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He pretzels his fingers and sucks in a sharp breath. Tiny stars dot the backs of his eyelids—if anxiety wasn’t bubbling in his throat, maybe he could map out constellations and find Fornax because it sure feels like he’s burning up, too-hot flames of shame and worry scorching his insides.
Jisung knows his boyfriend loves him. Minho tells him all the time—not with words so much, but he touches him just how he likes to be touched, and makes him his favourite cheesecake biweekly, and he’s there, always, stroking his head when he sobs his stupid little heart out. The love is tangible. It’s not that. It’s just that—well, perhaps Minho will love him a little less after Jisung says what he wants to say, asks for what he wants to ask for, and that is great incentive to not spark this conversation. It could ruin everything.
It likely will.
But—
Something broke in his brain a long time. There is probably, definitely, something clinically very wrong with him, but knowing that doesn’t change much. It’s not that he doesn’t feel guilty any more, because he definitely does, it’s just that feeling guilty never really changed anything, actually. He felt guilty about being gay, too, and he couldn’t fucking fix that either, could he?
So he has weird, strange desires. So he daydreams about stupid, gross things. So what? Some people set ants on fire for fun. Some people eat uncooked noodles. In the grand scheme of things, what does anything really matter?
He does not want to ruin the one good relationship he has ever had. But he also hopelessly and desperately wants Minho to indulge him, to see this part of him and love him despite of it, to reassure him that maybe it’s not so normal but it’s not so bad either and there’s nothing wrong with him.
Lie to me and tell me I’m not going to hell.
And is it worth the risk? Maybe not. But maybe—
‘Hey,’ Minho says, touching Jisung’s tangled-up hands, thumb stroking his knuckles. ‘Calm down, baby. You’re going to hyperventilate.’
Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he could pass out from shame and slip into a coma and never admit what he’s trying so hard to admit. He wants, simultaneously, to bring this thing to the surface and bury it deeper than ever before, shovel so much dirt on top that he’ll finally be able to forget all about it.
He chances a glance at his boyfriend and shivers at that look of fond concern. ‘Do you promise you don’t hate me?’
Minho’s eyebrows lift. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘How could I ever hate you?’
‘Well—’ He draws in another breath and squeezes his eyes shut. ‘I mean, if I did something bad?’
‘Elaborate.’
‘Like if I killed someone?’
‘I imagine you’d have your reasons.’
He blinks open his eyes. ‘If I did something worse?’
‘What’s worse? Like, if you cheated on me?’
Jisung half-snorts. ‘Infidelity is worse than murder?’
‘Killing doesn’t necessarily mean murder,’ Minho says. ‘Could’ve just been manslaughter. Did you cheat, though?’
‘Of course I didn’t cheat on you,’ he says. ‘You’re literally perfect. No, it’s—’ He digs his nails into his palms till it stings. ‘I haven’t—done anything, I guess. It’s more like—there’s something I want. To do. Kind of. But it’s bad.’
Minho grabs his hand gently and uncurls his fingers. ‘You’re hurting yourself,’ he says, finding Jisung’s eyes. ‘Nothing you want is bad, Jisungie.’
‘Um.’ He almost laughs again. ‘See, that’s where you’re objectively wrong, but—’
‘Baby,’ Minho says. ‘Tell me what you need from me.’
‘Hngnnf—’ His eyes slip shut and he feels so dizzy. Is this how it feels the second before you dry-swallow the capsule full of cyanide, knowing it will change everything, this is the end, there’s no going back any more? The butterfly bats its spindly wings and it precipitates the next Big Bang.
You swallow anyway.
‘Jisungie,’ Minho murmurs, ‘I would never hate you.’
‘It’s a sex thing,’ Jisung chokes.
The right corner of Minho’s mouth twitches. ‘I kinda figured.’
‘But it’s—it’s—’
‘Baby, it’s okay.’ He squeezes Jisung’s hand again. ‘Okay? Just tell me.’
‘I want—’ He clenches Minho’s hand so hard it must hurt. His breathing is all fucked-up and how does he say this, how does he say this, oh my God, how the fuck does he say this—‘you can say no,’ he swears, ‘you can say no and please don’t hate me, fuck—’
‘I know,’ Minho says. ‘I know I can say no. And I won’t hate you.’
‘I think about—’ he whispers, ‘sometimes, you being like—like my older brother.’ He curls in on himself and his jaw goes tight and time isn’t real any more. Reality has suspended itself and he’s hovering in the in-between and he doesn’t dare blink open his eyes because any second now Minho will pull away and Minho will flinch and Minho will call him a plethora of ugly, terrible things and Minho will be right and—
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Minho says softly, still touching Jisung. He gives his hand a squeeze and swipes his thumb across his cheek, curling his hand at his jawline and tilting up his face so their eyes meet. ‘You want me to pretend I’m your brother?’
Jisung’s body rocks and a raspy sound hurtles from his throat. ‘OhmyGod.’ He nods desperately, body flooded with heat, still barely breathing as he looks at his boyfriend and sees not a look of revulsion as expected, but instead something startled undercut with tenderness. His eyes are a little wide and there’s something tentative about the curl of his mouth, but—
‘Oh, God, you’re not—’
‘No,’ Minho says, ‘I’m not. You want to be my younger brother, Jisungie?’
‘Fuck.’ His brain has already started to liquify. This is not real. This cannot be real. ‘Fuck, what the fuck. Hyung. Hyung, what the fuck—’
‘Tell me what you want,’ Minho says. ‘When you think about this—what’s it like?’
He jerks again, grasps Minho’s forearm and squeezes down. ‘Um, if you—like what you said. You’re my brother. And—maybe if—if you can be kinda like—like I don’t want it. But you make me want it. Kind of. If that—if that makes sense?’
‘Ah, you nasty boy,’ he says, touching above Jisung’s knee, fingertips teasing his inner thigh. His gaze burns through Jisung and he flicks his tongue across his bottom lip. ‘You want your big brother to corrupt you, huh? Want me to touch you in a way that makes you feel all weird and sick but you go along with it ‘cause I’m your brother and I must know best?’
‘Oh God,’ Jisung says again, lashes fluttering, because he has forgotten all other words. Everything is so hazy already. Minho’s supposed to be revolted. He’s supposed to tell him he’s gross and perverse and awful, but instead he’s going along with it. He’s somehow going along with it.
He threads a hand through Jisung’s hair and tugs lightly, traps his bottom lip between his teeth and tugs gently. ‘We can do that,’ he says, licking into his mouth. ‘I can be that for you. I’ll be whatever you want me to be, Jisungie.’
‘Fuck.’ He exhales a sharp whine and slants his mouth against Minho’s again. ‘You know I love you?’
‘Mm-hmm, I do. But tell me again anyway.’
#
The whine froths in his throat and slips out amidst a twine of spit. His hips buck forward, his hard dick twitching in his tight fist—thumb swiping over the slick head, another harsh sound stumbling out and blurring into a loud, desperate moan. Eyes shut tight, fingers sticky with pre-cum, shifting on the bed to grind into his hand.
‘Ah, ah, ah, shit—’
Afternoon sunlight dances through the room, and Jisung is home alone so he doesn’t have to be quiet. His head tilts back, his throat bared, his mouth open and wanting as he polishes the head of his dick.
The pleasure courses through him and he feels lost, untethered, a little bit dizzy as the dream takes over. Nothing specific, not really, a warm hand that’s not his own, someone else making him feel good. He tugs on his cock and toys with his balls, whining again, and his foot gets caught in the duvet when his leg kicks out. ‘Ah, fuck, feels—good, ah—’
A click, but it doesn’t register, not fully, not until—
‘Oh, wow,’ Minho’s voice sounds, and Jisung freezes.
No. No, no. He’s home alone, his brother isn’t home, this isn’t—
With his breath caught in his throat, he turns his head to the side.
‘You’re being really fucking loud,’ Minho says, eyebrow arching, flat voice searing Jisung.
He blinks again, but Minho is still there in the doorway, hand on the doorhandle, head tilting and eyes trailing down Jisung’s exposed body, lips twitching into a smirk at the sight of his flushed dick in his hand.
‘Hhhhgng—’ Jisung yelps, grasping for his duvet to cover himself up because this is embarrassing, this is so embarrassing, why is this happening to him, he thought he was home alone—
‘Nasty boy,’ he says, tongue playing along the row of white teeth. ‘Didn’t know you were old enough to masturbate, Jisungie.’
‘Go away,’ he mumbles. His eyes squeeze shut but he can still feel Minho’s gaze on him. Shame coils in his underbelly, warm and pulsing like a blood-slick heart.
‘No,’ Minho says, ‘no, I don’t think I will.’ He steps into the room and pushes the door shut behind him.
Jisung looks up at him. ‘What’re you—’ he begins as Minho sits down on the edge of the bed. ‘Hyung—’ he whispers as Minho grips the duvet and flips it to the side. ‘Hyung, what’re you—’
Shushing him, Minho takes hold of Jisung’s still-hard dick. ‘You do this a lot, Jisungie?’
‘Hyung—’
‘You could’ve asked for my help,’ he muses. He tightens his grip and strokes Jisung’s dick. His hand is warm and rough and Jisung shivers, terribly ashamed of how nice it feels. It’s not supposed to feel nice. It’s not—it’s not right. Minho is not—his big brother is not supposed to touch him like this. He’s supposed to leave. He’s—
Jisung squirms, trying to get away, fingers clenching in the bedsheet.
‘I would’ve helped you, Sungie,’ Minho goes on. ‘If only you’d asked. That’s what good brothers do.’
‘N-no,’ Jisung shakes his head, ‘no, I don’t—don’t think—’
That’s not right, he wants to say, but the words die in his throat as Minho palms his cockhead and coos again. He twitches, and a sound is building in his chest but he won’t let it out, won’t, he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t—
‘Hyung,’ he gasps, curling to the side but Minho grabs him by the hip bone and pins him down.
‘Yes, Jisungie.’
‘Hyung, I don’t—don’t—’
‘You look like you need help.’ He scrapes his thumbnail along the thin, tender skin of Jisung’s abdomen. ‘I think you want this. I think you want your big brother to help you out.’
His eyes go wide and find Minho’s dark gaze. ‘No, no—’
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘you do. Just look how you’re dripping in my hand.’
He shivers. His dick twitches, and a soft whimper escapes his bitten lips.
‘Ah,’ Minho revels. ‘You’re twitching, Jisungie. That means you want it.’ He fists Jisung’s dick and rubs his thumb at the slit. ‘It means you like it.’
‘Hyung—’ His voice cracks and he feels so hot, his tummy all tied up in knots, everything bad and wrong and yet it feels good, and that makes it worse, the way the pleasure sings through his body and he wants to lean into it but it’s wrong because Minho is his brother and brothers are not supposed to do things like this, he knows that, he knows, and why is Minho touching him and why does it feel good, why does it feel so, so good when it’s bad and wrong and—
‘It’s okay,’ Minho reassures. ‘You can admit you like it. Don’t you want me to show you how it works?’
‘But you’re my—’
‘I’m what?’ Minho hums, massaging Jisung’s balls in his palm.
‘My—’ Everything burns. Involuntarily, his hips fuck up into Minho’s hand again and he gasps at the feeling, his tight fist, his warm skin. ‘My—you’re my brother, we’re not—’
He tilts his head again. ‘We’re not what, Sungie?’ Cooing softly, he teases his thumb where Jisung drips pre-cum. ‘I can tell you like it. And you were being so loud, Jisungie. I could hear you all the way in my room.’ He flicks his nail against Jisung’s cockhead and jerks him off faster. ‘You probably wanted me to hear. You’re so nasty. Nasty, nasty boy—’
‘No, no,’ he slurs, twitching forward again, shame and confusion scorching him. He’s not supposed to like this. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t, he doesn’t, but—but, but, but—
‘Didn’t,’ he whimpers, ‘didn’t—didn’t want, no, I don’t, you—thought you weren’t home, please—’
‘Please, huh?’ He licks his palm and shines his dripping cock again, and this time Jisung can’t stop whining. He’s so sensitive and why is he still hard, how is he still hard, maybe—maybe Minho is right, maybe he wants this, maybe he likes it, maybe—does he like it? It feels good, but it also—it also feels wrong. It is wrong. It is wrong, why is he hard, why does it feel so good, why is everything suddenly so hazy and strange, why won’t Minho leave?
‘What’re you begging for, Jisungie?’ he asks. ‘I bet it doesn’t feel this good when you do it alone. I bet all this time you knew you needed my help. Isn’t that right?’
‘No—’
‘Quit lying,’ Minho scolds. ‘I can tell you’re about to come. You only come if you like it.’
He exhales a quiet whimper and his body jerks on the sheets. He’s close. He’s so, so close he can barely think, and it really has never felt this overwhelming before. Every time he’s got off alone, it’s been nice, of course, but it hasn’t been like this. It hasn’t rewired his entire body in this way, and does that mean—
Does that mean Minho is right and Jisung wants this, does Jisung want this, why would he want this, why—
‘Tha’s not true,’ he begs, delirious and sick with shame and so fucking hot he can’t think.
‘Yes, it is,’ Minho says. ‘If you come, it means you like it.’
He flashes a mean smile and toys with Jisung’s balls in one hand, jerking him off expertly with the other, and Jisung is weak and worked-up and too sensitive to stop it from happening—his body goes tight and his back arches off the bed and there’s a bad taste in his mouth as he comes all over Minho’s hand. His stomach turns and he heaves a ragged breath, aftershocks jolting through him as Minho keeps stroking his dick.
He smirks down at him. ‘Didn’t know my little brother was so fucking nasty,’ he says, licking his cum off his palm, and that sight makes Jisung spasm again.
He whimpers.
‘Mum and Dad will probably be home soon,’ Minho says with a shrug. ‘You should get yourself cleaned up.’
‘You, you—’ He swallows, and exhales a shaky breath.
‘What?’ he prompts.
‘You won’t—’ Eyes squeezing shut, the back of his skull starts to throb.
‘I won’t tell them,’ he says, ‘if that’s what you’re worried about. They won’t find out their youngest son asked his big brother to get him off.’
His eyes snap open. ‘I didn’t—I didn’t do that, you—’
‘You didn’t?’ Minho plays his tongue around his index finger. ‘Seems like you were asking for it, actually. Being that loud. Getting so wet when I touched you. You clearly wanted it, Jisungie. I was just giving you what you wanted.’
Jisung’s brain feels like wet sand, his whole body gone soft and sleepy like a kitten.
Embarrassingly, he’s already getting hard again.
The way Minho’s mouth curls into a taunting smile again lets him know he’s noticed, too. ‘You ever had sex, Jisungie?’ he asks. ‘Bet you haven’t. Bet you’ve just been playing with yourself, right?’
‘Hhhg—’
‘Bet you’re just desperate for someone to pop your cherry, aren’t you? Nasty boy. Nasty, nasty boy. You’re such a fucking cliché.’
‘I’m—I’m not, I’m not—’
‘You’re not a virgin?’
Even the tips of his ears burn. ‘I’m—‘s none of your business,’ he whispers. ‘Go away.’
‘Okay, okay,’ he says. ‘Whatever. Clean yourself up before Mum comes home.’ He scrapes his nail down Jisung’s inner thigh and laughs when he whimpers. ‘I’ll be in my room, you know. If you need more help.’