Jisung had known about his ability since he was thirteen—the quiet, intrusive whispers of other people's minds that hummed beneath their spoken words like a second conversation. It had taken years to learn how to tune out the noise, to build mental walls strong enough to give him peace, but there was one voice that always crashed through his defenses no matter how high he built them. Minho's thoughts were a thunderstorm, loud and unrelenting, a constant barrage of *look at the way his hair falls and his laugh is killing me and I want to kiss him so bad it hurts.* Jisung would be lying if he said he hadn't memorized every embarrassing, adorable detail of Minho's internal monologue, storing them away like secrets that made his chest ache with something dangerously close to hope.

The cruel irony was that Minho had no idea. He walked through their shared classes and late-night convenience store runs completely unaware that his best friend heard every lovesick thought ricocheting through his head. He'd blush and stammer when their hands brushed reaching for the same energy drink, all while internally screaming about how soft Jisung's fingers looked, how he wanted to thread their hands together and never let go. Jisung would pretend not to notice, would bury his face in his hoodie to hide his own burning cheeks, wondering if Minho could hear his heart pounding the way Jisung heard Minho's desperate internal pleas to just lean in already.

What Jisung didn't realize—what his own abilities couldn't show him—was that Minho had started to suspect. The way Jisung always seemed to know what he wanted before he said it, the way he'd go impossibly still whenever Minho's thoughts turned particularly indecent, the way his eyes would flutter shut like he was overwhelmed by something no one else could hear. Minho was nineteen, old enough to recognize the signs of someone listening to a frequency only they could access, and he was starting to wonder if his best friend's secret ability was the very thing that might finally bridge the gap between them. Maybe, Minho thought—loud and clear and utterly terrifying—Jisung already knew exactly how he felt, and maybe, just maybe, he was waiting for Minho to be brave enough to say it out loud.

Scenario 1: "The Coffee Shop Incident"

They're studying together at a cramped corner table, Jisung wedged against the wall with Minho's thigh pressed alongside his. The cafe is busy, too busy, and Jisung is struggling to maintain his mental barriers against the chatter of strangers. He's already frayed when Minho reaches across to wipe a crumb from Jisung's lip, and the physical contact breaks something in his defenses.

Suddenly he's drowning in Minho's thoughts—*soft, so soft, want to bite that lip, want to know if he tastes like the strawberry milk he's drinking, want to push him against this wall and—*

Jisung makes a small, wounded noise, eyes fluttering shut, face burning crimson. Minho pulls back, concerned. "You okay?"

"Fine," Jisung gasps, but he's trembling. Minho's mind is screaming now, did I do something, why is he blushing like that, god he looks like that when he's—no, stop thinking that, he can probably hear you somehow, I hope he can't hear me thinking about fucking him against this wall—

Jisung makes an embarrassing sound and drops his forehead to the table with a thunk. Minho stares at him, realization dawning slow and terrifying. "Jisung... can you...?"

"Please stop thinking so loud," Jisung whimpers into the wood. "I can hear everything. Your thoughts are so... so loud, hyung."

Minho goes utterly still. Then, deliberately, he thinks: I want to kiss you until you can't breathe.

Jisung's head snaps up, eyes wide and wet. "Minho—"

"So you really can hear me," Minho says softly, and there's something dangerous in his smile now. "Interesting."

---

Scenario 2: "Size"

It's their first time, and Jisung is a mess of nerves—naked and small beneath Minho's hovering frame, arms crossed over his chest self-consciously. Minho has been worshipping him for what feels like hours, kissing every inch, but Jisung can't relax, can't stop thinking about what comes next.

"Hyung," he whispers, "I'm... I'm really small. Down there. I know you probably expected—"

Minho silences him with a kiss, then pulls back to look at him with something like reverence. "Can you hear what I'm thinking right now?"

Jisung focuses, and Minho's mind opens to him—a flood of perfect, he's perfect, I want to ruin him, look how small he is, he'll feel so tight around me, I want to make him feel so full, he's gorgeous, mine, mine, mine—

"Oh," Jisung breathes, arousal spiking hot through him.

"You're perfect," Minho says aloud, wrapping his hand around Jisung to prove it—his fingers easily encircle him, thumb stroking over the sensitive head. "So pretty and small. I'm going to fill you up, baby. Gonna make you feel every inch."

Jisung sobs as Minho works him open with careful fingers, the stretch burning so good, Minho's thoughts a constant litany of praise and desperate want. When Minho finally pushes in, slow and thick and big, Jisung cries out at the fullness, at the way he can feel Minho's satisfaction echoing in his mind—*so tight, taking me so well, good boy, my good boy—*

"So big," Jisung gasps, legs wrapped around Minho's waist, feeling utterly claimed. "Hyung, you're so big inside me."

Minho groans, forehead pressed to Jisung's shoulder, and starts to move. "Yeah? Feel me? Gonna feel me for days, pretty. Gonna know who you belong to."

---

Scenario 3: "Domestic"

Six months into their relationship, and Jisung has learned to tune Minho out when necessary—except Minho has learned to project, to shove his thoughts at Jisung like a weapon when he wants something.

It's Sunday morning. Jisung is making pancakes in nothing but Minho's oversized t-shirt, still sleep-mussed and soft. He's focused on not burning breakfast when Minho's voice—mental and smug—slams into him: No underwear. He's not wearing underwear. That shirt barely covers his ass. I'm going to bend him over the counter.

Jisung drops the spatula. "Hyung, I'm trying to cook."

Minho appears in the doorway, shirtless and sleep-rumpled, eyes dark. "I know. Keep cooking."

He crosses the kitchen in three strides, cages Jisung against the counter with his hips, already hard and pressing against Jisung's back. His hands slide under the shirt, finding bare skin.

"Minho—"

Want to him while he makes breakfast. Want to feel him go tight around me when he tries to focus. Want to hear him whimper while he's flipping pancakes—

"You're evil," Jisung whines, but he's already arching back, presenting, the familiar heat pooling low in his stomach.

Minho chuckles against his neck, teeth grazing the tendon there. "You can hear exactly what I want to do to you. Tell me you don't want it."

Jisung can hear it—filthy, graphic, loving—and he's already nodding, pushing his hips back. "Okay. Okay, but the pancakes will burn."

"Let them burn," Minho thinks, loud and clear, and bends him over the counter.

The pancakes burn. Jisung comes twice with Minho deep inside him, crying into his forearms, Minho's thoughts a relentless storm of love you, love you, mine, so good for me, pretty baby, taking me so well—

After, Minho feeds him burnt pancakes in bed anyway, kissing the sugar from his lips, and Jisung has never been happier to have such loud thoughts to listen to.