Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jisung jumps onto the couch, limbs sprawling, digging his cold feet under Minho’s thighs without so much as a by-your-leave.

“Why are you like this,” Minho says, more fondness than frustration, batting the offending appendage away. It returns instantly, a stubborn parasite.

“I’m cold,” Jisung whines, seizing a fistful of popcorn and scattering kernels like breadcrumbs across Minho’s lap. “Warm me up.”

Minho sighs—too softly, damn it—but doesn’t shove him off. He knows Jisung’s circulation was trash, ever since their first winter together.

That same winter, Minho had learned three things about Han Jisung:

1. He kept stealing blankets in the middle of the night.

2. His body temperature rivaled that of a corpse.

3. He had absolutely no sense of personal space.

It was the third one that ruined him.

Minho remembered it in flashes, the way he’d stumbled into the living room at midnight, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, only to trip over what he thought was a pile of laundry.

“Jesus—” Minho caught himself on the wall, heart hammering. “Jisung? What the hell are you doing on the floor?”

A single hand emerged from the nest of quilts, fingers wiggling. “Hyuuung,” came the muffled reply. “M’cold.”

Minho squinted. The heater was on. The thermostat read a perfectly reasonable 23 degrees. And yet, Jisung was bundled up, only the tip of his nose visible beneath layers of fabric.

“You’re gonna suffocate,” Minho said, nudging the blanket pile with his foot.

Jisung whined, curling tighter into himself. “D’you have more?”

“More what?”

“Blankets.”

Minho stared. “You’ve literally stolen every one we own.”

A pause. Then, miserably: “...Not enough.”

Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. He could’ve walked away. Should’ve, really. But something about the way Jisung shivered, small and pathetic, like a stray kitten left in the rain, made his chest tighten.

Fuck it.

He grabbed the edge of the comforter and yanked.

Jisung yelped as the fabric slid away, his arms flailing. “Wha—”

“Move over,” Minho grunted, wedging himself onto the couch.

Jisung blinked up at him, lips slightly parted. For a second, Minho thought he might argue. Then, with a noise that was half-groan, half-relief, Jisung collapsed against him, tucking his icy feet under Minho’s thighs and pressing his face into the crook of his neck.

“Warm,” Jisung mumbled, already going boneless.

Minho froze. Jisung smelled like sleep and fruity body wash, his breath puffing against Minho’s collarbone. His fingers were curled into Minho’s shirt.

And oh.

Oh no.

Because Minho had felt things before—fleeting, meaningless crushes, the occasional heat low in his gut—but this? This was different. This was Jisung’s weight against him, Jisung’s stupidly soft hair tickling his chin, Jisung’s quiet sigh as he nuzzled closer.

Minho swallowed hard.

Then Jisung, in his sleep-addled state, slid a hand under Minho’s shirt.

“Jesus Christ—” Minho jerked, but Jisung just clung tighter, humming contentedly as his palm pressed flat against Minho’s stomach.

“S’nice,” Jisung slurred.

Minho’s brain shut down. He was so screwed.

“You’re a leech,” Minho grumbles now, shaking off the memory and flicking a popcorn kernel at him.

Jisung catches it in his mouth. Show-off. “I’m your leech,” he corrects, grinning.

“Don’t talk during the movie.”

“I always talk during the movie.”

And he does. God, he does. It’s a habit that had driven Minho mad in the beginning, back when they were just awkward roommates, tripping over each other’s routines and trying to figure out where the boundaries lay.

Now, years later, it’s almost comforting. Jisung’s constant, chaotic commentary had become the background noise of his life, the thread that stitched together the long, mundane weeks.

Minho sighs, trying to focus on the movie. Every dramatic scene gets a sarcastic quip, every tense moment is derailed by Jisung’s sudden fascination with an actor’s handsome face or an interrogation about extraterrestrial anatomy, randomly asking Minho if he thought aliens would have human-like genitalia.

“What the fuck, Jisung.”

“I’m just saying! Evolutionarily, it makes no sense for aliens to have dicks—”

“I swear to god—”

By the time the third dumb comment in ten minutes leaves Jisung’s mouth — something about how Minho should consider growing his hair out “so I can pull it when you’re being annoying” — Minho reaches his limit.

“One more word,” Minho threatens, “and I’m throwing you off this couch.”

Jisung turns, eyes wide with faux innocence. “Is that a promise, hyung?”

Minho’s ears burn. Fuck. He throws a handful of popcorn directly into Jisung’s face.

Jisung barely flinches. Just grins, golden and unrepentant. That smile had gotten him out of trouble since college— with professors, with crushes, with Minho himself. It was disgusting how well it worked.

“Violence!” Jisung wails, clutching his chest.

Minho leans in, close enough to see the scar on Jisung’s forehead, or the way his lashes curl in the dim light of the TV. “I hope you’re cursed with eternal erections.”

A gasp. “Hyung.”

“No, listen. Perpetual. Unyielding. A lifetime of inconvenient boners at funerals, job interviews—”

“You’re corrupting me,” Jisung crows, tossing more popcorn into his mouth. “You’d be a really petty wizard.”

Minho stretches his arm along the back of the couch, fingers brushing the worn fabric of Jisung’s hoodie, and smiles sweetly. “Sleep with one eye open, Jisung-ah.”

Jisung just snorts, turning back to the movie, but Minho’s pulse thrums under his skin.

Later, they’d devolve into a pillow fight that sent them crashing to the floor, all tangled limbs and breathless insults, laughing like idiots until they called a truce and stumbled off to bed.

And if Minho lingers outside Jisung’s door for a second too long, listening to the rustle of sheets?

Well. That’s just part of the routine.

⟡ ݁₊ .⟡ ݁₊ .

The next morning, silence.

Not unusual. Jisung is a creature of nocturnal whims and midday awakenings, prone to vanishing into the abyss of his own erratic sleep schedule. Minho doesn’t knock on Jisung’s door. It’s one of their ridiculous roommate agreements: No wake-up calls before noon unless the building is on fire.

Instead of knocking on Jisung’s door, checking in on him, he makes coffee. Two cups— one for himself, one left warming on the counter, just in case. An old habit. A stupid one, maybe, but one he can’t seem to break.

The apartment stays quiet.

At around 2 AM, Minho is ripped from sleep by the sound of something large and uncoordinated barreling down the hallway. For one half-conscious second, he thinks it might be a break-in. Or an earthquake. Or, knowing their luck, a very lost raccoon.

Then his door flies open with a crash.

“Hyung!”

Jisung stands in the threshold, his silhouette a mess of wild hair and heaving shoulders. Voice ragged, sleep-deprived, teetering between outrage and desperation.

Minho’s brain, still sluggish with sleep, takes a long, looping detour around the sight of him. His lips are bitten red. His eyes, wide and frantic, lock onto Minho like he was the only solid thing in a tilting world.

Minho squints at him, “What?”

“This!” Jisung hisses, face red as he climbs onto Minho's bed, jabbing an accusatory finger downward at the unmistakable strain against the fabric of his sweatpants. “This is your fault!”

“Jisung, the sun’s not even up yet–”, Minho looks at his alarm clock, “What the fuck are you talking about–”

“I’ve been hard the whole day!” Jisung’s voice cracks. He buries his face in one of Minho’s pillows, muffling a groan. "The whole day, hyung. Do you know what that’s like?"

Yes. No. Maybe? He isn’t thinking about that. Minho is busy staring at Jisung’s bulging boner, which he keeps pointing at.

"I've—fuck—I've jerked off at least six times and it doesn’t go away, hyung. I’ve tried cold showers and push-ups, I even watched that documentary about sloths you love—”

“You liar, you’ve never pay attention to my sloth docs—”

“—I even took notes on my phone! I have theories about their mating habits now, hyung. Help me, this is all because of you–”

I hope you’re cursed with eternal erections.

“Wait,” Minho says. “You actually think I cursed you?”

Jisung lifts his head just enough to glare. “Why else would this happen right after you wished an eternal boner upon me?”

Minho stares, unsure whether to laugh or call an ambulance. “You’re telling me you’ve had a boner for, what, ten hours?”

“Fifteen,” Jisung mutters, flopping onto his back with another groan. “I can feel every heartbeat in my dick.”

Minho makes a strangled noise. “Don’t say that in my bed.”

“It’s your fault!” Jisung grumbles.

Minho opens his mouth. Closes it. His brain processes this in slow motion. His joke, a throwaway comment, had somehow worked. And now his best friend is in his bed, suffering the consequences. Is this a joke?

The weight of the situation settles over him, absurd and undeniable, because either this was the most elaborate, commitment-heavy prank in the history of their friendship, or Minho had, entirely by accident, cursed Jisung with an unrelenting, medically improbable erection.

He tries not to laugh, but also panics just a bit because what if he actually cursed him somehow? What even is this situation? He has absolutely no idea how to undo it; he just starts staring at Jisung.

Jisung stares back, expression a mix of betrayal and exhaustion.

Minho’s lips twitch.

Jisung’s glare sharpens. “Don’t.”

Too late. A snort escapes Minho, then another, until he wheezes into his hands, his shoulders shaking. He laughs because that’s what he does when he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, “you—you actually—”

“This isn’t funny!” Jisung hisses again, but the effect is ruined by the way his voice cracked and his hips shift restlessly against the mattress.

“It’s kinda funny.”

“Hyung.”

“Okay, okay—” Minho sucks in a breath, forcing his face into something resembling solemnity. It lasts about three seconds before he bursts out again. “I told you to sleep with one eye open!”

Jisung groans, turning onto his back. “I hate you. So much.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You’re here.” Minho gestures at Jisung’s presence in his bed, at the way he’d sought him out at the crack of dawn like some kind of desperate, horny ghost.

Jisung’s cheeks flush darker. “Because you did this!”

“I didn’t do anything, Jisung, I’m not actually a wizard.”

“Then why—” Jisung points furiously downward.

Minho’s gaze flickers, then darts away. Nope. Not looking. Not thinking about it.

“Maybe you’re just…stressed?”

“Stressed.”

“Yeah,” Minho says, half-laughing, trying to reclaim some control over the situation. “Or, I don’t know, maybe you’re allergic to your new shower gel or something.”

Jisung’s jaw clenches, “Hyung, if you don’t start taking this seriously—”

“What do you want me to do, exorcise your dick?”

Jisung shifts onto his belly uncomfortably, the motion pressing his hips against the mattress in a way that draws a tight, bitten-off gasp from his throat.

“I’m serious, hyung.“

“Or—” Minho hesitates, “Maybe you’ve just been thinking about me too much.”

Jisung’s mouth snaps shut.

Minho’s smirk falters.

Because—shit. That was a joke. Obviously. Obviously. They always joked around like this, but the way Jisung’s breath hitches, the way his fingers curl into the sheets, Minho’s pulse kicks.

Jisung exhales, “You’re right.”

“I—what?”

“I have been thinking about you.” Jisung sits up abruptly, crowding into Minho’s space, close enough that Minho can see the flecks of gold in his eyes and feel the heat radiating off him. “About how annoying you are. About how much I want to strangle you.” His knee brushed Minho’s thigh. “About how unfair it is that you get to sit there laughing while I—”

Minho’s breath catches. This is a joke, his brain whispered. Except Jisung’s eyes are serious, and he leans in, closer, closer—

Then, with a frustrated growl, he yanks back, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Ugh. This is your fault. Fix it.”

Fix it?

How the hell is he supposed to fix this? He isn’t a wizard. He isn’t a doctor. He is just a guy who’d made a dumb joke that had somehow come true.

“How–”

“I don’t know! Think, wizard boy!”

“Maybe if you sleep it off—”

“Tried. Doesn’t. Work.”

“Then—then—” Minho flounders, his usual composure in tatters. “Have you considered therapy? An actual doctor? Wait, do you need me to drive you to the hospital–”

Jisung made a sound like a dying animal.

Minho watches him, the frantic way he tugs at his hair, the flush crawling down his neck. This is real. He’s not faking. He’s actually…

He swallowed. Jisung is here, flushed and furious and aching.

He takes a deep breath. He needed air, something to ground him, a reality check, honestly. The tension is suddenly getting too much, and he can’t let his mind go, not now.

“Okay,” he says, very carefully. “Hypothetically.”

Jisung goes very still.

“If this is my fault,” Minho continues, “and if I could fix it…”

Jisung’s throat works. “...Yeah?”

Minho holds his gaze. Then, he reaches out and flicks him squarely on the forehead.

“Ow! What the fuck—”

“There,” Minho grins, “Curse broken.”

Jisung gapes at him. “You asshole—”

Minho stops grinning when Jisung crowds into his space once more. One moment, he was sitting up, smug, riding the high of their bickering, tension finally broken even if only briefly; the next, his world tilts sideways, and he finds himself pinned under Jisung's weight.

And now Minho’s pulse is stuttering in his throat, his skin feels too tight, his thoughts are a mess of what the fuck and oh and—

Jisung lunges and snatches one of Minho’s pillows.

Hands grasping, bodies colliding in an ungainly sprawl of limbs. Minho barely registers the impact before Jisung is atop him, knees caging his hips, fingers digging into his shoulders with a desperation that borders on painful.

“What the—” Minho’s protest is cut off by a face full of pillow.

“Oh, you think you’re funny?”

Minho’s laughter quickly dissolves into breathless gasps as Jisung rained down a flurry of messy, poorly-aimed, and frankly, kind of soft pillow strikes. Jisung has all these muscles, yet it’s clear how tired he is. In the scuffle, the blanket covering Minho is yanked off completely and tossed aside. Thank God he’d worn sweatpants to bed.

He tries to twist away, arms coming up to defend his head, but the effort only serves to grind their bodies closer.

“Okay, okay—fuck, wait—” Minho manages, grabbing blindly for Jisung’s wrists, fingers closing around warm skin.

Jisung freezes, breathing heavily, pillow suspended mid-swing. Minho’s chest heaves underneath him, Jisung’s hair falls in messy strands over his eyes, lips parted, panting.

Minho’s hands tighten reflexively around Jisung’s wrists, feeling his uneven pulse, pulling his arms down, trapping them against the mattress as the pillow tumbled from his grasp.

A sound tears from Jisung's throat— sharp, punched-out, wounded.

His hips jerk involuntarily, the hard line of his erection dragging against Minho's thigh, and the noise that followed— A whine. High, desperate, aching.

“I didn’t—fuck—I didn’t mean to—” Jisung’s voice splinters, face burning. "I—shit, sorry, it just—hurts—"

Minho’s brain blanks, watching Jisung’s face twist with frustration and shame, and the way his body shudders above him, caught between need and humiliation.

“You weren’t kidding,” Minho murmurs, voice scraped raw.

Jisung doesn’t answer. Can’t. His head is bowed, forehead nearly touching Minho’s shoulder, breath coming in ragged hitches. The absence of his usual bravado is more unnerving than any complaint—Jisung is never this quiet, never this still, unless something is terribly wrong.

Minho could make a joke. Could deflect with something crude and easy, the way they always do. But the words dissolve on his tongue, and his fingers stay tight around Jisung’s wrists, eyes fixed on how Jisung’s mouth trembles.

"Touching yourself didn't help?" The words escape before he can temper them.

God, why did I ask that? Why am I picturing it?

Jisung's breath stutters. "No," he grounds out. "I told you—"

Minho swallows. Because this was crazy. Because they are roommates. They are friends. Because Jisung is here, panting above him, body strung tight with need, and Minho—

Minho had never been the selfless type.

Jisung’s hips move again, a slow roll against Minho’s thigh, the pressure just enough to draw another desperate, stuttering noise from his throat. His fingers flex in Minho’s grip, head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut.

Minho’s heart is a jackhammer in his chest, brain caught in a frenzied loop of this is insane, this is insane, this is insane.

“Are you—” he stammers, grip tightening on Jisung’s wrists, keeping him pinned, “Are you trying to ride my thigh?”

Jisung’s eyes snap back to his, wide and a little bit crazed. For a moment, it looks like he might deny it, might scramble back and laugh it off as some twisted joke.

But then his hips roll again, dragging his length against the firm muscle of Minho’s thigh, and his mouth falls open in a broken, shuddering gasp.

“Fuck,” Jisung whispers, his voice cracking, the word faint. “I’m sorry, hyung, I–” He sucks in a breath, eyes squeezing shut again. “It hurts so much.”

Minho looks up at him. Jisung’s cheeks are flushed, and he looks like a mess.

If Minho had imagined this before—Jisung straddling him, close enough to taste—well. Who could blame him? His roommate was annoyingly attractive. Prone to wandering around shirtless through their apartment, all taut muscle and effortless grace, constantly touching Minho with a casual clinginess that had long since crossed the line into torture.

Months of careful avoidance, of not looking, not wanting— but now Jisung is here. Desperate and hard.

Minho is only human.

He can’t breathe, can’t think, can only stare up at Jisung’s flushed face, the tension in his body, the helpless, unconscious way he keeps grinding down on his thigh.

“I’m sorry, hyung,” Jisung pants, his head dipping forward, forehead almost brushing Minho’s. “Think about it, it might– it might work. You started this, you have to fix it.” His hips stutter, another shaky, grinding roll. “Hyung, please, can I—” his voice hitched, breath hot, “can I use you?”

Minho’s pulse roars in his ears, every nerve ending on fire. He feels dizzy, unmoored, the weight of Jisung’s body pressing down, the frantic, mindless way he grinds against him, like every movement is out of his control.

“Jisung-ah—” Minho manages, voice barely more than a rasp. He tries to think, tries to find some coherent argument against this, against letting his best friend rut against him in the darkness of his bedroom.

Jisung’s hips move again, and his head drops, lips brushing Minho’s cheek.

“Hyung,” Jisung whispers, his voice a wrecked, trembling thing. “I-I swear I tried everything, I just—” His hips press down harder, and a broken, pleading whine escapes him. “Please, just— let me—”

Jisung’s expression softens, like he’d drifted into another world, too caught up in the moment to care about anything else. Minho’s worry flares for a second — Is he too gone to even realize what he’s saying?

Minho feels his last shred of self-control slipping, chest tight, mind spinning.

“Jisung,” he whispers, throat tight. “If you freak out afterward—”

“I won’t,” Jisung cuts him off, his eyes dark, and breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. His hips keep moving. “I promise.” His head tips back, lips parting on a shattered gasp. “Please help?”

He tightens his grip on Jisung’s wrists, leaning up just enough to breathe against the shell of his ear.

“Careful,” he murmurs, “You sound way too eager for someone who came in here ready to strangle me.”

Jisung’s breath hitches, and for a second, Minho thinks he’d flinch back, that the shame would finally cut through the haze of his desperation. But Jisung’s hips stutter again.

“Shut up,” he spits, face burning, his fingers flexing against the bedsheets in Minho’s grip. He tries for a glare, for something sharp and cutting, but his eyes are glassy, his lips trembling, every part of him trembling and straining against Minho’s hold.

“This is— this is your fault, I told you–”

Minho’s heart kicks against his ribs. He feels drunk, disoriented, the heat of Jisung’s body seeping into his skin, “My fault,” he echoes, voice tight, “So cumming with my help will undo the curse?”

“Don’t,” Jisung snaps, his face going even redder, “Don’t say it like that.”

Minho’s lips twitch, a surge of amusement. God, Jisung is such a beautiful mess.

“But it’s true,” Minho mutters. “Isn’t that what you came for?”

Jisung chokes on a sound, a high, strangled sound, his hips rolling harder against Minho’s thigh. Head tipped back, the cords in his neck stood out as he gasped for air.

“Gone already?”

Jisung shoots him a glare. “Hyung, if you were stuck like this for days, you’d be a mess too,” he manages, voice half-teasing, half-pleading as he keeps moving. “You’d be begging for help, p-probably trying way weirder stuff than this.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Weirder stuff?” Minho repeats, fingers tightening around Jisung’s wrists just to feel him squirm. “Like what?”

Jisung’s hips jerk at the pressure, a whimper escaping him before he could bite it back. “I—fuck—I don’t know, hyung, just—” His voice cracks, hips rolling in a slow grind. “Stop talking. Stay still.”

Minho chuckles. “How the hell did you survive this long?” He lets go of Jisung's hands, instead sliding up to grip him by the waist, thumbs pressing into the dip of his hip bones.

Jisung doesn’t answer.

“You want me to be quiet while you use me?” He drags Jisung down harder against his thigh. Jisung gasps, his back arching and entire body tensing.

Minho thinks he’d gone too far, that he should’ve just let Jisung move on his own, not get greedy, and that he’d shattered the fragile, breathless tension between them, that Jisung would scramble off him, that the shame would finally kick in.

But then Jisung’s hips roll again, and his head drops to Minho's shoulder. "Hyung," he whines, the sound muffled against Minho's shirt. "Just—please. It hurts."

Minno's chest tightens. There is something unbearably raw about the way Jisung clings to him, about the way his body trembles with every shallow roll of his hips.

You did this to him, a traitorous part of his brain whispers, equal parts guilt and possessiveness curling hot under his ribs. His hands slide up Jisung’s back, fingers spreading between his shoulder blades, holding him close.

“Okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing Jisung’s ear, the nickname slipping out before he could stop it. “Okay, Sungie. I’ve got you.”

Jisung whimpers at that, his whole body shivering, and Minho feels the moment everything in him snaps. Jisung’s body locks up, a strangled, broken moan ripping from him as he comes, hips rutting in tiny, helpless circles.

His fingers claw at Minho’s shoulders, clinging, shaking, every muscle drawn tight before finally collapsing against him, boneless and gasping.

Minho just holds him through it, his own breath uneven. For a long, quiet moment, all he can hear is Jisung’s harsh, shaky breathing, the little tremors still running through his limbs.

“…Holy shit,” Jisung mumbles eventually.

Minho’s lips twitch, unable to resist. “That was quick.”

Jisung lifts his head, hair sticking to his forehead, a mix of embarrassment and relief in his eyes. He goes for a glare, but it falls flat.

“Don’t smug at me.”

“I’m not smug,” Minho says, grin widening despite himself. “Did it work?” He flicks his eyes downward.

Jisung blinks, confused for a second, then glances down between them. His cheeks flare even redder when he realizes that, yeah, his sweatpants are now sticking wetly to him, his hips still flush against Minho’s thigh, but his dick is finally soft, the ache in his body blissfully gone.

“Oh my god,” he groans, dropping his head back to Minho’s shoulder, voice muffled. “I can’t believe that actually worked.”

Minho snorts, letting his hands fall to Jisung’s waist. “You’re welcome.”

Jisung doesn’t leave Minho’s room for a long while after that, both of them too stunned, too raw, too breathless to move. Jisung’s fingers linger in the fabric of Minho’s shirt, hesitant, “It wasn’t…weird, was it?” he murmurs, voice low, eyes fixed somewhere just beyond Minho’s shoulder.

Minho studies him—the faint blush still dusting his cheeks, the way his breath comes steady but careful, like he’s measuring each one. “No,” he says, simple and sure. “Not weird.”

Jisung’s eyes flicker up, searching Minho’s face for something—doubt, reluctance, a lie.

“Really?”

Minho softens. “Really.”

Jisung releases a slow breath, tension seeping out of his shoulders. “Okay,” he whispers.

Eventually, they’d peeled themselves apart, a tangled, sticky mess of limbs and awkward glances, neither quite meeting the other’s eyes as Jisung stumbled back to his own room, muttering something about a shower.

Minho had barely slept after that.

⟡ ݁₊ .⟡ ݁₊ .

A week passes.

For the most part, things return to normal.

Jisung is still his annoyingly clingy self, sprawling across Minho’s lap when they watch TV, stealing his food, whining for attention like a needy cat. And Minho, well, he pretends like his brain doesn’t short-circuit every time Jisung leans in too close or smiles at him.

But the memory of that night sticks with him. He finds himself zoning out in the middle of conversations, his mind drifting back to the warmth of Jisung’s body.

He’d started researching late at night when the apartment was quiet, his screen dimmed, and his headphones in. Scrolling through sketchy forums on Reddit, old message boards where people argued about the possibility of accidental curses, reading stories that felt too far-fetched to believe, yet too close to his own experience to ignore.

“friend cursed with boner?” “joke magic turned real reddit?” “how to reverse horny spell (serious)”

Somewhere, deep in a thread titled “Curses, Hexes, and the Accidental Witch,” a comment stands out:

“Magic feeds on intent. Especially emotion. Especially desire.”

Minho closes the tab.

He’s not sure what he was hoping to find— proof that he hadn’t done anything, maybe, or some kind of explanation for why Jisung had acted the way he did.

But the more he read, the more questions he had. And the more those questions made his pulse spike, his skin tingle, his thoughts twist into dangerous territory.

He doesn’t knock on wood. He doesn’t avoid black cats. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, horoscopes, or the karmic consequences of saying “eternal boner” out loud.

But after watching Jisung hump his thigh into orgasm a week ago, Minho was starting to rethink all that.

One Saturday afternoon, they find themselves at a street festival downtown, dodging food stalls and weaving through crowds.

Minho is just tipsy enough to feel loose, his usual sharp edges softened. Jisung, on the other hand, is practically vibrating with excitement, darting from booth to booth like a kid in a candy store. He is bad at drinking, so the most he has is a few cans of soda.

Minho lets Jisung drag him through the crowded streets, his arm looped around his shoulders, their steps slightly out of sync as they weave between the clusters of people.

"Hyung, look!" Jisung skids to a stop in front of a ring toss booth, nearly sending Minho stumbling into a nearby trash can. "This is it. This is my moment."

Minho squints at the booth, the rows of glass bottles reflecting the kaleidoscope of festival lights, the rings stacked in neat piles. He snorts, leaning heavily into Jisung's side. "Jisung-ah, these games are scams. You're just wasting your allowance."

Jisung shoots him a glare over his shoulder. "First of all, I'm not twelve. I'm a grown man. Second of all, I'm winning you something."

Minho snorts. "Sure, go ahead."

Jisung's grin widens. He slaps a few bills onto the counter, grabbing the rings with a dramatic flourish. "Watch and learn, old man."

The goal is simple: toss the ring onto one of the lined up glass bottles. Simple in theory. Impossible in practice.

Minho leans in, his breath warm against Jisung's ear, voice a quiet, amused rumble. "I'm only two years older, Jisung-ah."

Jisung's hand wobbles, his first ring clinking pathetically off the neck of a bottle and clattering to the ground. Minho bursts into laughter, clutching his side.

"Shut up," Jisung mutters, tossing another ring. It bounces off the rim and lands with a sad little ping on the ground again.

Minho leans in again, his chin nearly resting on Jisung's shoulder now, "Maybe you should use that big, grown-man strength you were bragging about."

Jisung's jaw clenches, his face a little too pink to blame on just the festival lights. He tosses another ring, misses, and curses something under his breath.

Minho watches him from the side, amused by the way Jisung keeps muttering something to himself. Words of encouragement, maybe, Minho can't really hear; it is too loud.

He tosses his last ring, and by some miracle—or pure spite—it actually catches on the neck of a bottle, wobbling for a moment before settling into place.

Jisung whoops, spinning around to face Minho with a grin that is somehow twice as bright as the festival. "Ha! Told you I could do it."

Minho chuckles, genuinely impressed despite himself. "Lucky shot."

Jisung sticks his tongue out, grabbing the ridiculous-looking plushie the stall owner hands him. It is neon green, with bug eyes and floppy limbs.

He shoves it into Minho's hands with a satisfied grin. "Here. Proof of my manly prowess."

Minho scoffs, holding the plushie up to inspect it. He blames it on the alcohol, but the more he stares at the plushie, the more it looks like Jisung.

"Thank you", he mumbles, clutching it to his chest.

Jisung elbows him, leaning in close, his grin turning a bit more mischievous. "You're welcome, hyung. Now you'll always have something to cuddle at night."

Minho rolls his eyes, but before he can come up with a retort, Jisung adds, "Or would you rather cuddle with me?"

Minho's grin turns sharp, the alcohol in his system making him bolder, looser, his usual restraint crumbling. Without really thinking about it, he leans even closer, until their noses are almost touching, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur.

"Be careful, Sung," he says, "or I might just curse you again."

The words slip out, too easy, too familiar, and for a heartbeat, Jisung just blinks at him, his smile faltering, his eyes darkening for a fraction of a second. It is the briefest flicker, a tiny glitch in the rhythm of their banter, before Jisung forces a laugh, shoving Minho back a step.

"Yeah, yeah," Jisung says, putting his hands into his pockets, the playful energy slipping back into place. "I'm shaking."

But as they move on to the next stall, Minho keeps glancing at Jisung, catching the way his jaw is a little too tight, the way his fingers flex and curl in his pockets.

It is nothing. Probably. Minho lets it go.

They wander further into the heart of the festival, the bright lights casting their faces in soft hues of pink and gold. Minho's cheeks feel warm.

"I'm starving," Jisung announces, eyes zeroing in on a food stall selling steaming skewers of spicy chicken and crispy tteokbokki. "Stay here, I'll get us something."

Minho gives a lazy two-finger salute. "Don't get lost, Sungie."

Jisung shoots him a look before flipping him off over his shoulder and slipping into the crowd.

Minho chuckles, leaning back against a nearby lamppost. He lets his head tip back, eyes slipping shut for a moment, fingers tightening around the plushie tucked under his arm.

Minho feels a stupid, smug little flutter in his chest. He is definitely more tipsy than he's realized.

He barely registers the gentle bump against his shoulder at first.

"Oh! Sorry, didn't see you there," a voice cuts through his thoughts, light, breathless, a little too close. Minho blinks, turning to find a tall guy, broad-shouldered, with messy hair and a baseball cap. His breath smells faintly of beer. "Crowded, huh?"

Minho forces a polite, slightly awkward smile. "Yeah, kinda."

The guy grins, and he leans in, eyes flicking down to the plushie. "Guess I owe you a drink for almost knocking you over. You here alone, or...?"

Minho feels his brain stutter. It takes a second for the guy's words to sink in, the alcohol in his system making everything feel a little too slow. His mouth opens, but before he can piece together a response, he feels a sudden, familiar warmth at his side.

"Oh, hey," Jisung's voice cuts in, breathless from pushing through the crowd, his eyes flicking between Minho and the stranger. He has a skewer in each hand and a paper cup of soju tucked between his fingers.

The stranger straightens, his grin faltering slightly as he takes in the way Jisung slides just a little closer to Minho, shoulders brushing, his expression somewhere between polite curiosity and barely masked annoyance.

"Sorry," the guy stammers, eyes darting nervously between them, catching on the way Jisung's fingers faintly brush against Minho's arm as he passes him one of the skewers. "Didn't realize you had a boyfriend." He takes a quick, awkward step back, already turning to leave, his cup sloshing dangerously as he half-bows.

Minho feels his brain misfire for the second time in as many minutes.

Jisung goes rigid beside him, his eyes widening slightly. He lets out a too-loud chuckle, shoving the skewer at Minho. "Oh, no, we're not—" he starts, at the same time Minho chokes out, "Ah, no, not like—"

The stranger is already gone, melted back into the crowd, his shoulders hunched, as he disappears into the sea of people.

Jisung is the first to move, his face turned away, embarrassed red. He takes a long, too-big sip from the cup of soju that was intended for Minho, eyes darting to the side as if to check if Minho is watching him, before letting out a shaky, forced laugh.

"My bad," he mumbles, his voice too bright, "Didn't mean to, uh, ruin your shot there."

Minho blinks, his fingers still curled tightly around the plushie. "No, no," he says quickly, "Wasn't interested anyway." He bites down on the words a little too hard, his heart still racing, and feels the way Jisung's eyes flick to his face, sharp and searching, like he is trying to read something in the tilt of Minho's lips, the furrow of his brow.

"Oh," Jisung says, quieter this time, his gaze dropping to the cup in his hand, his tongue swiping nervously over his lower lip. "Cool." He lets out another shaky laugh, the sound high and forced, before taking another long gulp from Minho's cup.

"Thought you said you weren't drinking tonight."

Jisung pauses, the rim of the cup still pressed to his mouth. He lowers it slowly, eyes dropping to the sloshing liquid, his thumb running absently along the rim. "Yeah, well," he mutters, a tight, awkward shrug pulling at his shoulders. "Felt like I needed it just now."

Minho frowns, the words scratching at something in the back of his mind, but he is too tipsy to dig for meaning. And honestly, he is starving.

Jisung exhales loudly, already turning on his heel. "Come on," he calls, "Let's find somewhere to sit before I spill this all over myself."

Minho hesitates, his gaze lingering on the tense line of Jisung's back, the way his grip tightens around the cup, before shaking off the strange, nagging feeling and following him.

And neither of them notices the faint, ghostly flicker of light that sparks between them, the invisible threads pulling tighter, binding them together once more.

⟡ ݁₊ .⟡ ݁₊ .

The next day, Minho wakes up with his head pounding and his tongue dry as sandpaper. He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face, already regretting every sip of cheap alcohol from the night before. He drags himself out of bed, takes a shower, and shuffles into the kitchen for painkillers.

He hasn't heard Jisung leave his room all morning, but that isn't too surprising. They'd stumbled through the front door well past two, both too tired to do more than kick off their shoes and collapse into their beds.

By the time the afternoon sun starts slipping behind the neighboring buildings, Minho still hasn't seen or heard a single sign of life from Jisung's room. He frowns, leaning against the kitchen counter, fingers drumming absently against his glass of water.

The painkillers have kicked in, at least, and his hangover has mostly faded, leaving him just tired enough to feel a little reckless, a little too loose-limbed on the couch.

He scrolls through his phone, flicking through short clips and memes, letting the hours slip by. But as the sky outside turns from late afternoon gold to deep, dusky blue, the apartment remains frustratingly silent.

He glances at the battery icon on his phone— 4%.

Minho sighs, letting his head thump back against the couch cushion. He'll have to get up eventually, either to grab his charger or to find a distraction that isn't just staring at his screen.

He sets his phone down with a groan, stretching his arms over his head. Jisung hasn't made a sound all day, no rustling of blankets, no muffled giggles through the walls, not even a door creak. It isn't exactly unusual for Jisung to spend the entire day in his room, but Minho's patience has run thin.

Fine. He'll check on him.

Dragging himself up, Minho pads down the short hallway to Jisung's door. He hesitates for a moment, the faintest flicker of yesterday's weirdness twisting in his stomach, but he brushes it off. They'd been fine last night, laughing and joking and maybe a bit too close, but fine.

He raps his knuckles against the door, three sharp taps.

Silence.

Minho tilts his head, listening for any hint of movement, a rustle of sheets, a groggy complaint, anything. But it's silent.

Maybe he really is just dead asleep, Minho thinks, reaching for the handle. He pushes the door open, stepping into the dimly lit room and freezing.

Jisung is sprawled out on his bed, hoodie rumpled and riding up over his stomach, shorts clinging to his thighs, his hips grinding desperately against a pillow clutched between his legs. His face is half-hidden in his elbow, the sleeve of his hoodie bitten between his teeth, muffling his breathless, choked sounds.

For a moment, Minho's mind goes completely blank, his pulse skittering, his mouth suddenly drier than this morning.

Jisung's head snaps up, eyes wide, pupils blown, sweat sticking to his forehead. His sleeve drops from his teeth, a thin string of spit catching the dim light before it breaks, trailing over his swollen bottom lip.

They stare at each other, Minho for some reason feeling just as caught as Jisung.

"Oh my god," Minho says, his voice coming out far weaker than he'd have liked. "I—shit, I thought you were asleep—"

Jisung makes a strangled, half-desperate noise, scrambling back, the pillow slipping from his grip and thudding against the headboard. His face is a mess of red, his chest heaving, his thighs trembling, and for a split second, Minho's mind conjures the exact, unhelpful thought that this is the hottest thing he's ever seen.

"W-what the fuck, hyung?" Jisung croaks, his voice breaking, his hands fumbling to pull his hoodie down, to cover the way his shorts cling to him. He looks wrecked, panicked, his lips wet and bitten. "You— you can't just barge in like that—"

"I knocked!" Minho shoots back, gripping the doorframe, his heart still racing, his eyes still locked on the way Jisung's chest rises and falls in frantic, jerky breaths. "You didn't answer, I thought you were passed out or something."

"I—" Jisung's mouth opens, closes, his eyes flicking to the side as if he can somehow escape this situation. "I—uhm–" He lets out a shaky, frustrated exhale, his hands twisting in the sheets. "I've been— I've been trying, like, this whole day, but I—" His face twists, his eyes glassy and confused. "I can't—"

Minho blinks, his mind still struggling to catch up, to process the sight of his best friend humping a pillow.

"You can't?" he repeats.

Jisung lets out a breathless laugh, his eyes darting back to Minho's, bright and wild and a little too honest. "I can't cum."

Minho feels something twist in his gut, a sharp, dark thrill that he immediately crushes down, fighting to keep his voice steady. "You– you can't cum?" he echoes, his fingers tightening against the doorframe, his mind spinning, trying to keep up. "Like, at all?"

Jisung lets out a whimper, his thighs clenching. "I've been trying," he chokes out, his voice cracking, "all day, and I—I can't. I don't know what's happening, but it just— it doesn't work."

Minho's breath catches, his eyes locked on Jisung's flushed, trembling form.

"What the fuck," Minho whispers, more to himself than to Jisung, his mind spinning, a thousand half-formed thoughts colliding, none of them making sense.

And then, a single, horrifyingly thrilling realization.

Is this…another curse?

Jisung, as if reading Minho's mind, perks up, "It's different from last time."

"Hm?"

"Last time, when you– uh– when you cursed me," Jisung continues, "I could still cum, it's just that my boner wouldn't go down, you know, until– until you know uh–"

"I know," Minho interrupts until Jisung continues to ramble because somehow Jisung's spiraling, hes a little different right now, not as cocky as the first time he confronted Minho in the crack of morning for 'cursing' him. He's a lot quieter, not talking back as much. Minho is intrigued.

"So this isn't an eternal boner."

"Hyung," Jisung whines, "If it's not the curse, what is it? Why won't it go down, why can't i cum, hyung, why–"

Jisung doesn't realize he's crying until Minho's already by his side, sitting down on the bed next to him, one arm around his shoulder.

"Shit, Jisung," Minho mutters, "Dont cry about something stupid like this–" He starts wiping the wetness from Jisungs cheeks. All the awkwardness from before gone.

"It's not stupid, I'm frustrated, and scared, and–"

Minho grabs one of Jisungs hands, squeezing lightly, "Have you tried using your hands?"

Jisung looks at him in disbelief. "I'm not stupid, of course I did, I've tried everything, I'm telling you."

"So your last option was a pillow?"

Jisung grows red, but honestly, Minho can't talk; he's bright pink himself already, especially his ears, and he can feel them burn the longer he stares at Jisung.

"I thought because last time– your thigh– I could maybe, with the pillow–"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Minho bites his tongue.

He doesn't know why he asks, what makes the words spill from his mouth without sounding too desperate, without crossing the line as best friends, but he's blinded by the thoughts of Jisung, unable to make himself cum, so he mimics the time Minho made him cum.

Fucking hell.

"Why didn't you ask me?"

Jisung looks at him confused.

"If this is just the curse, why didn't you come to me earlier, so I could help break it like last time?"

"And what if it isn't the curse? What if I just cant cum?"

Well, Minho thinks, how does he explain to his best friend now, without making him uncomfortable, that he wouldn't mind helping him cum anyway?

Jisung sighs, turning away from Minho, taking his hand back from his grasp and putting it on his naked thighs. "Hyung, you can leave now."

Wait. what?

"Huh?"

"It's okay, it might not be the curse, I can't ask you to help me jerk off again, I don't want to make you uncomf–"

"Let's try."

Jisung looks at him, mouth slightly open. It's a habit Minho picked up on rather quickly when they first met. Jisung would always have his mouth slightly open, no matter what he was doing, whether he was reading something, watching a movie with Minho, or just straight up zoning out. His lips are always parted.

Right now, it doesn't help Minho's shameful fantasies that he decided to bury months ago.

"Let's try?" Jisung echoes, confused.

Minho nods, "I'm not going to leave you alone after seeing you cry over this. So, let me give you a hand. Or my thigh, whatever you prefer."

Jisung's mouth parts a little further, in disbelief, and Minho, barely holding back a smile, reaches up and gently tilts his chin, thumb brushing under his jaw to ease it shut.

"Only if you want to, Jisung-ah."

"Hyung," he starts, "Are you sure?" He smiles, finally. Minho realizes the last time he saw him smile was last night at the festival, which frankly wasn't that long ago, but Minho still misses it.

"I'm sure."

Jisung stares at him.

"So?" Minho says, standing up. Jisung follows him with his eyes.

"I– uhm– I don't know-"

"What happened to the Jisung who begged me to help last time?"

Jisung turns impossibly redder, puffing his cheeks. "Hyung, I'm tired– last time was different, I told you, I could still jerk off and cum but today it's like I've been– I've been edged the whole day."

There's clear desperation and tiredness in Jisung's voice. Minho coos inside, moving onto the bed, sitting up against the bedframe, using the pillow Jisung had humped earlier to lean against. Jisung doesn't notice, because if he did, Minho knows he definitely would've commented on it.

He shifts back and opens his legs slightly, patting the space between them quietly, "Okay. Come here, then." Jisung blinks at him a couple of times before doing as he's told, crawling to sit between Minho's legs.

"Spread your legs over mine," Minho murmurs. "Lean back, Sungie."

Jisung moves without hesitation. Minho raises an eyebrow at how readily he listens and realizes how tired Jisung must actually be. He's used to Jisung being loud, talking back, and playful bickering. He loves it.

But now Jisung is quiet, listening to everything Minho says, and extremely horny, as Minho can tell when he puts a hand over Jisungs clothed crotch. Jisung flinches a little at the sudden contact.

"You left your boxers on so there'd still be a layer," Minho says, thumb tracing a slow circle. "Just like last time?"

A shaky whine leaves Jisung's throat, head tipping back, but he doesn't answer. Minho presses down a little harder, smiling when Jisung jerks against his palm.

"Can I take these off, Jisung-ah?"

His fingers toy with the waistband, feeling the heat of skin just beneath. He doesn't know where this sudden confidence has come from—probably Jisung himself, acting so damn sweet and pliant.

Jisung nods, curls brushing Minho's cheek, and Minho catches a quiet, breathy please before he slips both hands under the fabric and tugs the boxers down.

"Lift your hips for me."

Jisung does, letting Minho slide the fabric down to his ankles. He kicks them off, then immediately settles back into place, legs falling open once more across Minho's.

Minho looks down.

He's already felt it earlier, but now he can see him properly—small, flushed pink, already slick at the tip. Pre-cum? Lube? Both? It's a mess, and Minho can tell he's been worked up all day.

He wraps a hand around him gently, and Jisung gasps, his arms shooting up like he doesn't know where to put them, fingers flexing in the air as he tenses.

Minho chuckles under his breath. "You look like that plushie you won me," he says, amused, watching Jisung flail.

He squeezes Jisung's dick, making the other let out a whimper, one of his arms that were mid air shooting to his mouth, covering it.

"Jisung, I've already heard you before, don't cover up now." Minho starts to stroke him, curling his fist at the tip, squeezing slightly.

"Still," Jisung chokes out, muffled behind his hand, "It's embarrassing… you're—" his voice breaks, "you're touching my dick."

Minho cuckles softly, tilting his neck enough to catch the fractured expression on Jisung's face. A shame he can't see him fully like this, can't watch the way his lashes flutter when pleasure crests.

Next time, his mind says, unbidden. Next time? He's already teetering on the edge of something perilous.

Jisung chokes back another moan as Minho's thumb drags over the flushed head of his cock, circling the slit. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, Minho considers drawing this out further— testing how long Jisung can endure before he would break apart beneath his hands.

But the way Jisung's breath hitches uneven and extremely messy, makes restraint feel like a losing battle.

Instead, he deflects with a tease, "You have a very cute dick, you know."

Jisung's entire body tenses, heat blooming across his cheeks. "Don't—don't call it that," he grits out.

"But it is," Minho murmurs, pressing his palm flat against the leaking tip while his thumb continues its torturous rhythm. "Small. Pretty. All pink for me."

His hands aren't big by any measure, and yet Jisung fits perfectly inside them.

Jisung groans, a sound that vibrates through Minho's chest where their bodies press together. "Hyung—" His voice splinters, raw. "Need to—cum—"

Minho purposefully slows his strokes, watching the way Jisung's head falls back against his shoulder, lips parted, throat working around silent pleas.

"Hm?" he prompts, feigning innocence.

"Please," Jisung whimpers, hips twitching helplessly into Minho's grip. "Make me—fuck—make me come, please—"

In this moment, nothing else exists. Not the room around them, not the passage of time, not the distant hum of the world beyond these four walls.

If someone whispers the secrets of the universe into Minho's ear right now, he wouldn't hear a single syllable—not with the way Jisung trembles against him, thighs quivering, fingers clawing into his knee.

This is dangerous, he thinks distantly.

And yet he tightens his grip, twisting his wrist just so, relishing the way Jisung's breath shatters.

"Please," Jisung gasps again, voice fraying at the edges. "I can't—hyung, I—fuck—"

Minho hums, swiping his thumb through the mess of precome before rubbing slow, filthy circles.

"You can," he murmurs, lips grazing the shell of Jisung's ear. "You've been so good. Been trying so hard all day, haven't you?"

Jisung keens, high and desperate, back arching as if trying to press even closer. "Y-yeah—god—"

Minho doesn't relent. Not yet. He watches, fascinated, as Jisung's body arches against him, fingers scrabbling weakly at his arm—not pushing him away, just clinging, like he doesn't know whether to beg for more or less.

"T-too much— ah— hyung—" Jisung gasps, voice breaking, but Minho only smiles, curling his fingers just so before finally, finally easing off. Jisung slumps back against him.

"Well, would you look at that," Minho observes his hand covered in Jisung's cum.

"Oh my god."

Minho chuckles, warm and knowing, wiping his palm absently against Jisung's thigh. "I barely did anything."

"I know," Jisung groans, voice cracking. "That's— that's the problem! I tried, all day, and it— nothing worked—"

Minho tilts his head, considering. "Hmm." His thumb traces idle circles on Jisung's hip. "Maybe it wasn't the curse." A pause.

"Maybe you just needed it to be me."

Jisung's breath stutters.

Minho watches the realization flicker across his face.

Maybe you just needed it to be me.

The words hang there, a little too honest and raw. Minho hadn't meant to say it. Or maybe he had. Maybe he'd been waiting to say it.

Jisung swallows. "Hyung," he starts, voice wrecked, "what does that mean?"

Minho should've probably deflected, brushed it off with a joke about Jisung's terrible taste in partners. But Jisung is looking at him with those wide, earnest eyes, his body still warm and pliant against Minho's, and suddenly, the truth feels too heavy to hold back.

He lets his thumb trace Jisung's skin. "You tell me," he murmurs.

Jisung stares, gaze flickering between Minho's eyes and his mouth, like he's mapping out a path he'd never let himself take before.

Then, hesitantly, he reaches up, fingers brushing Minho's wrist—not pushing him away, just holding on.

"I think," Jisung whispers, "I might be cursed again."

Minho's pulse jumps. "Yeah?"

Jisung nods, cheeks flushed. "Yeah." His fingers tighten slightly. "And… hyung, I think you might be too."

Minho blinks. "Me?"

Jisung's eyes dip pointedly downward, then back up, biting his lip.

It takes Minho a second.

"Oh."

Oh.

He hasn't even noticed. But now, hyperaware, he can feel the heat between his legs, the tightness in his pants, the way his body has reacted without knowing. His face burns. "Shit. Sorry, I didn't—"

Jisung shifts between his thighs, turning to face him fully, one hand hovering near Minho's crotch.

"Hyung," Jisung says slowly, like he's explaining something obvious to a child, "I said you might be cursed too."

Minho stares at him, still processing.

Jisung scoffs, rolling his eyes, but there's a nervous tremor in his voice when he speaks again. "So, do you… want me to help you break it?"

Minho rasps, fingers twitching against the sheets, "Are you—you're for real?"

Jisung exhales sharply through his nose, that familiar stubborn crease forming between his eyebrows. "Hyung. We just—" His gesture encompasses their mess, the damp spot on his thigh, Minho's obvious predicament. "We can't pretend none of this happened."

Minho's brain is mushy. He pinches his thigh hard. The sharp pain does nothing to dispel the reality of Jisung kneeling between his legs, pupils blown wide, lips still swollen from biting them all day.

"Did you just—" Jisung's laugh warms the space between them. "Did you check if you were dreaming?"

"Shut up," Minho mutters, ears burning. His pulse roars in his ears, a frantic rhythm that seems to say too much, too fast, this changes everything.

Jisung's smile softens. He leans in, "You're so stupid," he murmurs, fondness dripping from every syllable. Then, with devastating simplicity: "Can I suck you off?"

Minho's entire world narrows to the heat of Jisung's palm resting tentatively on his inner thigh. He'd imagined this—of course he had—after helping Jisung come undone just one week ago.

But fantasy pales against the reality of Jisung's earnest gaze.

"Fuck," Minho breathes, fingers carding through Jisung's hair. "Yeah. Please."

The first brush of Jisung's lips against the waistband of his sweats sends electricity crackling down Minho's spine. He watches, transfixed, as Jisung nuzzles the fabric aside with his nose—clumsy, eager, so Jisung it makes his chest ache.

"Wait," Minho gasps when fingers finally wrap around him. Jisung freezes instantly, eyes darting up in concern. Minho cups his jaw, thumb brushing the plush swell of his lower lip. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," Jisung interrupts, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Minho's palm. The words vibrate against his skin. "Unless... you don't want me to?"

Minho's choked laugh comes out half-strangled. "Sung-ah. Look at me." He guides Jisung's hand to where his cock strains against fabric, damp with precome. "Does this seem like I don't want you?"

Jisung's answering grin is all mischief, but his fingers shake as he finally pulls Minho free.

"Oh," he breathes, leans down, and all coherent thought evaporates.

The first hot slide of his tongue along the underside punches a ragged moan from Minho's throat. Jisung hums, the vibration traveling straight to Minho's toes.

He'd dreamed about this—about Jisung's mouth, about the obscene way his lips stretch—but nothing compares to the reality of his eager clumsiness, the way he keeps glancing up as if checking this is still okay.

"Fuck, just—" Minho tangles his hands in Jisung's hair, "You don't have to—ah—do anything fancy."

Jisung pulls off with a wet pop. "But I wanna do it right," he pouts.

Minho's heart stutters. He smooths a thumb over Jisung's slick bottom lip. "You are doing it right. You're perfect."

The way Jisung's eyes light up at the praise would haunt Minho's dreams for years. He dives back in with renewed enthusiasm, taking Minho deeper on each pass until his nose brushes coarse hair.

When he gags slightly, Minho instinctively tries to pull him back, but Jisung bats his hands away stubbornly.

"Let me," he rasps, voice wrecked. "Wanna taste all of you."

Minho's hips jerk involuntarily. "Hell, you'll be the death of me."

Jisung's answering grin is filthy around the stretch of his mouth. He hollows his cheeks, working Minho with a dedication that borders on religious—like this is something holy, something precious. The wet sounds fill the room alongside Minho's increasingly broken praise.

He licks a slow, flat stripe from base to tip, before swirling his tongue around the head with shameless precision.

"Fuck—Jisung—"

Jisung just smirks, pupils blown black with hunger, and does it again. And again, alternating between kitten licks and deep, sucking presses to the sensitive underside, like he's savoring the taste of him.

When he finally takes Minho back into his mouth, he hollows his cheeks, bobbing with a rhythm that has Minho's fingers scrambling in his hair.

"Look at you," Minho gasps, thumbing away a tear that escapes Jisung's scrunched-up eyes. "Taking me so good, Sung-ah. Always knew you'd be—" His voice breaks as Jisung swallows around him, throat fluttering tight. "—fuck, perfect for this."

Jisung moans around him, the vibration tipping Minho dangerously close to the edge. He tries to warn him, tugging gently at his hair, but Jisung just redoubles his efforts, slurping like he wants Minho to come down his throat.

"Shit—shit—I'm gonna—"

Jisung pulls off, panting, and spits directly onto Minho's cock.

Fuck.

Minho chokes.

Jisung blinks up at him, spit still glistening on his bottom lip. "What?" he says, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Too much?"

Then, just to be a little bastard, he drags his tongue slowly up the underside, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

"Fuck-" Minho's hips jerk, his knuckles whitening where they grip the sheets.

"I can't believe you were crying just a while ago." The words come out breathier than he intended.

Jisung retaliates by pinching the sensitive inner skin of Minho's thigh hard enough to make him yelp. "First of all," he says, pausing to blow cool air over the glistening head and watching Minho shiver, "I was tired from trying to jerk off unsuccessfully for like six hours straight."

Another teasing lick. "And second-" his teeth graze lightly, "-you're the one who got hard because of me. That's way more embarrassing, hyung."

Minho barks out a laugh that immediately chokes off into a moan when Jisung takes him deep without warning. "So what," he pants, "my boner magically revived you? Christ, maybe I really am a wizard– ah!"

Jisung scoffs around him, the vibration drawing another broken sound from Minho's throat before he swallows him down properly. His hands find Minho's hips, pushing them down to the mattress with surprising strength - as if he hadn't been a trembling, oversensitive mess barely twenty minutes prior.

The contrast is dizzying. The way Jisung's earlier tears have dried into this - into the nasty shine of his lips, the playful glint in his half-lidded eyes when he pulls off with a wet pop just to murmur, "Say 'please' and I'll consider letting you come," like he hadn't been begging earlier.

Minho is going to murder him. After he comes down his throat, maybe.

And then—fuck—then it's actually happening.

Jisung's mouth is searing heat, his tongue working in filthy, practiced strokes, and Minho barely has time to choke out a warning before he's coming, his fingers tightening in Jisung's hair.

Jisung moans around him, and he doesn't pull away—just takes it, swallowing with little short breaths, his throat working around him until Minho is trembling with oversensitivity.

When Jisung finally leans back, his lips are swollen, his chin glistening. He blinks up at Minho, dazed, and then—because he's Jisung—he grins, licking his lips with exaggerated satisfaction.

"Tastes good."

Minho, still half-delirious, can only stare. Then he bursts out laughing, dragging Jisung up by the collar of his shirt and kissing him hard, tasting himself on Jisung's tongue.

Minho hadn't expected their first kiss to happen like this—Jisung still trembling from everything, the sharp salt of himself lingering on his tongue. He hadn't expected to kiss him ever, if he's being honest, not when every glance between them had been a carefully measured act of restraint.

But here Jisung is, gasping against his mouth, stumbling forward into Minho's grip like his knees have given out. And Minho—

Minho will take it. Will take him, in whatever way Jisung is willing to give.

The kiss is clumsy at first. Jisung's lips part in surprise, his breath coming short when Minho licks into his mouth. But then he melts, a soft noise escaping him as he yields instantly, letting Minho deepen the kiss.

Minho can't help it—he groans, tilting Jisung's head back to lick deeper, to taste every inch of him. Jisung is beautiful like this, lips swollen and wet, his lashes fluttering when Minho sucks gently on his tongue.

"Hyung—" Jisung gasps, the word breaking into a moan as Minho bites his lower lip, soothing it with another slide of his tongue.

Minho pulls back just enough to murmur against his mouth, “You okay?”

Jisung nods frantically, “Again,” he breathes, already dragging Minho back in.

And who is Minho to deny him? Whatever line they cross now, they had crossed weeks ago already; he can’t say no now.

He kisses him harder this time, swallowing every shaky sound Jisung made, his hands sliding down to grip Jisung’s waist. The taste of them both is intoxicating, bitter, and warm, and Minho can’t get enough, can’t stop licking into Jisung’s mouth.

Jisung whimpers, his fingers tangling in Minho’s hair. “Fuck,” he pants when they finally break apart, “Was that—was that part of the curse-breaking too?”

Minho laughs, breathless, and presses their foreheads together. “No,” he admits, thumb brushing Jisung’s kiss-red lips. “That was just me.”

Jisung grins, dazed and delighted. “Good,” he whispers back, and kisses him again.

Minho stops thinking. For once, he just lets go. Lets himself melt into Jisung’s touch, into the warmth of his mouth, and when Jisung laughs– bright and giddy, their lips still brushing– Minho decides that no spell, no magic, could mimic the way Jisung makes that quiet, pleased noise in the back of his throat when he chases another kiss.

⟡ ݁₊ .⟡ ݁₊ .

Three months later

"Hyung," Jisung whines, poking Minho’s cheek. "I think the curse is back."

Minho doesn’t look up from his phone. ”Mhm. What is it this time? Eternal hunger? Do you want me to cook for you again?”

Jisung huffs, grabbing Minho’s wrist and pressing his palm over his own chest. "No. My heart keeps doing this stupid thing whenever you look at me."

Minho finally meets his gaze, lips quirking. "That’s not a curse, idiot."

Jisung grins. "Then why’s yours doing it too?"

"...Shut up.”