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Pretty.
Everything about Jisung, pliant, willful and warm, is pretty and so incredibly, addictingly sweet.
Bent over and laid out beneath him, Jisung sounds wrecked, lips bitten red from the work of his teeth, strands of wavy bangs matted from the sweat that frames his flushed face, open-mouthed and panting softly into the silence as Minho rocks in and out in a controlled, unhurried rhythm, each push spreading the swell of his ass where he is open and pink.
What little light spills in from outside bathes their shared space with hues of the setting sun, and the expanse of Jisung's damp skin seems to glitter gold, bejeweled with pearls of sweat, like faint stars drifting into twilight's deep.
Minho wants, more than anything, to devour.
He wants to sink teeth into supple flesh and taste everything in offering, tongue a trail from the elegant curve of Jisung's sweaty nape, wants to watch all the muscles in Jisung's back ripple as Minho goes down and down and down till his mouth is watering with desire at the smell of musk and pure honey bleeding from the furl of Jisung's hole, flexing and fluttering around his cock.
Minho wants to lick him up completely, not an inch of skin missed, wants to push the limits of how much the other can fit inside him, how much Jisung's body can stretch and accommodate, wants to bury himself so deep he can stay inside his Jisung forever and drown in the most secret, warmest parts of him.
Jisung makes a particularly dulcet sound when Minho moves a hand up to rake dull nails through his scalp, dragging his head back to expose the enticing flex of his throat. If he wanted, Minho could play his fingers along the column of his neck and feel his breaths catching under the softness, the bobbing swallows as he tries so desperately to remain silent, a feat already lost.
Instead he lets him go – watches as Jisung instantly buries his face into the cushion under him – and leans down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the birthmark that peeks between the dip of Jisung's shoulder blades, licks up the salt and sharp tang gathered there, and smiles into the skin at the jerk of the man's hips, the way the muscles of his tensed biceps twitch with his efforts to hold himself still, with the way he buries his hands even deeper into the pillows on either side of his head.
Laid bare like this, the slope of Jisung's back arches up like a perfect bow, spine dipping low where he is stretched over the bed, where the rise of his ass pushes up into Minho's slow, rolling thrusts.
It makes him look fragile, delicate in a way Minho knows he isn't, and it sets off a part of him that feels sick satisfaction at the idea of Jisung breaking, tearing apart at the seams under him, messy, untamed and beautiful.
Minho wants the world to hear, wants everyone to know that Han Jisung belongs to him, only him. That no one else could ever hope to see him like this, skin bare and burning with need, that no one else could ever bring him to this state, because no one knows him, his body, his mind, the intricacies of him better than Lee Minho.
There are echoes of something primal and visceral bubbling up in Minho's chest, the fierce tendrils of a love so greedy and monstrous for the man sprawled out and coming undone under him. It tightens in his gut, wraps around his throat and heart, and with it comes a compulsion to lay claim, an instinct to claw, shred and burn his mark into every inch of that golden-skin, and have Jisung brand him in return. It's a wildfire that feeds into its own inferno, and Minho knows, with a certainty that makes his heart thunder, that it won't end with just tonight.
More, always more. This monster, Jisung's and Minho's alike, needs to be fed.
So he gives in to temptation, nipping trailing bites down the length of Jisung's spine as much as his folding body allows, teeth catching at the wings of his shoulder blades, laving the sting away and soothing them with sugared kisses.
Short, slender fingers drag along the curves of the younger's ribs, scraping up his sides, and Minho loves the goosebumps that immediately dot his skin, the way the muscles there twitch and quake under his palms. He can feel the harsh clenching around his cock as Jisung moves, perhaps unconsciously seeking more, the muscles of his thighs tightening and pulling taunt where the skin is dripping wet with lube and budding sweat.
When Minho breathes out through his nose and pulls back, returning to his previous position to loom over the trembling body underneath him, Jisung mewls and presses his forehead harder into the pillows, mumbling incoherent words and pleas that drip from his lips and onto the pillowcase, a wet, damp spot already forming where he muffles his cries.
Minho's gaze lazily travels down Jisung's sprawled out form, mapping out the lines, the dark bruises and rosey-red marks of his own making, before settling over the place where they are still joined.
Where, in a move that feels sadistic and cruel even to him, he suddenly slows his thrusts to a halt.
Jisung reacts with a high, keening sound of protest, but he doesn't move, doesn’t chase after him, and Minho knows he won't, not without permission. Instead the man turns his head as much as the angle will allow, his glazed, lust-filled eyes pleading when they find Minho's face, lower lip bitten so harshly it's bleeding and split.
Pretty, pretty, so fucking pretty.
Minho wants to cherish him forever.
Chocolate eyes bore into earthy brown ones, and Minho smiles, saccharine sweet. His hands find Jisung's hips, the pads of his fingers pressing softly into the flesh, molding it to the shape of his hold, and Jisung's breathing hitches.
Inwardly, Minho is soaring, but his face remains calm and unchanged when he starts to speak, "Baby," he coos, and watches the shiver that runs down the expanse of Jisung's spine, "Is my Jisungie not having fun?"
Lies, all lies. The both of them have been aching for this for hours, the minutes stretched out and suffocating under the burning tension between them, hanging like the weight of a guillotine.
Minho knows exactly how much Jisung wants this, craves it like he craves air to breathe. But he needs to hear it, needs to see it spilling from the younger's lips and know, without a single doubt, that Jisung needs it just as badly as he does. That Jisung wants this loss of control, wants to be broken apart and rebuilt in Minho's image and nobody else's.
Under his palms, Jisung shakes, and Minho can already see the wetness glistening in his eyes, gathering at the corners.
"Don't you want to make hyung happy?" Minho continues, voice pitched in the right mixture of cold and hot, honey and vinegar. His thumbs dig hard into the little divots of Jisung's lower back, right above the swell of his ass, and rub slow circles in the tender skin there, "Don't I deserve to see you try a little harder, baby? I thought you were a good boy, Sungie... Don't you want to show hyung what a good boy you are?"
A low keen bubbles up in Jisung's throat, and Minho wants to chase it down, swallow and breathe it back into his lungs.
Jisung blinks the wetness from his eyes, and it clumps his lashes together like morning dewdrops on a spider-silk web, shimmering in the warm light, before his tongue flicks out to lick over his blood-bruised bottom lip.
Jisung's voice is raspy, a mixture of gravel and sand, when he finally answers.
"Hyung," It drips sinful, heavy and languid with the thick arousal clinging to the edges, "I can– I can be a good boy." There is desperation, the kind that bleeds out of someone who is about to burst and break apart, in the way Jisung tumbles over his words, tripping in his hurry to say it, and Minho's entire being sings. It's the sweetest melody, singing in his veins and pulsing in time with his heart, thrumming in his blood until he can hear nothing but the sound of Jisung's frantic breathing.
Jisung trembles, opens and closes his mouth, licks his lips, and finds his voice again.
"Minho hyung," he whispers, eyes deep and liquidy-dark with longing, "Please, I'll do anything– I'll be so good, make you so happy, if you just keep going, please–"
Jisung sounds like he's falling apart, and Minho swears that everything he can't fit inside the other he can feel lodged in his throat, sinking like sweet and addictive poison into his veins.
It's heady, possibly cruel, to make him beg like this, for the bare minimum of what he deserves, but Minho has a feeling Jisung gets off on it. On his careful manipulation of every single one of the younger's nerves, strings tugged and plucked like the deft, unmerciful movements of a puppeteer.
It's another secret held between the two of them, locked behind closed doors, and Minho thinks a million lifetimes could pass by and he would still come to find a high in the pleasure, the beautiful trust placed in his hands, from knowing Han Jisung is all his, mind, body and soul, and would always choose Minho, would always need him just as badly as Minho needs him.
"Then prove it."
Minho drawls the words out in a breath, the last syllable catching on the tip of his tongue.
"Prove it. Sing for me, scream for me, let the whole world know how much you fucking love it," Minho punctuates his command with a slow, almost insignificant rut of his hips, buried to the hilt in the plush, velvet heat of Jisung's ass, "Let them know, Jisung. They may have you on their screens, but you belong to me, only me."
Jisung moans, long and loud, and Minho sees the way his fingers clench hard into the pillows, knuckles turning white under the pressure, the way the flush spreads fast across his face, spills down his chest and stains him in red-hot embers.
Suddenly, the echo of sweat-slicked skin meeting in tandem fills the silence once more, and it takes a moment for Minho's brain to catch up, to realize that Jisung is moving, his body bucking and twisting as he gives it his all, rocking back in aborted jerks and pushing up to chase after his own pleasure and any friction he can get.
His eyelashes flutter, the first, fat drops of tears breaking free, and Jisung lets out the most intoxicating sounds with each push, half-formed sentences and pleas strung together as he forces himself not to hide or seek mercy in the refuge of his pillows.
It's everything Minho has ever wanted to see, and yet, not enough.
"Louder," He growls, the heat in his gut roaring into a fever-pitch and threatening to burn him from the inside out, and his hands trickle up to find a place around Jisung's waist, gripping tight to the narrowest part of him like he wants to leave finger-shaped dents permanently branded on his skin, "You can do better than this, Sungie. I know you can."
With his hold firm, he braces his knees, planting them further into the bed and widening his stance, the strength of his thighs bearing down and slamming his next thrust to meet Jisung's own, unsteady movements at a deeper angle, searching, and the effect is instant.
Jisung wails, mouth dropping open around the scream, and his arms finally give out. He falls into the sheets, helpless to support the jarring impact, and simply turns his head to the side to let the noises pour out of him without interference, a string of endless whines and desperate keens that just as easily turn into unintelligible garbles of Minho's name, slurred and repeated until they’re closer to a prayer.
Tears spill freely, wetting the sheets, and Minho's heart lurches in his chest.
Pretty, so fucking pretty. He looks so pretty like this, loose, open and completely debauched, held captive and at the mercy of Minho's adoring ruthlessness.
"Tsk, tsk," Minho clicks his tongue, a sharp sound that cuts through the barrage of moans, and the man beneath him jolts, clearly startled, "Does Jisungie not love hyung anymore? Am I not worth your efforts? Can't even hold yourself up to take me properly anymore?"
Rough and purposefully brutal, Minho drags one hand back up to the younger's head, tangling his fingers through the roots of his hair, and tugs hard, forcing the man to crane his neck and expose his profile to him.
The angle is awkward, but the view that greets him is ethereal.
Jisung cries, the red in his face blooming into a bright, building burgundy as a new wave of tears gathers at the corners of his eyes, dangling precariously before overflowing and streaking down the soft curves of his cheekbones, running along the bridge of his nose to gather where his mouth is slack and panting for air. Saliva pools at the corners, and a few stray droplets slide down his chin, falling to the bed with each one of his hiccuping breaths, but Jisung barely seems to notice, brown eyes blown wide and unfocused, pupils dilated beyond compare.
He looks ruined and Minho loves it, loves the idea that he can make Jisung this way, loves the way he can drive him to the edge of collapse and Jisung will still inevitably look at him like Minho is sewing his name into the very fabric of the universe, like Minho is his own personal sun, moon and stars, the entire cosmos made for him and him alone.
So he twists the grip he has on Jisung's hair, yanks again, and revels in the cracked sob that breaks past the other's abused lips.
"I asked you a question, Jisung."
Jisung stirs, flinches and then sucks in a shallow breath. Lashes still damp with tears, he blinks - dazed and so gorgeous - and peers up at the older with pleading eyes, "'M sorry, I'm sorry hyung, I'm sorry," he weeps, each and every syllable melting into the next and getting swallowed by his raw, crackled voice, "Love hyung, love hyung so much, please don't stop, want you, only you–"
Torn between the darkest part of him that desperately wants to keep going, wants to break Jisung down until there is nothing left of him but shattered bones and the remnants of his heart lying bloody and exposed in his palms, and his infinitely softer side that would go to the edge of the universe and back if it meant he could somehow keep Jisung smiling and in his arms for eternity, Minho is momentarily caught in a limbo, torn between cruelty and care, selfishness and adoration.
But the ache in Jisung's eyes, the burning desire to please and submit, even as he lies there, utterly wrecked and debauched, vulnerable and bared to every touch, is what tips the scales.
He relinquishes his grip on his hair, watches it fall in disarray against the bed and over his forehead, and brings his hand to the back of Jisung's head instead. Carefully, he rubs gentle circles into his scalp, pressing against the spots he knows are the most sore, and coos quietly, "Good boy," he soothes, the praise dripping off his tongue like liquid sugar, "I won't stop, I promise."
A shudder runs through the length of Jisung's spine, shaking the tension from him, and he sighs, sweet and content, the kind of sigh a lover gives after being kissed to the point of delirium, eyes falling shut as more tears spill down his cheeks.
And Minho knows he has him, all of him. Jisung is putty in his hands, would do anything Minho asked in that moment, would let him take and take and take to the point of his own ruin and further.
Like a wilting flower bending to the power of the wind, Jisung moves at the slightest press and twirl of Minho's fingers, melting under his hands, his whimpers soft and yielding as Minho angles his hips and allows himself to sink even further inside. With a long, drawn-out exhale, Minho shifts, settling himself more comfortably on his haunches and moving to wrap both hands firmly around his waist once more.
The new position changes the angle, the pressure, the intensity, and the first snap cuts like a knife, a single, precise strike.
Jisung makes a noise like he's choking, an inhuman sound that starts from somewhere in his chest and bubbles up in his throat, clawing and scratching its way out of his mouth.
Towering over him, Minho fucks him like he's trying to crawl under his skin and burrow himself inside his organs, nails digging painful lines into the meat of his hips and pulling Jisung back, again and again, meeting every one of his own thrusts with echoing slaps and a relentless pace, with a searing heat that burns him, incinerates his blood and every last bit of oxygen his lungs fight to take in.
It's hot. It's so fucking hot, and Minho feels like he's breathing fire, inhaling sparks and exhaling flames, leaving clouds of smoke to dance and fog around him. The room is nothing but a whirlwind of scents and sounds, of pulsing skin and the heavy musk and metallic sharpness of sweat and sex, a storm threatening to swallow him whole.
Minho watches with a sick, almost voyeuristic fascination as his cock slips back and forth, glides in and out of Jisung's lubed-slick hole in a messy display, never quite slipping all the way out before slamming back in, a filthy squelch accompanying each forceful intrusion.
The sight is so obscene it should shame him, but Minho can only revel in the unrepentant debauchery of it all, high on the knowledge that it's him, it's his dick plunging through that tight, sucking heat over and over again, that it's him who has the privilege of seeing Jisung like this, taken apart and broken, weak and begging, an offer laid bare and bleeding for Minho to take and stake his claim on.
And take he does.
He fucks Jisung like it's their last night on earth, like it's his last chance to be with him, to see him, to feel him and to love him. He fucks Jisung like he's trying to write the lyrics of their song on his body, the story of their love in every brush of their skin, the notes in the moans spilling freely from the younger's mouth.
He fucks Jisung like it's the only thing keeping him sane, like it's the only thing tethering him to this world and to his heart, his lifeblood and reason to keep breathing.
And Jisung takes him just as easily, just as beautifully, offering his everything and more to the man above him, the only person he's ever loved, the only person he's ever needed, his everything and always.
The tension builds, a spring coiled and ready to snap, and Minho is running on autopilot, his mind a haze of white-hot static and cotton as he chases after that last, final push, that last, final note before the crescendo.
Time warps around them, swirling into a blissed-out blur that blinks and morphs in fractured snippets of eternity, one second indiscernible from the next. Two shapes merge and mesh into one, twin spirits fused into a single form, and Minho loses the string, can't tell where one begins and the other ends.
A familiar tightness in his abdomen makes itself known, and Minho knows he's close, can feel his release building to a boil in his gut, warm and sticky like tar and threatening to drown him.
But he doesn't stop. He pushes onwards, speeds up and lets the rhythm fall apart, chasing his pleasure and letting himself be guided by the pull, the mounting pressure as they hurtle towards the crest.
Jisung has long since stopped meeting his thrusts, too weak and boneless to do much else than allow the older to manhandle him, to move his body at will, to use him like a toy. His arms shake, though whether it's from the exertion or the stimulation, Minho can't be sure.
What he can be sure of, however, is the fact that he can feel him closing in as well. Can feel the way Jisung's rim is spasming and clenching down around him, trying to pull him deeper, trying to hold him inside, and the way he's getting tighter and tighter around his shaft with every pump, with every precise, calculated jab of his cockhead against the swollen nub of his prostate.
So Minho shifts one last time, moving to lean forward and press his chest to the expanse of Jisung's back, draping himself over the smaller frame like a blanket and letting his arms snake around his front, wrapping around Jisung's abdomen in a tight, possessive hold, and trapping him under his weight.
He drops down to speak into the shell of his ear, breath hot and uneven as he rasps out a low, guttural growl, "Come for me, baby. Come for hyung like the good boy I know you are."
And Jisung follows, almost instantly.
Pillowy, pretty lips quiver and part, melting into the most sinfully gorgeous cry, a sound too pure and too wrecked for words to begin to describe. In perfect conjunction, his untouched, swollen cock jerks and twitches, spilling ribbons of come all over the bedsheets and staining them a pearlescent white, and the walls around Minho clamp down like a vice, squeezing him so tight Minho nearly sees stars.
The sensation, coupled with the view below him – the rippling of Jisung's muscles, the crimson of his blush, the sheen of sweat over his back, and the tears still spilling from his eyes – sends him toppling over the edge like a careless fool.
Pumping his own release deep inside the younger with a breathless grunt, Minho rides out his orgasm in a languid, easy grind, prolonging the pleasure and milking the aftershocks.
Mere moments later, when his vision clears at least partially and his blood stops ringing in his ears, he practically melts over Jisung's back, barely propping himself up enough to not crush the other completely, and cranes his neck to press open-mouthed, wet kisses into the broad stretch of his shoulders, lavishing the skin with gentle attention.
Jisung mewls, pitiful and soft, and squirms a little, but doesn't attempt to shove him away or try to escape his grip.
So they stay like that, simply embracing each other in a mess of their own making, locked in their own tiny, secret bubble as the world bustles and whirls on behind the closed door of Jisung's room.
So they stay like that, two beasts standing regal and primal -- bloodied fangs and tired eyes, heavy breaths and beating hearts, hot skin and bared souls.
And Minho knows that in a few minutes, once the last dregs of his orgasm fully wane and fade, once he can think clearly and properly breathe again, he will have to get up and clean them both off, will have to wipe their skin of the evidence of their folly and steer Jisung towards the shower to wash off the grime and soothe the aches he himself inflicted onto that lovely body.
He knows Jisung will put up a fight, feigning discomfort and pouting up a storm until Minho will inevitably fold and scoop him up, will carry him bridal-style and gently wash and massage his limbs and wipe away the remnants of tears and drool from his face, will treat him like the prince he deserves to be treated as, will kiss every single bruise and bite in loving apology and tender worship.
He knows they will fall back into bed and snuggle close, and Jisung will burrow his face into his neck and nuzzle him like the sweetest of kittens, will press sleepy, adoring kisses along the curve of his collarbone and murmur quiet declarations of endless love into his skin, while his fingers will be tracing his every feature in the darkness of night, will memorize him over and over again until he falls asleep with Minho's face imprinted behind his eyelids and his name etched in the marrow of his bones.
Minho knows these things like he knows the sun rises in the east and the stars shine at night, like he knows his heart beats for the man in his arms and his lungs draw air for him only. He knows it all like it's written in the cosmos, a law of nature as ancient and as immutable as time.
Knows it like he knows Jisung is and will forever remain the prettiest star in his galaxy, his favorite color in a sea of hues, his most cherished memory in an ocean of dreams.
But, for now, Minho lets himself be lulled by the rise and fall of Jisung's torso beneath him, allows himself to simply exist and take comfort in the other's presence.
After all, a few minutes won't hurt. They have time, all the time in the world.
And Minho plans to savor every last second of it.