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He can’t even pronounce the name of the resort, much less remember what island they’re even on. Minho reminds himself this is a good thing.
He sighs, glances once more all around the lobby of the grand hotel. It’s really something to behold: built in the style of those old mid-century Mediterranean villas, it’s all open arched doorways and high domed ceilings, barely a window in sight to allow the warm tropical breeze to waft in everywhere, bringing with it the unmistakable and comforting smell of the sea. It’s gorgeous, the kind of tucked-away private vacation spot that would usually be overrun by rich tourists looking for a weekend away—except this resort, as it turns out, caters only to a very exclusive clientele.
It’s evident, anyway, in the fact that the rest of the lobby is largely empty despite it being the middle of the day. The couple at the bar, leaning into each other and giggling over glasses of wine, look vaguely familiar, like maybe he’s seen them in a couple of movies. There’s also a group of four or five young men across the way, probably fitness influencers or athletes or something, joking around while simultaneously eyeing each other like carnivores salivating over pieces of meat. Neither the patrons nor any of the staff have phones; Minho had to turn his in as soon as he got off the plane at the tiny little airport a couple islands away, and it’s all for a very good reason.
This resort, whatever its name is, is known for only one thing: letting people who ordinarily draw the eyes of the world have a few days solidly away from it.
And Minho is grateful for it, really he is, that a place like this even exists. God knows navigating a relationship in secret in the middle of an industry that thrives on having none is a headache even on the best of days. Under any other circumstances he wouldn’t even have considered trying to net a vacation here, the logistics of it too complex, requiring too many shifts in schedule and shuffles of expectations and tracking of multiple moving pieces. But it’s not like he could say no, in this instance. Not when they’re celebrating something so life-changing and magnificent he has trouble breathing just at the thought of it.
Speaking of which…he frowns, glances down at his (analog) watch. Jisung is late.
Usually Minho wouldn’t worry too much about it; the resort is only accessible by a small fleet of very discreet, very closely-tracked boats, so if Jisung missed one leaving the main island it would be a while before he can catch the next ride. But Minho can’t help it, the knot that forms in the pit of his stomach as he keeps glancing back at the entrance to the lobby. Ever since that plane exploded at Incheon Airport a few months back—the plane that, only by some outrageous yet breathtaking miracle, Jisung wasn’t on—Minho can’t help the yawning well of anxiety that opens up inside him every time his partner travels.
But then, as if summoned by his thoughts, the gilded glass double doors abruptly swing open, and it’s stupid and cliched but Minho feels his heart turn right over in his chest as Jisung walks in. God, he’s gorgeous. Has been from the very first day they met, and he’s dressed down in a loose sweatshirt and those old, thin gray lounge pants with the holes at the knees, bare-faced with his hair unstyled and sticking up at the ends from the plane, and also the sight of him is still enough to take Minho’s breath away. Fuck, most days he can’t even believe it: that someone as talented and mesmerizing as Han Jisung chose him. Continues to choose him, has recently done so in the most meaningful of ways, in fact, and Jisung spots him then and his entire being lights up as his partner rushes forward, dropping the handle of his suitcase in his haste and Minho would tease him about that, really he would, except he’s too busy grabbing the younger man to pull him into a kiss.
It’s a homecoming, like always. Minho hums and presses into his partner, smiling when Jisung fists both his hands in his shirt to haul him in closer as they relearn each other through the touch of their lips and the press of their bodies. When at last they pull apart the younger man looks a little dazed, cheeks flushed and lips kiss-swollen and Minho can’t help but lean in for another brief peck, grinning like he’ll never stop.
“I missed you,” he murmurs, and Jisung snorts.
“It’s been like two days.”
“Doesn’t change the fact.” Which is true. Minho misses Jisung the instant the younger man leaves his sight. He might be worried about that, about being too invested or of Jisung viewing him as burdensome or overly clingy, except for two undisputable facts. One: a diss track titled “Break Out”, which to this day is still one of JYPE’s most-streamed songs.
And two: the way Jisung pulls back to smile down at Minho’s left hand, cheeks flushed pink with delight. “Oh. You’re wearing it already.”
Minho grins, follows his partner’s gaze down to the silver platinum ring on his finger. He put it on basically the moment he got off the boat, and it’s almost scary the comfort it immediately brought, how something deep inside him just settled at the weight of the innocuous piece of jewelry, like he had finally finished a long journey, like he was finally complete.
In front of him Jisung reaches into his pocket and pulls out a second ring: this one pure gold and polished with the utmost care, and Minho can’t help but stare, breath catching in his throat as he watches the younger man slide it onto his ring finger. It still feels unreal, seeing Jisung wear this emblem of their connection, even though it’s been nearly a week since the ceremony.
Speaking of which, Minho totally owes Bang Chan like, a whole new Lamborghini or something, because the older man has gone and proven himself the most stubborn and fucking best leader anyone could ever ask for. Minho doesn’t think anyone on this earth has ever been surprised by a wedding before, yet that’s what happened: they’d just wrapped up promotions and events for their latest comeback when Chan told him and Jisung to dress up and come over to his and Jeongin’s dorm, just for some promotional photos at the studio, no big deal.
When they showed up, though, it was to all six of the other members wearing their best suits, with the whole place decked out in white. It looked like a Western bridal shop had gone and vomited all over the apartment, honestly, and Jisung was just as confused as Minho—did Chan net a new brand partnership or something?—except then they saw the man himself standing beneath a hastily-erected flower arch in the middle of the living room, with a fucking stole hanging off his shoulders because of course someone like Bang Chan went and got himself ordained just to officiate a wedding between his two close friends who have been hiding their relationship for the past seven years.
Jisung cried. He cried so hard Changbin had to help him up to the arch but honestly Minho wasn’t much better, and the ceremony itself, though short and a little rushed thanks to the fact they all had early call the next morning, will be imprinted on his brain as one of the most beautiful moments of his life. Holding Jisung’s hands in his own, feeling tears run down his cheeks as they exchanged I do’s and then Hyunjin promptly brought out the rings he’d handpicked himself because of course he fucking did, Minho didn’t think he had ever been happier.
They sealed their love that day, within the secrecy of a private dorm and in the company of their dearest friends. And none of it is official; there is no marriage certificate, no tangible indication of this newfound iteration of their relationship besides the weighted, meaningful looks he and Jisung now exchange at every opportunity and, of course, the rings they have kept studiously hidden in a safe in their apartment—until now. Because here in this sanctuary designed to allow the greatest of all freedoms, they are finally safe to be themselves. And Minho will never stop being grateful for it: how, after the ceremony, Seungmin tearfully told them that the other members had rearranged their schedules and planned ahead to fake sick days so that he and Jisung could get three days off together. It’s really the greatest gift he’s ever received, and if Minho didn’t consider Stray Kids family before, he surely does now.
Of course, he hopes what he and Jisung have will be announced to the world one day, through a pyebaek with their families and he can’t wait to witness his partner standing across from him wearing formal hanbok. But that won’t happen for a few years yet, not while they’re still working in this industry, and that’s okay. Minho has Jisung now, in all the ways he ever wanted and many he hadn’t even let himself imagine. It’s enough. As with everything when it comes to Han Jisung, it will always be enough.
As if reading his thoughts, Jisung reaches down to take his hands, smile a little watery. “I still can’t believe we’re really here,” he murmurs, and Minho nods.
“I know.” He lifts Jisung’s hand to press a kiss to his knuckles, and in the rest of the lobby none of the other patrons even bat an eyelash and it’s wonderful to be here, to be free, to be with the one person in the whole wide world Minho knows he can’t live without. “Let’s just go up to the room, yeah? I just…I want to be with you for a little while.”
“Okay.” Jisung sends him another smile before bending down to pick up his suitcase once more. Minho tails him across the lobby to the registration desk, where the lady behind the counter—dark-skinned with thick black hair, maybe of Spanish descent?—greets them warmly in English.
Minho doesn’t follow along too closely with the conversation as Jisung checks them in, too busy still taking in the lavishness of the place. But he does catch it when the lady asks, “Name for the reservation?”
And Jisung replies, “Ah, Kim. For me and my…” He pauses, takes a breath. “My husband.”
And it. Just. Minho lets out a shaky breath and tightens his hand around Jisung’s own. Husband. Husband. They’re fucking married. Lee Minho and Han Jisung really looked at what the world thought of them and went and raised double middle fingers to all of it, because they’re in love and they’re unstoppable and it is the most wonderful feeling in the world.
He smiles and squeezes Jisung’s fingers, feeling out the firmness of their wedding rings. What a miracle. What a beautiful, magnificent thing they’ve built together.
The rest of the day is filled with settling into their luxurious honeymoon suite, trying out the cuisine, soaking up sun on the hotel’s private beach and, of course, having some extremely thorough, extremely good sex. The resort has a full technology ban so there’s no TV in the room, no wifi, even the front desk in the lobby tracks guests through a handwritten ledger. The only connection to the rest of the world is a small bank of pay phones built into the wall in the corner of the lobby, where Minho wraps up a brief call with Chan to confirm that yes, they did indeed make it to the island in one piece, before hanging up and wandering back out the back of the hotel toward the pool.
Why a place like this that’s right on the ocean even still has a pool is beyond him, but it’s not like Minho’s complaining. Not when he spots Jisung exactly where he left him, lounging with a martini in his hand, wearing only a pair of swim trunks with his tattoos on full display. It’s the most skin Minho’s ever seen him show in public, no paparazzi around to snap photos and get him in trouble with their manager, and Minho would let himself just enjoy the view, how the setting sun in the distance paints the younger man’s skin deep gold, outlining all the ridges and valleys of his muscular torso as well as the shadowy string of hickeys running from his neck to his shoulder that Minho left earlier…except Jisung is talking to someone.
It’s one of the guys from that morning, part of that group of athletes or whatever in the lobby. He’s handsome, even Minho has to give him that: all broad muscular shoulders and a six-pack Felix would die for, curly dark hair and a bright white smile suitable for a magazine cover. But he’s also standing way too close to Jisung, barely a few inches of space between them as he leans down to laugh softly at something Jisung is saying, and Minho narrows his eyes and marches over.
“...show me more,” he hears the stranger say, in a vaguely European accent, and Jisung chuckles, bright.
“Well, it has to wait until we go back to home,” he answers. “The studio, maybe I show you sometime? All my equipment is there.”
“I see.” The stranger’s eyes glint. “Well, I certainly won’t say no to seeing your equipment.”
Which—oh, hell, no. Jisung squeaks in surprise when Minho seizes him by the shoulders, practically hauling him to his feet. “This my husband,” he snaps, glaring at the asshole who obviously never learned a single thing about fucking manners. “Go away.”
“Wha—hyung! Hey, will you—gah!” Jisung swats at him as he drags the younger man bodily back toward the building, the stranger staring after them, expression somewhere between shocked and smug. But Minho ignores it, instead giving Jisung a solid shove toward the elevators that has him releasing a yelp as he half-stumbles to stay on his feet. “What are you doing—”
“Protecting what’s mine.” Minho hip-checks Jisung into the elevator, then practically stabs the button for their floor before rounding on the other man. “Jesus Christ, Sungie. Anyone with eyes could see he was trying to get in your pants.”
“I—what?” Jisung blinks at him, and despite the annoyance flaring in Minho’s stomach he can’t help the stubborn warmth that also erupts at the pure guilelessness on the younger man’s face. Yeah, leave it to Han Jisung to see a hot guy flirting with him using all the tricks in the book, and conclude only that he wants to know more about his music.
“I didn’t…that’s why he was asking about the sound mixer I use?” Jisung looks like he’s still trying to figure out how 2+2 ended up being 5, and Minho can’t help but huff, grabbing his arm as the elevator opens on their floor.
“Yes, yeobo,” he says, as he drags Jisung down the hallway toward their room, “He obviously was very interested in your balance settings and not the size of your dick.”
“O-Oh.” The younger man obediently enters their suite before turning to Minho, brow furrowed. “Okay, well, thanks for the rescue then? Also, why are we back here?”
And, well. Minho rolls his eyes even as the first whispers of arousal shiver through his nerves. “Well, seeing as I can’t leave you alone for five fucking minutes without someone getting ideas,” he says, sauntering up to Jisung, unable to help his smile as the younger man’s eyes darken with interest, “I think I need to remind you who you belong to.”
“Hmm.” Jisung receives him easily, arms winding around Minho’s waist and that is definitely a smirk on his lips as his husband cocks an eyebrow. “Who I belong to, huh? I’m not sure that’s been made perfectly clear—”
Minho growls and smashes their lips together. The kiss is hot and passionate and leaves absolutely no room for doubt, their tongues curling together slick and hot and he can’t help the rush of satisfaction when they finally break apart and Jisung blinks at him, slow, like he’s entirely lost the plot.
It hardly matters, anyway. Minho reaches out to trace his fingers over the bruises he left along Jisung’s neck earlier, smiling when the younger man’s eyes flutter closed and he pushes into the touch with a soft whine. “Get those off,” he says, nodding down at Jisung’s swim trunks, “and get on the bed.”
“Uh. Okay.” The younger man looks like his brain is still rebooting but there’s no hesitation in the way he turns and hurries toward the bedroom off to the side, already tugging at his waistband. Minho follows him in, detouring briefly for the small wooden chest atop the dresser. Yet another point for this place: they know their customers. He and Jisung had sat down the day before departure to place their order, blushing and giggling as they scrolled through the hotel’s (almost alarmingly extensive) inventory.
Now the chest contains everything they put in their cart a couple days back, and Minho takes a moment to make his selections before turning back to the bed.
Then he almost drops everything right onto the floor.
Jisung sprawls lazily across the king-sized mattress, entirely nude. The warm light of the room paints his skin in beautiful soft gold, muscles flexing as he reaches toward the nightstand, and his legs have fallen open in such a way that Minho can clearly see his half-hard cock and his balls and his dusky pink hole, still a little puffy-looking from their round earlier that morning. And it’s…fuck. It’s fucking stupid is what it is because Jisung isn’t even trying, he’s just lying there frowning to himself as he tries to figure out how to turn down the bedside lamp’s illumination and also he is the fucking hottest thing Minho’s ever seen. He is magnificent and gorgeous and entirely Minho’s for the taking, that fact proclaimed not only by the ring on his finger but by how he’s here, has always been here over the past seven years even though he’s had every opportunity to leave. Jisung is here, and fuck, Minho is going to show him just how much he loves him for it.
He swallows, mouth a little dry, and crawls up the bed to smack his husband’s hand away. “Forget it,” he says, nudging at Jisung’s arms, “I want to see all of you anyway. Hands up.”
The younger man blinks at him before obeying, and Minho can’t help the heat that shivers down his spine as he loops the handcuffs carefully around Jisung’s wrists. The bed’s fancy headboard has a large hook set into it right in the middle—this place really is all-inclusive—and Minho snaps everything in place, sitting back to watch as Jisung tests the give of the cuffs, tugging at them until the metal chain scrapes against the hook.
He’s secure. He’s lying here on this bed naked and bound and entirely Minho’s, and Minho has no idea what face he’s making but whatever it is has Jisung squirming underneath him, fat cock now fully hard and twitching against his stomach. “Hyung…”
“Hmm?” Minho drags his finger down the side of Jisung’s body, tracing the stylized letters of his tattoo. “Yes, yeobo?”
“Just—Jesus.” Jisung hooks his heel against the small of Minho’s back, trying to urge him forward as he lifts his hips, inviting. “Do something, fuck.”
“I’m doing plenty.” Minho laughs at the glare that gets him before sitting back and reaching for the second item from the chest. “Okay, okay. But be careful what you wish for.”
There’s no mistaking Jisung’s light shiver when Minho slides the blindfold over his eyes. They’ve never done this before—never used any kind of toy, in fact, beyond Minho’s ball gag, and even that had been a whole-ass quest to obtain, so many burner phones and code names and discreet crypto transactions it made Minho dizzy to think about. He and Jisung had agreed that it just wasn’t worth the risk to try anything more, especially with the very real possibility of some crazy sasaeng breaking into their home and discovering their greatest secret. But here there is no fear of that. Here Minho can finally do to Jisung everything he wants, everything he’s always fantasized about and he hums and ties the blindfold tight before leaning down to brush his lips over Jisung’s cheek. “Okay?”
It takes a moment for the younger man to answer. Minho understands; there’s a part of Han Jisung that never feels entirely safe, always on the lookout for the next danger, the next catastrophe that’s going to take everything away and leave him alone and abandoned. Minho has no idea where this anxiety first started, and Jisung has gotten so much better with it over the years, working hard on his therapy exercises and taking his meds every day, but there will always be remnants. Just wisps, tiny little bits of fear still stubbornly hanging on and Minho takes a breath and waits, patient, as Jisung adjusts.
His husband blinks beneath the soft cloth, turning his head this way and that for a moment. Minho hums and strokes his hip, settling his weight on Jisung’s thighs, solid, so that the younger man knows he’s there. And that seems to do the trick because eventually Jisung takes a breath and nods, confident. “Yeah. Okay.”
His voice doesn’t waver, the inherent trust the other man placing in him enough to tighten Minho’s heart in his chest. He smiles and leans down for a kiss, biting at Jisung’s lips even as he grinds their cocks together, savoring Jisung’s low moan as everything lights up in pleasure and heat. “Fuck, hyung.”
“We’ll get to that.” But first, after so willingly giving up control like this, Jisung deserves a reward. Minho plants wet, open-mouthed kisses over sweaty skin and twitching, sensitive muscles as he makes his way down, and when he nudges Jisung’s legs apart and then swoops in to drag his tongue over the younger man’s hole Jisung’s hips practically jump off the bed, a high-pitched noise tearing itself from his throat.
“Hyung—!”
It sounds somewhere between surprised and aroused which, yeah. Minho grins and gets to work.
He doesn’t do this often; of the two of them Jisung’s the filthier one who will never say no to a nice long round of eating Minho out until he’s shaking and sobbing and begging to be fucked. Still, over the years he’s gotten in a decent amount of practice and it’s evident in how Jisung mewls, shoving his ass down onto Minho’s face as he grips his husband’s thighs to spread him open and just goes to fucking town, laving his tongue over Jisung’s hole before slowly forcing the tip of it inside. Jisung’s loose enough that it takes almost no effort at all, his rim opening easy around Minho, eager, and Minho can’t help but groan. Jisung cleaned himself out earlier but he must not have done a thorough job of it because Minho can taste traces of his own come still inside his husband, the realization enough to make him swear as he pulls back and shoves his shorts down his legs, cock throbbing. “Fuck, baby—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jisung pants, the handcuffs clinking against the headboard as he tosses his head on the pillow. He’s absolutely gorgeous, stunning and beautiful and entirely Minho’s, and it is all Minho can manage to grab the lube and slick himself up before pressing the head of his cock to Jisung’s entrance and pushing inside.
And it’s. Fuck. It’s fucking amazing, the way Jisung just opens up for him with no effort at all so that Minho slides in to the root with barely any resistance. They both groan at that, and Minho stares down at Jisung’s pretty pink rim stretched wide around his cock as he starts a brutal pace, pounding into his husband over and over as everything melts into heat and desire and the mind-numbing wonder of being here with the only person who matters.
It’s absolutely divine. Despite both their earlier round and how he just accepted Minho so easily into his body Jisung is still almost unbearably tight, the squeeze and flutter of his inner walls around Minho’s cock enough to make him a little dizzy as pleasure shivers hot through every one of his nerves. “Jesus, Sungie,” he moans as he drops his head, slamming into his husband as Jisung just nods, rapid and a little crazed, sweat dripping down his forehead to darken the cloth of the blindfold as he lifts his hips to take Minho deeper.
“Come on,” he gasps, cock twitching where it bounces between his legs with every thrust, swollen and flushed dark and shiny with precome. “Come on, fuck, hyung, more—”
And, well. He’s begging so nicely and he looks so fucking hot lying there wanton and spread out and taking Minho’s cock like he’s made for it, and honestly Minho almost loses the plot then. It would still be so good, after all, if he just went for it, fucked Jisung with everything he had until they were both wild and crazed and coming all over each other, but also…also, Jisung smiled at that guy by the pool. He smiled and chatted and let that bastard ogle him as if he’s on the market, as if he isn’t taken and claimed and fucking married to the man he’s been with for the past seven fucking years, and yeah. Minho sinks into Jisung with a groan, savoring the tight heat around his cock as the younger man gasps and arches into it, entire body shaking as his toes curl in the sheets…
And then he pulls out.
“Ngh, fuck.” Jisung tips his head back onto the pillow, gasping for breath as he tugs at the cuffs, metal clinking. “Hyung, come on—”
“Mm, no.” Minho reaches down to touch a finger gently to Jisung’s entrance, smirking when the younger man responds by whining and wiggling his hips, trying to take him back inside. “We’re confirming something, aren’t we, Sungie? Who do you belong to?”
He probably deserves the kick Jisung plants against his thigh. Minho can practically see his husband’s eyes glinting with challenge beneath the blindfold. “I don’t know, Minho. Think I need a reminder or two.”
Oh, he’s being a brat today. Minho hums in absolute delight, reaching for the final toy from the chest and carefully dripping on some lube. “You,” he purrs, “are adorable.”
He presses the entire length of the dildo inside in one smooth, quick movement. Jisung jerks, mouth dropping open as he’s filled once more, hips lifting off the bed and Minho can’t help but lick his lips. The fake cock isn’t as thick as he is but is maybe an inch or so longer and the thought of it is enough to make him shudder, how Jisung must feel being stuffed up in this way more deeply than he ever has. It lights something inside Minho, something hot and possessive and also unerringly tender, knowing his partner trusts him enough to let him do this, to give up all of himself without thought or hesitation simply because Minho asked.
It’s extraordinary, and Minho bites down on a groan and tightens his grip around the dildo’s grooved handle to pull it halfway out and then sink it in again. The sound Jisung makes at that is utterly pornographic, the younger man throwing his head back as he struggles to spread his legs wider, to take whatever Minho is willing to give him. “Hyung, oh f-fuck, Jesus…”
“I know.” Minho strokes Jisung’s thigh with his free hand, pitching his voice low and soothing. “Is this okay?”
“Y-Yeah. More than.” Jisung shifts his hips a little then, and…and is that a smirk on his lips? Oh, the little bastard. “But I’m still not feeling very owned, yeobo.”
So that’s how it’s going to be. Minho sighs, trying to sound as put upon as possible even as his own cock twitches between his legs, straining against the cool air of the room because fuck, Jisung is so fucking hot, what he’s about to do is going to be torture for them both. “Don’t worry, Sungie. We’ll see how long it takes for you to change your mind.”
“Hn, do your worst,” his husband challenges, grin bright and just this side of smug, and yeah. Okay. Minho glances up at the clock on the opposite wall. They’ve got time. So much time, and so very much to do.
“Just remember you asked for this,” he says, and sinks the dildo inside once more, savoring Jisung’s breathy moan. Yeah. Here we fucking go.
Minho’s not perfect; he does end up losing track of time eventually. The next time he remembers to look at the clock an hour has already passed, and he would be shocked by that, really he would, except he’s too busy being so fucking turned on.
Sprawled across the mattress beneath him, Jisung is a fucking mess. Minho’s never seen him look so utterly ruined: his entire body glistens with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead as he pants, exhausted like he’s just finished running a marathon. He’s long given up on pulling at the cuffs, arms hanging limp from the headboard, and the blindfold has darkened ever so slightly; Minho knows if he were to reach up and touch the silky cloth would be damp with Jisung’s tears.
He’s beautiful, and Minho hums and twists his wrist, turning the dildo where it’s sitting half-buried inside his husband. Jisung emits a tired little whine at that and his thick cock jerks where it’s still curved up hard and straining toward his stomach, abs shiny with the precome he’s already drooled all over himself because this entire past hour Minho hasn’t let him come once.
And believe him, it’s been a struggle. Keeping Jisung on the edge like this, fucking him until he’s gasping and trembling and just about to come—then pulling out, over and over again. Fuck, Minho’s self-restraint doesn’t even compare: he’s already hit orgasm twice, his own cock now soft between his legs but that’s okay. This has never been about him, anyway, and honestly neither is it about the lesson he claims Jisung needs to be taught. No, this whole thing has only ever been about trust, showing his husband that Minho can take him to the very edge of his limits and then will pull him safely back again, and Minho hums and slides the dildo almost all the way out, dribbling some additional lube onto its glistening length before pushing it back inside.
“Nnn…” It looks like Jisung is maybe wanting to arch up but he’s too exhausted even for that at this point. Minho smiles and leans down to kiss him, soft.
“Still with me, yeobo?” he asks, as Jisung shifts instinctively toward his voice. His lips are moving, forming low whispered words Minho has to lean in close to hear.
“Please…” It’s a bare whimper, mindless and desperate, and a shiver runs through Minho. “Please, hyung, please, please…”
It’s the same thing he’s been babbling for the past half hour, after Minho ran out of juice and started fucking him nonstop with the dildo, always angling the tip away from precisely where Jisung needs it most. The words are starting to slur a little now, though, the younger man’s weariness evident in every tired breath and twitch of his cock, and, well. Minho’s wrist aches with strain, thighs burning from holding the same position for the past hour. He’s ready to call it quits too.
But, of course, not before one last thing. He hums, brushing his lips over Jisung’s throat. “So then. Who do you belong to, Sungie?”
The answer, this time, comes without hesitation. “You,” Jisung murmurs, thick, almost drunk. “Yours, only yours, hyung, please, please—”
“Such a good boy.” Minho bites down on the tender skin of Jisung’s neck, savoring the younger man’s high, broken moan as he sucks in a deep red mark. He draws back then, taking just a moment to admire his handiwork, before finally reaching down to draw the dildo out.
Jisung groans. His hole twitches like it doesn’t know what to do with itself after being stuffed full for the past hour, and Minho smiles, kissing the inside of Jisung’s thigh before finally curling his fingers around his cock.
And it seems his husband still has a bit of energy left because Jisung hisses and bucks up immediately, trying to fuck into his fist. “Ahhn, hyung…”
“Shh, baby.” Minho doesn’t bother drawing it out; he works Jisung’s cock fast and efficient, squeezing exactly where he likes it, mesmerized by the breathless noises falling from his husband’s lips as his body twists beneath him. “We’ll get you there, you’ve been so good…”
“F-For you.” He highly doubts Jisung is even aware of what he’s saying, the younger man entirely lost as his hips twitch and his muscles tense up. “For you, for you, for—ff—nnngh—!”
He comes with a strangled cry, finally, and Minho sighs and works him through it, stroking his cock in time with the bucking of Jisung’s hips as he shoots long ropes of white all over his stomach and chest. It’s endless, it’s extraordinary, and when at last Jisung collapses back onto the mattress, spent, Minho can’t help but bring his hand up to his mouth, groaning as he sucks his husband’s come off his fingers.
Then it’s time to address the results of his little educational project. Jisung looks well on his way to unconsciousness; he barely seems to register it when Minho undoes the cuffs, taking a moment to massage the pink skin of the younger man’s wrists before finally untying the blindfold and pulling it off. Jisung’s eyelids flutter at that but he does little else besides turn toward Minho with a tiny, plaintive whine so Minho wraps him up immediately, tucking his husband’s head beneath his chin and kissing his hair.
“So good, baby,” he whispers, as Jisung settles against him. “I’m so proud of you, you did so good…baby? Han-ah?”
“Mm.” A palm smacks lazily against his pec. “Han Jisung is unavailable right now. Please leave a message and he’ll get back to you as soon as he can.”
Minho chuckles. “This is what happens when you don’t listen to me, yeobo.”
“I listen.” Jisung yawns, breaths already starting to slow against Minho’s neck. “Jus’ don’t always…choose t’follow through.”
“That’s not listening.” But Minho’s smiling. It feels like he’ll never stop, and he tangles their legs together, stroking his fingers through Jisung’s sweaty hair. “Go to sleep, baby. I’ll wake you for dinner.”
Jisung’s only response is a low hum, but that’s okay. And Minho’s work isn’t done: he’ll need to get up in a bit to clean them both up, check Jisung over to make sure there isn’t any actual damage and maybe draw a bath and let them both relax in the warm water for a while. Maybe he’ll just order room service, now that he thinks about it. He doesn’t know how steady Jisung will be on his feet later.
But that’s all in the future, some nebulous time that isn’t here yet. What’s here now is Jisung, Minho’s husband and partner and the man he will love till the day he dies, and then even longer after that.
It still won’t be easy. They will still have to leave this place in two days, fly back to Korea and dive right back into crazy schedules and unrealistic expectations, too-long days and too-lonely nights, music and dancing and showing the rest of the world only a glittery, sparkling fantasy. The rings on their fingers will go back in the safe, and the rest of the members will smile and send them knowing looks and maybe they’ll teasingly call each other yeobo on stage but no one will make anything of it. Minho and Jisung will return to their lives as part of Stray Kids, and nothing will change.
But also everything has. And they don’t need a freshly-signed certificate or a fancy ceremony to prove it; it’s right here in how Jisung burrows into him with a sigh, gentle and trusting and here, always here. And god, Minho will never stop being breathlessly grateful for it: that somehow, through all the unknown machinations of the universe, it saw fit to give him someone like Han Jisung. Someone who is his light, his love, the center of his world. Someone who makes everything worth it, because it has never been about who belongs to who but rather how they fill each other’s cracks, creating between them something golden and shining and made to last.
They’re going to be okay, not because of their backgrounds or experience or the lives they lead, but because it’s who they are. Not Minho or Jisung, but what they become when they’re together. Something bigger, something brighter. Something unstoppable.
They are unstoppable. Perhaps that is what it means to be destined, to be soulmates: two halves of a whole marked by laughter and light and soft touches and the glinting promise of the rings on their fingers following a hastily-thrown-together ceremony in a cramped apartment in Seoul.
Minho smiles and gathers Jisung closer, losing himself in his husband, his everything, all he’s ever needed to be happy.
Yeah. Bang Chan is definitely getting a shiny new Lamborghini as soon as they get home.