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The door shuts gently behind Jisung’s back, enclosing him in his bedroom, his safe place, where all pretense can be dropped. The keys are placed on top of his dresser and his phone on the bedside table, then he takes his clothes off.
It's a slow process; unbuckling his belt, kicking off his pants, sliding off socks.
The only reason he takes the hoodie off is so that he can get rid of the shirt hiding underneath. As he dresses in the sweatshirt again, his fingers shake and his head gets stuck in the hood, making him spend a few long seconds fighting for his freedom.
The cotton fabric of the hoodie is soft and worn between his fingers, and when it glides against the naked skin of his torso he shivers, goosebumps breaking out across his arms and his nipples stiffening up.
Then he takes a deep breath before falling backward into bed.
Jisung waved goodbye to Minho at the bus stop and hasn’t stopped thinking about him since. He is never not thinking about Minho. It’s embarrassing. It’s so embarrassing. Jisung will die if Minho ever finds out. But he can’t help himself, can't help the way he shimmies out of his underwear and crawls further up the mattress.
It’s like a ritual at this point. A set course of action he always does after hanging out with Minho. But it’s hard not to indulge, especially since he knows how good it makes him feel when he’s in the moment. When the shame, the guilt, the immorality of it all isn't present; when there’s only Jisung and the silent remnants of Minho left behind.
It’s completely harmless. It’s not like Minho will ever find out. Jisung certainly has no plans of telling him. It’ll always remain as a tiny little secret, and Minho won’t know,- right?
Because it’s so hard to resist the pull when Minho is the most gorgeous man Jisung has ever seen. Kind, funny, caring, sprinkled with a little bit of weirdness that Jisung absolutely adores.
This morning Minho had sent him a text, asking if he was free, and Jisung had jumped at the chance to hang out.
“I need help finding Felix a good birthday present,” were the first words to leave Minho’s mouth when they had met up, because who better to ask than the birthday boy’s best friend?
Jisung hadn’t been disappointed, of course not. It wasn’t a date. He knew that. It was a fact deeply ingrained in his bones, everything they did and consequently didn’t do was a constant reminder. He and Minho would never amount to anything more than friends.
‘What about my birthday present?’ Jisung had wanted to ask, the words resting on the tip of his tongue. So easy to utter. They wouldn’t have meant anything, not to Minho at least, but instead of being brave Jisung had just kept his mouth closed, giving a sweet smile before he started skipping away. “I’ll purposely pick out something stupid.”
When he turned to look over his shoulder Minho had looked surprised, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. Then he’d caught on to Jisung’s teasing and hissed. Fucking hissed. As if he were some aggressive, overgrown cat.
The sound had made Jisung shiver, a tiny vibration traveling from the tip of his toes to the crown of his head, turning his brain into useless jelly.
And Jisung wanted him so badly. Always.
Thinking back to their day together has Jisung melting into the mattress, eyes closing as he tilts his head back and breathes. Taking in the familiar air of his room, the feel of soft sheets under his fingertips, the hoodie draping his torso.
One hand travels up his body, careful fingers gracing the fabric pulled across his chest, tickling the front of his throat, before stopping to rest over his lips.
Two fingers press into his plusher bottom lip, then he bends them and digs his nails into the fragile skin. His tongue swipes out, wetting his lips and tasting artificial cherry, before he lets his fingers enter his mouth, pressing down on his tongue in a way that feels suffocating.
Jisung imagines that the fingers are Minho’s. It's easy enough. After all, he always feels like he’s suffocating in Minho's presence. A cruel pressure under his ribs, the harsh expansion of his heart.
It had been easy to imagine their day together as a date, even if it hadn’t been one. Because it had felt intimate in a way. Or maybe Jisung just hasn’t mastered the art of telling the difference between platonic and romantic intimacy. But it’s so easy to get confused when he’s with Minho.
Especially today, because Minho had made Jisung try on different kinds of lipstick — wanted to watch Jisung paint his lips — just so he could see what the colors looked like on. Apparently, he needed the visual of Jisung’s lips stained different shades of red.
The request had been underlined with something Jisung couldn’t quite pinpoint, but it festered in the sweet cadence of Minho’s voice, the smooth curl of his tongue around letters, and his twisted grin as he forced Jisung to sit in front of a mirror.
Or maybe Jisung was simply losing it.
But either way, it had been hard to perform under Minho's heavy gaze, unnerving in a way that caused fire to ignite in his veins and his thighs to tense up.
When Jisung had brought his hand up to his face, lipstick between his fingers, Minho's eyes had narrowed and Jisung’s entire body shook.
The first color was pretty, mostly coloring his lips, the edges a little rough.
“Next,” Minho had commanded when Jisung finally dared himself to look away from his reflection in the mirror. A new lipstick had been presented before him, waiting in Minho’s outstretched hand, ready to be applied.
The next color had been brighter and the application even worse, smudged at the corners, and it was embarrassing how affected Jisung had been. Eyes shifty, feet nervous, the hand holding the lipstick quivering.
Minho had tilted his head to the side as he assessed Jisung’s mouth. “Next,” he’d said, eyes sharpening into something dark, focused.
By the fifth attempt Jisung’s lips had been stinging and dry, the area around his mouth a little pink and irritated from the number of times he’d wiped the different lipsticks off.
The cherry red in his hand shook so badly, turning his raw lips into something embarrassing and messy. That was when Minho had decided to take over. Leaning closer, so close suddenly, and Jisung’s heart had decided it was time to try and break ribs.
Minho had smelled so good — the mingling scent of his cologne and soap and fabric softener — and Jisung had been obsessed. Wanted nothing more than to crawl into the familiar embrace, build a home in Minho’s thorax and rest his head against Minho’s heart until he dissolved into the very blood that kept it beating.
Then Minho had leaned a fraction closer and Jisung hadn't been able to focus on anything else, his head feeling dizzy from everything and nothing at all.
The state of his face, his messy lips and wide eyes, had been embarrassing. The state of his body, nervous and fidgety and heart beating in his throat, had been embarrassing.
Everything about it had been so embarrassing.
There’s saliva running down the corner of Jisung’s mouth now, fingers resting on his pliant tongue. He feels messy again, but it’s more controlled this time and there’s no one here to witness his pathetic state.
The humiliation he felt when he was with Minho still burns through him however, and Jisung lets it set him alight. Knees knocking as his legs shift around, thighs pressing together, tensing, the heels of his feet digging into the mattress.
He’s hard, has been for a while now, and his free hand pulls the front of the hoodie down, trying to hide his sorry state. Not that there’s anyone here to see it — Jisung almost wishes he had Minho as a witness.
The cotton fabric feels rough when it tugs at his dick, dragging across his sensitive head, and Jisung whines. Tugs some more and lets his hips jerk up, chasing any form of contact or relief to alleviate his discomforting desperation. The relief stings, the dryness of the fabric is burning.
When Jisung grinds up on a particularly harsh tug, the heel of his palm digs into his dick and he chokes around the fingers in his mouth. He lets it build, build, until his muscles tighten and his hips stutter, gurgled whines falling from his raw lips. Then Jisung finally lets his hips relax back into the mattress, his shaking legs falling apart. Presenting.
He wants to grab ahold of his dick and rub himself to completion. It’d be so easy, he’s already so close, pathetically worked up. But at the same time he wants to drag this out for as long as he can; wants to relish in the fantasy where he and Minho have just been out on a date and he is allowed to jerk off to the memory of it.
“Let me do it for you,” Minho had mumbled, his warm voice like a balm over Jisung’s nervous brain, a comforting blanket over his prickly skin, shaking fingers, and scattered thoughts. Always taking over when Jisung couldn’t handle himself. A rough exterior with such a soft inside that always had Jisung so willing, so eager to please.
With bruised knuckles and veiny hands, Minho had plucked the lipstick from Jisung’s pliant fingers just like he’d grabbed a hold of his heart all those years ago; demanding as he ripped it from Jisung’s raw and broken rib cage.
Then Minho’s other hand had come up as well, gentle but firm fingers holding Jisung’s chin still as he dragged the wet wipe over his lips until they stung even more, chafed and dry from the alcohol. When he’d deemed Jisung’s lips clean enough he’d used his grip on Jisung’s chin to keep him still as he applied the lipstick.
Afterward, Minho had moved Jisung’s head around, looking at his face from different angles, eyes zeroed in on his lips.
All throughout the assessment, Jisung had been embarrassingly pliant, letting himself be moved however Minho saw fit. At the mercy of Minho’s rough fingertips and unnecessarily harsh grip. It had made him feel like a doll, a puppet, and his hands had fallen to rest between his thighs to keep himself from grabbing a hold of Minho as well. Always holding back from taking what he truly wants; taking what he isn’t allowed to want.
Instead, Jisung had let his eyelashes flutter, staring at Minho with half-lidded eyes, letting the fingers dig into his cheeks in an almost cruel manner. He hadn’t minded the pain however, and would never fault Minho for causing it. Especially not when he’d been so adorably concentrated, lips pursed and the space between his eyebrows creased.
Besides, Jisung has always found his strength to be ridiculously hot. Body always growing soft and giving under Minho’s rough hands.
The grip Minho had had on him earlier today still has Jisung in a chokehold. Even right now, spread out in bed and wearing nothing but a hoodie, he can’t stop thinking about it. The warmth of Minho’s fingers, the softness of his breathing, the missed shaven spot on his jaw.
Wet fingers drag out of Jisung's mouth, down his lips, and end up spreading saliva across his flushed skin. They come to rest on his chin.
With his eyes closed, Jisung can feel how Minho's hand returns, holding his chin in that harsh grip again. The hand on his stomach clenches at the hoodie’s fabric to ground himself, but a whimper still manages to slip out from between his lips.
If he were to open his eyes again, it feels as if he would find Minho staring into them with his own dark ones. Mocking. Silently calling him pathetic. Maybe that was the meaning behind his dark look earlier today, he’d found Jisung so fucking pathetic for not being able to apply lipstick properly.
Then his hand slowly moves further down, leaving his chin feeling cool from the smeared saliva, and he shivers when he wraps wet fingers around his throat and chokes another needy whimper out of himself.
As the hand squeezes tighter, brain buzzing, he lets himself wonder if Minho is into choking, if he’d be open to trying it out. Jisung certainly wouldn’t mind offering up his neck for testing if he ever got curious. Wants that possessive grip around his throat, to feel owned and completely helpless under Minho. Wants Minho to take every single breath, every choked whine, and hold them in the palm of his hand. Take everything Jisung has to offer, consume him till there’s nothing left, till they’ve merged into one.
Every time he chokes himself he imagines his own hand as Minho’s, wonders if it ever could be Minho. But no matter how many times he asks himself the question, it never seems to make him any smarter. It only ever makes him light-headed and dizzy as he deprives himself of oxygen.
Jisung’s brain feels scrambled and his room is spinning, the mattress rocking in tune with the waves of his imagination.
“This one looks really good,” Minho had continued to speak after Jisung’s lips had been colored a pretty cherry red. The prettiest out of all the colors they had tried today.
‘This one looks really good on you,’ is what Jisung had heard, wanted to hear at least. He wanted Minho to think that the lipstick looked good on him — only on Jisung and not anyone else. That the color had found its worth on Jisung’s body, his lips, complimenting his complexion and matching with the rose on his cheeks.
Minho had given him the compliment so readily, like there was no doubt in his mind that Jisung deserved it.
On the receiving end of the words, Jisung had crumbled. Fallen apart under Minho’s voice, his hand, his stare, the harsh grip he’d had on Jisung’s chin; the harsh grip he has on Jisung’s sense of self, his reality.
When the words had registered in Jisung’s brain — after having been picked apart and reformed, after having bloomed into something deformed, into something with a new meaning, obscuring the truth — Jisung’s cheeks must have been as red as the lipstick Minho had put on him.
But Minho hadn’t cared about Jisung’s rattled state, or maybe he just hadn’t noticed. He never does, or perhaps he enjoys the way Jisung turns flustered and red and so obviously affected by his every action.
Jisung’s hands are shaking again, from both nerves and anticipation, and out of his mouth heavy breaths fall.
Compliments from Minho are few and far between. Honestly, Jisung probably couldn’t tell you the last time he got a real compliment from Minho. But he likes to imagine that he gets many, more than anyone else. Compliments that he needs to work hard for, spoken in a code that forces him to read between the lines.
Slowly, Jisung drags the hand resting on his stomach back downward again, toward his dick.
He feels like he deserves something more now after having waited so patiently, for so long. Having been so worked up ever since Minho laid dark eyes on him this morning, growing more and more desperate as Minho watched him, touched him, complimented him.
When Jisung wraps a hand around his cock he hisses, giving the wet head a few pets with his thumb before he slowly starts pumping up and down. Stroking his dick as his legs grow restless, squirmy; as wet gasps leave his lips, hand squeezing his throat in rhythmless intervals.
It’s embarrassing how wet he’s gotten already, how turned on he’s been ever since Minho suggested he put on the lipstick and watched with an unnervingly focused stare as Jisung applied it. Making mistake after mistake after mistake as he fumbled with the makeup.
It must have been laughable. So embarrassing.
Jisung whines, a tickle of pre-cum dribbling down his shaft. He always does such embarrassing things when Minho is around, either making stupid jokes to make Minho laugh or suddenly getting too flustered to even speak.
When Jisung lets his head fall to the side and digs his nose into the fabric of the hoodie, his body gives a violent jerk, eyes rolling back as he whimpers loudly. A wanton noise at the back of his throat that is needy and raw.
It’s immoral, feels sinful in a way, but Jisung can't help the way he turns his head further, the hand around his throat slipping away so that he can instead grab a hold of the fabric and press it even closer to his nose. The hoodie carries the scent of Minho, smelling like his cologne and shampoo and sweat. It crawls into his lungs, builds a home in his heart, poisons his brain with further delusions.
Like this, with Minho’s smell so so close, Jisung can almost imagine that he’s here — together with him in bed. Maybe Minho would sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at Jisung with those dark unreadable eyes of his. He wouldn’t touch him though, is probably too much of a tease for that. But Jisung wouldn’t mind. Never.
Not if Minho was here.
Jisung is pathetic, and gave up all pretense of pretending otherwise when the sun had begun setting, air cooling, and he started shamelessly begging Minho to borrow his hoodie. “I’m cold," he whined.
“You should have dressed better,” Minho had remarked blandly. But Jisung could see right through him, the curt words doing little to hide his caring nature. The way his brows had furrowed in concern, a hand reaching out to caress Jisung’s back in silent comfort.
“I’m going to develop hypothermia and die,” Jisung had insisted, pushing himself further against Minho's side, into his hand, the gentle touch. A pout on his cherry lips and an embarrassing red on his cheeks.
He hadn’t backed down, wouldn’t, not when all of Minho’s possessions were treasures and wearing his clothes was the greatest achievement of all.
In the end Jisung had won that fight, because Minho is kind, too kind. Unlike Jisung who could easily take advantage of Minho's selflessness as he handed his hoodie over, always having Jisung’s best interest in mind.
It's the very same hoodie Jisung wore all the way home, is currently wearing, and will continue to wear as he touches himself — until the shirt turns messy and sweaty and stained by his cum.
Minho will never forgive him. Jisung hasn’t forgiven himself.
Forgiving and sinning don’t matter right now though, not when Jisung has a hand around his leaking cock. His breathing comes out in wheezing whimpers and the fingers back around his throat do nothing to help.
He lets himself pretend that Minho lending him the hoodie had been a gesture stemming from possessiveness, a silent display of ownership, an underlying sign of obsession. The thought makes his dick pulse, leaking pre-cum over his tense stomach, and with every desperate flick of his wrist, squelching noises fill the air, mingling with his moans.
He’s so wet, and it’s so embarrassing.
More whines fall from his parted lips as he chases his high. He won’t cum like this however, he never allows himself to. Not when there are other options, much more enticing ones.
When his orgasm starts approaching for the second time tonight and his muscles begin seizing up, his hand comes to a stop and the grip around his dick tightens, squeezing hard at the base so that he can chase the orgasm away. Then he lies there breathing harshly. His hair sticks to the sweaty skin of his cheeks and forehead, and his back has melted and merged with the mattress.
When his bones don’t feel like jelly anymore and the shame and guilt of his actions have been pushed even further back into the darkest parts of his mind, he sits up. In the corner of his eye, he sees a shadow of movement and turns his head.
The big mirror next to his desk reflects his debauched form and Jisung turns even redder when he sees what an absolute mess he looks like. Completely ruined by the mere thought of Minho.
For a few moments, he can’t tear his eyes away from the man in the mirror.
Minho’s hoodie looks big on him and he curls his shoulders to make himself look even smaller. The cherry lipstick that Minho put on him has liquified with his sweat and must have gotten smeared when he rubbed his face into the hoodie. Or maybe it was when he sucked on his fingers, pretending they were Minho’s.
When he turns his head a little, it almost looks like he’s been given a bruising kiss, like the lipstick has been ruined by someone else’s lips — Jisung allows himself to think of Minho as the cause.
But more than anything, it’s the crazed look in his eyes that gets to him. A hand comes up to claw at his flushed cheek as he observes, eyes hazy with a lustful sheen. Staring back at him are two bottomless pits of twisted desire and a carnal ache blooms. It bleeds into the surrounding area, his eyes red-rimmed and his eyelashes clumped together. Jisung looks sick and thinks love must be the deadliest disease of them all.
The image in the mirror isn’t one that has ever seen the judging light of day, and it never will. Instead, it will forever remain tucked away in Jisung’s cramped bedroom, watching him fulfill desires that eat him alive when the safety of his room slips away.
Distantly, he wonders if Minho would find this version of him desirable.
Jisung in his rawest form; Jisung with his hunger unrestrained and limitless.
Even after they had left the shop, Minho holding a bag containing the cherry lipstick, Jisung still hadn’t wiped the lipstick on his own lips off. During the walk to the bus stop and the entire ride home, he had been wearing the same shade of red as the one in Minho's bag.
Matching like that, with Minho, had almost made him feel superior in a way. Made it feel as though Minho had bought the cherry red for him, because it had looked so good on Jisung. Made it easy for him to pretend that the reason for their outing had actually all been a ploy, that Minho had tricked him into picking out a gift for Felix when in actuality he had been picking out a gift for himself. All for the sake of getting Jisung the perfect present.
Then when Jisung and Felix’s joint birthday party would arrive and Jisung opened his present from Minho, he’d find the lipstick wrapped up.
It had been so easy to imagine as they walked next to each other, shoulders bumping together on every other step.
However, the secret bottle of cherry lipstick hiding in his pocket — a stolen momento; a cruel reminder of his unrequited obsession — had tasted like defeat. Like reality.
Jisung twists to the side and opens his bedside drawer where his favorite dildo resides. It’s the color of mint green and as he thinks back to the memory of when he bought the dildo, it causes humiliation to crawl over his skin. The way he had braved himself to ask the woman behind the counter if they had any mint green ones, that he needed the dildo to be mint green, didn’t want any other color they offered.
Even more embarrassing than his dildo shopping however, is the fact that the color choice is solely based on the fact that mint green is Minho's favorite color. And in an attempt at having him closer, for them to have something in common — in his own screwed up logic — Jisung needed a mint green dildo.
He squeezes out a generous amount of lube on his fingers, making a mess of his hand, and some dribbles down to discolor the fabric of the hoodie’s sleeve hem.
Impatient and needy he starts with two fingers, and a gasp leaves his lips when he presses them inside and feels the burning stretch. Pain has never been a problem though, and he doesn’t wait for it to alleviate. Instead, he relishes in the sting that zips up his spine and down his legs, making his head spin and toes tingle. Then he twists his fingers and presses them even deeper.
Jisung’s gasps taper off into whines, and at the back of his mind he wonders if Minho would call him sensitive for being so worked up over nothing. Squirming and whining from a little bit of stimulation, cock leaking from the pain.
He bites his lower lip and hides his face behind a clothed arm, breathing in the fabric, imagining Minho. Maybe he would make Jisung tease himself, drag it out, make him cum first by his fingers alone and then once more on the dildo.
The wet and slick noise as his fingers move, pushing and prodding even deeper, makes Jisung’s entire body burn. Panting, he rolls over to lie on his stomach and lifts his lower body up by the knees, letting his back fall into the prettiest arch. Presenting himself to the Minho who lingers in his mind, staring him down, giving him orders.
His face gets buried in the pillows and he whines when he feels lube dribble down his legs, tickling, making his thighs sticky. Everything is so wet. The noise of lube squelching, his dick leaking, drool smearing his pillow, and his skin coated in sweat and hot desire. It’s embarrassing how messy he is; he loves how messy he feels.
When Jisung’s fingers graze his prostate, he bites the pillow to smother a delirious moan, dick dripping pre-cum on the sheets. After that he tries to avoid it to the best of his abilities in fear of cuming too soon. After all, spending the entire day with Minho by his side, falling into a pretense of romance, has him worked up enough as it is.
When Jisung fits the third finger inside, he groans deep in his throat, feeling the stretch burn even more. Quickly his fingers grow restless and his legs start shaking, always shaking, feeling so small. Need vibrates through his bones, pleasure coursing through his veins as he grows more and more impatient, desperate.
He isn’t necessarily thorough, nor is he gentle, and when he pulls his fingers out he probably needs more prepping. But by this point he’s practically crawling out of his own skin in anticipation, wants nothing more than to feel full — preferably by Minho’s dick but he’ll take what he can get.
Scrambling to sit back up again, Jisung makes sure he’s facing the mirror, and with slippery fingers he positions the dildo. Then, very slowly, he sinks down on it.
Jisung relishes in the stinging sensation that makes his skin prickle, the feeling of his body straining as it tries to accommodate something it isn’t prepared for. It makes him feel so small, bursting at the seams from how much desire he’s keeping inside.
When he’s fully seated he lets his eyes flutter open — not that he remembers closing them in the first place. The fuzzy haze obscuring his vision dissipates with a few quick blinks and his focus falls on the man in the mirror.
For a moment Jisung keeps eye contact with his reflection, gaze tracing his lips, the smudged lipstick. Then he pokes his tongue out and tastes saccharine cherry. Slowly he brings up a hand so he can swipe his thumb across his bottom lip, his fingerprint coming back red.
Then with shaky fingers he lifts his phone and enters the chat he has with Minho.
Did you get home okay?
It really is cruel, forcing Minho to unknowingly participate in this game of pleasure he plays with himself; the way Jisung uses him so readily, for his own sick satisfaction. But Minho won’t know, Minho won’t ever find out and that makes it okay,- right?
Jisung is grinding back on the dildo when Minho responds. Staccato moans leaving his throat and his fingers are clenching and unclenching at the front of the hoodie, needing something to hold on to.
Of course
It’s simple and straight to the point, and it makes Jisung choke on a laugh from how absurd the situation actually is. How unknowing Minho is.
Maybe he should let Minho know. Let him guess. ‘What do you think I’m doing right now?’
He could send a picture, perhaps a video.
Jisung wonders how Minho would feel, if he’d jerk off to the images. Maybe he would call, maybe he would come over. Jisung shivers as he imagines a red-faced and panting Minho slamming his bedroom door open, catching him in the act.
Closing his eyes, Jisung lets himself play with the thought, imagining the different things Minho could do. What Minho would do to him.
On the next grind of his hips Jisung shifts position and jerks forward with a choked moan when the angle ends up being perfect. It feels too good and he selfishly indulges in the feeling, letting embarrassing moans slip past his lips.
Pleasure crawls through his body and the different scenarios playing out in his mind only enhance the sensations.
Jisung thinks about Minho pushing him back, pressing him down into the mattress, before carelessly pulling the dildo out and then fucking him just like he deserves. The fantasy causes flames to lick up his insides and he whines pathetically.
With cherry on his lips and lava in his veins, Jisung calls out for Minho, chants his name like a prayer.
“Minho,” he whispers.
“Minho,” he begs.
Minho doesn’t deserve Jisung’s filthy and tainted devotion, but even so, he can’t stop the pleas from tumbling out of his mouth and filling up the emptiness of his room.
Jisung has never had the pleasure of taking Minho to bed before — will never be allowed to enjoy such an experience — but even so, he just knows that Minho is good at fucking. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and Minho fucks until his partner sees stars. With flexible hips and strong thighs, he’d fuck Jisung so hard he wouldn’t be able to walk the next day.
But Jisung deserves that, deserves to be treated roughly for defiling the image of his sweet, kind, pretty Minho.
More whimpers tumble out as new fantasies circulate, eyes screwed shut and head hanging low, mouth agape and drool discoloring the collar of the hoodie. Because maybe Jisung doesn’t deserve anything at all. Maybe Minho wouldn’t grant him anything and would instead force him to sit perfectly still with the dildo nestled deep inside.
Can see the way Minho would leisurely stroll toward his desk chair and settle down facing the bed. Then he’d watch Jisung grow squirmy, impatient, desperate. Until he’s begging Minho for permission to please let him move.
The thought makes his entire body tremble, trying to sit perfectly still just like Minho would want him to.
Jisung doesn’t think Minho would ever give in no matter how much he begs; till his throat turns sore and his thighs shake from the effort of keeping still. But even if Minho never gives him permission, never responds to his useless begging — words falling on deaf ears with no one in the room to keep him company — Jisung lacks self-control and before he knows it his body is moving again. Bouncing on the dildo as he tries to please his imaginary audience of Minho.
When he opens his eyes and looks up, he once again catches sight of his own reflection in the mirror.
Currently, his leaking dick is hidden under the hoodie, the fabric creased and bulging at the front where it’s trying to poke out. With every jerk of his hips, his cockhead rubs against the draping cotton. It’s a teasing touch, but Jisung whines all the same.
The lewd state of his body excites him; the vile nature of his actions makes him ache. His ruined lipstick and tangled hair and flushed cheeks and shaking figure. His lips parted around words that flow mindlessly out of his mouth, moans and groans and whispers for “Minho.”
Minho may not be present in the room with him, but he doesn’t need to be for Jisung to get off on the sinful devotion. Blasphemous prayers to a God that doesn’t exist.
The lipstick staining his lips really is a pretty shade of red, such a sweet cherry color. Minho thought it looked good, thought it was pretty; thought Jisung looked pretty. Jisung thinks the image in the mirror is beautiful.
When his phone dings he jerks forward in surprise, almost falling off the bed.
And you? Did little Sungie get home safe?
Jisung almost sobs at that, eyes brimming with tears as his heart trembles. Even though he knows Minho is teasing, warmth pools in his belly. It isn’t fair. How can Minho be so effortlessly cute and sweet to him and not expect Jisung to fall in love in return?
With a breathless gasp he grabs his phone, and with fumbling fingers he responds. Despite the burning exhaustion in his thighs, his hips continue to move in slow circles, grinding down on the dildo.
Yeah, I’m safe
Safe,- he’s safe. Feels so safe with Minho watching over him.
When the dildo starts rubbing against his prostate again he groans loudly, growing closer and closer to his high. Quicker. Faster. The temperature of Jisung’s body turns molten, lighting all of his nerve endings on fire.
Soon enough his movements start growing jerky, uncoordinated. Once again he grabs the collar of the hoodie so he can dig his nose into the fabric, cool air enveloping his wet dick when the shirt rides up, making him shiver. He breathes in deep, losing himself in the raw scent of Minho. Hazy eyes drifting toward his lit up phone screen.
Good. I’d have to come and rescue you if you weren’t
After all, my little Sungie is very dear to me
‘My.’ A possessive pronoun. Jisung belongs to Minho. Minho owns it all; his body, his heart, his Jisung.
The word resonates in Jisung’s brain. Takes root in his bones, curls around his limbs, and squeezes his lungs till something inside of him bursts. An overripe prunus fruit.
It’s cruel, it’s so so cruel. Minho is tearing him apart, piece by piece, stripping him of his layers until all that’s left is a rotten heart. Barely beating; beating too fast. Indecisive. Pathetic. The little organ, bloody and bruised, but still so obsessively besotted.
A wet sob is ripped from Jisung’s throat and his hips give one last desperate jerk. He doesn't think he could have stopped his orgasm even if he wanted to.
The phone drops to the ground with a clatter that falls on deaf ears as his brain fills with cotton. He folds over on himself as he cums, gasping and whining as semen streaks his front and stains the hoodie — Minho’s hoodie.
When it’s over Jisung lies with his cheek squished into the mattress, trying to catch his breath and staring into the eyes of the person hiding in the mirror. The only person who keeps him company during times like this, the only person who will ever witness his sins.
Immediately after the high passes, shame comes crawling back to the forefront of his mind. Jisung feels pathetic and thoroughly humiliated, the feelings mixing into a dangerous concoction that spreads nausea throughout his body, consuming him.
The steadily growing urge to cry only makes Jisung feel even more pathetic and he hugs his body close, holding onto the lingering scent of Minho, clinging to the hoodie. Then he feels terrible for finding comfort in the person he’s wronged, the person he should be apologizing to.
This guilt he feels is like a set ritual as well. The way he wallows in shame and self-disgust afterward. Always.
Still though, the guilt never stops him from repeating the process all over again. He’s selfish like that — or maybe it’s called being self-destructive — but it’s already become a habit, his guilty pleasure. Jisung’s dirty little secret. And Minho will never know.
With weak arms he finally manages to pull the dildo out, wincing at the emptiness left behind. Then he kicks it off the bed and picks up his phone so he can bury his shameful existence under the blankets until he has enough energy to clean himself up.
There’s a smudge of red on the screen that he wipes off.
Felix was jealous he couldn’t join us today. Sometimes I wonder if it’s me or you he’s dating
Jisung’s heart clenches pathetically. It hurts so bad. Tears sting his eyes again and he sniffles. He wonders if Minho kissed Felix when he got all pouty about it. The thought makes him hurt even more.
You better take Felix on the best of dates so you can make it up to him
Otherwise, I’ll steal him from you
If he feels guilty about defiling Minho’s kindness, he feels a hundred times worse about defiling his friendship with Felix.
Felix doesn’t deserve it. He deserves a good boyfriend like Minho and an even better friend than Jisung; Jisung who can’t stop deluding himself with self-indulgent fantasies about his best friend's boyfriend. All because Felix — the beautiful ray of sunshine that he is — started dating the very same man that Jisung just so happens to be secretly in love with.
It’s unfair, to both Minho and Felix.
The selfish part of Jisung thinks it’s unfair to himself as well, he's known Minho the longest after all. Not that it matters, because in the end their many years of friendship will never compare to the light in Minho’s eyes whenever he looks at Felix; will never compare to the red blooming on Felix’s cheeks as he talks about Minho.
The entire situation is unfair, but he only has himself to blame. After all, Jisung’s world started falling apart the moment he introduced his two best friends to each other.
I’ll ask him on a date
Minho gives the promise, and Jisung closes the screen and brings up a hand so he can cry into his clothed arm. He hopes Felix has a wonderful time out on the date. A real date unlike the one Jisung had.
For the last time tonight Jisung lets his gaze wander to the mirror, and with heavy, half-lidded eyes he holds eye contact. The reflection doesn’t look like Jisung anymore. The cherry on his lips rotten, tainted by his shameful desires. All that remains is a selfish creature.
He thinks about the lipstick buried in his pant pocket, a tester, smudged and filthy just like Jisung. The lipstick dirtied by countless strangers' fingerprints just like Jisung will forever be ruined by Minho’s existence.
Stealing the tester had been a poor attempt at stealing Minho’s affection; hoping for even a fraction of the love and devotion intended for Felix.
In the end, Felix gets it all anyway. A brand new lipstick wrapped in pretty paper while Jisung is left with the meaningless imitation. Felix gets Minho’s everything while Jisung is left with the crumbs, his aching heart and obsessive mind deforming nothing into something.
Jisung knows that the lipstick will end up tucked away in a random drawer, never to be seen again. There it will fester, the cherry rotting into something just as dark and twisted as his desires.
Exhaustion comes creeping up on him slowly at first, then all at once. It seeps into his flushed and sweaty skin, and he falls asleep a moment later. Because of that, he doesn’t notice Minho's last text.
After Felix comes back from your place. He said he'd stop by on his way home from work
Tell him hi for me
Jisung also doesn’t hear the footsteps shuffling against his wooden floorboards, slowly moving further away from his bedroom. Nor does he hear the door to his apartment open. But when it slams shut, he startles awake.
***