Work Text:
If one more person orders a pour over, Minho’s going to get himself fired. He’s not above staring someone in the eyes as he spits in their drink.
Usually he’s appreciative of the micro-break that comes with manually brewing; he enjoys looking over his shoulder at the customers in line, calling I’ll be right with you but really meaning Look at you, waiting on me. It’s the petty joys that make life worth living.
But that’s when the customers understand what they’re ordering. The three that have ordered pour overs in the past hour have only done so because it makes them sound like they know what they’re talking about, he’s certain.
Exhibit C, Minho thinks as he nods along to the alpha businesswoman in front of him explaining that this is too strong, actually, and it would be great if she could get a normal drip instead.
She sounds apologetic, but in the way someone does when two people bump shoulders and one person thinks it’s the other’s fault. In the watch what you’re doing, know your worth way. Minho’s not falling for it but he keeps his mouth shut. Smiles as his eye twitches. Near white-knuckles the compostable cup as it fills because if she were actually sorry, she’d offer to pay for the replacement drink. He wouldn’t make her, but it’s the thought that counts.
The door groans as she exits, and Minho lets himself glare as she crosses the street without looking before shifting his gaze from the wall of windows up front to the next person in line – a guy with a tote bag on his shoulder, the straps precariously close to slipping. A university student, probably. He’s wearing a dark grey hoodie and headphones that hang loose around his neck, his hair a bit greasy and not quite curly – crimped, maybe?
He glances down from looking at the menu to see Minho in front of him and jumps, clutching his heart like it’s Minho’s fault.
“What can I get you,” Minho says, because maybe it is his fault, a little bit. He should’ve said something when he approached but he was busy observing.
The guy glances around like he’s trying to conjure an answer, only to startle again upon seeing that there’s someone behind him in line. Minho catches a hint of something that smells vaguely like graphite but it fades as he drops into a comically low bow, saying, “shit, sorry.”
Minho doesn’t know if he’s apologizing for not noticing her or for being so surprised when he did, or even if he’s actually apologizing to her or just the room at large. If Minho’s cats were here, would they also see a prey animal?
“Go ahead, I don’t know what I want yet. Obviously.” He backs out of the woman’s way.
She shoots Minho a bemused look as she approaches the counter. It’s kind of judgy, and it rubs Minho the wrong way, but she doesn’t order a pour over, opting instead for the (only marginally less irritating) option of a latte with four different syrups, two extra shots of espresso, and whipped cream. At least she looks somewhat chastised when Minho reads her order back and has to pause to take a breath halfway through.
She pays, and Minho watches out of the corner of his eye as the jumpy guy makes his way to Minho’s own favourite table in the corner, glancing over the menu again from afar. Laptop, charger, and notebook are freed from the confines of his tote bag. Headphones are tugged from his neck. Hoodie is shrugged off. Minho has to look away because he burns his pinky.
By the time Minho serves the woman her multiple organ failure in a cup, the guy is back in line.
“Can I please get an iced americano?” he asks when Minho steps back up to the register.
Genuinely asks, like Minho can say no if it’s too much of an inconvenience.
“Are you a fugitive?” Minho says, imputing the order.
“I– What? No?” he asks. Again, genuinely, glancing around like there’s a wanted poster with his face on it that he doesn’t know about.
“3,600 won,” Minho says. And then when the guy just stands there like he knows Minho said something but is anticipating being handcuffed any second now, “I’m joking, you’re just jumpy. Can I get a name for your order?” That’s not company policy, he’s just curious.
“Oh! Yes. Han. You– yes. Sorry.” He huffs, pulling his phone out of his back pocket and holding it above the card reader.
Not a first name, but Minho’ll take it.
“You don’t have to be sorry if you haven’t committed a crime,” Minho teases.
“Wuh,” the guy— Han says, looking at Minho like Minho’s an oncoming car and he doesn’t know if he should be running.
“You don’t have to be sorry if you haven’t committed a crime,” Minho repeats, just in case he didn’t hear. “Don’t apologise for something you wouldn’t ask forgiveness for at confession.”
“I don’t go to confession," Han says. It seems Minho has managed to derail his train of one syllable answers.
“Me either,” says Minho.
Not-criminal-Han laughs, the I have no idea what you just said to me but I’m scared to ask sort of laugh. He doesn’t say anything else, just watches as Minho pulls three shots of espresso and pours them over ice. He gives the cup a small shake before topping it with another small scoop of ice, only just remembering to scribble Han across the lid to uphold the facade. When he goes to set the cup down on the counter between them, Han reaches out to take it and their fingers collide.
“Sorr- uh.” He glances at Minho. “Thank you.”
Minho lets go, and Han brings his other hand up, cradling the cup with both hands as he makes his way back to the corner. His ankle gets tangled on the table leg as he’s sitting and Minho does him the kindness of acting like he didn’t see.
The next hour passes uneventfully. There’s another pour over order, but she’s a regular and stands a respectful distance away from the counter as Minho makes it. With closing time approaching, customers ebb. Minho goes to take out the trash but finds the bag dripping pathetically. He raises an annoyed eyebrow, leveling it with the same look he gives Doongie when he eats too fast and throws up.
Resigned, he hauls the entire trash can to the back door, glancing at the corner as he passes it. He tells himself he’s just checking on his territory, making sure Han hasn’t unplugged the strand of fairy lights or spilled his drink into the pores of the aged wooden table, condemning it to an eternity of being sticky. He’s not upset when he doesn’t look up from his laptop screen. That’d be ridiculous.
Outside, he tosses the trash bag into the dumpster and pours a pitcher of water into the puddle of gunk at the bottom, swirling it around before dumping it. He wipes the inside down with a soapy rag and leaves it outside to air dry overnight.
The front door opens as Minho walks back in, and he looks up, expecting an end of the day customer. It’s Han, though, leaving. His bag hits the doorframe on his way out and Minho watches him look both ways twice before crossing the street, eyes down.
He’d only pushed his chair in halfway, something that usually annoys Minho. He seemed to be in a hurry, though. Enough so that he’s left his hoodie.
Minho gathers it as he walks back by, folding it loosely and setting it down on the freshly cleaned section of counter that functions as the shop's makeshift lost and found. There’s only 20 minutes left until close and there’s nothing left to do so he pulls his phone out of his pocket, scrolling past twitter notifications and an email from his professor, opting to open Felix’s texts.
Meowlix 5:09 p.m.
we’re going out for noraebang on wedsnedya
do u wanna come 🥺
hope yuor shift is going well hyungie <3
Me 6:39 p.m.
Who is we?
Too many pour overs. Also some guy left
his hoodie.
He opens his camera and tilts his phone towards the hoodie, snapping a quick picture. Reopening his messages he wonders briefly if this is an invasion of privacy and then figures it can’t be because if he’s never seen Han before, he’s probably never going to see him again. The hoodie will be forgotten by tomorrow, returned to its owner by the time Minho’s next shift rolls around. He sends the picture.
Meowlix 6:41 p.m.
chan, binnie, me, hyunjinne, you..?
and jisung
wait
i think tgats jisung’s
Me 6:41 p.m.
Jisung.
Meowlix 6:42 p.m.
han jisung
he’s chan and bin’s friend
i’ve met him a few times hes a sweetheart
Me 6:43 p.m.
You think everyone is a sweetheart.
Meowlix 6:46 p.m.
guilty
seriously tho u should ask chan if it’s
jisungs
i’m like 95% sure it id
is*
And, well. Now he’s curious. He switches over to his messages with Chan, sending the same picture of the hoodie that he sent to Felix.
Me 6:47 p.m.
Felix says you know who this belongs to.
Squirrely guy? Han?
Chan has a habit of focusing so intently on work and study that he forgets to take time for anything else, so Minho expects to have to wait for his reply but 2 minutes of scrolling on twitter later, his phone vibrates.
Channie 6:50 p.m.
I was actually just about to text you on his
behalf and ask if you’d seen it lol
Yeah, that’s Jisung’s
Channie 6:51 p.m.
Actually can I ask a favour
Me 6:51 p.m.
You can ask.
Channie 6:55 p.m.
Can you bring it to class tomorrow? It’s
his only hoodie lol
I’m having lunch with him so if you give
it to me, I can return it to him ASAP
He can do that. He affirms as much to Chan before locking his phone. And the doors, four minutes early. What are they gonna do, fire him? They’re too understaffed for that.
After writing a note informing whoever opens that they haven’t been trash can burgled, closing goes fast. Soon he’s walking home, hoodie in hand.
Doongie nearly trips him as he walks in the door and he coos affectionately. This is the routine. Paws press into his thigh and Minho bends to bestow ear scratches.
When he’s had enough, Doongie saunters into the kitchen. Minho toes off his shoes and follows, pausing at the end of the foyer to check the thermostat. He’s exceptionally warm for having just come in out of the crisp twilight air of October but the blue tinted screen flaunts a reasonable 20°. His sinuses seem clear when he sniffles firmly to see if he’s getting sick.
Hazy orange light spills in through the living room window, courtesy of the catty-corner streetlamp, and the fridge hums at the edge of his consciousness. Both the light and the noise used to irk him but now they’re steady comforts. His. As is the symphony of meows that attempts to summon him for dinner, but it’s not quite 8, and he’s steadfast about keeping the cats - and himself - on a schedule.
In his room, he tosses his bag onto the chair in the corner, draping Jisung’s hoodie over the back of it. Now that he’s away from the cocktail of coffee grounds and pheromones that resides in the coffee shop, he can tell Jisung is an alpha which… huh.
He’s an even more unassuming alpha than Chan.
It could be that Minho’s reading him wrong. Maybe the lack of force behind his presence had simply been the byproduct of waking up too early or too late, or falling in a subway car full of people, or some other impossible-to-guess mundane blunder. Maybe Minho just caught him on an off day. But the scent on the hoodie isn’t abrasive and that speaks for itself.
Where a large majority of the alphas Minho’s met have scents that, to him, resemble wet fur or antiseptics, Jisung is all warmth. Resinous frankincense takes up the forefront like sunlit fallen leaves under stained glass windows. Beneath that there’s masala chai and something spicy and metallic-sweet that he can’t put a name to.
Analysing someone’s scent isn’t a surefire way of predicting their personality, so Jisung could very well be the most by-the-book alpha out there, but adding to the equation their interaction earlier that day and the fact that he’s friends with Chan and Changbin, Minho’s willing to trust his gut on this one.
And his gut’s telling him that whatever Jisung is, he’s authentic.
He smooths the hoodie out, making sure it’s laid flat so it doesn’t get wrinkled. Even though it kind of already is. He can’t judge; his own clothes have been through it. As has he, milk splatters and various syrups leaving a sticky film on his skin. Now that he’s conscious of it, he needs it off.
Hopefully a shower will also take care of the weird, trembly heat in his stomach.
Maybe a bug really has entered his system without him noticing.
☯
The first thing Minho registers when he wakes up is that he’s wet. Like, sweating.
The second is that he’s wet, like… wet.
The third is that he’s almost certainly missed his class. Midmorning sunlight slants across his sheets, pooling in a spot he’s rarely still in bed to bask in. It does little to warm him, a shiver wracking his body. It feels as though he’s overheating on the outside, but cold inside. Empty.
He rolls over and is immediately met with a betrayed looking Soonie. Minho’s own stomach grumbles in solidarity. So much for a steady schedule.
An involuntary groan escapes as he sits up and stretches his arms above his head, lower back cracking with the change in position. For now ignoring the veritable deluge in his boxers, he shuffles to the kitchen where the cats wait. He fills their bowls as well as their water dish before pouring himself a bowl of cheerios, standing at the counter to eat.
What he’s feeling is familiar but it doesn't make sense. Minho’s heats aren't irregular, one every three months, and he had one three weeks ago. Though honestly, it feels less like a heat and more like the slipstream of something.
He’s horny, yeah. But if it weren’t for the abundance of slick and the warmth, he’d probably chalk it up to a forgotten wet dream.
At least he only had one class today, and nothing important happening in it as far as he’s aware. Chan probably took notes for him without him even asking.
He washes his bowl and sheds his boxers in the bathroom, more willing to walk ass naked through his apartment than to press his own now-cold slick back against himself.
Back in his bedroom, he throws the boxers into the dirty clothes basket and himself onto his bed, grunting when he lands on something. Digging through the sheets reveals his phone. He must’ve been more tired than he realized the night before; usually he plugs it in and sets it aside to charge.
There are a few missed texts from Chan he should answer, and he should email his professor, but these are problems for when he’s not leaking. Fortunately, he has a solution for that.
Setting his phone aside, he eases open the treasure trove that is the bottom drawer of his bedside table. He disregards lube, vibrators, and most of his dildos except- there. His only knotted dildo, realistic if not for the bubblegum pink tip that fades to a vivid jade green before the swell. It’s kind of a murky colour where the two blend but that doesn’t matter much when it’s inside him.
Setting to toy down next to him, he shifts onto his back, two fingers briefly taking up residence in his mouth before he withdraws them and slips his hand under the hem of his oversized sleep shirt. He ghosts a tap over the hard bud of his nipple once, twice, crooking one knee to the side and bringing the other up to his chest. The arm he wraps around his thigh to hold it in place comes to rest just above his belly button, where he traces lazy shapes into his own skin.
It would be so much better, Minho thinks, if it were someone else’s hands, more tentative than his own, more eager to please.
So he imagines.
It’s not his hands that have unconsciously synced, fluttering across his torso with butterfly symmetry. It’s not his blunt nails that graze his side and make his stomach contract, not his palm that smears precum around the head of his cock.
Fingers caress the valley between his thighs, craving, and when one delves two knuckles deep into where he’s warmest, the sound in his throat is his. The feeling, too, as two knuckles becomes two fingers becomes not enough, when kneading gives way to need.
The silicone of the dildo is cool when he picks it up, and it takes him out of the fantasy a little bit, but his cunt gushes when he taps the head against it so it’s no real loss. He drags it through his slick and imagines it belongs to an alpha, one who’s so eager to press in he misjudges, cock slipping, rutting up against Minho’s own leaking dick instead of sinking in.
He has to do everything himself, he thinks, changing positions to hover above the pink tip, bearing down with no hesitation. A hand finds his chest and it’s the alpha grounding himself, though it still drips into the sea of pleasure at the base of Minho’s stomach.
Rocking through the waves, Minho wraps a hand around his dick and loses himself, teasing the bulge of the knot until it slips in fully, and Minho’s legs splay where they hold him up.
He swivels his hips, imagines the alpha below him saying please can I, please, rises as if to pull off. Lazy, deliberate strokes on his cock become muscle memory haste. The knot tugs, discomfort-bliss that he entertains for only a moment before relaxing back down, the clench of his muscles shifting from legs to cunt.
Please, please– churns through his core, cumming– has his back arching as it rocks through him like a tsunami, the wreckage all his.
Chest heaving, he flops down. After a moment, he turns his back to the door and – letting the dildo stay where it is – he grabs his phone, intending to scroll for a bit and relax in the afterglow.
Something clatters. It’s probably the cats, except–
“Uh.”
The fantasy’s worn off more than enough for him to know that wasn’t him.
He flings himself up onto his knees, grabbing a pillow to cover himself with, phone poised to be thrown at the intruder. Until his eyes catch up.
“What are you doing in my apartment.”
“You said come in!” Jisung’s voice pitches up at the end like Minho’s the crazy one.
“I definitely did not. Did you even knock,” Minho says.
“You did! I did!” Jisung cries, a spike of graphite in his scent like a pencil pressing down so hard it tears through the page. He sounds so certain that Minho pauses to think. He definitely doesn’t remember hearing a knock but he was a little preoccupied with, well, cumming.
Wait.
“I said cumming.” Out loud, Minho realizes.
Jisung looks at him forlornly.
“Are you just going to stand there?” Minho asks.
“No! Shit–! Sorry–” Jisung covers his eyes, a little belatedly, bumping his shoulder on the doorframe as he half-turns, half-backs up.
“I’m so sorry!” he calls again before Minho hears the front door click open and latch back shut.
And, well. He’d just meant to wait in the living room.
Minho grabs the base of the dildo, exhales deeply to relax his muscles, and pulls it out. He tosses it aside to be washed later.
After stepping into the first pair of sweatpants he sees, he beelines to the front door, doing a kitty headcount on his way through the apartment just to make sure Jisung didn’t unknowingly let one of his babies slip out. All are accounted for, Dori looking at the door in confusion when Minho reaches it. He taps him with his foot to get him to move.
He thought maybe Jisung would wait in the hall, but there’s no sign of him when Minho peeks out. Upon ducking back inside, though, both questions of the day are answered pretty much simultaneously.
One, Jisung had come for his hoodie.
And two, Minho must’ve gone nose-blind in his sleep. The hallway air had cleared his senses enough that reentering his apartment is an acute reminder of the burning flame of Jisung’s scent, melting through Minho’s own like wax.
The heat’s gone, though, snuffed out by Jisung’s departure.
What’s left is a longing that creeps through him like tendrils of smoke.
☯
It remains cold the next morning even as the sun crests over the skyline.
The air that nips at his nose and the tips of his fingers has him trying to remember whether he has a pair of gloves stored away somewhere. When he sidetracks to attend to the alley cats on his walk to university, his fingers are so stiff he almost drops their churu, which just won’t do.
After they’ve each had a share of the treat, he digs through his tote, aiming for a water bottle and the sandwich bag full of kibble he brought, pausing when he has to untangle them from soft cotton. He shouldn’t. But his cardigan is thin, and why pass up another layer when it’s right there?
He tugs all three items free.
Emptying the water and food into stainless steel bowls tucked into the alley corner, he gives the four cats one last scritch each before shouldering on the hoodie, pleased to find he’s able to bundle his hands up in the overlong sleeves. The inner material is pilling, like the owner has spent time pinching the fabric, worrying it between thumb and forefinger.
The coffee shop he works at is a block from campus so he stops to get an americano, and because he’s a nice and thoughtful person, a cappuccino for Chan. He pockets his wallet and speedwalks the final distance to campus to keep the drinks from getting cold.
Palo santo and ginger blanket him when he hefts open the studio door, interwoven lychee suggesting Felix visited within the last few hours.
Chan and Changbin turn as Minho lets the door fall shut, holding out Chan’s drink.
“Here. Cappuccino.”
“Where’s mine,” Changbin wails, reaching out to Minho like he’s an oasis in the desert. One that he’s hallucinating.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here. Share Chan’s,” Minho says.
Chan offers the cup to his partner and Changbin slumps. “I don’t want that, it’s just sad milk.”
Huffing a laugh, Chan takes a sip as Minho sets his own drink and bag down to shrug off Jisung’s hoodie. Changbin raises an eyebrow when he notices but Minho gives him a look and he holds his hands up in surrender.
Sharing clothes is traditionally a pack action. For omegas when building nests, but for alphas and betas too, to wear to say this is one of my people. Jisung isn’t one of his people. He doesn’t even know him. But Minho also isn’t what one would call traditional.
Hopefully it doesn’t smell too much like him, though. Especially considering what happened yesterday.
“Jisung’s hoodie,” he says to catch Chan’s attention again; he’s gotten distracted making annotations.
“Oh! Just set it on the couch, I think he’s staying home today so I’ll get it to him tomorrow,” Chan says. “Speaking of, are you coming to noraebang?”
“What time? Felix didn’t say,” Minho asks, folding the hoodie. He sets it down only to scoop it back up immediately upon remembering that he put his wallet in the pocket. That was almost bad.
“Uhh, I think Lix, Bin, and I will get there about eight, yeah? Eight?” Chan asks, looking at Changbin, who nods. “Yeah, around eight but I don’t know what time the others are planning on, and we’ll probably stay until at least ten if you wanna show up later.”
Minho hums an affirmative, resituating the hoodie. Maybe he can get some drunk Hyunjin videos for blackmail material.
“Oh, and Jisung will be there, so play nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Minho retorts, with no intention of playing nice.
Chan shoots him a look that says we both know you’re lying but I’m too busy to entertain you right now. Minho grins and picks up his bag.
“See you tomorrow~” he calls, door falling shut around Changbin’s pleas for a drink of his own.
☯
Minho is the last to arrive.
When he walks in, Hyunjin, Changbin, and Seungmin – who he guesses Chan invited – are attempting to turn Defying Gravity into a trio piece with varying levels of success. It doesn’t seem like they preplanned who would get which part, so it’s just whoever jumps in loudest.
Chan and Felix are in shambles, leaning into each other and clutching their stomachs as Changbin’s voice cracks. Felix pulls out his phone to record so Minho sits to avoid walking in front of the camera.
This puts him next to Jisung, who has one of the best laughs Minho’s ever heard. It’s full-bodied and rich like cabernet sauvignon, and when he turns to acknowledge Minho, the delight in his eyes has Minho feeling tipsy.
“Hi,” Minho says.
“Hey,” Jisung answers, smile gentling. “I’m Jisung.”
“I know. I’m Minho.”
“I know,” Jisung echoes. He pauses. “Sorry about um,” he glances around, playing with the fraying sleeve of his sweater, “walking in on you. Forgive me for I have sinned.”
Minho raises an eyebrow, then snorts.
“Oh, are we talking about it?” he teases.
This Jisung seems more at ease than the one Minho’s come to know so far, but this still makes his eyes go wide.
“No!” he exclaims, flushing when it seemingly comes out louder than he intended. Minho can feel Chan’s concerned gaze on his back. Jisung waves him off. “No, I just meant I probably made you uncomfortable, and–”
“I wasn’t,” Minho cuts in.
“Huh?”
“I wasn’t uncomfortable. Surprised, but not uncomfortable.” And it’s true. It hadn’t felt like an invasion of privacy, hadn’t felt like trespassing even though it rightfully was.
“Oh,” Jisung says.
“Why? Did it make you uncomfortable?” Minho asks. A little mean, maybe, but the blush on Jisung’s cheeks is laser pointer red and Minho so loves the chase.
Jisung’s scent flares, his mouth stuttering around silent vowels. He has pretty lips, pouty and plump, and slightly chapped. Minho has vanilla lip balm he could offer but that would be rude, probably. Besides, what he really wants is to apply it himself. To find out what the vanilla tastes like, on Jisung’s lips.
“Jisungie! Your turn!” Changbin calls. Evil Changbin. This is payback for not bringing him a drink yesterday, Minho’s sure. Judging by how caught off guard Jisung looks, it's probably not even actually his turn, but he doesn’t protest. He scrambles up and takes the mic from Hyunjin, going to scroll through the song library.
“I already queued one up,” Changbin grins. Seungmin plops down next to Minho, and Hyunjin sits cross-cross applesauce on the floor, shrugging when Minho gestures to the plentitude of space left next to Changbin and his still giggling boyfriends. Fair enough.
Jisung looks confused by the music that pours out of the speakers around them, and for a second Minho thinks he doesn’t know the song, but he straightens his back in time for the first verse, and it's like being thrown into the deep end.
Minho’s reminded all too suddenly that he can’t swim.
This is the confidence he’s used to from alphas, except Jisung’s presence doesn’t intensify; it’s more like he’s settling into himself, soft but certain. He doesn’t even look at the lyrics, just lets the rhythm course through him.
Cheers break out as his voice swells around the chorus. Minho is captivated.
Felix and Changbin turn on their phone flashlights like they’re at a concert, and Hyunjin and Chan begin to sing along. Minho almost shushes them but Jisung laughs brightly.
“When you move, I can recall somethin’ that’s gone from me
When you move, honey, I’m put in awe of something so flawed and free”
For a moment, their eyes catch, the whites of Jisung’s tinted purple by the mood lights. It feels like the rest of the world is moving and they aren’t.
How have they not met before?
Jisung bows dramatically mid-chorus, deciding he’s done although the song isn’t. His audience erupts into clapping and cheers as Seungmin hops back up, allowing Jisung to reclaim his seat at Minho’s side. It’s like a puzzle piece being spun to see if it slots into place.
Jisung is so pretty. Pretty smile, pretty voice, pretty in his garnet sweater that brings out the bronze of his skin. An unassuming treasure.
“Why’d you forget your hoodie the other day, anyway?” Minho asks suddenly.
Jisung hesitates.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Minho says but simultaneously–
“Felt like I was gonna have a panic attack,” Jisung mutters.
“Oh,” Minho says. And then he remembers, “I’m sorry for teasing you so heavily while you were there.”
“It’s okay. I just ran out of my meds a few weeks ago and I’ve only been back on them for a few days so my body is still readjusting. Plus I have, like, a lot of late work, so that probably didn’t help.” He shoots Minho a self-deprecating grin. “It wasn’t you. You kinda grounded me, actually.”
“Oh,” Minho says, softer. Because what does he do with that?
“What’s your major?” Jisung asks into the awkward silence Minho’s created. “I’ve seen you on campus” – unfair, why hasn’t he seen Jisung? – “but since we don’t have any classes together, I guess you’re not in my programme.”
“Dance,” Minho tells him.
“Ah.” It sounds like it strangles its way out of Jisung’s throat and he coughs. “Sorry. No, yeah, I’m in music production like Chan and Binnie-hyung.”
“That makes sense,” Minho says. “You have a nice voice, Jisungie. Is it okay if I call you Jisungie?”
“You can call me whatever you want,” Jisung says.
Minho blinks at him.
Jisung blinks back, then makes a face like he’s rebooting. “I mean–!”
Minho cackles.
Time passes fast from there, conversation between them flowing like leaves in a stream. Jisung can tease back, Minho learns. Eventually, the alpha says something that starts a bickering match with Changbin, Hyunjin joining in, and somewhere along the line it gets a bit too rowdy for Minho.
Deep down he doesn’t want to leave, but he can feel himself starting to get overstimulated. Plus, if he stays longer, he’ll want to leave even less. So he stands, clapping his hands to get the room’s attention. “Goodbye, children,” he says. “Behave for Chan.” Though Chan kinda looks like he needs to be reminded to behave, too, thumbs under the hems of his omegas’ shirts.
“Bye,” Seungmin says, uncaring.
“Aw, you’re leaving?” Jisung asks.
Minho gestures to him. “This is the appropriate reaction. Seungminnie take notes.”
Seungmin throws a pencil at him. Minho didn’t even see him pick it up.
The rest of the group bid him farewell. Jisung waves goodbye with both hands. Cute.
The air is heavy with the promise of rain when he steps outside. A convenience store across the street lures him in with its LED glow, and he stops in to get pudding and a few cans of wet cat food; only the essentials. Stepping up to self-checkout, he flips open his wallet. And his stomach immediately drops.
Soonie’s kitten picture is gone. Frantically, he checks the other folds, rooting around in his pockets, heart pounding when he comes up empty.
It would be fine if he had copies. If it wasn’t the first picture he’d taken of his first baby.
He takes a breath. Retraces. He knows it was there when he paid for his and Chan’s coffee yesterday.
Which means–
Shit.
☯
Thunder rumbles, shaking the foundations as Jisung steps into his apartment.
Toeing off his shoes, he heads straight for the couch and falls stomach-first onto it with a little oomph. He loves his friends. But he’s an introvert at heart.
He’d left almost immediately after Minho, the omega’s exit making him realize how drained he was. He can’t just go to bed, though; he hasn’t had his alone-with-his-own-brain time. One hour minimum required before sleep.
Swiping the remote, he turns on the TV, dramatically shielding his eyes when the screen lights up the living room and momentarily blinds him. Bypassing his eight continue watching’s for a b-list horror movie seems like a great idea, he thinks.
He selects one at random, faux 80’s graphic on the cover promising enough. Making sure the volume is at a reasonable level, he lets the intro credits play as he launches himself over the back of the couch in search of snacks.
The fridge offers up leeks, shredded cheese, and one sad cracked egg sans the carton. An omelette, maybe, but that’ll take away from his wind down time.
He fills a glass with water on his way to the leftmost cabinet, where the jackpot is. Digging through various half-empty boxes, he settles on cheez-its that he’s pretty sure are Jeongin’s. He glances at the other alpha’s closed bedroom door. He’ll buy him more the next time he’s at the store, he rationalizes.
The movie has started when he sits back down but that’s okay. He wasn’t really going to watch it anyway, just likes to turn things on for background noise.
Left hand heedlessly shoving cheez-its into his mouth, he unlocks his phone, looking through the pictures he took earlier. The second to last one makes him smile. Changbin’s draped across his boyfriends’ laps, most lethal aegyo on display. Felix, looking at him fondly, is being looked at fondly by Chan, who’s unperturbed by Seungmin’s finger in his ear. Hyunjin’s side-eyeing them all, mouth upturned in playful disgust. Minho is–
Minho is only half in frame, and not smiling.
At least that’s what Jisung thinks at first, until he zooms in. Using flash had put Minho in the picture’s vignette, the mischievous glimmer in his eyes almost hidden. Almost.
Jisung double taps to zoom back out, navigating to his phone’s settings to set the picture as his lockscreen. As if summoned by his thinking of them, a text from Chan comes in.
Channie 10:48 p.m.
We’re headed home
Did you get home okay?
Me 10:48 p.m.
yeah channie hyung
watching a movie
Channie 10:51 p.m.
Good :)
What’d I say about calling me hyung lol
Oh! Sorry for bothering you
If it were anyone else he’d think they were being sarcastic but Chan has a guilt complex the size of the sun so he scrambles to reply.
Me 10:51 p.m.
NO
it’s okay i was just
sharing
ure not a bother
Channie 10:52 p.m.
Oh! Okay, I’m glad lol
Channie 10:53 p.m.
Btw, Minho’s unfiltered but he is nice once
you get to know him
Me 10:53 p.m.
i know
i can tell
What he doesn’t say – can’t say, can’t comprehend – is that he feels like he does know Minho.
It’s inexplicable; they’ve only met three times, and two of those were so brief they probably don’t even count in the grand scheme of things. But he likes the lack of filter. It’s refreshing. If Minho had a problem with him, Jisung thinks, he’d probably just come out and say it. One less reason to be anxious.
He locks his phone and grabs the heavy knit blanket from the back of the sofa, bundling himself up from the shoulders down. A girl on TV screams.
A few minutes into watching, the score dies down and Jisung braces for a jumpscare, feeling silly when it doesn’t come.
Until someone raps on the door, sound coming from much closer than he’s prepared for. He flails inside his blanket cocoon, flinging his phone and the remote to the floor. He goes to put his feet down but one gets tangled and he too tumbles to the ground with an embarrassingly loud thud.
“Ow,” he says to the floorboards, turning his head to peer at the sliver of door he can see on the other side of the couch and oh, hey, the remote.
He pauses the TV and cautiously makes his way to the door. Who even knocks at 11 p.m.? Axe murderers, and kidnappers, and people looking for directions which he won’t know either, and-
“Minho?”
“What was that?” Minho asks.
“What was what?” Jisung startles, looking behind himself.
“That thud,” Minho says.
Oh.
Wait. “Not relevant. How do you even know where I live?” The same way Jisung had known where Minho lived probably (by asking Chan) but it’s a valid question, he thinks.
Maybe not the most valid, though. Now that Jisung’s taking him in, he’s kind of worried. His silken hair is dripping wet – it must’ve started raining – and he’s breathing a bit heavy.
“Are you okay?” Jisung asks before his previous question can be answered.
“Do you have a picture of my cat?” Minho asks, also disregarding the other question. And. What.
“What,” Jisung says.
Minho opens his mouth as if to explain and Jisung holds up a hand to stop him.
“Wait here,” he says, using the light spilling in from the hallway to navigate his scurry to the bathroom, Minho’s eyes on his back.
He’s tempted to just slam the bathroom door shut behind himself, avoid whatever the hell is happening right now because it makes him nervous, but well-adjusted people don’t do that. Fortifying himself, he grabs a towel from under the sink, holding it out in front of himself like a shield as he returns to where Minho’s waiting.
Jisung pulls the door the rest of the way open. “Come in.”
Minho blinks at him, then steps inside, politely shutting the door behind himself. Puddles begin to form around his feet. Jisung is a few centimetres taller from where he stands on the ledge of the hyeon gwan, and uses the extra height to drape the towel across Minho’s head, beginning to scrunch his hair dry.
Minho gazes up from under the canopy of his lashes and Jisung’s fight or flight kicks in, but it’s the secret third option – freeze. Hands framing Minho’s head, it’s like someone’s hit pause on him. Minho looks so soft like this, eyes gentle, sculpted nose tinted pink by the bite of cold rain. His lips part slightly and Jisung realises he’s staring.
He snatches his hands back with a start, edge of the towel slipping down over Minho’s eyes.
“That was so rude,” Jisung admonishes himself.
Minho shrugs, removing the towel from his head altogether.
“I should’ve asked,” Jisung apologises.
“You should’ve.” Minho agrees, patting his face and neck dry. Jisung pointedly does not think about how that means Minho is dabbing at his scent gland.
“I was basically just rubbing my scent into you ohmygod,” Jisung realises.
“You smell good,” Minho says.
“I– huh?” Jisung stutters.
“You smell good. So I don’t mind,” Minho explains.
“O-oh, well that might be Jeongin. The earl grey? That’s my roommate,” Jisung says, trying to preserve his sanity. Jisung’s kinda surprised the commotion hasn’t woken him up, but the younger alpha sleeps like the dead.
“Mm,” Minho hums and Jisung watches slack-jawed as he brings the towel back to his face, pressing it against his nose. He holds eye contact and breathes in. “Nope, definitely you.”
Jisung laughs nervously. An axe murderer might have been better for his heart, actually.
“So,” he says. “Your cat?”
Minho’s eyes go wide. “In your hoodie, did you find a picture of a kitten? I put your hoodie on yesterday for a few minutes, which I shouldn’t have done,” he says offhandedly, but Jisung doesn’t have time to process because he keeps going, “and I put my wallet in the pocket, and I remembered to get my wallet but I think my picture of Soonie fell out, and it’s my only copy of that picture and it’s important. Please don’t tell me you threw it away,” Minho blurts.
That was a lot of words. Is it wrong that he kind of likes how the rambling has kickstarted back up the rapid rise and fall of Minho’s chest? He mentally shakes himself. Not the time.
“I haven’t worn it again yet so I haven’t noticed,” Jisung tells him. “Here, come in.” Jisung motions for Minho to follow him into the living room. “I’ll go look. Be right back.”
The hoodie is on the back of his desk chair and he snatches it, rifling through the pockets. And there it is, a small, yellowing polaroid. Jisung discards his hoodie on his bed, returning to the living room, turning the polaroid over as he returns to Minho’s side. He looks so hopeful that Jisung is genuinely relieved it was there.
Minho cradles the picture when Jisung passes it to him.
“You can, uh, stay until the rain lets up. If you want,” Jisung offers, only a little bit selfish.
It looks like Minho will protest, thumbing at the edge of the polaroid with his brows furrowed, but a shockwave of thunder bears down on them from directly overhead, making the decision for him.
“Are you sure?” Minho asks but it seems like it’s just courtesy because he sits when Jisung does, not invading Jisung’s space but not on the other end of the sofa entirely.
“I was just watching a movie. Not even watching watching, really. I don’t mind the company.”
And it’s true; Minho isn’t intruding. It doesn’t feel like he’s cutting into Jisung’s alone time, doesn’t have Jisung eyeing the clock in anticipation of his exit. Minho’s presence isn’t loud.
“What’s your cat's name?” Jisung asks, wanting to know anything about Minho he’s willing to share.
Minho lights up, the undercurrent of bergamot in his scent spiking happily as he smiles. “Soonie. He’s a fatass.” He pauses. “I actually have three,” he says, like he’s not sure Jisung will be interested.
“Do you have pictures?” Jisung asks.
Minho grins and pulls out his phone. They scroll through Minho's camera roll. Minho teaches him how to differentiate between Soonie and Doongie, shows him a video of Dori sleeping with his tongue out. He also shows Jisung pictures from his trip to Japan, giggling and gently correcting Jisung when he tries to say he can speak a little Japanese but butchers it.
The rain doesn’t get any lighter. Eventually, Jisung pulls up the weather app on his own phone, just to check. “Doesn’t look like the rain is going to stop for at least another couple of hours,” he comments. “I’d borrow you an umbrella but I don’t have one.”
Minho purses his lips. He locks his phone, seemingly resigning himself to getting wet. He puts his hands on his knees as if to get up.
“Oh! Sorry, I wasn’t, like, kicking you out,” Jisung says in sudden realisation. “I was just worried I was keeping you too long.”
Minho smiles. “It’s okay. I should get going anywa–”
“Do you want to stay the night?” Jisung blurts. It’s not too late so the subway should still be running, but he’d have to walk to and from the station in his already damp clothes, and Jisung would hate to contribute to the omega getting a cold. Plus, his hair is beginning to dry.
Minho looks unsure.
“You can borrow something to sleep in,” Jisung offers. “And I have an extra toothbrush. You can sleep out here, Jeongin won’t mind.”
“Not gonna invite me into your room, Sungie?” Minho smirks. Jisung feels his cheeks heat. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be a bother?” Minho asks then, uncharacteristically shy.
“You’re not a bother. I’ll bring you a pillow,” Jisung says, a question.
“Okay,” Minho answers, softer than Jisung knows what to do with.
Jisung shuffles back to his room, grabbing the softest pillow from his bed. He puts a fresh pillowcase on it, hoping it’ll mask his scent a bit. Minho may like the way he smells – which he’s choosing to ignore, for his sanity – but making him inhale Jisung all night would just be rude. Also the old pillowcase had drool on it.
Pillow sorted, he snags a band t-shirt from the depths of his closet and a pair of sweatpants, stopping by the bathroom to lay the aforementioned spare toothbrush on the sink counter before returning to the living room.
Minho’s scrolling on his phone, an angel under the halo of the TV’s glow. He looks up, diaphanous, like Jisung could pass his hand right through him. Or maybe Jisung just can’t believe he’s real.
But he is, and he takes the items Jisung offers him.
“Bathroom is there,” Jisung says, pointing to it. “I put the toothbrush out for you. You can use this blanket.” He offers up the blanket he’d been using for his cocoon. “Do you need another one?” Minho shakes his head so Jisung continues. “My bedroom is the door right across from the bathroom, knock if you need anything. Don’t worry about waking me up. Do you need anything else? A snack? Water? A charger? Anything?”
“Water would be nice.” Minho smiles.
Jisung brings him water with ice. “You can watch something if you want, just turn the TV off when you’re done. I’m gonna go to bed,” he says. “I’m serious though, wake me up if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Minho says.
Jisung gives him a soft smile, turning on his heel even though what he wants to do, really, is sit back down next to Minho, maybe turn his movie back on. Minho probably laughs at jumpscares. “Jisungie,” Minho says when he’s almost reached the safety of his room. The moment stretches. It’s as if they’re swimming against the current, zeroed in on what comes next.
“Sleep well,” Minho murmurs. It sounds like something else, but for all his musical aptitude, he can’t pick apart the notes.
Some songs, he reminds himself, don’t need to be logical. They’re just meant to be felt.
“You too.”
It rings with a metamorphic sort of harmony.
☯
Jisung wakes to knocking.
Consciousness seeps into him slowly, as though he’s settling into a warm bath. He’s grinding into the mattress, he realizes.
Another knock. “Jisung?”
Fuck. Minho.
“Hhng.” It’s a sound, maybe. A word, probably. Either way it must be loud enough to be heard on the other side of the door, because to Jisung’s horror, it creaks open. His hips pause, embarrassment winning out, but he knows Minho can smell his arousal because of the immediate uptick in Minho’s scent. It’s like a balm, vanilla and cardamom that he wants to lap up, with undercurrents of juniper that seep into him, cool and grounding.
“Oh,” Minho says. It’s half realization, half pity, and it makes Jisung tremble.
“Hyung,” Jisung whines, the full word this time.
Minho inches closer like he’s not sure he’s allowed. “I was just coming to let you know I’m leaving,” he says.
“No!” Jisung nearly growls, brain not fully online yet. “Sorry, I just meant–”
“Jisung-ah,” Minho cuts him off, which is good because Jisung doesn’t know what he meant. Except it seems like Minho’s not sure where he was going with his sentence either. He blinks, studies Jisung. “Are you going into rut?” he asks, quiet like he didn’t consciously choose to say it.
He’s not supposed to be. Not for another week, at least. It feels like it, though, so Jisung shrugs.
“Do you want me to leave?” Minho asks.
If it were any other day, he’d pause to think about it. Weigh the pros and cons. But today, Minho’s scent lingers on the hoodie Jisung woke up with his face smushed into, and he’s standing there in Jisung’s clothes, and he’s so beautiful with his hair tousled by sleep and instead of wanting to brush out the tangles, Jisung wants to see it messed up even more.
He digs his forehead back into the hoodie so he doesn’t have to look at Minho when he shakes his head. No, he doesn’t want Minho to leave. Of course he doesn’t.
But it’s Minho’s choice. They barely know each other. Any sane person would be out the door already.
“Then can I sit?” Minho asks.
Jisung nods.
He hears Minho step closer, feels his weight settle onto the edge of the mattress. Jisung doesn't think, just squirms closer.
“What do you need? Water? Breakfast? I’m a good cook,” Minho says, running a hand through the hair at the base of Jisung’s neck like it’s muscle memory, gentle at first, and then firmer, up to the crown of his head. Tingles creep down his spine like static, his body all white noise.
“‘M horny,” Jisung deadpans.
Minho’s hand stutters in its rhythm. He huffs a laugh, pushes at Jisung’s shoulder to get him to roll onto his back. “Congradulations. What kind of prize do you want?”
“Do I only get one?”
“Depends,” Minho says. He turns, cranes his neck so they’re eye-to-eye, and settles a hand next to Jisung’s head. “I’m willing to reward good behaviour.”
“Kiss me,” Jisung says.
Minho’s smiling when their lips meet.
Without meaning to, Jisung relaxes into the palm of his hand, humming as Minho’s thumb caresses his jaw. Minho’s tongue nudges the seam of his lips. It doesn’t feel like a demand, but he parts his lips anyway, lets Minho in. He’s beginning to think he was made to let Minho in.
Minho deepens the kiss, then exhales against his cheek like he’s frustrated. Jisung’s about to pull back to ask what’s wrong but he doesn’t get the chance to before there’s weight on him, a paradoxical thing that both grounds him and makes him feel wholly untethered.
“Okay?” Minho asks against his lips. He settles further onto Jisung’s upper thighs as though he’s emphasising the question.
Jisung pulls him back down.
He quickly abandons any idea of trying to keep it civil; Minho kisses to win. There’s no room for their mixed spit to escape, Minho’s tongue curling around every drop. He digs his bunny teeth into the plush of Jisung’s bottom lip and Jisung’s back arches. One more soothing pass over the sting, and then Minho’s pecking his cheek, the underside of his chin, the heart of his Adam's apple, tongue lolling out to caress the hollow of Jisung’s throat.
Jisung sighs as Minho bites at his chest over the fabric of his shirt. With the hand that’s not holding himself up, Minho strokes down Jisung’s side, pushing the shirt up, eyes questioning.
Jisung sits up in answer, tugging too hastily, arms getting tangled in his sleeves. Minho giggles at his misfortune.
Managing to free himself, he tosses the offending garment to the floor. Minho leans back in but Jisung stops him, trying to communicate with his eyes that he wants Minho to take his shirt off, too.
“What?” Minho asks. “You look constipated. Should I let you go to the bathroom before we really start?”
“I’m trying to use telepathy to get you to take your clothes off.” He attempts to hold in his laugh and fails. Judging by how Minho begins to take his shirt off halfway through Jisung’s sentence, he’d known all along. Jisung goes to smack him but falls short, not knowing where to touch now that he’s half bare.
As if sensing this, Minho gently lifts Jisung’s hand and maneuvers it to cradle the back of his neck. The scent gland on Jisung’s wrist hovers just centimetres away from the one at the base of Minho’s neck. Minho brings both of his own hands to Jisung’s waist, and picks up where he left off, trailing kisses across Jisung’s collarbones before diverging to his chest.
Jisung isn’t expecting it when he laves his tongue over a nipple. His back arches harder than before, almost uprooting Minho where hovers over Jisung. Almost. Instead what happens is their crotches press together and Jisung has to squeeze the back of Minho’s neck to stay lucid.
Minho grins, teeth not helping the equation. Or helping a lot, depending on how Jisung chooses to look at it. Right now though, the only thing he wants to be looking at is Minho’s lips around his dick.
“Can we– can you–” Jisung stutters through Minho’s ministrations. “Pants! Off. Please.”
His pants come off.
Jisung’s dick dribbles a pathetic amount of precum as Minho resituates. “Pretty,” Minho murmurs into the skin of his hip, which just makes him twitch.
Minho must be determined to keep the feedback loop going because he kisses inwards until his lips meet the crown of Jisung’s dick. “Still okay?” he asks, glancing up, hot breath fanning out in a way that makes Jisung’s free hand curl into the sheets.
“I’ll tell you if I’m not,” Jisung assures, hopefully getting any doubt out of the way. He needs Minho’s mouth on him now.
The telepathy must work this time, because he kisses the head of Jisung’s dick, licking gently at first and then swirling his tongue twice before taking the tip in. The way his upper lip pouts out almost undoes Jisung.
He has to throw his head back when Minho attempts to hold eye contact as he sinks lower, tracing the vein on the underside of Jisung’s dick with his tongue, hand joining where his mouth doesn’t reach. He bobs his head at various angles, learns what makes Jisung squirm.
And then he takes his hand away and Jisung thinks he’s done. Instead, he sinks lower.
“Hh–!” Jisung pants, digging his heels into the bed and his nails into his palms to keep himself from bucking into Minho’s throat. He doesn’t need the help, has made it all the way down, the cold tip of his nose buried in wiry hair. He swallows and Jisung can’t help the way his leg kicks out.
He holds for a moment and then comes up for air, asking, “How far do you wanna go?” He doesn’t even sound winded.
“Dunno but it’s not gonna matter if you keep doing that,” Jisung gasps.
Minho grins. “Well, do you wanna fuck me?”
Fuck. “Fuck.”
“That’s what I asked, yeah,” Minho says, drawing abstract shapes across his stomach.
Jisung does want to fuck him. So bad. But also–
“Can I eat you out first?” he asks, quietly pleased when Minho blinks at him in surprise.
“You want to?” Minho asks.
“Yes.” And then for good measure, “please.”
“So polite.” Minho’s grin turns dangerous. With a final featherlight kiss to the tip of Jisung’s dick, he crawls back up the length of Jisung’s body. “How do you want me, sweetheart?”
He has to choose? He envisions Minho on his front, unraveled with his face pressed into the sheets. Entertains the idea of Minho sitting on his face, of breathing in nothing but crisp vanilla until he drowns in it. Right now, though, what he wants most is Minho’s hand in his hair again.
“On your back? Want you to guide me,” Jisung says.
They switch positions, except Minho lays so his legs dangle off the edge of the bed. He props himself up on his elbows, and reaching out, takes one of Jisung’s hands and places it on the waistband of his sweatpants. Of Jisung’s sweatpants that are ever so slightly wet at the innermost seam.
“Sorry,” Minho says when he notices Jisung’s staring. He doesn’t sound sorry. Instead he takes it as an invitation to ogle Jisung in return. In retaliation, Jisung hooks his fingers in the sweatpants and tugs. Successfully distracted, Minho works with him and lifts his hips so Jisung can tug down the sweatpants and Minho’s boxers. They get stuck around Minho’s ankle and he flails it around before looking at Jisung.
He points. Jisung kneels to work his leg free.
“Perfect,” Minho says. “On your knees and I didn’t even have to ask.”
Jisung should be fighting for control. Should be the one guiding them. But the alpha in him is quiet, for once not scratching at the bars. Because how could it, when Minho’s looking at him like he’s not only good enough, but the best thing he’s ever known.
Minho’s hand settles on his chin, and he uses his thumb to tilt Jisung’s face downwards.
“Fuck,” Jisung says. “You’re big.” And he is. Bigger than Jisung himself by at least an inch.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Minho says, then snorts.
“Dude,” Jisung says, which just sends Minho into a giggling fit.
Jisung flicks his thigh and Minho shuts up. He’s still smirking though, thumb idly tracing Jisung’s bottom lip. “I like to top, too. Do you want me to fuck you instead, Jisungie?”
God. Fuck. Does he?
“No. Well– yes, but. Maybe next time.” It slips out so easily, sounds like maybe if not next time either, then the time after that.
But he doesn’t have time to apologize for assuming – for hoping – because Minho just nods. And then, just like he’d wanted, a hand weaves through his hair.
“Okay,” Minho says. “You can touch me anywhere. I’ll tell you if I don’t like something.”
So Jisung touches. He rests his hands in the crook of sensitive skin where leg meets groin and presses kisses up the sartorius with an animal sort of control, focused singularly on the shine at the apex of Minho’s thighs.
Minho makes a sound when he reaches his destination, but it’s drowned out by Jisung’s own groan. He unhinges his jaw to lick a broad stripe though as much of Minho’s slick as he can. He tastes, inexplicably and to Jisung’s delight, like cheesecake crust.
Trying to coax out more, he laps at Minho’s cunt. He curls his tongue in as far as he can manage, nose nuzzling into the base of Minho’s dick to try and work himself deeper. When Minho’s fingers tighten in his hair, he’s so utterly gone he can’t even tell what he did to cause it.
Jisung brings his own fingers to Minho’s hole, tracing circles. Pulling away is an enormous feat, but he manages, laying his temple on Minho’s thigh and looking up at him.
“Can I?” He asks, adding just the slightest bit of pressure where his finger meets Minho’s warmth.
Minho’s a bit red in the face, and his chest is rising and falling heavily enough that Jisung can see it from where he kneels, but he’s still devastatingly collected.
“Are you going to beg?” Minho shoots back.
Hell yes Jisung will beg.
“Please, fuck. Wanna make you feel good. Please.” He holds eye contact, kitten licks the tip of Minho’s dick. “Please.”
Minho bites his lip and caves. “Okay, sweetheart. Keep using your mouth, too.”
Jisung leans back in, finger joining with almost no resistance. He holds it in place for a few seconds, in case Minho needs to adjust, but Minho scoffs above him. “Give me another one.”
Alright. Okay. Jisung adds another. Minho’s so tight, and so warm, and Jisung’s dick twitches. Minho must notice because he shifts his leg and nudges Jisung’s open so his cock rests against Minho’s shin. Dangerous territory, because Jisung can’t help the way his hips shift forward.
“Hah–” he exhales sharply when the pressure sends heat radiating through his body, doubling down on curling his fingers inside of Minho, all while still eagerly accepting every bit of slick his body provides.
Minho makes a sound above him, finally, and Jisung realizes he has a hand on his dick. Jisung bullies it out of the way, misplaced possession like a livewire as he takes up stroking, abandoning his position for the single droplet of precum that beads from the slit.
“Shit, Jisung,” Minho groans. “Gonna make me cum.”
Jisung shifts, speeds up, hooking his fingers like he’s trying to pull Minho closer by the walls of his cunt and Minho’s thighs tremble, ever so slightly.
“Please,” Jisung breathes against the head of his dick, and Minho goes silent, body locking up, throat bared. Slick gushes around Jisung’s fingers, and he digs his forehead into Minho’s stomach, groaning like he’s the one losing it. He goes to dive back in but Minho’s hand holds him in place with a vice grip.
“Nuh uh,” he says. “Fuck me.”
Jisung’s knees are sore, and they buckle when he stands but that could be the result of breathing in the open air of his room. It smells good. They smell good.
“C’mere,” Minho says, reaching for him.
Settling onto his side next to Minho, he feels as though he’s a length of yarn, unraveled and simultaneously cradled, coaxed into something new. Trust the process, Minho’s eyes say as he leans in to kiss Jisung.
His hand creeps down, loosely circling Jisung’s dick. “Can I ride you?”
It’s the first thing he’s asked for, really asked for. Jisung would give him whatever he wanted, he thinks. So he nods, going easily when Minho pushes him onto his back again.
“Condom?” Minho asks. Jisung flings a hand out in the direction of his bedside table and Minho must get the gist because he knee-walks his way up the mattress to retrieve one.
Minho’s smiling again as he settles back over Jisung after rolling the condom on. His half-soft dick bumps into Jisung’s.
“I’m not gonna last long,” he warns Minho.
“That’s okay. Your turn to feel good,” Minho says, a hand disappearing from Jisung’s view until it resurfaces on his dick, wet.
“Fuuuck,” he groans, the source of the wetness dawning on him with all the force of a semi-truck pileup. “You’re so fucking hot.” His hips buck into Minho’s grip, and Minho’s free hand pushes them back down. Jisung whines.
“Be good,” he says.
Jisung’s breath catches in his throat, whine cutting off so abruptly it almost makes him cough.
Minho doesn’t say anything. Instead, he positions Jisung’s dick and begins to sink down with absolutely no warning.
“Ohmygod you’re crazy, fuck,” Jisung manages. He doesn’t even know where to look. The focus on Minho’s face has his hands curling into the sheets. Glancing down to where their bodies meet doesn’t help. His eyes roll back, body deciding for him that this is just too much to visually process.
He’s impossibly warm, pussy fluttering as he settles down fully, rocking his hips into Jisung’s. He makes a soft sound and colours burst behind Jisung’s eyelids.
And then he starts to move. He plants his hands on Jisung’s chest, unconsciously squeezing as he undulates forward. Jisung’s hands try to find stability on Minho’s waist, but Minho just uses it like his own personal brace. He shifts, and it’s a good angle for both of them, apparently, because their moans synchronize.
“Harder, please,” Jisung manages, and Minho must be taunting him with the muscle control in his legs because he goes faster instead. A garbled sound falls from Jisung’s lips and the animal part of him takes over, fingers digging into Minho’s waist as arches his back and meets him halfway.
“Hah–!” It sounds like it’s punched out of Minho’s chest and Jisung echoes it. Minho takes back control, slamming his entire weight down, hard and fast, and Jisung is so close, actually, fuck.
“Min–” he tries. “Baby, mmphf–”
Minho kisses him, hard. His leaning forward shifts Jisung inside of him, snug in a way he didn’t know was possible until this exact moment.
“Gonna cum,” Jisung gasps into his mouth. And then, more frantic, when the tightness at his core squeezes with all the heat of a white dwarf star before explosion, “wait– fuck– gonna knot–”
“Good boy.”
“Fuck–!” Knot swelling, legs quivering, he’s holding his breath as his back arches so hard he’s pretty sure it cracks. He vaguely registers Minho’s thighs squeezing his hips as he works himself down onto Jisung’s knot before he whites out.
He settles back into his still trembling body to Minho draped across his chest. After a moment of staring at the ceiling, he raises a hand to hug him closer.
“So,” Minho mumbles into his skin. “20 questions?”
Jisung can’t help the laughter, giddy, slap-happy, or maybe just happy-happy. He runs a hand through Minho’s sweaty hair and Minho sighs into his neck.
“I need to go home and feed the cats,” Minho says. A rhetorical statement, considering they’re kind of tied together for the time being.
“Oh my god, did you feed them last night?” Jisung blurts, realizing after he says it that it kind of sounds like he’s implying that Minho’s a bad parent.
But Minho just smiles, confirming he fed them before he left for noraebang. “We should go to noraebang, sometime. Alone. Or somewhere else, anywhere you want.”
“Like… a date?” Jisung asks.
“No,” Minho says and Jisung’s heart drops until he pulls back from Minho’s neck and sees the glint in his eyes.
“You’re evil, kind of,” Jisung says.
“Is that gonna be a deal-breaker?” Minho asks.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
“I can be meaner,” Minho says immediately. Then clenches around Jisung.
“Do not,” Jisung hisses.
Minho’s laughter is like windchimes on a summer's day. Jisung could write a hundred verses about that sound alone, he thinks.
For now, though, he likes the harmony of their hearts beating against one another. It may just be his new favourite song.