Archive of Our Own ^beta

The whole “wife” thing has been a running joke for a while now.

Maybe it started because of the SKZ Family skit, where some company writer somewhere made him Kim Seungmin’s wife probably for the sole reason that they knew Minho would hate it. It’s not the writer's fault that the rest of Minho’s idiotic members ran with it, though. It wasn’t a hard joke to make: Minho cooks a lot, speaks sweetly to his members, is as possessive and passive aggressive as a wife on the brink of divorce. Most of the time, he doesn’t care. 

But, as with all things, Kim Seungmin is different.

His jokes never really seem like jokes. Jisung will bounce up to him and coo into his ear,something undoubtedly along the lines of, “yeoboooo, you love me, right? Wanna order some beef for dinner?” and it’s just the right balance of obnoxious and endearing to be funny. Chan will text him to pass on some schedule change to the rest of his dorm and end it with a thanks, eomma, as if they’re exhausted parents. It’s not really funny, but it’s Chan and he’s probably running on two hours of sleep, so Minho lets it slide. Seungmin, though, doesn’t seem to understand why it’s a joke. He texts Minho for favors in messages starting with jagiya and ending with three x’s. He calls him on the ride home from lessons, asking Minho to save him a plate from dinner, reacts with genuine irritation when Minho refuses, and then gloats when he arrives home to find that Minho’s made him a plate anyway. It’s annoying, it’s not funny, and despite Minho not actually being a woman, he finds himself getting a little offended at the slight misogyny of it all.

So, on a terrible, boring Tuesday, when Seungmin strolls into the kitchen, a shit-eating grin on his face, Minho already knows he’s not going to appreciate the words about to come out of his mouth. 

Minho’s already in a bad mood. He’d run out of shampoo that morning, and then pulled a muscle in his shoulder during practice. The tendon just under his shoulder blade twinges, an incessant nagging pain, as Seungmin stalks over to hang his arms around Minho’s neck, cooing over his shoulder as Minho pointedly ignores him, slicing a carrot into careful, thin slices.

“Hyung, you weren’t at the projection meeting today.”

Clearly, he wasn’t, if he’s here preparing stew for his younger members instead of sitting in a stuffy conference room. He has about zero interest in any of the company’s sales goals, projected awards, or anything like that. Seungmin can go and take notes on whatever irrelevant numbers he wants, Minho is gonna stay home where he doesn’t have to wear real pants.

“You know I hate those meetings,” he says delicately. The carrots fall into the pot with a faint splash.

Seungmin’s nose nudges at his hair, and Minho tightens his grip on the knife. Blood boils just under the surface of his skin. And then Seungmin opens his stupid, giant, unthinking mouth.

“It’s okay, honey, I know you’d rather stay at home.” Minho can hear the laugh threatening to break through his voice. “Leave all the boring business meetings to the men, yeah?”

Minho’s vision goes red.

Before Seungmin even has an opportunity to back away, the knife falls to the cutting board in a dangerous clatter, and Minho whips around in his loose hold, shoving him backwards with both hands. He stumbles, eyes wide, the shock of Minho’s outburst rendering him stunned long enough for Minho to grab his wrist in a hand, twisting until Seungmin’s back is to his chest.

He goes easily when Minho forces his chest down onto the kitchen table, bent in half, one arm still twisted painfully behind his shoulders.

“Oh yeah, you’re such a fucking man, Kim Seungmin,” he drawls. Adrenaline, thick like panic, making his head spin, courses through his muscles. He doesn’t stop himself from taking another step forward, his own hips pressing into Seungmin’s ass. His mouth opens in a tiny gasp. “Is this what a fucking man looks like, seobangnim? ”

The sight burns into his retinas, his own wide wrist next to Seungmin’s skinny arms, his narrow frame flopped onto the table, and their lower halves pressed together, the outline of Minho's bulge slotted into the space between his cheeks.

Minho doesn’t know why he does it. In the seconds that follow, in the silence of Seungmin exhaling harshly against the table, maybe he thinks it’ll lighten the mood, turn it into a joke. Something that Seungmin can leave and make a joke about, Minho-hyung did something really weird today , and they can forget about it. Or maybe, he just really wants to.

So, Minho brings a hand down to slap his ass. Except, it’s a lot harder than he intended, jolting his body up the table, and instead of laughing, Seungmin whimpers.

Minho flinches away as if burned, anger dissipating, but Seungmin stays there, limp against the table, face buried in his arms.

“Seungmin-“

“Do it again, hyung, please.”

Minho can barely make out the words, mumbled into the wooden table. As if in a dream, his arm lifts of its own accord, palm resting on the fullest part of the muscle, fingertips digging in the tiniest bit, dimpling the material of his sweatpants. Seungmin is so soft, like he is everywhere. Soft skin and soft stomach, and Minho doesn’t even think before drawing his hand back and bringing it down again with a dull crack.

Seungmin flinches, even though it couldn’t have hurt that much, and the tiniest, breathiest sound leaves his throat. It swims through Minho’s head on repeat, his pants suddenly much tighter than they were before. He can’t help but press up against Seungmin again, tugging him back by the hips, soaking in the little whines that echo lewdly in the empty kitchen.

The beeping of the front door keypad breaks the silence.

Seungmin stands abruptly, throwing Minho off his back, and, without a second glance backwards, turns and makes a beeline down the hallway. Felix enters the kitchen weighed down by grocery bags, and Minho is still standing there, erection pressing against the zipper of his jeans, his stew slowly boiling away to nothing on the stove.

Days go by before it comes up again.

Seungmin acts so normal that Minho wonders, more than once, if his imagination is making it up. He wonders if the incident in the kitchen was just something he daydreamed—not that he feels any better about potentially daydreaming about spanking his group member and roommate and bending him over a table.

He feels even worse knowing that it wouldn’t have even been the first time.

He’s almost positive it was real though, because despite Seungmin acting entirely normal, he hasn’t made a wife joke in a whole week. It grates on Minho’s nerves. es, he does hate the wife shit, but- he can’t exactly articulate the feeling. Irritation? That all it took was for Minho to snap once before Seungmin learned his lesson. It doesn’t matter that Minho never thought it was funny, no, a couple slaps to the ass and now he’s seeing the error of his ways, apparently .

Maybe, in retrospect, he should have just left it alone. Seungmin had stopped making idiotic jokes, Minho was left to his own peace and quiet at home, and they could both act like nothing untoward ever happened.

But provoking Seungmin is so easy, and so much fun to watch.

Seungmin never cooks. Minho suspects that he’s a little embarrassed of it, the way people who grow up rich get embarrassed whenever they’re reminded of exactly how coddled they were. He might even feel a little bit of sympathy—learning how to function as an adult isn’t easy for anyone. Then he remembers that it’s Kim Seungmin, and he squashes the tiny bit of sympathy with a tissue, throws the tissue in the toilet, and watches it circle down the drain.

He’s doing, frankly, an  abysmal job of cutting an onion. Minho watches in fascination for a moment, a forgotten, empty glass gripped in his hand, as Seungmin struggles to cut the onion on its rounded side. It keeps tipping to the side, as round things do, and Seungmin has apparently not thought to flip it over and, instead, the knife is glinting dangerously close to his fingertips each time he brings it down. 

Minho’s stepping in before he can think better of it.

“Let me, honey,” he croons, knocking Seungmin out of the way with his hip. His eyes widen, grip loosening on the knife enough for Minhho to grab it. “Why don’t you go sit? Put your feet up, hm? I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Seungmin’s mouth moves stiffly. “I can do it myself, thank you.”

“Nonsense, you don’t need to worry about all this women’s work.”

Seungmin’s shyness evaporates, gripping the edge of the counter. “I know what you’re doing. It’s not gonna work.”

“And what would that be?”

“Trying to-“ Minho can see the knot in his throat bob as he swallows. Seungmin when he’s angry is a strange sight: his bangs flop onto his forehead, making him blink and repeatedly flick them away in a manner that lends an anxious, self-conscious energy to his appearance, and his mouth doesn’t seem to know what it wants to do, stuck half between a pout, and an attempt at a glare, his braces pushing his bottom lip out further than before. “Trying to punish me for the stupid wife thing.”

And, like a traitor, Minho’s mouth says, “I’d never punish you. Unless you asked for it.”

Seungmin’s mouth falls open, his eyes darting away, his words turning into a mumble. “What the fuck does that even- Hyung, come on, be serious for a second.”

Minho feels like his mouth is moving faster than his brain, but can’t stop, not when Seungmin is five inches away blushing and shrinking in on himself — and why does that make him feel like he swallowed a hot coal? “I’m being so serious. Are you gonna ask me to teach you a lesson again?” Seungmin shivers, and Minho can’t help but tilt his head innocently, soft, cloying. “Hm? Jagi?”

Silence slices between them, Seungmin’s shoulders trembling imperceptibly. And then he opens his mouth, eyes narrowing unconvincingly.

“I’d like to see you try.” A waver runs right through his voice, ruining any attempt at stoicism he was attempting.

The thought runs through Minho’s head that they need to talk about this. They shouldn’t do this as a replacement for reconciling, as a replacement for making up.

It’s way too easy, though, to cut the train of thought off midway, to circle his fingers around Seungmin’s narrow wrist and lift his hand into the air, tense and trembling. “Not here. My room.”

Minho doesn’t let people on his bed. The last time Kim Seungmin had been on his bed was the night they moved into the new dorm. He drank three bottles of soju with Felix and then barged in without knocking, crawling up to sit on Minho’s legs, the thin blanket the only barrier between the warmth of the inside of his thighs and Minho’s tense muscles.

There are too many similarities to that night: the glassy sheen on Seungmin’s eyes, the loose-limbed gracelessness with which he falls onto the sheets, the simmering bubble of molten lava that threatens to burst through Minho’s stomach.

“Hands and knees,” he says evenly, swallowing down the sensation of his heart beating in his throat.

Seungmin flushes hot pink. “That’s- come on, hyung, I’m not gonna-“

“That’s what? What is it?” he interrupts, annoyance flickering behind the steadily growing want. “Hm?”

His cheeks go impossibly pinker, voice reduced to a mumble. “It’s embarrassing , I can’t-“

Seungmin’s ankles feel thin underneath his palms, fragile for just a moment before Minho twists, flipping him over onto his stomach with a soft oof.

“Aigoo, my big boy,” Minho croons, soothing a hand over his trembling shoulders. “Get over it.” Seungmin flinches, and Minho can’t resist it, can’t resist twisting the blade a little bit. “Be a man, Kim Seungmin.”

He can’t see his face, can’t see if he’s glaring into the sheets or making that wounded, kicked-puppy face, but he sees his shoulders stiffen, arms straightening to hold up his torso, rising up onto his knees. And, oh, if misplaced pride isn’t the most beautiful thing, if Kim Seungmin presenting his ass out of hubris and spite isn’t still a glorious sight.

“Good boy,” he says reflexively, brain whirring to process exactly what he thinks he’s gonna do with Seungmin bent over in his bed. His hands seem to know, at least, gravitating towards his hips, where Minho’s thumbs run down either side of his spine, dipping into shallow dimples before squishing into the flesh of his ass. The want nearly boils over in his stomach.

“I was gonna teach you a lesson, wasn’t I,” he hears himself say, and Seungmin only whines in response .

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, craning his neck around to look over his shoulder, and Minho can see just how wrecked he already is, just from some words, just from manhandling him. He’s already breathing heavily, his eyes wide and dark. “I’m sorry for making so many jokes, for being a dick, for treating you like my-“ Minho yanks his sweatpants down to his thighs without warning, and his voice breaks off with a shudder.

“Treating me like what, baby?”

His thighs are on display now, too, pale and thin sticking out from his tiny boxer briefs. Minho remembers giving him piggyback rides, holding him on his lap, feeling the soft backs of his thighs and wanting nothing more than to bite marks into them. It’s so much more difficult to resist the temptation when they’re bare in front of him.

“Treating you like my, my w-wife,” he stutters.

“There’s nothing wrong with that, honey,” he says soothingly, unceremoniously tugging his underwear down to meet his pants. Soft, soft, soft everywhere, soft skin soft hair soft— ”You like being a big strong man for me, hm?”

He lets the acid creep back into his tone. Mostly, he tells himself, because he can see the way it makes Seungmin shiver, cower, and then straighten up resolutely. He smooths both hands over his bare skin.

“Yes,” Seungmin answers. “Yes, hyung, I do.”

“Good,” Minho answers. He has to blink several times before he regains his focus, unable to keep his eyes from skating over Seungmin’s lower back — the bare swell of his cheeks, the peek of his dick, hard and sticky on his thigh, in between his legs — where his shirt is pushed up sloppily. He lets his palm trail downwards, gripping a cheek in one spread hand, just like he did that night when Seungmin was drunk in his lap, holding him in a decidedly not-platonic way, not even in a romantic way.

He digs his fingers in, just briefly, to watch the muscle dimple around them, and then, before his brain can catch up, he’s drawing back a hand and bringing it down onto Seungmin’s skin with a crack.

The reaction is so different from last time, the sensation of Minho’s palm on bare skin so far away that he can’t anticipate the sound that comes out of Seungmin’s mouth, the pained squeak, followed by a shaky inhale. “Oh, fuck.”

“Is that too much, baby? Can you handle it?”

“No, yes, I can handle it, please, hyung—“

Crack . Seungmin pitches forward onto the bed again, this time a low whine slipping out over his lips.

Minho’s head spins. Seungmin is rising back up onto his hands, shakily, so clearly trying to hold himself together, and something tugs at the spot right behind Minho’s belly button — a primal need he’s too afraid to name. Instead, he’s grateful he can focus on the pretense, on the game, on soothing his palm over the red mark on Seungmin’s skin.

“So strong, darling,” he breathes. Seungmin whines again, and this time, he crumples back onto his elbows, his back dipping into an arch. Minho’s throat feels thick. “Look at you, baby, I bet you-” He swallows, blinking rapidly against a wave of dizziness. “You could handle anything I gave you, hm?

“Anything,” Seungmin replies, and Minho is briefly impressed by how even his voice is, how controlled. He decides to fix that, bringing a hand down sharply on the opposite cheek.

“Did you ever think your pretty wife could do this to you, honey?”

“No,” Seungmin groans. “No, I never, I mean, I thought, you-”

His voice breaks suddenly, cuts out like thread snipped, mouth open in a silent shout as Minho’s palm lands on his skin again, hard, unyielding, a stinging bite.

“So you thought about it,” Minho says, feigning casualness, willing away the animalistic fever rising in his blood at the sight of Seungmin convulsing against the sheets. “You thought about me holding you down like this? Knocking you around?”

No response.

Minho slaps at the soft skin of his ass again, demanding, “Tell me. You thought about this, yeah?”

He doesn’t know what’s driving him. A nameless desperation — a need — and yes, maybe a little bit of anger, of frustration. That Seungmin had the audacity to infantilize, to condescend to him, and then cry into the sheets like a-

“ Bitch, ” he swears under his breath. “Tell me, admit that you wanted this.” He hits him harder, forcing out a shocked yelp, and Seungmin’s next breath comes out as a sob. “Fucking tell me. Tell me what a big fucking man you were while you were fantasizing about me fucking you stupid.”

Seungmin shakes his head wordlessly. His cheeks are a mess of snot and tears, pink and splotchy and hot.

“ Tell me,” Minho demands. His own voice surprises him with its viciousness, but it carries on without him. “Tell me how you get off on calling me baby and having me cook for you , and suddenly you want your wife to bend you over like this? Tell me how that works, honey. ”

He lands another sharp smack, lower this time, almost on his thigh, before Seungmin can even attempt to respond. The sound that comes out of his mouth is ragged.

“Please,” he manages to choke out, “Hyung, Minho-hyung, please, you know I- please, you know I want it, I need , it, hyung, please-”

Minho closes his eyes briefly, needing a respite from the sight in front of him, of the sight of his friend, his roommate, his coworker, sobbing and spit-covered, his ass turning a bright red. Needing a moment of peace amidst the screaming arousal dominating every neuron in his brain. Needing a fucking break, jesus fucking christ.

He inhales deeply. Everything’s fine. His heart, despite what he might fear, is not going to beat through his ribcage and rip out of his skin. It’s fine. It’s Kim Seungmin . He opens his eyes. “Okay, baby. Let hyung take care of you.”

Seungmin doesn’t move as Minho roots his bottle of lube out from underneath the pillow, or even as he squirts a messy puddle right into the crack of his ass, slicking his fingers up against his skin. He might think Seungmin was falling asleep, with the way his hair is falling into his eyes, bangs just brushing his dark eyelashes, if it weren’t for the unsteady rise and fall of his shoulders with every breath.

He looks peaceful. Oh, god, is he feeling tender towards Kim Seungmin? He nudges his fingers forward with a little more insistence, satisfied when Seungmin squirms in place. “Okay? You can handle it, right? So big and strong for me.”

“ Yes, I can handle it, please -”

Minho’s first finger sinks in easily. So easily that he’s tempted to snark about how often Seungmin must fuck himself on his fingers, mere meters away from Minho and through only one thin wall. His one-liners die in his throat, however, when Seungmin collapses on the sheets and lets out a moan so pornographic Minho’s first instinct is to slap a hand against the back of his head, muffling the sound against his comforter.

“Who knew you’d cry like a little bitch, huh? After all that big talk?”

Seungmin’s turned his face back again, half-smushed against the sheets. Minho twists his fingers, pressing them into the spot that makes Seungmin’s breathing cut out, his muscles tense and still. He teeters on that precipice for a second that feels much longer, their eyes locked. And then, Minho watches as he crumbles.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, his wide eyes glassy, “I’m sorry, please, hyung, feels so good, I can’t-” He hiccups, a shudder shaking his shoulders, when Minho adds another finger, pumping them a bit faster. “ Please, I’ll never say it again, just do something, please—”

It’s so easy. It’s too easy. It feels a bit like cheating for Minho to reach around and wrap his fingers around his cock, hot and hard in his hand, for the first time. Seungmin practically yelps at the contact. 

“Not that, hyung, in me, please!” 

“No?” Minho asks innocently, gathering up the wetness at the tip and using it to smooth the slip of his palm the smallest bit, although there’s still plenty of drag, the friction sending him folding in on himself, as if to shield from Minho’s hand. “This isn’t what you want? But you’re so close.”

He picks up the pace, jacking him off mercilessly as he works on the waistband of his own sweats, pushing them down just far enough for his own cock to spring free. Seungmin struggles to get words out in between sobs. 

“You said - you said, you would take care of me.”

“Aigoo, I did, didn’t I.” Minho palms over the head, watching as the boy under him convulses. It’s almost incredible, he reflects, how well Seungmin’s been able to stave off his own orgasm. “I’m sorry, honey, your wife hasn’t been good to you.” 

When Minho presses the head of his cock to Seungmin’s wet entrance and slips inside, Seungmin seizes, his muscles twitching, his back arching and then collapsing like a stretched rubber band. 

Realization creeps into his brain slowly, staring down at the narrow shape of Seungmin’s shoulders, still in a loose white shirt, tucked up under his armpits, as he shakes with the aftershocks, tiny sounds leaving his mouth only to get smothered into the mattress. Minho stills completely, the head of his dick stuck just inside his rim, the pressure of Seungmin clenching around him rhythmically, a second heartbeat. “Oh sweetie, did you just come?”

Quiet panting. And then, he cranes his neck back around, a feeble glare plastered on his face. “I told you-”

To shut him up, more than anything, Minho chooses this moment to roll his hips, sliding the rest of the way inside.

The look Seungmin is giving him, like he’s hung the stars in the sky, like he’s waiting to get struck by a bolt of lighting sent straight from the gods, sears itself into the backs of his eyelids. It’s overwhelming. Minho still isn’t entirely sure how he got here, with Seungmin wrapped tight around his length, hiccuping into the crook of his elbow, on his own soft plaid blanket. How the fuck .

He rocks his hips gently, slowly, listening as a keening whine leaks out of the barrier Seungmin’s made with his arms, watches as his legs fidget, toes skating over the surface of the bed right next to Minho’s calves. 

“Fuck, Seungmin, fuck,” he breathes, thrusting in again. Lube drips down his thighs, messy and slippery and somehow making everything feel even better. “You’re so wet, baby, you feel yourself?” 

“Hnnnngh- yeah, I feel it, god-“ he stutters, raspy and high. One hand sneaks down his chest, passing over his stomach, and another broken moan spills out over his lips. “Oh god, hyung, I can-I can feel you, fuck, please-“ 

Minho’s hips buck uncontrollably. There’s no fucking way. His hand snakes around Seungmin’s waist, pressing his palm against his flat lower stomach, and it’s impossible. He feels Seungmin’s fingers fumble around his, interlocking their fingers and pressing his palm even harder against the skin, and the bottom of his stomach drops into his feet. 

“ Shit, baby, baby-” he pants breathlessly, thrusting faster now, their hips slapping together, Seungmin’s body jolting up the bed. His head spins, fingers digging into his soft stomach, and he can’t even tell if it’s real, it feels so impossible, like such a fantasy, but it doesn’t really matter. Running his fingers over the skin just below Seungmin’s belly button and feeling the almost imperceptible bulge in the flesh is enough to steal the air from his lungs. “ Baby, baby,” he wheezes, “You feel that? Feel hyung all the way up in your guts, yeah?”

Seungmin’s moan grates against his ears, broken, almost a sob.

“Doing so good, so good, taking everything I give you,” he chants, his own voice cracking at the feeling of Seungmin tightening around him, a quick flutter of muscle. 

He’s going to remember this forever, the white-hot pleasure of Seungmin wrapped around his dick, their fingers intertwined against his stomach, Seungmin’s soft cries pressed into the sheets with every thrust. Minho’s hips stutter. They’ll never be the same, they can’t be, not after he’s seen this. Of course it’s Kim Seungmin, who is, again, the exception to everything Minho thought he knew about himself. 

He didn’t know that his brain could come up with all these words to vomit out so easily. “It’s so much better like this, don’t you think? With you in your place?” Seungmin shudders, his whole body shaking, and Minho doesn’t allow himself time to regret his words before his mouth is opening again. “You like this better, right? Being hyung’s little bitch, all open and wet for me?” 

Another shiver, but Seungmin’s head is moving, a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of the head, “ Hyung, stop, that’s-”

“That’s what?” Minho chuckles, tone derisive. His next thrust is brutally hard, tearing a groan from Seungmin’s lips. “C’mon, honey, you can’t believe this is what a fucking man sounds like. You haven’t stopped crying since I got my fingers in you.” His breathing comes heavier, the pleasure swirling in his guts reaching its peak. “You like it better like this, huh? Being a good wife for hyung?” 

Seungmin cranes his neck to look back over his shoulder. His eyes are red, cheeks damp and shiny. With every increasingly-wild thrust, his eyebrows crinkle, lashes fluttering like he’s struggling to keep his eyes open. “‘M not-” he pants, whiny and high, “’m not- not hyung’s wife, not like tha- ahh--”

“You’re still arguing with me?” Minho leans back, changing his angle slightly, and the result is spectacular. Seungmin’s entire spine tenses and then snaps, tremors shaking his muscles. His mouth is open wordlessly, eyes wide in surprise. Minho fucks him through it, unable to stop his tongue from running away from him, an endless stream of filth coming out of his mouth. “Still putting up a fight, even when I’m seconds away from filling you up, knocking you up? Come on, tell me that you don’t want it, if you’re such a man.” 

Seungmin stares, wide eyed. He wets his lips, swallows, wets them again. His voice sounds like his throat has been run over with a cheese grater. “I- hyung, please, I want it.” 

Something in Minho breaks.

“ See , that’s all you had to do, baby,” he says soothingly, a sharp contrast to the way his thrusts speed up again, the head of his cock catching deliciously at his swollen rim with every other slide out. His heart claws its way out of his ribcage, everything contained in his body overflowing, escaping. “All you had to do, such a good girl.” 

Seungmin twitches so suddenly, so violently, that it pulls Minho over the edge, hips stuttering and canting unevenly, nonsense babbling muffled into the skin of Seungmin’s shoulder, stars exploding under his eyelids. The squelch of his own come filling Seungmin up to the brim makes him cringe even as his body shakes with an aftershock. 

His and Seungmin’s hands are still intertwined over his belly and he feels insane, actually delusional, because, if he focuses really hard, he can feel his come in Seungmin’s abdomen, a little pouch where before there was nothing. It’s really impossible, but it doesn’t stop him from pressing in harder, reaching to take Seungmin’s cock in hand again. 

The groan that tears out of his throat sounds like it hurts. Minho shushes him, hand barely moving, that slightest amount of friction still sending him jolting in Minho’s arms. “Shh, honey, you feel how hyung filled you up, yeah? Feels good?” There’s no response, just another hiccuping sob. “That’s it, baby, come for hyung.” 

Seungmin does. His back arches, torso flattening against the sheets, and no sound comes out of his mouth, lips open in a silent O. Minho can feel it, feel him spill across his fingers, too wet and too sticky and too glistening when he finally draws back, his knuckles slick and shiny where they rest against Seungmin’s reddened cheeks. 

The sound of their breathing is deafening. Minho has to close his eyes and count to ten. 

There’s no way any of this is real.

It feels as though the universe is playing a cruel trick on him. Minho’s going crazy. He’s actually going insane.

It’s been a week since The Incident: Number Two.  And Kim Seungmin is acting normal. 

 They didn’t really talk afterwards. Minho helped Seungmin into the shower, because he’s not an absolute monster. He washed his hair with floral-scented shampoo and dried him off carefully with a clean towel. They cleaned up the remains of Seungmin’s attempts at cooking together, silently, and ate cups of instant ramen on the couch. Seungmin slept in Minho’s bed, too, curling into his side, his breathing slowing to a crawl as soon as his head hit the pillow. When Minho woke the next morning, he was gone, and ever since then, Seungmin has given no indication that anything out of the ordinary ever occurred. 

Until Minho comes home from a broadcast to find Seungmin sitting at the table, two bowls of stew sitting in front of him. He stands when Minho comes through the doorway. 

“There’s kimchi jigae. If you’re hungry.” 

Instantly, he knows something is wrong. Seungmin’s fidgeting where he stands, tugging the hem of his shirt down, worrying over his lips with his teeth. 

“Oh?” 

Seungmin nods. “Yeah, um, yeah. You should eat it while it’s hot.” 

Minho eyes the bowls suspiciously. His stomach is growling though, and maybe…. even if it’s Kim Seungmin…

“Okay.” 

Relief floods his features, a small smile settling onto the corners of his lips as he settles back into his seat. 

“It smells good. Where’d you order from?”

“I made it.” 

Minho resists the instinct to spit out the bite currently halfway into his mouth. “Are you trying to poison me, Kim Seungmin?” 

Seungmin doesn’t glare at him, or complain, like he normally would. Instead, his cheeks flush a light pink. “No, I just thought I would make dinner. Since you were at schedules all day.” 

“Oh.” Minho stares down at his soup. It’s full of unevenly chopped pieces of onion. “Thanks, Seung.” 

“You’re welcome,” Seungmin breathes, and okay, what the fuck is happening. “I, um, I did laundry too. Okay, well I-“ His breath catches. “I took it to the laundry service, anyway. And our bathroom is clean. I cleaned it, I mean.” 

“Did you break something in my room?” 

Seungmin shrugs, a nervous twitch. His bangs fall into his eyes. “I just wanted- I wanted to. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Minho eyes him suspiciously. This better not be some elaborate prank. “Well. This is delicious. Good job, baby.” 

The name slips out unintentionally. A retraction is on the top of his tongue when the strangest thing happens. Seungmin’s face splits into a bashful smile.

“Thank you, hyung,” he says, voice soft. 

Seungmin excuses himself after finishing his food, rinsing the bowls in the sink before padding down the hallway towards his room. As soon as he’s out of sight, Minho drops his chopsticks, pressing his thumbs into his temples as if this is all an intricate hallucination brought on by a headache. 

Honestly, by the time he’s cleaned up and headed back to his room, he’s almost forgotten about it. Seungmin has always been weird, and maybe he was just nervous about showing Minho his cooking. Minho cracks his neck as he approaches his door. Maybe was too harsh on him before, maybe all he needed was a little encouragement. They could cook a meal together, maybe, something to build his confidence, or-

“Jesus Christ, Kim Seungmin.” 

Kim Seungmin is sitting on his bed, again. He’s not naked. That would be better than this, less shocking, Minho thinks. But he isn’t. He’s wearing — Minho doesn’t even know the name for it — a piece of floaty lingerie that grazes the tops of his thighs, legs splayed out under him like a puppet with its strings cut. The sheer white fabric casts an angelic glow over the whole picture, painting his skin a honeyed gold in contrast, the straps pale lines framing his collarbones. As he rises onto his knees, Minho can see the same white mesh stretched across his hardening cock, the material straining, lace trim biting into the flesh on his hips. 

It would be better if he was naked, it would be better than whatever this is, clogging his throat up entirely and taking control of his brain. 

“Hyung.” 

Minho swallows, voice ragged. “Seungmin-“

“Hyung, you were right.” He inhales, shakily, and it exhales as a whine. “You’re right, it’s better this way, when I’m your- when I’m your wife, hyung.”

Minho closes his eyes. It can’t be. Impossible. He’s gonna open them and this will all be a fantasy, his imagination-

“I was good today, hyung, I did all the things you normally do when you’re at home,” Seungmin continues insistently. “Don’t you want to give me a reward? For being your g-good girl?”

Seungmin looks like he’s about ten seconds from dying from humiliation, legs shaking, his face a deep red. 

He looks like he’s about to perish from embarrassment. And yet, he’s still asking. 

Impossible, unimaginable, that the boy on the bed is the same- that he’s not a dream, not a fiction created by the recesses of Minho’s mind, that he-

“Please, jagi, don’t you want to reward me?” 

Minho closes his eyes. When he opens them, unbelievably, Seungmin is still there, painted in sheer white fabric and gold. 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he manages to say, voice hardly above a whisper. “I do.”