,” Minho murmured, thumb swiping across the screen to frame the shot. “This one's just for me.”
Jisung blinked blearily at the lens, still panting, lips parted and trembling.
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
Minho cradled Jisung's limp body in his arms with the reverence of handling something precious. The boy was a beautiful wreck—breathing heavily, skin flushed, eyes unfocused. His orgasm had been so intense that he'd gone almost boneless, drifting in that hazy space between consciousness and something deeper. Minho had anticipated this response, having planned for it meticulously, knowing how Jisung's body would surrender when pushed to certain limits.
The release wasn’t just physical; it was emotional. It tore through him in waves—relief, surrender, want. Not just pleasure, but the flood of being seen, wanted, kept . Shaking in Minho’s lap, not because he was spent, but because in this moment, he didn’t feel the need to hide. He was safe.
“I've got you,” Minho whispered, his voice dropping the predatory edge it had carried all night, returning to the gentle tone that belonged solely to Jisung.
He unwound the rope from Jisung's wrists with care, fingers working the knots loose without tugging. As each loop fell away, he massaged the marked skin beneath, watching the faint red lines that would fade by morning. Jisung's fingers twitched slightly in response, a small sign that he wasn't completely gone.
“That's it, baby,” Minho encouraged softly. “Come back to me when you're ready.”
The bodysuit clung to Jisung's sweat-dampened skin, the once-pristine emerald fabric now stained with evidence of his pleasure. Minho unzipped it with careful movements, peeling the fabric away from the sensitive skin.
Jisung stirred slightly as cool air hit his exposed skin. “Mmm,” he mumbled, the sound barely audible.
“Just getting you comfortable,” Minho assured him, dropping a kiss on his temple.
He left Jisung for only a moment, returning with a wet cloth and a packet of cooling wipes he'd stashed in the bathroom earlier. The cloth was warm against Jisung's skin as Minho cleaned him, wiping away the sticky residue from his stomach and thighs with gentle strokes. Jisung's muscles twitched under his touch, oversensitive.
Next came the cooling wipes, their menthol scent sharp and clean. Minho ran one across Jisung's forehead first, watching as his boyfriend's features relaxed at the soothing sensation. He continued down Jisung's neck, across his chest, along his arms—anywhere the skin felt too hot, too tight.
“That feels nice,” Jisung murmured, eyes still closed but consciousness clearly returning.
Minho smiled, taking his time with Jisung's wrists. The rope had left delicate patterns, not quite bruises but definite impressions where the fibres had pressed into his skin. Minho traced each mark with his thumb, applying gentle pressure to restore circulation. Then, unable to resist, he lifted each wrist to his lips, pressing feather-light kisses to the inside where the pulse beat steadily.
“I love you,” he whispered against Jisung's skin. “So much.”
Jisung's eyes fluttered open at that, still hazy but finding Minho's face. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his lips. “Love you too,” he slurred slightly, voice rough from earlier cries.
Minho allowed himself a moment just to look at the miracle that was Jisung, spread across these sheets. His Jisung. His hair was a mess, sticking up in places and plastered to his forehead in others. His lips were bitten red, swollen from his own teeth. The tattoos that decorated his body seemed more vivid against his flushed skin—the script along his side, the lines across his chest. Minho traced the edge of one with his fingertip, marvelling at how the ink seemed to become part of Jisung's very essence.
His first love. His only love, if he had any say in it. The thought stirred a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest, like being pulled under by something too big for words.
The pressure in his own groin reminded him that he was still painfully hard, had been for what felt like hours now. He pressed his palm against the front of his leather trousers, adjusting himself with a small grimace. The relief was momentary at best. He unbuckled the decorative strap from around his bicep, then unbuttoned his shirt, leaving it hanging open. His boots hit the floor with dull thuds as he kicked them off.
Jisung's eyes tracked his movements with growing awareness, curiosity sparking in them.
“Not done yet?” Jisung asked, hopeful.
Minho smiled, reaching for the bag he'd prepared. “Not quite,” he said, pulling out another length of black silk rope. This one was softer than what he'd used on Jisung's wrists, specifically chosen for what he had planned next. “Think you can handle a little more?”
Jisung nodded without hesitation, trust evident in every line of his body. “Green,” he confirmed, using their safeword system to make it absolutely clear.
Minho's chest tightened with emotion. Jisung was still giving himself over completely, the trust between them was staggering.
“Good boy,” he murmured, kneeling on the bed beside him. “I'm going to move you a bit. Tell me if anything feels uncomfortable.”
With gentle hands, Minho guided Jisung's right leg up, bending it at the knee. The rope unfurled between his fingers as he began to wrap it around Jisung's ankle, the black silk against his honey skin. He worked methodically, looping the rope in an intricate pattern that secured Jisung's ankle to his thigh, creating a frog-tie that left him beautifully exposed.
“This okay?” Minho asked, checking in as he completed the first leg.
Jisung nodded, eyes now fully alert and watching Minho's hands with fascination. “It feels... secure. I like it.”
Minho repeated the process on Jisung's left leg, taking his time with each loop, each knot. When he was finished, he carefully rolled Jisung onto his side, positioning him so the ties wouldn't strain his muscles.
“How did you learn to do this?” Jisung asked, testing the bonds with small movements of his legs.
Minho's lips quirked into a small smile. “I may have taken some online classes while you were recording with Chan and Changbin.”
Jisung's eyes widened slightly. “Really? For this? For me?”
“For you,” Minho confirmed, running his hand down Jisung's exposed side, feeling the goosebumps. “I wanted it to be perfect.”
He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Jisung's hip bone, then another to his inner thigh just above the rope. Jisung whimpered, his body already responding despite his recent orgasm. Minho smiled against his skin, letting his teeth graze lightly over the sensitive area.
“What happens now?” Jisung whispered, a tremor of anticipation in his voice.
Minho looked up, meeting Jisung's eyes as his hand slid higher on his thigh. “Now,” Minho said softly, “I show you exactly what happens when you belong to me.”
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
The bathroom door clicked open, and Minho emerged. His red shirt hung open, unbuttoned and untucked, framing the lean muscle of his chest and abdomen. The sleeves were still rolled to his elbows, revealing the veined forearms that had been working Jisung's body minutes earlier. His leather trousers were gone, replaced by tight black boxer briefs that hugged the curves of his ass and outlined his cock with shameless clarity.
Jisung lay sprawled on the bed, bound and exposed. The frog tie kept his legs parted, vulnerability on display. He stirred when Minho approached, eyes blinking open slowly.
Like flipping a switch, they slipped back into their roles.
“Did you rest well, jagi?” Minho asked, voice deceptively soft.
Jisung's body betrayed him with a shiver, though his face remained carefully blank. “Wasn't that enough for you?” he asked. “Let me go now.”
Minho tilted his head, feigning confusion. “Enough?” he echoed. “And here I thought we had fun.”
“You said—”
“I don't recall saying anything about being done, Hannie,” Minho cut him off. “You parade yourself around for your little boyfriend all the time, and this is supposed to be enough for me?” He clicked his tongue. “That won't do, baby.”
Jisung opened his mouth to protest, but Minho was already crawling onto the bed, effectively caging him in. His weight settled deliberately on top of Jisung, bare chest pressing against bare chest.
Jisung's eyes fluttered closed for a second. For all his resistance in their game, he'd missed this—Minho's skin against his, the solid weight of him.
Minho rolled his hips once, letting Jisung feel exactly how hard he still was through the thin fabric of his boxers.
“Just relax and enjoy, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Who knows when you'll get fucked this good again. Probably never.”
Minho slid down Jisung's body, his tongue leaving a wet trail as he went. He dipped into his navel, then followed the thin line of hair downward. He paused at Jisung's cock, pressing a soft kiss to the tip before continuing lower.
“Don't—” Jisung's protest died in his throat as Minho gripped his thighs, pushing them back further.
“What are you gonna do about it?” Minho taunted.
The first touch of Minho's tongue made Jisung jerk against his restraints, but Minho held him firmly in place. His tongue circled the sensitive rim, teasing and relentless.
“Oh god,” Jisung moaned, resistance crumbling as Minho's tongue pushed inside. The wet heat overwhelmed him, each flick sending pleasure rippling through his body.
Minho worked him open with precise dedication, alternating between broad strokes and pointed jabs that had Jisung writhing. His hands kneaded Jisung's thighs, fingertips pressing hard enough to leave marks.
“Why are you doing this?” Jisung gasped between breaths. “Why can't you just—ah—go find and f—fuck someone who actually wants you?”
Minho stopped, lifting his head just enough for Jisung to see his face. “But I am,” he said simply. “I am fucking someone who wants me.”
“I don't,” Jisung insisted weakly.
“Whatever you say, baby.”
Minho resumed his assault on Jisung's rim. After a while, he paused again. “It had to be you, though. Your body was made for me. This little waist,” he placed his hands on Jisung's hips, “made for me to hold. This pretty neck,” his fingers wrapped around Jisung's throat, “made for my hand. Your cock—made for me to tease. And this hole,” he pressed his thumb against the wet rim, “made for my cock to slide in.”
The words dripped with such raw hunger that Jisung felt them in his very core.
Jisung's world tilted as Minho hoisted him up, the room spinning until his back slammed against the wall with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. One second he was on the bed, the next he was pinned—suspended between the cold wall and Minho's burning skin, their chests pressed flush together.
Minho's grip was unrelenting, fingers digging into the meat of Jisung's thighs. With his legs bound in the frog-tie, Jisung couldn't wrap them around Minho's waist for support. He was entirely at Minho's mercy, held up by nothing but raw strength. The realisation that Minho was supporting his entire weight without strain sent even more heat pooling in his belly.
Just when Jisung expected another bruising kiss, Minho's lips hovered millimetres from his own, sharing the same air but denying contact.
“You're going to let me fuck you like this,” Minho whispered, hot breath ghosting over Jisung's parted lips. “Right here. Against this wall. No escape.” His teeth scraped along Jisung's jawline, not quite gentle. “Your legs tied, and your pretty little body clenching around me.”
Minho shifted his hips, the head of his cock sliding between Jisung's thighs and catching on his slick rim. Jisung cried out, body arching instinctively toward the pressure. There was nowhere to go, no way to control the angle or depth, just the maddening pressure and the weight of being completely immobilised.
“No bed this time, Jisungie,” Minho said with a smirk. “I'm sure you're always getting fucked in bed. Let me show you what else is possible.”
Jisung inhaled sharply. Bed was hardly their only venue—hell, they'd christened nearly every surface in their apartment. But something about Minho's continued digs at his imaginary boyfriend's lacklustre performance was making this whole scene ten times hotter.
A fuzzy thought formed through his lust-addled brain: was there a reason Minho kept this act going? Did he actually get off on... degrading himself? Christ, did Minho have a humiliation kink that Jisung had somehow missed all this time?
Minho lifted one of Jisung’s thighs higher by the rope and shoved his cock inside, the angle brutal. Jisung was already open from earlier—Minho's fingers and tongue had done their work well, so the penetration was calculated discomfort, right at the edge of too much but never crossing it.
Jisung choked on his moan, blunt nails biting into Minho's shoulders hard enough to leave crescent marks. Each thrust was shallow and hindered by their position against the wall. Despite the limitations, Minho's hips worked desperately, the rhythm faltering as frustration built with each restricted grind.
“Not deep enough,” he growled. In a blur of movement, he pulled out completely—leaving Jisung whimpering at the sudden emptiness—and hoisted him higher, practically dragging him across the room.
He bent Jisung over the polished oak desk by the window, forcing his chest flat while keeping his hips elevated, ass completely exposed.
“Fuck,” Jisung hissed, cheek pressed against the cool wood.
“Don't worry, baby. I'll give it to you deep now.”
Minho spat on his cock and shoved it back in without ceremony, burying himself to the hilt. The sound was obscene. Jisung shrieked as the desk creaked beneath them. His bound legs gave him nowhere to go, no way to escape the way Minho fucked him like he owned him.
“Take it,” Minho hissed, bending over him, lips at his nape. “You’re so fucking perfect like this, baby.”
Each thrust hit Jisung's prostate dead-on, the pressure making his vision blur. He tried to push back, to meet Minho's movements, but his attempts were useless, as Minho's grip on his hips controlled every inch of motion.
Between harsh breaths, Minho whispered praises against Jisung's skin—how tight he felt, how beautiful he looked coming apart, how perfectly he was made for this.
He gripped the rope and pulled, using it as leverage to drag Jisung back onto every thrust. Jisung was sobbing now, his cock trapped underneath him, untouched and leaking.
Then came the unmistakable sound—click. The phone.
Jisung lifted his head in alarm. “No—what are you—”
“Capturing your best angles.” Minho adjusted the camera until it framed the red flush of Jisung’s back, the glistening drag of Minho’s cock in and out of him, the rope pressing into his skin.
“You’re gonna watch yourself,” Minho said. “Maybe then you’ll understand why it had to be you.”
Minho continued filming, fucking into Jisung with ruthless force, splitting him open on his cock. Then he flipped the screen, positioning the phone where Jisung couldn't avoid it. The camera caught everything—his face slack with pleasure, his body jolting forward with each impact.
Jisung tried to turn away, but Minho's grip tightened, pinning him in place.
“Look. At. Yourself.”
Minho pushed the phone into Jisung's trembling hands.
“From the beginning.”
Jisung tried to focus on the screen, which proved nearly impossible while getting railed within an inch of his life. Who knew?
He swiped the video back to the start. His breath caught as the screen mirrored exactly what he felt—Minho’s thick cock driving into him, his hole stretching wide around it, his insides surely moulding to Minho’s shape.
“See how perfect the fit is?” Minho punctuated the question with a particularly brutal thrust.
“Hnghh,” was all Jisung could manage.
“You see how quickly your body adjusted? Like it knew who it belonged to.”
With trembling fingers, Jisung tried to pause the video.
“Keep watching, baby,” Minho ordered.
“N-no,” Jisung replied, placing the phone face down.
“No?” Minho landed a sharp slap on his ass. “Fine.”
To Jisung's dismay, Minho went completely still. Once again, Jisung marvelled at his self-control, how he could just stop like that. They really don't make them like this anymore. He'd hit the jackpot.
“I will only fuck you if you continue watching,” Minho stated matter-of-factly, as if he wasn't currently buried balls-deep in Jisung's ass.
Jisung's body trembled, caught between defiance and desperate need. His ass clenched around Minho's thick length, silently begging for movement, but Minho remained perfectly still.
“Now, are you going to watch, or should I just pull out and leave you like this?”
With a frustrated whimper, Jisung reached for the phone, his fingers trembling as he turned it face-up again. The video resumed, and so did Minho's hips, matching the pace on screen perfectly. The synchronisation was dizzying, feeling Minho's thrusts while watching them happen simultaneously.
“That's better,” Minho purred.
Jisung couldn't tear his eyes away now. The Jisung on screen was moaning with abandon, eyes half-lidded and glazed. He looked drunk on pleasure, desperate for more. Nothing like the shy, reserved person he sometimes worried he was.
“I—” Jisung started, then broke off with a gasp as Minho hit his prostate.
“You what?” Minho prompted, slowing his pace just enough to let Jisung speak.
“I look—” Jisung swallowed hard, watching himself get fucked on screen while feeling it in real-time. “I look so fucking hot.”
Minho laughed, the sound deep and genuine. “Yes, you do.” His hand slid up Jisung's spine, fingers tangling in his hair before pulling his head back. “And you're all mine.”
The desk groaned under their weight, the sound blending with Jisung's desperate cries and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin. Minho's thrusts grew more erratic, his breath ragged against Jisung's neck. He was close, Jisung could tell from the way Minho's fingers dug deeper into his hips, his rhythm faltering slightly.
“You're going to come for me again,” Minho commanded, reaching around to stroke Jisung. “Right now.”
Overwhelmed by the dual sensation of Minho inside him and his hand working him, Jisung sobbed. His second climax rolled through him like thunder, tearing through him with such force that everything outside the sensation faded. He came with a broken cry, spilling over Minho's fingers and onto the polished wood beneath him.
The tightening of his body pushed Minho over the edge. With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep inside Jisung, pulsing as he emptied himself. His forehead dropped to rest between Jisung's shoulder blades, his breath coming in harsh pants against damp skin.
For a long moment, they remained still, too exhausted to do anything but breathe. Beneath them, the oak desk held their weight like it had absorbed the strain, too. Jisung’s cheek was pressed against the surface, eyes open but unfocused, Minho’s chest rising slow and deep behind him.
Finally, Minho eased himself out with a care that belied the roughness of moments before. Jisung whimpered at the loss, feeling empty and oversensitive all at once. Warm liquid trickled down his thigh, marking him in the most primal way.
“Shhh,” Minho soothed, pressing gentle kisses along Jisung's spine. “I've got you.”
With practised fingers, he untied the ropes binding Jisung's legs, massaging each muscle as it was freed. The transition from the intense scene back to reality was seamless.
“Let me get you to bed,” Minho said softly. “Tell me if anything feels wrong.”
Jisung nodded, not quite ready to form words yet.
Minho scooped him up, one arm supporting his back, the other beneath his knees. Jisung's head lolled against Minho's chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. The short journey to their bed felt dreamlike, his body weightless in Minho's arms.
He laid him down with care, arranging the pillows before easing his head onto them.
“I’ll be right back,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Jisung's temple. Then he was gone, padding towards the bathroom and the soft sound of water running filled the space.
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
Minho knelt beside the bed, cleaning Jisung slowly, between his legs, down his thighs, over the flushed skin of his belly. He was careful, wiping away everything sticky or sharp.
“Thank you,” Jisung mumbled, cheeks warm.
Minho smiled, brushing damp hair from Jisung’s forehead. “You were amazing.”
Then he held up something. A soft grey shirt. It was unmistakable. Worn around the edges, the neck stretched out, a small hole near the hem where a tag used to be.
Jisung blinked at it. “Wait. Is that…?”
Minho shrugged, trying for casual, but there was something faintly shy in the way he folded it in half. “You always say you like the way it feels. I figured… I don’t know. I thought it would help you feel yourself again.”
That was it—the final undoing. Not the rope. Not the sex. The shirt. The fact that Minho had packed this , the one he wore on nights he couldn't quite cope with the world, the one that hung off his frame just right because it was softened by years of use.
Jisung’s throat tightened without warning, and his eyes burned. “I love you”, he whispered, voice trembling.
“I know,” Minho said, smiling gently as he slipped the shirt over Jisung’s head and helped his arms through. “I love you too.”
Jisung sat up enough to wrap his arms around Minho’s neck, pulling him into a slow, unhurried kiss. There was no hunger in it now—just warmth. Reassurance. A quiet thank you. When they parted, he leaned their foreheads together.
“You okay?” he asked.
Minho paused. That subtle shift happened in his eyes again, like he still wasn’t used to being asked.
“I am,” he said. “Just… it was intense. What we did.” A beat passed. “I know I talk shit about your ‘boyfriend’ in the scene, but I never mean it about me. You know that, right?”
“I know,” Jisung said. But the way Minho phrased it made his heart crack open just a little more.
“Still,” Minho added, his voice light, teasing now. “Maybe next time he can be the one crying and tied up. Just saying.”
Jisung laughed, sniffled, and pulled him closer again. “You’re such an idiot.”
“I prefer versatile menace, thanks.”
They stayed like that for a while, curled into each other on the bed. At some point, Jisung tugged Minho down until they were both lying on their sides, legs tangled under the blanket. He ran his fingers over Minho’s hair, then down the side of his face.
“Let me take care of you next time,” he said, not quite a question.
Minho closed his eyes and nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
The room fell into a quiet that wasn’t empty. It was full of comfort, of trust, of everything unsaid that didn’t need words. The kind of silence that felt like home.
Sleep came easily after that.
────⋆⋅✄⋅⋆──
When they finally made it back to the hotel, Jisung was walking a little gingerly. Not enough to be obvious, but enough for observant eyes.
Unfortunately, the group had a few too many of those.
“Ohhh,” Changbin grinned the moment they stepped into the suite. “So that’s why you didn’t reply to the group chat.”
“I did reply,” Minho said evenly, taking off his shoes. “I sent a thumbs up.”
“Yeah, but the tone of that thumbs up said, ‘I’m currently rearranging someone’s guts,’” Seungmin added, not even looking up from the armchair.
Jisung groaned and buried his face in Minho’s shoulder.
“I hate all of you,” he mumbled.
“Love you too, baby boy,” Felix called sweetly from where he was perched by the minibar. “Need an ice pack?”
Minho just chuckled, guiding Jisung further into the room like nothing was amiss. “They’re just jealous,” he muttered.
“Jealous I’m not limping?” Hyunjin asked from the sofa.
“Exactly.”
And with that, Jisung gave up all pretence of dignity and collapsed onto the bed. His comfort shirt was still on under his hoodie, hidden but there, soft against his skin like a secret no one could take away.