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“Every time you move, I go slower,” Minho says simply. He shifts, blink-blink-blinks, and drags his hand up and down, nice and slow, just enough to make Seungmin squirm, mouth falling open and head hitting the pillows behind him.
It started as a joke. Years ago, barely ten minutes after they had exchanged names and ages, Seungmin said something along the lines of, you won’t, and Minho, defiant as ever, eyes glinting, replied, try me.
Of course they became inseparable. Their friends called them divorced. A cat and dog pairing. Two ex-husbands with matching back pain and evil smirks plotting one another’s downfalls.
Seungmin’s always thought that they were just them. Because no matter how many times he growled in Minho’s face, no matter how many times Minho grabbed his ass and complained that there’s nothing there, they kept coming back to each other. Hovering close to one another. Made time in their schedules, again and again, to continue understanding what makes the other tick.
Minho kept a catalogue of Seungminisms in his head. Seungmin did the same. He knew Minho liked to be bothered, with equal parts tease and praise, but only when he was in a good mood. Otherwise, he’d get that look in his eyes, that narrowed, slightly annoyed, testy glare. And Minho knew that Seungmin liked to have his wrist pinned to his back with a borderline-painful grip—anytime, anywhere. (“It’s grounding!” Seungmin defended himself. “Sure,” Minho replied with a smirk on his face. “Grounding.”)
That was usually the way it went. How the cookie crumbled. There was an unspoken rule between them—Seungmin prods, Minho responds. It was a forever-chase, a tap and go, a catch me if you can.
Eventually—inevitably, really, their bond evolved into something bigger—or perhaps, smaller. More intimate. Electrifying stomach flips and exciting shivers running down their spines turned into more familiar touches. A warm hand on the lower back. A grounding shoulder massage. A kiss on the forehead, on the cheek, on the lips. Slow nights spent on the couch together, Seungmin doing word puzzles while Minho hogged the TV, watching his third anime of the month.
Stiff questions became silent, knowing actions. Minho started buying the free and clear laundry pods because the scented ones make Seungmin’s nose itch. Seungmin made Minho’s coffee every morning, with one scoop of sugar and more than a little splash of milk. (Who still denies it, but he doesn’t actually like black coffee all that much.)
With knowing one another’s schedules, with the familiarity of living in Minho’s pocket and vice versa, came an undeniable level of physical closeness as well. As their daily lives shifted towards something more domestic, and dare Seungmin think, loving, their push-pull dynamic was destined to make an appearance somewhere else, wasn’t it? After all, one cannot simply stifle the natural (yet incredibly disruptive) order of Minho and Seungmin’s relationship.
And so:
“Hyung,” Seungmin says—pants, really. His head lolls, his teeth baring in a grimace. Minho’s eager hand is a curse. “You can’t be serious.”
Minho stares him down, face carefully blank, but razor-sharp eyes reveal his excitement. His pupils are completely blown, pitch black, looking like a cat on the hunt. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
“Well,” Seungmin tries not to squirm. It’s on the side of too dry—the pressure of it sends his head spinning. “No, but—”
Minho jerks him off, a quick few strokes. Each one is too dry, sending sparks through Seungmin’s nervous system. He’s is still deciding if they’re good or bad sparks. Typically he’d be a lot better at coming to conclusions, but he’s currently focused on, well, not coming.
“But?” Minho asks, voice light, casual. Like he’s testing the water, testing Seungmin’s reactions.
“Ah,” Seungmin gasps, body betraying his attempt at nonchalance. He tries to recall what he was talking about, but the only thing on his mind currently is Minho an his too-dry hand.
He hums, like seeing Seungmin in mental distress brings him joy. Sick bastard.
“Puppy can’t remember? That’s too bad.”
“Fuck—” Seungmin struggles, “—you.”
“Nah,” Minho grins. “You can have my hand, though.” Every single one of his teeth shines. He went to the dentist recently, and when he got back home, he shoved his fingers in his mouth and pulled his lips apart to show off his pearly whites. After he received an appropriate amount of praise for his flossing routine, he fucked Seungmin into their couch until he was a sobbing mess. They had to sit there in silence for the rest of the afternoon while they recovered. It was beautiful.
“It’s so dry,” Seungmin whines. His thighs shake from the effort of staying still, muscles completely locked up. “And I’m gonna get a leg cramp. Do you want me to get a leg cramp?”
Minho shakes his head. His hand doesn’t stop, jerking slowly up and down. Up and down. “If you get a cramp, I’ll punch it out of you, don’t worry.”
“I’m going to—” Seungmin gasps as Minho twists his hand in a particularly evil way. “I’m gonna kill you. And then we’re gonna break up. Forever.”
“Hah. Like you could ever get rid of me.”
“I could. Watch me.”
“Okay, after I jerk you off.”
Seungmin rolls his eyes, as much as he can while his cock is practically starting to chafe. “It’s too dry. Can you like—get the lube?”
“No,” Minho says happily.
“Spit?”
“Spit on that th—”
“Stop. Talking.” Seungmin grits his teeth, and it’s not from the pleasure. “You need to stop watching those TikToks with Felix, he’s infecting you.”
“I think they’re funny.” Minho wiggles his eyebrows. Seungmin hates how despite anything he does, despite any ugly face he pulls, he still looks beautiful. It’s terribly unfair. “Are you close?”
No, Seungmin is not anywhere near close. Minho’s dirty talk is terrible, and so is his incredibly tight, dry grip. It’s a miracle he isn’t flaccid.
“Maybe I would be if you were better at this. Is this seriously how you jerk—oh, fuck—”
Minho’s free hand flies up and tweaks him in the nipple. Hard.
“Kim Seungmin,” he says impatiently. “You need to learn manners.”
Seungmin arches his back and shoves his mouth into the pillow, probably drooling into it. He’s not a painslut, he swears. It’s just—he was caught off guard. He has sensitive nipples—it’s not his fault.
Minho continues rolling the bud between his fingers, even digging this nail into it meanly. Seungmin tries not to let a moan escape his lips. His legs kick out involuntarily, and Minho’s hand leaves his chest to grab him at the ankle.
“Don’t move. I’ll stop if you move,”
Seungmin doesn’t care. He’s definitely closer now, rapidly approaching his peak at an alarming speed. He whines again, shuts his eyes, bites the corner of the pillow as he feels himself blurt precome. His stomach flutters, abdomen tightening, and it’s an easier glide now. It feels better, good, even, and—
Minho yanks his hand away. Immediately, the heat simmering in Seungmin’s gut disappears to nothing, and his eyes snap open in disgust.
“Hyung, what the hell—”
“I told you,” Minho says, glancing at his precome-dirtied hand. “If you move, I’ll stop.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Your hips were. You were trying to fuck my hand,” Minho pats his stomach. “Puppy got too eager?”
“Put your hand back on my dick or so help me,” Seungmin bites. His thoughts are still fizzling, and he struggles to string a sentence together. It’s as if he dumped a liter of soda water into his cranium. Annoyance bubbles beneath his skin, but it’s not real. He can’t ever stay mad at Minho for too long.
“Hm.” Minho holds his hands in the air, palms facing inwards, as if he’s a surgeon prepping for an operation. But he’s just doing that because he has sensory issues and is trying to avoid getting Seungmin’s precome everywhere. “Say please, and I’ll consider it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then I’ll just sit here until you say please. No hand on dick for you.”
“There is something deeply wrong with you,” Seungmin says blankly. “Seriously, you are something else.”
“Say please, Seungminnie,” Minho sing-songs, completely ignoring him.
Seungmin grits his teeth. That’s the issue with them—their equal streaks of stubbornness. More often than not, they make things work, but it’s times like these, when one of them is trying to out-brat the other, where they butt heads. Because Seungmin would rather die than submit to Minho’s requests willingly, and Minho is utterly an immovable object.
“You’re a brat,” he spits. “Fucking please put your hand back on my dick.”
Minho smiles, and it reaches all the way up to his eyes, face scrunching up in pure delight. “There you go, Seungminnie! I knew you had it in you.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
But it all works out in the end, because Seungmin gets what he wants. Minho’s hand returns, and without any warning, starts working him at the same brisk pace.
“Ah,” Seungmin chokes out in surprise.
“You told me to continue. So here I am, continuing,” Minho says, humming to himself. “Say, it’s really lucky that you leak so much—you don’t even need lube. You’re so wet already.”
Seungmin’s stomach clenches at the comment—it feels dirty, to be talked to as if his body is just convenient. But the pleasure boils in his gut so nicely, and his head spins as all sorts of happy chemicals flood through his brain, that he can’t spend too much time unpacking that.
“You’re made for my hand,” Minho continues, a self-satisfactory smirk playing on his lips. “Bet you’re not this wet when you get yourself off.”
Christ, where did he learn to speak like that? Seungmin flushes a bright red as he notices for the first time how Minho’s hand makes schlick schlick schlick noises.
“You fucking wish,” he gasps out. He may be deep in the throes of pleasure, but he’d rather die than admit his body reacts like this only for Minho. That’s a thought that’ll only be wrenched out of him when he’s barely lucid. Maybe he’ll say it while he’s being pounded into the mattress, with a strong hand clasped around the back of his neck, pressing his face into the bedding. But definitely not now, when Minho’s trying to wring out a measly handjob-orgasm out of him.
“No need to wish when I already know.” A twist on the upstroke. A squeeze on the way down. “You’re an open book.”
Truly, genuinely, Seungmin doesn’t know why he keeps enabling Minho for him to act like this. It’s mindblowing in the most aggravating ways. It’s almost as if he gets off on the power trip—of being able to mash Seungmin’s conscience until he’s a pile of goo, then reforming him into something new.
The worst part is, Seungmin can’t do anything about it, because if he bites back any more, Minho simply has to take his hand off his cock and leave him there, needy and pathetic, like a turtle flipped onto its shell. What a cruel life!
And yet he finds himself coming back, once again building up to an orgasm. The heat pulses in him, expanding and inching towards his extremities, the tips of his fingers tingling with a need for release.
Seungmin’s ability to form sentences has faded by now, only punctuating the air with wet gasps and guttural groans. Thoughts spill out from his ears, useless and fleeting. His only instinct is to keep still, so that the pleasure doesn’t stop once more.
“So much for a dry handie,” Minho says, almost as if he’s disappointed. Like he wanted the fragile skin of Seungmin’s dick to chafe and peel off.
“You’re—fuck—insane,” Seungmin manages to string together two words. He grips the sheets, practically white-knuckling them, the obscene noises from Minho’s fist sending sparks so strong his gums ache. “I’m close.”
“I’m sure,” Minho mutters under his breath. “I’m incredibly talented and you love me.”
Yeah, Seungmin thinks as he crashes headfirst into a well-deserved orgasm. Unfortunately, I really, really do.
Through his haze, he hears Minho’s praises, sweet as usual, but with a sharp undercurrent to them. Just the way Seungmin likes it.
When he opens his eyes (when had he closed them?), Minho hovers dangerously close. He’s waiting for a glowing review, Seungmin knows this expression.
“Five stars.” He gives a weak thumbs up.
“Great,” Minho grins, cat-like. “Hold still, I’m gonna jerk off over your face. And then we’re gonna take a shower and make night-pancakes together.”
And, well. If that isn’t romance, Seungmin doesn’t know what is.