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Jisung doesn’t question much about himself.
He likes girls. He likes girls a lot.
He likes skirts and lip gloss and soft voices. He likes the smell of shampoo on someone’s neck when they lean over him. He’s always known this.
So when the SKZ-Family script lands in the group chat, Jisung reads “Auntie Lina” and thinks: Okay, funny. Minho’s gonna look ridiculous.
Jisung doesn’t think about it again for the rest of the night. The script is a meme, the way all their holiday specials are a meme. He imagines Minho in a wig for two seconds and laughs into his pillow before going to sleep.
Filming day arrives before he knows it.
Everyone gathers early at the studio, yawning and half-dressed, clutching iced coffees like life support. The makeup staff swarm instantly. Felix is complaining before he even sits down.
“They’re making me a grandpa,” he mutters, glaring at the prosthetic wrinkles laid out on a tray. “I’m too young for this. I’m spry. I have vitality.”
Seungmin pats his shoulder as he walks by. “You will be a stunning eighty-year-old.”
Felix growls. “I better get to be a girl next time.”
Changbin is already digging through the wardrobe rack, holding up Minho’s white t-shirt in one hand and Hyunjin’s wig cap in the other. “Hyunjin is gonna look so cute.”
Hyunjin flips him off while adjusting the wig they gave him. “I’ll look glamorous.”
Jisung laughs along, because this is what he expected. Minho in drag has been a running joke for weeks: too pretty, too confident, too evil for his own good. Jisung assumes he will look silly, maybe cartoonish. He imagines the vibe will be more Halloween costume than actual transformation.
The staff finish prepping Hyunjin first. He steps out in a short bob and black cardigan, posing dramatically while the members rate him out of ten. Then Jisung gets shoved into his mute-patterned dad outfit. Felix gets his fake gray hair. Everything is fine. Everything is normal.
Jisung minds his business and sips from his water bottle.
The room buzzes with teasing laughter, someone hoots, someone whistles, a stylist says, “Wow, you wear this too well.”
Jisung glances over.
The water bottle stops halfway to his mouth.
Minho stands in the mirror, tugging the wig into place. Soft curls fall over his forehead. Pearl earrings glint under the lights. The jeans fit annoyingly well, cinched at the waist in a way that doesn’t hide his frame, only softens it. The makeup is subtle, barely there, just enough to tilt Minho’s face into something unfamiliar.
He doesn’t look ridiculous.
He doesn’t look like Minho, either.
He looks like a completely new category of person.
Jisung’s brain flickers—once, twice—before shutting down entirely.
Minho turns slightly, checking the back of the wig, and Jisung watches it in real time: the slow drag of fingers through the curls, the tilt of his head, the way his profile sharpens under the soft lighting.
Something unsticks in Jisung’s chest. Something slips out of alignment.
His legs feel weird.
His face feels hot.
Hyunjin saunters by and claps him on the shoulder. “Why do you look like that?”
Jisung blinks. “Like what?”
“Like someone punched you in the nuts.”
He tries to laugh, but it comes out cracked. “I’m good.”
“You’re staring,” Hyunjin sings, and walks off before Jisung can deny it.
Jisung looks away—too fast, too guilty—and pretends to check his mic pack. Minho walks past him on the way to set, hips swaying lightly, hair drifting behind him.
“Ready?” Minho asks.
The voice is Minho’s. The face is not Minho’s. The whole situation is a crime against Jisung’s nervous system.
“Yeah,” Jisung says. It sounds like a lie even to him.
☆
Jisung doesn’t remember walking to the bathroom. One moment he is on set, blinking at Minho’s silhouette behind the camera lights, and the next he is pushing open the restroom door like someone fleeing a crime scene.
The latch clicks shut behind him. The sudden silence rings in his ears.
He leans his weight onto the sink, gripping the porcelain until it creaks. His reflection stares back: cheeks flushed, hair disheveled, eyes wide in a way that suggests he’s definitely losing his mind.
This cannot be happening.
He tries to breathe. The air is sticky, too warm for a studio restroom. His heart hasn’t stopped pounding since the fruit-tray scene. His chest tightens every time he thinks about it—Minho’s hands steady, the wig falling forward just a little, the way the belt cinched around his waist.
A pulse of heat flickers low in his gut.
He slams his eyes shut immediately.
There’s no fucking way his cock is hard right now.
That thought hits him with the force of a collapsing building. His stomach drops so sharply he feels nauseous. This is a mistake. A glitch. A biological betrayal of catastrophic proportions. The kind of thing that only happens in nightmares or cursed fairytales.
He forces his eyes open, hoping the wave of panic will shock his body back into compliance.
It doesn’t.
He glances down, horrified, and sees the unmistakable strain against the front of his pants.
“What the fuck,” he whispers.
The mirror reflects someone on the verge of death. His hands grip the counter so hard his knuckles go white. His pulse hammers low in his pelvis, deep and hot and insistent, like his nerves are mocking him.
This has to be a joke. Some kind of stress response. A fluke. His brain is probably confused. The fabric of his costume is too thin. The lighting is too warm. Something is stimulating some reflex he can’t control.
None of those excuses make sense.
He presses his thighs together. The pressure sends a slow, humiliating throb up his spine. His breath catches.
“What the fuck,” he repeats, voice cracking.
The ache doesn’t stop. It sits heavy and solid, filling him with this awful, dizzy warmth that swallows his thoughts before he can organize them. He feels raw, almost feverish, like his body is reacting to something unfiltered and instinctive.
Minho’s image flashes behind his eyelids—soft curls, gentle makeup, eyes that sparkle whenever someone makes a joke.
Jisung’s hips twitch.
He slams a hand against the sink again. This time the sound echoes sharply, bouncing off the tiles. He bows his head, forehead nearly touching the counter, breathing shakily through clenched teeth.
None of this makes sense. None of this should be happening.
He tries to think of something else. Anything else. His favorite snacks. His to-do list. The choreography for their comeback. Stock photos of rocks. Whatever might kill the heat burning in his stomach.
No image holds. His brain keeps flicking back—again and again—to Minho’s silhouette in those fucking jeans, the waistline tightening in all the wrong ways, his fingers brushing curls behind his ear with practiced ease.
Jisung’s hips jerk forward before he can catch himself.
He gasps, slaps a hand over his mouth, and bends over the sink, breathing hard.
“I’m straight,” he whispers against his fingers. “I’m straight. I’m straight, I’m straight, I’m—”
His cock throbs in direct contradiction.
Cold panic rushes through him. He shoves a hand under the faucet, splashes icy water over his face, neck, wrists—anywhere he can reach. Droplets slide down his shirt collar and cling to his skin, sharp and uncomfortable. He welcomes the sting.
The temperature shift doesn’t fix anything.
His pulse stays thick and low. The ache stays alive beneath the waistband of his costume. His body refuses to cooperate, stubborn in its betrayal.
He squeezes his eyes shut again, voice barely audible as he braces his hands on the counter.
“What the hell is wrong with me?”
☆
Jisung waits until the apartment is quiet.
The others are asleep—Changbin’s room dark, Chan’s snoring faint through the wall, Hyunjin passed out on the couch in the living room. The lights are off. His phone is on silent. The silence stretches like a held breath.
He lies flat on his back in bed, one hand resting on his stomach, eyes locked on the ceiling.
This is fine.
This is normal.
He’s just going to get it out of his system.
A little mental reset. A little reorientation. A little alone-time with the lights off and his thoughts properly sorted. He’s done this before. It always works.
He exhales through his nose and lets his hand drift lower.
He thinks of girls—soft, pretty ones, familiar in shape and sound. He thinks of long hair and low giggles and small hands tugging at his shirt. It works, sort of. His body responds, but something doesn’t click. The images feel fuzzy. Far away.
He tries to think logically.
He likes girls.
Girls are soft and pretty and gentle.
Girls lean over him with sweet shampoo smells.
Girls tug at his shirt, giggle into his neck, pull him down by the collar.
Auntie Lina is practically a girl.
So there is nothing wrong with this.
He nods to himself, even though no one can see him.
“Exactly. Totally fine,” he murmurs, convincing no one.
His hand drifts lower without him fully deciding to move it. Two fingertips graze the waistband of his sweats. His breath catches. His hips twitch upward lightly, just enough to remind him how painfully aware he is of his own body.
His face burns.
His pulse jumps.
His cock stirs at the slightest touch.
He hisses a soft, humiliated sound, but he doesn’t stop.
The version his brain has pieced together in high definition. A careful composite of what he saw on set: the way Minho’s hips swayed when he walked, the press of the belt around his waist, the delicate pearl earrings swinging when he tilted his head. The lipstick, soft pink. The way he’d laughed when Jisung dropped his line. A little too amused. A little too knowing.
His hand moves slowly. The tightness returns.
This is fine.
It’s not Minho, it’s Auntie Lina. Completely different. A made-up version. Separate from real life. Imaginary. A woman, mostly. Pretty, curvy, bossy in that auntie way. She says something teasing, reaches for him, presses a thigh between his legs. She pulls him in and breathes hot against his neck. Her hands trail down his chest.
It’s working.
His body tightens. He’s breathing faster.
She presses her hips against him. She’s soft everywhere. He grinds into her, hears her laugh again—Minho’s laugh, but higher-pitched, just the way he remembers it. Her hair smells like perfume. Her voice is—
—lower.
He digs his heels into the mattress, breath catching.
Her lips ghost over his jaw. Her thighs squeeze around him. She leans in close, her weight settling fully over his hips, and something clicks.
His cock jerks against his hand.
She shifts again.
Not soft.
Not quite right.
Too firm. Too heavy. The pressure hits a little too squarely. Something hard presses against his stomach, trapped between them. Jisung’s entire body goes cold and hot at the same time.
Auntie Lina is smiling.
Her hips grind down. Her cock rubs against his. Thick and hard, warm even through layers of imaginary clothing. The mental image shatters and reforms immediately—her lipstick perfect, her lashes long, and a dick twitching against his belly as she presses her forehead to his and says, “You like that, don’t you?”
The rush of shame hits so fast he almost gags.
His hips jerk once, involuntarily, and then he’s sitting up in bed so quickly the blanket flies off him. He hunches forward with a strangled breath, clutching the waistband of his sweats, heart hammering, skin burning.
“No, no, no,” he whispers, harsh and fast, like he can outrun the image in his head.
His hand is still between his legs. He yanks it back like he’s been burned.
His cock is still hard.
He chokes out a sound—half sob, half laugh—and folds in tighter, curling toward his knees with the blanket bunched around his waist.
He covers his face with both hands and breathes through the wave of nausea. He didn’t finish. That might be the worst part.
He wanted to. His body still wants to. His cock is stubbornly, traitorously stiff in his lap, desperate for more friction, more contact, more her—him—whatever the fuck Auntie Lina is.
He shivers.
He lies back down, stiff and silent, pressing a pillow to his stomach like it might crush the heat away.
He doesn’t touch himself again.
Not tonight.
Not like this.
The image won’t leave. It’s burned into the back of his eyelids like afterimage from a sun glare—Minho’s smile, Minho’s laugh, Minho’s cock.
Fuck.
☆
The dorm’s lights are low. Only the soft blue of the TV illuminates the living room. A half-eaten bag of popcorn rests between Jisung and Minho on the couch, forgotten now that they’re three episodes deep into a trashy dating show no one else wanted to watch.
Movie night has become a habit. Unscheduled, unofficial, just theirs. Whenever they’re both bored, or tired, or too wound-up to sleep. They never plan it. It just happens.
Minho sits close tonight. Not unusually so. He always takes up space—sits comfortably, legs spread, arm thrown over the back of the couch, pinky brushing Jisung’s shoulder now and then. It’s normal.
Mostly.
Jisung pretends he doesn’t notice the warmth bleeding through the cushions. He keeps his eyes on the screen, brain half-focused on the reality show’s awkward confessions and glittery music stings. He doesn’t remember the plot. He doesn’t care.
He laughs at something dumb, half-choked by a kernel, and Minho nudges him with his foot.
“You’re gonna die,” Minho says.
“Worth it,” Jisung wheezes.
Minho snorts. “At least die during something good. This show’s garbage.”
“You picked it.”
“You begged me.”
Jisung grins, turning toward him without thinking.
Minho’s already watching him, head tilted slightly, hair falling over his forehead from where it’s grown too long again. His lashes catch the screen’s blue light. His mouth curls at one side, soft and crooked.
It’s harmless.
It’s normal.
It’s not Auntie Lina. He’s not wearing a costume. No wig. No makeup. Just Minho. Barefaced, warm-eyed, hair messy, like he just woke up. The collar of his shirt is stretched from sleep and one of the strings from his sweatpants hangs unevenly across his thigh.
Jisung’s breath catches before he knows why.
Minho lazily hands him the popcorn, hand brushing against his. Just a second. Just a spark.
Jisung says, softly, “Thanks, noona.”
The room doesn’t change. The TV keeps playing. The laugh track rolls.
Minho’s hand still hovers near the popcorn.
Jisung’s heart plummets.
It takes a full two seconds for the word to register in his own ears. Three seconds for his stomach to drop. Four for his entire body to tense like he’s bracing for an earthquake.
Minho doesn’t move.
Jisung stays very still. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t look.
Maybe Minho didn’t hear. Maybe it wasn’t loud enough. Maybe—
“…What did you just call me?” Minho asks, voice quiet.
Jisung wants to die.
“Nothing,” he says too fast, too loud. “I didn’t—it was—I meant—hyung. I said hyung. I’m tired.”
Minho turns toward him, expression unreadable. “You definitely didn’t say hyung.”
“I said—” Jisung tries to laugh. It breaks halfway through. “I said it weird. Slurred. I meant hyung. Obviously.”
Minho just watches him. Calm. Curious. Like he’s studying something he’s never seen before.
“Slip of the tongue,” Jisung insists, breath shallow. “Doesn’t mean anything.”
Minho hums low in his throat.
He reaches for the popcorn again, grabs a few pieces, leans back.
“Okay.”
That’s it.
Okay.
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t smirk. He just turns his attention back to the screen, shoulders relaxing like nothing happened.
Jisung, meanwhile, is dying in real time.
His ears are burning. His fingers twitch. His legs feel wrong, like he should be running. His dick, the traitorous bastard, twitches once in his sweats, and he nearly chokes.
Noona.
He said noona out loud.
To Minho.
While they were alone.
On the couch.
While barely touching.
He sinks back into the cushions and curls his fists in his hoodie sleeves. His breath stays shallow for the rest of the episode.
Minho doesn’t look at him again.
That’s worse than anything.
☆
The next morning, Jisung wakes with one thought lodged behind his eyes like shrapnel.
You called him noona.
He stares at the ceiling for a full minute. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just lies there, suffocating under the memory like a weighted blanket made of shame.
By the time he drags himself into the kitchen, a plan is forming.
He just has to fix it. Reset the dynamic. Reassert reality.
Minho is his hyung. His bro. His fellow man. He’s not soft. Not pretty (a lie). Not complicated.
He’s just Minho.
Which means Jisung is straight. Which means everything is fine.
Minho is in the kitchen, pouring cereal into a bowl, hair pushed back with one of those spikey headbands. He’s wearing a fitted black tank top and sleep shorts and humming softly to himself.
Jisung takes one look and nearly walks out again.
No. No. Be strong. Bro mode only.
He clears his throat. “Yo.”
Minho glances up. “Morning.”
Jisung throws finger guns. “What’s up, my guy.”
There’s a pause.
Minho blinks once. “Not much?”
Jisung slides into the chair across from him, trying to look casual. “You hitting the gym later?”
Minho raises an eyebrow. “I go to the gym every Tuesday. You know this, Sungie.”
“Right, haha. Classic you,” Jisung says, voice pitched just a little too high.
He grabs a banana from the fruit bowl and peels it with unnecessary intensity. He doesn’t even want a banana. He just needs to keep his hands busy before they start doing something stupid like trembling or reaching across the table to touch Minho’s wrist.
Minho takes a bite of cereal, watching him with the same calm, patient curiosity one might use for a feral cat learning how to open a door.
Jisung bites the banana and talks with his mouth full. “What’re you up to today, bro?”
“Choreography review.”
“Nice. Sick. Respect.” Jisung fist bumps the air.
Minho squints slightly. “Are you… okay?”
“Me? Yeah.” Jisung leans back, stretching. “Just being chill. Guy stuff. Testosterone. You know how it is.”
Minho doesn’t respond. He just takes another bite, perfectly still.
Jisung’s leg bounces under the table.
“Actually, I’ve been thinking we should hang out more, hyung,” he says, throwing the word hyung like a lifeline. “Like, man-to-man.”
Minho slowly chews. “You mean like last night?”
Jisung chokes.
Minho doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease. Just raises one brow, casually. “Movie night’s not manly enough for you?”
“No, it’s—" Jisung coughs. “It’s chill. It’s just—like—y’know, maybe we should do something more rugged. Like hiking. Or punching a tree.”
Minho stares at him.
Then, calmly: “Is this about you calling me noona?.”
Jisung freezes.
“I didn’t call you that,” he lies instantly.
Minho tilts his head. “You definitely did.”
“Nope. Didn’t happen.”
Minho shrugs. “Okay.”
Silence.
Jisung forces a laugh. “You’re just messing with me.”
Minho levels him with a look that is dangerously unreadable. “Am I?”
Jisung’s face burns. He suddenly feels very aware of how much shoulder Minho is showing in that tank top. He also notices, with great internal despair, that his cock has taken an interest in the conversation.
He curls forward, elbows on the table, trying to hide his lap behind the banana peel.
Minho stands to rinse his bowl. His back muscles flex under the tank top. Jisung stares directly into his own soul.
This isn’t working. Bro mode is not working. Bro mode is actively killing him.
Minho turns off the sink and glances over his shoulder. “You free tonight? I found another trash dating show.”
Jisung swallows. “Yeah. Cool. Chill.”
Minho smiles faintly. “Great. See you at nine, bro.”
He leaves the kitchen without another word.
Jisung buries his face in his hands and screams into them. Quietly. Miserably. Hard.
☆
He’s not expecting the wig.
It doesn’t register at first—just a flicker of brown curls as Minho opens the door, a soft shape brushing his cheek. Jisung’s brain isn’t prepared to process it. He’s too busy holding two drinks and trying not to overthink their last movie night. The one where he said the word.
Then he looks up.
Really looks.
He stops breathing.
Minho is in the wig.
A white t-shirt tucked neatly into jeans. Bare arms. Curls resting naturally around his face, softening his cheekbones. The faintest tint on his lips—maybe balm, maybe gloss. His lashes are dark and fluttery, and his expression is unreadable.
Minho steps back to let him in.
Jisung doesn’t move.
“You good?” Minho asks, voice low.
Jisung swallows. “I—uh.”
He’s going to die.
His body knows it before his brain does. His cock stirs instantly, shamefully. He shifts the drinks to one hand and grips the strap of his bag too tight.
Nope.
He can’t be here.
Not with that.
Not with Minho looking like her again. Not with that mouth and that voice and that wig, worn so casually it might as well be a part of him.
“I forgot something,” Jisung blurts. “At home.”
Minho pauses. “What?”
“I gotta—go—just for a second. I’ll come back.”
He turns. Fast. Already halfway down the hall before his brain finishes the lie. He hears Minho’s voice behind him.
“You’re running.”
“No, I’m—” His fingers fumble with the elevator button. “I just—”
Minho’s hand wraps gently around his wrist.
Not hard. Not angry. Just holding.
Jisung freezes.
His pulse hammers behind his eyes. The drinks are shaking in his hand. His skin burns where Minho touches him.
“Please let go,” he whispers. He’s not sure if he’s talking to Minho or himself.
Minho doesn’t let go.
“You were fine until you saw me.”
Jisung doesn’t speak.
“Is it the wig?” Minho asks. “Or is it me in it?”
The question slices straight through him.
He turns slowly. His face feels numb. His legs don’t want to hold him up.
Minho watches him calmly.
“You don’t have to lie,” Minho says, soft. “I already know.”
Jisung’s throat tightens. “Why—why are you dressed like that?”
Minho shrugs, but there’s something dangerous in the ease of it. “I felt like it.”
“This was a trap.”
“You came to my house.”
“I thought it was movie night.”
“It still is.”
Minho steps in closer. His fingers slide down Jisung’s wrist to his palm. They don’t lace. They just rest there, warm and quiet.
“Unless you want it to be something else.”
Jisung’s mouth goes dry.
He wants to say no. He needs to say no.
His cock presses hot against the front of his sweats, already stiff from just looking.
His body betrays him again.
Minho notices. Of course he notices.
“You’re hard,” he says, voice low.
Jisung jerks his hand away.
“I can’t do this.”
Minho tilts his head. “Why not?”
“Because you’re—” Jisung’s voice breaks. “You’re a guy.”
Minho’s lashes flick. “And?”
“I’m—” Jisung chokes on it. “I’m straight.”
Minho hums, noncommittal. “You called me noona.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“You still said it.”
Jisung backs into the wall. He didn’t realize he was moving until his shoulders hit it.
Minho follows, slow and sure.
“I’m not asking for anything,” Minho murmurs. “You can leave. If you want to.”
He steps even closer. The scent of him is warm and faintly sweet. His voice lowers, just enough to tilt something in Jisung’s stomach.
“Or you can say it again.”
Jisung shakes his head. He’s shaking all over.
“I can’t,” he whispers.
Minho leans in—closer than he’s ever been. The wig brushes Jisung’s cheek. Their foreheads nearly touch.
“You can.”
Jisung’s whole body pulses with heat.
He breathes out. “Noona.”
Minho smiles, soft and slow.
He doesn’t say a word after. He simply gives him one long look. Then he turns his back and walks into the living room.
That should be Jisung’s cue to leave. The door is still behind him. His fingers are even curled loosely around the strap of his bag, like some small, responsible part of him is ready to flee. But his legs won’t move. His body’s already made its choice.
He watches Minho retreat into the room without a second glance, the sway of the wig brushing his jaw, confident and unbothered.
Minho sits down like he always does—unbothered, casual, folding one leg beneath him and flipping the remote in his palm like he might still be deciding what to put on. He doesn’t look back.
And Jisung caves. It’s useless to fight it anymore. He’s so fucking doomed.
His knees buckle before he realizes he’s moving. They hit the floor harder than they should, the weight of him folding fast and awkward, making him flinch at the sound. His hands land beneath him a second later, catching himself. Sweatpants bunch at his knees. He doesn’t even know what his face is doing, only that it’s hot, that everything is hot, that his breath is already shaking in his throat.
He should stand up. He should fix this. He doesn’t.
Instead, he leans forward—and crawls. Like a fucking dog.
His hands drag across the floor with the faint scrape of skin on fabric, and his thighs strain in the way that only happens when he’s tense, full of energy with nowhere to put it. His cock is beginning to leak. He can feel the damp spot forming, clinging warm and humiliating to his skin. His sweatpants, traitorously thin, leave nothing to the imagination.
The texture of the rug becomes excruciatingly detailed. He’s panting by the time he reaches the edge of the living room, blood pounding behind his ears.
Minho still hasn’t spoken.
The silence stretches, awful and heavy.
Jisung stops a foot away from the couch. His palms flatten against the floor. He stares at them for a long moment, shoulders hunched, stomach tight, unable to remember what kind of person he used to be before all of this.
Then—slowly, shamefully—he inches forward one last time and bows his head against Minho’s knee.
He doesn’t touch him. Not really. Just rests his forehead there, breath hitching, chest rising and falling with each unsteady inhale. His knees ache against the floor. His cock throbs again. The heat spreading through his gut feels sharp and impossible to hold.
Minho uncrosses his legs. The motion is smooth, unhurried. His thigh shifts under Jisung’s face.
“There you are,” he says softly.
The voice isn’t cruel. It isn’t mocking. It’s calm. Like Minho knew this would happen eventually and isn’t surprised to find Jisung crumbling at his feet.
Jisung doesn’t answer. He couldn’t, even if he tried. His whole body feels locked up—except for the growing wetness at the front of his pants, the ache, the terrible awareness of how little he’s done to earn this and how badly he wants more anyway.
After a moment, he lifts his head and shuffles forward onto his knees. He settles between Minho’s parted legs, sitting back on his heels, hands resting lightly on his thighs. His sweatpants are tight across the front, the darkened fabric obvious. His cheeks are flushed, mouth parted, eyes glassy.
Minho watches him. Not smiling. Not smirking. Just watching.
He lifts a hand and brushes it along Jisung’s jaw—barely a touch, a whisper of fingers—and Jisung twitches in response. His lips tremble. He doesn’t lean into it, but he doesn’t pull away either.
“You didn’t even hesitate,” Minho coos. His thumb presses faintly at the corner of Jisung’s mouth.
Jisung closes his eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”
“No,” Minho murmurs, brushing a curl behind his ear. “But you wanted to.”
Jisung swallows. He can’t lie. Not like this. Not when he’s already made himself so small.
Minho lets the silence stretch again. Then, gently—like he’s asking something simple—he reaches out and tilts Jisung’s chin up.
“You gonna behave now?”
Jisung nods. It's jerky, barely a motion at all.
Minho hums. “Good boy.”
He doesn’t say anything else.
Jisung stays on the floor, head light, breath shallow, the wet fabric of his sweats cooling slowly against his skin. He doesn’t ask to touch. He doesn’t ask to move.
This is already more than he deserves.
Minho hasn’t moved since Jisung knelt. He hasn’t smiled. He hasn’t touched him again.
He just watches.
One hand resting lightly on the arm of the couch, the other curled loosely around the remote, tapping it against his thigh like he’s considering turning the TV on. The soft ambient light behind him paints his profile in gold, catching on the strands of the wig where it frames his jaw.
Jisung can’t look at him for more than a second. Every time he tries, something in his chest folds in on itself. His whole body buzzes with tension. His hands stay obedient on his thighs, but they twitch every few seconds, fingers curling like they want to grab something. Anything.
He doesn’t know what’s worse: the aching or the waiting.
Minho tilts his head slightly. His eyes trace the length of Jisung’s body—face, flushed and lowered; chest, heaving subtly; thighs pressed together with forced control.
Then, finally, he moves.
Slowly. Thoughtfully. His right hand drops to his own waistband. Jisung watches it happen in real time—watches his thumb hook beneath the button, watches his fingers toy briefly with the metal tab of the zipper.
It’s so quiet that when Minho drags the zipper down, the sound feels obscene.
Jisung’s eyes fly wide. His breath catches. His hips jerk forward just slightly before he locks himself still again.
Minho leans back into the couch. The zipper sits open, the pale fabric of his briefs just visible beneath the parting denim. He doesn’t adjust himself. He doesn’t expose anything. He just leaves the jeans open, casual and purposeful, like this is how he always sits when someone kneels between his legs.
Jisung’s vision sways. His cock pulses sharply, aching harder.
Minho watches him with unbearable calm.
Softly, he speaks two words. “Go ahead.”
Jisung doesn’t move.
Not because he doesn’t want to—but because the phrase detonates something in his brain.
Go ahead.
Go ahead and what?
Touch? Look? Beg?
His hands tremble. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. He’s breathing so hard now it’s barely quiet. His whole body feels like it’s vibrating under his skin, hot and heavy and desperate.
His voice breaks when it comes out.
“Please.”
Minho doesn’t lean forward. He doesn’t touch him. He just speaks, low and mild.
“Please what?”
Jisung lets out a helpless noise—somewhere between a whimper and a sob. He bows forward slightly, hands slipping off his thighs to brace against Minho’s knees. His head hangs low, shaking.
Minho doesn’t answer for him.
He waits.
Jisung’s fingers clutch lightly at denim. He lifts his head slowly, shame thick in his chest.
“Please let me,” he whispers. His voice is raw. “Please. I don’t know what I’m doing, I just—please.”
Minho’s thumb brushes the edge of his own zipper.
“Come closer,” he demands.
Jisung surges forward without thinking, then stops a breath away—hands hovering at the open waistband, forehead resting lightly against Minho’s thigh. His cock throbs in his pants again, harder than ever, leaking steadily, soaking through.
He’s never felt this needy. This out of control. This small.
His voice shakes again.
“Tell me what to do, noona. Please.”
Minho’s hand drifts down, gentle, and brushes over the top of Jisung’s head, smoothing his hair.
“Start with your mouth.”
Jisung doesn’t move at first. The command lands on him like heat, like a shiver beneath the skin. Start with your mouth. The phrase echoes through him—hot, dizzying, cruel in how gentle it sounds. He’s never done this before. Not with anyone. Not even as a joke.
He’s thought about it, maybe, in the abstract. Curious. Detached. But not like this. Not from his knees. Not with his boxers clinging wet between his thighs, not with his lips dry and his fingers trembling. Not with Minho—hair curled soft under that wig, jeans parted just enough to show the shape beneath, thighs relaxed, like he’s done nothing at all.
Jisung licks his lips. Breathes once. Then again, more shallow.
He lifts his hands—tentative, reverent—and touches the open denim. His fingers tremble as they spread the fly a little wider, revealing the pale stretch of cotton underneath, the gentle swell beneath the briefs. He swallows hard. His mouth waters, but not in a way he understands. His body wants it before his mind has time to make sense of it.
Minho doesn’t speak. He watches. Waits.
Jisung leans forward, heart pounding in his ears. His mouth hovers just over the clothed bulge. He can smell the faintest trace of soap and skin and warmth. It makes his chest ache. His cock throbs again inside his sweats, desperate and untouched, twitching every time his breath stutters.
He presses the side of his face to Minho’s thigh—just for a second. Just to ground himself. His lashes flutter. His lips brush the edge of the briefs.
It feels like sin.
Minho says nothing. He doesn’t push or tease. Just smooths a hand through Jisung’s hair once. A silent go on.
Jisung turns his head and presses a kiss over the fabric. His lips land just where the heat of Minho’s cock radiates strongest. The cotton is warm. Damp, maybe. His nose brushes the waistband. He kisses again. Again. Each one softer than the last, lips parting slightly by instinct, breath catching in the fabric.
His hands stay braced against Minho’s thighs—gentle, almost shy. His thumbs stroke lightly over denim without realizing. He noses lower. Opens his mouth.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing.
He drags his tongue once over the clothed length. Slow. Careful.
Minho’s breath catches, quiet. Just enough to make Jisung’s stomach twist.
His hips twitch forward, and Minho’s hand settles firm at the back of his head—not guiding, not controlling, just there. Jisung exhales shakily, then mouths over the same spot again, suckling lightly through the fabric.
He’s hard. He knows Minho feels it against his shin. The shape is unmistakable now, growing fuller with each kiss, each helpless little lick.
Jisung presses his lips to the tip through the briefs and whines low in his throat. His mouth is too hot, his head too heavy. He’s drooling a little now, dampening the cotton.
He mouths along the length again, slow and clumsy, open-mouthed, tongue soft. He’s never done this but he wants to be good. He wants Minho to say good boy again. He wants to earn it.
Minho shifts slightly, thighs spreading a little wider. Jisung gasps into the heat of him.
“You’re so fucking eager,” Minho murmurs.
Jisung moans at the praise. The sound breaks out of him, cracked and wet. His hips stutter again. He’s so close to coming untouched he could sob.
“Do you want it out?” Minho asks.
Jisung nods fast, breathless. “Please. Please, I’ll—”
“Then say it,” Minho cuts in, voice low.
Jisung doesn’t hesitate. “Please, noona. Please let me suck your cock.”
The sentence sounds impossible. He says it anyway.
Minho smiles.
Then he lifts his hips and begins to pull his briefs down, just far enough for his cock to spring free.
Jisung stares.
It’s not massive. It’s not intimidating. It’s just his. Pale, flushed at the tip, soft with the promise of weight behind it. The moment air hits, it twitches gently. Jisung doesn’t move. He swallows hard.
Minho’s voice is low, nearly amused.
“You’ve never done this before.”
Jisung’s face flushes deeper. “I want to,” he says.
“Then do it.”
Jisung leans in.
He kisses the base first. Then the side. Then—finally—lets his tongue drag from the shaft to the tip in one long, shaking motion. He lingers there, lips hovering, then closes his mouth around the head.
It’s warm. Heavy. Salted with skin.
His lips seal gently, and he sucks once—barely enough to create pressure.
Minho’s hand slides into his hair.
Not pulling. Just resting.
Jisung whimpers around him.
He bobs shallowly—just the tip, messy and slow. It’s not about technique. He doesn’t know how to be good at this. He only knows how to be honest about it. His jaw aches almost instantly. His tongue doesn’t know where to settle. He slurps once, awkwardly, and flushes in shame.
Minho exhales above him.
“Good,” he says. “Don’t try to impress me.”
Jisung moans around him.
His hips roll into nothing, the leak of his cock soaking his sweatpants in thick, hot pulses. He knows he’s close. He knows he’ll come without being touched.
But he doesn’t stop.
He keeps going—awkward, overwhelmed, adoring. He sucks again, firmer this time, and tries to take him deeper. He gags. He pulls back with a wet noise, drool slipping from his mouth.
Minho brushes his hair back.
Jisung chokes on a breath.
“I’m sorry—” he gasps.
“Shh,” Minho murmurs. “You’re doing fine.”
Jisung leans forward again, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
He wants to be better. He wants to be good. He wants to be kept.
So he opens his mouth and takes as much as he can.
Jisung’s throat tightens again.
He tries to take Minho deeper, tongue pressed flat, jaw aching with the effort. His lips are slick, stretched, trembling. Each time he sinks down, he pulls off a little wetter, a little louder, the sound obscene in the otherwise quiet room.
Minho’s hand is still in Jisung’s hair, light but firm, keeping him steady. Not forcing. Just guiding. Just letting him work.
Jisung is a mess.
His cheeks are wet—not from tears, not exactly, but from effort, from heat, from the strain of trying to be good. Saliva drips down his chin each time he bobs his head. His fingers clutch Minho’s thighs now, nails digging in just slightly, knuckles white with tension.
His cock aches. He hasn’t touched himself once—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he can’t. Because this was already too much. Because his hands felt wrong anywhere but holding on.
Then it hits. The stretch, the heat, the ache in his spine—and the pressure snaps.
Jisung gasps around Minho, gagging slightly as his body jerks. His mouth stays open, cock still pressed to his tongue, and he comes.
Hard.
There’s no warning. No build. Just the sharp, stuttering pleasure of release. His thighs shake. His back arches. His eyes squeeze shut and his hips twitch helplessly against nothing. He spills into his boxers in hot, humiliating pulses—ruining the fabric, soaking himself through.
A broken sound escapes his throat—half-moan, half-sob—choked off by the cock still stretching his mouth.
Minho sighs.
He slides his hand gently under Jisung’s jaw and eases him off, slow and steady. Jisung pulls back with a gasp, drool clinging to his lips, chest heaving like he just ran a mile. His face is flushed red, slick with spit, his eyes glassy and dazed.
His body gives out completely. He slumps forward, resting his forehead against Minho’s knee, panting.
Minho brushes Jisung’s hair back from his face. His touch is gentle, almost clinical.
“You came in your pants,” he notes with no discernable tone.
Jisung squeezes his eyes shut. “M’sorry, noona.”
Minho doesn’t tease him.
He slides down on the couch slightly and rests a hand on the back of Jisung’s head. “Hush,” he says. “Catch your breath for a second.”
Jisung stays right there, kneeling in a puddle of his own shame, cock limp and wet in his pants, heart still racing. He doesn’t try to explain. He doesn’t know how.
He nods—slowly—and lets Minho stroke his hair.
Then Minho leans forward, slow and deliberate, and cups Jisung’s jaw in one hand.
His fingers are warm. Firm. He tilts Jisung’s face upward—not harshly, but not gently either—and sweeps his thumb across the mess smeared near the corner of Jisung’s mouth. The motion is brief. Barely a touch. But it makes Jisung's breath hitch.
He blinks, dazed. His breath catches.
Then Minho shifts his other leg, spreads his thighs slightly, and plants his foot more firmly on the ground.
“You’re not done yet, baby.”
His stomach flips. His thighs clench instinctively, the mess in his pants squelching softly beneath him. His breath hitches again, faster now.
Minho presses just slightly into his jaw, tilting his face toward the open fly of his jeans.
“Back up,” Minho murmurs. “You still have work to do.”
Jisung obeys without thinking.
His hands drag up Minho’s thighs until he’s back in position—knees wide, shoulders hunched forward, breath fogging softly over Minho’s skin.
Minho’s cock is still hard. Warm, flushed, resting lazily along his thigh, half-damp from Jisung’s earlier mouth.
It twitches once as Jisung exhales.
That tiny movement—barely a pulse, barely a breath of life—shatters whatever scraps of composure he has left. His lips part helplessly. His hands float uncertainly at Minho’s thighs, like he’s afraid to touch but even more afraid to lose contact.
Minho watches the reaction, unblinking.
Then he leans back against the couch, settling deeper into the cushions, making room for him. His legs stay parted, his cock lying there soft and exposed, gleaming faintly with spit in the low light. Everything about Minho’s posture says I’m letting you do this. I’m letting you earn this.
“Go on.” he murmurs.
The words hit Jisung like heat.
He inches forward, breath shaking. His thumbs brush Minho’s inner thighs now, tentative strokes that tremble from the inside out. He lowers his head again—slower this time, reverent, like he’s approaching an altar.
His mouth hovers just above the tip. His breath ghosts across Minho’s skin. The reaction is immediate: another twitch. A soft exhale from Minho, hardly more than a sigh.
Jisung licks his lips.
Then he opens them and takes Minho into his mouth again—warm, heavy, familiar now in the way a new wound becomes familiar.
This time is different.
Before, he’d been frantic, hungry, desperate to impress.
Now he’s emptied himself out. His orgasm wrung him hollow. What’s left is instinct and devotion and something quiet, something unbearably soft.
He sucks slow. Careful. His tongue curls around the underside of the shaft, tracing a shaky, uneven line toward the tip. He lingers there, lips sealed, creating a gentle pressure that makes Minho’s hand tighten just a little in his hair.
Jisung moans at the sensation. It vibrates faintly around Minho’s cock.
Minho doesn’t guide him. He doesn’t need to.
Every time Minho’s breath catches, Jisung adjusts his mouth—angle, pressure, speed—trying, learning, shaping himself around each reaction.
He pulls back enough to drag his tongue flat along the slit, collecting the faint taste there, then sucks the head back into the warmth of his mouth. His lashes flutter. Saliva clings to the corners of his lips. Drool drips down his chin and onto his wrist when he steadies himself again.
Minho finally speaks. Low. Rougher than before.
“Just like that.”
Jisung’s whole body responds—it’s so visceral that his hips jerk forward involuntarily.
He groans around Minho again, louder this time.
His hands tighten on Minho’s thighs. He pushes himself down farther—not deep, it’s too soon for that and his throat is too raw—but deep enough that the head nudges the back of his tongue and makes his eyes sting.
“Easy,” Minho warns.
Jisung nods around him, gagging once, pulling back with a long string of spit stretching from his lips to Minho’s cock. He pants once—high, breathless—then dives back in, sucking harder this time.
Minho inhales sharply.
His cock is so heavy in Jisung’s mouth, thick and throbbing. The sensation is subtle but unmistakable—each pulse stronger than the last, each twitch more insistent, filling his mouth more with every bob.
Jisung whimpers, drunk on it.
He wraps one hand around the base, clumsy but earnest, stroking in a pace that matches the shallow thrusts of his mouth. His other hand grips Minho’s thigh so hard his knuckles ache.
He wants this. He wants Minho to fall apart because of him. He wants to know the taste of Minho coming.
Minho knows.
He watches the determination in Jisung’s eyes, the quiver in his lips, the soft collapse of his shoulders every time his jaw loosens from effort. There’s something fond in his gaze. Something dark.
“Look at me,” Minho says softly.
Jisung lifts his eyes without lifting his head.
Minho’s breath stutters.
The visual must be obscene—Jisung’s red, wet mouth stretched around him, cheeks hollowing with each pull, tears at the corners of his eyes catching the light.
And still looking up at him like he’s waiting for permission to breathe.
Minho’s jaw tightens.
His thighs tense. The hand in Jisung’s hair curls inward.
“Jisung—”
Jisung moans around him, sucking harder, tongue swirling clumsily under the head.
“—fuck—”
A warning. Barely.
Jisung doesn’t slow down.
Minho’s hips jerk once—twice—and then he spills.
Hot, sudden pulses flood Jisung’s mouth. His eyes flutter shut. He swallows reflexively, too eager, too messy. Some of it streaks out past his lips, down his chin, onto his hand.
Jisung stays there, sucking gently until Minho’s body softens and settles, until Minho lets out a long, shaking exhale and relaxes into the couch.
Then he loosens his hold and pulls back with a wet pop, panting softly. It takes so much not to gag when he swallows.
Silence.
Minho looks down at him, flushed and relaxed, chest rising slowly.
“You did good, jagi,” he says, voice softer than it’s been all night.
Jisung’s breath shivers out of him.
He presses his cheek against Minho’s thigh again, eyes closed, exhausted and strangely peaceful.
Minho strokes his hair once.
Then, after a moment, he murmurs:
“Come here. Let me see your face.”
Jisung lets Minho cup his cheeks with both hands.
“You want more,” Minho hums.
His voice is low. Not soft. Not cruel. Just sure.
Jisung doesn’t answer. He can’t. His whole body feels like it’s made of exposed wire—sensitive, humming, straining under the weight of every suppressed thought.
But Minho’s thumb rests against his lower lip, waiting.
Jisung nods.
It’s not much. Just a small, shaky tilt of his head. But it’s honest.
Minho hums, satisfied.
He lets go of Jisung’s jaw and stands without another word. Turns toward the hallway. Begins walking. He doesn’t look back.
Jisung doesn’t need him to.
He follows—unthinking, desperate, burning.
His knees ache when he tries to stand. He’s still trembling. His cock is soft now, but the sensitivity is worse than the arousal ever was. Every step drags wet fabric against his skin. Every shift of his thighs sends little tremors through him. It’s awful.
It’s perfect.
Minho stops at the threshold of the bedroom and finally glances over his shoulder.
“You’re still wearing those?” he says, eyeing Jisung’s ruined sweats.
Jisung flushes hot. “I—”
Minho lifts a hand. “Take them off.”
Jisung obeys.
He peels the waistband down slow, careful not to let anything drip onto the floor. His legs feel shaky, but he manages. The pants drop to his ankles. He steps out of them, bare now from the waist down. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
Minho watches, expression unreadable. Then:
“Come here.”
Jisung moves forward, naked below the hem of his hoodie, and follows him into the bedroom.
The door swings shut behind them with a click.
Jisung doesn’t know where to look.
The bedroom is dim, clean, quiet. The overhead light is off—just the low amber glow from a lamp by the nightstand, soft enough to make the edges blur. The bed is still made. Pillows fluffed. A spare hoodie folded near the footboard.
Jisung hovers near the doorway.
His hoodie barely covers anything now. He’s not wearing underwear. His sweatpants are crumpled on the hallway floor. The air-conditioning brushes cold across the backs of his thighs, and he shivers.
Minho turns around slowly.
He’s still fully dressed: white T-shirt, jeans, bare feet. The wig is still on—slightly askew now, strands falling over one eye—and it hits Jisung all over again. That’s Auntie Lina. That’s the woman who ruined him. That’s the man who’s about to break him.
Minho tilts his head. “What are you waiting for?”
Jisung opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
Minho crosses the space between them in three slow steps and places both hands on Jisung’s hips.
Jisung jolts, breath catching.
Minho’s thumbs press just beneath the hem of the hoodie, right above the curve of Jisung’s hipbones. Bare skin. Warm palms. He’s not rough. He doesn’t squeeze. He guides.
Jisung stumbles backward.
Minho walks him all the way to the edge of the bed and stops.
“Sit,” he says.
Jisung obeys instantly.
The mattress dips under his weight. He presses his hands to the sheets for balance, legs slightly apart. The hoodie falls into his lap but doesn’t cover much. He’s flushed all over. His cock twitches every time Minho looks at him like that.
Minho doesn't sit beside him.
He pushes.
One hand flat to Jisung’s chest—gentle but unrelenting—he presses him down until Jisung’s elbows give out. His back hits the bed with a muted thud, knees still bent over the edge.
Minho steps forward between them.
“You said you wanted more,” he says, looking down at him.
Jisung nods, wide-eyed.
“Then keep your hands where I put them,” Minho murmurs, reaching down.
He wraps his fingers around Jisung’s wrists and lifts them, guiding them above Jisung’s head until his arms rest against the pillow.
The position stretches him out: hoodie riding up, legs splayed open, thighs trembling.
Minho lets go of his wrists but doesn’t move away.
He just watches.
“Stay,” he says softly.
Jisung does.
He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.
Minho leans down slowly—hands braced on either side of Jisung’s chest, face dipping closer.
His hair slips over one shoulder. The wig brushes Jisung’s cheek, and it short-circuits something in his brain.
A sound catches in Jisung’s throat—tiny, wrecked.
Minho doesn’t kiss him.
He just exhales against his mouth, low and steady, then pulls back.
“We’re going to take our time,” he says.
Jisung nods again, helpless.
“I’ll take care of you,” Minho adds. “But I’m not going to go easy on you just because you came in your pants like a desperate puppy.”
Jisung’s eyes flutter shut.
He whispers, “Okay.”
Minho doesn’t speak again.
He just watches Jisung for a moment longer—his chest rising and falling fast, his lips parted slightly, his skin flushed in patches that climb from his throat to his ears. He looks like something half-ruined. Something breakable. Something already broken open.
Minho shifts closer.
He slides one knee onto the bed beside Jisung’s hip, then the other. His hands press into the mattress on either side of Jisung’s shoulders. He moves with purpose—slow, steady, no hesitation.
The wig slips forward as he leans in.
Jisung’s breath catches.
The strands tickle his cheek again, soft and ridiculous and perfect, and something flickers in his stomach—sharp and hungry and impossibly sweet. He doesn’t know if he wants to cry or beg or come again without being touched.
Minho’s mouth brushes his.
Light. Barely there.
Jisung freezes.
Minho pulls back just far enough to speak.
“You still want this?”
Jisung nods without thinking. “Yeah.”
“Say it.”
Jisung swallows hard.
“I want it,” he says, voice low. “I want you.”
Minho doesn’t smile.
He just kisses him.
It starts soft—press of lips, gentle angle, heat without pressure. Minho tilts his head slightly and deepens it by degrees. He kisses like he knows what Jisung tastes like already. Like he’s just confirming it. Mapping it. Making it his.
Jisung whimpers into his mouth.
The sound barely escapes—just a tight, broken exhale—but Minho swallows it down like it belongs to him. His hand moves from the mattress to Jisung’s waist, thumb dragging up under the hem of the hoodie, not high enough to tease, just enough to feel.
Jisung arches into it instinctively.
Minho’s tongue flicks against his lower lip, slow and deliberate, and Jisung opens for him without hesitation. The kiss turns molten—wet, warm, filthy—and Jisung forgets how to breathe.
Minho kisses like he has time. Like he’s not in a hurry to do anything else. Like this is the part he enjoys most—holding Jisung still, feeling him tremble, coaxing every desperate sound from his mouth without rushing a single second.
Jisung’s hands twitch above his head, but he doesn’t move them.
He keeps them where they are. Like he was told.
Minho pulls back just slightly, lips slick, breathing steady.
Jisung chases after him without thinking—lifting his head off the pillow, trying to follow. He doesn’t care how he looks. He doesn’t care how pathetic it is.
Minho catches his chin and presses him back down.
“You’re a good kisser,” he says softly.
Jisung shakes.
His voice comes out wrecked.
“I’m trying really hard.”
Minho hums.
“I know.”
Minho sits back on his heels.
The room is quiet. Warm. Jisung is still flat on the bed, hoodie rucked up around his waist, skin flushed and damp with sweat, mouth parted like he’s afraid to breathe too loud. His hands are limp above his head—right where Minho left them. His thighs have stopped trembling, barely, but he still looks wrecked.
Minho raises both hands to his head.
He doesn’t say anything. Just slips his fingers under the wig cap and slowly peels it off. The strands lift easily, soft synthetic curls slipping free from his forehead. He tugs the whole thing off and shakes his head once—small, easy.
Underneath, his real hair falls naturally into place. A little damp with sweat. Dark and plain and him.
He looks at Jisung again.
Jisung swallows hard. His mouth twitches like he wants to say something, but nothing comes.
Minho sets the wig gently on the nightstand. It lands with a soft rustle of synthetic fiber against wood. The sound is final. Deliberate.
He doesn’t look away as he does it.
“Better?” he asks, voice low.
Jisung nods slowly.
His brain is still catching up. He’d spent hours trying to justify this—trying to label it, excuse it, turn it into something else. Something not gay. Something not terrifying. But now Minho is just Minho. No character. No costume.
Jisung’s not any less desperate.
Minho shifts back in close—knee against the mattress, hand to Jisung’s waist—and bends low again until their foreheads almost touch.
“You’re not confused anymore, right?”
Jisung stares at him, wide-eyed.
“I—” He licks his lips. Tries again. “No.”
“No, you’re not confused?” Minho presses, barely above a whisper.
“No, I—” Jisung exhales shakily. “I want you.”
Minho smiles.
“I know,” he says, and leans in to kiss him again—this time without the wig, without the barrier, without the excuse.
And when Jisung kisses back, there’s no hesitation left at all.
The kiss settles into something warmer, slower. Not claiming. Not frantic. Just real. Minho’s weight sinks slightly into the mattress beside Jisung, one hand braced near his shoulder, the other cupping the side of his neck with quiet precision. Jisung melts into it, his whole body loosening for the first time since he walked through Minho’s door.
He brings his hands down without thinking—forgetting Minho told him not to move them—and Minho catches his wrists easily, gently, and guides them back above his head.
“Not right now,” he murmurs against Jisung’s mouth.
Jisung nods. He’s breathing through his nose, almost panting, each exhale trembling. His heart pounds so loudly he swears Minho must feel it through his chest. Without the wig, the kiss feels different. Closer. More exposed. More dangerous. His fingers curl in the sheets, gripping them tight.
When Minho finally pulls back, their lips part with a soft, damp sound.
Jisung’s eyes flutter open, dazed.
Minho stays close—forehead hovering over Jisung’s, breath warm across his cheek. He studies him for a long moment, looking over his flushed face, the wet sheen on his lips, the mess cooling on his thighs.
“You look good like this,” Minho says softly.
Jisung lets out a helpless sound—half whine, half exhale.
Minho brushes his thumb along Jisung’s cheekbone, then down the line of his jaw. Not sexual. Just grounding. His touch is warm and steady, smoothing some of the electricity out of Jisung’s nerves.
“You did a lot tonight,” Minho murmurs. “More than I thought you would.”
Jisung swallows hard. “I—did I do okay?”
Minho’s brows soften. “You did better than okay.”
The praise hits harder than anything else—emotion catching in Jisung’s throat so fast he almost chokes on it. His eyes sting. He looks away for a moment, embarrassed at the sudden swell of feeling, but Minho turns his face gently back toward him.
“Hey,” Minho says. “Look at me.”
Jisung does.
“Nothing about tonight was wrong,” Minho says quietly. “You hear me?”
Jisung nods, throat tight.
Minho gives him a small, reassuring smile—one of the rare ones, the warm ones he doesn’t give easily. Then he shifts back just enough to sit on the bed beside Jisung, one hand sliding down to rest on his forearm.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Minho says. “You’re going to feel miserable if you stay like that.”
Jisung lets out a breathy, shaky laugh. “Yeah. Probably.”
Minho slides a hand behind his back and helps him sit up. Jisung’s legs wobble, and Minho steadies him without comment. The room spins for a second—just a little—and Minho presses a calming hand to his spine.
“You okay?”
“I’m—yeah. Just a lot.”
“I know,” Minho says. “Come on.”
He helps Jisung up, slow and careful. Not possessive. Not teasing. Just steady. Jisung stands with wobbly knees, hoodie hanging crooked around his hips.
Minho walks him to the bathroom, keeping a light hand on the back of his neck like he’s afraid Jisung might drift away if he lets go. The gesture shouldn’t make Jisung’s stomach flip—but it does.
Minho turns on the sink, grabs a clean cloth from the cabinet, wets it with warm water, and begins wiping Jisung’s thighs—not hurried, not embarrassed, not making a big deal of it.
Just taking care of him.
Jisung’s breath catches.
“Minho…” he whispers.
Minho looks up. “Mm?”
“Thank you.”
Minho folds the towel, taps Jisung’s knee lightly.
“Don’t thank me,” he says. “Just let hyung take care of you.”
Jisung nods slowly.
Minho squeezes his knee once—not sexual, not suggestive. Just present.
“We can stop here for tonight,” Minho says gently. “I want you to sleep. We don’t need to rush anything.”
Jisung exhales, muscles unclenching.
He didn’t know how badly he needed to hear that.
Minho hands him a spare pair of clean shorts from a drawer, then waits while Jisung steps into them, shaky but calmer now.
“Come lie down,” Minho says, flicking off the bathroom light.
Jisung follows.
They settle on the bed—Jisung under the covers, Minho sitting beside him for a moment, brushing a hand through his hair softly. Comforting him without drawing attention to it.
When Minho finally lies down next to him, their shoulders almost touch.
Not quite.
Jisung smiles—tiny, exhausted, real.
Minho turns his head.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” Jisung whispers. “Good.”
Minho nods, closes his eyes.
Jisung drifts off beside him—warm, safe, and for the first time all night, steady.