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It was the kind of Sunday that seemed to stretch infinitely—no schedules, no obligations, just the quiet hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the distant sound of traffic that barely penetrated the walls of their shared apartment. The sun light filtered through the thin curtains of Minho's bedroom, casting everything in a hazy, honey-colored glow that made the world feel suspended outside of time.
Jisung had claimed his usual spot on Minho's bed approximately three hours ago, migrating from the living room couch with the kind of territorial confidence that came from years of friendship. He lay on his stomach, chin propped on a pillow that smelled like Minho's detergent—something clean and citrusy—and scrolled aimlessly through his own phone before abandoning it on the nightstand in favor of watching whatever Minho was watching.
"Move over," Minho had said when Jisung first flopped down, but there was no real complaint in his voice. There never was. Not anymore.
Now they occupied that familiar configuration that had become their default over the past years of living together: tangled limbs and shared space, boundaries dissolved by time and comfort into something that looked, to an outsider, like something more than friendship. Jisung's left leg hooked over Minho's right thigh, their shoulders pressed together, the screen of Minho's phone hovering between them like a shared secret.
They were watching something—Jisung wasn't entirely sure what anymore. Some compilation of cat videos that Minho had found on some corner of the internet, or maybe it was that cooking channel they both liked where the chef never spoke and just let the sounds of sizzling garlic do the talking. The content didn't really matter. What mattered was the warmth radiating from Minho's side, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way their breathing had synchronized without either of them noticing.
"You're taking up eighty percent of the bed," Minho murmured, though he made no move to reclaim his territory.
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law," Jisung replied, not looking up from the screen. "You should have been faster."
"I was making tea."
"You were steeping a bag for thirty seconds and calling it tea."
"philistine."
"asshole."
The words landed soft, fond, weighted with history. They'd been trading these same barbs for years, since the first college days of jisung when they'd been shoved into the same apartement by their friends suggestion, and discovered that Minho's meticulous organization clashed beautifully with Jisung's organized chaos. Back then, the space between them had been charged with competition and the desperate hunger of young men trying to show themselfes. Now, after living together, after learning each other's rhythms and silences, the space between them had transformed into something else entirely.
Something that felt like coming home, even if neither of them was brave enough to name it.
Minho shifted, adjusting his position, and his hand—ostensibly moving to balance the phone better—somehow found its way to the curve of Jisung's ass. It rested there, casual and warm, like it belonged there. Like it had been resting there more and more frequently over the past few months, in this strange liminal space they'd created where touching blurred the lines between friendly and something else they didn't discuss.
Jisung didn't flinch. Didn't tense. Just felt the heat of Minho's palm seeping through the thin fabric of his sweatpants and smiled against his pillow, feeling that familiar flutter in his stomach that he'd learned not to examine too closely.
"You're doing it again," he said, voice muffled.
"Doing what?" Minho asked, all innocence, though his thumb traced a slow, deliberate arc that made Jisung's breath hitch slightly.
"Touching my ass."
"I'm holding the phone steady."
"Your hand is on my butt, Minho. The phone is in your other hand."
"Multitasking."
Jisung turned his head enough to catch Minho's profile—the sharp line of his nose, the way his lips curved in that subtle smirk that meant he knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying every second of it. The afternoon light caught in his eyelashes, turned his skin golden, made him look like something out of a daydream Jisung wasn't supposed to be having about his best friend.
"You need to touch some grass," Jisung said, but there was no heat in it. No real objection. Just the familiar rhythm of their banter, the push and pull that had become their language.
"Grass?" Minho's smirk widened. He finally looked away from the phone, meeting Jisung's eyes with that direct gaze that always felt like being seen too clearly. "You want me to go outside? Leave this comfortable bed? Leave you?"
"You're being ridiculous."
"I'm being very serious." Minho's hand squeezed, just enough to make Jisung's pulse stutter. "Very serious about appreciating the view."
"There's no view. We're looking at a video of someone getting hit by a chaire."
"The view from where I'm sitting is excellent."
Jisung felt the heat crawl up his neck, knew he was probably flushing pink, knew Minho could see it and was cataloging it with that infuriating attention to detail that made him such a good performer and such a dangerous person to spend lazy Sundays with.
"You're impossible," Jisung said, but he was smiling now, the kind of smile he couldn't control, the kind that split his face open and made his eyes crinkle.
"Impossibly charming?"
"Impossibly annoying."
Minho made a considering sound, a low hum in his throat that vibrated through their pressed-together shoulders. "You didn't seem to think I was annoying last week when I made you soup at 3 AM because you couldn't sleep."
"That was different. You were being useful then."
"And I'm not being useful now?"
"You're being a menace."
"A menace with excellent taste," Minho corrected, and his hand finally—regretfully, it seemed—lifted from Jisung's ass only to brush a strand of hair from Jisung's forehead. The touch lingered, fingers tracing the shell of Jisung's ear, making him shiver. "Someone has to appreciate this masterpiece."
"Masterpiece?"
"You. You're the masterpiece."
The words charged with something electric that they both pretended didn't exist. Jisung's breath caught. This was the game they played, had been playing for years now—pushing boundaries, testing waters, seeing how far they could go before the pretense cracked open to reveal what was really underneath. Sometimes Minho pushed harder. Sometimes Jisung pulled back. It was a dance they both knew the steps to, even if they pretended they were just improvising.
Jisung fixed his position more, facing Minho fully, putting them close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in Minho's brown eyes, could smell the remnants of his morning coffee, could count the beauty marks that Minho hated and Jisung had memorized.
"You know," Jisung said, voice dropping to that teasing register he knew Minho liked, the one that made Minho's eyes go slightly darker, "you're really lucky."
"Am I?" Minho set the phone aside, forgotten, giving Jisung his full attention in that way he had—like Jisung was the only thing in the room worth looking at.
"Yeah. You're lucky having cute me next to you. Lying on your bed. Taking up all your space." Jisung stretched, arching his back slightly, knowing exactly what the movement did to his shirt, how it rode up to expose a strip of stomach. Self-gazing, Changbin called it, when Jisung did this—positioned himself just so, angled his body to catch the light, said things designed to make people agree with him about his own attractiveness. But it wasn't really about vanity. It was about power. About watching Minho's throat bob as he swallowed, about seeing that telltale flush spread across his cheeks, about knowing that he could do this—could affect this man who was usually so composed, so controlled.
Minho's eyes tracked the movement, dropped to Jisung's exposed skin, then dragged back up to his face. He was quiet for a moment, just looking, and Jisung let him look, basked in it, felt the familiar warmth of being seen.
Then Minho rolled his eyes. A full, exaggerated roll, accompanied by a smirk that was all sharp edges and fond exasperation.
"Of course, baby," he said, and the casual endearment landed like a spark on dry tinder. holding his waist
Baby.
He'd called him that before—jokingly, in passing, when they were being particularly ridiculous with each other. But here, in the quiet of the bedroom, with Minho's hand back on his waist and their faces inches apart, it felt different. It felt like a promise. Like a hint at something they weren't ready to name.
Jisung's heart hammered against his ribs. "Don't call me that."
"Why not? you always call me it" Minho's thumb found the strip of bare skin where Jisung's shirt had ridden up, traced circles there that sent sparks shooting up Jisung's spine. "also You are being a baby. Whining about me touching you when we both know you do actually love it"
"I don't love it," Jisung lied.
"Liar."
"You're delusional."
"And you're terrible at hiding" Minho leaned in, close enough that Jisung could feel his breath against his cheek, could see every individual eyelash. "Your ears are red. They only do that when you're lying. Or when you're flustered. Which is it, Jisung-ah?"
Jisung opened his mouth to retort, to say something cutting and clever that would reset the boundaries, put them back on familiar ground. But Minho was so close, and he smelled so good, and his hand was so warm on Jisung's skin, and suddenly the game felt too real, the pretense too thin to maintain.
"Both," Jisung whispered.
Something shifted in Minho's expression—softening, opening, the careful mask of casual indifference cracking to show something vulnerable underneath. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'm lying. And I'm flustered." Jisung swallowed hard. "And I actually want you to touch grass. cause you're becoming a a touchy creep."
Minho's breath hitched. His hand stilled on Jisung's waist, then tightened, pulling him marginally closer, eliminating a few more inches of space between them. "That's cruel."
"You're the one who started this."
"I start a lot of things." Minho's eyes dropped to Jisung's mouth, just for a second, long enough to make Jisung's heart skip, then dragged back up to meet his gaze. "I don't always finish them."
"Why not?"
"Scared, probably."
"Minho? Scared?" Jisung laughed, but it came out breathless. "The great Lee Minho, scared of what?"
"Of ruining things." Minho gestured vaguely with his free hand.
The honesty of the admission caught Jisung off guard, stripped away the protective layer of banter they'd been hiding behind. This was dangerous territory—real feelings, real vulnerability, the kind of conversation that could change everything.
"you aren't ruining anything" Jisung said quietly.
Minho went very still. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying..." Jisung hesitated, the words caught in his throat. This was the moment—the pivot point where they could either retreat to safety or step forward into the unknown. "I'm saying that maybe you should stop being scared."
The silence that followed was heavy, charged, filled with possibility. Minho searched his face, looking for something—permission, maybe, or confirmation—and Jisung tried to let him see it, tried to be as open and honest as Minho had just been with him.
Then Minho moved, leaning in, and Jisung's breath caught, his eyes fluttering shut, his heart hammering so hard he was sure Minho could hear it—
—but Minho bypassed his mouth entirely, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek instead, right at the corner of his smile, his lips warm and slightly chapped against Jisung's skin.
Jisung's eyes flew open. Minho was pulling back, just enough to meet his gaze, his expression soft and questioning and hopeful.
"okay?" Minho asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Jisung touched his cheek where Minho's lips had been, feeling the phantom warmth there, the lingering tingle. It wasn't what he'd expected. It wasn't the desperate, hungry kiss he'd imagined in his weakest moments. It was gentler. Safer. A question rather than a claim. a thing they always do.
"Yeah," Jisung breathed
Minho's smile was worth everything—the waiting, the pretending, the months of wanting something he thought he couldn't have. It was worth it all, just to see Minho look at him like that—like he was precious, like he was wanted.
"Can I?" Minho asked, and there was something vulnerable in his voice, something hopeful.
"Yeah," Jisung whispered. "Yeah, you can."
Minho leaned in again, and this time Jisung turned his head to meet him, offering his other cheek, his temple, the corner of his eye. Minho took the invitation, pressing kisses there—soft, chaste, reverent—mapping the architecture of Jisung's face with his lips like he was learning him, memorizing him.
"You're going to kill me," Minho murmured against his jaw, his breath warm and ticklish. "You know that? years of this, and now you just—" he pulled back just enough to meet Jisung's eyes, "—you just act all that adorably that i wanna eat you or die from cuteness"
"Consider it payback," Jisung said, smug despite the way his hands were shaking, despite the way his heart was racing. "For all those times you touched my ass and pretended it was accidental."
"Those were accidents."
"Liar. Your ears are red, so I know you're lying."
Minho blinked, then touched his own ears, realizing. "That's not—those rules don't apply to me."
"They absolutely do. I just invented them, and they apply to everyone."
"Brat," Minho said again, but he was smiling, and he was leaning in again, and this time he pressed a kiss to Jisung's forehead, lingering there, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Jisung's head.
They stayed like that for a moment, suspended in the honey-colored light, the phone forgotten on the pillow between them, the world outside continuing its rotation without them. It wasn't everything. It wasn't the explosion of passion that Jisung had imagined in his weakest moments. But it was something. It was real. It was them, stepping forward together into whatever came next.
"Hey," Minho said softly, his thumb tracing circles against Jisung's scalp.
"Hey," Jisung replied, tilting his head up to look at him.
"Stay here tonight."
"I live here. I have my own room."
"Stay here," Minho repeated, and there was something vulnerable in his voice, something hopeful. "In my bed. Just... stay. i'm feeling lonely these days."
Jisung felt his heart clench, felt the last of his reservations crumble into dust. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay. I'll stay."
Minho's smile was blinding. "Of course, baby," he murmured, and Jisung laughed, burying his face in Minho's chest, breathing him in
Outside, the world continued its rotation, indifferent to what's happening in a small bedroom in Seoul. But inside, in the light of a Sunday noon, two housemates who had always been friends wanting something more and pining secretly for each others
And somewhere in the back of jisung's mind, as he settled against Minho's side, feeling the steady thump of his heart, he thought that maybe "just friends" had never been the right description for what they were. Maybe it had always been this—this charged, fragile, beautiful thing that was finally, finally beginning to unfold.
🌿 ⟡ 🌿
The morning arrived without ceremony, slipping through the gaps in Minho's curtains as pale grey light that gradually warmed into gold. Minho woke slowly, consciousness returning in layers—the familiar weight of his duvet, the distant sound of a neighbor's shower, the strange, pleasant pressure spread across his torso.
He blinked, eyes adjusting, and realized what was different.
Jisung was on top of him.
Not beside him, not curled on the edge of the bed like a cat claiming territory. Jisung was sprawled across Minho's chest with the kind of unconscious abandon that came from deep, trusting sleep. His face was turned into Minho's neck, breath warm and even against Minho's collarbone. One arm had wound itself around Minho's waist, fingers hooked loosely in the hem of his sleep shirt. A leg had migrated between Minho's knees, heavy and warm, pinning him in place with Jisung's full weight.
Minho lay very still, afraid to breathe too loudly and shatter whatever spell had allowed this to happen.
Minho had meant to wake him, to start his day and get him off from the top of him. But selfishness had won out—the desperate, hungry want to keep him close, to memorize the weight of him, the smell of him, the way his face softened completely in sleep.
And now, in the fragile morning light, Minho had his answer to what Jisung looked holy perfect like first thing, unguarded and uncomposed. His mouth was slightly open, a faint sheen at the corner. His hair stuck up in wild directions, product worn away, revealing the soft texture at his temples. One sock had come off, leaving his left foot bare and vulnerable, toes curled against Minho's calf.
He was perfect. He was a disaster. Minho wanted to take a thousand pictures and hoard them like treasure.
Minho's phone was on the nightstand, just out of reach. He stretched his arm carefully, not disturbing the sleeping weight on his chest, fingers brushing the cool case. He pulled it closer and opened the camera, angling it down to capture the scene.
Jisung, dead to the world, drooling on Minho's collarbone, looking like something from a dream.
He snapped the photo, then another, checking the light—the way it caught in Jisung's eyelashes, turned his skin luminous. These were for him. These were private.
"Mm," Jisung made a soft, disgruntled noise and shifted, his knee pressing more firmly between Minho's thighs, his hand tightening in Minho's shirt. "S'too early."
Minho froze, phone held guiltily above his head. "You awake?"
"Was," Jisung mumbled, not opening his eyes. "Until someone started taking paparazzi shots of me."
"You're beautiful," Minho said, because it was true, because he was still half-asleep enough to be honest.
Jisung went still. Then, slowly, a flush crept up his neck, spreading across his cheeks, turning his ears pink. He buried his face deeper into Minho's neck, hiding, but his body stayed where it was, heavy and warm and trusting.
"Shut up," he said, voice muffled.
"Never." Minho lowered the phone, let his hand rest on Jisung's back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. "You can go back to sleep. I'll be quiet."
"Can't," Jisung said, though he made no move to extract himself. "Have to pee. And I'm hungry. And my neck hurts from this angle."
"Then move."
"Don't want to."
Minho's heart did something complicated in his chest—a flutter, a stutter. "No?"
"You're warm," Jisung said, rubbing his face on minho. "And comfortable. And I like hearing your heartbeat."
"Jisung—"
"Don't make it weird," Jisung warned, though his voice was soft. "Just—give me five more minutes. Then I'll move."
Minho wrapped his arm more securely around Jisung's waist, pulling him closer. "Take ten," he murmured into Jisung's hair. "Take twenty. Take the whole morning."
They lay there in silence, breathing together, the morning light shifting across the bed. Minho stroked Jisung's back in slow, idle patterns, learning the landscape of him—the knobs of his spine, the softness of his sides, the way he shivered when Minho's fingers brushed a sensitive spot near his ribs.
"You're going to spoil me," Jisung said eventually, his voice thick with sleep. "Letting me lay on you like this."
"Maybe I want to spoil you."
"That's dangerous. I might get used to it."
"Good." Minho pressed a kiss to the top of Jisung's head, breathing in the smell of his shampoo. "Get used to it."
Jisung didn't answer, just made a small, contented noise and burrowed closer.
They eventually extracted themselves from the bed, though the process took longer than necessary, involving lingering touches and Jisung complaining that his legs had fallen asleep and Minho having to rub them back to life, which led to Jisung making embarrassing noises that Minho absolutely did not record on his phone, except that he did, because he was a weak man.
Breakfast was a haphazard affair—Jisung attempting to make pancakes while Minho documented the process, capturing the flour on Jisung's nose, the way he bit his lip in concentration, the triumphant grin when they turned out edible.
"You're being creepy," Jisung said, not looking up from the stove. "Stop taking pictures of me."
"Can't," Minho said, snapping another photo of Jisung's profile, backlit by the morning sun. "You're too photogenic."
"You're ridiculous." But Jisung was smiling, the corners of his mouth twitching upward despite his efforts to look annoyed.
They ate at the small table by the window, knees bumping underneath, shoulders pressed together. Minho kept his phone on the table, face-down, trying to be present, trying to focus on the taste of the pancakes and the sound of Jisung's voice as he talked about the song he was working on, about Changbin's text at 2 AM, about whether they should go out or stay in.
"Let's go out," Minho said. "It's nice outside. We could walk to that café you like."
Jisung looked at him, surprised. "You hate that café. You said their coffee tastes like 'disappointment and burnt toast.'"
"It does," Minho agreed. "But you like their croissants. And I like watching you eat them."
Jisung's ears went pink again. He looked down at his plate. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Being..." Jisung waved his hand vaguely. "Like this. Saying things."
"Is that bad?"
"I don't know yet." Jisung finally looked up. "it makes you sound obsessed."
Minho reached across the table, pinching Jisung's hand "i might be" he agreed. and jisung felt he's about to faint
The café was twenty minutes away on foot, through neighborhoods that grew progressively more interesting—quiet residential streets giving way to small shops and galleries. Minho brought his phone with a 100 picture of himself deleted, telling himself it was for some new apps, but knowing deep down that it was for Jisung.
He couldn't stop. Every few steps, Jisung did something worth capturing—the way he stretched his arms above his head, revealing a strip of stomach; the way he stopped to pet a cat sunning on a windowsill, his whole face lighting up; the way he looked back over his shoulder at Minho, hair catching the light, smile crooked and knowing.
Minho snapped photos surreptitiously, pretending to check his notifications, gathering evidence of a crime he couldn't name.
"You're doing it again," Jisung said, not turning around.
"Doing what?"
"Taking pictures of me."
"Documenting," Minho corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
They walked in comfortable silence, passing a camera shop with professional equipment displayed in the window. Minho found his gaze lingering on a sleek mirrorless model, matte black with a substantial lens attached. He imagined what he could do with a real camera—the control over depth of field, the quality in low light, the ability to capture Jisung the way he actually looked, not flattened and compressed by phone algorithms.
He imagined different photos. Not the cute ones he'd been taking all morning—Jisung with flour on his nose, Jisung laughing at a cat, Jisung sleepy and soft. He imagined Jisung in the golden hour light, shirt lifted just enough to show the line of his hip. Jisung looking over his shoulder with dark eyes, knowing exactly what he was doing. Jisung sprawled on Minho's bed again, but this time awake, aware, posing for him.
Hot photos. The kind that would make Minho's hands shake when he developed them. The kind he'd keep in a separate folder, password-protected, treasure and torment in equal measure.
He said nothing. Just filed the thought away, secret and hungry, and followed Jisung into the café.
The afternoon stretched long and lazy. They browsed a bookstore, Jisung reading poetry aloud in a dramatic whisper until Minho laughed so hard he had to lean against the shelves. They sat in a small park, sharing earbuds and listening to the same song, shoulders pressed together on a bench, Minho's hand finding its way to Jisung's knee, his thigh, the curve of his hip—touches that lingered too long to be friendly but stopped short of claiming.
Minho kept taking pictures. Jisung pretending to be a statue in front of a fountain. Jisung's hand reaching for a fallen leaf. Jisung looking at Minho with the sun behind him, expression unreadable, beautiful and distant and close enough to touch.
Each time, Minho thought about the camera in the shop window. Each time, he imagined what he could do with real equipment, real control, real intention. What it would be like to have Jisung in front of his lens deliberately, not candid and unaware, but complicit, participating, wanting to be seen that way.
The thought made his stomach tight, his palms sweat. He said nothing.
They stopped for dinner at a small restaurant, sharing a plate of tteokbokki that burned their tongues and made Jisung's eyes water. Minho captured that too—the red flush on Jisung's cheeks, his tongue darting out to soothe his lips, the way he reached for Minho's water glass without asking, drinking from the same spot where Minho's mouth had been.
"You're obsessed," Jisung accused, passing the glass back, his fingers brushing Minho's.
"With what?"
"With your phone. With..." Jisung gestured vaguely at himself. "Whatever you're doing."
"Collecting evidence," Minho said lightly.
"Of what?"
"That you exist. That you're here. that you're pretty."
Jisung went quiet, his expression softening. He reached across the table, touching Minho's wrist, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin there. "I'm here," he said quietly. " and i'm pretty, You don't need photos to prove that."
"I know," Minho said. But he took another picture anyway—Jisung's hand on his wrist, the light catching the silver of his ring, the moment preserved in pixels just in case.
They walked home as the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of violet and rose. Jisung talked about his song again, the one he couldn't get right, the melody that kept slipping away. Minho listened, offering suggestions, watching the way Jisung's hands moved when he was excited about something, the way his whole body engaged in the telling.
He would need a good lens for low light, Minho thought. Something fast. The camera shop had a 50mm f/1.2 that would be perfect for capturing Jisung in the evening, the way the fading light turned his skin golden and warm. He could picture the composition—Jisung by the window, shirt unbuttoned just enough, looking at the camera with that challenge in his eyes. bending over and...shut up minho
The thought made Minho's mouth dry. He kept it locked away, private and shameful and thrilling.
they fell into their casual routine of an ordinary day. Jisung showered first, emerging in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, hair damp and curling at the ends. Minho showered after, taking longer than necessary, letting the hot water pound against his shoulders, trying to wash away the thoughts that had been building all day.
When he emerged, Jisung was already on the couch, scrolling through his phone, some variety show playing on the television that neither of them was really watching.
"Come here," Jisung said, not looking up, patting the space beside him.
Minho went, settling into the cushions, letting Jisung arrange them the way he liked—Minho's arm along the back of the couch, Jisung tucked against his side, leg thrown over Minho's thigh. They'd sat like this a hundred times before. but it's still feel charged. Significant.
"Good day?" Minho asked, his hand finding its way to Jisung's hair, fingers combing through the damp curls.
"Yeah," Jisung said softly. "Really good."
They watched television in silence, or pretended to. Minho's attention was entirely on the weight of Jisung against him, the smell of his shampoo, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. He could feel Jisung getting heavier as the minutes passed, his body slowly relaxing into sleepiness.
"You're going to fall asleep," Minho murmured.
"Not," Jisung mumbled, but his eyes were already closed, his head heavy on Minho's shoulder.
"Liar."
"Mm."
Minho let his hand stroke down Jisung's back, slow and soothing, feeling the tension drain out of him. He thought about the camera again—the one he wanted to buy, the photos he wanted to take. Not yet. But soon. He could feel it building between them, inevitable as gravity.
"Minho?" Jisung's voice was thick with approaching sleep.
"Yeah?"
"can we...?" He shifted, rearranging himself, and then he was climbing, moving with the clumsy determination of the half-asleep, until he was sprawled on top of Minho properly, chest to chest, his face tucked into Minho's neck, his legs tangled with Minho's, his full weight pressing Minho into the couch cushions.
Minho went very still, his hands hovering in the air before settling carefully on Jisung's back. "Jisung?"
"Too heavy?" Jisung mumbled, not moving.
"No. You're perfect."
"Mm. Good."
Minho could feel Jisung's heartbeat against his own, the rhythm slightly off, syncing slowly. He could feel every breath, the rise and fall of Jisung's ribs, the heat of him through their clothes. It was too much and not enough, paradise and torture, exactly what Minho had wanted and terrifying in its intimacy.
"Is this okay?" Minho asked quietly.
"Yeah," Jisung whispered, already mostly gone, his body going slack and heavy. "Like this. Wanna sleep like this."
Minho's arms tightened around him, holding him close, feeling the solid reality of him. "Okay," he murmured into Jisung's hair. "Okay. Sleep, baby. I've got you."
Jisung made a small, contented noise, his hand fisting in Minho's shirt, and then he was gone, asleep in seconds, his breathing evening out against Minho's throat.
minho went to his room holding jisung with him before setteling on the bed, Jisung's full weight pinning him down, the moon casting flickering light across the room, the evening settling around them like a blanket. He thought about his phone, charging in the living room, full of photos from today. Cute photos. Safe photos. Evidence of a friendship that was something more but not yet named.
He thought about the camera he would buy tomorrow, or the next day, or next week—whenever he worked up the courage. He thought about what he would do with it, the images he would create, the way he would look at Jisung through a lens and capture something hot and real and just for him.
But that was for later. For now, he held Jisung close, feeling him sleep, feeling the trust and weight and warmth of him, and let himself have this. This moment. This peace. This boy on his chest, breathing dreams into the hollow of his throat.
"Of course, baby," Minho whispered to the dark, and smiled at the ceiling, already planning, already wanting, already hopelessly gone.
🌿 ⟡ 🌿
The camera had been sitting in its box on Minho's desk for three days before he worked up the courage to do anything about it.
He'd bought it impulsively, the day after the couch incident, during a lunch break when he should have been eating but found himself instead walking back to that electronics district, standing in front of that shop window, counting out more cash than he should have spent on something so unnecessary. The shopkeeper—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and no patience for indecision—had wrapped it efficiently while Minho stood there wondering if he was making a mistake, if this was too much, if he was revealing something about himself that he wasn't ready to name.
But then he'd gotten home and held it in his hands—the weight substantial, the grip ergonomic, the lens smooth as glass—and he'd known. This was right. This was what he wanted.
For three days, he practiced. Learned the settings, the dials, the way the autofocus hunted in low light. He took photos of the apartment—morning light on the kitchen counter, the texture of his bedsheets, the view from the window at golden hour. Technical exercises, nothing more. He didn't point it at Jisung. Not yet.
He was waiting for something. Courage, maybe. The right moment. The inevitable collision of want and opportunity.
And then, on the fourth day, he woke up knowing. Today. Today he would do it.
The morning had been ordinary. Jisung had emerged from his room around ten, hair sticking up in every direction, wearing sweatpants that had migrated low on his hips and a hoodie that had seen better decades. He'd grunted at Minho, stolen his coffee, and collapsed on the couch to scroll through his phone in silence.
Minho had watched him from the kitchen, heart hammering against his ribs, the camera sitting heavy on the desk in his room like a secret waiting to be told. He'd made them breakfast—eggs, toast, the last of the strawberries—and they'd eaten in near-silence, the comfortable quiet of people who knew each other's rhythms well enough not to need words.
But Minho's mind had been racing. Planning. Imagining.
He'd set up the space in his room that morning, pushing furniture against the walls to create a clear area by the window. He'd hung a white sheet to diffuse the afternoon light, creating a makeshift studio that looked amateur and hopeful and exactly right for what he wanted to do. He'd charged the battery to full, formatted the memory card, selected the lens he thought would work best—an 85mm prime, perfect for portraits, for compression, for making Jisung look like he existed in a world separate from the mundane reality of their apartment.
Now, in the early afternoon, with the light beginning to shift toward that golden quality that photographers chased like addicts chasing a high, Minho knew he couldn't wait any longer.
He found himself standing outside Jisung's door, camera hanging from his neck, hands sweating slightly around the strap. He'd dressed carefully—black hoodie, dark sweatpant, trying to look like someone who knew what he was doing, someone authoritative, someone worth listening to. The camera felt like a weight around his neck, a declaration of intent, a promise he wasn't sure he could keep.
He didn't knock. He never knocked anymore. They'd passed that point years ago, somewhere between shared groceries and borrowed clothes and the night Jisung had crawled into Minho's bed during a thunderstorm and never quite left.
Minho turned the handle and walked in.
Jisung's room was exactly as it always was—a controlled chaos of creative energy. Notebooks covered every surface, filled with lyrics and doodles and phone numbers scrawled in the margins. Clothes were draped over the chair, the desk, the bedframe—options discarded and forgotten in the rush of getting dressed. Three empty coffee cups sat on the nightstand, each at a different stage of mold growth. The air smelled like Jisung—something herbal and clean, with undertones of the vanilla candle he burned when he couldn't sleep.
And there was Jisung himself, sprawled on his bed with his laptop open, surrounded by the detritus of his process. He was in sweatpants—grey, loose, sitting dangerously low on his hips—and a white tank top that had seen better days, thin enough that Minho could see the shadow of his nipples, the hint of skin underneath, the faint outline of his ribs when he shifted. His hair was unstyled, falling into his eyes in a way that made Minho's fingers itch to push it back, and he was biting the end of a pen in a way that made Minho's stomach tighten with something hot and dangerous.
He looked up when Minho entered, not surprised, just curious. His eyes dropped immediately to the camera hanging at Minho's chest, and something flickered in his expression—recognition, interest, a challenge accepted before it was even issued.
"You're in my room," Jisung said, statement rather than accusation. He set down his pen, leaned back on his hands, the movement making his shirt ride up just enough to show the line of his stomach, the faint trail of hair disappearing below his waistband. "With your new toy."
"I need you," Minho said, and immediately wished he'd phrased it differently when Jisung's eyebrows rose in that particular way that meant he was about to be difficult.
"Do you now?" Jisung's voice dropped, taking on a teasing quality that Minho had learned to both dread and crave. He shifted again, arranging himself with deliberate care—the angle of his hips, the tilt of his head, the way he let one leg fall open slightly, casual and inviting all at once. "And here I thought you were avoiding me. You've been locked in your room for days. Ever since..." he paused, letting the silence stretch, "ever since I fell asleep on you."
"I wasn't avoiding you," Minho said, though his voice lacked conviction even to his own ears.
"You bought a camera and didn't tell me." Jisung's smile was sharp, knowing. He sat up fully, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, creating a line of sight that drew Minho's gaze inevitably to the hollow of his throat, the movement of his adam's apple as he swallowed. "So? Are you going to show me what it can do? Or did you just come here to lurk in my doorway looking suspicious?"
Minho stepped fully into the room, letting the door click shut behind him with a finality that made Jisung's eyes widen slightly. "I need you to model for me."
The words came out more commanding than he'd intended, falling into the space between them like stones into still water, disrupting the careful balance they'd maintained for weeks. Jisung's expression flickered—surprise, then something else, something darker and more interested, something that looked like victory.
"Model?" Jisung repeated, drawing the word out, tasting it. He stood up from the bed, moving toward Minho with a loose-hipped grace that was half-natural and half-performance, stopping just out of arm's reach. "For your photography practice?"
"Yes."
"Just practice?"
Minho's grip tightened on the camera strap. "What else would it be?"
"Oh, I don't know." Jisung circled him slowly, predator examining prey, his eyes dragging over Minho's body with deliberate slowness. "Maybe you just want an excuse to look at me. To direct me. To tell me what to do. i know what you are Lee Minho" he said it in a fake sus way
Minho's mouth went dry. "Jisung—"
"Or maybe," Jisung continued, stopping directly in front of him, close enough that Minho could smell his soap, clean and citrusy, "maybe you want to capture something. Something you've been thinking about. Something you bought that expensive camera specifically to see. you want to see my pretty face that bad?"
"Get your shoes on," Minho said, his voice rougher than intended. "We're going to my room. The light's better there."
Jisung's smile widened, sharp as a knife. "No."
The word hung between them, simple and absolute.
"No?" Minho repeated.
"I'm busy." Jisung turned away, walking back toward his bed, dismissing Minho with the set of his shoulders. He settled back against his pillows, reaching for his laptop, his pen, his pose of casual indifference. "I have lyrics due. Changbin's been texting me all morning about this hook I promised him. I don't have time to be your practice dummy."
"Jisung—"
"Find someone else." Jisung's voice was dismissive, bored, but Minho could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was waiting, expecting, wanting to be chased. He was doing this on purpose. Being difficult. Being a brat. Testing how far Minho would go, how much he wanted this, how much he was willing to demand.
Minho felt something hot spark in his chest, a flame of frustration and want that he'd been keeping carefully banked for months. He crossed the room in three strides, reached down, and grabbed Jisung's wrist.
"Hey—!" Jisung's eyes went wide, startled out of his act, but Minho was already pulling, hauling him up with more force than necessary, more force than he'd ever used with him before. Jisung stumbled, off-balance, his laptop sliding off the bed with a thud that neither of them acknowledged.
"Minho, what the hell—"
"You're coming with me," Minho said, his voice low and tight, vibrating with an intensity that surprised them both. "Now."
He dragged Jisung toward the door, hand firm around his wrist, feeling the pulse hammering there like a trapped bird, feeling the resistance in Jisung's body that wasn't quite real resistance, that was more like theater, like playing at being caught, like wanting to be forced.
"Let go," Jisung said, but he wasn't pulling away. His fingers were curling around Minho's hand, holding on even as he protested. "This is kidnapping. I'm calling the police. This is assault. This is—"
"Shut up," Minho said, not unkindly, and yanked him through the doorway into the hallway.
"This is abuse," Jisung continued, his voice growing more theatrical with each step as Minho pulled him toward his room. "This is roommate abuse. I'm going to tell Changbin. I'm going to tell the house owner. I'm going to post about this on social media—my roommate has lost his mind, he's dragging me around the apartment, he probably has a shrine to me in his closet—"
"Don't flatter yourself," Minho muttered, shoving open his door with his free hand.
"Oh, but it's flattering," Jisung said, his voice dropping to something almost genuine as Minho pulled him into the room. "It's very flattering. You bought a camera. You set up lights." He looked around, taking in the white sheet, the cleared space, the careful preparation. "You did all this for me."
Minho released his wrist, pushing him toward the center of the room where the single chair sat waiting, positioned in the patch of afternoon light that fell through the window. "Sit the fucking down" he commanded, pointing "and stop being annoying" he said with a light angry tone
Jisung stood where he'd been pushed, rubbing his wrist dramatically with his other hand, his eyes bright with something that wasn't anger. "why you acting like this?" he said, and his voice transformed completely—higher, softer, pathetically wounded, dripping with false innocence that made Minho's stomach flip. "Why are you yelling at me, jagi?"
The word hit Minho like a physical blow. Jagi. Honey. Darling. A term of endearment that existed in the space between joke and confession, that they always use it, but now, that Jisung was deploying now with full knowledge of what it would do to him. The tone was manipulation pure and simple, but the word underneath was real, loaded, dangerous.
Minho's anger evaporated instantly, replaced by something tender and desperate and achingly familiar. "I'm not yelling," he said, his voice dropping to match Jisung's tone, soft and cajoling.
"You were." Jisung pouted, actually pouted, his lower lip pushed out, his eyes going wide and wet in a way that was clearly fake but devastatingly effective. He wrapped his arms around himself, hugging his own shoulders, looking small and wounded and in need of protection. "You dragged me. You were mean. I thought you cared about me"
"I do care about you," Minho said, stepping closer, his hand finding its way to Jisung's shoulder, his neck, his jaw, tilting his face up. "i care too much. bug"
"Then why are you forcing me to do things I don't want to do?" Jisung's voice quivered, pure manipulation, pure theater, and Minho was falling for it completely, helplessly.
"Because I need you," Minho said again, softer this time, honest. "Because you're the only one who looks right. The only one I want to see through the lens. Please, Jisung-ah. Please model for me."
Jisung held his pathetic pose for a moment longer, letting Minho sweat, letting the silence stretch. Then, slowly, the pout transformed into a smile—sharp and pleased and victorious. "There," he said, his voice returning to normal, rich with satisfaction. "That's better. Ask nicely."
"Will you do it?"
"Maybe." Jisung finally moved, walking toward the chair but not sitting, running his fingers along its back with a touch that was almost sensual. "What's in it for me?"
"My undying gratitude?"
"Boring."
"I'll cook dinner for a week."
"Still boring."
"What do you want?"
Jisung turned, leaning against the chair, his pose casual but calculated—the angle of his hips, the tilt of his head, the way the light caught in his hair and turned it golden. "I want you to tell me I'm pretty."
Minho's breath caught "but i always do" He raised the camera to his eye for the first time, focusing on Jisung's face through the viewfinder, seeing him transformed by the lens—sharper, clearer, more real and more distant simultaneously. "You're not pretty," Minho said, his voice steady despite his racing heart.
Jisung's expression flickered, surprised.
"You're beautiful," Minho continued, snapping the first photo, the shutter sound loud in the quiet room. "You're stunning. You're the most photogenic person I've ever seen. Every angle is perfect. Every expression is art. Is that what you want to hear?"
Jisung's ears went pink, visible even through the camera's preview screen. "That's a start," he said, trying to maintain his cool, failing spectacularly.
"Sit down," Minho said, and this time it wasn't a command, it was a request, soft and hopeful.
Jisung sat. Finally, finally, he lowered himself into the chair, arranging himself with deliberate care—one leg crossed over the other, arms resting on the chair's arms, head tilted back slightly to catch the light. He looked like he was posing for a magazine, like he knew exactly what he was doing, like he'd been born to be looked at.
"Good," Minho breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Perfect. Hold that."
He took the photo, the shutter clicking loud in the quiet room. Jisung's expression was neutral, almost bored, his eyes half-lidded as he looked at Minho through the camera with a challenge in his gaze.
"Too serious," Minho said. "Smile."
"No."
"Jisung—"
"I don't feel like smiling." Jisung's voice was petulant, bratty, back to his earlier attitude. He crossed his arms, defiant, his posture shifting to something less open, more resistant. "You haven't earned it yet."
Minho lowered the camera, looking at him directly. "What do I need to do to earn it?"
"Tell me more." Jisung uncrossed his arms, but his posture remained challenging. "Tell me how good I look. Tell me how lucky you are to have me here. Tell me I'm the best model you've ever had."
"You're the only model I've ever had."
"Then tell me I'll be the best. Tell me no one else could compare. Tell me you bought this camera just for me, just to look at me, just to capture me."
Minho raised the camera again, hiding behind it, finding courage in the mechanical distance it created. "You'll be the best," he said, his voice steady despite his racing heart. "No one else could compare. No one else has your bone structure, your light, your presence. I'm lucky to have you here. I'm lucky you're letting me do this."
"Better," Jisung said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Again."
"You're perfect," Minho said, snapping another photo as Jisung's smile grew. "You're exactly what I imagined. Every time I look at you, I see something new. Something worth capturing. Something worth keeping."
"Keep going."
"Your skin looks like porcelain in this light. Your eyes look like honey. I could photograph you forever and never get bored, never capture everything, never do you justice."
"More."
"I think about you when I close my eyes," Minho admitted, the truth spilling out in a rush he couldn't control. "I think about your face, your hands, the way you move. I bought this camera because of you. Because I wanted to see you through it. and have permanent proof that you're real"
Jisung's breath hitched, audible in the quiet room. His arms uncrossed, his posture loosening, the bratty mask slipping to reveal something vulnerable underneath. "Minho..."
"Smile for me," Minho whispered. "Please."
Jisung smiled. It wasn't the sharp, knowing smile from before, or the fake pout he'd used to manipulate. It was real—soft and open and just for Minho, his eyes crinkling, his whole face lighting up like Minho had said something worth smiling about. and he actually did
Minho took the photo, then another, then another, capturing the transition, the realness, the gift of Jisung's happiness directed at him.
"Good," Minho breathed. "So good. You're doing so well."
"Yeah?" Jisung asked, and he sounded younger suddenly, eager for praise, hungry for it.
"Perfect. Now turn—turn your head to the side. Let the light hit your neck."
Jisung obeyed, angling his head, exposing the long line of his throat, the pulse visible there, the delicate architecture of collarbone and tendon. Minho's mouth went dry. He took the photo, then stepped closer, adjusting his angle, capturing the shadows, the highlights, the texture of skin.
"Beautiful," Minho murmured. "You're beautiful. Do you know that? Do you know how beautiful you are?"
"Tell me," Jisung whispered, eyes closed now, face turned toward the window, basking in the light and the words both.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Minho said, and he was close now, close enough to touch, the camera the only thing between them. "lethiral, spiritual, angelic, breathtaking. I look at you and I can't think of anything else, anyone else, anything that isn't you."
Jisung's eyes opened, found Minho through the lens, held his gaze. "oh yeah?" he stood up from the chair, moving into Minho's space, close enough that Minho could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, could smell his shampoo, could feel the heat radiating from his skin "is that how you see me?"
Minho lowered the camera. The room felt too small suddenly, too warm, the air thick with everything they weren't saying. his hands shaking slightly. "The light—"
"Fuck the light," Jisung said, but he was smiling, still smiling, challenging and inviting all at once. "Take the picture. Take me."
Minho took the photo—Jisung's face filling the frame, his expression fierce and wanting, the moment preserved in perfect focus "Good," Minho whispered. "You're so good. So perfect.
Jisung echoed, arching slightly, posing even as he was genuine. "More. Tell me more."
"Your skin is perfect. Your body is perfect. even if you think that you need to cut off but it's literally flawless and i love every part of it, I want to photograph every inch of you. I want to know you completely, see you completely. I want to be the only one who gets to look at you like this, who gets to see you like this."
"you're getting better at this" Jisung agreed, his voice breathless.
Minho took photo after photo. Jisung moved for him, posed for him, offered himself completely to the lens and to Minho's hungry gaze.
"Turn around," Minho said, his voice rough. as getting more close to jisung "I want—your back. The light on your shoulders."
Jisung turned, presenting his back to Minho, looking over his shoulder with dark eyes. "Like this?"
"Yes," Minho breathed, capturing the line of him—the broad shoulders, the narrow waist, the way his tank top stretched across his shoulder blades. "Perfect. You're perfect."
He stepped closer, close enough that his chest was pressed against Jisung's back, close enough that he could feel Jisung's heat, his breathing. He reached around, his arm circling Jisung's waist, pulling him back against him,
Then he lowered the camera, let it hang from his neck, forgotten. His hands came up to rest on Jisung's shoulders, his thumbs brushing the skin exposed by the tank top's loose neckline.
"You did so well," Minho murmured, his voice soft and reverent. "You were perfect. Exactly what I wanted."
"Yeah?" Jisung leaned back against him, his head falling to rest on Minho's shoulder, exposing his throat completely. "Do I get a reward?"
Minho's hands tightened on his shoulders. "wasn't your reward my praise?"
"hyuuung don't act like you don't know me"
"insatiable"
"sarcastic bitch"
minho turned Jisung around gently, slowly, giving him every chance to pull away, to say no, to break the spell. But Jisung just watched him, eyes dark and trusting and wanting, his lips slightly parted, his breath coming fast.
Minho leaned in, bypassing Jisung's mouth entirely, and pressed his lips to the side of Jisung's neck—right where the pulse hammered, where the skin was thinnest and most sensitive. He kissed him there, open-mouthed, feeling the flutter of Jisung's heartbeat against his tongue, tasting salt and skin and the unique flavor that was just Jisung.
"Minho," he breathed, his head falling back to give better access, his whole body arching into the touch. "Ah—Minho—"
Minho kissed his way up the column of Jisung's throat, learning the texture of him, the taste, the way he shivered when Minho's teeth grazed just right.
"Good boy," Minho murmured against his skin, the words slipping out without thought, instinctive. "You were so good for me. So perfect. This is your reward. This is what you get for being good."
Jisung whined, hitting minho's back lightly —as if he could hit him hard— "This sounds vulgar" he chuckled "more like a cheap kinky line"
Minho pulled back, just enough to see his face—flushed and desperate and beautiful, his eyes blown wide, his lips swollen from biting them. "You liked this?"
"Of course I liked it," Jisung said, his voice rough. "I love praise"
"is that so?" Minho pressed, his hand coming up to cup Jisung's jaw, tilting his face up. He kissed Jisung's forehead, his temple, the bridge of his nose—everywhere except his mouth, lowkey, minho is believing that jisung loves to get intimate with everyone, he isn't special that the other friends, jisung most of the times tries to kiss hyunjin and even play with sexual words and next to him, just because he let minho kiss his neck doesn't mean it's romantic stop fucking romanticizing everything asshole, he thought in himself
"then i will" Minho said instead, his voice fierce and certain. "i will always praise you. tell you how good you are, how adorable you are, my cutie"
"Can we do this again? The photos?" he pulled away from the whatever thing they were doing
"Whenever you want," Minho promised, his arms wrapping around Jisung's waist, "Every day. Every hour. I'll photograph you until we run out of memory, until we capture every expression, every angle, every version of you."
"And the rewards?"
Minho laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Greedy."
Jisung meet his eyes, his expression serious. "Always. I'll always be greedy."
Minho kissed his cheek, soft and chaste, a promise and a seal. "Then I'll always give you what you want. bug, What you need. The praise. The—" he gestured vaguely at Jisung's neck, where a faint mark was already forming
"Next time," Jisung said, his voice dropping to that register that did things to Minho's pulse, "next time, I want you to use the good light. The golden hour. I want to look like I'm glowing. Like I'm holy."
"You already look holy," Minho said.
"Then make me look like a god," Jisung challenged, his smile sharp and knowing. "Make me look like something worth worshipping."
and minho wanted that, fuck. he wanted to worship him, he wanna feel on his ass in the hell, he want that jet lag from fucking and flying, tell him he love him in private, calling his name like a pray, don't even care if jisung was lying
Minho raised the camera, one last time, capturing Jisung in the doorway—backlit, beautiful, his expression full of promise and mischief and something that looked alarmingly like love.
"Of course, baby," Minho said, and Jisung laughed, bright and delighted, and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Minho alone with his camera and his racing heart and the certainty that everything had changed today, that they had crossed some invisible threshold, that there was no going back to before.
Minho looked down at the camera in his hands—the expensive, impulsive purchase that had started all of this. He thought about all the photos he would take, all the ways he would learn to see Jisung, all the ways Jisung would let himself be seen.
And he smiled, alone in his room, already planning the next session, the next pose, the next reward.
🌿 ⟡ 🌿
The camera had become an extension of Minho's hands over the past week, its weight as familiar as his own heartbeat. He'd spent every spare moment practicing—adjusting aperture, learning how the light fell through his bedroom window at different hours, memorizing the way shadows pooled in the corners of his makeshift studio. But practicing on empty chairs and houseplants was nothing compared to the real thing.
The real thing was currently sprawled on Minho's bed, scrolling through his phone with the kind of boneless relaxation that came from complete comfort in a space.
"You're actually going to make me get up?" Jisung asked, not looking up from his screen. He was wearing the outfit Minho had left out for him that morning—an oversized cream-colored sweater that swallowed his frame, the neckline sliding off one shoulder to reveal the tattoo at his collarbone, paired with loose linen pants that sat low on his hips. Minho had spent twenty minutes selecting these pieces, telling himself it was for the aesthetic, knowing it was because he wanted to see Jisung drowning in fabric, wanted to imagine what was underneath, and letting it slide down and undress him with every movement
"I need natural light," Minho said, adjusting the white sheet backdrop he'd hung by the window. "The bed is in the wrong position."
"So move the bed."
"I can't move the bed, Jisung. It's a bed."
Jisung sighed dramatically, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. The movement made the sweater ride up, exposing a strip of his stomach. Minho's mouth went dry. He raised his camera, ostensibly checking the settings, but his finger hovered over the shutter.
"Fine," Jisung groaned, sitting up. "But I'm not doing anything weird. I know what photographers are like. I saw that movie with the creepy guy and the red room."
"This isn't a red room. It's my bedroom."
"Exactly." Jisung stood, stretching his arms above his head, and the sweater lifted further, revealing more skin, the sharp angles of his hip bones, the way the linen pants draped over his shape. "Your bedroom. Which makes this automatically suspicious."
"Suspicious how?"
Jisung dropped his arms, fixing Minho with a look that was half-amused, half-challenging. "You know how."
then he imagined how jisung would look so submissive on the bed, and he's just a weak man
"Get on the bed," Minho said, lowering the camera but keeping his finger near the shutter, his eyes tracking Jisung's movements with a focus that felt predatory even to himself. "I changed my mind. We'll work with what we have."
Jisung arched an eyebrow, that sharp, knowing expression that made Minho want to capture his face from seventeen different angles just to figure out how one person could look so simultaneously annoying and captivating. "Changed your mind? Already? You dragged me in here like a caveman and now you're being indecisive?"
"Get on the bed or get out," Minho said flatly, though they both knew Jisung wasn't going anywhere. The door was right there, unblocked, and Jisung had never once in their years of friendship walked away from attention.
"So bossy," Jisung muttered, but he was moving, climbing onto Minho's bed with that loose-limbed grace that came from years of dance practice and natural athleticism. He settled on his back first, looking up at Minho with an expression of exaggerated innocence that didn't fool anyone. "Like this? Very natural. Very candid. 'Man lies on bed looking at phone.' Pulitzer Prize material."
"Shut up," Minho said, but he was already raising the camera, the viewfinder framing Jisung in the afternoon light. The cream sweater against his dark sheets, the casual sprawl of his limbs, the way the fabric pooled around him like he was trying to look smaller than he actually was. "Move to the edge. Near the window."
Jisung sighed dramatically, a sound he'd perfected over years of practice, and rolled like a tacos toward the edge of the bed. His movements made the linen pants ride lower, exposing more of his hip bones, that sharp cut of his pelvis that Minho had been trying not to stare at for approximately three years. Minho's breath caught in his throat. He took the first photo without conscious thought—the shutter sound loud in the quiet room—capturing Jisung mid-movement, hair falling into his eyes, mouth twisted in that familiar smirk that Minho had seen directed at him, at their friends, at strangers, at mirrors.
"Already?" Jisung asked, freezing deliberately, looking up at Minho through his lashes with an expression that was pure performance. "I wasn't even posing yet."
"You're always posing," Minho muttered, adjusting his settings, stepping closer to get a better angle. The light was hitting Jisung's face just right, turning his skin golden, making his eyes look almost amber. he felt bad about how he waisted the last session not putting him in bed and smak the fu... yeah that's why, cause he's a weak man "Even when you think you're not. Now arch your back."
"Arch my back?" Jisung laughed, the sound bright and mocking and entirely too familiar. "What is this, yoga? Are you going to make me do downward dog next?"
"Do you want me to?" Minho asked, keeping his voice level, keeping it teasing. "I thought you said you weren't doing anything weird."
"you're not the only one who can change his mind" Jisung said, and then he moved, slowly, deliberately, pressing his shoulders into the mattress and lifting his hips off the bed. The movement created a curve that made Minho's mouth go dry—that particular arch that pushed his chest up, made his stomach flat and taut, drew the eye down to where his pants sat low on his hips. "Like this? Very dramatic. Very 'woman in a Renaissance painting having a religious experience.'"
"Lower," Minho commanded, his voice rougher than intended. He circled the bed, finding his angle, watching how the light caught the stretch of fabric across Jisung's torso. "More. Make it look like you actually have a spine."
"That's mean, I have excellent posture," Jisung said, but he obeyed, sinking lower into the mattress and then arching again, his back coming off the sheets in a smooth curve that drew Minho's eye inevitably to his waist, the way the sweater had ridden up to expose his stomach. his pretty soft edible abs. Minho's fingers tightened on the camera body.
He took the photo, the shutter clicking, capturing the way Jisung's lips were parted slightly, the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline, the flush that was starting to spread across his cheeks.
"Wider," Minho said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"What?" Jisung's eyes found his over the top of the camera, something flickering there before he masked it with mock confusion.
"Spread your legs."
Jisung went still for just a fraction of a second, his breath audible in the quiet room. Then he laughed, bright and sharp. "Spread my legs? Minho, I knew you were weird but this is—"
"Do it," Minho said, and he didn't mean for it to come out as commanding, didn't mean for his voice to drop that way, but Jisung's breath hitched audibly and then he was moving.
Slowly. Deliberately. Spreading his knees apart on the mattress, the linen pants pulling tight across his thighs, draping between his legs in a way that left very little to imagination. Minho could see the outline of him through the thin fabric, the shape of his thighs, the hint of what was between them.
"You're disgusting," Jisung said, but he was smiling, his lips curved in that sharp, pleased expression as he let one leg fall open further, then the other, creating a picture of such blatant availability that Minho's hands shook slightly around the camera. "Taking pictures of your roommate with his legs open. What would your mother say?"
"She'd say you have terrible form," Minho shot back, circling to get the angle from the foot of the bed. From here, he could see everything—the long lines of Jisung's body, the spread of his limbs, the way the afternoon light turned his skin golden through the thin fabric. "Arch more. Make it look like you mean it."
"Make it look like I mean it?" Jisung laughed, but he was moving again, shifting his hips, pressing his shoulders deeper into the mattress and lifting his lower back, creating a curve that was positively obscene. The kind of arch that existed in certain videos Minho had definitely never watched, but he's a weak man, the kind of pose that existed solely to display, to offer. "Is this better? You creep?"
Minho took the photo, then another, his finger working the shutter rapidly. He moved closer, focusing on the details—the way the sweater had slipped completely off one shoulder now, revealing the full expanse of his collarbone, that tattoo standing out dark against his skin. The word "blessed" inked in delicate script, under it a meaning words. Minho had seen it hundreds of times before, but never like this, never with Jisung looking at him like that, spread out and waiting.
"Turn over," Minho said, his voice rough.
"What?"
"Turn over. On your stomach."
Jisung stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he moved, rolling onto his stomach with a fluid grace that made the sweater bunch around his waist, made the linen pants pull tight across his ass. Minho's mouth went completely dry. The fabric outlined him perfectly—round and firm and straining slightly against the seams. Minho wanted to reach out and touch, wanted to run his hands over that curve, wanted to dig his fingers into the flesh and hear Jisung gasp.
He took the photo instead. Then another. Then another.
"Like this?" Jisung asked, his voice muffled against the pillow, his cheek pressed against Minho's pillowcase. The intimacy of it struck Minho suddenly—Jisung's face where Minho slept, Jisung's body in the position Minho dreamed , Jisung's scent soaking into the fabric. "Very demure. Very virginal. 'Man waits for massage that will definitely not turn sexual.'"
"Lift your hips," Minho commanded, ignoring the commentary, his entire focus narrowing to the view through the viewfinder. The spread of Jisung's legs, the arch of his back, the way his ass was presented, perfectly framed by the low-slung pants. He looked like he was waiting for something. Waiting for Minho. "More. On your knees."
"On my knees?" Jisung laughed, but he was moving, pushing himself up, drawing his knees beneath him and lifting his hips into the air. The pose was unmistakable—obscene and deliberate and absolutely devastating. From this angle, Minho could see the shape of him perfectly, the curve of his ass straining against the fabric, the shadowed valley between his cheeks visible through the thin linen. "Is this what you wanted? Me like this? All spread out?"
Minho didn't answer. He was too busy taking photos, capturing the curve of Jisung's ass that he wished he's destroying it, the way the sweater had fallen forward to expose his back, the sharp blades of his shoulders. From this angle, he could see the other tattoo—the massive piece that wrapped around Jisung's side, intricate blackwork that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants and reappeared on his hip. Minho always see it, when Jisung walked around shirtless (in most of the fucking seasons) summer mostly, when he stretched and his shirt rode up in winter. Now he wanted to map it with his camera, with his eyes, with his mouth.
"Taking pictures of my ass now?" Jisung asked, his voice teasing, breathless. He wiggled his hips slightly, a deliberate provocation that made the muscles of his butt shift and flex, made the fabric pull tighter across his curves. "You absolute degenerate. I should report you."
"The authorities would agree you have a fantastic ass," Minho said, the words out before he could stop them.
Jisung went still for a moment, his head turning to look back over his shoulder at Minho. His hair fell into his eyes, his lips parted in a grin that was all sharp teeth and mischief. "Did you just—" He laughed, bright and delighted. "Lee Minho, are you finally complimenting me witout asking? That's almost sweet. Weird, but sweet."
"i always do, you Ungrateful," Minho muttered, but he was smiling, his hands steady on the camera as he took shot after shot. The way the light fell across Jisung's back, the shadows pooling in the hollows of his spine, the curve of his ass straining against the fabric. Minho imagined what it would feel like to touch, to press his thumbs into the dimples at the small of Jisung's back, to spread him open and see everything hidden beneath the thin linen. his pretty tight hole
"Is this what you wanted?" Jisung asked, lowering his chest toward the mattress while keeping his hips raised, creating an even deeper arch that made Minho's vision blur slightly around the edges. The sweater had ridden up completely now, exposing his lower back, the top of his pants, the hint of skin where his ass met his thighs. "You want me like this? All open?"
"You're not open," Minho said, taking the photos, capturing the strain in Jisung's thighs, the way his hands were fisting in the sheets. "You're performing."
"Maybe," Jisung admitted, his voice breathy. "But you're watching. That's what makes it worth performing for."
Minho's breath caught. He lowered the camera slightly, meeting Jisung's eyes. They were dark, heavy-lidded, fixed on him with an intensity that felt like being pinned in place. Minho raised the camera again, hiding behind it, and captured that look—that challenge, that hunger, that absolute certainty that he was winning whatever game they were playing.
"Turn around," Minho said, his voice steadier than he felt. "On your back. I want your front."
Jisung rolled over slowly, languidly, drawing the movement out. He settled on his back, his legs still spread, one knee bent, his arms stretched above his head in a pose that lifted his chest. The sweater had shifted with his movement, the neckline sliding dangerously low, exposing the upper swells of his chest. Minho could see the hint of dark nipples beneath the thin fabric, hard and prominent against the cream-colored knit.
"You're staring," Jisung accused, not moving to cover himself, not breaking his pose. "Stop staring and take the picture."
"I am taking pictures," Minho said, his voice thick.
"You're staring," Jisung repeated, opening his eyes fully, turning his head to meet Minho's gaze. His expression was challenging, hungry. "Admit it. You're obsessed."
"Fuck off," Minho said, but there was no heat in it. He moved closer, kneeling on the edge of the bed, angling the camera down to capture the view from above. The sweater clinging to Jisung's chest, the outline of his pecs, the dark shadows of his nipples. Minho wanted to see more. Wanted to pull the fabric down, wanted to capture the full expanse of skin, the tattoos, the way Jisung's chest rose and fell with his rapid breathing.
"Make me," Jisung said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He arched his back slightly, pressing his chest upward, offering himself to the lens. "Come on, Minho. You're supposed to be directing me. Tell me what to do. Make me look good."
"You always look good," Minho said, the admission slipping out. He lowered the camera, meeting Jisung's eyes, seeing the flush that had spread across his cheeks, down his neck. "Too good. It's annoying."
"Annoying?" Jisung laughed, but his voice was breathless, his chest heaving. "I'm annoying because I'm photogenic? That's hardly fair."
"You're annoying because you know exactly what you're doing," Minho said, his voice low. He set the camera aside, just for a moment, reaching out to adjust the sweater. His fingers brushed against Jisung's collarbone, feeling the heat of his skin, the raised lines of the "blessed" tattoo. He traced the edge of it, watching Jisung's throat bob as he swallowed. "You know exactly how you look."
"How do I look?" Jisung asked, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes fixed on Minho's face.
"like a god" He picked up the camera again, raising it to his eye, hiding behind the mechanical distance. "Spread your legs wider," he commanded, his voice rough.
"Make me," Jisung said again, but he was moving, his knees falling open further, his hips shifting. Minho captured the way his pants pulled tight across his thighs, the visible outline of his dick straining against the fabric. The shape of him was unmistakable through the thin linen, pressing upward against his waistband.
"You're enjoying this," Minho accused, his voice low.
"Obviously," Jisung said, turning his head, his cheek pressed against the pillow. "You're enjoying it too. I can see it."
"Shut up."
"Make me," Jisung said for the third time, and Minho wanted to, wanted to cross the distance between them and put his hand over Jisung's mouth, feel his breath hot against his palm. But he took another photo instead, capturing the look in Jisung's eyes—the challenge, the hunger.
Then he lowered the camera again, his eyes dropping to Jisung's mouth. Those lips, slightly parted, pink and wet from where he'd been biting them. Minho imagined what they would look like wrapped around him, what Jisung's tongue would look like stretched out, waiting. He imagined spitting on that tongue, watching it drip down Jisung's chin, watching him lick it up. The image was so vivid, so obscene, that Minho had to look away, had to focus on the camera settings, had to adjust his aperture like his life depended on it.
"Your mouth," Minho said, his voice rough. "Open it."
"What?" Jisung's eyes widened slightly, surprised out of his teasing.
"Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue."
Jisung stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he smiled, slow and sharp, and did exactly as he was told. He opened his mouth, pink tongue sliding out past his lips, wet and glistening in the afternoon light. He held it there, stretched out, his eyes fixed on Minho's face with an expression that was pure provocation.
Minho's breath caught. He raised the camera with shaking hands and took the photo—Jisung's face, his open mouth, his tongue extended, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. He looked obscene. He looked like he was waiting for something. Waiting for Minho to spit on him, to mark him, to use him.
"Keep it out," Minho commanded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't move."
He took another photo, then another, capturing the way Jisung's tongue glistened, the way his lips were swollen and wet, the way his jaw was slack and open and ready. Minho imagined fucking that mouth, imagined holding Jisung's head still while he pushed inside, imagined the feel of that tongue against him, the wet heat of it. He imagined pulling out and spitting on Jisung's tongue, watching him take it, watching him swallow.
"You're thinking something dirty," Jisung accused, his voice muffled around his tongue, the words barely intelligible. He didn't close his mouth, didn't pull his tongue back in, just spoke around it, his voice wet and obscene. "I can tell. Your ears are red."
"Shut up, this shit doesn't work on me" expect that it did, he was thinking to rail jisung so rough and he know that he shouldn't, but he's just a weak man, he was taking the photos, capturing every angle of Jisung's open mouth, his extended tongue, his flushed face. "Keep it out. Don't talk."
Jisung made a sound that might have been a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners, but he obeyed. He kept his tongue out, his mouth open, his eyes fixed on Minho with that challenging, hungry expression. Minho captured it all—the submission in his pose, the defiance in his eyes, the obscene invitation of his open mouth.
Then Jisung moved, slowly, deliberately, curling his tongue and bringing it back into his mouth, closing his lips around it, swallowing. The movement was obscene, deliberate, performative. He licked his lips, slow and wet, his eyes never leaving Minho's face.
"Good?" he asked, his voice rough, his lips shining with saliva.
Minho didn't answer. He was too busy adjusting his camera, trying to get his breathing under control, trying to ignore the way his hands were shaking. He moved the focus to Jisung's chest again, capturing the way the sweater clung to his nipples, hard and prominent beneath the fabric.
"Take it off," Minho said, the words out before he could think better of them.
"The sweater?" Jisung asked, his eyebrows rising.
"Yes."
Jisung sat up slowly, reaching for the hem of the sweater, and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion. He was bare-chested now, the afternoon light catching on his skin, illuminating the full expanse of his torso. Minho's breath caught. He was perfect—the lean muscle of his chest, the dark nipples hard against the cool air, his ribs visible beneath his skin, that massive tattoo sprawling across his side from his ribs down to his hip.
"Fuck," Minho breathed, raising the camera, capturing the full view. The "blessed" tattoo on his collarbone, the massive blackwork on his side, the way his chest rose and fell with his rapid breathing. He moved closer, focusing on the details—the sweat at Jisung's hairline, the flush spreading down his neck, across his shoulders, the way his hands were resting on his thighs, his knuckles white.
"Like what you see?" Jisung asked, his voice teasing, but there was something breathless in it too, something real beneath the performance. He arched his back, pressing his chest forward, offering himself to the lens. "Go on, then. Take your pictures. Capture me."
Minho took the photos, dozens of them, capturing every angle of Jisung's bare chest. The way his nipples looked, dark and hard and begging to be touched. Minho imagined taking one between his teeth, imagined biting down until Jisung gasped, imagined sucking and licking and marking that skin with his mouth. He imagined spitting on Jisung's chest, watching it drip down his sternum, pooling in his navel, sliding down toward his pants.
"Your waist," Minho said, his voice rough. "I want to see your waist."
Jisung moved, lying back down, his hands going to his hips, his fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants. He pushed them down slightly, just enough to expose his hip bones, the sharp angles where his pelvis met his thighs. The massive tattoo continued down his side, disappearing beneath the fabric, reappearing on his hip in intricate black lines.
"Like this?" Jisung asked, his voice breathy. He lifted his hips off the bed, pushing his pants lower, exposing more of his stomach, more of the soft skin, the sharp cut of his pelvis. "Is this what you want to see?"
Minho took the photos, capturing the narrowness of Jisung's waist, the way his hips flared out, the sharp bones that Minho wanted to bite. He imagined holding Jisung by those hips, imagined digging his fingers into that flesh, imagined pinning him down and using him until he couldn't walk straight. He imagined biting on Jisung's stomach, cum on him, watching it slide down toward his waistband, watching Jisung's face as he did it. but he can't
"More," Minho whispered, not sure what he was asking for.
"More?" Jisung laughed, but his voice was breathless, his chest heaving. He pushed his pants lower, exposing the top of his ass, the dimples there, the shadowed valley between his cheeks. He was still wearing them, technically, but they were so low now that they revealed almost everything. sadly minho can't see it on this position "You're insatiable. You know that?"
"You're one to talk," Minho shot back, but he was taking the photos, capturing the way Jisung's pants draped over his hips, the visible outline of his cock straining against the fabric. He was half hard, Minho could see it, not the same as erlier, the shape of him unmistakable, pressing upward against the thin linen.
Jisung noticed him looking and smiled, sharp and knowing. He reached down, adjusting himself deliberately, his hand pressing against the fabric, outlining his own cock for the camera. "Problem?" he asked, his voice light, teasing.
"You're disgusting," Minho said, but he was taking the photo, capturing the way Jisung's hand looked against himself, the obscene shape of him through the fabric.
"And yet you're still taking pictures," Jisung pointed out. He kept his hand there, pressing against himself, his eyes fixed on Minho's face. "Still watching. Still obsessed."
"Shut up." minho seems like he doesn't have any other words to say
"Make me," Jisung said for the fourth time, and Minho wanted to, wanted to cross the distance between them and finally put his mouth on that smug, teasing face. But he didn't. He just took another photo, capturing the way Jisung looked—spread out and open and hard and waiting.
"Turn over," Minho commanded, his voice thick. "I want your back again."
Jisung moved, rolling onto his stomach, his movements slow and deliberate. He settled with his face turned toward Minho, his cheek pressed against the pillow, his arms stretched above his head. His pants had ridden lower with the movement, exposing the top of his ass, the dimples at the small of his back, the shadowed valley between his cheeks.
"Like this?" Jisung asked, his voice muffled against the pillow. He lifted his hips slightly, creating a curve that drew Minho's eye inevitably to his ass, the way the fabric pulled tight across his curves. "You want more pictures of my ass? that's freaky"
"Yes," Minho said, the admission simple and honest. He moved around the bed, finding his angle, capturing the curve of Jisung's ass where the pants pulled tight, the dimples at the small of his back, the way the linen fabric draped between his legs. He took photos of the tattoos— the massive piece on his side that he could see from this angle, wrapping around to under his arm.
He moved closer, kneeling on the bed, capturing the details. The sweat at Jisung's hairline, the flush spreading down his neck, across his shoulders. The way his lips were parted slightly, his tongue visible between them. Minho imagined that tongue again, imagined it stretched out, waiting for his spit. He imagined his cum on Jisung's ass, watching it drip down between his cheeks, watching him flinch and gasp.
"You're close," Jisung said, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn't move away, didn't tell Minho to back off. "You're very close, Minho."
"I need to see," Minho said, his voice rough. "The tattoo. On your side. I need to see all of it."
"Then look," Jisung said, and he moved, rolling onto his side, pulling his pants lower to expose his hip, the full expanse of the tattoo that wrapped from his ribs down to his hip. It was massive, intricate, black ink standing out against his pale skin, detailed enough that Minho could see individual lines, shading, the way it followed the contours of his muscles.
Minho took the photos, capturing the tattoo from every angle. He traced it with his eyes, following the lines down Jisung's side, over his hip, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. He wanted to follow it with his tongue, wanted to learn every line, every curve, every detail of the ink. He imagined biting on that tattoo, watching it getting more darker, watching Jisung's skin flush beneath it.
"Good?" Jisung asked, his voice breathy. He was still on his side, his pants low on his hips, his arousal obvious and unhidden. He made no move to cover himself, no move to hide what this was doing to him.
"Good," Minho breathed. He lowered the camera, his eyes meeting Jisung's. They were dark, heavy-lidded, fixed on him with an intensity that was unnerving. "You're good. You're perfect."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Jisung said, his voice teasing, but there was something soft in it too, something pleased. He rolled onto his back again, stretching his arms above his head, arching his back, presenting himself like an offering. "Now take more pictures. I want to see what I look like when you're this close."
Minho took the photos, capturing Jisung's face from inches away—the dark pupils, the heavy lids, the way he looked at Minho like he was the only thing in the world worth seeing. He captured his lips, slightly parted, his tongue darting out to wet them. He captured his chest, his nipples hard and dark, his ribs, his stomach, He captured his waist, narrow and sharp, his hips, the sharp angles where his pelvis met his thighs.
Then he moved lower, capturing his legs, the way they were spread, the way his pants pulled tight across his thighs. He captured the outline of his arousal, straining against the fabric, the shape of him unmistakable. He imagined what it would look like without the fabric, imagined spitting on it, watching his saliva drip down the length of him, watching Jisung's face as he did it.
"You're staring again," Jisung accused, but his voice was soft, breathless. He didn't move to cover himself, didn't break his pose. "Take the picture, Minho. stop being horny."
"stop being dirty minded jisung" Minho took the picture, then another, then another. Jisung moved for him, shifting his hips, arching his back, spreading his legs wider. He was performing, Minho knew, putting on a show, but there was something real beneath it—the flush on his skin, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his hands were fisting in the sheets.
"More," Jisung whispered, his voice barely audible. "Keep going. Don't stop."
Minho didn't stop. He moved around the bed, capturing every angle, every curve, every shadow. He photographed Jisung's ass where the pants pulled tight, the outline visible through the thin linen. He photographed his waist, narrow and sharp. He photographed his lips, slightly parted, his tongue visible. He photographed his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded and looking directly at the camera with an expression that was pure invitation.
Then Jisung sat up suddenly, the movement abrupt enough that Minho stumbled back, nearly dropping the camera. "I'm bored," Jisung announced, swinging his legs off the bed, standing up and stretching in a way that made every muscle in his torso flex. He reached for his sweater, pulling it back on with a casualness that was maddening, covering up everything Minho had just been photographing. "And hungry. And I need to pee."
"You're—" Minho stared at him, his mind reeling, his body aching. "You're done?"
"I'm done," Jisung confirmed, reaching for his pants, pulling them up to sit properly on his hips. He turned at the door, looking back over his shoulder with that sharp, knowing smile, his hair falling into his eyes, his lips curved in a way that made Minho want to simultaneously kiss him and strangle him. "Thanks for the photoshoot, creep. I'll expect the prints by next week. take this as a punishment for not praising me"
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Minho alone in his room with his camera full of photos and his body full of want and his mind full of images he knew he would never be able to erase.
Minho sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the camera still in his hands. He scrolled through the photos—Jisung arching, Jisung spread, Jisung looking at him with those dark, hungry eyes. He was hard, he realized, had been hard for what felt like hours, his body aching with the need to touch, to take, to claim.
But he didn't move. Just sat there, staring at the images on the camera's small screen, memorizing every curve, every shadow, every expression. He would edit these later, he knew, would spend hours adjusting the light, the contrast, bringing out every detail of Jisung's skin, his tattoos, his eyes. He would keep them in a separate folder treasure and torment in equal measure.
And he would wait for the next time. Because there would be a next time. Jisung had promised, in his way, had left the door open with his parting words, his challenge.
Minho lay back on the bed, the camera resting on his chest, staring at the ceiling where the afternoon light was beginning to fade into evening. He could still smell Jisung on his pillow, could still feel the heat of him on the sheets. He closed his eyes, letting the images play behind his eyelids—Jisung's back arched, his legs spread, his tongue stretched out and waiting.
"Fuck," he whispered to the empty room, and smiled despite himself, already planning, already wanting, already caught.
🌿 ⟡ 🌿
The laptop screen glowed blue in the dimming room, casting shadows across Minho's face as he scrolled through the hundreds of photos he'd taken that afternoon. His camera sat on the desk beside him, memory card extracted, every image now transferred to his hard drive in a folder he'd labeled "Photography Practice - Sept" like that would fool anyone who happened to see it. he sent the perv pics to his phone tho
He'd been at this for two hours now, sorting through the shots, deleting the blurry ones, adjusting exposure and contrast on the keepers. The technical work should have been calming. Methodical. Something to occupy his hands and his mind so he wouldn't think about Jisung spread out on his bed, the cream sweater discarded, those linen pants riding low, that obscene arch of his back.
But every photo he pulled up sent another jolt of heat through his gut. There was Jisung on his knees, hips lifted, ass presented like an offering. There was Jisung on his back, legs spread, the outline of his arousal unmistakable through the thin fabric. There was Jisung's mouth, open and waiting, tongue stretched out, eyes heavy-lidded and looking directly into the lens like he could see straight through to Minho's filthiest thoughts.
Minho shifted in his chair, uncomfortably aware of his own arousal pressing against his sweatpants. He'd been half-hard since the photoshoot ended, since Jisung had walked out of his room with that sharp smile and left him alone with his camera and his racing heart. Now, looking at the images in high resolution on his large monitor, he was fully hard and getting harder with every click of the mouse.
He selected a series of shots—Jisung on his stomach, hips lifted, the dimples at the small of his back catching shadows, the linen pants pulled so tight across his ass that every curve was visible. The files were large, detailed enough that Minho could see the texture of the fabric, the faint sheen of sweat on Jisung's skin, the individual hairs at the nape of his neck. He could zoom in on the massive tattoo wrapping around Jisung's side, follow the black lines down to where they disappeared beneath his waistband, imagine where they reappeared on his hip,
Minho's hand drifted down to his lap, pressing against himself through the fabric of his pants. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. This was Jisung, his best friend, his roommate, the person who ate cereal on his couch and borrowed his clothes and fell asleep on his shoulder during movie nights. Jerking off to photos of him was a violation, a breach of trust, a line that once crossed could never be uncrossed. but he's a weak man.
But his hand was already moving, unzipping, pulling himself free. He was leaking, he realized, already wet at the tip, his arousal throbbing in his palm. He gave himself a slow stroke, his eyes fixed on the screen where Jisung stared back at him, mouth open, tongue out, looking like he was waiting for something. Waiting for Minho.
He imagined it suddenly, vividly—Jisung actually waiting for him, not with a camera between them but with nothing, no barriers, no pretense. Imagined walking into his own bedroom to find Jisung exactly like he'd been in the photos, on his knees on Minho's bed, wearing nothing but those linen pants pulled down to his thighs, his ass bare and pink and presented. Imagined kneeling behind him, running his hands over those curves, spreading him open, pressing his face between those cheeks and licking, tasting, worshipping.
The thought made Minho's breath hitch. He stroked himself faster, his grip tightening, his eyes never leaving the screen. In his fantasy, Jisung would whimper when Minho touched him, would push back against his mouth, would beg for more in that breathy, teasing voice that Minho had memorized. He'd be loud, Jisung, always loud, never able to keep quiet, moaning and gasping and saying Minho's name like it was the only word he knew.
Minho imagined flipping him over, then, imagined pressing Jisung into the mattress and looking down at him—flushed, disheveled, his chest heaving, that massive tattoo on full display. Imagined spitting on his hand, spreading it over himself, and then pushing inside in one smooth thrust that would make Jisung cry out, make his back arch off the bed, make his eyes roll back in his head.
He'd be tight, Minho knew, tight and hot and clinging to Minho's cock like he never wanted to let go. Minho would fuck him slow at first, would watch Jisung's face as he took him, would memorize every expression—the way his lips parted, the way his tongue darted out to wet them, the way his eyes went hazy and unfocused when Minho hit the right angle.
Then faster. Harder. Minho imagined gripping Jisung's hips, holding him still, pounding into him with a force that would make the bed frame knock against the wall. Jisung would take it, would beg for it, would wrap his legs around Minho's waist and pull him deeper. He'd be crying, maybe, actual tears tracking down his cheeks from the overwhelming sensation, from being fucked so thoroughly, so completely, so perfectly.
But even crying, even wrecked, Jisung would still be teasing. Minho could hear it in his head, that breathy laugh, that sharp tongue. "Is that all you've got?" Jisung would gasp, even as tears spilled down his face, even as his cock leaked untouched against his stomach. "I thought you'd destroy me, Minho. I thought you'd ruin me."
And Minho would. He'd pull out, flip Jisung over, push him face-down into the pillows and fuck him like that—hard, brutal, relentless. He'd grip Jisung's hair, pull his head back
Then he'd make Jisung ride him. Drag him up, push him down onto his cock, make him do the work. Jisung would be exhausted, shaking, his thighs burning, but he'd do it—lift himself up and slam back down, roll his hips in that way he had, the way he moved when he danced. He'd look down at Minho with that smug, knowing expression even as he whimpered, even as he moaned, even as he cried.
"You feel so good," Jisung would say, rolling his eyes like he couldn't believe it, like he was annoyed by how good Minho felt inside him. "So fucking good, Minho. Better than anyone. Better than anything."
Minho would grip his waist, his thumbs pressing into the ink of that massive tattoo, and thrust up into him, meeting his movements, fucking up into him with a force that would make Jisung scream. He'd watch Jisung's cock slap against his own stomach with every movement, watch it leak and twitch and beg for touch, and he wouldn't touch it—would make Jisung come untouched just from being fucked, just from Minho's cock filling him, stretching him, owning him.
Minho's hand was moving faster now, his grip tight and desperate, his hips bucking up into his fist. He was close, he realized, dangerously close, his balls drawing up tight, his whole body tensing toward release. On the screen, Jisung stared back at him with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes, his tongue stretched out, his mouth open and waiting.
He imagined coming on that tongue. Imagined pulling out of Jisung's wrecked hole, climbing up his body, and pushing his cock between those swollen lips. Imagined Jisung looking up at him with that same teasing expression even as Minho spilled across his tongue, his face, his chest. Imagined marking him, covering him, making him filthy with it.
Minho's hand stilled. He let go of himself abruptly, his cock throbbing against his stomach, denied completion. He couldn't. He couldn't do this—couldn't jerk off to photos of his best friend, couldn't fantasize about fucking him until he cried, couldn't imagine marking him and owning him and destroying him like that. It was too much. It was wrong. It was—
His cock twitched, leaking against his skin, begging for touch. now he's a strong man
"Fuck," Minho whispered, his voice rough, his hand hovering over himself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
He couldn't do it here. Not with the photos staring back at him, not with Jisung's face on the screen, not with the evidence of his own depravity glowing blue in the dark room. He needed to shower. Needed to stand under cold water and think about anything else—baseball, taxes, the laundry he needed to do, the song he was supposed to be producing. Anything but Jisung spread out and open and waiting.
Minho stood up, his cock still hard and aching, tenting his sweatpants obscenely. He closed the laptop without shutting it down, leaving the photos open, hidden but waiting. He'd delete them later, he told himself. Or he'd keep them. He didn't know. He couldn't think.
The shower was cold, the water pounding against his shoulders, his chest, his face. He stood under the spray with his hands braced against the tile, eyes closed, trying to clear his mind. But the darkness behind his eyelids just gave him a canvas for more images—Jisung on his knees, Jisung's back arched, Jisung's tongue stretched out and waiting for Minho's spit.
He imagined the shower scene, then. Imagined Jisung pushing open the bathroom door, imagined him stepping into the stall fully clothed, imagined the water soaking through that cream sweater until it was transparent, clinging to every line of his body. Imagined pulling him under the spray, kissing him with the water running between their mouths, tasting him mixed with chlorine and heat.
Minho's hand drifted down again, wrapping around himself before he could stop it. He was still hard, impossibly hard, his arousal unaffected by the cold water. He gave himself a slow stroke, then another, his forehead pressed against the cool tile, his eyes squeezed shut.
He imagined Jisung against the shower wall, then. Imagined pressing him there, lifting him up, wrapping those long legs around Minho's waist. Imagined pushing inside him in one smooth thrust that would make Jisung's head fall back, make his mouth open in a silent scream, make his hands claw at Minho's shoulders.
The water would run between them, hot now, steam filling the stall, making everything slick and wet and slippery. Minho would fuck him like that, holding him up, using his body, watching Jisung's face as he took him—watching him moan, watching him cry, watching him come apart.
"Minho," Jisung would gasp, his voice echoing off the tiles. "Minho, Minho, Minho—"
Minho's hand was moving faster now, his grip tight, his hips bucking into his fist. He was going to do it, he realized. He was going to jerk off thinking about his best friend, about fucking him, about owning him, about making him cry and moan and scream. He was weak. He was so fucking weak.
He was close, so close, his whole body trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps that echoed in the small bathroom. Just a little more, just a few more strokes, just—
A door slammed somewhere in the apartment.
Minho froze, his hand stilling on his cock, his heart hammering against his ribs. He strained to listen over the sound of the water, his whole body tense, his arousal throbbing painfully, denied completion.
Footsteps. Jisung's footsteps, light and familiar, moving through the living room, into the kitchen. The sound of a cabinet opening, closing. The clink of a glass. Jisung humming under his breath, some melody Minho didn't recognize, off-key and casual and completely unaware of what Minho was doing in the shower three rooms away.
Minho let go of himself abruptly, his cock twitching against his stomach, aching and unsatisfied. He couldn't finish now. Not with Jisung in the apartment, not with the possibility of him knocking on the door, asking to use the bathroom, wondering why Minho was taking so long. He couldn't risk it.
He turned the water colder, gritting his teeth against the shock of it, willing his arousal to subside. It didn't work. He was still hard, still aching, still throbbing with need. He stayed under the spray for ten more minutes, until his fingers were pruned and his teeth were chattering and his skin was numb, and still he was hard.
"Fuck," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the water. "Fuck."
He turned off the shower eventually, stepping out into the steam-filled bathroom, wrapping a towel around his waist that did nothing to hide his condition. He avoided looking in the mirror, avoided meeting his own eyes. He knew what he'd see—flushed cheeks, dark eyes, the face of a man who was losing his grip on something important.
He dressed quickly, pulling on loose sweatpants and an old t-shirt, willing his arousal to fade with every layer of fabric. It didn't work. He was still half-hard, his cock sensitive against the fabric, every movement sending sparks of sensation through his gut.
He climbed onto his bed, lying on his stomach, burying his face in his pillow. The position hid his condition, pressed his arousal into the mattress in a way that was almost painful, almost pleasurable. He lay there, still and tense, waiting for his body to calm down, waiting for his heart to stop racing.
The footsteps came closer, moving down the hallway toward his room. Minho tensed, his whole body going rigid, his breath catching in his throat. The door opened without a knock—Jisung never knocked anymore, hadn't for years—and Minho heard him step inside, heard the soft sound of his breathing, smelled his shampoo and his soap and that particular scent that was just Jisung.
"Minho?" Jisung's voice was light, curious. "Why are you lying like that? You dead?"
"Stomachache," Minho mumbled into his pillow, his voice muffled, his face hidden. It wasn't a complete lie—his stomach was in knots, his whole body tense with unfulfilled arousal. "Go away."
"Stomachache?" Jisung's footsteps came closer, the bed dipping as he sat down on the edge. Minho could feel the warmth of him through the fabric, could sense him leaning over, trying to see Minho's face. "Since when do you get stomachaches? You have the digestive system of a goat."
"Since now," Minho said, his voice sharper than intended. "Leave me alone."
But Jisung didn't leave. Of course he didn't. Instead, he shifted, lying down on the bed beside Minho, stretching out on his back, his shoulder pressing against Minho's side. Minho could feel the heat of him, the solid weight of him, could smell him more strongly now—clean and citrusy and too close.
"You know," Jisung said, his voice taking on that teasing tone that Minho had learned to both dread and crave, "this is probably punishment."
"Punishment?" Minho asked, despite himself, despite his better judgment.
"From God," Jisung confirmed, his voice solemn in a way that was clearly fake. "For not rewarding me properly after I was such a goddess for your little photoshoot today."
Minho's breath caught. He turned his head slightly, just enough to see Jisung out of the corner of his eye. Jisung was staring at the ceiling, his hands folded on his stomach, his expression one of exaggerated piety. He was wearing Minho's shirt, Minho realized suddenly—an oversized black button-down that Minho had been looking for for weeks, that Jisung had clearly stolen and claimed as his own. It was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing that fucking tattoo
"You were not a goddess," Minho said, his voice rough, his face still half-buried in the pillow.
"I absolutely was," Jisung corrected, turning his head to look at Minho. His eyes were bright, teasing, his lips curved in that sharp smile. "I arched. I posed. I spread my legs on command. I was the perfect model foe a creep like you. And what did I get in return? Nothing. Not a single compliment. Not a word of praise. Just 'stomachache' and 'go away.'" He shook his head sadly. "No wonder God is punishing you. You failed to appreciate divinity when it was presented to you."
"You're insufferable," Minho muttered, but there was no heat in it. He was too aware of Jisung's body beside his, too aware of his own arousal pressed into the mattress, too aware of how easy it would be to roll over, to pin Jisung down, to make him take back every teasing word.
"And yet you love me," Jisung said, the words light, casual, thrown out like they meant nothing. He turned his head back to the ceiling, missing the way Minho's whole body tensed, the way his breath caught, the way his hands fisted in the sheets. "Anyway, I'm going out. Changbin's waiting. We're getting dinner, maybe drinks after. Don't wait up."
"Don't drink too much," Minho said, the words automatic, familiar. "And text me when you get there. And when you leave. And don't get into any strangers' cars. And—"
"Yes, mom," Jisung interrupted, but he was smiling, his voice soft. He sat up, the movement making Minho's shirt ride up, exposing a strip of his stomach, the top of his pants. "I'll be fine. I'm a big boy."
"You're an idiot," Minho corrected, finally rolling onto his side, keeping his lower body pressed into the mattress to hide his condition. He reached out without thinking, adjusting Jisung's collar, buttoning the top button of the shirt that Jisung had left undone. "It's cold out. Wear a jacket."
"I am wearing a jacket," Jisung said, but he let Minho fix his collar, let him smooth the fabric over his shoulders. His expression was soft, something almost fond in his eyes as he looked down at Minho. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"
"So are you," Minho said, his hand lingering on Jisung's shoulder, his thumb brushing against the edge of that constellation tattoo. "Be careful."
"Always," Jisung promised, and then he leaned down, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Minho's cheek. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, lingering just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Minho could smell his shampoo, could feel his breath against his skin, could taste the ghost of his lip balm.
Then Jisung was standing, moving toward the door, his footsteps light and familiar. He paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder with that sharp smile, his hair falling into his eyes, Minho's shirt hanging loose on his frame.
"Feel better," he said, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, his footsteps fading down the hallway, the front door opening and closing with a finality that echoed in the quiet apartment.
Minho lay there for a long moment, his hand pressed to his cheek where Jisung's lips had been, his whole body tense and aching and confused. He could still smell him on his pillow, on his sheets, in the air. He could still feel the warmth of him beside him, the pressure of his shoulder, the ghost of his kiss.
"Fuck," he whispered to the empty room, his voice breaking slightly. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, his arousal finally, mercifully beginning to fade, replaced by something colder and heavier in his chest. He thought about the photos on his laptop, the ones he'd transferred to his phone.
He thought about Jisung's voice, teasing and fond, saying "you love me" like it was a joke, like it was nothing, like it was something they both knew and neither of them acknowledged.
He thought about the kiss on his cheek, casual and intimate, the kind of thing couples did, the kind of thing that existed in the space between friendship and something else entirely.
"Fuck," he said again, his voice louder now, angry. He sat up, running his hands through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp ached. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
He was talking to himself, he knew. To the part of him that couldn't stop looking, couldn't stop wanting, couldn't stop imagining Jisung spread out and open and his. The part of him that had transferred those photos to his phone knowing exactly what he would do with them later. The part of him that had let Jisung lie beside him, had let him kiss his cheek, had let him walk out the door wearing his shirt like he belonged to him.
"Get it together," he muttered, standing up, pacing the room. "He's your friend. Your roommate. He's—"
He stopped in front of the mirror, finally meeting his own eyes. He looked wrecked—flushed, disheveled, his hair standing up in wild directions, his eyes dark and desperate. He looked like a man who was losing a war he'd been fighting for years.
"He's going to ruin you," Minho told his reflection, his voice barely above a whisper. "Or you're going to ruin everything. One or the other. Probably both."
He turned away from the mirror, grabbing his phone from the desk, pulling up the photos before he could stop himself. Jisung on his knees. Jisung's mouth open. Jisung looking at him like he was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Minho sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his hand already moving to the waistband of his sweatpants, his eyes fixed on the screen. He was weak. He was so fucking weak. And Jisung was out there somewhere, wearing his shirt, laughing with Changbin, being beautiful and teasing and completely unaware of what he did to Minho every single day.
"Fuck," Minho whispered one last time, and gave in. cause he's a weak man
The shame lasted exactly as long as it took Minho to strip off his clothes.
He stood in the center of his room, naked and flushed, his arousal heavy and aching between his thighs. The air was cool against his overheated skin, raising gooseflesh across his arms, his chest, the curve of his ass. He didn't bother locking the door—Jisung was gone, the apartment was empty, there was no one to see him fall apart.
Minho grabbed a pillow from the head of his bed, one of the firm ones that Jisung always complained about, and tossed it onto the mattress. He positioned it in the center, kneeling over it, his hands braced on either side. The fabric was soft against his knees, softer against his cock as he lowered himself down, grinding experimentally, a shudder running up his spine at the friction.
"Fuck," he whispered, his voice breaking.
He reached for his phone, swiping through to the hidden folder, the one he'd created minutes ago, the one that no one knew existed. His thumb hovered over the most sexy addition—the photos from today, the one where Jisung was on his knees, back arched, ass presented in those linen pants that left nothing to the imagination. The one where his tongue was stretched out, pink and wet and waiting.
Minho set the phone on the bed in front of him, propped against another pillow so he could see it clearly. Jisung's face filled the screen, his eyes heavy-lidded, his mouth open, that obscene invitation that Minho had captured in perfect focus. He could zoom in on the details—the texture of Jisung's tongue, the sheen of saliva on his lips, the flush spreading down his neck.
He started moving, slowly at first, his hips rolling against the pillow, his cock sliding against the fabric, leaking and leaving wet streaks that darkened the material. It wasn't enough—it would never be enough—but it was something, some friction, some pressure, some approximation of what he really wanted.
"Jisung," he whispered, the name slipping out before he could stop it, before he could remind himself that he wasn't supposed to say it, wasn't supposed to give voice to this particular sin.
He moved faster, his hips snapping forward, thrusting against the pillow with a desperation that made his thighs burn. He imagined it was Jisung beneath him, imagined the pillow was Jisung's body, warm and solid and yielding. Imagined he was pushing inside, feeling that tight heat wrap around him, feeling Jisung clench and gasp and take him.
The whimper that escaped his throat was high and broken, embarrassingly needy. Minho didn't care—couldn't care, not with his phone in front of him showing Jisung's face, Jisung's tongue, Jisung's ass presented like an offering. He was thrusting harder now, his hips working in a rhythm that was too fast, too desperate, his cock dragging against the pillow with every movement.
He switched the photo, swiping to another one—Jisung on his back, legs spread, the outline of his arousal unmistakable through the thin fabric of his pants. Minho imagined those legs wrapped around his waist, imagined pulling Jisung's hips up, imagined pounding into him with a force that would make the bed frame knock against the wall.
"Jisung," he said again, louder this time, his voice ragged. "Jisung, Jisung, fuck—"
He was making noises he couldn't control—whimpers and gasps and broken moans that filled the quiet room. His chest was heaving, his muscles tense and trembling, sweat gathering at his hairline and sliding down his spine. He looked down at himself, at his cock sliding against the pillow, at the way his thighs flexed with every thrust, and he imagined Jisung watching him, imagined those dark eyes fixed on him, imagined him seeing exactly what he did to Minho.
The thought sent a spike of heat through his gut. Minho switched the photo again, finding the one he wanted—the close-up of Jisung's ass in those linen pants, the fabric pulled tight across his curves, the dimples at the small of his back visible, the shadowed valley between his cheeks. He imagined spreading him open, imagined pressing his face there, imagined licking and tasting and worshipping until Jisung was crying, begging, screaming his name.
"Please," Minho whimpered, the word escaping without his permission. He was thrusting faster now, his hips snapping forward with a force that was probably damaging the pillow, his cock leaking steadily, leaving wet patches that grew larger with every movement. "Please, please, Jisung—"
He could see it so clearly—Jisung beneath him, Jisung taking him, Jisung rolling his eyes and smirking even as he moaned, even as he cried, even as he came apart around Minho's cock. He could hear that teasing voice, breathless and wrecked, saying "is that all you've got?" even as tears spilled down his cheeks.
Minho's hand moved without conscious thought, reaching down to wrap around himself, his grip tight and desperate. He gave himself a few rough strokes, his hips stuttering, his whole body tensing toward release. He was close—so close, his balls drawing up tight, his stomach muscles clenching, his vision starting to blur at the edges.
He switched the photo one last time, finding the one of Jisung's face, his mouth open, his tongue stretched out. Minho imagined spitting on that tongue, imagined watching it drip down Jisung's chin, imagined pushing his cock between those swollen lips and fucking his mouth until he couldn't breathe.
"Jisung," he gasped, his voice breaking, his hand working faster, his hips thrusting up into his fist. "Jisung, Jisung, Jisung—"
The door clicked open.
Minho didn't hear it—was too far gone, too lost in the fantasy, too consumed by the heat building in his gut, the pressure in his spine, the desperate need for release. He kept moving, kept moaning, kept saying that name like it was the only word he knew, like it was a prayer and a curse and a promise all at once.
Jisung stepped into the apartment, his hand still on the door handle, his jacket half-unzipped, his keys jingling in his pocket. He'd gotten three blocks away before realizing he'd left his phone charger plugged into the outlet in the living room, and Changbin was already texting him about being late, and—
He froze.
There was a sound coming from Minho's room. A soft, rhythmic sound, like something hitting fabric, accompanied by breathing—heavy, labored breathing that Jisung recognized immediately. He'd heard Minho breathe like that before, when they ran together, when they danced, when they worked out until their muscles burned. But this was different—this was faster, more desperate, broken by sounds that Jisung had never heard from him before.
Whimpers. Gasps. Moans.
Jisung's hand tightened on his keys, the metal digging into his palm. Minho had someone over. That was the only explanation—Minho had called someone, brought them home, was currently fucking them in the bed that Jisung had been lying on just an hour ago. The thought sent a sharp ache through Jisung's chest, a twist of something cold and heavy that made his breath catch.
He should leave. Should turn around and walk out and pretend he'd never heard anything, never come back, never know who Minho was currently inside.
But his feet were moving before his brain could stop them, carrying him down the hallway toward Minho's room, toward those sounds that were growing louder, more desperate. The door was slightly open—just a crack, just enough to offer a view of the bed if Jisung positioned himself correctly.
He shouldn't look. He knew he shouldn't look. But Jisung had never been good at resisting temptation, never been good at walking away from things that would hurt him. He was weak—just as weak as Minho, just as weak as anyone who wanted something they couldn't have.
Jisung stepped closer, his heart hammering against his ribs, his mouth dry. He positioned himself at the gap in the door, his eye finding the narrow strip of visibility, and looked inside.
What he saw stopped his breath.
Minho was alone.
He was kneeling on the bed, completely naked, his side to the door, his muscles tense and trembling. Jisung could see the curve of his spine, the flex of his ass, the powerful lines of his thighs as he moved. But it was what Minho was doing that made Jisung's vision blur—Minho was thrusting against a pillow, his hips snapping forward with a desperation that was unmistakable, his hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking in time with his movements.
And he was huge. Jisung's brain supplied the thought before he could stop it, his eyes tracking the movement of Minho's hand, the way his fingers couldn't quite close around his own girth. He was thick and long and leaking, while thrusting against the pillow with every strock
Jisung should look away. Should run. Should do anything but stand here and watch his best friend fuck a pillow like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
But then he saw the phone.
It was propped on the bed in front of Minho, the screen glowing, displaying a photo that Jisung recognized immediately—himself, from earlier today, on his knees, back arched, ass presented in those stupid linen pants Minho had picked out for him. He could see the image clearly, could see his own face turned toward the camera, his own eyes heavy-lidded and looking directly into the lens.
Minho was jerking off to photos of him.
The realization hit Jisung like a physical blow, his knees going weak, his hand coming up to press against the doorframe to keep himself upright. Minho was using his photos, his images, his body to get off. The pillow wasn't just a pillow—Minho was imagining it was Jisung, was thrusting against it like he was pushing inside, was whimpering and moaning like he was actually fucking someone.
And then Minho spoke, his voice breaking, desperate, ragged—and the word he said shattered everything Jisung thought he knew about their relationship.
"Jisung," Minho gasped, his hips stuttering, his hand working faster. "Jisung, Jisung, please—"
He said it again, and again, the name falling from his lips like a prayer, like a curse, like the only word he knew. "Jisung, fuck, Jisung, I need you, please, please—"
Jisung's whole body went hot, then cold, then hot again. He was shaking, he realized, his hand trembling against the doorframe, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that he was desperately trying to muffle. Minho was saying his name. Minho was fucking a pillow and looking at his photos and saying his name like he was dying for him.
"Jisung," Minho whimpered, the sound high and broken and absolutely devastating. "Jisung, I'm gonna—fuck, Jisung—"
Jisung stumbled back, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might burst through his chest. He couldn't be here—couldn't be caught, couldn't let Minho know he'd seen this, couldn't face what he'd just learned about his best friend's fantasies. He turned, his movements clumsy, his legs unsteady, and ran.
He made it out of the house before his phone rang, the sound loud and jarring in the quiet building. Jisung fumbled for it, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it, and saw Changbin's name flashing on the screen.
"Hello?" His voice came out breathless, high-pitched, completely unlike him.
"Where are you?" Changbin's voice was casual, unconcerned. "I'm at the restaurant. You coming or what?"
"Yeah," Jisung managed, his eyes darting back toward behind the door, where the might sound softer now, more desperate, Minho's voice breaking as he said Jisung's name over and over. "Yeah, I'm coming. I'm on my way."
He hung up without waiting for a response, shoving his phone into his pocket, grabbing his jacket from where he'd dropped it on the floor. He should leave—needed to leave—couldn't stay in here for another second with the knowledge of what Minho was doing in that room.
Jisung ran.
He made it to the street before he realized he was hard.
The realization hit him as he was flagging down a taxi, his hand raised, his breath still coming too fast. There was an ache between his legs, a heaviness that he hadn't noticed in the shock of discovery, but that was now unmistakable. He was aroused—fully, obviously, uncomfortably aroused, his cock pressing against the zipper of his jeans, his whole body flushed with heat.
He'd gotten hard watching Minho jerk off to photos of him.
The thought should have disgusted him. Should have sent him running in the opposite direction, should have made him swear off ever speaking to Minho again. Instead, it sent another spike of heat through his gut, made his cock twitch against his jeans, made him want to go back, to push open that door, to climb onto that bed and replace the pillow with his own body.
"Sir?" The taxi driver was looking at him expectantly. "Are you getting in?"
Jisung climbed in, his movements automatic, his mind racing. He gave the address of the restaurant in a voice that didn't sound like his own, and then he was sitting in the back seat, staring out the window at the passing city lights, trying to process what he'd just seen.
Minho wanted him. Minho had been jerking off to photos of him, thrusting against a pillow while imagining it was Jisung, saying his name like it was the only thing keeping him sane. The knowledge sat heavy in Jisung's chest, mixed with the arousal that was still pulsing through his veins, making him shift uncomfortably in his seat.
He thought about the size of him—Minho's cock thick and long in his hand, leaking and desperate. Jisung had never let himself think about what Minho might look like naked, had never allowed his mind to go there, to imagine the body hidden beneath the clothes. But now he knew—knew the powerful lines of Minho's back, the flex of his ass, the way his thighs tensed when he was close. Knew that Minho was big enough that Jisung's fingers might not close around him, that he would feel it for days if Minho actually fucked him, that he would be ruined for anyone else.
The thought made Jisung's breath hitch. He pressed his hand against his own arousal, adjusting himself in his jeans, trying to relieve some of the pressure. It didn't help. If anything, it made it worse—made him aware of how hard he was, how much he wanted, how much he was imagining Minho's hands on him instead of his own.
He arrived at the restaurant ten minutes later, flushed and disheveled and completely unable to focus. Changbin was already at a table, waving him over, and Jisung forced himself to walk normally, to smile normally, to act like he hadn't just watched his best friend fuck a pillow while moaning his name.
"You're late," Changbin said, not unkindly, as Jisung slid into the seat across from him. "And you look weird. Are you sick?"
"I'm fine," Jisung lied, picking up the menu, staring at it without seeing the words. "Just tired."
They ordered—Jisung got whatever Changbin recommended, his mind too scattered to make decisions—and then they were sitting there, waiting for their food, and Jisung couldn't stop thinking about it.
Minho's back. Minho's ass. Minho's hand working his own cock. Minho saying "Jisung" like it was a prayer.
"You okay?" Changbin asked, his eyebrows furrowed with concern. "You keep spacing out."
"Fine," Jisung said again, forcing a smile. "Just thinking about a song."
The lie came easily—too easily. They talked about music for a while, about Changbin's new track, about Jisung's lyrics that weren't coming together, about the album they were supposed to be working on. Jisung responded in all the right places, laughed at all the right moments, nodded and agreed and made comments that sounded intelligent.
But underneath it all, he was hard. Still hard, constantly hard, his arousal a persistent ache that wouldn't go away no matter how many times he shifted in his seat, no matter how many cold drinks he consumed, no matter how much he tried to focus on the conversation.
He kept seeing it—Minho on his knees, thrusting, his muscles flexing, his voice breaking. Kept hearing it—that desperate tone, those broken whimpers, his own name falling from Minho's lips like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
And Minho's cock. God, Minho's cock. Jisung couldn't stop thinking about it—thick and dark and leaking, sliding against that pillow like it was Jisung's body, like it was Jisung's ass, like it was Jisung's mouth. He imagined what it would taste like, what it would feel like stretching his jaw, what it would be like to have Minho lose control like that inside him, filling him, marking him.
"Jisung?" Changbin's voice cut through his thoughts. "Did you hear me?"
"Sorry," Jisung said, his face flushing. "What?"
"I asked if you wanted to get drinks after. There's a new bar—"
"No," Jisung said, too quickly, too sharply. He softened his voice, forced another smile. "I mean, I should get back. Early morning tomorrow. You know how it is."
Changbin looked at him strangely but didn't argue. They finished their meal in relative silence, Jisung picking at his food, his appetite gone, his mind consumed by images he couldn't erase, sounds he couldn't unhear.
He said goodbye to Changbin on the street, hugging him briefly, promising to text about the next studio session. Then he was alone, standing on the sidewalk in the cool night air, his arousal finally beginning to subside, replaced by something colder and heavier in his chest.
What was he supposed to do now?
He walked home slowly, taking the long route, his hands shoved in his pockets, his mind racing through possibilities. Confront Minho? Pretend he'd never seen anything? Act like everything was normal? Each option seemed impossible, each path fraught with complications that Jisung wasn't ready to face.
He thought about what he'd seen—really thought about it, now that the initial shock was fading. Minho had been alone. Had been using Jisung's photos, had been saying his name, had been imagining it was him. That meant something. That meant Minho wanted him, had probably wanted him for a while, had been hiding it just like Jisung had been hiding... well. Everything.
Jisung stopped on the sidewalk, his breath catching. Was that what this was?
He started walking again, faster now, his mind made up about exactly nothing. He needed to see Minho. Needed to look at him, talk to him, figure out if what he'd seen changed anything or everything or nothing at all.
The apartment was dark when he arrived, quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. Jisung slipped off his shoes, his movements silent, his heart hammering. Minho's door was closed now, no light visible beneath it. He was probably asleep, Jisung realized, or at least done with... that. The thought sent a fresh spike of heat through his gut, made him remember what he'd seen, what he'd heard, what he knew.
He stood in the hallway for a long moment, staring at Minho's door, his hand raised to knock. He should wake him up. Should confront him now, while the memory was fresh, while Jisung was still feeling brave, still feeling that strange mixture of arousal and confusion and something else he couldn't name.
But his courage failed him. His hand dropped to his side, his shoulders slumping. He couldn't do it—couldn't face Minho tonight, couldn't look him in the eye and admit what he'd seen, what he'd felt, what he was still feeling. It was too much. Too big. Too terrifying.
Jisung turned away from Minho's door and walked to his own room, closing the door softly behind him. He leaned against it for a moment, his eyes closed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He was hard again, he realized, his arousal pressing against his jeans, insistent and demanding. The knowledge of what Minho had been doing in that room, just hours ago, was too much to ignore.
He thought about taking care of it. Thought about lying down on his own bed, pulling out his phone, finding some of Minho's had taken of him, and finishing what Minho had started. But the thought felt wrong somehow—too exposed, too vulnerable, too much like admitting something he wasn't ready to admit.
Instead, he changed into sleep clothes—loose sweatpants and an old t-shirt, Minho's shirt that he'd stolen months ago and never returned. He climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
He was planning something. He knew he was planning something, could feel the shape of it forming in the back of his mind, a diabolical idea that would solve everything or ruin everything or both. But he didn't let himself think about it too clearly, didn't let the plan fully form. Tomorrow. He would deal with it tomorrow.
Jisung rolled onto his side, his hand drifting down to press against his arousal, trying to relieve some of the pressure. It didn't help. He was still hard, still aching, still consumed by images of Minho on his knees, Minho's hand on his cock, Minho saying his name like it was the only word he knew.
He closed his eyes, trying to sleep, trying to forget, trying to plan. But sleep wouldn't come—just the persistent thrum of arousal, the memory of Minho's voice, the knowledge of what waited in the room down the hall.
Tomorrow, Jisung thought, his hand still pressed against himself, his body tense and waiting. Tomorrow, everything would change.
But for now, he just lay there in the dark, half-hard and half-asleep, waiting for morning to come.
🌿 ⟡ 🌿
The morning arrived wrapped in a haze that felt different—thicker, charged with an electricity that neither Minho nor Jisung could name, though both felt it humming beneath their skin. The apartment was quiet in that way it usually was on days when they had nowhere urgent to be, the silence filled with the familiar sounds of domestic routine: the refrigerator humming, the distant traffic, the soft clatter of Jisung attempting to make coffee without spilling it everywhere.
Minho woke to this symphony of ordinariness, his eyes opening slowly to the gray light filtering through his curtains. He lay still for a moment, his body heavy with the memory of last night—the pillow, the photos, the desperate, broken way he'd said Jisung's name over and over until it became a prayer, a curse, the only word his mouth knew how to form. The shame of it sat warm and heavy in his gut, mixing with the lingering arousal that hadn't fully faded even in sleep.
He could hear Jisung moving through the apartment, the familiar rhythm of his morning routine unchanged yet somehow fraught with new tension. Minho forced himself out of bed, his muscles stiff, his mind scattered. He dressed quickly—loose sweatpants, a worn t-shirt—and avoided the mirror, avoiding his own eyes that he knew would look hunted, desperate, caught.
He didn't join Jisung in the kitchen. Couldn't face him yet, not with the knowledge of what he'd done still burning behind his eyelids. Instead, he just went to pee an retreated to his room, closing the door with a soft click that felt like sealing himself into a confessional. He lay on the edge of his bed, his phone in his hands, scrolling through the photos from yesterday without really seeing them—Jisung on his knees, back arched, tongue stretched out, looking like he was waiting for something. Waiting for Minho.
The door burst open without warning.
"Morning," Jisung said, his voice bright and casual, completely at odds with the sharpness in his eyes. He stepped into the room without hesitation, closing the door behind him with a finality that made Minho's breath catch.
"Don't you knock?" Minho asked, his voice rougher than intended, his hand instinctively hiding his phone screen. and got shocked of jisung's bare legs, most of the time hetakes off his shirt but not as if this is new
"Since when do I knock?" Jisung crossed the room in three strides, moving with that loose-limbed grace that had always made Minho's eyes follow him, always made him want to capture the movement, preserve it, keep it. "You've been avoiding me."
"I haven't," Minho lied, his grip tightening on his phone.
"You have." Jisung stopped in front of him, close enough that Minho could smell his shampoo—citrus and clean and too familiar—could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, could count the beauty marks that Minho had memorized in his weakest moments. "You didn't come out for breakfast. you didn't make the coffee for yourself so i come and steal it. You didn't complain about the weather or the neighbors or the fact that I used the last of the milk." He tilted his head, studying Minho's face with an intensity that made Minho want to look away, to hide, to disappear. "What's wrong with you? You're acting depressed."
"I'm fine," Minho managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just tired. Go away, Jisung. I want to be alone."
"No." Jisung moved suddenly, climbing onto the bed and settling beside Minho, close enough that their thighs pressed together, warm and solid and real. "I'm not going away. You're being weird and I don't like it." He turned to face Minho fully, his knee bumping against Minho's thigh, his expression carrying something dangerous that hadn't been there yesterday. "You're always like this when you're depressed. You hide. You stare at your phone. You don't eat." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "So I'm going to entertain you."
"You're annoying," Minho muttered, but there was no heat in it, no real objection.
"I know." Jisung moved again, climbing into Minho's lap with a fluid grace that left Minho stunned, his hands coming up instinctively to grip Jisung's waist. "That's why you keep me around."
"What are you doing?" Minho's voice came out rough, shocked, his fingers tightening on Jisung's hips. "Get off."
"Make me." Jisung settled his weight fully in Minho's lap, his hands resting on Minho's shoulders, his knees bracketing Minho's hips. He started moving almost immediately, rolling his hips in a slow, deliberate circle that pressed his ass against Minho's cock with a pressure that made Minho's vision blur. "I'm entertaining you. Since you're too depressed to function."
Minho gasped, his fingers digging into Jisung's waist. He was already half-hard from the tension, from the proximity, from the memory of last night that was flooding back with devastating clarity, and now—now Jisung was rubbing against him, grinding down with a rhythm that was driving Minho slowly insane. "Have you lost your mind jisung? Stop," he groaned, but his hands were pulling Jisung closer, gripping him tighter, his thumbs pressing into the soft fabric of the hoodie.
"Why?" Jisung rolled his hips again, harder, finding the shape of Minho's cock through his sweatpants. He paused, his eyes widening slightly, a sharp, satisfied smile spreading across his face as he felt the hardness beneath him. He pressed down again, deliberately, grinding against the full length of Minho's arousal. "Oh. You're hard."
"Jisung what the fuck is hap—"
"For me?" Jisung rolled his hips again, watching Minho's face with predatory interest, his own breath coming faster now. "Already? I barely even started." He kept moving, grinding in earnest now, his hands sliding from Minho's shoulders to his neck, his thumbs brushing against Minho's jaw with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the obscene pressure of his ass against Minho's cock. "Take nudes of me."
Minho's breath caught. His whole body went rigid, his hands freezing on Jisung's waist. "What?"
"Take nudes of me," Jisung repeated, his voice dropping to a whisper, his hips still rolling, still grinding, still driving Minho toward madness. "You took photos of me yesterday, but they weren't enough. They were just hints. Teases." He leaned forward, his mouth close to Minho's ear, his breath hot and ticklish. "I want you to capture me completely. Naked. Open. Everything."
"Jisung," Minho breathed, his voice breaking. "Are you high? We can't—I shouldn't—"
"Payback," Jisung interrupted, his voice carrying that teasing edge that Minho had learned to both dread and crave. He pulled back enough to meet Minho's eyes, his expression sharp and knowing. "You got to fantasize about me. You got to use my photos to get off. You got to fuck your pillow while moaning my name like you were dying for me." He rolled his hips again, pressing down harder, making Minho groan. "So now I get to tease you. I get to make you hard. I get to make you take photos of me—real photos, nude photos, photos that will make you even more desperate than you were last night."
Minho's hands were shaking. His face was flushed hot with shame and desire, the two emotions twisting together until he couldn't tell them apart. "I'm sorry," he whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush, desperate and broken. "I'm sorry about last night, I'm sorry I used your photos, I'm sorry I said your name, I know you think i'm disgusting now, fuck jisung i'm an asshole, I'm sorry I imagined you while I was—"
Jisung kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't tentative. Wasn't the soft, questioning press of lips that might have been appropriate for this moment. It was hard and desperate and claiming, Jisung's mouth crashing against Minho's, his lips parting, his tongue pushing inside without waiting for permission, without asking for forgiveness.
Minho made a sound against Jisung's mouth—a whimper, a groan, something broken and needy that he'd never heard himself make before—and then he was kissing back, his hands coming up to grip Jisung's face, his fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, harder. Jisung tasted like mint and coffee and something uniquely him, and Minho couldn't get enough, couldn't stop, couldn't think about anything except the wet heat of Jisung's tongue sliding against his, the way Jisung was moaning into his mouth, the way his body was pressing closer, grinding harder.
They broke apart gasping, their foreheads pressed together, their breath mingling in the small space between them. Jisung's hands were fisted in Minho's shirt, his knuckles white, his whole body trembling slightly. Minho could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, could feel Jisung's heart beating just as fast, just as desperate.
"Tell me," Jisung whispered, his lips brushing against Minho's as he spoke, his voice barely audible. "Tell me I'm not imagining things. Tell me I'm not embarrassing myself. You want me too, right?"
Minho pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. They were dark, wide, vulnerable in a way that Jisung rarely let anyone see—stripped bare of the teasing, the performance, the protective layers of bravado. There was fear there, Minho realized—fear of rejection, fear of being wrong, fear of ruining everything. And Minho couldn't let him feel that, couldn't let him think for one more second that he was alone in this, that his feelings were one-sided, that he was making a fool of himself.
"Yes," Minho said, his voice rough but certain, fierce with the truth of it. "I want you. I've wanted you for years. You're not imagining things. You're not embarrassing yourself."
Jisung's breath hitched. His eyes went wet, his lips parting in something that was almost a smile, almost a sob. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay. Good. That's—" he laughed, the sound watery and relieved, "—that's really good."
They stared at each other for a long moment, the air between them charged with everything they'd just admitted, everything they were about to do. Then Jisung moved, climbing off Minho's lap with a fluid grace that left Minho cold and aching and desperate for his warmth back.
"Well?" Jisung challenged, standing in front of him with his hands on his hips, his eyes bright and sharp. "Aren't you going to take the photos?"
Minho reached for his camera from the nightgstand with shaking hands, his eyes never leaving Jisung's body. He checked the battery, the memory card, his movements automatic, his mind racing. When he looked up, Jisung was waiting, watching him, that sharp smile still playing at his lips.
Then Jisung reached for the hem of his hoodie and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion. and took his underwear with it
He was totally naked
Minho's breath caught. Jisung stood before him, completely bare, the morning light streaming through the window and turning his skin golden and luminous. The "blessed" tattoo on his collarbone stood out dark against his pale skin, the constellation of stars surrounding it. The massive blackwork piece wrapped around his side, disappearing down to his hip in intricate lines that Minho wanted to trace with his fingers, his tongue, his teeth. His chest—his nipples were hard and dark against the cool air, his waist narrow and sharp with abs. And lower—he was hard, fully, beautifully hard, his cock standing up against his stomach, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, a bead of precome glistening at the slit.
"Like what you see?" Jisung asked, his voice teasing, his hand moving to wrap around his own arousal, stroking slowly from base to tip.
"You're perfect," Minho breathed, raising the camera with trembling hands.
"Good." Jisung climbed onto the bed, settling on his back against the dark sheets, the contrast making his skin look even more luminous. He didn't just spread his legs—he bent his knees, planted his feet on the mattress, and let them fall open completely, obscenely wide, exposing everything. His cock lay heavy against his stomach, his balls visible and drawn up tight, the shadowed hint of his hole between his spread cheeks. "Capture this," he commanded, his voice breathy, his eyes dark and fixed on Minho's face. "All of it."
Minho took the photos, his hands steadier than he felt, capturing Jisung like that—spread out, open, his private parts on full display without shame or hesitation. The camera clicked rapidly as Minho moved around the bed, finding different angles, capturing the light on Jisung's skin, the shadows pooling in the hollows of his hips, the obscene spread of his thighs.
Jisung arched his back, his free hand coming up to touch his chest, pinching his own nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it slowly while his other hand continued to stroke himself. "More," he whispered, his voice strained. "I want you to capture everything."
click click click
He turned over, climbing onto his hands and knees with a fluid grace that made Minho's mouth go dry. He lowered his shoulders to the mattress, his ass raised high in the air, his back arched in a deep curve that presented him perfectly. He looked back at Minho over his shoulder, his cheek pressed against the sheets, his hair falling into his eyes, and brought his fingers to his mouth.
Minho watched, transfixed, his camera forgotten for a moment, as Jisung sucked his own fingers—two of them sliding between his lips, his tongue wrapping around them, his cheeks hollowing slightly as he wet them thoroughly. His eyes stayed fixed on Minho's face, dark and challenging, his expression obscene and inviting. Then he pulled them out, glistening with saliva, and reached back, pressing them against his hole teasing it there like an offer
"Fuck," Minho breathed, the camera clicking rapidly, capturing the image.
Jisung pushed one finger inside himself, his back arching deeper, his mouth falling open in a gasp that Minho could hear clearly. "Take the photo," he commanded, his voice strained, his finger moving slowly in and out. "Capture this. No one else gets to see this. Just you."
Minho captured it—Jisung in the dog position, finger inside himself, his hole clenching around the intrusion, his face turned toward the camera with that challenging expression. Then Jisung pulled his finger out and reached beneath himself, collecting the precome that had leaked from his tip, coating his fingers in his own arousal. He brought them back to his hole, pushing his own wetness inside himself, his finger sliding easily, filling himself with his own essence.
"Capture this," Jisung whispered, his voice breaking slightly. "Me facing my hole to you, filling it with my own precum. Only you get to see this, Minho. Only you."
Minho captured the image—Jisung facing his hole to the camera, his fingers working himself open, his own arousal glistening around his hole, his face flushed and desperate. The sight was devastating, obscene, perfect. Minho's hands were shaking, his own cock throbbing against his sweatpants, desperate for friction, for release, for Jisung.
Then Jisung turned onto his back again, his legs still spread wide, and stuck his tongue out—pink and wet and glistening, stretched out obscenely. He brought both hands up to his chest, pinching his nipples, rolling them between his fingers, his hands sliding over his pecs, down his stomach, while his tongue remained extended, inviting, waiting.
"Your tongue," Minho managed, his voice rough, his cock throbbing. "Keep it out."
Jisung obeyed, his tongue remaining stretched out, his hands moving down to stroke himself, his hips bucking slightly into his own grip. He looked obscene, spread out and open and performing for Minho's camera, for Minho's eyes, for Minho alone.
Minho took the photos, capturing every angle—Jisung's tongue, his hands on his chest, his cock leaking against his stomach, his hole still wet and slightly open from his own fingers. He moved closer, capturing the details—the sweat at Jisung's hairline, the flush spreading down his neck and chest, the way his eyes were fixed on Minho with an intensity that was unnerving.
Jisung moved again, turning onto his side, lifting one leg high in the air, holding it with his hand, exposing himself completely while he looked at Minho with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. "Is this professional enough for you?" he teased, his voice breathless. "Or are you going to break soon?"
Minho lowered the camera, started the filming button, setting it aside with shaking hands. He couldn't do this anymore—couldn't pretend to be professional, couldn't pretend to be in control, couldn't pretend that he didn't want to consume this man whole, destroy him and worship him in equal measure.
"Jisung," he growled, his voice barely recognizable, thick with desire.
Jisung smiled, sharp and knowing and absolutely devastating. "There you are."
Minho moved. He crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat, pinning Jisung down on the bed with his full weight, his hands gripping Jisung's wrists and pressing them into the mattress above his head. Jisung gasped, his eyes widening, his legs wrapping around Minho's waist instinctively, pulling him closer.
"Finally," Jisung whispered, his voice breathless.
Minho kissed him. It was rough and emotional and desperate, his mouth crashing against Jisung's with a force that was probably bruising, his tongue pushing inside, tasting him, claiming him, consuming him. Jisung moaned against his mouth, his hands—freed from Minho's grip—coming up to tangle in Minho's hair, pulling him closer, deeper, his nails scratching against Minho's scalp.
They broke apart gasping, their foreheads pressed together, their breath mingling in ragged pants. Minho's hands were roaming Jisung's body, learning the landscape of him—the knobs of his spine, the softness of his sides, the sharp angles of his hip bones. He kissed Jisung again, softer this time but no less desperate, pouring everything he couldn't say into the press of his lips, the slide of his tongue, the grip of his hands.
Jisung was touching him too, his hands sliding down Minho's chest, his stomach, finding the waistband of his sweatpants. His fingers brushed against Minho's cock through the fabric, caressing him with a grip that made Minho groan against his mouth.
"You're so hard," Jisung whispered when they broke apart again, his hand working Minho's cock through the sweatpants, stroking him with a rhythm that was driving Minho slowly insane. "Did I do that? Did my performance make you like this?"
Minho groaned, his hips bucking into Jisung's touch, his forehead still pressed against Jisung's. "You know you did," he growled, his voice rough and broken.
"Good." Jisung rolled his hips, grinding against Minho's arousal, his hand still pressed between them, stroking Minho through his clothes with a grip that was perfect, teasing, satisfied. "I wanted you hard. I wanted you desperate. I wanted you to stop being professional and just take me."
Minho kissed him again, rough and deep and emotional, pouring years of want and need and denial into the press of his lips. Jisung met him equally, his fingers tangling in Minho's hair, his body arching up into Minho's touch, his hand working Minho's cock through the sweatpants with a rhythm that was making Minho's vision blur at the edges.
They were both trembling, both desperate, both finally giving in to what had been building between them for years. And as Minho lost himself in the taste of Jisung's mouth, in the feel of his body beneath him, in the knowledge that Jisung had planned this, wanted this, needed this as much as he did—he knew this was only the beginning.
The camera lay forgotten on the floor, discarded in the rush of hands and mouths and desperate need that had consumed them both. It had been rolling for a while—minho had wanted proof, had wanted something permanent of the way jisung looked when he finally stopped pretending—but neither of them cared about it now. The only things that mattered were the heat of skin on skin, the wet sounds of kissing, the way their bodies kept seeking more contact even when there was already no space left between them.
Minho pulled back from the kiss, his breathing ragged and broken, his eyes dark with an intensity that made Jisung's breath hitch in his throat. He looked wrecked already—flushed a deep crimson from the tips of his ears down to his collarbones, disheveled, his lips swollen and wet and shiny from their brutal kisses—and they hadn't even truly started. A strand of dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His chest rose and fell too fast. The muscles in his arms trembled faintly where he braced himself above Jisung.
"Strip," Jisung commanded, his voice breathy but carrying that sharp edge that Minho had learned to obey over years of teasing, years of almosts, years of watching Minho's control fray at the edges. "I want to see what I felt through your pants. I want to see what you were hiding while you were fucking that pillow and moaning my name."
Minho didn't hesitate. He never did when Jisung used that tone. He reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen that tensed and flexed with his ragged breathing, the sharp lines of his hips that disappeared into his sweatpants. His skin was already flushed pink across his chest and the tops of his shoulders. A thin sheen of sweat made the light catch on the ridges of his stomach. Jisung's eyes tracked over him hungrily, cataloging every detail with a predatory interest—the strength in his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the way his skin flushed deeper the longer Jisung stared, the v line leading down from his navel that Jisung wanted to follow with his eyes, with his ass, with everything.
Then Minho pushed his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and shoved them down, kicking them off along with his underwear in one impatient motion. The soft fabric pooled on the floor. And Jisung stopped breathing entirely.
He was huge. Thick and long and heavy against his stomach, flushed a dark, angry red and leaking steadily, a bead of precome glistening at the tip and smearing against the flat plane of his lower stomach every time his cock twitched. The veins along the shaft stood out under the thin skin. His balls hung heavy and tight, already drawn up with need. Jisung had seen it while humping on the pillown, felt him through fabric, had known he was big from the way he filled out his hand when Jisung had groped him earlier, from the way Minho's hips had stuttered when Jisung squeezed. But seeing it—seeing the full, intimidating length and girth of him, the weight of him, the way his cock jerked slightly under Jisung's gaze like it knew it was being watched—made Jisung's stomach tighten with a mixture of pure arousal and genuine apprehension. He'd never taken anyone this big. Wasn't sure if he could. The thought sent a spike of heat through his gut, made his own cock twitch hard against his stomach, made him want to try anyway. Made him want to be split open on it.
"Fuck," Jisung whispered, his voice barely audible, his eyes wide and fixed on Minho's cock. He licked his lips without thinking. "Jesus, Minho..."
Minho smiled, sharp and predatory, his hand moving to wrap around himself. He stroked slowly from base to tip, spreading the precome over his length until it shone wet and slick under the light filtering through the curtains. The head of his cock was flushed almost purple, the slit leaking another clear bead that rolled down over his knuckles. "Still want it?" he asked, his voice rough and teasing, low enough that it vibrated in Jisung's chest.
"Come here," Jisung said, recovering his confidence, his voice carrying that commanding edge that made Minho's stomach flip and his cock jump in his own hand. He spread his legs wider on the mattress, planting his feet and letting his knees fall open completely, presenting himself without shame. His own cock was hard and leaking against his stomach, the tip shiny, a thin string of precome connecting it to the soft skin just above his navel. His hole clenched once in the open air, already fluttering with anticipation. "You wanted my ass? Then take it. Spank it. I've been teasing you with it for years, making you hard, making you desperate. Now do something about it."
Minho moved onto the bed like he was hunting. He crawled between Jisung's spread thighs with a predatory grace that made Jisung's breath catch and his thighs tremble. He ran his hands up Jisung's legs, palms warm and slightly rough, his thumbs pressing into the soft, sensitive skin of Jisung's inner thighs, pushing them wider until Jisung felt the stretch in his hips, felt completely exposed and vulnerable and seen. Minho's gaze dropped between Jisung's legs and stayed there, dark and hungry. Then he lowered his head, his breath hot and ragged against Jisung's most intimate place, and licked.
Jisung cried out, a sharp, broken sound that filled the room, his back arching off the bed so hard his shoulders lifted, his hands fisting in the sheets hard enough that the fabric burned against his palms. Minho's tongue was wet and hot and impossibly skilled, circling his hole with teasing strokes that made every nerve ending light up, pressing against it with firm, deliberate pressure, then pulling back to blow cool air that made Jisung whimper and try to chase the warmth with his hips. He licked with long, slow strokes that had Jisung's toes curling against the mattress, then pointed his tongue and pushed inside, fucking Jisung with his mouth while his hands gripped Jisung's thighs hard enough to bruise, holding him open, keeping him spread and exposed and unable to close his legs even if he'd wanted to.
"Minho—fuck—" Jisung gasped, his hips bucking helplessly, his legs trembling so hard the bed shook. "Fuck, that's—don't stop—please—oh god—"
Minho didn't stop. If anything, he became more desperate, more focused, his tongue working Jisung open with a thoroughness that spoke of years of wanting, of fantasizing, of imagining exactly this moment while he touched himself alone. He licked and sucked and bit at the soft skin of Jisung's inner thighs, leaving wet marks and the faint imprint of teeth, his nose pressed against Jisung's perineum, his breath hot and ragged every time he pulled back for air. He pushed his tongue deeper, feeling Jisung clench around him, hearing him moan and gasp and beg in a voice that cracked on every other word. Saliva dripped down the cleft of Jisung's ass. The wet sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet room.
When Minho finally pulled back, lips shiny and chin wet, Jisung's hole was wet and relaxed, clenching slightly in the cool air, desperate to be filled. It looked soft and open and ready. Minho brought his fingers to his mouth, wetting them thoroughly with his own saliva—two fingers first, then a third—then pressed two against Jisung's entrance, rubbing in slow, maddening circles, teasing the rim without pushing in yet.
"Look at you," Minho growled, his voice rough and wrecked, eyes locked on the way Jisung's hole fluttered under his touch. "So open for me. So ready. wanting me inside yeah? destroying you and this pretty hole of yours"
"More," Jisung demanded, his voice strained, his hips pushing down against Minho's fingers, trying to force them inside. "Give me more. Stop teasing and give me what I need. I've waited long enough."
Minho pushed one finger inside, feeling the tight heat of Jisung clenching around him, the wet warmth that enveloped him up to the second knuckle. He moved slowly, carefully, watching Jisung's face for any sign of discomfort, but Jisung just moaned, long and low, his head falling back against the pillows, his hips pushing down to take more, his hands moving to grip his own thighs and pull himself even wider. The stretch burned in the best way. Jisung's cock leaked steadily onto his stomach.
"Another," Jisung gasped, his voice breaking on the word. "Give me another. I can take it. I want to feel full. I want your fingers and then I want your cock. Don't make me wait."
Minho added a second finger, scissoring them carefully, stretching Jisung open with a patience that was costing him dearly. He was leaking steadily himself, his own cock throbbing with every beat of his heart, desperate to be inside, desperate to feel that tight heat wrapped around him instead of his fingers. But he forced himself to go slow, to prepare Jisung properly, to make sure he could take what Minho was about to give him. He crooked his fingers, searching for that spot inside, rubbing firmly, and Jisung screamed when he found it—a raw, startled sound that tore out of him as his back arched and his hands flew to Minho's shoulders, nails digging in.
"There," Jisung gasped, eyes wide and glassy. "Right there—fuck—Minho—don't stop, keep—ah—"
Minho kept rubbing that spot, watching Jisung fall apart under his hands, watching the way his cock jerked and leaked without being touched, watching the flush spread down his chest. He added a third finger when Jisung's body started to accept the stretch more easily, working him open patiently even as his own control frayed. Precome dripped from the tip of Minho's cock onto the sheets between Jisung's legs.
"Ready?" Minho asked, his voice strained, his fingers still working inside Jisung, stretching him, preparing him, scissoring and curling. "You're tight. You're so fucking tight. I don't want to hurt you."
"Fuck me," Jisung commanded, his eyes dark and challenging, his confidence fully returned despite the wrecked state of his body, despite the way he was panting and flushed and already shiny with sweat. "Stop being careful and fuck me. I want to feel it. I want to feel you. Stop holding back and take what's yours."
Minho pulled his fingers out slowly, watching the way Jisung's hole clenched around nothing, shiny and open and empty. He wiped them on the sheets, then positioned himself at Jisung's entrance. He was big—bigger than Jisung had ever taken, and they both knew it. The thought sent a spike of heat through Minho's gut, made his cock twitch hard against Jisung's hole, smearing precome over the rim. He pressed forward, the thick head of his cock pushing against Jisung's entrance, feeling the resistance, the tight ring of muscle that didn't want to yield at first.
"Relax," Minho whispered, his voice soft despite the desperation in his eyes, despite the way his arms trembled where he held himself up. "Breathe. Let me in. I've got you."
Jisung took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax, to open, to accept. His hands came up to grip Minho's biceps. Minho pushed forward steadily, the head of his cock breaching Jisung's entrance with a wet, slick sound, sliding inside in one smooth, relentless motion that had them both gasping. Jisung's eyes went wide, his mouth falling open in a silent scream, his hands flying to Minho's shoulders, his nails digging in hard enough to draw blood. The stretch was intense—burning, overwhelming, perfect. He could feel every inch, every ridge, the way Minho's cock forced him open wider than he'd ever been.
"Fuck," Jisung breathed, his voice trembling, his whole body tensing around the intrusion. "Fuck, you're big—you're so fucking big—Minho, I can feel you everywhere—oh my god—"
"Too much?" Minho asked, his voice strained, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding still, of not thrusting deeper, of giving Jisung time to adjust to his size. Sweat dripped from his temple onto Jisung's chest. He could feel Jisung's pulse where they were joined, rapid and frantic.
"Don't you dare stop," Jisung growled, his legs wrapping around Minho's waist, his heels digging into Minho's lower back, pulling him deeper with surprising strength. "I can take it. I've been taking your shit for years, I can take your cock. Give me all of it. I want to feel full. I want to feel ruined. Don't you dare stop now."
Minho groaned, low and broken, and pushed in further, feeling Jisung's body stretch to accommodate him, the tight heat almost overwhelming, almost too much. Inch by inch he sank deeper until he bottomed out with a ragged gasp, fully seated inside Jisung, feeling him clench and flutter around him, feeling his heat envelop every inch of him from root to tip. His hips pressed flush against Jisung's ass. He could feel Jisung's heartbeat around his cock.
"Move," Jisung commanded, his voice rough, his hips rolling experimentally to encourage Minho, testing the stretch. "Fuck me. Make me feel it tomorrow. Make me remember who I belong to every time I sit down."
Minho started moving, pulling out slowly—almost all the way, until just the head remained inside—and thrusting back in, setting a rhythm that was careful, controlled, trying not to hurt him, trying to be gentle despite the desperation clawing at his gut and the way Jisung's body kept sucking him back in. But Jisung was having none of it. He rolled his hips to meet every thrust, his hands moving to grip Minho's ass, pulling him deeper, harder, faster, nails digging into the firm muscle.
"Is that all you've got?" Jisung taunted, his voice breathless but carrying that sharp edge that drove Minho crazy, that always had. "I thought you'd destroy me. I thought you'd ruin me. This is pathetic. I can barely feel you. Fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me like you did that pillow—desperate and broken and out of control. Show me how badly you've wanted this."
Minho's eyes darkened, something snapping inside him like a wire pulled too tight. He grabbed Jisung's hips, his grip tight enough to bruise, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and thrust harder, deeper, making Jisung cry out loud enough that it echoed. "You want it rough?" he growled, his voice dangerous, low and rough. "You want me to actually fuck you? To make you scream until your throat is raw?"
"Yes," Jisung gasped, his back arching, his hands fisting in the sheets so hard his knuckles went white. "Give it to me. Stop holding back. Make me yours. Ruin me for anyone else."
Minho flipped them suddenly, pulling out with a wet sound and manhandling Jisung onto his hands and knees with a strength that left no room for resistance. He shoved Jisung's shoulders down so his chest pressed into the mattress, ass up, and thrust back inside in one smooth, brutal motion that made Jisung scream—raw and broken and loud. Minho set a punishing pace immediately, pounding into Jisung with a force that shook the bed frame, that made the headboard knock against the wall, his hands gripping Jisung's hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, his fingers digging into the ink of the tattoo that sprawled across one side and down onto his hip
"Like this?" Minho demanded, his voice rough, his hips snapping forward with wet, filthy sounds every time he bottomed out. "You want it like this? Hard and rough and merciless? You want me to use you?"
"More," Jisung gasped, pushing back to meet every thrust, his confidence still intact despite the overwhelming sensation, despite the way his arms trembled under him. "Harder. Make me feel it. Make me scream your name so loud the neighbors know exactly what's happening."
Minho growled, a low animal sound, and his hand came down on Jisung's ass with a sharp crack that echoed through the room, making Jisung yelp and clench hard around him. He spanked him again, then again, watching the skin flush pink under his palm, feeling Jisung tighten around his cock with every impact, hearing the broken little sounds that spilled out of him. The heat of Jisung's skin under his hand, the way it reddened, the way Jisung pushed back into the next spank like he wanted more—it all went straight to Minho's cock.
"Didn't you like my nipples?" Jisung gasped, looking back over his shoulder with dark, challenging eyes despite the tears starting to form at the corners. "Suck them. Play with them. Touch me everywhere. Don't ignore what I want just because you're finally inside me."
Minho pulled out suddenly, the loss making both of them hiss. He flipped Jisung onto his back and manhandled him up the bed until his back hit the headboard, pillows shoved aside. He lowered his head without warning, taking one of Jisung's nipples into his mouth, sucking hard, biting down until Jisung cried out and his hands flew to Minho's hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. Minho moved to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment—sucking, biting, licking the peak until it was swollen and wet and sensitive—then pushed Jisung's legs up, folding him in half until his knees nearly touched his shoulders, and thrust back inside in one deep stroke.
"Fuck—Minho—" Jisung gasped, his eyes rolling back, his confidence cracking slightly under the dual assault of the stretch and the stimulation to his chest. His cock leaked steadily onto his own stomach between them.
Minho forced him down onto the mattress properly, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand, his other hand gripping Jisung's jaw, forcing him to look up, to meet his eyes. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice fierce and dominant, hips never stopping. "I want to see your face when I fuck you. I want to see you break. I want to see the moment you realize you're mine and you've always been mine."
Jisung tried to roll his eyes, tried to maintain that bratty, challenging expression that had driven Minho insane for years, but Minho thrust deep, angling his hips to drag the thick head of his cock against Jisung's prostate with every movement, and the eye roll turned into something desperate, something wrecked. His lips parted, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and spilled over.
"Still acting tough?" Minho growled, his hips snapping forward hard enough that the wet sound of skin on skin filled the room, the hand that was holding his jaw moving to wrap around Jisung's throat—not squeezing, just holding, controlling, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse under his palm. "Still think you're in charge? Still think you're teasing me? Still think you can talk back?"
Jisung bit his lip, his hands fisting in the sheets above his head where Minho held them, his whole body trembling under the onslaught. But he didn't answer, didn't submit fully, and Minho felt that familiar spike of frustration—the need to break him completely, to make him yield, to hear him admit that Minho had won, that Minho owned him, that the years of denial and teasing had all led here.
He thrust harder, deeper, angling his hips to hit that spot inside Jisung with every brutal movement. He could see it happening—see Jisung's composure cracking further, see his eyes going wet with actual tears that tracked into his hair, see his lips parting in silent screams that turned into loud, broken moans he couldn't hold back. He kept going, relentless, merciless, driving Jisung toward the edge of his control, watching him fall apart beneath him, watching the bratty edge melt into pure need.
"Minho—" Jisung gasped, and his voice was different now—broken, desperate, no longer commanding, no longer teasing. "Minho, I—fuck—I can't—it's too much—"
"That's it," Minho growled, his hand tightening on Jisung's wrists, his other hand still at his throat, feeling every swallow, every whimper. "Let go. Cry for me. Show me what I'm doing to you. Show me how good it feels to finally take what you've been offering for years."
Jisung's cried more, more tears spilling down his temples, his mascara slightly smudged in dark streaks. His mouth fell open in a silent cry, and then he was moaning—loud, continuous, broken moans that filled the room, that were probably audible to the neighbors, that he couldn't control anymore. He rolled his eyes back, his head falling to the side, his whole body going limp and tense at the same time, completely overwhelmed by the stretch, the pressure against his prostate, the way Minho's body blanketed him and held him down.
"Please," he whimpered, and the word was like a drug to Minho, like victory, like proof of his dominance after years of being the one who wanted more. "Please, Minho, I can't take it—it's too much—you're too big—I need—please—"
"Stick out your tongue," Minho commanded, his voice rough and dominant, hips never slowing.
Jisung obeyed immediately, his tongue sliding out past his swollen lips, pink and wet and glistening, extended obscenely, waiting. Minho leaned down, gathering saliva in his mouth, and spat directly onto Jisung's tongue—a thick, wet glob that landed perfectly on the extended muscle, glistening in the afternoon light. It dripped slightly at the edges.
Jisung's eyes went dark, his tongue curling back into his mouth to take it all, his throat working as he swallowed, , to savor it. He made a sound—a soft, satisfied hum, as if it was delicious, as if Minho's spit was something precious, something to be cherished. His hole clenched hard around Minho's cock in response.
"that's my cutie" Minho growled, and Jisung whimpered at the praise, his body clenching even tighter, milking him, trying to pull him deeper. The words went straight to both of them.
Minho leaned down further, his mouth hovering over Jisung's, their lips barely touching, their panting breaths mingling hot and ragged and shared. "Open," he commanded softly.
Jisung opened his mouth wide, his eyes fixed on Minho's with complete submission now, and Minho let his mouth open too, their faces pressed close. Then Minho let his saliva gather, let it drool from his mouth into Jisung's in a thick, clear string, watching as Jisung swallowed it, his throat working visibly, his eyes dark and desperate and grateful. Another string followed. Then another. Jisung took every drop like it was a gift.
"Take it," Minho whispered, his voice breaking slightly with the intensity of it. "Take everything I give you. My spit, my cock, my come. All of it. You're going to take all of it."
He was losing control. He could feel it—the careful dominance slipping, the need becoming too much, the desire to consume Jisung completely taking over every rational thought. His thrusts became erratic, harder, deeper, no longer measured or controlled. He was fucking Jisung with a desperation that bordered on violence, his hands gripping too tight, his hips snapping forward with a force that was definitely bruising, that would leave dark marks for days, that made the wet slap of skin on skin the loudest sound in the room. The bed creaked in protest. The headboard knocked a steady, frantic rhythm against the wall.
Jisung's hands moved from the sheets to Minho's back the moment Minho released his wrists, his nails digging in, scratching hard, dragging down Minho's spine with enough force to draw thin lines of blood. The pain sent sparks through Minho's nervous system, made him groan loud and broken, made him thrust even harder, deeper, losing himself completely in the sensation of Jisung's body around him and the sharp sting of those nails.
"Sorry," Minho gasped, his voice rising with every scratch of Jisung's nails, every mark he left on Minho's skin, every red line that bloomed under the pressure. "Sorry—fuck—I'm sorry—I'm losing control—I'm sorry—I can't stop—"
He couldn't stop. Couldn't slow down. Couldn't do anything but chase the heat building in his gut, the pressure coiling at the base of his spine, the release that was just out of reach and getting closer with every brutal thrust. Jisung was whimpering continuously now, a steady stream of broken sounds, his legs wrapped tight around Minho's waist, his heels digging into Minho's lower back, his hands scratching and clawing and holding on like he was drowning, like Minho was the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.
"Minho—" Jisung gasped, his voice breaking on the name, tears still tracking down his face and into his hair. "Minho, I'm gonna—I'm close—please—please come with me—I need you to—please—"
Minho reached between them, his hand wrapping around Jisung's cock, stroking him in time with his brutal thrusts, thumb smearing precome over the sensitive head. "Come my baby" he commanded, his voice rough and desperate and almost pleading now. "Come on my cock. Show me how much you love this. Show me you belong to me. Let me feel it."
Jisung cried out, a sharp, broken sound that cracked in the middle, his back arching off the bed so hard his chest pressed into Minho's, his whole body tensing as he came—hard and messy, spilling over Minho's hand, his own stomach, his chest, some even reaching his chin in long, thick stripes. His hole clenched tight around Minho's cock in rhythmic pulses, milking him, squeezing him, and Minho couldn't hold back anymore.
He wrapped his arms around Jisung completely—one arm around his waist, pulling him flush against Minho's chest so there was no space left, the other around his head, cradling it, his face burying itself in Jisung's neck where the skin was damp with sweat and tears. He thrust deep one final time, as deep as he could go, grinding against that spot inside, and came with a ragged, broken cry, his whole body shaking, his voice cracking as he spilled inside Jisung, filling him, marking him, claiming him completely. Pulse after pulse, hot and endless, until he felt like he had nothing left to give and still kept coming.
"I love you," Minho gasped against Jisung's neck, the words tumbling out without his permission, raw and broken and absolutely true, vibrating against Jisung's skin. "I love you so much—fuck—Jisung, I ador you, I worship you, you're everything to me, you're perfect, you're mine—you've always been mine—"
Jisung's hands were still scratching at his back, lighter now, trembling, leaving marks that Minho knew he would wear for days like badges, and Minho held him tighter, his voice rising with every touch, every mark, every residual pulse of his orgasm.
"Sorry," Minho whispered, his lips against Jisung's throat, his whole body shaking with the aftermath, with the emotion overwhelming him, with the way his cock was still twitching inside the tight heat. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to hurt you—I'm sorry—I love you so much—I'm sorry—I couldn't stop—"
"Shut up," Jisung managed, his voice wrecked but soft, tender in a way that Minho had never heard before, rough from screaming. He wrapped his arms around Minho's shoulders, holding him close, his fingers tracing the scratches he'd left instead of deepening them, soothing the sting he'd caused. "You didn't hurt me. You gave me exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I needed. Stop apologizing. I asked for this. I wanted this."
They lay there for a long moment, tangled together completely, Minho still buried inside Jisung, their bodies pressed flush, their breath mingling in ragged gasps that slowly began to even out. Minho's face was still buried in Jisung's neck, his lips moving against his skin in soft, reverent kisses—his collarbone, his jaw, the shell of his ear, the damp skin behind it, anywhere he could reach. He could taste salt. He could feel Jisung's heartbeat under his mouth.
"You're perfect," Minho whispered, his voice breaking slightly, "You're perfect and I love you and I'm never letting you go. you're my god. mine only, Even when we pretended you weren't."
"love you too" Jisung whispered back, his fingers tangling in Minho's hair, holding him close, his legs still wrapped around Minho's waist keeping him inside even as Minho started to soften. "Because I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you. Not after this. Not ever."
They stayed like that, wrapped around each other, breathing together, Minho's softening cock still inside Jisung, his come marking him, claiming him, slowly starting to leak out around the edges in warm, sticky trails. The afternoon light shifted across the bed, turning golden and soft, bathing them in warmth that made the sweat on their skin glow. Outside, the world kept moving, but in the bed it felt like time had stopped. And for the first time in years, Minho felt whole—felt like he had finally claimed what had always been his, finally admitted what had always been true, finally found his home in the arms of the person he'd been denying himself for far too long. Jisung's fingers stroked through his hair, slow and gentle. Minho pressed one more kiss to the side of his neck and closed his eyes, content to stay exactly where he was for as long as Jisung would let him.
"do you want round two?" jisung offered
"why should we need a round two?" minho's voice was rough
"there are more poses we didn't try" he spoke with a flirty confidence way, and now minho knew his bratty side is coming back
"such an insatiable" he licked jisung's lips once "gimme five minutes" said in a voice that began to show some excitement
"five minutes and i'll show you how to worship me properly" and minho was smiling like an idiot
And that day, They had no intention of stopping.
untill there's no positions left
🌿 ⟡ 🌿