maybe it's always been you┊ °❀ [ minsung ]

⋆ ★ 03

Minho knows that he won't be able to stop himself, he's too far in. He'd fallen down the exact hole that he'd warned himself about, the one that Jisung was digging, the one that he had aided in excavation.

He knows that he won't be able to pull off when he eventually works Jisung into the ground, when he finally riles him up so much that he has no choice but to ask Minho to have sex with him. And Minho will say yes, he won't be able to help himself—he's begun to realize that it's less of a challenge for himself than a goal.

A goal to get Jisung to fuck him, to get Jisung against his mouth, under his tongue, to feel supple skin, and to cross lines that exist for a reason.

He's not quite sure when it became so—when he began seeing Jisung as something more than just his attractive best friend. When he started noticing signs and silently started to hope that Jisung would push things further along.

But now he knows, he knows that nothing can go back to normal and that things will never get better unless they're able to ultimately untangle the sexual tension that tendrils them together. Even though he doesn't know exactly what Jisung is thinking, what his thoughts are on whatever is going on between them—Minho can see it in his body, his eyes.

He's known Jisung for long enough that he can't miss it. The hungry glances, the stuttering of his eyes as they creep up Minho's frame, the wandering hands that can almost pass as curiosity.

Minho hasn't been shy about his own desire either. Jisung sees it too, Jisung feels it, Jisung senses it. They're best friends, it's a given—the ability to read each other in ways that outsiders can't. To be able to communicate with a mere glance, with the brush of a hand on a shoulder.

And he's so pent up lately, Jisung can probably sense that too. It's frustrating to realize that Minho wants nobody except Jisung. That he doesn't want to feel the touch of someone who isn't his best friend.

It's becoming a problem—his lack of sexual activity. Doubled with stress in his classes—Minho hasn't been able to relax for a solid week, constantly on his toes, nearing the edge of losing his sanity.

That's why today, Minho lies sprawled out on his bed with a hand palming himself through his sweatpants, his bedroom door locked even though Jisung is out with friends. He has his shirt pulled up onto his shoulders, stuffed near his collarbone so that he can toy with his nipples, letting out unrestricted whines as he bucks into his hand.

It's a bit liberating to have time to himself, to let his mind wander, to let his hand slip into his boxers and take his cock into his hand. He doesn't hold himself back, all too lost in giving himself the time he deserves, the touch that isn't exactly what he's searching for but is sufficient enough.

He takes his pants and his boxers off, tossing them haphazardly onto the other side of the bed as he sits up and crawls to his bedside table. He grabs the bottle of lube that he keeps wedged under aimless junk and places it down on the sheets next to him.

Maybe he should take his time, work himself up like a lover would. It'll leave him feeling lonely after, he knows, but he doesn't plan to stop himself.

Minho coats his fingers in lube—both hands, one for his cock and one to open himself up with. It will make him cum faster. He doesn't really mind now. Not when his mind begins to drift. He thinks of Jisung as he slides two fingers inside himself, unbothered by the sting that the stretch brings, legs spread wide and his feet planted on the mattress for easier access.

He jerks himself off slowly, digging his thumb into the slit of his cock, moaning lowly into the empty apartment. Minho squirms on the bedsheets, back arching as he brushes against his prostate, unable to fully reach it due to the angle and the shorter length of his fingers.