Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Three months. That's how long Jisung and his girlfriend have been together. Not a year, not a decade, just three little months. Ninety-something days. People always say that's when relationships either bloom or go to shit. Cute little fork in the road.

Well, his is headed for the sewer.

They're happy. At least, that's what it looks like from the outside. Perfect couple. She posts cute stories of them holding hands, he reposts them. She laughs at his dumb jokes, he acts like he's not trying so hard to impress her. Matching playlists, good morning texts, stupid little inside jokes, all of it. A perfect, polished highlight reel.

The thing is, she doesn't know that he knows the truth. Or at least the version of truth that punched him in the ribs two days ago, courtesy of Hyunjin, who is the reliable kind of friend that will tell you your fly is open and that your girlfriend was making out with a stranger at a club.

Yeah, apparently, Hyunjin had seen her at some club, making out with a guy before leaving with him.

Hyunjin, of course, had tried to soften the blow. "I'm so sorry, bro, I just thought you should know." And then, bless his useless honesty, he added that he'd never seen the guy before but that he was "insanely hot."

Jisung remembers laughing, because what else do you do when your friend tells you your girlfriend cheated on you with someone described as "insanely hot"? You laugh. You pretend you don't care. You joke about it so you don't feel small.

Hyunjin gave a vague description. Not quite broad, but well built, dark hair, a jawline that "could cut glass", muscles that "probably have their own fanbase." Basically, the kind of guy who gets paid to stand in cologne ads and smirk at cameras. That sort of thing. By the description, the man was in fact "insanely hot." Jisung can't even be mad about that part. If you're going to cheat, at least aim high, right?

Now, Jisung isn't exactly hurt. Disappointed, sure. Angry? Kind of. You can't hear something like that and not feel your stomach twist a little. But it doesn't sting the way it's supposed to when you find out your girlfriend's been cheating on you.

It's more like a dull shove. More like a text he forgot to answer three days ago that keeps floating back into his head: oh right, that. Maybe that says something. Maybe their relationship wasn't meant to be in the first place. Maybe this is the universe's way of sparing him the slow leak in favour of a sharp pop. Balloons die either way.

Could've been a one-time slip-up. Which wouldn't make it better. There isn't a moral coupon you can apply at checkout. Still, his brain tries to negotiate. Maybe she was drunk. Maybe the music was too loud to hear her conscience. Maybe the guy's gravitational field caught her, and how do you fight physics?

He rewinds the last month. She's been out a lot. Without him. Always "hanging with the girls." Always "helping her mom." Yeah. Because everyone knows the girls only hang after midnight and mothers only need help on Saturdays at 2 a.m. He's been played like an idiot. A smiling, trusting idiot who thought his girlfriend's phone face-down on the table meant she was just being polite. Christ.

He doesn't say anything to her, not yet. He needs to think about it, plot out the map, pick a style. He's not broken, but he's nothing if not petty. And his ego is sulking in the corner with its arms crossed, counting the ways he's apparently not the hottest person in the room or the best in bed.

Expose her in front of everyone? Too theatrical. He isn't auditioning for a tragic lead, and public humiliation is a sticky sport.

Ghost her? Too quiet. It would let her fill in the blanks with generous interpretations.

Sleep with someone else to even the score? It offers the illusion of balance while achieving precisely nothing.

None of it feels satisfying. Not the speech, not the exit, not the rebound. Every imagined ending tastes like cardboard. All that work for a shrug.

Then a thought drops into his head like a stone into a still pond, ripples spreading, everything rearranging around it.

If this guy—this mystery Adonis—is supposedly so much better than Jisung in bed that his girlfriend would risk the relationship for the experience, then there's a very simple way to measure the myth: find the man and test the claim.

If the guy is actually that good, then fine, the legend is true and Jisung can at least respect the magnitude of the disaster. If the guy isn't, then the whole thing unravels and his ego gets to stand up, brush off its jeans, and say see, it wasn't me, it was her taste.

It's toxic. It's petty. It's probably one of the worst ideas he's ever had.

But God, it's tempting.

The more he thinks about it, the more it starts to sound reasonable. Logical, even. It's not like he has anything to lose. His relationship's already dead, it's just pretending to breathe.

He wonders if she's still texting the guy. Probably. Maybe right now, while Jisung's lying here, she's sending heart emojis to someone else. The thought should hurt. It doesn't. It just makes him want to laugh again. Everything feels absurd. Three months of pretending. Three months of effort. For what?

He tosses his phone aside and runs a hand through his hair. His reflection in the window looks tired, lips pressed tight. He whispers, "You really fucked this one up, huh?" Not that he's sure who he's talking to. Himself, her, or both.

Still, the idea lingers. The mystery guy. The challenge. Maybe Jisung doesn't want revenge. Maybe he just wants proof. Proof that he's still in control of something, that he can flip this story on its head and make it his. Because if he's going to be humiliated, he might as well do it with style.

If his girlfriend wanted someone better, fine. He'll find out just how much "better" the guy really is.

And if he's not? Then Jisung wins.

Yeah. That sounds fair enough.

⭑.ᐟ

The next day, Jisung still hasn't said a single word to his girlfriend about any of it. Not a hint, not a passive-aggressive comment, not even a "we need to talk" text. He wakes up, brushes his teeth, responds to her "good morning <3" like everything's totally fine, and then heads to Hyunjin's place.

Now, he's slumped on Hyunjin's sofa with a bag of chips in his lap and frustration brewing like a storm cloud. They've been trying to find him. The guy. The mystery Adonis his girlfriend cheated on him with.

So far? Total fucking dead end. Turns out, trying to locate a hot stranger based on a half-drunk memory is exactly as difficult as it sounds.

"Okay," Jisung says, biting down on a chip aggressively, "what if we already scrolled past him and you just didn't recognise him because your memory sucks?"

Hyunjin rolls his eyes. "My memory does not suck."

"You forgot your own birthday last year."

"That was one time and I was stoned."

"Not an excuse."

They've gone through every tagged photo from the club Hyunjin was at. Nothing. Searched mutual friends. Nothing. Stalked profiles of everyone Hyunjin remembers seeing that night. Still, fucking nothing.

After an hour of this purgatory, Jisung has a thought. It's obvious in retrospect. He says it out loud because keeping it in his head makes it sound even more pathetic: her following list. He didn't check before because he assumed she'd have the basic survival instinct not to follow the guy she cheated with. 

He almost dismisses it. Because come on, she's not that dumb. Right?

…Is she?

She might be.

"Her Instagram," Jisung says. "Check who she follows."

Hyunjin blinks. "You think she'd actually follow him?"

Jisung's mouth twists. "I didn't think she'd do any of this, so my predictive accuracy is trash. Just check."

Hyunjin opens her profile. It's a portrait of curated normalcy: mirror selfies, matcha lattes, blurry sunsets, him. Jisung's face shows up four times in the grid. He stares at one of the photos like it's a stranger who stole his shirt. He looks happy in it. Cute, gullible. He wants to punch that version of himself in the throat.

Her following list is a bloated parade of blue checkmarks. K-pop idols, actors, influencers, brand accounts, which means the non-verified pool is small enough to swim in without drowning.

They scroll past names Jisung knows and names he pretends to know. He doesn't know what he's hoping to feel when he sees the guy. Shock? Rage? Relief? Maybe he's hoping for a punch to the gut so he can stop this clinical hyperfocus and just be a person again.

Jisung's patience snaps and reknits itself three times. He's about to tap out when Hyunjin shoots upright like someone just plugged him into a socket.

"There," Hyunjin says, voice wired. "Him. That's him."

Jisung lurches forward so fast he nearly smashes their foreheads together. Hyunjin clicks the profile with hands that suddenly remember urgency.

t.leeknowsaurus.

"What kind of cringe username is that," Jisung says automatically, because any other reaction might shatter something.

"I don't know, man. Maybe he likes dinosaurs?" Hyunjin says, already tapping through. The profile is public. Blessed be the reckless.

Jisung snorts. Great. He's been replaced by a prehistoric kink.

First post: a mirror selfie, shirt half off, soft shadows of abs that look like they were hand-sculpted by divine intervention. Captioned "sore but worth it" with a smirking emoji.

Jesus.

Next, a dance clip. Fluid, controlled, effortless. The guy moves like he's boneless. Like he fucks with his whole body. Comments are filled with thirsty emojis, girls (and guys) practically begging for him to ruin their lives.

And Jisung? Jisung is staring.

Because yeah, okay, this dude is hot. Like, obnoxiously hot. Punch-in-the-throat hot.

And worse? He's charismatic. His stories are funny. His captions aren't dumb. He's a dancer. He's got tattoos. Piercings. So many fucking piercings. Eyebrow, septum, lips. His ears are stacked too. Jisung wonders if he's got more hidden. Nipples? Prince Albert?

They watch a rehearsal video twice. Jisung has to press his tongue to his molar to ground himself. He doesn't even realise his knee is bouncing until Hyunjin slaps it.

Jisung tries not to, but the comparison is automatic. He has good days. He's not unattractive. He has tattoos too. But this guy? This guy is the kind of handsome that makes people forgive crimes. This guy shows up late and still gets applauded.

It's not fair.

Then again, none of this is.

He feels something twist in his chest. Not quite jealousy, not quite anger. He's trying to decide if he's more jealous that his girlfriend cheated with that guy, or that he wasn't the one who got to mess up the sheets with him.

Jisung taps another post. The guy is doing a duet with a girl Jisung doesn't recognise. There's a part around the chorus where he drops and snaps back up, and Jisung's brain short-circuits for a second because, oh. He gets it. Not the cheating. Never that. But the gravity, the pull of someone who looks like he can bend you into better shapes.

"Happy?" Hyunjin asks, because Hyunjin sucks.

"Not the word," Jisung says.

Hyunjin watches his face with a look that can only be described as alarmed delight. "So what's the plan now?"

Jisung doesn't answer immediately. He just stares at the ceiling like it has divine guidance carved into it.

Maybe he sticks with the plan. Maybe he fucks the guy.

It's insane. It's stupid. It sounds like a plot twist from the kind of drama people write fanfiction about at 3 a.m.

"I'm gonna test the hype," Jisung says.

Hyunjin chokes. "You want to sleep with him." It isn't a question.

"I want," Jisung says, choosing each word like he's laying a minefield, "to know if this is about him being some kind of god-tier situation or just about her being incapable of not chasing fireworks."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive," Hyunjin says. "Also, you don't even know if he'd be into you."

Jisung shrugs. The shrug is casual because it's easier than saying the truth: that he's already imagining it with a clarity that should alarm him. "He will be."

Hyunjin pinches the bridge of his nose. "Confidence noted, arrogance applauded." He then taps the screen again, reading the handle out loud like it's a spell. "t.leeknowsaurus. I hate him a little."

"Get in line," Jisung says. He opens the most recent story. It's a boomerang of a studio door and the word rehearsal with a sweating emoji. The timestamp says 3h. There's a location tag. A studio across town.

Hyunjin whistles low. "He's local. That's convenient."

⭑.ᐟ

Jisung broke up with her.

He thought about not doing it, just ghosting the whole relationship and pretending it never existed. But then again, he's not a trash human being. Contrary to some people.

So yeah. He ended it.

She cried. Of course she did. Used every basic line in the Sad Cheating Girlfriend handbook. "It didn't mean anything." "I was drunk." "It was a mistake." Yada yada go fuck yourself.

He didn't shout, didn't throw shit, tried to be gentle, because even if she was a backstabbing disappointment, he wasn't going to be. He told her it was over, plain and clear. She begged. He left.

And weirdly? He's fine.

No, really.

He thought he'd feel gutted or whatever, but instead he feels light. Like he finally took out the trash. And more importantly, he has a plan.

A very specific, completely unhinged, possibly immoral plan.

Step one: track down the guy his ex cheated on him with.

Step two: fuck him.

And now here he is, outside a dance studio. And he's realising there's something deeply humiliating about stalking a guy your ex may or may not have slept with and hoping to casually run into him without looking completely insane.

He adjusts the strap on his bag, breathes in the faint mix of laundry detergent and sweat drifting from inside, and reminds himself why he's doing this. Not because he wants closure. Not because he's particularly hurt. But because there's an itch in his chest that won't go away unless he confirms one thing for himself: whether or not this Minho guy is really worth it.

He takes a breath.

The nerves are kicking in, threatening to crash through his cool exterior, but every time he feels his hands start to shake, he repeats the magic phrase in his head:

His fucking username is t.leeknowsaurus.

There is nothing intimidating about a man who willingly chose that username.

He pulls the door open and walks in like he belongs here. He's danced before, thankfully. Not recently, but enough to keep from looking like a complete idiot.

The studio is spacious, mirrored on one side, and already has a few people milling around, stretching or sitting on the floor. The general vibe is casual. Comfortable clothes worn by people who know the kind of effort that's about to be demanded from them.

Jisung nods politely at a girl tying her shoes near the wall. She smiles back. So far, so good.

He picks a spot near the mirror and sits down, stretching lazily and pulling out his phone more to avoid eye contact than to check anything.

He doesn't see him. Yet. Maybe he's late. Maybe he's not showing up today and Jisung is wasting his time. That would be both a relief and a disappointment.

He scrolls a bit, checks the time, thinks about how long he should wait before leaving if this turns out to be nothing. It's not like he can ask anyone, either. That'd be a great look. "Hey, anyone seen the guy who may or may not have wrecked my relationship? Black hair, hot, probably better than me in bed?"

Yeah, no. He'll wait.

A few more people enter. The room starts to fill out. Jisung glances up, absently tapping his thumb against his knee, when the door opens again and someone new walks in.

There's no dramatic music, no slow-motion moment, but the shift in atmosphere is immediate.

Minho walks in like he's done it a hundred times, which, to be fair, he probably has. He doesn't hesitate, just nods at the instructor and starts making his way toward a clear spot on the floor. Grey joggers, one leg rolled up, black t-shirt hanging just loose enough to look intentional.

The blond hair is unexpected. Not the dark, styled look from his photos. It's light now, brighter, cut in a way that makes him look more effortless than he has any right to.

He catches Jisung's eye for a moment and gives him a quick, polite smile. Not flirtatious, just the kind of smile you give when you make brief eye contact with a stranger.

Jisung doesn't smile back. Not because he doesn't want to. He just forgets how. He shifts slightly, pulling his sleeves down and adjusting his position against the mirror. His heart isn't racing, but there's a weird tightness in his stomach now. He watches through the mirror as Minho drops to the floor and starts stretching, completely at ease.

It's annoying. Not the fact that he's attractive, but that he seems so unaware of it. Or worse, aware of it but used to the attention. There's no arrogance in the way he moves, just confidence.

The instructor starts class. Warmups first, then the first few counts of a routine that, thankfully, Jisung can keep up with. His muscle memory kicks in around the third repetition. Still, it's hard to focus. Minho's in his peripheral vision the entire time. Every time Jisung tells himself to stop looking, he looks again.

Minho dances like he knows what he's doing, fluid, but not showy. The kind of presence that doesn't scream for attention, but ends up getting it anyway. He doesn't talk much, just listens to the instructor and moves. When their eyes meet again in the mirror, it's brief, and Jisung looks away before he starts projecting anything onto it.

About halfway through the routine breakdown, they're placed in the same group. Jisung finds himself next to Minho, facing the mirror, trying not to think about how he's essentially competing with a guy who has no idea he's being measured against someone else. It's ridiculous.

Minho glances at him. "You're pretty good," he says, straightforward, calm, like he's just making a neutral observation.

Jisung breathes out through his nose. "Thanks."

Minho nods, doesn't say anything else. He just turns back to the mirror and keeps dancing.

⭑.ᐟ

Toward the end of class, the instructor claps her hands and announces they'll be breaking into smaller groups again to run the routine a few times. Nothing formal, just a chance to perform the choreography in front of each other, iron out the timing, feel how it hits without being swallowed by the full group.

Jisung doesn't mind that kind of thing. He's not shy, not the type to freeze up in front of people, especially not strangers. There are worse things than being watched. Being bad at something in silence, for example.

But what does throw him off slightly is when the instructor calls out his name and Minho's in the same group again. Just the two of them and two girls whose names he didn't catch. One of them has a Hello Kitty water bottle. The other has nails long enough to be considered weapons. They both seem nice, but he doesn't register much else.

What he does register is the fact that the instructor positions him and Minho up front.

"Let's get more dynamic movement up front," she says, pointing vaguely toward their area.

Minho doesn't react much, just nods and moves into place like it doesn't matter. Jisung follows, standing to the left while Minho takes the right. He tries not to think about it too hard. It's just positioning. It doesn't mean anything. He tells himself that like it'll help.

Jisung's body moves without overthinking, each step hitting the rhythm just how he practised. His breath evens out with the pace, his focus narrowing in on the tempo. At the switch near the end, he and Minho rotate with the two girls, stepping back to the rear line while the girls move forward for the closing phrase. It's all timed well. Better than he thought it'd be.

The song ends and the room goes quiet, except for the instructor's faint claps and scattered chatter.

Jisung's chest rises and falls a little faster than normal. He doesn't feel out of breath, not exactly, but it takes him a second to fully shake the high of performing. 

He glances to the side, just for a second.

Minho's standing there, hands on his hips, his head tilted slightly back like he's trying to catch a deeper breath. There's a faint sheen of sweat on his temple, glinting under the lights. His shirt clings just barely at his chest, not soaked, just enough to suggest effort.

And then he looks at Jisung. Their eyes meet. Not in the way they have before, brief, dismissive, like you're accidentally making eye contact with a stranger in public. This one lingers.

Minho smiles. But it's not polite this time, not a social reflex.

His lips are parted slightly, catching his breath. He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, like he's thinking about something but hasn't decided if he should say it aloud. His expression is relaxed, easy, a little too knowing.

It doesn't say good job.

It says I saw you.

That’s also when he notices the piercings. Really notices.

He'd seen them before, obviously, on Instagram, and briefly when Minho first walked in. But now he sees them, like they snap into high definition under the studio lights.

The vertical labret in Minho's bottom lip, catching the light when he shifts, the septum ring, and the eyebrow piercing that should, by all logic, look like too much on one person, should scream try-hard or 'I peaked in 2017.' But it doesn't. Not on him. It works. It really fucking works.

And Jisung's knees do, in fact, almost buckle.

He doesn't stumble or anything, thank God. But there's a brief flicker of instability in his spine, like his body forgets for half a second how to hold itself up.

Minho doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't react. He just keeps that half-smile, something unreadable in his expression, a mix of amusement and maybe a little interest.

Jisung pulls his lips into a small smile in return. A small one, a twitch of his lips that hopefully doesn't look like pain.

Okay. So there's something. That was not just friendly acknowledgement. That was an entirely different tone. Jisung's not delusional. He might be petty and reckless and occasionally makes decisions based on spite instead of logic, but he's not imagining the look that just passed between them.

They walk off to the side as the next group gets into position. The instructor calls out a few names. Jisung sips from his water bottle, wipes the back of his neck, keeps his eyes forward. But he can still feel the afterglow of that look. Like Minho pressed it directly into his skin.

There's a fine line between anticipation and tension. Jisung can feel it stretching thin between them now, taut and waiting. He knows it, feels it somewhere in his chest, where things tend to settle when he hasn't quite figured them out yet.

He glances over once more. Minho's not looking this time, but his smile from earlier is still burned into Jisung's memory. The parted lips, the tongue against his cheek, that slight raise of his brow.

If there was any doubt before, it's gone now. There's definitely something.

⭑.ᐟ

Class ends, people start peeling off into groups, some walking straight out the door, some hovering around the instructor to ask questions or give thanks, others heading toward the changing rooms without a word.

Jisung lingers. Not in a weird, loitering kind of way, just enough to not be obvious. He picks up his water bottle, checks his phone like there's something urgent on it (there isn't), and glances up occasionally, casually, like he isn't actively tracking where Minho goes.

Minho heads toward the back, not to the exit. To the showers.

Alright. Well, that's where Jisung's going now, too.

He drops his bag on one of the benches in the locker room, keeping his movements casual, keeping enough distance that it doesn't scream "hi I'm following you," but still close enough to see Minho.

Minho doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he does and doesn't care.

He tosses his own stuff onto the bench across from Jisung and pulls his shirt off in one clean movement.

His torso is lean, defined without being obnoxious. His skin's flushed from exertion and slightly dewy from the leftover sweat. His hair clings a little to his forehead until he brushes it back with one hand. And yeah, the waistband of his boxers is visible now, poking above his joggers in that perfectly careless way.

Jisung looks away, just for a second, not out of embarrassment but pure self-preservation. Because what the fuck. Why is this guy so much hotter than him?

And that's the thing. Jisung knows he's hot. Objectively. He's got a good face, a jawline, the kind of eyes people tend to compliment. His hair's good. He works out. He has tattoos. He's seen how people look at him. He knows he's attractive. He's even been told he's hotter than some of his friends. More than once.

But Minho?

Minho exists in another category. He's not just hot. He's annoying hot. The kind of hot that makes you question how unfair genetics can be. And Jisung hates that he's even comparing, but how can he not?

And now, on top of all that, there's the added bonus that Jisung's ex apparently thought this was worth risking their relationship for.

Awesome.

Cool.

Whatever.

Jisung can work with hot. He can handle someone who looks like a sex god. Doesn't mean he's backing down. Doesn't mean he's gonna curl up and cry just because someone else is hot.

So he pulls his shirt over his head, slow and deliberate. Not too exaggerated, just controlled, intentional. He lets the hem catch slightly at the back of his neck before tugging it free, makes just enough sound with the movement to make himself noticeable.

He doesn't look directly at Minho. He doesn't need to, because he sees it, out of the corner of his eye. Minho looks. He doesn't say anything, just stands there with his towel slung over his shoulder, eyes dragging slowly across Jisung like he's making a quiet assessment.

And then he smiles. That kind of smile people do when they're thinking something they're not saying. His lips are parted slightly, the corner tilted up just enough to make it feel deliberate. 

It's not a coincidence. Jisung knows it's not.

If they were alone in here—really alone, no background chatter, no possibility of someone walking in, no echo of running water behind the tiled wall—he would walk over right now and find out exactly what that look means.

But they're not. So he doesn't.

He just holds Minho's gaze for a second longer, lets the corner of his own mouth twitch upward, just enough to show he got the message.

Yeah. There's definitely something.

Jisung doesn't believe in subtlety as a virtue. But right now, it's working in his favour.

He kicks off his shoes, starts untying the waistband of his joggers like he's got all the time in the world. Like this isn't a low-stakes war for dominance disguised as post-dance routine cleanup.

He doesn't rush it, doesn't act coy either. It's all practised carelessness, a performance of not performing. Which is the trick, really. Looking casual while being calculated.

Minho disappears into the shower area after a beat. He doesn't say anything as he walks past, but his eyes flick back once, just before he turns the corner.

By the time Jisung steps out of the shower, hair still damp and skin slightly pink from the heat, Minho is already back in the locker room. He's fully dressed now, hoodie thrown over his head, sleeves pushed up, duffel bag half-packed. Jisung pretends he doesn't notice the way Minho's eyes flicker up as he walks past, towel draped over his shoulder, still drying the back of his neck.

He moves to his own spot, dragging his clothes out one piece at a time with deliberate calm. No rush, like this is just another normal evening and not the aftermath of an hour-long flirtation filled with glances and half-smiles.

It's dark outside. The windows are tinted, but the faint orange glow of the streetlights bleeds through. Another reminder that time passed, that they're alone now. Everyone else is gone.

So. Jisung survived the class, made Minho look at him, got him to smile like he was thinking about something more than small talk.

Now all that's left is actually fucking him.

Or getting fucked.

Whichever comes first. He's not exactly picky.

Problem is, that next step is the tricky part. Because even though Jisung has seen that look in Minho's eyes—the one that says yeah, I know you're looking and I'm letting you—he can't just go up and be like, "Hey, wanna bang?"

Well, he could. But that would be a pretty solid way to fuck up the whole thing before it starts. It's not exactly a move with high success rates.

He bites the inside of his cheek, gears turning, trying to figure out the right angle. How do you seduce someone who's already halfway there without making it awkward as hell?

He's halfway through deciding between casual small talk or an attempt at a compliment when he suddenly senses movement. And just like that, Minho is right there, standing next to him. Not close enough to startle a normal person, but Jisung's nerves are already razor-thin. So yeah, he flinches. A bit. Which apparently Minho finds hilarious, because he lets out a low chuckle, unbothered and lazy. Then he holds out a hand.

"Minho," he says.

Jisung stares at the hand for a beat. A dozen responses rush to his mouth all at once.

Yeah, I know. The guy who fucked my girlfriend.

That one almost slips out, but he catches it, swallows it down. Instead, he takes the hand, firm grip, solid eye contact.

"Jisung."

Minho gives a slight nod, lips still curved in a faint smile as he leans against the lockers, casual posture, head tilted just a little.

"Never seen you here before," he says. "You a dancer?"

Jisung finishes zipping his bag before answering. "Not really. Used to dance a little. A while ago. Nothing serious."

"You're good," Minho says, and Jisung can hear the second meaning under it. That subtle, weighty tone people use when they're complimenting more than just your dancing.

Jisung bites back a smile and finally turns his head to really look at him, makes eye contact, lets his expression go slack for a beat, relaxed but just sharp enough to hold Minho there. "Thanks. You too."

The air tightens between them in that moment, enough for Jisung to notice the way Minho bites his bottom lip, teeth dragging across the silver ball of the labret that Jisung really wishes he hadn't just noticed like that.

Minho huffs a quiet laugh, drops his head slightly, like he's trying to hide the smile forming. When he looks up again, it hits Jisung full force how hot he is from this close.

There's a faint flush in his cheeks, maybe from the workout, maybe not. His skin looks unfairly smooth, and he's the slightest bit taller than Jisung, which shouldn't matter, but for some reason it does.

That labret catches the light. Jisung's never kissed anyone with a lip piercing. He suddenly, very acutely, wants to know what that feels like. On his mouth. On his tongue. Between his teeth. He wants to lick it. Or bite it.

Minho speaks again, tilting his head slightly. "You like it?"

Jisung blinks. "What?"

Minho nods down, tongue swiping briefly over the labret. "The piercing."

Jisung's eyes flick back up. Minho's looking at him like he already knows the answer.

"Yeah," he says, calm despite the fact that his pulse is in his ears. "Looks interesting."

Minho hums. His gaze lingers on Jisung for a long second. "Must be hard to tell under these shitty lights, though."

Jisung raises an eyebrow.

Minho nods toward the exit. "I live close by. You could see it properly. Actual light and everything."

There's no innuendo in his tone. It's not even a suggestion. It's an invitation.

"Yeah," Jisung says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Might be worth checking out."

And just like that, they both know. They're clearly on the same page.

That easy?

Maybe Minho is just a fuckboy. Maybe he does this every other week with some other guy or girl from the studio. Maybe this is nothing new to him.

Probably. But Jisung doesn't care. He's not here to judge. His plan is working.

⭑.ᐟ

Jisung thought he had a good grasp on what hot was. He's seen people, slept with a few, been told he's got that thing, whatever it is that draws attention without having to try too hard. He's never been someone to lack confidence. But right now, lying on Minho's sofa with Minho on top of him, Jisung is pretty sure he's in the presence of something that's not entirely mortal.

Because holy fucking shit.

Whatever he thought hot was? It does not come close to this.

Minho's mouth is warm, steady, and completely unhurried. Every movement is intentional, not showy, not too aggressive, just enough pressure and heat to make Jisung forget how to breathe.

Jisung's back sinks deeper into the cushions, legs slightly parted, one hand gripping Minho's shoulder through the fabric of his hoodie. The other curls loosely around the back of Minho's neck, pulling him down, closer, closer still, because fuck, this feels good.

He feels the lip piercing. Jisung had been curious about it, sure. But now that it's actually pressed to his mouth, he feels like his curiosity has been body-checked by something deeper. It adds a weight to every kiss, a presence.

Minho bites down gently on Jisung's bottom lip, tugs just enough to make it sting in a good way, and lets it go, a small bounce of soft skin back into place that leaves Jisung gasping without even meaning to. 

God his lips.

Minho's mouth is soft but firm, the kind of mouth that was made to kiss. Full upper lip, perfectly shaped. It fits so well between Jisung's own, like puzzle pieces that were just waiting for this moment.

Jisung groans softly against his mouth, hips twitching upward before he reins it in. Minho doesn't seem bothered. In fact, it makes him smile into the next kiss. That same slow confidence, like he could do this forever and not get bored.

Jisung stops trying to do anything. No one-liners, no sarcastic remarks. He just lets go, which isn't easy for him. But Minho doesn't give him much of a choice. He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, and Minho smirks against his mouth before his tongue slides past Jisung's lips like he owns the space. 

And oh. Wow.

Jisung feels it, a subtle, unexpected click against his own tongue. A piercing. In Minho's tongue. It's not just the sensation of it, but the way it's revealed so casually, like Minho wasn't even trying to show it off, just letting it be discovered. It's small, metallic, and maddeningly hot in the way it adds a sharp, new layer to the kiss.

He makes another quiet sound, this one more surprised than anything. His tongue chases the piercing instinctively, first brushing over the stud, then sliding against it, over it, again and again, until Minho pulls back slightly, lips slick and eyes dark with something unreadable.

"Didn't expect that, hm?" Minho murmurs.

Jisung swallows. His breath is still catching, lips parted. He lets his head fall back against the arm of the sofa and blinks up at Minho. "Should've."

Minho laughs, low in his chest, and leans back in, kissing him again, softer now. Not lazy, but gentler. Jisung melts into it, fingers curling in the fabric of Minho's shirt. 

He swears he could spend the rest of the night just wrapped up in that kiss, learning the shape of Minho's mouth through touch alone. Minho lets him. Lets him explore, linger, take his time like he wants Jisung to obsess over it.

Which, yeah, maybe he is.

The way Minho moves is almost frustrating. Like he's not here to impress, because he already knows how good he is and doesn't have to prove a damn thing.

And fuck, that confidence? It's intoxicating.

Jisung hooks a leg around Minho's thigh, dragging him closer, and Minho hums into the kiss like it's a reward, like Jisung did something worth reacting to.

Minho's hand slides down Jisung's side, slow and deliberate, fingers dragging across the soft cotton of his hoodie, tracing the curve of his waist, slipping lower. Jisung's skin buzzes under the touch, even through the fabric, like his nerves are lighting up one by one. The hand pauses at the hem, fingers toying lightly, and Jisung bites his lip to keep from making another embarrassing noise.

He is, to put it simply, so fucking turned on right now. Like, the kind of turned on that makes it hard to think straight, hard to remember the original reason he even came here. Something about revenge? Ego? Proving a point?

Right now, he doesn't give a single fuck about any of that.

All he cares about is the way Minho feels against him, the way his mouth tastes, the weight of him pressing down. He wants more, everything. And the way Minho's moving? He might just get it.

Jisung shifts under him, pushing up slightly, grinding their hips together just enough to test the waters. Minho huffs a breath into his mouth, short and pleased, then kisses him harder.

And yeah, okay, he came here thinking maybe he could be the one in control. Play it cool, get what he wanted, leave with his pride intact. But now, under Minho's hands and mouth and fucking gaze, he doesn't feel like being the one in charge.

Minho rolls his hips once—just once—and Jisung arches without thinking.

Yeah. That seals it. He's gonna let Minho fuck him tonight. Whatever Minho wants to do, Jisung is going to let it happen. Because clearly, the guy knows exactly what he's doing.

Minho finally pulls back, just slightly, lips flushed, breathing a little heavier than before. He doesn't speak right away, just looks down at Jisung, eyes darker now, gaze sweeping across his face like he's cataloguing every reaction.

Jisung swallows. His pulse is a wild thing in his throat.

Minho smirks faintly, then leans down again. His mouth trails down to Jisung's jaw, the kisses slowing but deepening. He lingers there, lips grazing skin with an unhurried kind of hunger, then moves lower, pressing heat into Jisung's neck, open-mouthed, damp kisses that send shivers crawling along Jisung's spine.

Between kisses, Minho murmurs against his skin, voice low and close.

"You're hot."

Just like that. Two words. It's so simple. So offhand. And yet Jisung's legs part a little more without him even realising it.

Because yeah, compliments are always nice—vanity is alive and well. But getting told you're hot by someone who's objectively hotter than you—someone who could probably get anyone in the room without even trying, someone who just spent the past hour dancing like sex personified—that hits different. 

Jisung exhales roughly, breath catching on a soft sound he doesn't bother to hide.

"You too." It comes out embarrassingly honest. No bite, no irony, just truth.

Minho hums against his throat, satisfied, and then, finally, he pulls back and shrugs off his shirt.

Jisung stares for a second. Because, again, holy fuck.

It's not fair.

It's really, really not fucking fair how good he looks like this.

Shirtless, flushed from kissing, chest rising and falling with controlled breath. His tattoos are more visible now, lines of ink along his ribs, something else across his chest, shapes and symbols Jisung doesn't fully process because his brain short-circuits the second he sees the way the light hits Minho's collarbones.

So, in some desperate attempt to restore dignity or maybe just keep up, Jisung pulls off his own shirt too. It helps. He feels better once it's gone.

But instead of leaning back down over him like Jisung expects, Minho shifts, sits back onto the sofa cushions, and grabs Jisung by the waist, pulling him up with him.

And just like that, Jisung is in his lap.

He freezes for half a second.

Because he's never done this before. He's never been the one sitting on someone else's lap like this, straddling them, knees on either side, chest to chest. It should feel awkward. Or at least unfamiliar. But it doesn't.

Minho's hands slide to his hips like it's the most natural thing in the world. He kisses him again, slower now, but with even more pressure, like he wants to devour the moment.

Then he bucks his hips up, and Jisung's head goes completely empty.

Because holy shit, he can feel him, through both of their jeans, the friction is there, hot and toe-curling. He gasps into Minho's mouth before he can stop himself, his hands flying to Minho's shoulders for balance or maybe just to hold onto something before his brain melts entirely.

Minho grins against his lips, a subtle shift, barely there, but Jisung feels it, hears the amusement in the way he exhales, like he knows exactly what he just did.

Jisung pulls back just enough to look at him. Minho's eyes are darker now, focused, a little dangerous in the way that makes people do things they wouldn't normally do.

Like straddle someone they barely know and rock forward just to chase that friction again.

Which he does. He rocks forward before he even realises what he's doing, just chasing that friction, just needing more, because Jesus Christ this is doing things to him.

Minho groans softly, kisses him again, lips sliding against Jisung's like they were made to fit together.

Jisung feels like he's going to combust. Every brush of their bodies sets off another spark, and the jeans are too tight and everything is too hot and he doesn't care. He's not thinking about who Minho is or why he came here or any of the messy bullshit that led up to this.

Right now, all he cares about is the way Minho's hands grip his waist like he wants to keep him there, the way their mouths keep meeting like gravity is pulling them together, and the way his entire body is begging for more.

Jisung presses closer, sliding his hands up Minho's chest, fingers skimming over warm skin and sharp lines. His thumb brushes the edge of one of Minho's tattoos. He wants to ask about it, some part of him wanting to know things, to turn this into more than just a fuck. But Minho shifts beneath him again and whatever thought he had dissolves on impact.

Neither of them says anything about moving to a bed or changing locations. It doesn't come up, doesn't even cross Jisung's mind. The way Minho is pressed against him, hips grinding slow and heavy, there's no reason to go anywhere else. The sofa works. 

Jeans become too much. The friction, the weight, the unnecessary barrier. Jisung fumbles with his own button before Minho's hands are suddenly there instead, undoing it for him.

Jisung lifts his hips and lets him slide the denim down, halfway at first, then off completely. His own hands are already moving, pushing at Minho's waistband, and when Minho finally leans back just enough to get his jeans off too, the tension ratchets up another level.

Minho pushes Jisung back down, palm flat against his chest, guiding him until he's sprawled across the cushions again. Jisung goes willingly, back arching into the contact, arms settling against the sofa as Minho settles over him. And then Minho presses, fully, weight leaning in, hips flush against his, thighs slotted perfectly between his legs.

And yeah, fuck, that's exactly where Jisung wants him.

Minho knows how to use his body. He doesn't just lie on top of Jisung, he covers him, surrounds him, his chest against Jisung's, warm and solid, his thigh sliding up between Jisung's legs just enough to make him whimper, his hips angled just right, grinding slow and steady.

It's not hurried. That's the part that kills Jisung. There's no frantic scramble to get off. It's all controlled, focused, like Minho wants to draw this out until Jisung forgets what the fuck he came here for.

Which he already kind of has.

Jisung moans into his mouth, not bothering to hold it back anymore. He wraps his arms around Minho's back, one hand digging into the slope of his shoulder blade. He shifts, flexes his hips up, and Minho groans this time, a low, appreciative sound that vibrates into Jisung's chest.

So of course his hands drift lower. He slides one hand down Minho's back, smooth over the curve of his spine, then further, until his fingers hook into the waistband of Minho's boxers.

Minho hums against his lips. A quiet, encouraging sound.

So Jisung pulls. The fabric gives easily, sliding down, and he keeps his eyes shut, but his hand's already wrapping around him. 

The reaction is immediate. Minho breathes out hard against his jaw, and his hips stutter forward once. He's warm in Jisung's hand, and heavier than expected.

For some reason, Jisung thought there might be a piercing. With how many Minho already has, it wouldn't have been shocking. Tongue, lip, ears—why not there, too? But no, nothing like that. Just skin, warm and smooth and hardening even more under his fingers.

What he does notice is the size.

Minho's big. 

Not freakishly so, not pornstar levels of exaggerated anatomy, but definitely bigger than Jisung. Noticeably. In a way that makes Jisung pause for half a second. Not out of intimidation, but just to process it.

Because of course he is. Of course he's hot, confident, a great dancer, apparently great in bed and packing.

He strokes once, slow, getting a feel for it. Then again.

Minho exhales, low and pleased, and presses a kiss to the corner of Jisung's mouth. "Fuck," he mumbles, voice rough.

For a moment—just a brief, cutting second—Jisung thinks: maybe this is what she wanted.

A bigger dick.

Maybe it was that fucking simple. Maybe she just wanted more.

He doesn't want to care. He doesn't want to spiral about it right now. But there it is. Fucking great. Every boyfriend's dream. Getting cheated on for a guy with a better dick. Awesome.

Jisung breathes out hard.

Minho kisses him again, slower this time, lips dragging over his like he can sense the shift in his head, like he knows exactly what Jisung is thinking. Then his hand is at Jisung's waist, tugging at his boxers.

He pulls them down in one smooth motion, not rushed but with clear intent, and Jisung lifts his hips just enough to help him along, and suddenly there's nothing left between them. 

Minho looks down for the first time, and Jisung watches him, trying to gauge the expression. But Minho doesn't give anything away. No smug smirk, no surprise, just a calm intensity that's frankly worse than anything else he could've done.

His hand strokes along Jisung's thigh, then wraps around him, slow and deliberate. Jisung gasps, head tipping back against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut.

There's a low, helpless sound caught in his throat as Minho rubs his thumb through the slick that's already gathered at the tip, smearing it around with maddening precision. His rhythm doesn't falter. It's consistent, almost teasing, but with enough pressure to keep Jisung hovering somewhere just south of losing his mind.

And Jisung's pretty fucking sure his ex has never done it like this. Not even close.

He doesn't want to think about her, but the comparison creeps in on its own. She'd been fast, always kind of distracted, like getting him off was a chore she sometimes forgot to finish. But this? This feels deliberate. This feels like Minho actually wants to be here.

He groans quietly and presses his forehead to Minho's. Their breaths mingle, hot and ragged, and they're barely kissing anymore. Just open mouths and gasps and the occasional brush of lips, like they're stuck in the space between needing more and not being able to stop what they're already doing.

He breathes harder, chokes out a shaky fuck and wraps his hand around Minho again and strokes back, matching pace. Minho's cock is heavy in his grip, thick and hot and fucking unfair. He pumps slowly, wrist twisting slightly at the top, and Minho lets out a sharp breath against his mouth.

Jisung bucks up without meaning to. His hips stutter forward, seeking more.

Minho kisses him again once, soft, and then pulls back.

Jisung opens his mouth to ask why, but Minho is already moving down, sliding lower, hands trailing along Jisung's thighs until he presses them further apart. Jisung leans back instinctively, head tipping against the cushion, already a little wrecked and they haven't even gotten there yet.

And then he does get there.

Minho's mouth on his inner thigh first, kissing lightly, then closer, closer.

Oh. Oh.

His mouth is on Jisung's hole. Jisung almost jolts off the sofa.

Because what.

His ex never did this. That was never even on the table. It was always him with his head between her thighs, never the other way around, and sure, he didn't mind. But now? Now it feels insane that he never got this in return. That he didn't think this was even an option.

And Minho doesn't start hesitant. He doesn't ease into it. He goes in like he means it, tongue flat and then pointed, slick and confident, and Jisung makes an embarrassingly high-pitched sound that he immediately wants to take back.

Minho doesn't stop. He groans into him, tongue working slow circles, then pushing in shallowly, then deeper.

Jisung's legs shake. His fingers fly up to his face, covering his mouth like that might help, but it doesn't. Another noise rips out of him and Minho pulls back just slightly.

Jisung blinks down, eyes blown wide. Minho's looking up at him from between his legs with that same fucking smug smile.

"First time?"

His voice is low, amused, like he already knows the answer.

Jisung throws his head back with a curse. "Shit."

Minho huffs a laugh. Then, without another word, he gets back to work.

Jisung's thighs tense on either side of his head, but Minho just drags his hands up, pressing them gently apart to keep him steady, like he knows how overwhelming it is. Like he likes how overwhelmed Jisung is.

Jisung moans through clenched teeth, hands gripping the sofa cushions so tightly his knuckles go pale. He doesn't even know how to respond to this. He didn't come here expecting to get tongue-fucked within the hour. 

This wasn't part of the plan.

But fuck the plan.

Minho's tongue works inside him, and every time he pulls back to flatten it over the rim again, Jisung's thighs twitch helplessly. The piercing in his tongue adds something sharp to the softness, and Jisung chokes on a gasp when he feels it glide over him.

When Minho's mouth pulls away, Jisung feels it like a loss. His hips twitch once, involuntary, his thighs still tense from the edge he was hovering on. The space left behind feels too cold, too empty, and he almost whimpers.

Instead, a small, confused noise slips out, barely a sound, more like breath catching in his throat. It says everything anyway. That he didn't want it to stop. That he wants more.

Minho climbs back up, and Jisung thinks he's going to be kissed again. He tips his chin up in anticipation, ready for the weight of Minho's mouth, the taste of him. He wants that, the contact, the reassurance.

But instead, Minho presses two fingers against his bottom lip.

Jisung pauses. His eyes flicker between Minho's face and his hand.

Confusion sets in for a second.

And then realisation hits.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

He knows what this is, what Minho wants.

But holy shit, he's never done this before.

He's been fucked, yeah. Guys before this, a few. It's not new. But this? The slow, deliberate push of fingers against his mouth, the request without words?

His lips part automatically, almost like his body decides before his brain catches up.

Minho slips his fingers inside, two of them, slow, smooth.

Jisung closes his lips around them and breathes through his nose, pulse pounding in his ears. His tongue curls around Minho's fingers, tentative at first, then more assured. He swirls his tongue over the pads, then under, lets his lips suck lightly as they slide deeper.

Minho moans. Not loud, just this low, broken sound from deep in his chest, like he wasn't expecting it to feel that good to watch.

Jisung's eyes flutter half-shut, not just because of the intimacy, but because of the effect it clearly has. The look on Minho's face is half-hypnotised, heavy-lidded and slack-jawed, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left.

The fact that he did that? That he has this guy looking at him like he's the most fuckable person alive?

It does something to him. It turns him on in a way that's almost stupid.

Minho doesn't speak, but his fingers curl slightly inside Jisung's mouth, and Jisung sucks a little harder, lets his tongue drag along the length of each finger as Minho slowly fucks them into his mouth.

Minho swears under his breath.

And Jisung gets it. He really, really gets it.

He's not trying to be performative, not putting on a show. But the intimacy of it, the deliberateness of it, lights something up in his chest. The way Minho's fingers feel on his tongue, the slight taste of skin, being watched, it's all so intensely physical.

Minho pulls his fingers out slowly, dragging them over Jisung's lower lip as he goes. There's a wet string of saliva that catches between them and breaks when he finally withdraws. It should be gross. It's not. Jisung doesn't even bother wiping his mouth. There's no point trying to be neat now.

Minho leans in and kisses him again. It's deep immediately, tongue pushing in like he owns the space now, like that moment with his fingers was permission.

His breath hitches as Minho's hand slides down between their bodies again, this time lower, past the curve of his hip, past the warmth of skin already flushed and sensitive.

When Minho's fingers circle him, slow and knowing, Jisung's hips twitch in response.

Jisung lets out a soft moan, his body tensing around it and then relaxing just as quickly. It's been a while, longer than he wants to admit. His head falls back slightly, lips parting just as Minho kisses him again. A finger presses in, steady and slow.

It feels so fucking good.

Lately, it's always been the other way around. Him doing the work. Him on his knees, him taking care of someone else, performing intimacy like a routine he'd memorised. Sex had turned into another task on a long list of ways to keep someone from leaving.

Minho moves his finger, testing, curling slightly. There's no teasing in his touch, no hesitation, just confidence, like he knows exactly what he's doing and knows Jisung wants it, like he's done this before.

Which, obviously, he has. And for once, Jisung doesn't feel insecure about that. He just feels grateful.

Minho adds a second finger, just slides it in like he owns the right to. Jisung gasps, hips twitching, hand gripping Minho tighter on instinct.

It's more pressure now, a deeper stretch, and Jisung hisses softly at the sensation. But Minho doesn't push too fast. He moves slowly, opening him up with steady, rhythmic movements, thumb brushing Jisung's thigh in small, grounding circles.

Minho curls his fingers just right, just perfectly, hitting that spot with surgical precision, and Jisung forgets how to breathe. He chokes out a rough, broken, "Fuck," but it comes out too soft, too high, more like a whimper than a word. His chest rises fast. His legs fall open wider.

Minho kisses along his jaw now. Then, against the corner of Jisung's mouth, he murmurs, voice just low enough to feel instead of hear: "That good?"

There's a smile in it. The kind that dares you to admit how good he is at it.

"Yeah," Jisung breathes, chest still rising fast. It feels like a relief to say it, like exhaling something that's been stuck in his lungs for weeks.

Because it is good.

Not just the physical part—though that's excellent, clearly—but the part where he gets to stop performing for a minute, where someone else is holding the wheel, making the moves, and all Jisung has to do is feel.

And fuck, does he feel it.

Minho kisses him again, slower this time, tongue sliding against his with less urgency, more intent.

And all Jisung can think is:

Yeah. I get it now.

Maybe this is what his ex saw in Minho. That confidence, that quiet assurance, the way he touches like he knows what you want before you say it. Maybe she wanted to be undone like this. Maybe she wanted someone who wouldn't ask, just do.

But the thought slips away just as fast as it comes. Because Minho adds a third finger.

And Jisung feels it, the stretch, the pressure, the slow twist of Minho's wrist like he's trying to draw the reaction out of him rather than chase any kind of finish. It's a slow burn, precise and deliberate, and Jisung is honestly a little past rational thought at this point.

He should be used to this. He's done it before. But this feels different.

Better.

Minho doesn't ask if he's ready, doesn't give him the script. He just watches him, reads his reactions like he's listening without words, and keeps going until Jisung's body adjusts, until his thighs relax and his hands stop gripping the cushion like he might float away.

Then, without warning, he pulls his fingers out. And Jisung makes a sound he absolutely cannot defend. The kind of sound that rips out when you were this close to something and it gets snatched away.

Minho smiles faintly like he heard it and liked it as he reaches under the coffee table, opens the drawer, and pulls out a bottle of lube.

Of course he keeps it there.

He pops the cap open and pours some into his hand, coating himself with slow, methodical movements. His expression doesn't change much, just more focused now, his mouth a little tighter, his breathing a little heavier.

Jisung's eyes track every motion. His own hand moves to his cock, lazy and automatic, stroking slow as he watches Minho spread the slick over himself. He lets out a quiet moan, half under his breath, barely aware he's doing it.

It's just that the sight of Minho getting himself ready for him? It hits.

Minho glances up, sees the way Jisung is watching, and doesn't look away. Then he moves again, hands on Jisung's thighs now, spreading them open, firm and sure. Jisung lets him, shifts back against the sofa cushions, bends his knees easily.

Minho pushes his thighs up, wide and out of the way, and then finally—finally, god bless, the universe, the heavens, every higher power Jisung never believed in—Minho lines up.

The blunt head of his cock presses against him, hot and heavy. Jisung holds his breath. Minho exhales through his nose, eyes fixed on Jisung like he's watching every tiny flicker of reaction. Then he pushes in, slow and steady.

Holy fuck.

Jisung's mouth falls open in a silent O. He doesn't even have the capacity to make a sound.

It's not just the size, though, yeah, it's big. Bigger than he's had in a while, maybe ever. He doesn't know, doesn't care. His brain has stopped working.

His legs tense instinctively, thighs trembling where Minho's holding them apart.

Minho pauses once he's halfway in, breathing heavier now. He leans forward slightly, one hand smoothing over Jisung's knee as if to tell him to relax, like his touch alone could do that.

Jisung blinks up at him, completely dazed.

It's good. Too good. He wants to say something but nothing comes out except this shaky half-moan, half-exhale that probably sounds ridiculous but at this point, who cares?

Minho pushes in deeper, slower now, watching him the whole time. Jisung gasps again, head tipping back, lips parting helplessly.

It's not unbearable. He's prepped well enough. But it's a lot. He claws at the cushions again, fingers twitching against the fabric, before he lifts them to grip Minho's back instead. One hand on his shoulder blade, the other curling around his side, nails dragging slightly.

Minho breathes harder now too. Jisung can feel it, the way his chest moves with every exhale, the way his grip on Jisung's thighs tightens as he pushes all the way in.

Jisung swears under his breath, the word punched out of him in a broken whisper. "F-fuck."

Minho doesn't respond, just stills for a moment, buried deep, giving Jisung a second to adjust. His forehead presses to Jisung's shoulder. His breath fans out against skin.

And Jisung just feels it. All of it. Every inch, every heartbeat. It's been a long time since someone's made him feel like this. Stretched, full, opened up.

Minho stays buried deep, breathing heavy against the side of Jisung's face, chest rising with quiet restraint. His hands still grip the underside of Jisung's thighs, keeping them spread, holding him in place like he's something fragile and breakable that Minho has no intention of breaking, at least, not yet.

But he does roll his hips again, just a little, just enough.

The motion is small, barely more than a grind, but Jisung feels it. He feels every inch of Minho shift inside him, the twitch, the drag, the warm throb that sits just on the edge of too much.

He swears he hears Minho exhale like he's trying to keep it together, like even he is holding back. Then Minho leans in and kisses his neck, just a slow press of lips to skin, followed by the warm, wet slide of his tongue over the same spot. He lingers there, mouth open, breath hot, teeth grazing just enough to make Jisung's pulse skip. And then, as if that wasn't already enough, he starts to move.

He pulls out, slowly. So fucking slowly.

And then he pushes back in, just as unhurried, his hips steady and controlled.

Jisung makes a sound, not quite a moan, not quite a gasp. It's somewhere in between, because he can't fully process what he's feeling. He can feel Minho everywhere, the stretch, the press, the weight, the drag of heat. It's full-body.

He's already feeling close to overstimulated, like his body doesn't know where to focus. There's too much happening at once. The slow roll of Minho's hips, the heat of him inside, the drag of piercings against skin where Minho kisses him, the soft sounds Minho makes under his breath, all quiet curses and broken exhales.

What the fuck is wrong with this guy.

Jisung wants to curse at him, ask him who the hell gave him the right to be this good at fucking, at kissing, at ruining someone slowly, like it's a service he provides.

But he can't form words. He just breathes. Whimpers, maybe.

Minho thrusts in again, a little deeper this time, and Jisung feels his toes curl involuntarily. He shudders, whole body tingling, skin flushed and hot and open.

Then Minho starts moving properly. Not just slow thrusts anymore, not teasing. Real movement now, full and deep, hips pressing forward with purpose. Every roll of his body hits with more weight, more rhythm, more intention. Jisung feels each one in his spine, his thighs, in the breath he can barely hold onto.

Jisung can't do anything but take it, let it happen, let the sounds fall from his mouth, small gasps, low whimpers, broken curses that spill out every time Minho hits a little deeper. His voice is thin now, barely a breath each time he says fuck, fuck, fuck.

He looks up at Minho through half-lidded eyes, trying to keep his focus, but it's almost impossible.

And shit, the sight.

Minho, who's looked in control this entire time—confident, calm, calculated—is starting to lose it. His pretty lips are parted, his brows slightly furrowed, a low moan slipping out with each breath. His chest shines faintly with sweat, muscles tense under flushed skin, and his rhythm stutters just once before he finds it again, and fuck if it isn't the hottest thing Jisung's ever seen.

Minho's eyes are dark and unfocused for a second as he glances down between them—where his cock disappears into Jisung over and over again—and then lifts his gaze back up. Their eyes lock.

Jisung keens when Minho adjusts the angle, hips tilting just so, and the next thrust hits somewhere devastating. His head drops back, eyes squeezing shut as he claws at Minho's back without thinking.

"Fuck—ah—right there," he gasps, voice cracking halfway through.

Minho doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. He just does it again. And again. Each thrust lands perfectly, dead centre, hammering into Jisung's prostate with a consistency that doesn't even feel fair, like Minho isn't just fucking him, he's punishing him, or rewarding him.

Minho keeps looking at him. His face twists slightly with the effort, with the pleasure, and then he breathes out, "Fuck, you're so pretty."

Jisung's breath catches in his throat.

Of all the things. That. That does something to him. He's been called hot. Sexy. Gorgeous, even. But pretty? That feels different. It lands somewhere deep in his chest and sets off something stupid and tender he wasn't ready for.

His heart actually fucking skips.

He can feel how close he is now, wetness smeared up his own stomach from how hard he's been leaking. Every muscle in his body is tight with it, trembling with the effort of holding on. Every time Minho slams into him, it feels like it's going to rip the orgasm right out of him whether he's ready or not.

He can feel it, taste it. That high, that crash.

He chokes on a breath, back arching, legs trembling, right on the fucking edge—

And then it's gone.

Gone.

The fullness disappears. The friction, the heat, the everything.

Minho pulls out.

Jisung's hips buck up into nothing, a broken sound strangling out of him, confused and desperate. He stares at Minho, blinking in disbelief.

"Are you fucking kidding me," he bites out, voice sharp, almost desperate. He's not even trying to hide it. He was right there.

Minho is breathing hard above him, looking down like he's barely holding himself together, and lowers Jisung's legs slowly, gently even. 

Then, in a tone that should not sound this calm, he says, "Turn around."

And wow, the audacity.

Jisung's first instinct is to snap, to go full bitch mode because what the fuck. His body is trembling, strung up from being edged to hell and back. His thighs ache, his chest is tight, and this man wants him to what, just casually flip over like he didn't just pull out right before Jisung was about to lose his mind?

But then Minho pushes his hair back, arm flexing with the motion, and says, almost breathless, "Shit—Please, Jisung."

And it's the 'please' that does it. Because that doesn't sound cocky. That sounds desperate. That sounds like he's been holding back as much as Jisung has, like he's edging himself too.

And that shouldn't turn Jisung on more. But it does. Fuck, it does. His cock twitches against his stomach, needy and untouched, and that alone is enough to shut him up.

He swallows, just nodding once, and rolls over onto his hands and knees. He shifts back automatically, arching his spine, adjusting without instruction. He plants his elbows into the cushion, and bites down on his bottom lip.

Minho grabs his hips, the grip solid, rougher now, and then he pushes in again. Jisung moans into the cushions.

Minho keeps fucking him just like that, deep and focused. The angle is brutal in all the right ways, each thrust hitting like he's aiming to ruin Jisung completely. His grip on Jisung's hips is firm enough to leave marks, and Jisung's pretty sure he's going to feel this tomorrow. Hell, he's going to feel it for days.

Jisung's cheek is squished into the sofa cushions, lips parted around the steady stream of moans that he can't keep in anymore. There's no controlling it, no biting it back. Every breath he takes is shaky, punched out of him by every hard thrust. His whole body rocks forward with each thrust, legs trembling from the effort of staying up, from how good it feels.

He's so close again. And this time it's worse, right on the edge, everything pulsing and tight and burning for release. Just a little more.

There's a part of him, deep in his fucked-out brain, that's terrified Minho is going to pull out again, leave him empty, aching, desperate.

He can't handle that. Won't handle that. He wants to come, needs to come, desperately. It's gotten to the point where he isn't even thinking about how he sounds anymore. He just says it.

"Ngh—wanna come—," he gasps. "Please, please don't stop—Minho, please—"

His voice doesn't even sound real. It's thin, cracked, desperate, raw in a way that makes him want to crawl out of his skin and disappear. But it's true. It's so true. He needs it more than anything right now. 

Minho groans. Then he fucks into him harder. He reaches around him and his hand wraps around Jisung's cock, and the touch is all it takes to send him hurtling forward.

Jisung almost sobs. Everything folds in on that one place, that one moment. He thinks, for a split second, that this might actually kill him. It feels that intense, that good.

Minho leans over him, his chest slick against Jisung's back, breath hot against the side of his neck.

"Can I come inside you?"

That's it. That's what does it.

Jisung doesn't know why it hits him the way it does. Maybe it's the voice, the tone. Maybe it's the words. Maybe it's the fact that Minho still has the decency to ask while simultaneously rearranging his guts. But whatever the reason, it pushes him right over the edge. It shouldn't pull a reaction out of him this fast, but it does.

That stupid, ridiculous, hot-as-fuck question tips him over the edge like nothing else.

His orgasm hits him like a punch, so sharp and sudden it knocks the breath out of him. He chokes on the first sound, then moans loud into the cushions, whole body shaking as he comes, spilling into Minho's hand, onto the sofa, his fingers scrabbling against the fabric, his voice breaking on every exhale.

"Yeah, yeah—shit, please," he babbles, not even sure what he's saying anymore. Doesn't matter. He's too far gone to care.

Minho grits out a curse, drives in hard once, twice more, then stills, groaning against Jisung's neck as he comes. Jisung can feel it, the warmth spreading inside him, the way Minho clutches at his hips like he's trying to ground himself.

Minho stays where he is for a moment, breathing hard against Jisung's skin, one hand still clamped tight on his hip. He doesn't rush it. He stays pressed close, weight pleasant and grounding, like he knows Jisung needs just one more second to collect what's left of himself.

Then he finally pulls out. Jisung winces. It's instinctive, not painful, just a flash of sensitivity, the ache of being fucked thoroughly and well. His body protests the sudden emptiness more than anything.

He collapses forward with a soft grunt, his chest and stomach sinking into the sofa cushions. He can feel the mess between his skin and the fabric almost instantly, sticky and warm. He doesn't even try to lift himself, just lets his arms drape uselessly over the sides and breathes.

Minho doesn't say anything right away. He just shifts above him, one hand resting lightly on the small of his back. Then, gently—so gently—he coaxes Jisung onto his back again. The movement makes him grimace slightly, and he feels it then, the slow trickle of cum sliding out of him, warm and sticky and inescapably there.

And honestly? He doesn't even care. It's Minho's cum.

Hot, beautiful, unfairly fuckable Minho, who is now lying half on top of him, looking down at him like he's not done yet. Minho leans in again, presses their lips together in a slower, softer kiss that catches Jisung off guard.

Not that he's complaining.

He hums into it, too tired to put effort into anything but letting Minho kiss him stupid. His hands rest somewhere on Minho's back, not moving. When the kiss finally breaks, Jisung mumbles against his lips, half-drunk on whatever endorphin cocktail is short-circuiting his brain. "Shit, that was so good."

Minho pulls back a few inches, not all the way. His face stays close, eyes scanning over Jisung's, his jaw, the mess they've made of each other. He doesn't smile, not really, but there's something there, a kind of quiet satisfaction.

Then, low and casual he asks, "Do you wanna shower?"

Jisung just nods.

He is covered in sweat, cum, and Minho. He probably smells like a full night of bad decisions and better orgasms. Not to mention, there's the reality of bodily fluids slowly drying on his skin and inside him, which is not a cute feeling no matter how good the sex was.

Obviously he wants to fucking shower.

Minho climbs off him with a soft groan, like even he feels a little wrecked, then stretches an arm out and jerks his head toward the hallway.

Jisung assumes that means the bathroom. He grabs his hoodie off the armrest to cover himself up, not because of modesty but because damn, it's cold now that Minho's body isn't on him.

He follows Minho. His legs are shaky. Not dramatically so, not about-to-collapse levels of ruined, but there's definitely a weird wobble to the way he walks. His thighs ache. His back hurts. He feels used, in a good way, the kind of way that settles deep into his muscles and is going to stay there for at least a day or two.

And then there's the obvious: the slow drip of come down the inside of his thigh as he walks.

Hot.

Gross.

Hot again. It loops like that.

Inside, the bathroom is modern, clean, tiled in dark greys, black fixtures, expensive-scented soap on the sink. Minho flicks the light on and walks over to the shower, turning the water on.

Jisung leans against the doorway, watching him.

He doesn't know why he feels so calm now. Maybe it's the afterglow, or the fatigue, or the fact that his brain is finally, finally empty for once. No racing thoughts, no spiralling, just the sharp memory of how it felt to be touched like that, wanted like that, completely fucked out by a guy who clearly knows what he's doing.

Minho glances back. "You coming?"

Jisung steps forward. "Yeah."

⭑.ᐟ 

They shower. It's not entirely uneventful. 

Maybe they get a little distracted with mouths and hands. Maybe Jisung ends up on his knees with water still pouring over his back, Minho's hand fisting in his hair while he muffles a low, drawn-out moan. Maybe Jisung swallows like he's been doing this forever and Minho leans against the tile for balance afterward, looking dazed.

But aside from that, they shower.

They don't fuck again. No full-blown second round. Just a few long, slow kisses and shared soap, fingers brushing in the steam, skin against skin, close and warm and a little too gentle for something that's supposed to be meaningless.

When they finally step out and towel off, Jisung starts getting dressed. His hoodie clings to damp skin, and he has to fight to get one of the sleeves on properly. He breathes out slowly, steadying himself, letting the fog behind his eyes finally clear.

And then the thoughts come back, rational, uncomfortable ones. The ones he didn't invite but now can't unhear.

This is weird. This doesn't feel like a one-night stand.

Who the hell showers with their one-night stand? Who kisses every possible second in between drying off and pulling clothes back on? Who makes eye contact in the mirror like they're in a fucking rom-com montage?

He should feel satisfied. Mission accomplished. He wanted to see what made this guy so damn irresistible that his ex would throw away their relationship for it.

And now he knows.

Minho is hot. Stupid hot. Talented. Confident. Good in bed in a way that makes your brain short-circuit and your legs give out. Jisung had the best time, period.

But the sting is still there, that little twinge.

Because no matter how incredible that was, it doesn't change the fact that she still didn't want him. He still wasn't enough. And that sucks. Doesn't matter how cool or casual he tries to act about it.

Minho walks back into the room, shirtless, drying his hair with a towel. Jisung's mouth moves before he even thinks about it.

"I get it now."

Minho pauses mid-step, eyebrows lifting. "Huh?"

Jisung meets his eyes and lets out a dry laugh, sharp and humourless.

"I get it now," he says again. "Why she cheated with you."

Minho freezes. And that feels good, for half a second, like handing someone a grenade just to watch them panic.

"I'm sorry, what?" Minho says slowly.

Jisung sighs, dragging a hand through his damp hair. Might as well get it out.

"My girlfriend. Ex. She cheated on me. With you. Or at least, I think it was you. My friend saw her with a guy a couple nights ago. Some insanely hot dancer she left the club with. Described you. I'm ninety-nine percent sure it was you."

Minho blinks at him.

Jisung keeps going. "So yeah. I broke up with her. And I came to your dance class to see what all the fuss was about. Thought I'd hate you, or be grossed out, or maybe even just get to ruin your day a little. But then you were… well. You. And I fucked around and found out, basically."

Minho's brow is furrowed now. "She cheated on you?" he asks, quieter.

Jisung nods, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket.

"Shit," Minho mutters. "I'm sorry. I didn't know she had a boyfriend."

And huh. That's a new angle.

It hadn't occurred to Jisung that maybe Minho was just another player in this mess. Just a guy who got dragged into someone else's selfish choices. Because yeah, cheaters don't exactly broadcast their relationship status when they're trying to get laid.

Minho runs a hand through his damp hair, then looks back at him. "So that's why you came to that dance class?"

"Mhm."

Minho shakes his head, still looking a bit thrown.

Jisung adds, with a little smirk, "Also, pretty bold of you to invite me back to your place right away. You're such a player."

That earns him a bark of laughter. Minho tosses the towel over his shoulder and grins. "Oh please. You were eye-fucking me that entire class. You think I didn't notice?"

"I was being subtle," Jisung says, not even trying to sound convincing.

Minho raises an eyebrow. "You were drooling. I just thought you were cute and figured, hey, if we both want the same thing..."

Jisung hums, lips twitching. "Cool. So. Whatever."

He flops down on the edge of the sofa, tugging his socks on slowly.

The mood shifts just slightly. Post-orgasm clarity is a bitch. He had the best sex of his life, and now he's going to leave, go back to being single and sexless and vaguely bitter while the guy who just made him see God goes off and probably fucks someone else tomorrow.

Because Minho is a player, a fuckboy. That's the type. That's what this is, right?

Except then Minho says, "Actually, I mean it. I think you're really cute. Do you wanna maybe go out some time?"

Does Jisung want to go out with Minho some time?

What the fuck kind of question is that?

He blinks at Minho, waiting, expecting a smirk, a punchline, something.  Some smug little smirk, a half-laugh, a "just kidding" followed by a "but hey, thanks for the blowjob."

But Minho doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. He just stands there, hands on his hips, still shirtless, still infuriatingly hot, looking at Jisung like this is a perfectly normal question to ask the guy who came over for petty sex.

So Jisung's first response, very eloquently, is: "Are you dumb?"

Minho blinks, tilts his head, like no one's ever asked him that before, or maybe like he's deciding whether to be offended.

Jisung presses forward, still frowning, still trying to get his brain to work around this. "No, I mean—you're seriously asking out the guy whose ex-girlfriend you fucked? Like, yeah okay, you didn't know she was in a relationship, I get that. But this is still kind of... I don't know. Weird, right? This is like, morally grey at best."

Minho raises an eyebrow, calm as ever, and shrugs. "Well. You did come here specifically to get fucked by the guy who fucked your girlfriend, so..."

Jisung lets out an incredulous sound. "Okay, sure, but that was different."

Minho raises an eyebrow. "How?"

Jisung waves a hand like it explains everything. "That was... spite. Sexual exploration. I don't know, pick one. But I wasn't planning on, like, dating you afterward."

Minho just watches him with that irritatingly calm expression.

"What," Jisung mumbles, looking up again. "You ask every one-night stand out afterward? Is that your thing? Just charm your way into everyone's pants and then casually suggest brunch the next day?"

Minho sighs loudly, and now he actually looks annoyed, like Jisung is the one being unreasonable. "God, Jisung, I'm not the player you apparently think I am."

Jisung snorts. "You sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I was drunk, horny, and your girl was clearly down bad. That doesn't mean I'm out here fucking half the city."

Jisung narrows his eyes. "You're insanely good at it for someone who doesn't do it that often. Like, how the fuck are you that good at making someone come harder than they ever have in their life? Is it a dancer thing? Flexibility? Rhythm? What?"

Minho doesn't miss a beat. "Yeah? What about you? You're submissive like a fucking pornstar."

Jisung's face heats up instantly, flames up like someone lit a match to his cheeks.

He thinks back to the way he just let Minho do whatever the fuck he wanted. How he sucked on his fingers without blinking, let him pull his legs open, press him down into the sofa, moaned for it.

God. He did that. Willingly.

"Okay," Jisung mutters, ears burning. "Low fucking blow."

Minho grins, unrepentant. "Not a complaint. Just an observation."

They stare at each other for a second. Then Jisung, suddenly tired of circling the point, asks, "Do you still keep in touch with her?"

Minho's face shifts instantly. "No. Of course not."

"She follows you on Instagram."

And that earns him a look. Minho doesn't say it out loud, but his expression says you stalked my Instagram?

Jisung shrugs, unapologetic. "I'm thorough."

Minho sighs. "She followed me after that night. I didn't follow back. I never messaged her. I didn't know anything about her except that she was hot and very into it. That's it. I'm not in touch with her."

And it sounds honest. It feels honest. So Jisung finally stops pacing mentally, lets himself drop the last of the performance.

Because the truth is, yes, Minho is hot.

Yes, Minho fucks like a god.

Yes, Minho thinks he's cute, and despite Jisung's best efforts to keep his guard up, that matters. That gets under his skin. That makes him feel something warm and dumb.

Jisung sighs, long and dramatic. "Fine."

Minho lifts an eyebrow. "Fine?"

"Fine," Jisung repeats. "Take me out. Or whatever. You win."

Minho looks amused. "I didn't realise this was a competition."

"Everything's a competition," Jisung mutters, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. He doesn't say it out loud, but yeah. He wants this. He wants Minho. Not just for the sex—though, fuck, that's a very persuasive part of the package.

He wants more of that weird, dry banter, wants the next post-shower kiss, wants to see what Minho looks like across a table in a coffee shop or sitting next to him in a movie theatre or sprawled out on Jisung's own bed.

And maybe—just maybe—he also wants to post a picture with Minho on Instagram. Nothing dramatic, just a story, one blurry selfie, maybe, something with a smirk and no context.

Let his ex see it, let her wonder. A little petty bonus.

What? He deserves that much at least.

Minho walks over like he's done it a hundred times before and slides his hands around Jisung's waist, tugging him in like they're already something. No hesitation, no testing the waters, just his fingers curling into the hem of Jisung's hoodie, a quick pull, and then he's kissing him again. It's not even that long of a kiss, but it still manages to knock the air out of Jisung a little, makes his spine slacken and his knees feel like they're ready to clock out.

When Minho pulls back, he stays close, just enough space to speak. "You didn't deserve to be cheated on," he says, calm and low. "I'd never do that to you."

Jisung lets out a breath. A half-laugh that doesn't carry much humour. "You don't even know me," he says.

Minho shrugs, not even blinking. "Yeah. I want to change that. So let's go on a date."

Jisung stares at him like he just offered him a free trip to space. Because what the fuck. Who is this guy? Most people don't offer commitment after a one-night stand. Most people, especially the hot, objectively out-of-your-league ones, don't even offer breakfast. And Minho, this golden boy dancer who looks like he was hand-crafted by a Greek god on a particularly generous day, is out here offering dates? It doesn't track.

"You know usually," Jisung says slowly, trying to play it cool despite the chaos in his chest, "the date comes first. Then the fucking."

Minho smiles, crooked and lazy, like he's entirely unbothered by logic. "Yeah, well. Usually one person doesn't get cheated on with the other person either. So."

Point.

Jisung just hums, eyes flicking away, not trusting himself to keep his face neutral.

Minho doesn't let the silence sit for long. He pulls Jisung closer again, arms firm around his waist like he already owns the right to touch him like that. His face inches closer, clearly aiming for another kiss.

But before their lips meet, Jisung leans his head back slightly, just enough to put a breath of space between them. His eyes meet Minho's, searching for something, a crack, a sign, a tell.

"You're really not a player?" He hears the question as he says it, hears how stupid it sounds. It's not like a real player would just go, "Yeah lol totally, I use people for sex and then ghost them, thanks for your time."

But Minho doesn't roll his eyes. He doesn't scoff, just shakes his head like he gets it, like he knows exactly where the question is coming from.

"No, Jisung," he says plainly. "I'm not. I barely held it together fucking you because you're so pretty. I thought I was gonna come within five seconds."

It's said so bluntly, so sincerely, that Jisung's brain does a full reboot. His face warms up instantly, ears burning, stomach flipping in a way that has no business being this strong.

Pretty. Again.

It's the second time he's said it, and Jisung hates how much he likes hearing it. It makes him feel soft in places he doesn't like to acknowledge, like maybe Minho sees something in him no one else does. Or maybe he's just saying shit, but goddamn, it works.

He looks away, trying to fight the curve in his lips, biting at the inside of his cheek.

Minho doesn't press. Just stands there with his hands still on Jisung, like he's waiting.

Then, because his brain is still half-functioning and entirely self-sabotaging, he asks, "So what, do you think she's pretty too?"

It's a stupid question. He knows it. But it comes out anyway.

Minho doesn’t flinch. "I did think she was hot, yeah. But you raised the bar pretty fucking high now."

Jisung snorts. He can't help it. It's either laugh or melt. "Shut the fuck up."

Minho smirks like he's proud of himself, and Jisung has to look away again to collect whatever pieces of his ego haven't already been thoroughly charmed into submission. Because this is not how it's supposed to go. He was supposed to have sex, get some kind of ego closure, and dip. Not get kissed senseless. Not get asked out. Not get complimented.

And definitely not feel like saying yes to all of it.