Work Text:
Minho eyes the words—
‘My rut is soon and I don’t want to spend it alone.’
He stares at the screen. The light stings his eyes. He turns the brightness all the way down, but they still burn. So, he turns his phone off. System shutdown. He’ll look at the replies tomorrow— or maybe never. Yeah, preferably never.
He chews on his thumbnail, crossing and uncrossing his legs for the tenth time in five minutes. He’s jittery for no reason. His knee bounces and hits the coffee table, and his phone tumbles to the floor. Fuck— it’ll bruise, and it hurts like a mother fucker.
There's an ache in his temples and behind his eyes, and there's a crick in his neck too. And his couch— it’s not the best piece of furniture he owns. It hurts his back. Hyunjin keeps telling him to buy a new one. Minho can’t because he hates shopping.
He scrubs a hand down his face, then both of them through his hair.
His laptop pings with a message. He forgot his phone and computer were connected, so it startles him as the screen lights up and shows an email. His breathing stutters. He should have shut the damn thing off too.
He doesn’t move away from the couch. Doesn't gravitate to the laptop to open the email. He sits there for about thirty minutes, staring at his open computer, idling on the kitchen counter, right beside the sink. He should move it before it gets damaged from the water. The screen went black twenty or so minutes ago, but Minho knows the notification is still there.
Still, he doesn’t open it.
So, he waits until tomorrow.
At seven twenty eight in the morning, Minho opens the email.
His fingers twitch over the mousepad, and he almost accidentally deletes it before he can read it, a clumsy slip of his pointer-finger— he shouldn’t have had that third cup of tea, probably. He pushes through, though. Heart pulsating in his ears, dread clinging onto every molecule in his body as his eyes slide over the screen.
A short response— not even really a response, actually.
‘How long?’
Minho feels nauseous as he reads the email at least sixteen times before he responds. He doesn’t know what to say. His fingers tremble over the keyboard, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He types, then backspaces. Deletes everything and then starts over. Once, twice, thrice.
‘A week.’
He presses send. Instantly, he slams his laptop shut, tosses it to the other side of the couch, and rakes his fingers through his hair. He has a headache again, and his jaw hurts from clenching it for the last hour, probably from too much stress, or because his rut is so close. He can feel it sink into his bones.
His leg bounces; he can’t sit still. He’s restless again, and he tenses when his phone pings again on the coffee table, screen alight. Minho doesn’t look at it— not immediately— he needs a few minutes to get his shit together before he does.
Some deep breathing and light meditation, he feels a little calmer now, but his hand still shakes as he grabs his phone and swipes open the notification bar. Another response, so quickly for early in the morning on a Saturday. Minho doesn’t want to get into that. All of this is too much to take in, anyway.
‘Oh, wow. That’s, like, really soon.’
Minho scoffs and feels himself relaxing— just a little. He slouches on the couch, thumbs typing out his next response. He finds himself feeling more at ease, huffing a laugh through his nose, shaking his head incredulously— this is kinda… easy.
He rucks a hand through his unruly bed head, smiles at his phone screen at the prospect of… whatever this is. He doesn’t want to think about it, actually. He doesn’t want to name it. He wants to file this away into the very back of his mind. Classified. Do Not Open.
‘Yeah, I guess it is.’
As soon as he presses send, there’s already another response greeting him.
‘Can we meet? I’d like to see who I’m getting fucked by before I jump into bed with them ;).’
That startles a laugh out of Minho. He almost drops his phone on his face, fumbles with it a little as he rereads the words again and again. It makes his cock twitch in his sweatpants. Embarrassing.
He keeps telling himself it’s his rut. It’s soon. It’s too close, that’s why he’s reacting. He repeats it over and over again in his head like a mantra, and tries not to forget.
‘Sure, lol.’
Those two words seal Minho’s fate.
༝༚
Minho gulps down a mouthful of his coffee, letting out a shaky sigh after he swallows. It’s bitter.
He doesn’t even like coffee, but the coffee shop is out of his favorite tea, and he didn’t want to try something new. He tries his best to sit still, hands curled around his cup, legs crossed at his ankles. His heart thump, thump, thumps in his chest, erratic. He’s nervous, bites down on his lower lip, the inner wall of his cheek, chews his thumbnail. He crosses and uncrosses his legs, and fidgets with the rings on his fingers. He picks at the patches on his neck, laying over his scent glands.
He jolts every time the bell above the door chimes, and he can’t help but look up to see who it is. He’s been here waiting for half an hour— he got here early because he wanted to make a good first impression— sue him for being courteous.
He’s almost finished his coffee, the door opens and closes a ridiculous amount of times. Minho is slipping each of his rings off his fingers, then sliding them back on, just to pass the time.
His phone is burning a hole in his pocket. Empty, blank screen. It sits there. It doesn’t buzz with a notification, or that he has an unopened message. He doesn’t check the time, afraid that he might be making a fool of himself sitting in the middle of the coffeehouse alone. He’ll mull it over when he gets home, and after he’s finished his third cup of coffee.
They didn’t talk online for long. Minho went back and forth a few times about— everything. Time and date and if he should delete the ad, not ask for his money back and spend his rut alone. Then exchanged names. Jisung— that’s what his name is— the stranger who answered Minho’s out-of-pocket ad somewhere online. They share ages. Jisung is twenty four, two years younger than Minho.
They agreed to meet here, at one of the quieter coffee shops— it took a lot of convincing from Minho for Jisung to change his mind about the one closer to where they live— Hyunjin and Seungmin work at that one. And Jeongin has made it a habit to drop by everyday just to make out with Seungmin in the storage closet.
Minho told Jisung where he’d be— a table tucked away in the back corner of the small shop— he’ll be the guy wearing the mint green hoodie.
Enough time passes for Minho to fully convince himself that this is a bad idea and ditch last minute. He’s slipping his phone out of his pocket when the door chimes, snapping Minho’s attention forward. His phone sits loosely in his hand when his gaze flits over a boy with windswept dark hair parted at his forehead. Flush, biteable cheeks, big eyes sliding all over until they land on Minho, and, yeah, this must be the guy— Jisung.
Too slow, too late.
Minho attempts to swallow around the knot in his throat as he stuffs his phone back into his pocket and swipes his palms down his pant legs to wipe the sweat off, before he stands and makes eye contact with the stranger— or, Jisung— again.
“Are you Minho?”
“I— yeah,” Minho says, forcing himself to take Jisung’s extended hand and smile. He tries to remember to be polite, because Jisung is probably nervous too. Maybe just as much. Maybe even more. Minho doesn’t know if he wants to find out.
Jisung smiles, all teeth and in the shape of a heart. His hands are warm and smooth against Minho’s cold and dry ones as he shakes it with a soft touch.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Jisung says, nodding, giving Minho’s hand a firm squeeze before letting go.
Minho lets his arm fall to his side, gestures at the table for Jisung to sit. They do, together, Minho asks him if he wants anything to drink or eat.
“No, thank you,” he says with an easygoing smile.
He doesn’t seem nervous at all. He holds himself confidently— comfortable, despite the inevitably awkward conversation they’re about to have. His arms are folded over the table as he looks at Minho with big brown, sparkly eyes. There’s a tiny mole on his cheek. Minho thinks it’s cute.
“So, why did you insist on this place?” Jisung asks, a curious lilt to his tone. He tips his head to the side as he looks around, taking everything in like it’s his very first time here. Minho wonders if it is.
Minho huffs a nervous laugh through his nose, and despite himself, he breaks out into a grin too, albeit small, but still there and enough for Jisung to notice and smile impossibly wider.
“I’m, um, not a regular here, and this is kinda—“
“Embarrassing?” Jisung finishes with a curled brow.
Minho snorts and shoves his fingers in his hair. “Personal.”
Jisung snickers, and that’s that.
There’s a heavy silence between them. Folding over them like a blanket. A heavy, thick sheet of ice. Minho feels chills ripple down his spine as he goes for his drink. It’s still warm, a tad stale, but overall the best coffee he’s had in a very long time. Jisung begins fiddling with his fingers— his nails are short, and the skin around them is raw and cracked. The sleeves of his jacket are barely long enough to stuff them away from plain sight— Minho wouldn’t comment on it either way
“So,” Minho purses his lips. His thighs are pressed together so he doesn’t bounce them. His hands alternate between folding over the table and shoving them between his legs, or crossing them against his chest.
“So,” Jisung parrots. He sits perfectly still, hands clasped together. He looks at Minho weirdly calm— like this interaction isn’t eating him up from the inside.
“Um, can I ask why you responded?” Minho asks.
Jisung’s face twists in embarrassment. Minho’s stomach dips south. “I’d rather you not.” He scratches the side of his head, averts his eyes to the table— anywhere that isn’t Minho.
A scoff, Minho finds this absolutely ridiculous. “Can’t be any worse than posting an ad online asking someone for sex.”
“It’s worse than that,” Jisung says.
He’s exaggerating— Minho can tell that much. He doesn’t press it, though, and takes another sip of his drink. The silence stretches between them. The tension shifts into something awkward. Minho isn’t ready for this conversation, or to learn how the rest of this will play out. There’s a lot to talk about, so much ground to cover, rules to place, boundaries to learn— it’s just a lot.
Minho doesn’t expect Jisung to leave this coffee shop as his new temporary rut partner for the weekend.
“So,” Minho tries again. He’s drawing this out. The moment he’s been dreading since he opened that fucking email.
He hears Jisung suck in a breath, sees how his shoulders tense, his body going rigid— he knows too.
“Are you looking for someone permanent?” Jisung asks.
He beats Minho to the punch, taking that leap of faith that Minho doesn’t have the courage to do himself.
“I—“ Minho feels sweat leaking from his pores. He feels warm— too warm in a well air conditioned coffee shop. “I… don’t know.”
“Alright.” Jisung nods, messing with the rings on his fingers, the bracelet on his wrist. There’s a crumpled up napkin on the table beside him. When did that happen?
He smiles. A real smile that reaches his eyes and makes everything in the coffee shop feel a little less grim. Minho doesn’t understand how he can smile so freely. So easygoing and good-natured. Minho is crawling out of his skin just being here, sitting in front of the man— the stranger— he’s going to fuck within an inch of his life.
“Are you nervous?” asks Minho. He doesn’t look at him— this is all too real— Jisung is too real.
A huff of a laugh, Minho looks up, a reflex. It’s instinctive. He can’t help it. Especially not when Jisung sounds like that. All syrupy and honey-smooth. It drips into his veins. He needs it to live.
“Nervous isn’t the word I would use.” Jisung shakes his head. “Terrified. Bone-crushing. Anxiety-riddled. Insane that I’m actually considering this. Just to name a few.”
Minho’s lips quirk up. “That’s reassuring, believe it or not. Glad I’m not the only one losing their mind at nine o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday with a stranger.”
Jisung laughs with his shoulders. It’s endearing. A positive, Minho thinks. Something that Minho definitely won’t be thinking about later when he can’t sleep. (That is a lie).
“What should I do to help make things easier for you?” Jisung takes the crumpled napkin in his hand and squeezes his fist around it again, white-knuckling it. The veins in his hand look like they’re about to burst from how tightly he’s balling his fingers, muscles clenching— it’s a little distracting— Minho winces.
“I, um,” Minho pauses for a beat or five and takes a sip of his drink. It’s cold and stale, watered down, even though he ordered hot coffee. “I don’t know.”
Jisung’s face pulls into a frown.
“I’ve never done this before,” Minho says. His stomach dips again— he doesn’t like that look on his face.
“Me either.” Jisung presses his lips into a thin line, pulling the corner of the napkin, and then smoothing it out over the table.
Minho clears his throat. “Well, then, tell me about yourself.”
Jisung blinks. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but then he shuts it just as quick. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, and he’s torn the napkin to shreds, already reaching for another one until Minho intercepts and catches him by his hand. Maybe he oversteps when he laces their fingers together and squeezes around him. He exhales a shaky sigh, squeezes Minho’s hand back as he smiles again.
“I’m Han Jisung, twenty four years old, omega.” He purses his lips together, gaze flitting down to their intertwined hands. Minho squeezes his fingers again. “I, um, like anime. I like to read, write music. I know how to play the piano, and I taught myself the guitar, and this is the first time I’ve spent a cycle with someone.”
“As in…”
Even your own?
The words die on his tongue. He can’t say them aloud.
Jisung nods shakily, a nervous chuckle bubbling past his lips. He brings his free hand up and chews on his thumb nail. Something he does when he’s anxious, Minho notices. “Yep.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry. That was— that was weird, right?” Jisung asks, and before Minho can respond with a simple no, not at all, Jisung is letting go of his hand and flinging his palms to his face and whining into them. “Forget I said anything. That was stupid. I’m sorry. God—“
“Jisung-ah.” Minho reaches across the table and tugs gently at his wrists. Jisung goes a lot easier than he anticipated, doesn’t put up a fight and lets Minho interlock their hands.
This is a stark contrast from the Jisung who walked in twenty minutes ago. A nervous, bubbly mess.
Minho’s mouth curves up into a soft smile. “I’m twenty six, I teach dance to five year olds, I volunteer at the animal shelter every weekend, and this is my first time spending a cycle with someone too.”
“God, you’re such a loser,” Jisung says and squeezes Minho’s hands. Minho squeezes right back.
Minho tongues his cheek. “And it’s alright if you’re not up for this. I know my ruts can get pretty… intense— I can get intense, so, I’m not asking for an answer right now, but my rut’s supposed to start this weekend. Just let me know within the next couple of days, it should be fine.”
Jisung nods, fluffy hair bouncing with his movements. “I— okay. Yeah. Sure. I can do that.”
Minho relaxes, squeezes Jisung’s fingers again and begrudgingly pulls away. “Thanks.”
“Guess this means no animal shelter, then, huh?” Jisung raises a perfectly arched brow, the right side of his mouth tilting upwards.
His arms are folded over the table, but he’s twisting the fabric of his hoodie sleeve between his fingers nervously. Minho itches to cradle his hands again.
Minho rolls his eyes, good-natured, of course, because Jisung has been so nice and patient with him all morning. No judgment. Minho feels safe here in their own bliss balloon.
Jisung’s cheeks press up into a smile, lightly kicking Minho beneath the table. Minho kicks him back, and Jisung locks their ankles together.
They don’t stay much longer after that. A little over an hour. After Minho ordered another coffee and forced Jisung to get something as well. Jisung whines when Minho handles the bill and pinches him gently on the arm to quiet him. It works remarkably well.
Their hands brush on their way out the door. The sun is higher up in the sky now, and there’s a nice breeze that pushes Minho’s hair away from his eyes. Butterflies dance across his skin.
“I want to kiss you,” Jisung blurts.
Minho halts, freezes where he stands, and snaps his head to look at Jisung.
“What?”
“I want to kiss you,” he says again.
Does Minho want that? Yeah, he thinks he kinda does. A lot, actually.
Okay.
“Okay.” Minho nods.
“Okay.” Jisung nods too.
Jisung’s lips press warm against Minho’s for the first time, and Minho wants.
The kiss is soft, a quick peck, but Jisung pulls him in and licks into Minho’s mouth hungrily, chasing, it sets him absolutely on fire. He finally remembers what to do with his hands, gripping Jisung by his small waist. He’s so stupidly tiny there, Minho squeezes and groans into Jisung’s mouth.
Jisung moans softly, reaching up to fist Minho’s hoodie, tugging him closer; tongues sliding hotly together, and Minho’s mind is swimming as his pulse jumps when Jisung licks further into his mouth. He can smell Jisung properly now. It’s a rich scent of chocolate, a perfect combination of violets, and something spicy in the background that Minho can’t describe, but it’s heavenly— Jisung is heavenly.
Fuck, he thinks, sliding his hand up to Jisung’s hair, cradling the base of his skull, sucking at his lip and hearing him groan. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
They’re nearly pressed together when they finally break apart, bodies almost flush, Minho’s other hand halfway up Jisung’s shirt and both of them panting heavily. Embarrassed, they disentangle, Minho helps Jisung to smooth down his hair as Jisung fixes the collar of Minho’s hoodie, sporting a shy smile and pink cheeks and red ears.
“Fuck,” Jisung mumbles, barely above a whisper. He looks at Minho with wide eyes. “That… sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Minho chuckles, his breath still quick. He flattens his hands down Jisung’s chest, over the wrinkled fabric. He can feel Jisung’s heart rabbiting beneath his fingertips. “I think I liked that a little too much, actually, if I’m being honest.”
“Yeah?” Jisung practically beams as he slides his palms up Minho’s arms.
Minho snorts. “Yeah.”
“That’s… fuck— okay.” He takes a slow drag of air as he shoves space between them. “I should probably go now. Um, thank you for today. It was really nice.”
Minho nods, and he has to stop himself from pulling Jisung back in for another kiss. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
Jisung kisses him again, anyway, and Minho watches to make sure he makes it on the bus safely.
Minho’s climbing into bed, feeling like a teenager again when his phone rings. It’s Jisung. Of course it’s Jisung.
He picks up on the third ring. “Jisung?”
“I’ll do it,” he says in a rush. He sounds winded, words practically jumbled together. “I want to do it.” Then he takes a deep breath and says slower, “I want to help you. I… I want to.”
Minho’s breath hitches and his heart and mind kick into overdrive. So it’s frightening when he says “okay,” all too easily.
༝༚
Minho woke up in a foul mood.
“Jesus Christ— why do you smell like that?” Hyunjin’s nose crinkles in disgust, bringing a hand up to palm over it.
Apparently he stinks, too.
It’s Friday, and Minho’s rut isn’t supposed to hit until Saturday— tomorrow. Jisung is supposed to come over tonight, just in case, and maybe Minho is… nervous, but he’s dealing with it. Really. He is. He’s fine. Hyunjin is just being dramatic. Minho always says that’s why he and Changbin match so well together. A perfect pair that makes everyone else around them nauseous.
Hyunjin makes a face, then, a flash of realization passes over his face. He backs away.
“Hyung, you’re in pre-rut,” Hyunjin says. He’s a bit frantic, Minho doesn’t blame him, but it’s not that bad.
“It’s not that bad, Jin-ah.” He winces as he pushes himself off the floor. His stomach aches a little. “See? I’m fine.”
“Hyung,” Hyunjin doesn’t sound entirely convinced. “I really think you should go home.”
‘This isn’t good.’
Really. Minho is fine. He knows his body. He knows what he’s doing. He’ll be fine.
Minho is not fine.
It’s already starting. Minho didn’t last half an hour before the pain in his stomach became consistent and he dropped to the floor of the studio in front of Hyunjin, sweat leaking from his pores, down the sides of his face, the wind knocked out of him— he’s really not fine.
Hyunjin offers to call Chan. Minho doesn’t give him a verbal answer. He can’t. The pain is unbearable. Excruciating. He wants to die.
Hyunjin calls Chan, anyway.
Minho fights Chan.
Not physically. He doesn’t punch him like he really wants to, but he refuses to get in the car with him. Hyunjin is there, holding him up, helping him walk to the car. The back door is open, a pillow for Minho to lay his head on if he gets too uncomfortable. A blanket to make things a little better.
Minho fights Chan.
It’s a thing.
Chan is an alpha, and so is Minho, and he doesn’t want to be locked in a car with another alpha for the next twenty minutes. It’s not right. It’s repulsing, really. He can smell Chan everywhere, and he’s not even inside yet.
There’s no one else to call.
Seungmin is out of town, and Jeongin went with him. Work stuff, or something like that. Minho didn’t pay attention.
Felix isn’t an option. They’d just met a month ago, Chan’s new mystery boyfriend.
Changbin is an alpha. So, Minho pretty much hates him right now. And Hyunjin— Minho can’t smell Hyunjin, which is good, because Hyunjin’s an alpha too.
Everything feels wrong.
༝༚
Minho wakes up feeling better.
He doesn’t remember how he got home. He thinks he passed out long enough for Chan and Hyunjin to stuff him into the backseat and speed to his apartment before he could wake up.
He doesn’t smell Chan’s sea salt and caramel scent lingering in his apartment when he gets up to rummage through his refrigerator for something to drink, and eat, because he’s starving.
His fridge is empty. The cupboards are empty too. He was supposed to go grocery shopping today before Jisung got here. But that didn’t happen, and now it’s—
The door creaks open, and the hair on the back of Minho’s neck stands. He whips around, sees a familiar mop of dark brown, sparkly eyes, round cheeks and a pretty gummy smile.
“Oh, you’re awake.” Jisung sets the bags of groceries he has on the kitchen table. “How’re you feeling?”
What?
Minho opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but closes it when Jisung startles and hands him… his keys?
“Uh, sorry, but I hope you don’t mind,” he chuckles nervously, palming his neck. “When I got here, I ran into your friend— which, by the way, why didn’t you tell me you knew Hyunjin?” Minho goes to answer, but Jisung speaks again. No room. No chance. “Sorry, that’s not important. But, anyway, um, he told me what happened, and kinda gave me your keys and told me to… y’know.” He gestures to the mountain of grocery bags on the table. “Said if he knows you as well as he thinks he does, you procrastinated, and well— he was kinda right, I guess.”
Minho forces himself to move. “Only kinda?” He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.
“I didn’t think anyone lived here,” Jisung laughs. Minho laughs too as he begins unpacking everything. Jisung helps him. “But, um, you don’t mind, right? I know we haven’t really talked that much about boundaries and stuff, and I’m sorry if this is overstepping—“
“I want to kiss you.” Minho says.
Jisung almost drops the eggs. “What?”
“What.”
Jisung huffs through his nose, flustered. “Don’t— you can’t just, like, say stuff like that, hyung.”
“But you did.” Minho tries not to frown.
“That— it was different.” Jisung closes the fridge. He refuses to look at Minho. Minho smiles when he sees red cheeks and an adorable pout.
“You’re cute when you’re lying,” Minho teases.
Jisung looks at him, all big and wide-eyed. He looks like a bug, Minho thinks. It’s cute. Minho kinda wants to kiss him a little more now.
They unpack the rest of the groceries in silence. Until Minho realizes something that settles uneasily in the pit of his stomach.
“Did you… pay for all of this yourself?” Minho is dreading the answer.
“It’s no big deal,” Jisung aims for lightheartedness, but it falls flat. The edges of his mouth fall. “Is… did I do something wrong?”
Minho blinks, bites the inner wall of his cheek. He doesn’t say anything. He makes a beeline for his room, grabs his wallet, and pulls out a wad of cash.
Jisung stares at him, incredulous and frozen. Then, he snaps out of it and shakes his head. “What— no, hyung. I offered.”
“Hyunjin offered,” he corrects.
“Well— I didn’t mind doing it!” Jisung exasperates.
“Jisung.” Minho arches an eyebrow.
“Minho,” Jisung whines. He deflates, takes a small step forward. Just enough to place himself in Minho’s space. He falters, eyes bugging when he gets up close. “Oh, I, um— sorry. It’s just that… you smell… good. Like, really good. Wow. Um, okay. That’s— yeah. Good. That’s good.” He grimaces. “Sorry.”
“You smell good, too, but you probably already know that,” Minho tells him. Jisung has the audacity to blush.
He chuckles, and dips his head. “Um, I didn’t, actually, but, thank you.”
Minho wants to argue. Jisung didn’t know how wonderfully mouthwatering he smells? It makes Minho feel… awful. Jisung deserves to know how he makes someone feel.
But, Minho isn’t good with words, and there’s nothing he can say that could do justice to how he feels. So, instead, he stuffs the money in his pocket and wraps his arms around Jisung’s waist and pulls him in until their bodies are pressed together. Jisung looks at him with stars in his eyes, a little dazed too, perhaps, but Minho isn’t going to delve into that yet.
“Can I scent you, Jisungie?” Minho asks.
Jisung swallows thickly, nods. He bites down on his lower lip, arms coiled around Minho’s neck, fingers in his hair. “Only if I can scent you back.”
Minho smiles and his chest feels warm. “Deal.”
Jisung smells like heaven and earth. He feels like home, a familiarity. He feels warm and he smells warm too. The chocolate is rich, Minho can taste it— he wonders if he really can. Saliva pools under his tongue as he grazes the tip of his nose over the gland on Jisung’s honey-smooth neck. He has the unfathomable desire to press his lips there, to get a proper taste of Jisung and everything he comes with.
“You smell…” Jisung buries his head further into Minho’s neck, fingers fisting the front of his shirt. “Like, almonds, I think? Is that… amaretto? And teak?” Another breath, he visibly shudders. “Vanilla. Fuck. Wow.”
Minho chuckles. He feels floaty. His fingers on Jisung’s waist tighten, near bruising. Minho is having a hard time letting him go. He’s warm against Minho, and he feels Jisung relax in his arms, hums contentedly as he breathes Minho in. Minho is sure Jisung can hear his heart thundering behind his ribs.
“Okay?” Minho asks after Jisung falls too quiet.
Jisung nods against him, hot breath meeting skin. He pulls away, reluctant, groans as he shoves some distance between them. Minho goes cold, and his arms fall by his sides, limp and nowhere to go. He fights the frown tugging at the corners of his lips, and ignores the sudden ache in his heart.
“Sorry,” he says. He keeps saying that. Minho wishes he wouldn’t do it so much. “You just… smell really good, I kinda got carried away, I guess. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Sung-ah,” Minho assures in the softest voice he can muster. “I really don’t mind, and I’ll tell you if I don’t want something. Okay?”
Jisung’s teeth sink into his lip. He nods. “Yeah. Okay.” Minho smiles. He wants to reach out for him again, pull him in, breathe in his warmth, his sugary sweet scent. Smooth out the wrinkles in his forehead.
He wants too much. So much from Jisung. It’s scary how much he wants him. They’re still practically strangers, but he’s craving and yearning for something that only Jisung can give to him.
“Now, c’mere.” He holds his arms outstretched, wide, beckons for Jisung to get closer. And he does.
His movements are hesitant at first, but he pushes through and falls into Minho again. Like this, Minho can feel Jisung’s heart through his back, against his chest. It’s all over. Jisung’s scent is swelling around them in a heady cloud, Minho feels at ease.
The ache in his bones ebbs away, his muscles less sore. He doesn’t feel like he’s run a marathon. His skin is tacky with dried up sweat, but his insides don’t feel like they’re on fire. He feels gross, though, and he might take a shower before things get worse, but right now, everything feels nice. Really nice. Minho simply can’t get enough.
“S’ nice,” Jisung mumbles into his shoulder. He squeezes around Minho and sinks further into him.
Minho hums, soft, soothing. His hands slide up and down Jisung’s back, over his sides, into his hair. It’s domestic. Minho doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever felt like this. So safe and comfortable and content. It’s easy with Jisung, and that’s the most terrifying thing.
Jisung’s stomach gurgles loudly between them, and Minho barks a laugh.
It earns him a smack on the chest when Jisung pulls away, face scrunched up and red all over. Minho catches his wrists and knocks their foreheads together.
“I’ll make something,” he says, rubbing their noses. “You can get changed, if you want. There’s a shower in the hall, or you can use the one in my room.”
Jisung sucks in his lower lip, nods shyly. “Um, do you think… actually, never mind. Thank you.”
“What?” Minho holds him in place. Arms around him.
Jisung blows out a steady stream of air through his mouth, cheeks all puffed up and biteable. “You can say no, of course, but, um, could I— god, this is embarrassing. Can I wear one of your shirts?” he asks, averting his gaze to his hands splayed out on Minho’s chest. “It’s just that… you smell so good, and it’s like, really comforting, and I like it. A lot. Too much, I think, actually. It might be a problem.”
Minho’s heart swells. He feels a little possessive now, giddy that Jisung likes his scent so much that he wants to be doused in it.
“Of course,” he says. “Just take whatever you want.”
Jisung beams, and nods. Fuck, he’s so cute, Minho doesn’t want him to leave his sight. He doesn’t want to let him go. He wants to forgo dinner and a shower and hold him for the next three days. Breathe him in.
“Thank you,” Jisung whispers, and disentangles from Minho with a little more force because Minho simply doesn’t want this moment to end.
Minho hums, squeezes his hands before begrudgingly letting him go. He goes to turn away, but Jisung snatches him by the arm and pulls him in, and kisses him right on the mouth. Minho sinks into it, kisses him back with everything he’s got and then some. It ends too soon. Jisung pulls away before things can… escalate. They’re panting when they separate, lips swollen and cheeks flushed. Minho’s stomach flips, hot molten lava in his veins.
Jisung squeaks as he spins around and leaves down the hall— presumably going to Minho’s room for something to wear. Minho wants to follow after him, finish what he started, but he doesn’t. As much as he wants to, he makes himself stay in the kitchen and start making dinner.
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
Minho lost track of time, and he momentarily forgot Jisung was here, taking a shower in his bathroom, wearing his clothes.
He should’ve seen it coming. But, he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
Jisung is wearing one of Minho’s old hoodies he’s had since college. It’s worn at the cuffs, and the string is missing, and there’s holes in the hood. The color has faded to a paler blue, and he can’t make out the print on the front. It swallows Jisung, falls mid-thigh, and the sleeves reach the tips of his fingers. Minho feels like he’s crumbling. This is not good for him.
He swallows, stomach swirling. He has to look away, but he’s sure Jisung can smell just how affected he is. He hears him lightly chuckle, but he doesn’t say anything— which, good, Minho doesn’t think he can handle any more embarrassment right now.
“It smells amazing,” Jisung compliments.
He’s standing right beside Minho now, shoulder to shoulder. He smells like Minho’s coconut shampoo, and his bourbon bodywash. And the hoodie smells like Minho too. Jisung smells like Minho everywhere.
“Thank you,” Minho says, tips of his ears red hot. “I made bibimbap. I hope you like it.”
Jisung’s cheeks bunch up. “If it tastes as good as it smells, I will.”
Minho snorts. “It’s almost ready.”
“I bought wine, and beer, I didn’t know what you liked, so I bought both.” Jisung stops, blinks, then says, “Fuck. I should’ve asked if you drink. Sorry.” He rubs his neck sheepishly. “Do you drink?”
“I’ll have a beer,” Minho says. “Thank you.”
“Okay. Cool. Me too.”
Jisung hands him one, twists the top off of his own.
Dinner is mostly quiet, save for the downright pornographic moans Jisung lets out at the taste of Minho’s cooking. He really should stop. He can feel himself beginning to chub up in his sweats, mind drifting off and imagining Jisung on all fours, ass up—
He needs to stop. Minho can’t deny that it mostly strokes his ego, but, given his circumstances, it’s not his fault his dick is already filling out. It’s embarrassing, but it’s mostly outweighed by the fact that his nerves have come back full force.
Minho shifts in his seat, blankly staring down at his untouched plate. Then, there’s fingers on the back of his hand. It’s instinctual when he flips his hand and slides their palms together.
“You okay?” Jisung asks. He stopped eating, brow crumpled, the edges of his mouth dipped into a frown.
Minho goes for a smile, but it falls flat. It doesn’t reach his eyes and it just feels awkward and tight.
“I don’t know… m’ nervous,” Minho mumbles.
“Me too,” Jisung says, barely above a whisper. “But, we’re doing this together. And, I trust you. A lot.”
Minho isn’t sure if he wants to scream, cry or crush Jisung in a hug. How is he like this? Everything about Jisung has been wonderful thus far. It’s like a dream. Minho wonders if he’s still sleeping, because Jisung doesn’t feel real.
“Is it, um,” Jisung stops and looks for the words, thumb idly swiping over Minho’s knuckles. “I think it’ll be okay. Do you think it’ll be okay?”
“I… need to tell you about my ruts,” Minho swallows around nothing. “I don’t think I explained it very well, then. I just… want you to be sure this is what you want.”
“Okay. Sure.” Jisung nods, squeezes Minho’s hand.
For a moment, Minho doesn’t say anything. He stares at their entwined hands, listens to the thudding of his heart. Jisung remains quiet, ever so patient, as he rubs gentle circles over the back of Minho’s palm. He waits and waits and waits for Minho, and he doesn’t seem bothered by how long it’s taking Minho to get his shit together.
Too good. Han Jisung is too good.
“I’ve told you my ruts are intense,” Minho says. “Like, bad-intense. I’ve never spent my rut with anyone before, so I don’t know what I’ll try to do to you, but don't let me, like, claim you, or something.”
Jisung nods. “Okay. I won’t. I promise.”
“Thank you.” Minho smiles. “Also, I get, like, really needy, or so I’ve been told.” Jisung gives him a weird look. “It’s a long story. I don’t know what else I’ll do, or how I’ll act. If I do anything you don’t want, I won’t do it again. It’ll just be… hard for me to stop.”
“I trust you, hyung,” Jisung says again. “I’ll tell you, as long as you tell me too.”
God, he doesn’t deserve Jisung. Because he’s afraid he’s going to fuck up. It’s been lingering in the forefront of his mind all week, going back and forth, mulling it over, convincing himself everything will be okay. But, what if it isn’t?
“I will. I’ll tell you,” Minho promises.
“Okay.” Jisung smiles.
Minho squeezes his fingers. “Okay.” He blinks, stomach churning. His muscles feel like lead. “I think it’ll start soon.”
“Do you need anything?” asks Jisung. He’s already pushing his chair back, at Minho’s side. He hasn’t let go of his hand.
“I’m okay,” Minho says. This is the part where he asks Jisung if he wants to come to bed with him, he thinks.
He can’t think. Jisung smells too good beside him for him to formulate a coherent thought. It’s distracting.
Anxiety claws at Minho’s throat, and he tries to swallow it down. “Are you done eating?” He’s standing, gathering his own dishes. “I think I’ll shower before it gets too bad.”
Jisung nods, both at the question and the statement. He helps load the plates into the sink— Minho will worry about it later. Right now, he could really use a shower and a nap.
“I’ll be back,” Minho says, squeezing Jisung’s arm. “Make yourself at home.”
Minho takes his showers hot.
Hot enough his skin turns red, and burns a little. The air becomes thick and heavy with steam, Minho can feel the moisture in his lungs.
But it’s not hot enough to ease the ache in his muscles, or the tightness coiling in his abdomen. It’s not enough to soothe the throbbing in his bones, or the pinch behind his eyes from a slow-building headache.
God, fuck— it’s starting, for real, this time.
It boils deep below, at the very bottom, bubbling over. Too hot. Everything is too hot.
A deep, staggering breath, Minho gets a hand around himself. His other palm holds him up against the glass of the shower wall, head dipped down. Lazy tugs, just to draw it out. He doesn’t have lube— he doesn’t keep it in the bathroom, because— who does that? But, now, he’s coming to regret it.
Puffy, hot breaths against glass. He digs his thumbnail into the slit of his cock, pre-cum oozes around the tip. He whimpers, fucks into his hand at a leisurely pace. His eyes fall to his fist. He feels it in his toes, the beginning of his first orgasm. It zips up his legs, buckles his knees. He thinks of Jisung to get him past the finish line. His scent, his squishable cheeks, his tongue against Minho’s. His thighs are burning when he finally spills over his fingers, full-body convulsions. A moan rips out of him freely.
He’s still kinda hard, but he's tired. Worn to the bone. It was barely an orgasm. But, it leaves his limbs feeling jellied and like lead all at the same time.
He doesn’t know how long he stays under the spray of the water. Until it turns cold, at least, then he gets out and shoves his clothes on. His cheeks are flushed and his skin is red from his shower. He’s drying his hair when he steps out of the bathroom and sees— Jisung curled up on his bed.
Phone in hand, back facing the bathroom, he swipes up. He doesn’t seem to register Minho’s presence behind him, because he doesn’t move as Minho approaches the bed.
Minho plops down beside him.
That startles Jisung. He drops his phone flat on his face, yelps when he feels two arms circling his waist. But, almost instantly, he relaxes. Hands finding Minho’s, he interlocks their fingers and squeezes.
Minho inhales a deep, greedy breath against Jisung’s neck, where he smells the most potent Immediately, Minho feels a lot more relaxed. He’s tired, eyelids heavy, exhaustion settles bone-deep.
“Y’ smell good,” Minho slurs. His vision is beginning to become fuzzy around the edges.
Jisung chuckles, thumb stroking over his knuckles. “Smell like you.” He sounds equally as tired.
Minho presses his lips there, on Jisung’s nape, litters a few kisses until Jisung is squirming and giggling.
“I like it.” Another kiss, lingering.
Jisung chuckles and sinks into Minho. “Is it starting?” he asks, tone quiet.
Minho nods with a hum. “Think so,” he says around a yawn. “M’ tired, though.”
“Should I leave?” Jisung twists to get a better look at Minho.
Minho answers by pulling him closer, tight, so he can’t slip out, even if Minho is knocked out cold. Jisung laughs, but he doesn’t argue.
They fall asleep like that.
༝༚
The next time Minho wakes up, Jisung isn’t there, but his spot is still warm. He whimpers, loud enough for Jisung to come barreling through the door, winded, hair all rucked up, eyes wide. “Jisung?”
“I’m here. You’re running a fever, so I got you some medicine. Take these, hyung,” Jisung frowns. Hands over two white tablets.
Minho swallows them without water. He regrets it, instantly, because now there’s a bitter taste on the back of his tongue, added to everything else he feels right now. His body aches, the headache behind his eyes has increased tenfold. Persistent.
Everything is so goddamn persistent.
Minho falls back asleep, disoriented, sweating buckets, to Jisung’s hand in his hair.
༝༚
Minho doesn’t feel right.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, and he doesn’t remember Jisung coming back to bed, and he’s so hot he feels like his skin is melting.
He kicks off the blankets, jostles Jisung awake in doing so. He rips off his shirt. It’s soaked through with sweat, bangs sticking to his forehead. His pants go next as he flings them across the room. He hears them hit something. Minho doesn’t know what, but he doesn’t care at the moment.
The cool air in the room does nothing to help. Everything is still too hot. He’s tacky and wet with sweat all over, his body is a blazing inferno. A furnace— Minho feels dirty, gross from the stickiness on his skin.
The bed shifts beside him. He barely registers Jisung hovering over him. He doesn’t notice the look of concern etched across his face, the downturn of his lips, or the hands holding his jaw. All Minho’s brain can process is Jisung’s lack of his chocolate, violet scent, the spicy undertone of warm chai.
God, Minho feels like he’s dying. He’s already filling out in his boxers, leaking. Messy.
“Can you hear me, hyung?” Jisung cradles his face. He grimaces, then, palm against his forehead. “You’re burning up, baby.” He frowns some more. It pains Minho to see him like that. He whines. “What can I do? Tell me what to do, jagi.”
Minho’s body curls in on itself, the nickname unexpected. A groan rips from his throat, deep and guttural— fuck, what is Han Jisung doing to him?
“Need— you,” Minho’s throat feels like sandpaper. Wads of cotton shoved in his mouth. “Fuck, Jisungie, need you so bad.”
“You can have me, baby,” Jisung whispers, lips ghosting over Minho’s. “Fuck— wan’ you so bad, hyung. You’re so hot, it’s driving me crazy.”
Minho wastes no time. Mouths smashed together, Minho takes, takes, takes. He takes until Jisung is a pliant mess pressed against him. Jisung moans, startlingly loud, when Minho manhandles him on to his other side. Ass against his hard cock, Minho rolls his hips, moans into Jisung’s ear as he holds his waist in a bruising grip.
Minho’s brain is swimming, heady. Jisung curls an arm around his neck from behind, arches his back and presses his ass against Minho’s dick. Fingers in his hair, he twists his head and kisses Minho right on the mouth.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jisung chants into his mouth. “Gonna make me cum like this— holy shit.”
Minho latches onto skin, sucks until he tastes chocolate and violets. He moans, movements hasty, fast. Uncoordinated. It’s messy. Minho can hear the squelch of Jisung’s slick every time he presses against him.
Fuck, Jisung is a mess. Red lips kiss swollen, cheeks flushed, babbling inconsolably. Breaths heavy little bursts of hot air. Hair stamped to his skin.
Minho wants to absolutely ruin him for anyone else.
“Minho— hyung, m’— nngh—“ Jisung pulls harder at Minho’s hair, nails scraping against his scalp. “Gonna cum. Fuck, m’ so close.”
He lets his eyes slide close as he rucks a hand up Jisung’s hoodie. Thumb grazing over pert nipples, cotton-soft skin. Jisung is doused in sweat, in Minho’s amaretto and teakwood scent.
“Need you, Jisungie,” he whimpers into his shoulder. Hips erratic, blood pounding in his ears. He thinks he hears Jisung whine his name desperately.
“You can have me.” The words stammer over his tongue. “You have me, jagiya.”
His hips slow, and Jisung mewls at the loss of friction. Minho is barely holding on, the last of his composure hanging on by a thread. His patience wafer-thin. He doesn’t know how much more he can take. His rut is already knocking him on his ass, and it’s just started.
“M’ clean. Are you?” Minho peppers kisses along his jaw, sucks a bruise into the hinge, smooths the sting with his tongue. “Wan’ knot you. Can I, Jisungie? Can I knot you, baby?”
Jisung visibly shudders, nods frantically. “Fuck, yeah. Yes. Please, hyung. Wan’ that so bad.” He takes a deep, stuttery breath and says, “M’ clean. Got tested a bit ago.”
Minho’s movements are desperate, a man on a mission. He rips Jisung’s pants off— or Minho's pants— and throws them aside. Jisung is wet and leaking, globs of slick sliding down the globes of his ass. Minho feels carnal, out of body, as he presses a finger into Jisung’s tight hole. He gasps, slowly fucks back on Minho’s finger. He’s wet and warm, tight around Minho— he feels like liquid gold. Perfection.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Minho groans into the junction where his neck meets his shoulder. “Won’t last long.”
Jisung reaches behind him, touching Minho’s arm. “You don’t have to,” he says, biting down on his lip. “I… fingered myself in the shower earlier. Wanted to be ready for you.”
Another pang of arousal, Minho’s hips buck helplessly into nothing.
Jisung fucked himself open in Minho’s shower.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, hot breath meeting sweaty skin. Salt on his tongue. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”
Jisung shakes his head, desperate fingers grasping his neck, his arm, anything he can reach. “You— nngf— you won’t.” He sucks in a sharp breath, head falling back on Minho’s shoulder. “Please, hyung. Wanna feel you inside. Wan’ you inside me.”
“Fuck. Fuck. Okay,” Minho grumbles, pushes his boxers down enough to free himself, fitting his cock along the cleft of Jisung’s ass.
Then, Jisung grinds down.
“I could come like this,” Minho says, delirious with lust. Fucking along the cleft of Jisung’s ass in short strokes, slick coating his thighs.
“Wan’ you to come inside of me.”
Minho chokes, the hand on Jisung’s hip bruising, white-knuckled. He watches himself slide, cock head catching his rim, fat globs of slick lathering his dick. There’s a heat in his belly, a flicker of it in his chest. Drenched in arousal. High on lust.
Slowly, tentatively, he slides in, immediately engulfed in Jisung’s tight heat, sucking him to the hilt. Minho moans as Jisung arches his back and clenches around him, body going still, then lax all in one single breath.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, feels so good— ohmygod,” Jisung babbles. He’s sweating in Minho’s hoodie, the front of it sticking to his skin.
“You’re so— tight,” Minho growls, and nips at his jaw, his ear, his shoulder. The back of his neck. He can feel his knot swelling at the base of his cock startlingly fast.
“Holy— ah— fucking shit,” Jisung gasps out, as Minho starts fucking him for real now. Sharp, punctuated thrusts. “Close. M’ close, hyung.”
Minho grabs him by his chin and kisses him messily, his other arm curling beneath Jisung, over his chest. Slips his tongue in his mouth as he wraps a hand around Jisung and jerks him off. He throbs pathetically in Minho’s palm, pre-cum oozing from the tip. Jisung moans, then clenches around Minho. White spurts all over his belly, the sheets, Minho’s fingers.
“Don’t— don’t stop, please. Wan’ your knot,” Jisung talks fast, words jumbled together. Minho nearly misses it. “There. There, baby, come on.”
“Oh my god—“ Minho sinks his teeth into Jisung’s shoulder blade, fucks him hard through his orgasm.
Jisung lays there, on his side, arm hooked beneath his knee, back arched up off Minho’s chest, and head thrown back.
It’s lewd, the mess on Minho’s fingers as he brings them up and sucks them into his mouth and licks them clean. Jisung watches, heavy-lidded, mouth parted around small aborted gasps. Moans when Minho pulls off with a wet pop, and kisses him.
“Fuck, gonna get me hard again,” Jisung takes a stuttery breath. His cock jumps, Minho nibbling along his jawline.
“Hahhhh,” Minho groans, his knot locking them together, clutching Jisung’s sweaty body and relishing in the pleasure rushing through him. “Fuck,” he breathes hot against Jisung’s neck, kissing over the mark on his shoulder, eyes slipping shut. He’s exhausted now. Sated. Perfectly content. “Fuck.”
“That was… wow.” Jisung heaves a breath. Scrubs a hand through his wet bangs.
“Mm,” Minho hums. Nuzzles into the back of Jisung’s head. Arm over his waist.
“Is it too soon to say that was the best sex I’ve ever had?” Jisung shakes with a laugh, but Minho knows there’s some truth behind it.
Because, honestly, he feels the same way. He’s still going through it, the aftereffects of an orgasm. The floaty feeling he gets after stars align his vision.
But, he can’t say that. Maybe it’s the fever, why he feels so… sure about Jisung. The fever is making him delusional with arousal. He can’t think straight. If Minho were lucid, and not driven by a lust-hazed brain, or the biological necessity of his rut to fuck Jisung’s brains out and knot him until he’s full of his cum, he would tell Jisung that, no, it doesn’t feel too soon, and he feels the same, tenfold.
He can’t. He doesn’t. It’s his rut. His hormones are all over the place. Nothing he feels is real. It’ll all be gone when everything goes back to normal. After his rut. And Jisung will be gone and that’ll be that.
“You okay?” Jisung asks in a barely-there whisper.
“Shh, I’m sleeping, Jisungie,” Minho slurs. Tucks Jisung against his chest and holds him close. Presses a kiss to his nape.
Jisung chuckles, and pats Minho’s hip, already drifting off.
༝༚
When Minho wakes up, the clock on the nightstand tells him he’s been asleep for less than an hour. Even with his sleep-heavy, lust-induced brain, he can add up that it's barely been forty five minutes.
The beginning is always the worst part. Time moves slow. Days blend together. Minho is miserable.
So, so fucking miserable.
With Jisung here, dousing him in his scent, putty in Minho’s hands, it makes things a little easier. Or— a lot easier. But, Minho is still miserable. He’s always so miserable. Days are grim.
Jisung does everything for him. Changes the sheets, brings Minho food and water, makes sure he eats and is well hydrated. Jisung takes care of him. Does the clean up because, by the time Minho’s knot finally goes down, he’s spent, exhaustion settling bone deep. He’s warm and sore all over, and before he knows it, he’s hard again, rutting up against Jisung, begging to knot him. To fill him up.
And, turns out, Jisung loves it. He’s there, always, letting Minho knot him, over, and over, and over again. Never gets tired of it. Begs for it himself, ass up, big brown beady eyes peering over his shoulder.
Minho wanted to do things like this, with Jisung’s legs bracketing his thighs, Minho behind him on his knees. Ass in the air, hole wet and gaping around nothing, stretched. Well fucked.
He fucks Jisung like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Hand in his scalp, yanking him back— Jisung outright moans, eyes rolling back. His body shudders, clenching down on Minho as he fucks himself back on his cock. Knot rapidly swelling, Minho’s teetering off the edge into oblivion. He moans, sucks bruises into Jisung’s skin everywhere, teeth sinking into salty, sweet skin, bruising grip on his hips. Minho growls, pins Jisung’s upper half down to the mattress and fucks him, hard, sharp snaps of his hips.
Everything is so hot. Minho is sweating buckets, and Jisung’s skin is slick. Sliding against his. No resistance. His thighs tremble, arms giving out as he reaches behind him and grasps Minho’s wrist, grounding. He wails into the sheets, biting down on a pillow to muffle his loud, lewd noises.
Minho doesn’t have any of that.
He jerks Jisung back with a hand in his hair until he’s sitting directly on his thighs, mouthing up his neck and along his jawline. Sucks bruises into unmarred skin. There’s a fire in the pit of his stomach, in his veins. His bloodstream. Minho feels ecstatic. On top of the world.
“Wanna hear how you sound taking my knot, baby,” Minho whispers hotly into his ear. Jisung trembles.
Jisung turns his head and says, “Then give it to me.”
Minho does just that. Stuck together.
He shakes, knot popping. Jisung wails, high-pitched and whiny, until it devolves into unintelligible keens. Minho fits perfectly inside Jisung. Silky-wet walls sucking him in, keeping him there. There’s no place he’d rather be, anyway, because Jisung feels so good around him, tight, clenching down on him as he comes with a full-body shudder. Body curling in on himself, white, hot spurts staining Minho’s comforter.
Minho holds him, keeps his ass flush with his hips. Jisung spasms, Minho’s inflated knot pressing right up against his prostate. He sobs, legs trembling from oversensitivity. There’s tears in his eyes, leaking, sliding down his puffy cheeks.
He falls into a heap of exhaustion on top of Jisung. Jisung makes a sound, between a groan and a mewl. Folding forward, bearing Minho’s weight.
༝༚
They nap again, until his knot goes down; when Minho wakes up, he’s hard and horny again, so Jisung makes him come, again, and again.
In between, Jisung makes sure he’s staying hydrated, offering him snacks, using big, puppy dog eyes to get Minho to eat and drink and just stay alive.
Jisung manages to get him into the shower. Minho complains the whole time on their way to the bathroom, legs jellied, that there’s no point. The sheets will only soil again— they will get gross again. But, Jisung shushes him, turns on the hot water, and sticks his hand beneath the steady stream.
“How hot do you like your showers?”
“Hot,” Minho says, simply.
Jisung looks back and smiles. “Me too.”
Minho complains. He complains until, about halfway through, when Jisung makes an offhanded comment about always wanting to get fucked against the shower wall. A wet dream. Says it’s on his bucket list.
By then, Minho is pressing him against the glass, palm flat against the wall, other hand reaching down and fisting Jisung’s cock to full hardness. Then, he’s dropping to his knees and taking Jisung in his mouth, in one go, all the way down. The tip of his nose poking into his lower abdomen.
Jisung moans, threading fingers through chestnut brown. Hips moving on their own accord. Jisung slowly fucks his mouth, hot, breathy moans barely heard over the spray of the showerhead. Minho groans around him, sucks him harder, tongue swirling around the tip. Pre-cum salty against his palate.
This is what Minho is meant to do; please Jisung.
Jisung moans, sobs as he bites down on his knuckles. Minho pinches his thigh, then, reprimanding. His hand falls to Minho’s hair, and he sobs Minho’s name.
Minho takes his showers hot.
Hot enough his skin turns red, and burns a little. The air becomes thick and heavy with steam, Minho can feel the moisture in his lungs.
And, then, Jisung comes. Small, aborted thrusts.
Minho milks him.
Jisung tastes exactly how he smells.
It makes Minho’s head dizzy with arousal, cock rock-hard and heavy, hanging between his legs. Jisung twitches, all over, in his mouth, knees buckling. Minho catches him as he pulls off with a wet noise. Then, he kisses him, right on the mouth. He tastes like Jisung, but Jisung doesn’t care. He moans into the kiss, into Minho’s mouth, and licks and sucks on his tongue. Tastes himself.
When Minho pulls off, he has to hold Jisung steady by his waist, trailing kisses up his thighs, stomach and chest. Jisung huffs, cheeks flushed. He’s wet and red all over, the downpour of the showerhead pelting against Jisung’s back.
Jisung is on him instantly. Hungry lips scouring every inch of Minho’s skin. He sucks, hard. A purple bruise over his pulse point. Soothes it over with his tongue. Minho moans, fingers gripping his soft waist. His head tips back, under the weight of the water. It gets in his eyes, up his nose. He chokes on another moan, coughing when water drips into his lungs.
Oops.
Jisung’s hands are all over him. Touching and groping and grabbing. Wet skin on wet skin. Minho hums against his lips, curses beneath his breath.
He’s hot, he’s dizzy with arousal, and he can’t get enough of Jisung.
༝༚
Minho cums two more times before his brain clears of the dense fog.
He cums with a hand between his legs, Jisung working him over the precipice of another mind-numbing orgasm. Hot white spurts that Jisung catches with his tongue.
Minho might be in love. Crazy.
He chases the taste of himself when Jisung kisses him and licks into his mouth. Fingers squeezing around his knot. Minho kicks weakly as Jisung drags his palm over his sensitive cock, smiles at the nails biting into his skin where Minho holds him by his shoulders.
Jisung makes him eat toast and forces him to drink two glasses of water, then rewards him with pudding. Minho would have been fine with a kiss instead.
“How did you know—“
“Hyunjin. I asked him what you liked, and he told me I was an idiot and hung up,” Jisung chuckles. “He dropped it off yesterday, outside your door.” Minho rolls his eyes as Jisung says, “He left a note, too. I haven’t read it yet.”
“Burn it,” Minho says around a mouthful of pudding. Jisung smacks him on the shoulder and smiles.
“Don’t be mean, hyung,” Jisung chastises, pokes him in the rib.
Minho side eyes him, but he breaks out into a smile himself, no longer strong enough to fight it off. So, he lets himself be like that with Jisung. In the very moment. For future moments too. He decides it’s easier this way, with Jisung up close, smelling like heaven, and resting his head on Minho’s shoulder as he slowly finishes his pudding.
It’s easy, odd, but easy being with Jisung.
༝༚
Minho wakes up feeling warm.
His front is sticky, tethered to Jisung’s back. He’s tacky and gross too, but he nestles deeper into Minho’s arms.
They need another shower, and Minho needs to change the sheets. He didn’t earlier. Too busy immersed in each other, high on ecstasy. Chasing pleasure.
Minho realizes, almost belatedly, they’re still attached. When he looks at the clock, it’s late into the evening. Minho doesn’t know what day it is, or how long they’ve been holed up in Minho’s room, but, what he does know, is that his rut isn’t nearly over, and that he hasn’t been out for long.
Beside him, Jisung stirs in his sleep, and Minho tenses as he tries his best not to move.
Fuck. He’s so, so hot.
He reaches forward, mesmerized, and grazes his fingers down the length of Jisung’s arm. Smooth, honeyed skin. Warm to the touch. Hair unruly and flat against the side of his head. He snores, light little bursts of air. An arm under his head— Minho’s arm under his head, because Minho’s arms are better than any pillow.
Then, it happens fast, Minho barely catches it from his periphery; Jisung laces their fingers in his sleep, and sinks deeper against Minho’s front.
His heart thuds pathetically, a feeble kick. Fuck. He’s cute. Minho is in so much trouble.
Too much trouble. He’s not— he wasn’t supposed to— this wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to… like Jisung this much. But they fit. They get along so, so well. Better than anyone Minho has ever met, and now, he doesn’t want this to end.
The butterflies, the blood rushing to his ears, the warmth— it’s all just… so nice. So nice. Minho realizes, pretty quickly, that he could get used to this. With Jisung in his arms, sleeping, cuddling, having dinner, sharing sleepy, morning kisses in bed. Have incredibly hot sex. Minho really, really wants it. So bad. His teeth ache.
Jisung squirms, intakes a heavy breath. Wiggles a little. Minho hisses, knot catching. “Oh, you’re still inside me,” he murmurs. “That’s hot.”
He wiggles again, just to get a reaction. Giggles when Minho lays a hand against his hip to keep him still. “Easy,” he whispers against his ear, kissing the skin behind it.
Giggles spill from his lips as he twists his upper half and lands a kiss to the corner of Minho’s mouth. Minho chases his lips, catches him by his jaw and kisses him like he means it. He does mean it. He makes sure Jisung can feel it as he licks inside his mouth and stakes claim.
Mine. Minho’s brain short circuits.
Where did that come from?
He must have stopped mid-kiss, because Jisung pulls away with furrowed brows, lips dipped into a concerned frown. A hand on Minho’s cheek, he does his best to face him without hurting him, but it’s a little hard, and Minho’s cock tugs a little uncomfortably.
“You okay?” asks Jisung, swiping a thumb over the apple of his cheek. Over his bottom lip.
Minho looks at him. Like, really, really looks at him, and he realizes there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Jisung. It’s crazy, they’ve only known each other for barely a week. They’ve only met one time, and this is the first time Jisung’s ever stepped foot in his apartment. A week ago, they didn’t know the other existed. But, now, they’re here, eight— or nine?— days later, in bed, naked, having mindblowing sex. Knotting Jisung every chance he gets. Sharing kisses and smiles and laughter— god, the laughter.
The laughter is so fucking good. It’s real. So, so real. It’s the kind of laughter that comes from his toes, deep from the pit of his belly. His whole body shakes with it. It’s the kind that makes his stomach hurt. The kind that he can never get enough of. Cheeks pressed into a big smile. Grinning so much it hurts.
Minho hasn’t had that in a very long time. He doesn’t know when the last time he was able to do that. Be happy, smile just because he can, because he’s a little happier now. Laugh until he’s gasping for air and clutching his stomach and forgetting there’s an outside world beyond their cocoon of tangled limbs.
Minho really doesn’t want this to end. Having Jisung here is like a breath of fresh air. Coughing up water from his lungs. Breaking through the surface.
For now… he just wants to hold him.
For now, he basks in the afterglow. The serenity of having Jisung here, with him, for another night.
“You’re so beautiful, Jisungie,” he breathes, a palm on his jaw. Minho looks at him like he’s a work of art, handled with care. His cinched waist, pouty lips shining with spit, tousled bed and mused up sex hair. The traces of dried drool on his chin. It’s absurd.
Sometimes, Minho will catch himself just staring. While Jisung is messing around his room, in the kitchen, scrolling through his phone, napping with his head on Minho’s chest, stuffing his face full of the snacks he bought at the grocery store while Minho was unconscious. And, he knows now, that he can’t get enough.
Now, he has him laid out, naked, knot tying them together. Jisung smells like Minho now. Faint traces of chocolate and violet soaked into the sheets, the pillows. Sometimes, Minho will get a whiff of it in his sleep.
Minho has never believed in love at first sight.
But Jisung— Jisung changed that. He’s an exception.
Minho will never be the same, because Han Jisung has ruined the prospect of sex with other people. He’s unabashedly ruined Minho.
Jisung has the audacity to blush and hide his face, hands sandwiched between him and the pillow— or, in this case, Minho’s arm. Kicks his feet. He whines a lot, too, Minho notices.
“Hyung,” he draws it out, paper-thin. Voice muffled from his hands. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”
Minho laughs— for real, “But, I did, and I meant it. Still do, because you’re beautiful, Jisungie. And, your jokes are terrible.”
Minho doesn’t think it will take long to get used to this.
Jisung laughs too, uncovers his face and lays himself back against Minho's chest. Arms curl around him, and Minho shoves his nose into the crown of Jisung's head, kisses him there, wishes this moment, right here, in real time, doesn't end. He doesn't want it to, but-
Three days.
Seventy two hours.
That’s all the time he gets.
༝༚
On day two, Jisung forces Minho out of bed and makes him eat something— the takeout Jisung ordered for lunch— Minho fusses, but Jisung slides a hand in his hair and it calms him instantly.
Minho grumbles all the way to the kitchen, feet dragging like he’s about to meet death.
Jisung still has a hand in Minho’s hair, playing with soft tendrils of loose chestnut, as he guides them to the kitchen. Minho goes reluctantly, but the gentle strokes of Jisung’s hand tug him onward.
Minho really might be in love. Crazy.
“This will be good for you,” Jisung tells him as he removes his hand from Minho’s hair.
Minho whines at the loss, lips shaping into a pout. He sits there and sulks, watches Jisung diligently place the containers on the table.
Minho holds up his arm automatically as Jisung slides under it.
He still feels fuzzy around the edges, the remnants of his rut roils in the pit of his stomach. An icy drip in his veins.
They eat in silence at first. Minho isn’t really all that hungry, but Jisung refuses to let him up until he puts something on his stomach other than protein bars. Minho keeps an arm curled around him. He doesn’t realize it until Jisung slides their palms together, entangling their fingers. He gives Minho’s hand a squeeze, sending Minho’s heart off the rails.
When Jisung is finished, he lays his head on Minho’s shoulder, sighs, then says, “This is nice.”
Minho looks down at him, feels rather than sees Jisung nuzzling into the junction where his neck and shoulder meets.
“Smells good,” Jisung murmurs, eyes fluttering closed. Hums.
Minho huffs a laugh, a breathless thing. “Do I really smell that good?”
When Jisung looks up at him, his eyes are all round and big, doey, bottom lip jutted out, wet with spit, as he nods and says, “Yes.”
Something warm and pleasant unfurls in Minho’s chest. It spreads. Liquid gold in his veins. His cheeks feel hot and his ears feel hot too, so he quickly snaps his head away before Jisung notices and says something to make matters worse. But it’s still just as nice.
That fluttery feeling in his chest stays wedged between his ribs and sprouts into something else.
“You smell good, too,” Minho mumbles. He can’t make eye contact. This is already completely out of his element. And Jisung makes him shy.
“Thank you,” Jisung says, voice soft around the edges. “That… that means a lot. Coming from you.”
Why did you answer the ad?
“How come?” Minho asks.
A shrug, an absentminded hum. Minho finally chances a glance at him. He sees rosy cheeks, a subtle downturn of lips, mused up sex hair. Big brown eyes downcast. Minho frowns.
Why are you doing this?
“It’s… kinda embarrassing, actually. Never mind.” Jisung shakes his head, chuckling quietly.
“I won’t judge you,” Minho is quick to say. Too quick. He swallows and inhales a deep breath before he adds, “If… if you want to. You can tell me.”
Why do you make me feel this way?
Jisung exhales a shaky sigh, worries his bottom lip. Minho drags his lip away with his thumb, brows furrowed. Jisung looks up at him, eyes round, maybe a little startled, as Minho shakes his head. He holds him there, with his hand on Jisung’s chin. His other hand is laced under the table with Jisung’s free one too, and he squeezes around Minho’s fingers. He doesn’t know when that happened.
Thank you.
“Too many shitty people, I suppose,” Jisung says.
Minho tenses a little. If Jisung notices, he doesn’t mention it. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Jisung swallows and plays with Minho’s fingers under the table.
“I’m sorry,” Minho says, and he feels like shit. He feels bad for Jisung, because he deserves the world.
Another shrug. A sad smile to go with it. “It’s okay.”
Minho shakes his head, because it’s not right. He doesn’t know the proper etiquette to make Jisung feel better. A hug? Pat on the back? Should he kiss him? Cheek or mouth? Are they even friends? Can he do any of those things?
So, Minho says, “What’s your favorite color?”
“What?” he asks.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Red.”
“Mine’s mint green.” Minho smiles.
Jisung barks out a real laugh. “You’re such a loser.”
I want to be your loser.
After they clean up, Minho bends Jisung over the kitchen table and fucks him with a hand in his hair and fingers stuffed in his mouth.
He spills over his fingers and the table, the floor, and Minho keeps fucking him until he’s spasming, big fat crocodile tears sliding down his face.
When Minho knots him, Jisung says, “Don’t stop.”
Jisung helps Minho back to bed. Minho drags Jisung down with him, and they both laugh, foreheads knocking together.
Minho kisses him, slow and sweet. So sweet.
He gets worked up again, but it’s not entirely his fault, anyway. Jisung begins grinding on him, pressing his hips down, tantalizingly languid rolls. Minho rucks a hand up his shirt— Minho’s shirt— and lays kisses across his sternum.
Jisung’s moans are sweet, like a symphony. Melodic. Music to his ears. A prayer being answered.
Minho might be in love. Crazy.
༝༚
“How many times?” Minho asks.
Jisung’s brows furrow, back bowing off the sheets. Claws at Minho’s back. Nails against skin. He’s out of breath and panting, thighs around Minho’s hips as Minho fucks into him at a brutal pace.
“What?” he gasps. Flings a hand to the pillow at a particularly sharp thrust. “Oh my god.”
Minho dips down, breathes into his mouth and says, “How many times have I knotted you?”
Jisung moans. It’s all so lewd. “I-I don’t— fuck, hyung!—“
Another hard thrust, Jisung slides up the bed.
“Don’t know. Haven’t kept count—“ Jisung babbles, tears welling in his eyes. Bottom lip sucked between his teeth, neck bared. Minho salivates. His teeth ache.
Mine. Crazy.
He dips his head, noses his way down the bend of Jisung’s neck. Lips pressed against hot skin. Slick with sweat. He nibbles and sucks a bruise into his scent gland, fighting every instinct that tells him to sink his teeth there. Jisung fingers tangle in his hair, gasping, jolting as Minho thrusts faster. His thighs burn, hips bruised, and Jisung’s ass is red. His heart is in his throat.
Thump, thump, thump.
“Hyung. Hyung, m’ gonna cum,” Jisung wails, clawing at the mattress, Minho’s back, shoulders. The tears fall, and his thighs squeeze around Minho.
Minho busts first, without warning, tying Jisung to him for the thirty-seventh time in two days.
Jisung comes, a lot, cries a little too. Minho peppers kisses across his face and says, “Did so good for me, jagi.”
Minho doesn’t fall asleep until after Jisung, front pressed to his back, arm around his waist, and he stares a little too hard at Jisung’s unmarked neck.
Something unfurls in his chest, its claws sinking into his heart. His eyes slide over smooth, honeyed skin. Their hands are entangled, legs slotted together.
He watches the rise and fall of Jisung’s soft breathing, listens to light snores. Minho lays a kiss on his nape, his bare shoulder, and presses his palm flat against his belly. Then, his eyes move back to his neck, bared, unmarred. A calling. But, he doesn’t. He can’t. Shouldn’t.
He wants to, though. Crazy.
༝༚
Minho stares up at the ceiling for a long time after his knot goes down and Jisung falls asleep. Wondering where things went wrong. Why his heart would betray him.
The thing is, when Minho brought up the idea of posting an ad online, his friends had their doubts.
‘Don’t make a mess out of this, Minho, because I won’t be the one to help you clean it up again.’
Minho didn’t tell them his doctor had concerns, because they wouldn’t understand, and he was stubborn, and he was scared of what would happen if he spent another rut alone. He couldn’t do it again. So, he didn’t tell them, because it was for the best that way.
‘I know what I’m doing, so don’t worry about me, I can handle it, besides, it probably won’t work.’
And Minho hugged them. Chan patted him on the back, and then Minho left.
It was dreadful. And Minho doesn’t have sex with strangers.
The most terrifying part is, Minho doesn’t fall in love with strangers.
Jisung is hot, and sexy, and he’s funny, and beautiful. He’s everything Minho has wanted in someone, truly.
Minho, though… he’s nothing compared to Jisung. He’s moody, and he works at a run-down dance studio in town, and he’s selfish, and stubborn, and he’s cautious, and he looks like he belongs in the middle of nowhere, among a storm, and pelting rain, and blustering winds, and everything self deprecating. Minho can’t help but let himself be lifted from the ground, and be swept away. Tempestuous, every step he takes.
The truth is, Minho has never been in love.
His friends always tell him he deserves someone, that he’s worthy of being loved. Minho lets them talk, nods like he’s listening, ignores it like it’ll go away, but it just… didn’t. They tell him that when he’s in love, he’ll just know.
Being with Jisung— for just two days— Minho knows.
When he looks at Jisung, he sees sunlight, clear skies, and gentle summer breezes. With Jisung, Minho wants. Probably too much.
Later that night, Jisung elbows Minho in his sleep.
༝༚
The next wave is less intense. Jisung crawls on top of Minho and presses his hips down.
“Wanna be on top,” he drawls, dips down and captures Minho’s lips in a searing kiss.
He’s wet and leaking slick all over Minho’s thighs. Minho helps him, coaches him with guiding hands on his hips. Jisung looks stunning like this with his jaw slack, and eyebrows crumpled, and his forehead scrunched up, and biting his bottom lip. Bouncing on Minho’s cock until he cums like that, and his thighs tremble as he lets out wanton noises and claws at Minho’s bare chest.
He slumps forward against Minho, unable to hold himself up anymore, hot puffs of air against skin. Minho flips them over, Jisung’s legs wrapping around his waist as Minho fucks into him, punctuated and fast. He’s close. He can feel his knot forming at the base of his cock, and Jisung begs for it with punchy breaths against Minho’s ear
“Feel so full, hyung,” Jisung moans, nails biting into Minho’s shoulders. Minho peppers kisses down his neck. “Feels so good. Oh my god.”
“You’re gonna make me cum soon,” Minho says, catching Jisung’s bottom lip with his teeth.
Jisung exhales a breathy laugh. It tapers off into a silent moan, back arching. He’s so hot, and beautiful like this that Minho drags a hand down his chest, twists a pert nipple that has Jisung twitching beneath him.
“Fuck!” Jisung surges forward and captures Minho’s lips in another wet kiss.
He licks into Minho’s mouth eagerly, not wasting any time as he blindly searches for Minho’s hand and brings it up to the base of his throat. Holds him there, and moans when Minho gently squeezes the sides of his neck.
Minho’s brain short circuits. His hips stutter. He nearly blacks out when he cums, mouthing at Jisung’s neck, flattening his tongue over every bit of skin he can reach.
“Mine,” he moans.
Jisung shudders. “Yours.”
Crazy.
༝༚
“Don’t make a mess out of this, Minho, because I won’t be the one to help you clean it up again,” Chan had said.
Of course, Minho knows what Chan means. But it’s not like he’s reckless. He’s not stupid. He gets it. Minho messed up one time when he was twenty. But it doesn’t mean he’s bound to make another stupid mistake again.
And, it wasn’t even his fault. He didn’t know the girl he hooked up with at the club was Changbin’s sister, and he didn’t even know who Changbin was at the time, either. But it didn’t help matters when he moaned someone else’s name. His exes name— Jiwoo— who he had been broken up with for three years at the time, was the name that punched out of his mouth instead of Seoyun.
Changbin found him at the club a week later, angry and screaming out for Minho. All red in the face. Minho was so out of it that all he could do was laugh in the guy’s face. He also didn’t notice his big arms and clenched fists until it was too late.
By the end of the night, Changbin gave him a broken nose and Minho doesn’t remember getting to the hospital.
Chan was there too, worried, confused as he tried to deescalate the situation. Minho was lying on the floor, moaning as he held his nose, curled up in a ball wishing his mom were there.
He doesn’t remember much from that night. Too much alcohol, and he was pretty sure he had a concussion too. He just remembers being punched in the nose and Chan stepping in to smooth things over with Changbin.
When Minho was discharged from the hospital, Chan picked him up. He was silent most of the ride, until he parked outside of Minho’s apartment and chastised him for being stupid and hurting someone.
Minho just listened and nodded in the passenger seat until Chan was done ranting.
༝༚
They get a break at some point.
Jisung draws them a bath, and ushers Minho into it. Minho grumbles about being forced out of bed, but the words die on his tongue as soon as he sinks his body into the hot bath, muscles lax. He looks exhausted, if the dark bags under his eyes and the half-hearted smile is anything for Minho to go by. But, he still looks so beautiful, and Minho feels bad that Jisung is going out of his way to make sure Minho is taken care of and comfortable.
He leaves Minho alone for a bit, tells him he’ll be back soon, but doesn’t say what he’s doing. So, Minho slinks further into the water, until his chin is lathered in soap suds and something that reminds him of Jisung.
Minho worries a lot. Too much. A chronic worrier is what Chan often says. He thinks a lot, too. An overthinker. Chan says this a lot too.
It’s not like he worries about the mundane things. But, this… this isn’t mundane. This is big. Minho doesn’t know how it happened.
They haven’t talked— about anything, really. Minho doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. If there’s a reason to. Sometimes, he thinks he should, and that he doesn’t need a reason. But, when Jisung looks at him, and says all the right things, all rationality flies out the window, and Minho thinks, ‘Everything is wonderful and Jisung is perfect.’
Minho adores him a stupid amount. Chan would actually be disgusted.
‘When you’re in love with someone, you’ll just know, Minho-ya.’
With Jisung, Minho just knows.
When Jisung comes back, Minho looks up at him with big brown eyes and a pout that makes Jisung roll his eyes fondly as he slides into the tub in between Minho’s legs.
What was meant to be an innocent bath turned into Jisung begging Minho to bend him over the sink and fuck him in front of the bathroom mirror.
He makes Jisung cum three times like that, whining for his knot, fingers stuffed in his mouth, and white knuckling the edges of the counter as Minho fucks into him at a brutal pace. Jisung chants his name, and Minho is sure the neighbors can hear them, but it all flies out the window when Jisung is drooling over his fingers and clenching around him.
But, it’s Jisung, and Minho adores him a stupid amount.
༝༚
Minho should probably sleep, but he can’t quiet his mind.
Everything feels… different now. Not in a bad way, but in a Minho-has-no-idea-what-to-do-now kind of way. He probably should have listened to his friends about the ad, because now he’s fallen for a stranger. Someone who probably doesn’t feel the same way.
Minho is so screwed.
Jisung is asleep beside him, back facing Minho. Soft snores filtering through the quiet bedroom. Minho doesn’t have to see him to know Jisung sleeps with a pout, cheeks smashed against the pillow, a well of drool on his arm that’s stuffed under his head.
He looks soft like this. Content. Minho is in love with him.
It hits him. Right in the chest. Like an arrow through his heart.
Chan was right.
Minho: You were right.
Chan: what?
Minho: You just know.
༝༚
“Every year on my dad’s birthday, we would go pick a pineapple and share it,” Minho says, staring up at the ceiling, trying to memorize the patterns, but he doesn’t have to, because he’s not bored.
“My dad’s allergic to pineapples,” Jisung mumbles.
Minho snorts. “Are you?”
“No. I’m not,” Jisung scoffs.
“I’m allergic to watermelon,” Minho tells him.
Jisung sighs. “My mom used to grow watermelon.”
“I hate watermelon,” Minho says, peeling his eyes from the ceiling and casting a look at Jisung.
“I thought you said you’re allergic?” Jisung tilts his head back, and meets Minho’s eyes in the dark, somehow.
“I’m self-allergic,” Minho clarifies, but all Jisung does is huff as he smacks Minho on the chest. Minho grins and cradles his hand.
“That’s not even a thing,” Jisung says, smiling so fondly at him that it makes Minho want to kiss him until they’re breathless. “You just made that up.”
“No. It’s totally real. You should look it up.”
Jisung giggles as he threads their fingers together, hands over Minho’s chest. Jisung holds Minho’s hand in a way that keeps him grounded. Present. He won’t miss a thing. Minho has to remind himself to breathe, though. His heart is racing, but if Jisung notices, he doesn’t mention it.
“I lost my phone,” Jisung says. He doesn’t move to check. “Actually, I think it’s dead, too.”
Minho chuckles and holds him a little bit tighter.
Then there’s silence. All Minho can hear is the rapid palpitations of his own heart, and Jisung’s light breathing. He’s not asleep. Minho can tell that much, but nothing else. His head is loud tonight, and he’s pretty sure Chan messaged him back. But Minho doesn’t want to read it. Not yet. Maybe later, if he feels up to it.
Jisung snuggles closer against Minho, body flush with his side as Minho has an arm around him. Traces patterns into his honey-smooth skin, and files what Jisung’s skin feels like into his memory.
A charge in energy. A shift in the air. Jisung shifts, plays with Minho’s fingers. Sighs.
Minho gets nervous, but he doesn’t speak. Not until Jisung is ready. And when he’s ready, so will Minho. So, he waits, and it doesn’t take long. Less than ten minutes, when Jisung can’t keep still.
“Minho,” Jisung says. Minho hums, listening. “How many people responded to the ad?”
Minho swallows thickly, around a knot in his throat. “None,” he says, voice a little shaky. He hears Jisung roughly breathe out his nose. Then, “Just you.”
Jisung squeezes Minho’s hand. “Okay.”
“Why did you answer?” Minho asks, tone clipped.
Another sharp intake of breath, Jisung tenses. He only relaxes when Minho combs his fingers through his hair. Grounding him.
“I wanted to meet someone.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. But it is, to Minho, at least. “And besides, my friends thought I was being stupid.”
“You were being stupid,” Minho says.
Jisung huffs a laugh. “Yeah. I know.”
Minho holds him tighter. “I was being stupid too.”
“Yeah. You were.” Jisung snorts.
Minho laughs.
༝༚
Minho is awake when his knot goes down this time, and so is Jisung. He almost wishes he wasn’t once he feels himself slip out as Jisung shifts.
Jisung whines as he rolls over on his belly, turns his cheek and looks at Minho with tired eyes and an adorable pout that Minho wants to kiss away.
“How much longer?” Minho asks. He doesn’t know if he can bear the pain anymore.
“I don’t… I don’t know,” Jisung mumbles next to him, face shoved into the pillow now. “I think a day, at least? Maybe? I don’t know.”
Minho is sore, and he aches all over. He’s tired. Exhausted deep to the bone. He hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep since the early stages of his rut, but with Jisung here, wrapped around him, sleep comes a little easier. It’s funny how he relaxes as soon as he has Jisung in his arms and his face stuffed in his neck. Deep inhales of rich chocolate, sweet violet and chai spice. It’s comforting. It feels like home.
“I won’t be able to sit for like, a month,” Jisung says, and Minho barks out a tired laugh.
He turns onto his side, palms over one of Jisung’s asscheeks. “M’ sorry.” He feigns a pout. He really does feel bad. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Kiss me,” Jisung blurts. His following scream is muffled by the pillow, and Minho laughs.
Minho swiftly moves, hovering over Jisung’s backside. He leans down, peppers kisses down the length of his spine, over the curve of his ass. Jisung squeaks, white-knuckling the sheets. He lifts his head, twists his upper half to look over his shoulder— then Minho gently sinks his teeth into supple flesh.
Jisung squeals, and then shivers when Minho presses open-mouth kisses up his back again, slow. Warm lips against soft skin. Jisung goes lax, purrs at the feeling. Gooseflesh rises in its wake.
A kiss to his shoulder blades. One for each. Lays another one on the nape of his neck. One behind his ear. And when he hooks a finger under Jisung’s chin, he’s met with lidded brown eyes, pouty lips glossed over with spit, and the unfathomable urge to take, take, take.
He doesn’t know who leans in first. It doesn’t matter, anyway, Minho thinks, because the kiss is slow, deep. Fulfilling. It’s different. A good kind of different. It’s grounding. And there’s sparks. World-ending type shit. Minho feels all the air in his lungs being sucked right out of him, and it’s paralyzing in the best kind of way.
Heart in his throat, blood pounding in his ears, Minho is flooded with warmth. Fuzzy. All soft around the edges. Jisung smells the best like this.
“Hyung,” Jisung whispers against his mouth, without pulling away. Minho hums, listening. Doesn’t stop kissing him, because Jisung tastes sweet.
“I got you,” Minho mouths down the bend of his neck. Trails a hand down, down, down, and sinks his fingers into Jisung.
Slow pumps as he listens to Jisung’s moans, with his forehead pressed to the nape of Jisung’s neck. Minho’s hard again just from the sounds coming from Jisung’s mouth. He sounds so pretty.
“You sound so pretty,” Minho presses the words into his sweaty skin. Salty against his lips.
He’s so fucking wet, and presenting himself, and Minho has never felt so pent up before in his life. It’s not another wave of his rut, Minho realizes, but the raw, sexual energy between them. Just them. Hard and leaking for each other. Unadulterated want.
Minho crooks his fingers and strokes over his prostate. Jisung yelps, toes curling. He keeps doing that, hitting his prostate dead on until Jisung is teetering over the precipice of another mind-blowing orgasm. He clenches around Minho’s fingers.
Close. Too close.
He pulls his fingers out, drenched with slick and arousal, and sucks them into his mouth. Jisung tastes like all of Minho’s favorite things. Chocolate pudding. A bouquet of violets. Chai tea. He moans around his fingers, and Jisung reaches up to pull him down for a kiss, tongues sliding slick together. Slow and lazy.
“H-Hyung,” he weakly utters out. The nails on the back of Minho’s neck biting into his skin.
“I got you,” whispers Minho as he lines himself up and sinks into him. He’s so wet. So warm.
He slides in with little resistance. To the hilt, hips against ass. His movements are slow, and punctuated, and perfected. Minho has a hand in Jisung’s hair, a gentle tug at the roots as he pulls him up and closes his mouth around his scent gland.
“Hyung,” Jisung whines. He’s so whiny. “Hyung, what if— what if you bite me? Would that be okay?”
The alpha in the back of his mind is getting louder and louder, and he knows, instinctively, that it’ll get harder to ignore. The want that drives Minho mad. To the brink of insanity. Jisung makes him feel crazy.
“Wanna be yours.”
It’s a careless and reckless thing to say. But Minho is tempted, so he doesn’t fight it. He noses around Jisung’s neck, laves his tongue over his scent gland and sinks his teeth in. Jisung comes, screams Minho’s name and collapses. Full-body spasms.
“Fuck!” Minho licks over the wound, lays a kiss there too for good measure. “M’ gonna cum.”
“W-Wait!” Jisung flings a hand back and stops Minho mid-thrust.
“What’s wrong?” Minho asks, panicked.
“I wanna…” Jisung trails off as he flips himself over so that he’s lying on his back now. Minho slips out in the process and he whines. “Wanna see you,” he breathes, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “When… when I claim you.”
Minho furrows his brows, a little surprised that Jisung would want to claim him. But Minho doesn’t deny how it makes his tummy flutter and his heart lurch with happiness and arousal.
“You… you want to claim me?” He tilts his head like a curious puppy, voice suddenly small.
“Baby, yes,” Jisung says, cupping Minho's cheek. Then, he’s shy again. Cheeks red. “Unless… you don’t want it?” He shifts, pulling his hand away. “Fuck, I should’ve asked first. I’m sorry.”
Minho stops him with a kiss. When he pulls away, he cradles Jisung’s jaw and has a fond look in his eyes, thumb swiping over the apple of his cheek. Jisung is red all over, hiding his face in Minho’s chest and squeaking when Minho slides a hand down his bare side and squeezes him around his criminally small waist.
“I want to be yours, jagi,” Minho whispers into his ear, and Jisung shudders at that. “Claim me,” he says as he lays a soft kiss behind his ear. “Make me yours, baby.”
Jisung wraps his legs around Minho’s hips, pulls him in with the heels of his feet. Minho slips in with ease, a gentle glide, and they both moan in tandem. Limbs tangled, breathing into each other. Their bodies move together, and Minho is so close. The familiar coil in his lower belly is ready to burst, and his movements become sloppy, uncoordinated. His knot is already swelling at the base of his cock as Jisung claws at his back and screams at a particular sharp thrust that jostles him up the mattress.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jisung breathes. “M’ gonna cum again— oh, shit!”
Minho’s head dips into the crook of Jisung’s neck and he runs his tongue over the fresh mark over his scent gland. Jisung shivers, gasps. Then, he comes again, white, hot spurts across his chest.
“God— Jisungie— m’ close, baby,” Minho growls as he tries to hold back. Hips frantic. Movements brutal, unyielding. Unforgiving.
And then, Jisung bites him.
Minho comes with Jisung’s teeth latching onto his neck, knot locking them together.
They’re a perfect fit.
༝༚
“Jisung, I have to tell you something,” Minho sucks in a sharp breath as he fucks into Jisung at a brutal pace.
Jisung cries out, flinging a desperate hand back and reaching out for Minho. “W-What? Now?”
Minho nods, swallows dryly, and remembers Jisung can’t see him from this position, so he says, “Y-Yeah. Can’t wait.”
A hard thrust sends Jisung up the bed, ripping a loud keen from his throat. Hands on the headboard as he tries to steady himself, fucking himself back on Minho’s cock.
He watches himself slide in and out, cock wet and slick dripping down his thighs. The hands on Jisung’s hips hold him tight, almost bruising. He moans, bottom lips wedged between his teeth, eyes heavy-lidded and coated with lust. Red hot.
“O-Okay,” he whimpers.
“I actually don’t like coffee,” Minho says.
Jisung doesn’t look at him when he says, “What?”
Minho huffs. “They were out of tea.”
He doesn’t expect Jisung to laugh, but he does. Minho’s fingers digging into plush skin.
Then, “But you drank it anyway?”
Minho nods, embarrassed. “Yeah. I did.”
“That’s so romantic.” Jisung’s giggle tampers off into a high-pitched moan as Minho snaps his hips forward. Skin on skin.
Minho scoffs. “No. It’s not, Jisung.”
“Yes. It is, Minho.” Jisung smiles.
Another hard thrust, it wipes the smile off Jisung’s face. He tips forward, grasping for Minho’s arm as he comes.
He slumps forward, spent, breathing heavily. “You’re such a loser.”
Minho laughs, and peppers kissing down his neck.
༝༚
On day three, Minho doesn’t let Jisung out of his sight.
Jisung, however, is content. He eats it up, latches onto Minho like a lifeline, and doesn’t let go when their stomachs grumble and their mouths are parched. He purrs and lets Minho have his way with him.
Jisung asks him to be a little rougher. Minho isn’t sure if he can.
But, he tries, for Jisung.
By the end of it, they’re spent. Jisung has purple bruises bitten and sucked into his skin, a temporary reminder that Minho is his. Finger bruises along his hips and waist— Jisung loves them. He says so.
“I love ‘em, hyung,” he slurs, eyes barely open as he sinks further into Minho’s arms.
I love you.
Minho doesn’t fall asleep until Jisung does.
༝༚
The day after is always rough.
Minho aches all over, and his head hurts, exhausted. Jisung is still fast asleep beside him, nestled in Minho’s arms, face shoved in his chest. He smells like violets and chocolate, and he’s warm to the touch. In fact, it’s scorching under the blankets, but Minho doesn’t want to ruin this moment
So, he stays a little longer and falls back asleep.
Later, they both shower.
Jisung whines and pouts at Minho until he carries him to the bathroom. Minho smiles at him, fond, like he really can’t believe Jisung is his.
They take turns washing each other, sharing soft kisses under the water, holding each other until the water runs cold and they’re forced to get out.
Dripping, teeth clattering. Minho turns down the AC, dresses and starts the laundry. Jisung strips the bed and changes the sheets. Minho throws them away. Jisung laughs at the disgusted face he makes and kisses him until he smiles.
“God, I love you,” Jisung says, then the realization strikes him. “I—” he panics, and Minho would laugh if the situation were different. Big eyes all round and wild, wet hair sticking to his forehead. Water drips down the side of his face, down the slope of his neck as he stammers for the right thing to say. “Fuck… um— I didn’t mean it like that, ha-ha. It’s just that— I meant it like, y’know—“
Minho kisses him and Jisung melts against him. “I love you, Jisungie.”
“You do?” Jisung whispers, hesitant, a whole lot scared. But his smile is blinding. Wide and gummy, heart-shaped. Minho wants to put him in his pocket.
Minho nods, and Jisung kisses him again.
“I’m free tomorrow,” Minho says as he helps Jisung pack his things, trying not to pout.
He fails. Miserably so.
Jisung catches his eyes and chuckles at him, stuffing a bundle of socks into his bag. “You sound like you don’t want me to leave.”
He’s teasing, but it’s not very far from the truth.
Instead, Minho shrugs, folds one of Jisung’s shirts and hands it to him with barely noticeable shaky hands. “If you’d like to… hang out, or something.”
Jisung stops what he’s doing and turns to Minho with a shit-eating grin on his face. A twinkle in his eyes that makes Minho’s stomach swoop. There’s that teasing flick of his eyebrows as he bites the tip of his tongue between his teeth.
“Hyung, are you asking me out on a date?” Jisung asks in a tone that’s light but holds something a little heavier to it. He’s trying to fluster Minho.
“Yeah, a date,” Minho says. “Fuck it, wanna go on a date with me?”
Jisung steps forward and curls his arms around Minho’s neck, and kisses him softly on the lips. “Yes. I’d really like that.”
“Me too,” Minho says and kisses him again.
༝༚
It’s been three and a half weeks.
Minho feels a lot more anxious than he had anticipated when they pull into the parking lot of the cafe he frequents. Jisung is vibrating in the passenger seat, but the traces of nervousness doesn’t get past Minho as he reaches over and intertwines their hands and lays a soft kiss to his knuckles. Jisung smiles, appreciative, but then goes back to chewing his lower lip as his eyes flit over the building. His legs begin to bounce.
It’s not a date; Jisung is meeting Minho’s friends. Seungmin and Jeongin, the others can wait.
“You’re nervous,” Minho tells him.
“I know,” Jisung retorts, sticking his tongue out.
Minho snorts. “Stop being nervous.”
“Then distract me, Minho.”
“We’ll never leave the car, Jisung.”
Jisung giggles, rolls his eyes and slaps Minho on the arm because he can, but then he goes back to chewing on the inner wall of his cheek. Minho still adores him a stupid amount. Some things may never change.
The distraction helps, but only a little. Jisung is fidgeting with the rings on his fingers, and his legs haven’t stopped bouncing since Minho picked him up at his apartment. His lower lip is red and chapped and swollen. His eyes haven’t left the road, and now they’re glued to the coffeehouse.
They can turn around and leave anytime. Minho told him so. But Jisung is stubborn, and he wants to meet Minho’s friends. He’s just… nervous.
“What if they don’t like me?” he asked at some point during the car ride.
Traffic was good, so they got there faster than usual. Much to Jisung’s chagrin, Minho could tell, even if Jisung didn’t say anything. A shift in energy. Jisung wanted it to drag out as much as possible.
“Then I’ll find new friends,” Minho had said so confidently that Jisung couldn’t take him seriously.
“You’re weird,” Jisung mumbled.
Minho blew him a kiss and the rest of the ride was silent, save for the soft hum of the engine and the low muffle of the radio.
Inside is warm and feels like home.
It smells like coffee, feels like a warm hug. Jisung says it’s his new favorite coffee shop, and he’ll be ditching his usual one.
Minho only smiles, because it’s Jisung and he loves Jisung, and nothing he says will ever sound dumb.
Inside are Seungmin and Jeongin. Seungmin’s behind the counter, loitering, not actually working. He never does, anyway. He gets away with too much. Allergic to productivity, Seungmin often says.
Jeongin idles by the counter, lips red and kiss-swollen, hair all mused up and stupid-looking. Minho rolls his eyes, and hopes Jisung can piece Jeongin’s unkempt appearance together.
Hyunjin isn’t there. Weird.
The bell chimes as they walk in, and Jeongin is the first to turn around and greet them, but stops. Jaw dropped, he starts smacking Seungmin, the slaps resonating all around the place. Minho can hear it from the door.
When Seungmin turns, lips twisted into a snarl, ready to whack Jeongin over the head with something, that’s when he sees it. The mark on Minho’s neck. The matching one on Jisung’s. They slowly approach the counter, fingers laced. Minho feels his heart leap, anxiety bubbling in the pit of his stomach.
“Channie hyung is going to kill you,” Jeongin says.
Minho shakes his head. “No. He won’t.”
Seungmin scoffs. “Yes. He will.”
“Be happy for me. I’m in love,” Minho says.
“He’s so gone,” Seungmin deadpans. “How did that even happen? You said no strings attached.”
“Channie hyung is so going to kill you,” Jeongin says again, face in his hands, propped against the counter.
Minho rolls his eyes. “I said, be happy for me.”
“It’s hard when you’re stupid,” Seungmin retorts.
“I’m happy for you, hyung,” Jeongin says, pushing Seungmin away. He turns to Jisung with a dimpled smile. “I’m Jeongin.”
Jisung smiles a real smile. “Jisung.”
He clings onto Minho’s hand a little tighter. An anchor. His anchor. Minho lets him, because there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Jisung. He’s in love.
“I’m Seungmin.”
“Don’t be fooled, he’s a pest,” Minho whispers into Jisung’s ear. He giggles, tries to bite back a grin.
Seungmin scoffs. “On the house for the newlyweds,” he says, sliding two cups over the counter.
Jisung smiles. “Thank you.”
Then, Seungmin turns to Minho and says, “I like him better than you.”
“Pest,” Minho retorts. Seungmin rolls his eyes and he grabs Jeongin by the back of his shirt and pulls him away.
“I like them,” Jisung says as they reach a booth tucked away in the corner.
“They like you too.” Minho grins.
Jisung reaches over the table and grabs Minho’s hand, squeezing around his fingers. Minho does the same, then kisses his knuckles with a soft brush of his lips.
“I love you, Minho.”
“I love you, Jisung.”
༝༚
Chan texts Minho on a Monday.
Chan: [image attached]Chan: you said no strings attached.
It’s a picture of Minho and Jisung at the coffeehouse, clearly taken by Seungmin or Jeongin when they weren’t looking, sitting at the table.
Jisung has his head resting on Minho’s shoulder, head tipped back, a wide grin on his face, heart-shaped and warm and in love. Minho is cupping his cheek, foreheads pressed together, a crystal clear view of their marked necks. He’s smiling too, ready to kiss the hell out of him.
He saves the photo, exits out of Chan’s contact and sends it to Jisung. He replies with a series of hearts and an ‘i love you’.
Then, he responds to Chan’s text.
Minho: be happy for me. i’m in love.