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너는 나의 꽃이야 (너는 나의 봄이야)

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"처음 만난 그 순간부터/넌 나의 꽃이야." —JBJ, 꽃이야.

 

Minho’s always been the bad influence in their relationship.

 

He looks the part too, sharp eyes and dangerous lips, dark clothes and ripped jeans, piercings and even the small black rose peeking out from the collar of his shirt. He’s a tidal wave and a whipping blizzard, a force of nature in his own right, yet he ceases his quiet roaring and relinquishes his chokehold on the world without a single thought—all when Han Jisung is around.

 

The fluffy mess of human, with his disarming charms and warm smiles and bright eyes, all wrapped up in an oversized hoodie. If Minho was a force of nature, Jisung was the faerie that made the stars honoured to stay above him and the ground thankful to be trodden on by the wonderfully insignificant thing that he was. Minho thinks Jisung outshines the all the suns and all stars in this universe and beyond for just a split second when he turns his attention to him and laughs in a way that has the sky crashing to the ground and the trees wilting because Minho can't breathe.

 

The two of them fit well, disgustingly well. One stops where the other starts, picks up when he left off. Being older, Minho’s always the one getting exposed to new things first, and he would be damned if he didn’t let his boyfriend get a taste of the world.

 


 

Minho goes in for a kiss, and Jisung absolutely melts in his hands.

 

They’re on the couch, Minho slightly leaning over his right and cuddling into his side as he gets into his space. His arms are around Jisung, and he’s holding him like he’s the most precious thing the world has ever offered him, which is, in all honesty, too fucking soft for even Jisung to handle.

 

Minho pushes himself up, hovering before Jisung. His hand smooths back Jisung’s hair, then joining the other in cupping his full cheeks. Big, soft doe eyes hold his stare, sort of challenging him to move. The sunlit pools of warm brown hold him transfixed, and Minho finds himself unable to pull his gaze away from the pure beauty right in front of him.

 

“Can I kiss you?”

 

Jisung blinks, a little confused but willing nonetheless. He nods, a little slow, but Minho gets it, gets him. He leans down, pulling Jisung up and pressing his soft lips against his, almost tentatively, even if they’ve done this million times over, and Jisung knows they’ll do this again, a million times over.

 

(He knows him.)

 

The beautiful eyes flutter close as Minho savours the kiss, and Jisung breathes out slowly, finally breaking from his almost trance-like state. His eyes slide close and neck naturally gives, and he kisses back, so, so softly, fingers sliding up Minho’s spine, his arms, his shoulders to stop at his neck and arms looping around him, pulling him infinitely closer yet not close enough.

 

It shouldn’t break Jisung like this, a mere press of their lips, but he bends and cracks and he shatters in Minho’s adoring hold. He whines low and guttural, fingers grasping pitifully at anything— Minho’s hair, clothes—curling into fists in a sad attempt to hold something together.

 

Minho pulls away by a fraction, eyes lazily opening but still heavily lidded as he breathes out a soft laugh against Jisung’s slightly raw lips. He tilts his head to the side to go in for another kiss at Jisung’s insistent whines, hands now slipping under his hoodie to hold his bare waist. Jisung makes a happy sort of noise, making Minho’s lips curl up because how did he even get a boyfriend this cute?

 

The tip of a tongue runs across Jisung’s rosebud lips, causing all the seams fall open and Jisung to fall completely compliant in his boyfriend’s warm arms. This seems to amuse Minho to no end, fingers hitching the hoodie higher as they dance away, falling on Jisung’s flushed face instead and cupping his face again. He traces his cheekbone with his thumb, almost reverently, as his tongue slips into Jisung’s open mouth.

 

Minho pulls Jisung up over him until they’re comfortably settled again, this time with Jisung flush on his lap. The boy is too far gone to care, breathing heavy and body pushing into Minho’s chest in his greed for more.

 

“Calm down, angel,” Minho whispers to the millimetre of space left between them. Jisung’s body is hot, almost burning to the touch. The boy is positively shaking as he ducks his head into the crook of Minho’s neck. His hands fist into Minho’s shirt, and he mouths at any exposed bit of skin, needy.

 

Minho groans, throws his head back; that alone is an invitation to the boy on his lap, it seems. He drags his tongue over the muscled junction, biting and sucking until he leaves his mark, a pretty rose blooming where he pulls away, twin to the other one inked onto his flesh, as permanent as Jisung in this life. Minho’s hands fall on his hair again, softly stroking and petting.

 

“You’re such a good boy,” Minho mumbles, arching into Jisung’s mouth as he attacks other strip of skin. “Always so eager, aren’t you? You make hyung so happy, you know? Hyung is so grateful to meet you in this life.”

 

Jisung lifts his head, a shy smile gracing his lips. “Really?”

 

Minho is taken aback for a second—at Jisung, his sheer beauty, the way he looks so debauched from a mere makeout session, the way he still sounds so innocent. It takes him a moment to remember how to speak.

 

“Truly.”

 

This time, it’s Jisung who ducks into Minho’s space, grin hesitating but bright. “I’m the one who’s going to kiss you now,” he announces.

 

Minho smiles, roaming hands back to the small of Jisung’s back. “Go ahead, princess.”

 

Jisung blushes again, shyly pushing against those dancer’s thighs, using them as leverage to reach their owner. He pecks him first, giggling a little before he takes in Minho’s lips. (If Minho smiles at that, no one needs to know.) Jisung kisses sweet and soft, with nibbles and kitten licks, unlike Minho’s own, dirty and devastating, but he finds that he doesn’t really care, as long as he’s the one he’s kissing.

 

They’re playing by Jisung’s rules now, which means it gets heated fast, even with how cute he uses his tongue. Jisung ruts against his thighs, gripping them so hard Minho’s sure they’ll end up a little too bruised for shorts tomorrow. Adorable.

 

“Looks like you like my thighs a little too much, baby,” Minho chuckles, out of breath. Jisung pants a half-hearted “sorry” into his mouth, still grinding down like his life depends on it. He goes back into their kiss with renewed vigour with a new puff of breath of oxygen in his lungs, so desperate to please—

 

“Slow down, sweet; you have what you want.”

 

(He loves him.)

 

Jisung makes a sound—high-pitched yet awfully content. When he wrenches himself away from Minho and his lazy grin and eyes shuttered from pleasure, his legs almost give out from under him. He’s beautiful in all the ways Jisung isn’t, yet in this moment, Jisung finds that they’re one and the same.

 

“Do I have your heart, hyung?”

 

Minho barks out a laugh, sliding his hands up Jisung’s torso. “You have my everything, Sung-yah. You are my everything.”

 


 

My unknown waters and afternoon sun and oh, my rarest flower.