Archive of Our Own

Minho squinted, head jerking back from the refrigerator's bright light, only to groan from the sudden movement. He rubbed his temples, eyes falling shut. It helped. Barely.  

He was really starting to regret the last three shots he downed a mere nine hours ago. He should have said no. Typically, he would have, even if it were his friends. 

But it was Jisung.  

His Jisungie who finally came home after spending his last year of university abroad. His Jisungie who wanted to go all out and celebrate with all his friends. His Jisungie who handed Minho shots of tequila back to back with those pretty eyes, even prettier smile. 

Of course Minho took them, and he knew if he could go back in time right this second, warn his past self about this killer hangover, he would still down the shots. All just to see Jisung's mesmerizing smile. 

Though, he was lucky he just had a hangover, that he and Jisung stumbled back to his apartment unscathed. Minho had woken up to a flurry of texts in their group chat—Hyunjin and Felix sharing one too many pictures of their mystery bruises. Minho had snorted, wrote up a text answering all their questions—they tripped a whopping total of eights times while dancing—then shuffled out of bed to deal with his own problems. 

Minho cracked an eye open, then the other, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the blinding light. He clicked his tongue, mumbling off the different ingredients he needed for hangover soup. One by one, he piled them in his arms. 

“There we go,” he murmured, holding them tightly against his chest. He took a step back, closed the fridge door with his hip, then pivoted on his feet. 

Minho came face to face with a wet and naked chest—Jisung's wet and naked chest. A droplet cascaded, stopping just short of Jisung's belly button, and Minho's mouth dried. 

“Please tell me you're making hangover soup, hyung,” Jisung said. His voice was still a little rough with sleep, and Minho tried to remember if it was always so hot. “This hangover is killing me.” 

Minho followed Jisung's hands. They slid across his stomach, down to the towel around his waist, and Minho's mind became static when he caught a flash of silver. 

Piercings—one on each hip. Jisung had dermal hip piercings.  

Minho, like any other sane person in love with their best friend, dropped all the ingredients and gawked. 

Jisung startled. He scrunched his brows, lightly tilting his head to the side. A beat passed, two. Neither moved, spoke, and Minho wasn't sure he was breathing at this point. 

Jisung was the first to act. He squatted, gripping the towel with one hand, and started placing the ingredients on the counter. Minho could only stare—at Jisung, his piercings.  

When did Jisung get them? And more importantly, how didn't Minho feel them while they were out last night? He had his arm around Jisung one too many—as they danced with their friends, as he pulled Jisung closer to him when people approached them, as they struggled to keep their balance when walking home—and yet, he never noticed. 

“Earth to Minho?” 

Minho shook his head. He caught Jisung's hand waving in front of his face, the worry pooling in Jisung's eyes.

“Are you okay, hyung?” 

“Yeah, sorry.” Minho blinked repeatedly, forced a yawn. “Still trying to wake up.” 

Relief washed over Jisung's face. “Do you want some help with cooking?” He beamed, and Minho realized just how much he had missed that smile. “I picked up a few things while living on my own!”

Minho looked at the scattered ingredients on the countertop, then stole another glance at Jisung's piercings. 

“Get dressed first,” Minho said, looking at Jisung. 

Jisung pouted. “But I can—”

Minho took a step closer and flicked Jisung's stomach. “Safety hazard,” he smirked, then stepped back. He grabbed a cutting board, his favorite knife, and a pot. He set them before himself, then pointed towards the guest bedroom. “Go get dressed, Jisung-ah.” 

Jisung huffed. He dragged his feet across the floor, whined about the nonexistent dangers of cooking while properly dressed, and Minho chuckled. He still shooed him away, a feline grin forming as Jisung kept turning back to pout at him. 

Once Jisung was gone from his line of sight and hopefully getting dressed—for Minho's sake—Minho stared at the ingredients. He tried to remember how he made it before Jisung left, what he did differently that had Jisung almost crying because he wasn't going to have Minho's cooking for a year. But all that came to mind were two silver beads, the droplets surrounding them. 

Did Jisung whine, high and loud, when the needle pierced his skin? Did he cry? Would he react the same if Minho pulled the piercings between his teeth? If he were sitting on Minho's cock? 

Minho's eyes snapped open. 

Oh fuck.

***

Minho was being punished—by the universe, by every deity known to man. He didn't know. But someone was hellbent on torturing him, making his life a miserable, horny mess.  

For the past month, Minho had to endure Jisung, his best friend, looking more and more fuckable every passing second. He lived in crop tops. He lounged around the apartment in them, used them as his go to top when he went out, cuddled up next to Minho in the shortest ones he owned. Minho questioned how many Jisung owned, wondered if he somehow possessed every single one ever made. 

Some days, though, the universe was kinder, and Jisung drowned himself in t-shirts. But the kindness only extended so far, and Minho felt his brain short circuiting every time the shirt rode up. He'd catch a glimpse of shiny jewelry and forget how to make his brain to mouth filter work. 

It was heaven—hell. He didn't…

Minho jolted. He smacked Changbin's hand, then sniffled. He glared at a smirking Changbin. 

“Are you finally going to listen?” Changbin made another pinching gesture, and Minho pushed his hand away again. “Or are you going to keep daydreaming about Sungie?” 

Minho pursed his lips. “I was not—”

“You had your daydreaming about Han Jisung face,” Changbin said, pointing a finger at Minho, smirk widening. “So don't even try to deny it, hyung.” 

Minho scoffed. “I do not have a—”

“You do,” Changbin said; he had the audacity to sound exasperated.  

Minho opened his mouth, then shoved a hefty bite of bulgogi in his mouth. He didn't want to argue. Not about Jisung, definitely not with Changbin. Minho could never lie to him. 

“It's nice having him back home,” Changbin grinned. “Missed being able to pick at his brain while in the studio.” 

Minho thought about Jisung's piercings. 

“He's ruining my life, and my dick is going to chafe at this point,” Minho said, then downed half his soju. 

Changbin jerked his head back, eyes almost bulging out of his head. “Oh. Well, that's—”

“Ask him to stay with you and Seungmin while he's looking for a place to stay,” Minho said. If he could avoid seeing Jisung—and those damn piercings—then maybe he wouldn't be plagued by thoughts of fucking him stupid. 

Changbin gave him a deadpan look. “Did you already forget how we offered first and you threatened to peel off our skin?” 

Minho remembered. That day Jisung had messaged in the group chat asking who he'd be able to stay with while he worked on finding his own place. Before Minho could even offer his guest room, fucking Kim Seungmin sent a string of questionable emojis and volunteered (Minho was still convinced he did it just to grate him). He had to separately message his friends a threat or two, then happily offered his apartment once they all made excuses. 

“No clue what you're talking about,” Minho nodded. 

Changbin laughed. It was a miracle the other restaurant patrons didn't snap their heads to see his fit of giggles. “You made your grave, hyung,” he sighed, wiping faux tears. “Now you gotta lie in it.” 

Minho groaned, rolling his eyes. If he rolled them hard enough, maybe they'd get stuck. That could solve his issue, put an end to Jisung's taunting jewelry. 

Changbin's grin didn't waver. He picked at his food, then eyed Minho. “What exactly is the problem with Sungie staying at yours?” 

“His piercings,” Minho said, like it was obvious. 

It should have been. He knew he was a million times worse when they all got together; smoke could be seen coming out of his ears when any of their friends got too close to Jisung's hips, when they complimented the piercings a little too much. Minho had no right to be jealous—possessive—but he was. 

“But he's had them for months,” Changbin shrugged. “Why is that a problem now?” 

Minho gaped. “What?” 

“What do you mean what?” Changbin looked just as confused as Minho felt. 

“He's had them for months?” Minho asked, practically shouted. 

He didn't care that that was what finally made strangers turn to look at them before resuming their own conversations. Changbin slowly nodded, confusion still visible. 

“I learned about their existence the morning after he came back,” Minho murmured. 

Changbin's smirk returned. “Maybe he wanted to surprise you.”

“What?” Minho blinked at him. 

“Hyung,” Changbin sighed, setting his chopsticks down. “You can't be this oblivious.” 

“Oblivious,” Minho repeated. His brows furrowed. “About what? What do you mean?” 

Changbin sighed again. “All I'm saying is that we all knew about Sungie's piercings the moment he got them,” he nodded his head, emphasizing each word like it'd help Minho understand him better, “and maybe there's a special reason he wanted you to find out by seeing them.” 

Minho stared at him blankly. 

Changbin slapped his forehead. Hard. Minho winced in pain for him. “You're as bad as him,” Changbin mumbled. 

“What do you—”

“Let's finish up.” Changbin clapped his hands together, then picked up his chopsticks again. “I miss my Seungminnie.” 

“Fine,” Minho huffed. 

But nothing was fine. He was still hopelessly in love with his best friend, still being haunted by his dermal hip piercings that were single handedly going to be responsible for Minho’s dick exploding. But now he was also lost in a pool of questions, and no matter how long he stared at the red spot on Changbin's forehead, he didn't get any answers. 

Minho swore under his breath as he struggled to carry his leftovers—a fresh, hot serving he didn't pick at because he wanted to bring it home to Jisung—and unlock the front door. He fiddled with his keys, trying to find the right one, and almost erupted into cheers when he did. He slid the key into the lock, still careful with the food, and pushed the door open. 

He stepped into the apartment and immediately wanted to step out. Or bang his head on the door frame. 

Jisung was sprawled on the sofa. He wore a t-shirt, which would have been Minho's saving grace if it wasn't riding up to Jisung's torso, and booty shorts. He had a controller in his hand, eyes glued to the TV. Minho was thankful for that. Jisung didn't need to witness his inner turmoil trying to spill. 

Minho shook his head, then toed off his shoes. He slipped further into the apartment and held the bag of leftovers up.

“I brought you leftovers,” Minho said. 

Jisung jumped, controller slipping from his hands. He glared, only for his scowl to drop once he looked at Minho. 

“You're finally home,” Jisung grinned. He waved off the food—not without mumbling a you're the best, thank you, hyung—and gestured for Minho to come closer. He lifted his legs and patted the empty seat. “Come play with me, Minho-hyung.” 

Minho swallowed a moan. He didn't hesitate to drop the leftovers on the table and join Jisung. Before he could make himself comfortable, Jisung's legs were falling onto his. He pushed one off, then laughed as Jisung whined for him to stop being mean. 

“I'll save that for the game then,” Minho said, giving Jisung's ankle a light squeeze. 

A coy smile spread across Jisung's lips as he gave Minho a controller. “I'm going to kick your ass at Mario Kart.” 

 “Oh?” Minho smirked, glancing between the selection of characters and Jisung's smug grin. “Don't cry on me when I throw a blue shell at you.” 

Jisung rolled his eyes. “I'll still win despite your conniving ways!” 

“Get ready to eat your words, Jisung-ah,” Minho chuckled. 

Minho was going to win. Despite Jisung being the conniving one, tossing blue shells every time Minho took the lead or leaving a trail of banana peels when he was ahead of him. Victory was in his grasp, and with it, the cherished prize: picking the movie for their movie night (a reward was thought of by their third lap because Jisung insisted they played for something). 

Just as Minho managed to dodge Jisung's futile attack, his sharp intake of breath stole Minho's attention. One second he was looking at the screen, just about to pass up Yoshi, and the next, he was turning to see Jisung carefully lifting up his shirt. Jisung pressed a finger just below one piercing, rubbed the reddened skin. 

Minho didn't hear the music indicating one of the characters won first place, nor the thump of his controller landing on the floor. He shifted, nestling between Jisung's legs as he practically caged Jisung against the sofa. 

Minho glanced between Jisung's smooth fingers and his teeth digging into his bottom lip. Part of him wanted to swipe his thumb across Jisung's lip, push his thumb between his teeth instead. But best friends didn't do that, and Minho had to bury the desire. 

“What's wrong?” Minho asked, voice knitted with concern. He poked Jisung's cheek, earned a weak laugh. “Was it my guaranteed victory?” 

Jisung laughed harder this time, smacking Minho's hand. “You wish,” he huffed, tying his shirt in a makeshift knot. “One of my piercings had gotten caught on my shirt.”

“Oh,” Minho said, dumbly. 

He stared at Jisung below him, eyes moored to those damn piercings again. How would they look surrounded by bite marks? Colorful bruises? Would they stand out more? Would Jisung like…

“Do you like them?” 

Minho's gaze jumped to Jisung's. He traced the flush on Jisung's cheeks, the pout he was trying to hold back. 

“What?” Minho finally said. 

“My—the piercings,” Jisung stammered, looking down at them. “Do you like them?” 

Minho's hand traveled to Jisung's hip. His thumb grazed the skin just below the piercing. Smooth and warm and perfect because it was Jisung. Minho wanted to feel it against his tongue. His thumb hovered over the piercing, and before rationale could catch up to him, he pressed down against it. Jisung groaned, bucking into his touch, and Minho's head spun with want.

“Did they hurt?” Minho asked, unable to mask the strain in his voice. 

“A little,” Jisung smiled, voice winded. 

Minho pressed against the piercing again. Harder this time. “So, a lot.” 

“Yeah,” Jisung laughed, airy and soft. His fingers draped Minho's hand, and he made Minho push down again. He shivered. “But I liked it.” 

Fuck.

Minho could feel his dick stirring. If he were any closer, Jisung would have felt it against his thigh. The realization still wasn't enough to make Minho pull back. Instead, he leaned closer, until their noses were a mere centimeters away. 

He licked his lips. “Is that why you got them?” 

“I—I got them—shit, hyung.” Jisung whimpered as Minho fiddled with the piercing again. Though, he didn't shy away. He arched into Minho's touch again, eyes clouded. “Minho.”

“I'm listening, Jisungie,” Minho murmured. “Tell hyung.”

Jisung surged forward, and their lips met. Briefly, not enough to be a real kiss. But it shook Minho's heart just the same. It made him bold—desperate.  

Minho moved to meet Jisung again, to give him a real kiss. Just as their lips brushed against each other, music from the game blared in the room.

Jisung yelped, and Minho stumbled to his side, crash landing to the faux wooden floors. Before he could even register the lack of warmth or the pain thrumming through his back, Jisung jumped to his feet and declared he had to shower before scurrying away. 

Minho blinked once, twice. He touched his mouth, felt the ghost of Jisung's lip—a memory he was already chasing.

Shit.

***

They didn't talk about it. The almost-kiss, kinda-kiss, not-a-real-kiss-kiss—Minho didn't even know what to call it anymore. 

He had waited for Jisung to get out of the restroom so they could talk about it. But the second Jisung stepped out and saw Minho, he scrambled to the guest room and didn't come out until noon the next day. Even then, Jisung still avoided Minho or changed the topic entirely.

So, Minho let it go. 

They fell back into their normal routine soon after. It was easy, natural. Minho cooked them breakfast before work, spent his time on the clock thinking about Jisung, then picked him up from the studio so they could go home together. It was almost domestic, and Minho tried not to think about how much he'd miss it once Jisung found his own place. They were okay—the same Minho and Jisung. 

Sometimes, though, there was a tangible tension between them. Minho felt it every time they shared a meal, and he kept staring at Jisung's lips; every time Jisung bumped into him after he finished exercising and stared at Minho's arms a second too long; every time they watched a movie and they both realized just how close they were. But they didn't acknowledge it, just let it fizzle out before either could do something they'd regret. 

But that was okay. At least, Minho was trying to convince himself it was. He and Jisung were…

Minho twitched, jerking away from the cool touch. He reached for his neck, glaring at Jisung's wide smile. 

“Why?” 

“You weren't paying attention to the movie,” Jisung said, jutting his bottom lip out. Minho wanted to suck on it. Jisung reached for Minho's neck again, giggling as he wiggled his cold fingers. “It was either this or tickling you.” 

Minho rolled his eyes. “You wouldn't have managed that.”

“Oh?” Jisung raised a brow, properly sitting up. He inched closer to Minho, holding both hands out. “Is that a challenge, Minho-hyung?” 

“You won't like where it'll end, Jisung-ah,” Minho chuckled, sitting upright. 

Jisung smirked. “You're on.”

He lunged at Minho before he could get another word in. Minho fell back into his pillows, laughing as Jisung eagerly tried to attack. Minho easily evaded, landing his own ticklish jabs that left Jisung reaching for a pillow to use as a shield. 

“Valiant effort,” Minho hummed, stealing the pillow from Jisung's arms and tossing it to the floor. He pulled Jisung's ankle, causing him to topple back into the bed. “But you're going to lose.” 

He climbed on top of Jisung, straddling his thighs. Jisung's arms flailed, making a last ditch effort to tickle Minho, but Minho was swifter. He caught Jisung's wrists in one hand, then slammed them into the mattress, right above his head. 

Jisung heaved under him, and Minho smirked. He leaned in closer, tightening his hold on Jisung's wrist. “How's the challenge going, Jisungie?” 

Jisung whimpered. “Minho.” 

Minho's breath came quicker. He looked at Jisung. His plump lips and rosy cheeks, his softening eyes. 

They were close, and every breath Minho took was Jisung—all Jisung.  

Minho didn't know who acted first, or if they moved in tandem, just that one second they were breathing each other in, and the next they were kissing. 

Not an almost-kiss, not a kinda-kiss, not a not-a-real-kiss-kiss—a real, earth-shattering, kiss. Jisung's lips fit against his perfectly, the missing piece of the puzzle he always searched for. Soft and sweet, and everything Minho ever wanted. 

He felt Jisung's tongue against his bottom lip, and Minho darted back. Reality set in. He kissed Jisung—his best friend.  

He kissed his best friend.  

He opened his mouth, apology on the tip of his tongue, and Jisung whined. 

“Minho,” Jisung breathed. He cocked his head up, tried to close their distance again. “More. Please.”

Minho gaped. He could barely process Jisung's words, let alone move. A minute passed, then what felt like an hour, and Minho still couldn't do anything. It wasn't until Jisung wriggled his hands free and cupped Minho's face.

“I want you to kiss me again, Minho,” Jisung whispered, bumping his nose with Minho's. “Please, Min—”

Minho kissed him again. Harder, a little desperate, like he was trying to show Jisung that he wanted this just as much, maybe even more. 

Jisung's hands dropped to his chest, his stomach, then waist. He tugged at Minho's clothes, and Minho let him. Jisung could stretch and ruin his shirt and Minho wouldn't bat an eye, not with Jisung's tongue gliding against his. 

Minho sucked on the tip of his tongue, swallowed the moans pouring out of him. He loved them, wanted to pull every moan from Jisung that he could. 

“Jisungie,” Minho murmured. “Wanna fuck you.”

Jisung moaned into the next kiss, pulling Minho on top of him. “Please, hyung. Please.” 

Minho dipped his fingers into Jisung's waistband, toyed with the button. He sighed as Jisung's hands slithered under his shirt, tracing every dip and curve like he wanted to engrave Minho into his fingertips. They were both impatient, itching for more, and yet, their hands worked leisurely. 

They pushed and pulled at fabric just to seek each other's mouths again, the heat from their bodies, after disregarding the garment. Minho loved it, knew he could map every inch of Jisung from memory alone. 

“Minho,” Jisung said, voice laced in want, hunger. “I need more. Please.” 

Minho hummed. He pulled back, only to chuckle as Jisung tried to chase his lips again. He pushed Jisung into the bed, then his legs to his chest. 

“My greedy Jisungie,” Minho smiled, then spit into Jisung's hole. “I'll give you everything you want, jagi.” 

Minho pressed his tongue flat against Jisung's hole, then circled his rim. He repeated the action until Jisung's hole was soaked in his spit and Jisung was wailing for more. He dipped his tongue inside and reveled in Jisung's choked moans. 

“Minho-hyung, please. More—need more, please.” 

Minho obliged. He fucked Jisung open with his tongue. He moaned every time Jisung clenched around him, tugged at his hair and grinded against Minho's tongue. He added a finger, then a second, and watched as Jisung became puddy. 

He leaned back to get a better view. He needed to catch every reaction, memorize how Jisung's body shook and flexed from pleasure. Jisung was perfect—alluring.

Minho's gaze lowered, and he groaned when he noticed the silver jewelry. They shimmered, stole every bit of Minho's attention like they had for the past two months. 

“Why did you get these, Jisungie?” Minho gravitated towards the piercings, nipped at the skin around them. Jisung only moaned in response, and Minho bit him harder, pressed his fingers against Jisung's prostate. “I asked you a question, Jisung-ah.” 

“Missed you,” Jisung cried.

Minho stilled. He tore himself from Jisung's raw hip and looked at him. “Because you missed me?”

Jisung nodded, tried to; he could only do so much with his head digging into the bed. “You'd always have your hands around my waist, my hips, and I missed it—missed you,” he whimpered, trying to fuck himself on Minho's fingers again. “And I got the piercings because it felt like I had a part of you with me.” 

You're going to ruin me, Minho thought. You already have.  

Minho pulled his fingers out, and secured both his hands around Jisung. He flipped them over, practically manhandling Jisung until he was sitting on his thighs, wide-eyed and breathless. 

“Ride me, Jisung-ah,” Minho said, running his hands up and down Jisung's thighs. He applied more pressure, licked his lips when precum leaked from Jisung's cockhead. “Show hyung how much you missed him.” 

Jisung nodded, readjusting himself better. He tipped his head down, and a string of saliva slipped past his lips. Minho hissed when it landed on his neglected cock, and almost came when Jisung spread the slick along his shaft. He barely managed to collect himself before Jisung was lifting himself up and teasing his rim with Minho's tip. 

Jisung quivered the more he sank down on Minho's cock, looked like he'd come any second. He took half of Minho's cock and became a moaning mess of: Minho-hyung. So big. Feel so full.  

“Go on, jagi,” Minho grunted. His hands trailed to Jisung's hips, just below his piercings. “Be good and sit on hyung's cock.” 

Jisung whined, thighs vibrating against Minho's. He slammed down, filling himself to the brim, and came. He shook through his orgasm, tears threatened to fall, and Minho had to resist every urge to fuck him into the mattress and milk him dry. 

“Jisung.” Minho's voice was rough; he almost didn't recognize it as himself. 

“Sorry, ‘m sorry, hyung,” Jisung cried, burying his face in his hands. “I didn't—I wasn't—”

“Jisung.” Minho pulled Jisung's hands back. He peppered them both in kisses. “That was so fucking hot.” 

Jisung let out a shaky breath. “Really?” 

Perfect. So perfect.

“Yes,” Minho answered. He glanced at Jisung's cock and grinned when he noticed how hard he still was. “Wanna see you come again, jagi.” 

Jisung fell into Minho's chest, causing them both to groan from the sudden movement, and kissed him. Minho sighed into the kiss, trailed a hand up and down Jisung's spine. He smirked when he felt Jisung's cock twitch against his stomach, leak precum that had to have mixed with his drying cum. 

“Gonna ride you,” Jisung mumbled. “Wanna make you feel good, Minho.”

“You already are,” Minho said. 

Jisung smiled. He kissed him once more, then sat up. 

“You sure you're okay to—” 

Minho's words evaded him as Jisung lifted himself entirely off his cock, then came back down. His hands sought Jisung again. He had to ground himself before he came too soon. His thumbs grazed Jisung's piercings, and they both moaned. 

“Used to,” Jisung sharply inhaled. “Used to get off like this.” 

Minho's grip tightened. “Oh?” 

“Would ride my dildo while pushing against them.” Jisung shuddered each time he swallowed Minho whole. His skin glistened with sweat, and his curls began sticking to his nape, his face. He was beautiful. “Would think about riding you instead—having your hands on me.” 

“Fuck—Jisung.” 

“Wanted you so bad, hyung,” Jisung whimpered, tears threatening to spill again. And still, Minho could see the care in his eyes, the love; it matched what Minho had been harboring all this time. “Always wanted you, Minho.” 

“Me too, jagi,” Minho breathed. He pulled Jisung against him again and kissed him again. “Always wanted my Jisungie.” 

Jisung moaned against him. He rocked back against Minho as he kissed him, then stopped all together. He pushed himself up, keeping himself upright by holding onto Minho's waist. 

“Hyung, I can't,” Jisung whined, high and loud. Minho loved it. “Need you to fuck me.” 

“Pretty baby,” Minho cooed. “But you look so pretty sitting on my cock.” 

Jisung whined again, and Minho's smile widened. He held Jisung's waist, then lowered his hands again. He flicked both silver beads, then dug his thumbs into the space just below them. 

“Should hyung help you?” Minho asked.

Jisung nodded. “Please, please.” 

Minho's grip tightened, and he lifted Jisung, then pulled him back down on his cock. He did it again, carrying Jisung higher this time, until his cockhead was right at Jisung's rim, then brought him back down.

“Minho-hyung—fuck.” Jisung secured a hand around his slick cock, timed his strokes with Minho's ministrations. “Wanna come. Can I—can I come? Please, hyung.” 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  

Minho held Jisung against him. He looked up, felt like he'd come again just from the sight of Jisung looking wrecked. Minho's nails dug into him, almost drew blood, and Jisung worked his hand faster. 

“Hyung—Minho, please. Let me. Please—”

“Not yet, jagi,” Minho said. 

Jisung whined. So pretty, so perfect. Minho could devour him. 

Minho's thumbs toyed with Jisung's piercings. He swirled them once, then pushed into them. “You'll come when I tell you to.” 

“Can't,” Jisung cried, shaking his head. “I can't—”

“I know you can,” Minho said, sweetly. He applied more pressure, smiled as Jisung's entire body jerked, like he couldn't decide if he wanted less or more. “And you will.”

Jisung gripped the base of his cock, knuckles close to turning white. He sobbed, legs smacking against Minho's. 

“There we go,” Minho said, breathless. He pressed against the piercings once more. “Such a good boy for me, jagi.” 

Jisung keened. 

Minho secured his hands around Jisung again, raised him up before another plea could slip from his red lips, then slammed him back down. His pace was brutal—he was guaranteed to have sore arms the following morning—and had his own orgasm threatening to wash over him. But Minho didn't stop. All he could think about was how good he was making Jisung feel, all the thank yous and pretty moans he pulled out of him each time he hit his prostate. 

“Please, please, hyung. Wanna come,” Jisung babbled, hooded eyes moored to Minho's. “Please, Minho.”

“Go ahead, Jisungie,” Minho grunted, working his arms faster. “Come for hyung. Make another pretty mess, jagi.”

Just as Minho brought him down on his cock, Jisung came again. He was quieter this time, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a silent scream. 

“Good boy,” Minho moaned, bucking his hips up. “So good for me. My perfect Jisungie.” 

Jisung whined, meeting Minho's thrusts until his legs gave out and he collapsed onto Minho's chest. Minho slowed.

“Keep going,” Jisung whimpered. “Want you to come inside—”

That was all it took to tip Minho over the edge. He groaned into Jisung's neck, snuck a hand into his hair and lifted his head so they could kiss. It was sloppy, more moaning and panting against each other's mouths than anything, but Minho wouldn't have it any other way. This was all he ever wanted. 

By the time they finished cleaning up and settled into bed, Minho's arms ached. Despite the sharp pain shooting across his biceps each time he moved his arms, he engulfed Jisung, hugged him tighter. He buried his head in Jisung's nape, kissed the spot once, twice. Jisung giggled and pulled Minho's arms, securing them just below his piercings. 

“Did you…” Minho kissed Jisung's nape again, his shoulder. “Did you really get those piercings because of me?” 

“Yes,” Jisung sighed, relaxing in Minho's arms. “I really missed you.”

Minho's heart leapt. “Why didn't you just tell me how you felt?” 

If he had known, he would have met Jisung. Minho would have confessed right then and there, found a way to stay with him. 

Jisung twisted, kicking Minho's leg in the process, and pushed himself up. “Minho, I have been in love with you since forever,” he said, a heart-shaped smile tugging on his lips. “And I got dermal hip piercings because of you.” 

Minho softly laughed, pulling Jisung into his chest. “I've been in love with you,” he kissed Jisung's temple, his cheekbone and the corner of his mouth, “since forever too, Jisungie.” 

Jisung beamed at him, and Minho wished he could bottle it. He'd use it for a rainy day, a starless night. He leaned forward, and Jisung met him halfway.