Lunaluby
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He approaches his phone as if it’s a wild animal, gently tapping the screen to wake it up as the display begins to dim. Yup, definitely still there. He checks the name at the top of the chat just to make sure he’s not tripping and he’s read the name wrong. Nope. The picture is definitely from Jisung. He’s trying really hard not to stare at it, but his eyes keep getting drawn back to the picture in the middle of his screen. The picture that had made Minho nearly choke to death on his spinach and mushroom omelette. The picture of Jisung’s dick.
Or: Minho accidentally sends a text to his straight best friend asking for dick pics and he actually sends one back. Panic ensues.
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But Jesus Christ none of that could compare to what was before Minho now.
Jisung was in a black tank top that clung to his sweaty figure, hands that Minho didn’t remember being so veiny were sprawled across the back of the couch, digging into the frame where he was supporting his heaving figure. His head was dropped between his shoulders and his hair hung around his face like a dark curtain, drops of sweat dripping off his hair like rain, some of them falling and curving down the path of his neck.
And holy fuck.
When did Jisung ever smell this fucking good? This fucking strong? Maple and smoke and chocolate intertwine with each other in a dangerous amalgamation that soars point blank into Minho’s stomach.
The low hot pain swoops through his gut again, this time even stronger.
Oh no.
No, nononono no.
Dr. Hwang’s voice echoes in the back of his mind. He wishes he could ignore it again.
This can’t actually be happening right now.
OR: Minho's doctor forces him off suppressants leading to one of the strongest heats he's ever had.