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Jaywalking. Littering. That one library book back home that’s been overdue for about 13 years now. Premarital se—
“Even if you’re his older brother, I bet I’m still older than you,” Minho says to Jisung, interrupting Seungmin’s mental cataloguing of all the misdemeanors that could’ve possibly landed him in the hellish punishment that he currently finds himself in.
“Are you sure?” Jisung says. “I’m 51.”
Jisung is looking up at Minho with those big, bright eyes of his, staring at him like he would pluck every star from the sky for him if he asked nicely enough. It’s pretend, fanservice for the cameras, and Seungmin knows this—but he feels jealousy rip through his chest anyways, sticky and serrated.
“Oh, you’re 51?” Minho volleys back with a smirk.
And with that, Seungmin remembers: right. It’s not Jisung who has an arm looped through Minho’s right now. It’s not Jisung’s covers that Minho wordlessly slips under when it’s dripping twilight outside, and it’s not Jisung’s back that Minho presses flush against his chest in those quiet moments, synchronizing their skin, their breaths, their bodies.
No—it’s Seungmin. This realization brings him back to reality, helps him remember that his feet are planted firmly on the ground.
“Hyung, stop it,” Seungmin says, pulling his arm out of Minho’s to pat Jisung’s back. He furrows his brow in faux irritation. (This, at least, isn’t difficult to play up for the cameras.)
“Dad, why are you taking an interest in Aunt?” Changbin calls out, gleeful.
As is usually the case with these types of videos, the room devolves into chaos. Jisung turns to the camera with a bug-eyed stare, Hyunjin grabs a nearby stalk of leeks, and Minho rushes to Hyunjin’s side to stop him from exacting his spousal wrath onto Jisung—it’s a lot.
At this point, Seungmin is almost too busy laughing to remember his earlier unease. But then, Jisung shoots Minho a finger heart—and Minho returns it, smirking crookedly.
Going to bed too late. Forgetting to tip his server that one time. Accidentally stepping on a stylist noona’s foot last week.
Seungmin grabs Minho’s arm and pulls him toward the other side of the room. His grip is a little forceful, almost possessive, and Minho stares at him curiously. Seungmin ignores him. Partially because they’re on camera, but also because he just—he doesn’t want to get into it, okay? Not now, and maybe not for a long time after now. Not when he already knows what Minho’s immediate reaction will be: a smug smile, a teasing jut of his chin, a low-toned Jealous, Seungminnie?
Not now, Seungmin thinks as Minho drapes his arms over Chan’s shoulders and pulls him closer, thighs loosely bracketing his wide frame. Not now and not ever.
The moment the cameras stop rolling, Seungmin’s hand skims over to the small of Minho’s back. He lets his palm rest heavy against the muscle, fingers splayed like he’s trying to cover as much surface area as possible.
Minho raises an eyebrow, the faint foreshocks of a smirk on his lips. “We aren’t filming anymore,” he says, as if Seungmin doesn’t know this.
“I’m practicing,” Seungmin says as they walk off the set together, their steps falling into an easy, syncopated rhythm.
Minho snorts unattractively. “For what? Marriage?”
He’s joking, Seungmin knows he is, but he feels his own hand tense against Minho’s back, rippling the tacky fabric of his hanbok.
And there it is, the smirk that Seungmin had been waiting for. “Aw, Seungminnie. I didn’t think you were the sentimental type,” Minho coos, “What kind of flowers do you want at the wedding? I know roses are a little clichéd, but I think they’d make a beautiful centerpiece.”
“Shut up,” Seungmin says, feeling his cheeks grow warm. “I meant practicing for the next time we film something like this.”
“Ah,” Minho says. Seungmin thinks that, from the way that Minho’s smile only sharpens at the corners, he might’ve said the wrong thing. “So, you want to film something like this again?”
Minho had been holding up the skirt of his hanbok as he walked, but he lets go now to pull Seungmin’s hand off his back. He links his arm with Seungmin’s, just like they had while filming, Seungmin’s wrist flopping helplessly in the air. “I’m sure the fans like seeing us as a married couple,” Minho muses aloud. “Didn’t think you liked it too, though.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Seungmin says, and it feels like blood is spilling out of his lungs.
Minho pulls Seungmin’s arm closer to his body, until Seungmin can feel the other man’s body heat through the layers of his hanbok. He says, “Then tell me what you mean.”
It’s never easy for Seungmin to be sincere around Minho. Even when Minho is cutting him open in one long slice and stringing his organs out for all to see (skin, lungs, kidneys), Seungmin can’t help but splay a protective hand over his heart. Everything else, Minho can ogle at if he wants—but this, Seungmin gets to keep for himself.
Seungmin grins at him and says, “Nah. Don’t feel like it.”
Minho wrinkles his nose. “Brat,” he says.
He unlinks the arm he has looped with Seungmin’s and jogs forward to where Jisung is walking a few steps ahead. It doesn’t take long before they’re chatting animatedly, and Seungmin wonders if he should speed up to join their conversation.
Jisung says something that elicits a loud laugh from Minho. Casually, he slings his arm around Minho’s shoulders, and Seungmin watches as Minho leans into the touch. The reaction is almost imperceptible, but Seungmin recognizes it in the way Minho curls his fingers when Seungmin grabs his hand, the way he leans his temple against Seungmin’s frame during long van rides.
Seungmin doesn’t speed up.
“Hannie,” Minho calls out, “wanna see something funny?”
Instinctively, Seungmin cranes his head towards Minho’s voice—but the stylist removing his mic clicks her tongue against her teeth and taps his chest to get him to turn back. They’re all getting out of their mics and costumes right now, but there aren’t enough stylists to go around, so Minho and Jisung are leaning against the wall as they wait for their turns. Seungmin had considered himself lucky to be one of the first to get changed, but now he’s not so sure.
“Yeah, what is it?” Seungmin listens as Jisung shuffles and readjusts his stance. He imagines Jisung leaning towards Minho with a bent head. Conspiratorial, ready to share in a secret that Seungmin is helplessly barred from.
“Look what the stylist noonas gave me for my costume,” says Minho.
Jisung lets out a loud cackle. “What—are those wedding rings?”
This time, Seungmin doesn’t correct himself when he whips his head over to Minho. Jisung is grinning down at Minho’s palm, which has two rings cupped in its curve: one gold, one silver. Minho doesn’t take his eyes off of Jisung—but Seungmin sees his smile quirk at one of the corners. He knows Seungmin’s watching. There’s no way he doesn’t.
His stylist makes another tsking noise. “Please stay still,” she says as she continues trying to untangle the microphone from his hanbok. He turns back to her, skin simmering warm from embarrassment.
Seungmin doesn’t know why he’s acting like this today. He knows that jealousy stems from insecurity, from irrationality—and if Seungmin prides himself on anything, it’s logic. Consistency. But Minho just does that to him, makes him chase the disjointed sensation of being all shuffled up. Makes that desire to be something less than perfect light a fire underneath his paper-thin skin.
“They’re just props,” Minho says. “Seungminnie and I were supposed to wear it for our costumes, but they thought it wouldn’t be worth it. The rings wouldn’t show up on camera, anyways.”
But they would. A glint of gold, a scintillation of silver. Sporadic and ephemeral, but solid, there. A signpost to the whole world that Minho is his, his, his.
“Wow. They look really realistic for props,” Jisung muses aloud. “Can I try one on?”
Just as Seungmin’s stylist finishes removing his mic, Minho answers, “Sure.”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Seungmin tells his stylist with an abrupt bow. “Thank you for your hard work.”
“Wait, you still need to take your costume off—”
Seungmin walks over to the other side of the room and tugs on the sleeve of Minho’s hanbok. “Show me where the bathroom is again?” he says. “I can never remember.”
Minho raises an eyebrow—but otherwise, his expression is the picture of placidity. Unfurrowed, unwrinkled, unworried. “Don’t be rude, Seungmin,” he says. “I was in the middle of talking to Jisung.”
“Oh.” Jisung blinks, lips curving into a confused smile. “I don’t mind—”
“He doesn’t mind,” Seungmin says, curling his fingers around Minho’s bicep. “So. Come.”
Seungmin has to give credit where credit’s due; Minho’s nonchalant expression barely budges when he shrugs and says, “Sure.”
“Cool,” Seungmin says, pulling Minho behind him as they walk out the room together.
Seungmin leads him through the hallway and into the nearest men’s restroom, and Minho hums with feigned confusion. “Thought you didn’t know where the bathroom was?” he says.
Seungmin pushes the restroom door open. The room is empty, and he tugs Minho into the large handicapped stall farthest from the entrance. “Call it muscle memory,” Seungmin says as he locks the stall door behind them.
Minho furrows his brow in exaggerated concern. “Doesn’t seem very nice to take up the handicapped stall,” he says.
Seungmin mirrors his expression. “Remember what happened when we tried to do this in a regular stall?” he says. “Pretty sure none of the stylists believed my excuse that I accidentally slipped on a puddle in the hallway.”
Minho grins. “Was fun watching you try to convince them, though,” he says.
Minho’s got his back pressed up against the stall door, and Seungmin cages him in with an arm now. It’s almost unnoticeable, but Minho’s breath hitches from behind his ribs, balloons in his lungs as Seungmin uses his free hand to cup Minho’s cheek. He leans in and kisses him, passing that captured breath between their lips. Minho lets out a small noise as Seungmin licks deeper into his mouth. He has his hand on Seungmin’s back, and he twists the fabric of his hanbok in his fist now.
Minho pulls back, already breathing hard, and says, “I’m still mic’d up.”
Seungmin lets his hand drift down Minho’s face, run his thumb along his bottom lip. “I thought you liked having an audience,” he says.
Minho’s ears flush dark. Seungmin tucks the brown locks of his wig behind his ear so that he can graze the reddened shell between his thumb and his forefinger, so that he can feel Minho start to unravel beneath him.
“What’s got you all worked up today?” Minho says. “Didn’t think you were the possessive type.”
“I—I’m not,” Seungmin all but stammers.
Minho smirks. So much for having the upper hand.
“I’m not being possessive,” Seungmin tries again. “You’re not… I don’t think you’re something to be possessed.”
Minho blinks, taken aback. He’s quick to regain his composure though, and he says, “Then what’s with the temper tantrum you’ve been throwing all day?”
Seungmin huffs. “I just don’t like watching you flirt with Jisung,” he says. “Even if it’s only acting.”
Minho’s lips curl into a kittenish smile. “Ah. You didn’t like the acting, huh?”
He throws his arms over Seungmin’s shoulders and presses his hands against the back of his neck. Seungmin can feel something cool and metallic against his skin—the wedding ring.
“I’m sorry,” Minho says in a cloying voice, massaging the back of Seungmin’s neck with bird-boned fingers. “Did I make you mad today, yeobo?”
At the affectionate nickname, Seungmin feels his knees wobble, the cartilage melting into jelly and pooling at his feet. His mouth feels bone-dry, and he swallows thickly.
Minho cocks his head to the side in faux innocence. “What’s wrong? You’re not too mad to talk to me, are you?”
He unclasps his hands from Seungmin’s neck and fishes something out from the folds of his hanbok. It’s the other wedding band, the gold counterpart to the sparkling silver ring on Minho’s own finger. “Don’t be mad,” he says sweetly. He takes Seungmin’s left hand and slips the band onto his ring finger, smoothing a reverent thumb over the cheap, golden varnish afterwards. “Look: I even found your ring for you. You were looking for it earlier, right?”
Seungmin doesn’t know why this is making him feel so weak right now, this imagined reality where Minho and he are married. He tries not to question it. Instead, he surges forward and kisses Minho again, this time with more tongue, more teeth. Minho lets out a surprised sound. Seungmin takes that as a cue to rest his hand against the nape of Minho’s neck so that he can push their faces closer together, feeling Minho’s skin heat up against the cool metal of his wedding band.
Minho’s hand is curled up against Seungmin’s chest, sandwiched between their bodies. His other hand rucks up the bottom of Seungmin’s hanbok and palms his already hardening cock through his pants. Seungmin inhales sharply, curling his fingers into Minho’s wig.
“Hey,” Minho breathes out when he pulls away from their kiss. “Wanna fuck your wife like it’s our honeymoon?”
Seungmin groans softly at that. God, of course. Of course he wants to. Only—
“We—We don’t have—” Seungmin pauses. “Y’know.”
Minho presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to Seungmin’s jawline, nipping lightly at the skin with his teeth. “That’s okay,” he mumbles against Seungmin’s skin. “I have an idea.”
Minho flips their stances so that Seungmin’s back is against the stall door. He picks the skirt of his hanbok up and gets on his knees, then lets the flowy fabric pool around him. Minho’s up-do has gone loose and partially undone, and he unties the bun now so that he can re-tie it into a ponytail. Then, he stares up at Seungmin through those ridiculously long lashes of his—and God, Seungmin can barely keep upright.
“Yeobo,” Minho practically purrs as he rumples Seungmin’s hanbok up and nudges it up at him. “Hold this for me, please?”
Seungmin obeys, holding the front of his hanbok up with one hand as Minho tugs his pants off. He uses his other hand to tuck a lock of hair from Minho’s wig behind his ears, then idly plays with the ends of Minho’s ponytail. “It’s been so long since we had some time to ourselves. Without the kids,” Minho says.
He spits into his hand and wraps it around the base of Seungmin’s cock. Seungmin can feel the smooth surface of Minho’s wedding ring rub against his cock every time he twists his wrist, can feel the metal start to grow warm from their combined body heat, and he moans quietly at the reminder. Then, Minho slides his lips around his cock, eyes going half-lidded as he sucks softly at the head. Seungmin exhales harshly when Minho runs his tongue flat over the slit. He keeps jerking Seungmin off with one hand, covering any areas he can’t reach with his mouth.
As Minho starts taking in more of his cock, Seungmin grabs the base of his ponytail, gently pushing him down by the back of his head. “So pretty,” Seungmin mumbles. “So, so pretty for me. My beautiful fucking wife.”
Minho moans around his cock. Seungmin can feel the head of his cock hit the back of Minho’s throat, and he hisses softly, tightening his grip on the base of Minho’s ponytail. “I’m the only one who sees you like this, yeah? Not Jisung, not anyone,” Seungmin continues. “No one else but me. No one but your husband.”
Seungmin watches as Minho’s eyes flutter closed. Minho runs his lips down Seungmin’s cock and reaches a hand between his own legs to palm his own dick. Seungmin grazes his fingers across Minho’s jaw, and Minho pulls off of his cock to pepper light kisses to his fingertips, his palm, his wrist.
“Just you,” Minho mumbles against the blue-green criss cross of Seungmin’s veins, lips pressed to his pulse. “I’m your wife. Your wife only.”
Minho wraps his lips around Seungmin’s cock again, slowly sinking down until he makes a choked noise. Seungmin inhales quick when Minho pulls off, a string of saliva connecting the swollen swell of his bottom lip to his dick.
“You like sucking your husband’s cock that much, huh?” Seungmin says, his voice coming out scratchy. “Like it so much you wanna choke on it?”
Seungmin skims his thumb across Minho’s bottom lip, breaking the string of spit. He slips his thumb past his lips and into the wet heat of his mouth. Something stretches tight in his chest when Minho’s lips immediately close around the digit. Pliant, obedient.
He pulls his thumb out of Minho’s mouth. Minho goes back to sucking him off, head bobbing at a steady rhythm as he jerks Seungmin off with one hand and presses the heel of his other hand against his own hard-on.
“Fuck,” Seungmin says, every breath feeling more and more like he is inhaling a skyful of fog, “I might—”
Before he can finish his warning, Minho pulls off of his cock. Seungmin makes a strangled noise in his throat. “What—”
Minho gets up from his knees, wiping the shine from his lips with the back of his hand. “You still wanna fuck me, don’t you?” he asks, tucking a thumb under the hem of his own pants.
Seungmin doesn’t know how Minho intends to do this when neither of them have any lube. Still, he trusts him. Maybe no one else would in his situation, but he thinks this is why they work together: neither of them are particularly fond of blind faith unless it’s with each other.
“Yes,” Seungmin says. “Please.”
As Seungmin watches Minho fidget with the waistband of his own pants, his head is cottony with arousal—but even if it weren’t, he would say yes anyways.
When Minho gets his pants off, he flips himself around, so that his back is pressed flush to Seungmin’s chest. Then, he rucks the back of his hanbok up. “One more time, yeobo?” Minho says sweetly.
It’s a little embarrassing how quickly Seungmin obeys. He helps Minho bunch his skirt up at his waist, so that his ass is out. Minho spits into his hand, reaches between his legs, and gives Seungmin’s cock a quick stroke. Seungmin lets out a warm gush of breath into the crook of Minho’s neck, tightening his grip on his waist. Minho carefully guides Seungmin’s cock in between his own legs and—
Seungmin gasps as Minho presses his thighs close together and lets him rut into the tight, makeshift gap. Ah, okay. He gets it now.
He starts moving more deliberately now, pressing his fingers into the hollows of Minho’s hips as he thrusts shallowly between his thighs. Seungmin can feel himself brush up against Minho’s balls and the underside of his cock with each thrust forward, and Minho punctuates every movement with breathy little whimpers.
“How is it?” Minho says in a hoarse voice. “How’s your wife’s cunt?”
Seungmin groans as he snaps his hips forward. “So fucking good,” he replies, out of breath. “Really tight, really good. Like it was made for me.”
He reaches down and wraps his fingers around Minho’s cock, starts stroking him in time with his thrusts. Minho lets out a high, needy noise.
“It was,” Minho pants out. “It’s yours, all yours. No one else can have this pussy but you.”
At that, Seungmin speeds up his thrusts and strokes. His head is pounding at the same hummingbird pace as his heartbeat. He leans down to bite the sensitive spot between Minho’s neck and shoulder, hoping the sensation of flesh caught between his teeth will ground him. Minho keens, and this only makes the desire thumping between Seungmin’s ears get louder.
“God, you’re gonna make me cum,” Minho says. “I—”
The bathroom door creaks open. Instinctively, Seungmin pulls Minho close to his chest and clamps a hand over his mouth. He can feel Minho’s breath misting his palms, soaking his skin in spit.
Seungmin hears the trickling noise of someone peeing at a urinal. His dick, unfortunately, is still between Minho’s thighs, but there isn’t really much room for them to move into a more comfortable position without giving themselves away. So, Seungmin goes back to brainstorming what else he could possibly be getting punished for right now. Always getting almond milk with his americanos, maybe. He’d read an article about how that wasn’t very sustainable.
Finally—after an excruciatingly long period of Seungmin trying to take his mind off the dick he currently has between Minho’s thighs by mentally cataloging how many times he’s had almond milk in the past month—the stranger is washing his hands. Just when Seungmin thinks they’re in the clear, Minho cups his hand over the head of Seungmin’s dick, smothering it in warmth, and Seungmin just barely remembers to stifle back a moan. Minho rubs his palm against the head, smearing spit and pre-cum across the tip of his cock, and Seungmin lets out a harsh, “Fuck.”
The faucet stops running. There’s a not-so-small part of Seungmin that wants to throttle Minho across the stall right now.
“You okay in there?” the man calls out.
“Y-Yeah!” Seungmin replies, injecting as much cheer into his voice as possible. “Just… had a bad lunch. Too much cheese.”
Just then, Minho rubs his thighs back and forth, and the sudden pressure makes Seungmin choke back a moan. “And coffee,” Seungmin adds in a strained voice. Seungmin shifts the hand that he has over Minho’s mouth and pushes three fingers past his lips, presses the digits flat against his tongue. He feels Minho’s tongue lave over the wedding band, coating his ring finger in saliva. “I guess you can have too much of a good thing.”
“Ah. Feel better soon,” the man says. If he suspects anything besides what Seungmin told him, he either doesn’t show it, or he doesn’t care.
When the door finally closes behind the man, Seungmin grabs Minho’s hip with one hand and starts thrusting into him again. “You’re evil,” he says.
Minho just moans around Seungmin’s fingers, drool dribbling past his lips as his mouth lolls open. Seungmin pulls his fingers out and wraps the spit-soaked hand around Minho’s cock again, starts stroking him at double-time.
Minho lets out a little whine as Seungmin slams their hips together. “Maybe,” he says, his breath stopping and starting in time with Seungmin’s thrusts. “Maybe I kind of like it when you get mad at me.”
“Yeah?” Seungmin says. “Is that why you kept flirting with Jisung earlier? You wanted me to fuck your brains out that badly, huh?”
Minho moans when Seungmin latches his mouth to the spot he had bitten him earlier, sucking a bruise into the skin. Considering the public-facing nature of their jobs, this isn’t a very smart decision—but Seungmin has never wanted to get caught more than today. If they can’t walk around with matching gold and silver rings, then a purpling hickey blooming underneath carefully positioned turtlenecks is good enough for Seungmin.
“You wanna know the real reason why I think you’re being such a tease today?” Seungmin says, his breath fanning warm over Minho’s ears as he speaks. “I think you like the idea of Jisung finding out.”
With the hand that isn’t wrapped around Minho’s cock, Seungmin grazes greedy fingers up his ribs. He pinches Minho’s nipples through the billowy fabric of his hanbok, drinking in the whimper that Minho lets out in response. “What if that’d been Jisung who walked in instead?” Seungmin says. “Would you have asked him to watch? Told him to sit there as I made you mine?”
Instead of answering, Minho shivers and lets his head fall forward. Minho clasps his own hand over the one that Seungmin is roaming over his chest, interlaces their fingers as Seungmin continues rutting into his thighs.
“God,” Seungmin groans. “‘m getting close.”
Minho tightens the grip of his hand over Seungmin’s. He cups his other hand over the head of Seungmin’s cock, enveloping him in that overwhelming warmth again. “Do it,” Minho says breathily. “Cum in me. Cum in your wife. Knock me up and let everyone know whose I am. Cum for me, yeobo, cum for me right now.”
So Seungmin does, shuddering as he spills hot into Minho’s hand. He is still jerking Minho off, but his strokes get erratic as he rocks into Minho’s thighs, slowly milking out the rest of his orgasm. Luckily, Minho cums soon after, letting out a gasping whine of his own as he releases into Seungmin’s palm.
Minho untwines his fingers from Seungmin’s and peels himself away. He unrolls a long wad of toilet paper and carefully wipes Seungmin’s cum off his hands. As he closes the distance between them, Seungmin holds his own hand out, expecting Minho to wipe him clean too. Instead, Minho grabs Seungmin by his wrist and presses his tongue flat against his palm, lapping his own cum up with kittenish licks.
“That’s so gross,” Seungmin says, even as he feels his dick twitch traitorously at the sight. “And I would know, because I’ve tasted your cum before.”
Minho scoffs. “At least it’s a lot better than yours,” he says. “Ever heard of salads? You should try one sometime.”
It is, somehow, the most predictable thing in the world for Minho to start antagonizing him immediately after sex by insulting the taste of his cum. Warmth surges in his chest at the sheer familiarity of it all, and Seungmin can’t help but feel a little stupid for his possessive behavior earlier today.
Minho isn’t his, because Minho doesn’t belong to anyone — and yet, he chooses to come back to Seungmin over and over again. That has to count for something, Seungmin thinks.
Minho lifts Seungmin’s hanbok up and carefully wipes his softening dick clean with a new wad of toilet paper. He glances up at Seungmin, then scrunches his features into an off-put expression. “What’re you smiling at, you sociopath?”
At that, Seungmin’s grin stretches wider. Suddenly, he wraps his arms around Minho’s shoulders and pulls him into a hug, pressing their chests flush together. “Thanks for choosing me,” Seungmin whispers, curling his fingers into the fabric of Minho’s hanbok.
For a few seconds, he can’t sense Minho’s chest rising and falling against his own. Then, Minho lets out an exasperated sigh that fans warm across Seungmin’s neck. He wraps his arms around Seungmin’s waist, hesitant but not half-hearted.
“Dummy,” Minho mumbles. “Who else would I choose?”
Minho rests his hands on the small of Seungmin’s back, right above the core of his being. Close enough that he could slip his finger under the tightly coiled strings at Seungmin’s center and unravel him if he wanted to.
Maybe other people wouldn’t feel comfortable having their life underneath Lee Minho’s thumb—but Seungmin can’t think of anyone he trusts more.
Seungmin lets his smile soften at the corners. He burrows his face into the crook of Minho’s neck, as if Minho will somehow drink in his sincerity through his skin.
“You’re right,” Seungmin says. “I can’t imagine it being anyone else.”