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“Innie, believe me, you’re exactly Minho’s type,” Jisung says for what has to be the millionth time, and Jeongin tries (and fails) not to feel absolutely terrified by that piece of information.
Jisung says it like it’s meant to give Jeongin comfort. Like it’s meant to calm him down. Like Jeongin hasn’t been spiraling about types since the second he figured out he was a boy and also liked boys and then promptly realized the boys he liked were usually built like brick walls.
Big, muscular. Especially thighs. The kind of men who look like they could pick him up and put him somewhere else if he got too annoying. Preferably on the bed. And preferably lock him there in someway (between their thighs, for example).
The fact that Jisung showed Minho his pictures and Minho agreed to talk is… cool. Chill. Totally fine. Jeongin is one hundred percent normal about the whole thing.
He also knows he’s not exactly anyone’s type, like, ever, so it’s a big chance. He’s scrawny in that awkward second-puberty way: limbs still figuring themselves out, shoulders that might broaden someday if he’s lucky enough. His stupid stubble refuses to grow properly—earning him the nickname smooth baby bread from his hyungs, which is a hate crime, actually. Sure, the gym is paying off at least a little, or so they say, but while people are meant to love twinks in theory, they do not in practice. Not the ones who were born in the wrong body. And they definitely don’t love Jeongin.
He feels a little cheated by the universe. He could’ve been the perfect twink.
The club, DIVINE, is loud enough to swallow his thoughts whole the second they step inside. Lights strobe. Bodies are everywhere, in the bar part, on the dance floor and next to the toilets. Sweat and too much perfume and especially too much bass cling to the air around Jeongin. It’s suffocating, and Jeongin is happy to be here with a friend.
Jisung abandons him almost immediately.
“You don’t understand, Innie,” he shouts over the music, already backing away. “I just saw the love of my life.”
“Are we sure she’s not exclusively into women? This is a gay bar!” Jeongin yells back. If he sounds a bit needy and alarmed, and if his voice cracks a little, that’s between him and God.
“I feel like I’m close enough anyway!”
The beautiful, artsy femme with puppy eyes—who Jisung is apparently desperately hoping is bisexual—pulls him into a dance immediately, and Jisung’s eyes go so wide Jeongin worries they might actually fall out of his skull. Traitor, this one.
Jeongin stands and purses his lips. Abandoned, he assesses the situation, then heads for the bar instead.
And that’s when he sees her.
He wouldn’t know her name if he hadn’t glanced at the poster by the entrance on the way in—Lina the Domina.
The photos on the poster did not do her justice. Not even close. Her face is exceptional, of course, with flawless make-up that Jeongin’s untrained eye would classify as goth, maybe. She’s very tall in person, helped by absolutely obscene platform boots—latex, probably—that add several inches and catch all of Jeongin’s undivided attention. Her body is sharp and deliberate, dressed in something that looks halfway between a bedazzled wrestling fit and a latex bodysuit.
There’s spit pooling under Jeongin’s tongue before he can stop it.
The fuck was I coming out as gay for, he thinks to himself. Just to get a crush on a girl? Oh my god. And she’s probably a lesbian. Looking like that.
Jeongin flees to the bathroom and locks himself in a stall like it can protect him. But what he needs protection from is his own thoughts, and there’s no running from that.
Okay, Yang Jeongin. Breathe in, breathe out. One pretty person does not define your sexuality, he tells himself sternly, forehead pressed to the toilet door. It’s not entirely dry, sticky with fluid of unknown source, so he opts to put his head in his hands instead. It doesn’t help much. Even if she’s the prettiest person you’ve ever seen with your own eyes.
He’s midway through grounding himself with deep breaths and mindfulness techniques from therapy when Jisung knocks on the stall door like his life depends on it.
“We gotta go, Innie, the show is starting.”
“What show,” Jeongin replies, feeling himself getting paler by the second. He doesn’t want a show. He hates drag shows and beautiful women that send him into crises and he won’t let them turn him.
What’s worse, though, this is not a normal drag show.
Lina and SEO S-EX MACHINA have a routine of their own that’s part dancing, part acrobatics and for the most part… wrestling. And as much as Jeongin doesn’t want to admit it—it’s fucking working on him. And not only him, judging by the excessive cheering around him.
Lina wrestles Machina onstage to the pounding beat of Judas, every move exaggerated and sensual and theatrical. Lina is on Machina now, and she’s shaking her perky butt and—fuck, is that a black bunny tail on her suit? Jeongin is unwell. Then Hyunjin, the DJ, dressed like a slutty referee, parades around holding up signs of who won and lost the round. Jeongin doesn’t fully understand but feels emotionally destroyed by it anyway.
At the end, Hyunjin and Machina (“His real name’s Changbin,” Jisung whisper-yelled into Jeongin’s ear) kiss like it’s the final act of a tragic opera, while Minho wins the SEX GODESS winning belt and the crowd loses its collective mind.
The performance is unreal, to say the least.
After, Jeongin is lead to a table. All his blood must have went out of his brain somewhere else, because he can’t form a singular coherent thought. All there is are: thighs. Latex boots. Muscles. Hair flips. Winks.
Jeongin doesn’t even realize when someone—sweaty, grinning, gorgeous someone, their eyes sharp with amusement goes up to their table, and they look Jeongin up and down.
“Hi,” the person says easily. Bunny teeth, Jeongin thinks miserably. He feels like he could easily burst out crying after witnessing what he did in the last thirty minutes, and now he has to talk to a handsome guy too. “I’m Lina. Or Minho. I don’t really give a fuck about gender, or pronouns. Heard you wanted to meet me, Jeongin-ah.”
Jeongin’s brain short-circuits. This is Minho? Hold up, this is Lina?
“And,” Minho continues, smiling like he knows exactly what he’s doing, his plump lips literating every letter, “I love to break little boys like you.”
“Oh shit,” Jeongin says eloquently. Minho smiles again, takes his hand and leads the way.
Minho kisses him like he’s not in a rush.
Like the club isn’t loud and sticky and crowded, like people aren’t brushing past them every few seconds on their way to the toilets. One hand comes up to Jeongin’s neck, warm and heavy, fingers spreading wide like Minho’s made for holding people exactly there. The other plants itself against the wall by Jeongin’s head, caging him in without actually touching him.
It’s so… deliberate. Controlled.
Jeongin makes a small, humiliating sound into Minho’s mouth before he can stop himself.
Minho reacts instantly—smiling into the kiss, pleased, like that was exactly what he was hoping for, and Jeongin isn’t embarrassing himself at all—like he’s doing something right. Minho tilts his head just enough to deepen it, lips soft but insistent.
Jeongin’s hands hover uselessly for half a second before panic sets in and he grabs Minho by the waist, fingers curling into the fabric there like an anchor. Minho is so—solid. His body blocks out everything else—the noise, the lights, his full-on sexuality crisis less than an hour ago.
Minho hums quietly, low in his throat, and Jeongin feels it everywhere.
“Relax,” Minho murmurs when they break apart just barely, foreheads still touching. His voice is still a little breathless, a little rough around the edges. Jeongin supposes that’s what you sound after wrestling for a half an hour in full drag. “I’ve got you.”
Which is insane. Because Minho doesn’t know him, and yet Jeongin believes him immediately.
Minho noses at his jaw, not kissing yet, just there—close enough that Jeongin can feel his breath. A thumb brushes under Jeongin’s chin, tilting his face up without asking.
Jeongin’s knees almost give out. Again. He hates himself for how much he likes it.
“You’re shaking,” Minho says, not unkind. Amused, maybe, but gentle about it.
“I’m fine,” Jeongin lies, voice cracking on the last word.
Minho laughs softly, the sound warm against his skin. “Yeah. Sure you are.”
He kisses him again, slower this time, like he’s letting Jeongin catch up, teaching him the pace. Jeongin melts into it embarrassingly fast, tension draining out of his shoulders as Minho’s hand stays steady at his neck, grounding him.
Minho pulls back eventually, but not far—still close enough that Jeongin can feel the heat of him, still close enough that it feels intentional. His thumb lingers at Jeongin’s throat, pulse jumping under it.
“There,” Minho says with a smirk, like he’s satisfied with something. Someone.
Jeongin exhales, long and shaky, forehead tipping forward until it rests against Minho’s shoulder. Minho lost the boots after the performance, but his frame is still bigger than Jeongin’s, and it’s almost like—safe. He feels small like this, tucked in and cared for, and for once it doesn’t feel like a flaw.
For once, it feels like exactly the point.