(EXTREMELY PLATONIC NOT ROMANTIC, the boys love you like a sister)
Wrote this while listening to "La petite fille de la mer" and "Champagne Coast" btw, if you guys want a soundtrack.
SUMMARY: Having a panic attack right in the middle of the stage was definitely NOT how you had imagined to start the world tour. Luckily, the boys were there to help you through it, as they would always do. (6k words)
WARNINGS: fluff, hurt/comfort fic. FEM!R + some use of Y/n. Use of petnames too bc i hate writing Y/n. Papa Chan and Mama Minho to the rescue (we love protective parents👏)! No formalities either bc you will never catch me make her say "Oppa!", the boys sometimes say Hyung but that's it. Description of a panic attack but i tried to inform myself a bit before writing wrong things (hope i did a decent job, i don't mean to be disrespectful🫶). Came out a bit long but i still hope you guys like it.
English is not my first language so feel free to correct me^^
Flashing lights. Music thumping in your ears. The screams of fans calling for you, their lightsticks swaying in a single wave that filled the stadium. Your heart was pounding, excitement, anxiety, joy, fear, and adrenaline coursing through your veins like a raging river. You looked out at the fans from behind the curtain, tapping your foot nervously as you gripped your microphone in sweaty palms. There were so many, so loud.
Your first date of the Stray Kids world tour. Someone called your name behind you, and you wouldn't have even noticed if it hadn't been for a hand that landed on your shoulder, making you jump slightly before turning around.
Changbin smiled in amusement, chuckling.
"You okay, dolly?" he asked, calling you by that affectionate nickname he always used to comfort you. "Nervous?"
You smiled, a tentative but radiant smile nonetheless. "Mh-hm," you nodded. "Just a little”
He nodded, his thumb rubbing the expensive fabric of the outfit you were wearing. "It's normal. We all are”
Of course. They were nervous too. You couldn't afford to be the only one tormenting yourself, the only victim.
The rapper seemed to sense your thoughts, and knowing you, before they could spiral into something that might ruin your mood, he quickly added.
“Hey. We've been practicing for this” he murmured, patting your shoulder, as if trying to keep the conversation between the two of you. “We're ready. And so are you”
You nodded again, looking at him with hopeful but still intimidated eyes. “Are you sure? What if something happens? What if I do something wrong?”
Changbin rolled his eyes playfully. Here were your worries again. Not that he'd ever complain about it in front of you, but really, you had no reason to worry.
“The only thing you're going to do, dolly, is rock the stage” he stated, raising his other hand so he could rub your arms now. “Nothing's gonna happen. It's like doing live shows in Korea, right? Except… Well, we're in a full stadium, and the number of fans watching us is like ten times bigger. But it's nothing we're not used to, right?”
You groaned, throwing your head back. Great, now you were more panicked than before. “Binn!” you whined.
Changbin chuckled, and then another voice. “Hyung, stop scaring the baby”
A slender arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you away from the rapper and onto the side of another member: Hyunjin.
Changbin looked back and forth between the taller one and you. “I was trying to comfort her, she’s anxious” he retorted. “She thinks she’ll ruin the concert or something”
Hyunjin snorted.
“Doesn't seem like you're doing a very good job at it” he objected, hugging you affectionately under his arm. “And you know Minho doesn’t like it when we make her nervous”
You chuckled quietly, not surprised by his words. It was well known that the infamous and feared Lee Minho had a soft spot for you, considering you the little sister he never had. From the moment you debuted with them, he had taken you under his wing, and despite his sternness, which on one hand you found almost comforting, he always worried about you and the boys (in his own way).
“Then tell her she has nothing to worry about because my encouragement obviously isn't enough” Changbin retorted, gesturing to you with a wave of his arm. “Seriously, Y/n, you'll do great. Don't you have any self-confidence, hm?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“But nothing” Hyunjin interrupted you, turning to look at you with a determined look, yet also full of affection and trust. “The only thing you have to do is sing and dance and have fun. And you always manage all of them without any problem”
You smiled again, nodding slowly at the words that were finally breaking through your insecurities. “But the fans…”
“And the fans” the dancer continued. “Will be thrilled to see and hear you. Really, darling. Just relax and everything will be fine, okay? We'll be together, like always, hm?”
You let out a nervous sigh before finally nodding slowly.
“Yeah… yeah, okay. Together”
Hyunin and Changbin smiled, and Hyunin rubbed his cheek affectionately against your temple, murmuring a “That's our girl” while Changbin lightly ruffled your hair, being careful of your hairstyle.
Honestly, you would have preferred to stay in that position for a little longer, enveloped in their brotherly warmth. You loved your job, but the presence of the boys, who had now become your second family, always made everything better.
“Five minutes and we’re up!”
Chan’s voice, authoritative in true leader style, echoed behind you, intent on making sure all the members were ready before going on stage. Jisung and Felix were giggling excitedly, with Jeongin listening in silence (already done with his hyungs). Seungmin was clearing his throat, making sure the notes were there on his tongue, while Minho, in the corner, was quickly reviewing a few steps from the first choreography.
Chan approached you, Changbin, and Hyunjin, patting the former on the shoulder. “Are you guys ready?” he asked with an encouraging smile, and all three of you nodded.
Chan then looked at you. “Ready, Y/n?”
You nodded again, this time more determined by your bandmates' words, ready to rock the stage. “I was born ready”
Chan and the other two smiled proudly. “Good girl” he praised. “Just have fun, okay? You got this”
And after five minutes, you and the boys ran onto the stage.
And yet, even though you'd tried every way to let yourself go like the boys had told you, even though you'd tried to have fun, interact with them, smile at the fans, take pictures, and hold their hands…
Anxiety continued to eat away at you from within, like ivy that grew ever stronger and was rooting you to the ground: the knowledge that you were on that stage for the first time in front of a stadium full of people watching you on big screens, fans who had come from all over the world just to see Stray Kids for the first time in their lives.
The knowledge that you couldn't afford to make mistakes, not there, in front of everyone, and especially... not when your bandmates, your brothers, were giving their best, ignoring the anxiety, fears, and insecurities you deemed useless.
Why did you always have to play the victim? Why did you have to ruin everything when they'd busted their asses to get you all on that stage?
Why couldn't you be like them?
“Fuck… fuck…” you thought to yourself as you looked around to admire—no, actually, dread—the crowd screaming and waving their lightsticks to the rhythm. The bass was boosting, the mic clutched in your hands as you danced the choreography along with the boys.
“Don't mess up… Please, don't mess up…” you kept repeating in your head, trying to keep pace with the choreography, your eyes following Jeongin's legs in front of you.
It was only the first day. The first fucking date of the tour and you already felt like everything was about to fall apart, even if you didn't know why. You couldn't afford to make any mistakes or you'd ruin everything.
Fortunately, it wasn't always necessary to perform the entire choreography; you'd agreed on that. The chorus was essential, sure, but during some verses, you could enjoy the concert without a precise schedule.
“Y/n!”
Over the blaring music, someone called your name then tapped you on the shoulder from behind. When you turned, you met Felix's freckled face, a radiant but uncertain smile on his lips.
"Are you okay?" he asked loudly.
You looked around again. You hadn't even realized you'd been the only one standing still for a few seconds in the middle of the stage, while the rest of the boys and fans were running along the stage. "Did he notice me?"
"Y-Yeah, yeah!" you nodded hastily, a fake smile forming on your lips, while waving to the row of STAYs in the stands closest to you to distract yourself.
Felix tilted his head slightly but said nothing else, ruffling your hair before running away with a scream as soon as he saw Hyunjin trying to splash water at him from his bottle.
Meanwhile, you noticed Seungmin waving a hand at you from a few meters behind, urging you to join him, and it was then that you remembered the part of the song you and he sang together was about to come on. You stiffly jogged over to him, clutching the microphone in your palm.
Your heart began to beat slightly faster in your chest. You were anxious. But why? You'd sung this song dozens of times, you'd rehearsed that part with and without Seungmin so many times you had even dreamed about it one night, you'd practiced with Chan in the recording studio endless times, wanting it to be perfect.
Why did you suddenly feel terrified of singing for the first time in front of all those people watching and filming you, expecting to witness the best concert of their lives, knowing it only happened once in years for them?
Why did you suddenly feel so incapable of doing the one thing that you should be able to do well, your work?
You raised the mic to your mouth and you and Seungmin began singing your final lines together. Your mouth and tongue moved automatically, as if robotic circuits were controlling you, not your mind.
"Don't mess it up... don't mess it up..."
Yet Seungmin next to you seemed so relaxed and at peace. He sang perfectly, as if it were just you and him on stage, he didn't care about anything else. And you…
It was right when your last part came that your voice, usually high and clear when you sang, broke into a cracked note that reverberated throughout the stadium. Everything you'd trained for, the perfection you'd strived for until now, had just gone up in smoke, ruining everything.
Around you, the stadium erupted in applause and cheers once the song was over, as if your voice crack had already been forgotten. But you knew better.
Your eyes widened in surprise when the song ended and when you turned to see Seungmin, he was already frowning at you, but with an almost amused grimace on his face. Shit, was he annoyed with you because you'd ruined his part?
You said nothing, too focused on the sound of your heart pounding wildly in your ribcage. Your face was burning with humiliation, your hair plastered to your sweaty temples.
You were ruining everything…
“Get a grip, Y/n… you have to get a grip…”
The rest of the band approached you at the center of the stage, while they waved at the fans. Jisung's cackle echoed behind you before he placed his palms on both your shoulders, shaking them back and forth gently. “Yo! What was that?” he commented amused.
He was referring to your off-key singing. Shit, everyone had seen and heard it. And if Jisung was laughing about it, it meant you had really made a fool of yourself.
“Sorry, i…” you faltered, head down, your voice barely audible in the commotion, before raised your head and looked at Seungmin uncertainly. “S-Sorry Min, i didn’t mean to…”
But Seungmin just furrowed his brows. “Sorry for what?” he just said.
He seemed confused, almost worried, but at that moment you couldn’t register his behavior. The moment you’d ruined the song was still replaying in your mind like a broken record, along with the robotic way you’d sung, the rigidity with which you’d tried to replicate the choreography you were supposed to know by heart by now. An endless loop of anxiety, insecurities, and shame that were overwhelming you on that first day of tour.
And the knowledge that if you’d done this just today, who knows what would have happened in the following dates.
You were all gathered in the center of the stage, in a single row. Chan was speaking in English, and STAYs cheered every now and then, making him laugh. Changbin and Jeongin were mumbling among themselves, while you could feel Seungmin's watchful gaze penetrating your head and you knew he was definitely trying to figure out what was wrong with your behavior.
Beside you was Hyunjin, nudging you with his arm to annoy you as usual, while Chan and Felix interacted with the audience, but right now you didn't have the strength to react to it.
Your mind was now lost in a fog and your eyes were fixed blankly on the first few rows of girls under the stage, who were now looking at you with concern, talking to themselves while pointing at you.
"Shit..." you gripped the microphone tighter and tighter in your sweaty hands. “They're looking at me… everyone… they heard me… fuck…”
It didn't take long for Chan to stop talking to the audience, finally marking the beginning of the break you'd have to change outfits, especially since it was time for your solos.
Shit, what if you messed up your own song too now? And then the rest of the concert?
Your body moved automatically as you and the boys retreated backstage, the fans' screams fading behind you, and you didn't notice Seungmin nudging Chan with his arm, silently nodding at you.
Once safely off the stage, staff members immediately surrounded you and the boys, some already holding the new outfits, others immediately going to wipe away sweat and fix their makeup and hair. Your trusted makeup artist, a girl a bit older than Chan, gently began to ran a small wipe over your face, trying to wipe the sweat from your cheeks, temples, and neck.
But no matter how hard she tried, all you could feel was your face going completely on fire more than before. The sensation of being touched repeatedly, which you'd long been accustomed to, was starting to bother you now.
“W-Wait…” you tried to say, taking a small step back and she looked at you confused, tilting her head.
“I need a moment…” you wanted to say, but the words stuck in your throat. “It’s hot… J-Just a moment…”
The voices of the boys around you surrounded you, laughing and chatting, drowning out your ears. You didn’t immediately notice Jeongin approaching you, and when he was in front of you, you tried to focus on his sweet, childish, comforting smile.
“Hey, about what happened, you know you have nothing to worry about, right?” he said, bringing to mind the replay of your embarrassment from earlier. “Do you remember when that happened to me back in Kingdom? I was so disappointed, i thought i had ruined everything and…”
His words faded into void after just a few seconds. You couldn’t focus. He was too close. You knew he was just trying to reassure you and god, you appreciated him for that, you really did, but right now he was only making things worse and you couldn't get yourself to say it.
"D-Don't talk to me... don't remind me..."
Meanwhile, your makeup artist noticed how sweat seemed to be appearing more frequently on your face, like a flowing river, and so she tried to do her job, reaching out the towel to wipe it off again.
Jeongin kept talking to you, and meanwhile, another staff member approached you, clutching your custom outfit for your solo. She was talking too, probably rushing you to change because time was running out and you had a schedule to respect, but all you could see was her lips and Jeongin's moving too quickly.
"Too much..."
Your ears were ringing deafeningly, the voices of the staff and the boys in the background muffled as if you were underwater, your colleague's ever-gentle touch was burning your face, the towel scratching the skin like sandpaper. You tried to take a step back and a small gasp left your lips as you tried to breathe. It was too much.
Too many people. Too much noise. Too much anxiety. You were drowning.
Jeongin finally seemed to notice your state, and the words trailed off his tongue, giving way to a confused and slightly concerned expression. “Y/n…”
You backed away, or at least tried to, but your legs suddenly went stiff and the soles of your shoes felt like they were glued to the floor. You wanted to leave but the only thing you were realizing was how much air was missing from your lungs, the panic gripping your body and the main reason why all this was happening.
Jeongin called your name again, coming even closer, and you lowered your head, desperately trying to breathe and avoid his gaze and the one of the staff.
“Too much… it's too much… I can't…”
Jeongin glanced at the rest of the boys behind you, locking eyes with Chan. “Hyung. Hyung!”
Immediately, everyone's attention was on you. Not only were the staff trying to get you fixed, cleaned up, and changed quickly, but now you also had your bandmates surrounding you and talking, all huddling around you like ants on a breadcrumb, trying to figure out what was happening to you.
And even though you would normally bask in their affection, in that moment you just felt like you were dying.
“Back off. Back off, she needs to breathe”
It was Minho who made his way through the group, moving past Chan to stand in front of you next to Jeongin and gently pushing him back with his arm.
“Innie, take a step back” he said, calmly but hastily, then looked at the staff. “Give her some space, please”
Everyone except him and Chan took a step back, their voices dying into small, worried murmurs. Your eyes filled with tears despite the space given, because by now you were feeling completely panicked and couldn't think of anything else.
Once he was sure you weren't completely surrounded, Minho turned back to you, his sharp eyes sweeping over your body, stopping on your sweaty hands that were shaking like leaves in the cold wind.
"Y/n" he called, his hands lifting slightly but not touching you yet, unsure of how you would react. "Baby, hey..."
You gasped, trying to inhale some air, but felt unable to do so under everyone's gaze. "I-I can't..." you tried, squeezing your eyes shut. "I d-don't..."
He was worried sick, just like the others, but showing it wouldn't help.
He nodded behind him, even though you couldn't see him.
"How about we sit down for a moment, hm?" he asked instead, running his eyes over your stiff legs. "Let's sit down, come on. Want to hold my hand?"
With that, he held out his hands to you, palms facing up like a peace offering, and to his relief you immediately grabbed them, desperately tightening your sweaty fingers around his slender ones. He exchanged a glance with Chan, who gently placed his palm on your back, rubbing it lightly up and down.
The two of them calmly led you to one of the nearby leather couches, and the others let you through.
“Come on, love, sit down” the leader murmured, gently hushing you as he helped you sit. “There we go, slowly…”
You sank onto the couch cushion and Minho crouched in front of you, his hands never leaving yours for a second as you continued to pant, tears in your eyes. Your head throbbed, your ears ringing.
Chan remained standing, turning to the rest of the group and the staff.
“Hyung, she’s hyperventilating…” Jisung pondered, his large dark eyes fixed on you, full of concern and fear. He knew exactly what you were going through, more than anyone.
Jeongin turned to look at the leader remorsefully. “Is it my fault? Did i do something?”
Felix was chewing his middle fingernail, Changbin and Seungmin had their arms crossed, their expressions serious but equally worried. Hyunjin was behind them, mentally cursing at the situation.
Chan sighed tensely, the sound drowned out by your sobs behind him and Minho's whispered words, and he looked at the youngest.
"Of course it's not your fault, Jeongin. Don't worry" he answered with a small reassuring smile before looking at the rest of the group, stopping on Jisung lastly. "She'll be fine. Minho and i will take care of it”
Your makeup artist and the girl with your outfit exchanged a silent glance, but they managed to relax a little, knowing you were safe with the two oldest.
Another man, with headphones and a mic on his face, frowned at bit at Chan. “Lee Know has to go on stage soon and her too. How—”
“I'm not moving”
The man froze when he heard the dance leader's words echoing in the room, meeting his gaze, which was now on him, slightly irritated.
Chan looked at Minho, but neither he nor the others were honestly surprised by his behavior. Minho was the most protective of you, even more than him and the rest of the boys together.
“Min…” he tried to warn, though he wasn't really convinced on reprimand him either. As the leader it was his duty to enforce order, but the comfort and health of his members came first. Always.
Indeed, just as he expected, Minho didn't move a inch from his spot.
“I said i'm not moving. And neither is she” he challenged (not Chan, but mostly the staff), his thumbs digging into your palms to try to ground you. “Send the others first, it's not that hard”
Chan nodded without saying anything else and then turned to Hyunjin. When Minho was stuck on something, there was no point in changing his mind.
“Hyun, do you mind if you go first?” he requested.
And Hyunjin shook his head without hesitation. “Of course not”
The staff man scowled at Chan. “Chan, we have a schedule. You can't—”
“I absolutely can and i will” Chan interrupted him abruptly, crossing his arms over his chest as he shot him a challenging look. “She's in no condition to go on stage right now and Lee Know and i will stay here as long as we're needed. End of discussion”
The man looked at him nervously under his stern, leader-like gaze, falling silent. Jisung was glancing back and forth between him, Chan, Minho, and you, still hyperventilating.
“We still have time” Changbin chimed in, taking a small step forward as he tried to reason with the staff. “Hyunjin will go first, and we'll follow. We'll give Y/n time to calm down for her turn. It's not a problem, really”
The staff members remained silent for a few seconds, considering Chan and Changbin's words. Until the man finally let out a small sigh of resignation and nodded.
“Okay… Okay, we’ll do this. But we have to hurry, please” he said, gesturing to the outfits some of them still had to change into (like Hyunjin himself).
Hyunjin and the others nodded, while Chan relaxed his posture. Minho kept staring intently at them before turning back to you.
“Good” Chan exhaled, dropping his authoritative tone. “Now please, could you leave us alone for a bit?”
Reluctantly, Hyunjin nodded and was quickly escorted by the staff to the dressing room to change. Felix followed him, giving you a last concerned but supportive look before he left (even if you didn’t notice).
The others hesitated for a few seconds, especially Jeongin and Jisung. Chan noticed and gave them an encouraging smile. “Really, guys, please just go. We’ll handle this, okay?”
Seungmin placed a hand on Jeongin’s shoulder, patting him a few times and telling him to back off. “Come on man, we’ll only make things worse if we stay” he murmured, so you wouldn’t hear, and Changbin nodded in agreement.
Jisung and Jeongin nodded silently and slowly the rest of the group and the rest of the staff filed away, finally leaving Chan and Minho alone with you. A couple of minutes later, a roar of cheers echoed from the stadium, followed by the start of "So Good".
Chan sighed again, finally turning his attention solely to you. Minho was trying his hardest to calm you down, and even though you always felt comfortable around him, your brain couldn’t register his voice right now.
“You’re gonna get sick, honey” the dancer muttered, tilting his head to try to catch your gaze. “Y/n, you have to try to breathe, okay?”
But you shook your head frantically, your eyes fixed on your sweaty hands clinging to his.
“I-I can't... I... I'm scared...”
Chan felt his heart break at the sight. You'd always been so energetic and cheerful, yes, a little shy perhaps, but only at the beginning when they first met you.
You were like a ray of sunshine in a storm for them, sometimes so hyperactive that he and Minho struggled to contain you, especially when you had your silly moments with Jisung, Felix or Jeongin.
But in that moment, he saw only the Y/n he'd known before debuting. A young girl desperately needing support, a shoulder to cry on, and a leader to lean on, who could guide her through life and grow.
“Y/n, babygirl...” Chan murmured as he knelt next to Minho, who shuffled to the side to give him a little space in front of you. “Hey, hey...”
His hands rested delicately your knees, rubbing gently, while Minho continued to massage your palms and the lengths of your fingers, ignoring the sweat.
“Look at me. Can you look at me, please?” Chan requested, softly and unhurriedly.
Despite the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your eardrums, you managed to hear his voice along with his touch, calling you with that familiar petname he had adopted for you since the first day you met.
You struggled to open your eyes, your pupils frantically wandering from Minho's face to Chan's, and the latter flashed you a smile.
“There you go, good girl” he praised quietly. “Listen to me, i know this is scary, but i promise nothing will happen to you, hm? It'll pass. You just have to try to think about something else, okay?”
You shook your head again, hiccuping. “S-Something else… I c-can't…” you whimpered, sniffling like a little girl seeking for her mother in a crowd. “T-The… the concert… it-it was too much…”
The two oldest exchanged a quick glance before looking back at you.
“The concert was too much?” Chan repeated calmly, wanting to understand. “Were you scared when you were on stage? Did something bother you?”
You nodded frantically.
“T-Too loud a-and… and the lights… ‘t was hot…” you choked out, your bottom lip trembling. “A-And the song… my… m-my voice… every... everyone h-heard—”
“Shh, shh. Okay, love, okay. I got it” Chan gently hushed you, lifting a hand from your knee to try to wipe the tears from your face, tucking the damp strands of hair stuck to your cheeks behind your ear. “We’ll talk about it in a bit, shh. Everything will be okay, i promise”
Minho began to breathe deeply and slowly, squeezing your hands to get your attention and you looked back at him through your teary eyes.
“Follow my breathing, Y/n. Try to follow me, okay?” he urged. “Just like when we dance”
You nodded weakly, trying to follow his rhythm. Your heart was still pounding, but the grip around your hands and Chan's encouraging voice managed to keep you anchored to what little sanity you had left.
“That's it. You're doing well, love, really well”
"See? Nothing's happening, don't worry. It's all just in your head. We're right here with you, there's no rush"
It took some good long minutes before your labored breathing finally began to pick up a more steady pace, your heartbeat slowing, and your ears stopping ringing.
“There we go” Chan breathed, as Minho brought your hands to his face to place a small, encouraging kiss on your knuckles.
You let out your last shaky breath, looking up at them with red eyes and tears still streaming down your face. The panic was gone, but the guilt and humiliation you felt for everything that had happened was still there.
“I'm sorry, i-i…” you whimpered softly, sniffling. “I d-didn't mean to… i swear…”
Chan immediately shook his head, confused and hurt.
“Oh Y/n, no” he cooed as he adjusted himself onto his knees. “No, why are you saying that? Do you really think it's your fault?”
You nodded, your hands unconsciously squeezing Minho's out of nervousness as you lowered your gaze, not having the courage to look the two people whose approval you sought more than anyone else directly in the eyes.
“I-I wasn't focused while dancing… I t-thought i was ready for today, b-but i got anxious and… a-and then when i sang, everyone heard my v-voice crack and i ruined the performance…” you croaked out embarrassed. “I’m r-ruining the concert and it's only the first date of the tour… I-I don't want to sing my song, i don't want to… t-to fail again…”
Chan and Minho exchanged another pitying glance. They and the rest of the boys knew how much you loved your job, despite the difficulties.Singing, dancing, and being with them made you free and happy. Hearing you talk like that, disappointed in yourself and afraid of them, broke their heart.
Chan let out a sigh, not annoyed but more reflective as he thought about what to say for a few seconds. Then he raised both hands to cup your cheeks, gently tilting your face so you could look into his eyes again.
“Y/n” he called, softly but firmly. He wanted to make sure you were listening. “What happened is normal. It’s your first concert, in front of thousands of people watching you, filming you… It’s normal to be scared. We don’t blame you. And we never will. You know that, right?”
You sniffed, trying to focus on his reassuring words, which were slowly breaking through your wall of insecurities. “B-But… but i wasn't supposed t-to mess up like that…” you tried to argue.
Chan smiled lightly, nodding understandingly. “I know, honey. You’ve trained so hard, you always want to be perfect hm? But we know you. And you’re NOT perfect, just like none of us are. And that’s okay. We don’t have to be perfect, for no one. Not even for STAYs. Because if someone truly loves you and cares about you, they love your imperfections too”
Your eyes softened, as a small glimmer of hope lit up in your heart.
The leader continued. “You’re not ruining this concert. And you’re not going to ruin the tour just because of this” he promised, stroking your cheeks with his thumbs to wipe away the tears. “These things happen. No one’s mad at you, i can assure you”
You sniffed. “R-Really?”
Chan nodded.
“Of course, baby. Remember back in Kingdom, when Innie had a voice crack and was devastated because he felt guilty for making us lose?” he asked, and you nodded, remembering what Jeongin himself was trying to tell you as he tried to comfort you earlier. “Had we perhaps got mad at him?”
You shook your head.
“No… b-but that was different—”
“It wasn’t different” Chan interrupted you gently but firmly. “Jeongin made a mistake, but we all knew he had tried hard, and we didn't blame him. And we never will. The only thing that mattered was that he gave his all. Just like you did. That's what matters here hm?”
You nodded slowly, looking at him with a hint of uncertainty remaining. “But… but the schedule… and the staff d-didn't seem happy…”
Minho clicked his tongue, finally butting in on the conversation. “Screw staff” he declared, rolling his eyes, and you looked at him.
Chan shot him a knowing look, suppressing a chuckle. “Min…”
The other man waved a hand dismissively, not taking his eyes off yours.
“Yeah, we made a little change in the schedule, so what? It doesn't seem like STAYs care much, does it? I mean, listen to them” he added, nodding toward the stage.
You focused on the sounds coming from the stage. Jisung's voice and his guitar resonated throughout the stadium as he sang his solo and STAYs shouted the lyrics along him with joy.
“Y/n”
Minho caught your attention, and you saw his lips curl into a small smile. Not one of those mischievous smirks he wore whenever he was planning something evil. A small but kind and reassuring smile, full of support that he was always ready to give whenever you needed it, whenever you needed him, Chan, and the others.
“You are more important” he stated. “You are family, and we take care of family. Always. Yeah?”
You could feel your eyes filling with new tears and your heart starting to beat a little faster, but this time from emotion. After all, you should have expected it from the two eldest but the affection in their words and gestures would’ve never failed to make you realize how lucky you were to have them.
“Y-Yeah…” you sniffed, nodding weakly as your lips curled into a trembling smile.
Chan and Minho relaxed and the former rose from his knees with another coo, removing his hands from your face but just so he could hug you warmly. "Oh c’mere, baby girl. Lemme hug you”
You didn't waste time in letting yourself fall into his warm embrace, burying your face in his abdomen. You ignored the sweat, the sticky feeling of heat, or anything else, focusing only on shedding the last of your tears on your dear leader, praying he'd never let you go.
"T-Thank you..." you whimpered softly, your voice muffled by his tank top as you clenched the fabric in your fists.
Chan chuckled tenderly, one arm affectionately wrapped around your shoulders while the other gently caressed the back of your head. “There’s nothing to thank me for, honey. It’s okay”
You heard someone else shuffle and a few seconds later, you felt Minho lean over you, placing a few affectionate kisses on your head while he patted your back with his palm.
Chan didn’t comment on the display of affection the dancer rarely showed, because they knew it was different for you. Minho would have jumped off a cliff if you'd just asked him to. So he simply continued to hug you while he waited for your tears to dry, stroking you gently.
“God, i swear you and Jeongin are growing up so fast” he said jokingly (or maybe not) in a fake nostalgic tone. “I can’t even hug you properly anymore, my babies”
Minho smiled silently and you chuckled wetly, pulling your face away from Chan’s body to look at them.
Chan smiled proudly. “There’s that smile. And no more tears, okay?” he said in a fake resolute tone, and you nodded while Minho reached out to wipe the last real tears from under your eyes with his knuckles.
“Ready for your solo?” he asked you with a supportive smile.
At that question you gulped quietly, looking at them a little nervously, squeezing your hands together as you thought about the upcoming performance.
“What if… what if i mess up my song, too?”
You half expected the two of them to tell you to go to hell for that stupid question. But you were relieved to see that they both kept smiling.
“You won't, baby. But... Even if you do mess up, we'll still be right here waiting for you and telling you you did good anyway” Chan answered in one breath, without stammering or hesitating.
Minho nodded in agreement, rubbing your head. “And we always will. All of us”
And finally, with those words, you could feel all the remaining stiffness melt away from your body, along with the panic and insecurities. Because you knew that as long as they were there waiting for you and taking care of you, all eight of them, you could do anything. Being together was what truly mattered.
So you wiped your nose on your sleeve before standing up on your no longer shaky legs. “Okay”
Chan and Minho looked at you like proud parents (maybe cause they were, in a way), and the leader patted your head affectionately, as he always used to do.
“Ready to rock the stage, tiger?”
And this time you nodded with determination and no fear in your eyes.
“Yeah”
Minho smirked, gently pushing you toward the dressing room with a hand on your lower back.
“That's our girl. Come on, the others are waiting”
STRAY KIDS BOXING AU TEASER - minsungchan x f!manager!reader
"My creed, it keeps me breathing,,
GENRE: romance, thriller, smut
SYNOPSIS: Born a boxing fan from the very first match you witnessed with your father; his enthusiasm back then was enough to plant a seed of admiration for the sport in your heart. Carrying the same passion for years, you decided to dedicate your life to the art when the gym you worked in suddenly decided to shut down due to debt. Hopeless for a new job, you refused to quit the industry hence surprisingly finding yourself in your favourite champions' gym. What happens when you notice a strange, domestic, tension between the three? When they decide to pull you in their dynamic and certain debt-collectors start to make their apparitions from underground?
taglist
boxing can be explained in a simple game of rock, paper and scissors.
FIGHTER 1: CHRISTOPHER CHAHN BAHNG
RING NAME: BANG CHAN
AGE: 28
STYLE: SLUGGER (STONE)
CATEGORY: SUPER-MIDDLEWEIGHT (MALE)
STANCE: ORTHODOX
BANG CHAN is described as an immovable object, physically massive in his division. He is the leader and owner of his gym, known as a 'tank' in the industry. He walks his opponents down, first underestimated as a slugger-rookie but the title was quickly proven wrong as he showed that his brute force and high conditioning were more than enough to tear his opponents apart.
FIGHTER 2: LEE MINHO
RING NAME: LEE KNOW
AGE: 27
STYLE: OUT-BOXER (PAPER)
CATEGORY: MIDDLEWEIGHT (MALE)
STANCE: SOUTHPAW (?)
LEE KNOW is a tactical fighter, known for his swift movements and out-of-this-world reflexes. He drags the fight to his whims, tiring his opponent with agile footwork before knocking them down with his personal favourite. Lee know is brain first, brawls second - a fighter's nightmare. Rumors has it that he's actually a switcher pretending to stand on southpaw.
FIGHTER 3: HAN JISUNG
RING NAME: HAN
AGE: 25
STYLE: IN-PUNCHER (SCISSORS)
CATEGORY: MIDDLEWEIGHT (MALE)
STANCE: ORTHODOX
HAN is a rookie climbing his way up to the pros grounds. He is an in-puncher and popular ace in the industry for mastering by far the riskiest and most off-rhythm boxing style. His potential remains immense as height and reach advantages of his opponents are useless when on the same ring as him. Although, where he aces in skills, his racing mind might cause fluctuations in his progress.
A boxer-puncher (all-rounder)
By wrapping stone with paper, paper becomes a solid object capable of breaking scissors. Hidden underneath the paper, the stone might hold more secrets than it appears in plain sight.
Summary: Chan has a bad day, and Minho calls you, begging you to come home early. You encourage him to try and comfort your boyfriend on his own, even though Minho claims that never works.
You glance up from your laptop as a few messages suddenly light up your phone. Minho.
Minnie Darling💗: Come home.
Minnie Darling💗: Now.
Minnie Darling💗: Channie's an idiot.
You frown at that last one and see he's still typing, but decide you want to know more quickly. You call him instead, and he picks up almost immediately. "Yes, my sweet Minnie darling?" you ask patiently.
Minho makes an incoherent noise before huffing loudly. "When are you done?"
"In an hour or so," you tell him, knowing very well he knows your schedule by heart.
"Shit," he groans softly.
"What happened?" you ask gently.
"Channie happened," he answers, frustrated.
"Meaning?" you laugh, giving up the fight.
Minho huffs softly, remaining quiet for a moment before he speaks up again, his voice much softer now. "He messed up during our live performance today," he sighs. "Means he's questioning his whole existence and won't let me help."
You hum softly, heart aching at the thought of Chan beating himself up for something like this once again. "And what makes you think I'd have a better shot?" you ask gently. "I won't always be there to comfort him. He's your boyfriend too."
"Yeah, but he tends to push me away," Minho says quietly, sounding less annoyed now. "I want to help, but…maybe it's easier for him to open up to you."
"Because?" you ask gently.
"I don't know, ask him," Minho huffs, almost a little offended. “Probably because you’re a fucking ray of sunshine, respectfully, and I’m not.”
A soft giggle escapes you at his little outburst. "Don't give up, Minnie, okay? You can be quite sunny if you like," you say softly. "I'll stop by the dorm in a bit, okay?"
"Mhm, okay," he sighs and watches his screen turn black as you end the call after a quick goodbye. He stares down the hallway, eyeing Chan's door, and sighs heavily before walking over. He doesn't knock, knowing Chan would ignore him anyway.
Chan's lying flat on his stomach in his bed, face buried in a pillow. He doesn't even look up as he barges in. "Fuck off," he grumbles.
"Not happening," Minho shakes his head before jumping onto his bed and throwing himself half on top of him. "Come on, what's wrong?" he asks caringly.
"Don't wanna talk about it," Chan groans.
"Channie, you messed up a few steps. It happens," he sighs, gently rubbing his shoulders.
"I was off tune as well," Chan adds, frustrated.
"It happens," Minho says as patiently as he can. "You're not going to get canceled because of that. You told the public you're fucking one of your members and your girlfriend; you're still here, aren't you?" he asks, and Chan turns to look at him. Minho's smile falters, seeing the tears burning in Chan's eyes. "I'm sorry, was that too much?" he asks guiltily.
"I'm a failure," Chan presses out, not addressing Minho’s dumb joke. "How can I lead you guys if I'm the one messing up?"
Minho's face falls, and for a moment Chan thinks he's mad at him. But there’s no anger in those soft brown orbs. "Channie, love," Minho says softly and caresses his cheek. "You can't possibly mean that."
"Yes, I do. I'm not as good at dancing as you and Hyunjin are, I can't keep my voice and rap as steady as Hannie, Binnie, or Seungmin, I don't have anything unique like Felix's deep voice, and I don't even have the baby bonus Jeongin has," he says and sucks in a sharp breath. "I'm just me, and that's not enough sometimes."
"Mhm, okay," Minho huffs softly and sits up. "Come on," he says, pulling at the sleeve of his sweater. Chan groans softly but does as he says, mirroring his position as he faces him. Minho very lovingly cups his face and locks eyes with him. "Just you, huh?"
"Yeah," Chan shrugs, sniffing softly as he hugs a pillow to his chest and looks at him with big, sad eyes.
"If just you means being an amazing leader and taking care of the kids at all times. If just you means having the brightest smile with the sweetest dimples and shining eyes. If just you means being kind, creative, passionate, loving, almost annoyingly cuddly, protective, and gentle…then yeah, it's just you," Minho rambles on, desperate to make Chan see what he sees in him. "If being just you means being loved by two people to whom you mean the world and being the best boyfriend one could wish for…then yes, Channie, it's just you, but doesn't it sound amazing?"
Chan seems to hang at his lips, taking in every word like an addict, face and ears burning up slowly. "Baby, stop being cheesy," he says quietly.
"I'm not being cheesy if I tell you what's true. These are mere facts I'm sharing," he says, winking at him sweetly. Minho sighs softly before leaning forward and planting slow, gentle kisses all over his face. "I don't expect you to see yourself through my eyes…that would get to your head," he says, and Chan giggles softly. "But try to see your good qualities for once. Try seeing what an effect you have on the people close to you and what you mean to them. Stop making yourself seem smaller than you are, love. And for God’s sake, stop comparing your dance moves to mine, babe. I was a professional dancer before becoming an idol. I’d be offended if you guys were better than me."
Chan gazes at him intensely, a grin covering his lips, before climbing into his lap and hugging him very tightly. Minho grunts softly before hugging back, a little surprised. "Thank you, baby," Chan tells him quietly, burying his face in his neck.
Minho smiles a little to himself, eyes beaming at his words working. "I love you, you know?" he says gently, running his hand through Chan's soft curls.
"I love you too, Min," Chan says softly.
Minho flinches softly as you're suddenly behind him, caressing his head. "We've got company," he whispers to Chan jokingly.
"Don't care," Chan mumbles and cuddles even deeper into him.
"I can leave?" you laugh, only mildly offended.
Chan shoots up and looks at you with wide eyes. "Oh, babe, I'm so sorry."
"She's joking," Minho snorts, lovingly patting his back.
“You’re okay?” you ask Chan gently, and your boyfriend looks at Minho with a soft smile.
“I think I am, yeah,” he nods, and Minho smiles back at him softly.
“I’m glad,” you smile before winking at Minho. “Told you you could do it.”
“Shut up,” he grumbles, not unkind, laughing as you ruffle his hair.
MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES
Taglist: (Please let me know if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist!)
A storm unsettles more than the weather, pulling instincts closer to the surface as comfort turns into quiet closeness. In the low hum of rain and thunder, boundaries are tested not through action, but through restraint, patience, and unspoken trust.
MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS, DNI
Warnings/genre: MinChan x hybrid!AFAB reader, SMUT, slow burn, soft dom/consensual power dynamics, exhibitionism (implied/public risk), marking/hickeys, possessive themes, praise kink, group intimacy (MMF), domestic aftercare, found family, emotional bonding, unprotected sex, future heat implications.
My writing is all fictional and does not represent any of the named people in any way, shape or form. All works and writing is done by me, and I do not use AI at any point in my writing.
dividers made by @cafekitsune
The storm hadn’t let up all morning. It rolled through the sky in long, low waves—never sharp enough to startle, never loud enough to frighten, just constant. Like something circling the edges of the world, waiting for permission to come closer.
Rain slid down the sunroom windows in blurred rivers, smearing the garden beyond into soft washes of green and gray. Each time thunder followed—deep and distant—your ears twitched before you could stop them. It wasn’t fear. Not really. It was quieter than that, a low hum under your skin.
Unease. The kind that settled behind your ribs and made your muscles feel tight in places you couldn’t quite name. Like your body knew it was safe, but hadn’t figured out how to stop bracing anyway.
Minho sat on the couch with his legs tucked under him, a book resting against his knees. His eyes moved steadily across the page, unhurried, untouched by the weather outside. Across from him, Chan lounged in the corner chair with a tablet in one hand and coffee in the other. The scent drifted through the room—dark, rich, grounding—like something that knew how to keep people anchored.
You lingered near the doorway longer than you meant to. Your arms disappeared into the sleeves of your hoodie, tail swishing low and slow behind you. Your gaze didn’t settle on anything in particular, just hovered between the rain-streaked glass and the quiet weight of the storm pressing in.
Their voices murmured softly to each other, low and familiar, the kind of rhythm that didn’t need your attention. You didn’t catch the words.
All you could really hear was the storm. Not loud…just constant. Filling your ears like pressure that didn’t know how to release.
Chan was the first to notice.
“Sweetheart?” He asked gently, setting his mug down. “You alright?”
You frowned and didn’t answer. You just moved. Crossing the room in a few quiet steps, your bare feet soundless on the warm floor. You stopped right in front of him, then climbed into his lap like you’d done it a hundred times—like your body had already decided what it needed before your brain could catch up.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t careful. You just straddled him, knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his thighs, and folded over him with your arms loosely around his neck. You tucked your face beneath his jaw and let yourself go heavy against him, like the weight of his body could hold the storm away.
You didn’t think about how it looked. Didn’t worry about whether you were being awkward or too clingy or too much. You just needed to be close, so you pressed in and stayed there.
Chan went still for half a second. Minho looked up from his book, one brow lifting slightly, but he didn’t say a word.
You didn’t notice either reaction. All you could register was the warmth of Chan’s chest under your cheek, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and the way his hands settled on your back—slow, grounding touches that said I’ve got you.
He shifted a little to make room for you without complaint, sliding one leg back so your weight could settle more comfortably. You sank into him fully, letting the tension in your shoulders ease for the first time all morning.
That’s when it happened. Not something you planned. Not something you even realized right away, at least not with your mind. But your body knew. Your hips sank a fraction lower into his lap, the soft fabric of your leggings pressing closer against your skin. Suddenly you felt it—the firm heat of him beneath his joggers, solid and unmistakable where you’d unknowingly settled right on top of him.
Neither of you moved, but Chan’s breath caught, just a small hitch you felt more than heard. His ribs expanded under you, and his fingers flexed once against your back, like his body reacted before he could stop it. Minho still didn’t say anything.
He just closed his book with quiet finality, tapped one finger against the cover like he was marking his place, and kept his gaze on the two of you.
You didn’t notice. You were already curling in tighter, tail tucked in close, ears flattening a little as thunder rolled again—louder this time, close enough to make the windows faintly tremble.
“It’s too loud…” you mumbled, voice barely there against Chan’s neck.
Chan’s hands moved up your back in slow, steady strokes, warm and sure. “I know, baby.” He murmured. “I’ve got you.”
Minho’s voice came from nearby, softer than usual. “Want me to close the shutters?”
You shook your head without lifting it. “No…just need to stay here a minute.”
And you did. You stayed curled into him, wrapped around him like your body had already decided he was where you were safest. You didn’t think about the way you were sitting, or how completely you’d settled into his lap. You didn’t think about your hips going loose with relief, your thighs pressing closer as you tried to sink into warmth and steadiness.
You didn’t notice what it was doing to him. All you noticed was the ache in your throat and the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. The way his arms tightened around your waist little by little, drawing you closer, holding you through the static in your head like he could keep it from swallowing you whole.
“The storm’ll pass soon.” Chan murmured, lips near your temple. “You’re okay.”
You exhaled, slow and quiet, and some of the weight in your chest finally loosened. The warmth of him helped. The solid, grounded feel of his body beneath yours. The calm rhythm of his breathing. And his voice—steady and certain, like a tether—kept catching you every time your nerves tried to run.
Without thinking, you shifted again. Just a small adjustment. Just instinct. Your hips settled heavier into his lap as you searched for more of that calm, more of that warmth—more of him—like getting closer might make the thunder feel farther away.
He didn’t stop you.
He just held you a little closer, one hand settling at the curve of your back and the other resting just above your hip. His thumbs moved in slow, absent circles—gentle, steady, the kind of touch meant to soothe without asking questions.
Minho hadn’t moved from the couch. He didn’t speak again. He simply watched, his book still shut on his knee, his expression unreadable in that way it always was when he was thinking too much. You didn’t see the look in his eyes. You didn’t feel the quiet shift in the room as something unspoken passed between them.
You didn’t notice the way Chan’s hands tightened for a second before relaxing again. Or the way his cock twitched again beneath you. Only that he kept breathing, kept holding you, kept making you feel like you were allowed to take up space here.
You didn’t know how long they’d been waiting for this. For the moment your body would finally reach for them without flinching, without fear, without being coaxed into it like you were something skittish and breakable.
They still didn’t say anything. Because you hadn’t offered anything. Not really. Not yet, and they would never take what you didn’t give.
So they let you stay exactly where you were—curled in Chan’s lap, pressed close, your hips settled low and warm against him, your breath soft against his neck. The way you were straddling him should have felt like crossing a line. Like something too intimate to do without meaning to.
But it didn’t feel wrong to you. To you, it still felt like safety. And to them, it felt like the beginning of something slowly unfolding—quiet and fragile, but real.
Outside, the storm kept moving, its low, constant growl threading through the windows like something alive. Like something waiting.
—
The storm hadn’t eased up. It pressed against the house in long, steady breaths, thunder rolling low over the hills. Rain streaked the windows in soft sheets, turning the garden into a blur of gray and green. The sunroom stayed dim but warm, full of that familiar morning scent—clean laundry, citrus tea, and the subtle heat of skin close by.
You didn’t move much. Your arms stayed draped around Chan’s shoulders, your body folded into his like it was the most natural place to be. Your legs were tucked on either side of his hips, settled without thought. His hands rested at the small of your back, thumbs rubbing slow circles through the fabric of your hoodie—absent but comforting, steady in a way that made your breathing even out.
At some point, the hoodie had ridden up. The skin at the base of your spine was bare to the air, and to his touch. But you didn’t notice. All you registered was the way the storm hummed against the windows, and the quiet safety in his scent that kept you still.
Minho sat across the room, his book open on his lap again. It was hard to tell if he was reading or just staring at the page, letting the movement of the rain fill his focus. He didn’t speak, didn’t get up and didn’t even shift. But now, every so often, you could feel him watching—not in a way that demanded anything, just in that way he always did when he was checking in. Quiet. Constant.
Chan didn’t speak either. He breathed slow beneath your cheek, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that helped anchor you. One of his hands had slipped a little lower, resting just above the base of your tail. His palm stayed there—not tight, not pressing—just present. Like his body had made the choice before he’d thought about it.
Still, there was a quiet stillness to him now. Not discomfort. Not hesitation. Just control. A kind of held breath that made it clear he didn’t want to move unless you did. As if he’d finally gotten you close, and didn’t want to be the reason you pulled away again.
Maybe it was the way your hips had sunk deeper into his lap. Or maybe it was the way your body had settled against him without you even realizing it.
Your breasts were pressed to his, soft and warm beneath the loose fabric of your hoodie, moving with every slow breath you took. It wasn’t dramatic—just a quiet, constant rhythm that made it impossible to forget you were there. That you were on him. That your body was tucked into his like it had always belonged.
Chan was doing his best not to react or shift. He didn't tighten his grip. He tried not to give you anything that might make you notice what your closeness was doing to him.
But you weren’t making that easy. Because once your heartbeat finally slowed, once your ears stopped flicking with every rumble of thunder, your body started to move again—not on purpose, not to be difficult or bold. Just small adjustments, the kind you made without thinking when you were trying to get comfortable.
You let out a long breath, heavy with relief, and your weight shifted against him. Your chest pressed closer. Your hips rolled the slightest amount—just a soft grind forward, barely there, but enough to drag your clothed pussy right along the length of Chan’s cock under his joggers.
His hand tightened at your waist for half a second. A tiny twitch of tension. Then he forced it away like it had never happened.
You didn’t notice. You just sighed against his collarbone and shifted again, that same slow movement forward and down as you tried to find the most comforting position. Your thighs tightened instinctively around his hips, holding yourself in place as your body searched for warmth and pressure the way it always did when you didn’t feel steady.
Your hips rolled once more, absentminded and unthinking, like your body knew what it wanted before you did.
Chan’s eyes fluttered shut. Across the room, Minho had stopped pretending to read. The book was still open on his lap, but his attention wasn’t on the page anymore. He was watching Chan now, quiet and alert, like he’d recognized what was happening long before you had.
Then his voice carried across the room—low, easy. Teasing, but gentle around the edges.
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
Chan’s eyes opened slowly, heavy-lidded. “I know.”
“You okay?”
He didn’t answer right away—not because he was unsure, but because he was trying to sort through the tension coiled tight beneath his skin. Then, barely audible, “She’s soft. She’s warm. And she’s…grinding.”
Minho let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh, but softer. “You want me to move her?”
“No.” The word came out firm and immediate.
Minho raised an eyebrow. “Protective?”
“It's her instinct.” Chan murmured. “She came to me. She’s not ready to be moved.”
Minho didn’t argue. He just nodded, taking him at his word. You shifted again—slow and smooth this time, hips rolling in a lazy circle that pressed your clothed pussy right along the length of Chan’s cock. You didn’t seem to notice the way his thighs tensed or how his fingers tightened slightly at your waist.
You let out a soft, content sigh and curled in closer against his chest, like you were settling in for the night. Chan looked wrecked—not because he was desperate, but because he was trying so hard not to react. Your breasts brushed against him with each small movement, hoodie doing little to hide how your nipples dragged faintly across his skin.
You were warm all over—from the blankets, from the bath you’d taken earlier, from the soft press of your body against his. That chamomile scent still clung to your hair, sweet and familiar, drifting up with every slow breath.
Minho hadn’t looked at his book in a while. It was open in his lap, pages forgotten as he watched the two of you.
“She’s scenting you.” He said, voice low.
“I know.”
“She doesn’t realize she’s doing it.”
“I know,” Chan said again, this time with a shaky exhale. His head dropped back against the couch, jaw clenched. “Fuck…”
Then your hips moved again—barely, just the faintest unconscious roll—and Chan’s cock twitched beneath you. His thighs went rigid. Minho saw the way his hand flexed against your waist. And then you mumbled something, soft and half-asleep.
“Hm?” Chan dipped his head, trying to see your face.
You just burrowed in closer, nuzzling into the curve of his neck. Your breath was warm against his skin when you whispered, “Warm now…”
He swallowed hard. “Yeah? That’s good, baby.”
You hummed in response, still half-asleep, your voice soft and sleepy. “I like this.”
His answer slipped out before he could temper it, rougher than he meant. “Yeah…I do too.”
Then you moved again—thighs pressing in, your chest brushing his, hips rocking forward in a slow, gentle grind.
You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t realize what your body was searching for—the pressure, the friction, the steady rhythm of it. You didn’t know the heat pooling low in your belly had a shape. Or that the firm weight you kept grinding against was Chan’s cock, now fully hard and pulsing beneath you with every shift of your hips.
All you knew was that the storm didn’t seem so loud anymore. That being curled in his lap made it easier to breathe. That moving like this—slow, steady, quiet—felt good. Not confusing. Not dirty. Just…right. Like your body had stumbled into something it didn’t know it had been missing.
Minho’s voice came again, low and even. “Let her keep going.”
Chan didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. He just nodded silently. You were safe. Warm. Tucked into his chest like you belonged there. And when you rolled your hips again—slow and unthinking, breath catching just a little—neither of them said a word.
They understood, even if you didn’t yet, they did. They knew what this was — what it was becoming. And they were willing to wait. Quiet. Patient. Ready for you to get there on your own.
You shifted again in Chan’s lap, a slow, dragging movement that brought you even closer. Thigh to chest, no space left between.
Outside, the storm kept tapping out its rhythm, rain streaking down the windows in thick, shimmering lines. But you had stilled. Your body, once tense and unsettled, had gone soft in his hold—your breathing calmer, your instincts quieted.
Your fingers curled into the fabric stretched over Chan’s shoulder. Your cheek rested just above his collarbone, breath warm against his skin, slow and steady—grounding the both of you.
He hadn’t moved. His hands stayed on your lower back, warm and steady. His knees had fallen open slightly, just enough to cradle you in his lap. The fabric of his joggers was stretched tight under you now. You were straddling him, thighs snug around his hips, and every time you rocked forward, your core dragged over the thick, hard press of him beneath the waistband. It made your breath hitch. Then deepen.
You shifted again, angling your hips slightly, chasing the pressure without knowing why. It felt better this way—more solid, more right—and with each slow roll of your hips, your breasts pressed more firmly against his chest, the hoodie between you tugging and shifting with the movement.
Chan’s hands flexed once on your back, then relaxed again. He still wasn’t guiding you. Wasn’t pushing or pulling. Just holding you there—steady, solid—while you moved the way your body wanted to. Minho looked up, his book forgotten, gaze fixed on the two of you.
“She’s more relaxed,” Minho murmured.
Chan didn’t lift his head. “And warm.”
“She’s still grinding.”
“I know.”
You let out a slow breath through your nose, long and steady, and then you melted in even closer—curling against Chan’s chest like his warmth was the only thing keeping the storm from getting to you. Like you needed to sink into it completely.
Chan didn’t stop you. He only shifted a little again, adjusting his posture so you could settle more comfortably in his lap—so the next slow roll of your hips happened easier, smoother. Almost like he was making space for you without actually guiding you. Even if you still had no idea what you were doing.
Chan was still hard beneath you, the thick length of him pressed right up against your center even through the layers of fabric. The seam of your leggings caught just enough to add a subtle drag, the smallest bit of friction that made it impossible to ignore once you felt it.
You went still for a moment, breathing slow and even, body heavy with sleep and comfort.
Then you moved again. A smooth roll forward, then back, dragging your pussy along him through your clothes—soft, unhurried, but more deliberate than before, like your body had found the angle it wanted and wasn’t letting it go.
Chan’s breath turned shaky. His head tipped back against the couch, jaw tight like he was trying to ride it out without making a sound.
Minho kept watching, gaze steady.
“You gonna keep staying quiet?” He asked, voice low.
Chan’s eyes stayed closed. “She’s not ready.”
Minho nodded once, like that was enough. “She’s doing it herself.”
“I know,” Chan said again, quiet and certain,
You shifted again, and this time you settled into him more fully—weight balanced, legs snug around his hips. Your movements turned slower, smoother, almost fluid as you rocked against him, chasing that steady friction without understanding why it felt so good.
Under you, Chan’s cock pulsed—thick and aching where it pressed up against you—every roll of your hips pulling a little more tension into his body while he stayed perfectly still, letting you take what you needed at your own pace.
His hands never pushed. They just rested on your waist—warm and steady. Anchoring you. Not pressing, not guiding, just there. A quiet kind of presence that told you it was okay to keep going. You moved again, slower this time, your whole body following the motion.
Minho didn’t say anything at first. Then, after a pause, he spoke calmly. “We’re going to have to talk about this.”
“We will,” Chan murmured.
He finally opened his eyes and looked down at you—really looked. At the way you were curled into him. The slow drag of you over his lap. The soft weight of your breasts pressing into his chest with every quiet roll of your hips.
His voice came low, just above a whisper. “Just let her have it.”
Minho gave a quiet nod and leaned back again. So they did. They let you keep going, slow and unhurried, your hips moving in soft, steady circles. Your breathing stayed even. Your body stayed loose, warm, and completely relaxed—like it belonged in Chan’s lap. Like you’d found something safe and didn’t need to question it.
Outside, the storm deepened. Rain tapped hard and steady against the windows. Still, neither of them reached for you. No one moved to change your pace or your rhythm. They let you take what you needed—no more, no less.
Chan held you gently. One arm now wrapped low around your back, the other beside you, his hand beneath your thigh. Not controlling, just holding. His shirt was soft beneath your cheek, and the warmth of his skin bled through the fabric in a way that felt grounding.
You nuzzled in closer without thinking, breath brushing over the hollow at his collarbone. Then your hips rolled again—slow, instinctive, pressing down against the firm heat between you.
—
Chan’s cock twitched beneath you, straining hard against the fabric of his joggers. The material did almost nothing to hide it—thick and hot, pressed tight where your warmth kept sinking into him with every slow roll of your hips. And still, you didn’t stop.
To them, you still didn’t seem to realize what you were doing. Like you didn’t register the way the pressure was building or the way Chan’s entire body had gone tense beneath you. You just kept moving, soft and steady, like your body had latched onto something it didn’t want to let go of.
It was instinct more than thought at this point, that half-asleep, hazy kind of need that didn’t have language yet. You were caught somewhere between comfort and something heavier—like warmth, like sleep, like a dream that made your body sigh without knowing why.
Chan barely breathed. His jaw was set, throat working as he swallowed down every sound threatening to slip out. He didn’t move, not even a little—not when you rocked forward again and your breasts pressed into his chest, dragging softly through the fabric of your hoodie. Not when the material between you started to dampen from you, slick warmth soaking through as you kept rubbing against him.
Minho stayed quiet. He sat across from you both, still as stone, eyes fixed on the scene with a steady, unreadable calm. His jaw had tightened at some point, sharper now, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t step in because this wasn’t about him.
The only sounds in the room were your slow, even breathing and the faint, wet drag of fabric each time your hips rolled. Outside, thunder rumbled low in the distance, wind brushing the windows like a restless whisper.
Chan finally let out a shaky breath when you shifted again, your weight settling heavier into his lap and pushing him deeper into the couch cushions. His arms tightened around you without thinking—not to stop you, not to hold you still, but to steady himself. To brace against everything you were stirring in him without even realizing it.
You felt so soft like this. Warm and unguarded, loose with sleep even while your hips kept up that slow, searching rhythm. Every pass dragged your pussy over the hard bulge of his cock, your slick soaking into the front of his joggers now—sticky, hot, and impossible to ignore.
Your thighs began to tremble slightly where they wrapped around his waist, the effort showing at last in small, involuntary shivers in your muscles. But you didn’t stop. You just kept going, little slow circles, like your body wasn’t ready to let go of the feeling yet.
And then another grind, slower this time. Shallower. Your head tucked in closer beneath Chan’s chin. One more lazy roll of your hips, and then you went still. A quiet, content sigh slipped out of you, soft and warm against the curve of Chan’s throat, like you’d finally settled into the one place you wanted to be.
Chan didn’t move. Your breathing had started to slow, evening out into the quiet rhythm of real sleep. Long, steady inhales. Your body went completely soft against him—face tucked in, limbs heavy, every part of you relaxed. But you were still pressed close, your pussy resting right over the hard length of his cock, warm and wet through the thin fabric between you.
Minho stood without a word. Returning a moment later with a blanket, unfolding it carefully before draping it over your back. His hands moved gently, smoothing the fabric down your spine, then brushing a bit of damp hair from your cheek where it had stuck to Chan’s shoulder. His touch was light. Thoughtful.
“She’s out.” Minho said quietly, barely above a whisper.
Chan gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
His voice was rough—like it had scraped its way up from somewhere deep in his chest. His cock still throbbed under you, hard and aching, but he didn’t move. Didn’t shift to ease the pressure or try to lift you off. He just adjusted his arms around you again, slow and careful, holding you exactly where you were.
“Don’t move her.” Minho said softly. “She’s comfortable.”
“I know.”
Minho lingered for a moment longer, eyes drifting over your sleeping form. The tension in his expression started to ease, his features softening into something quieter. Almost tender.
“She needed this.” He murmured.
Chan’s arms tightened just a little. “I know.”
They didn’t say anything more. Outside, the storm rolled closer, thunder a low, distant hum behind the glass. And you slept—curled against Chan’s chest, warm and unaware. Still slick. Still straddling the cock you’d unknowingly worked into a slow, aching hardness. But safe, wrapped in the arms of someone who would rather sit there suffering in silence than move you before you were ready.
——
You hadn’t meant to climb into his lap, but once you were there—limbs heavy, body loose and warm from your bath, with clear signs of exhaustion—you didn’t have it in you to move again. You just stayed, letting your weight settle like you belonged there.
Minho had been reading. Or at least pretending to. The book was still open, resting on the arm of the couch, but his attention had drifted long before you shifted toward him. Your eyes looked soft and distant, your tail giving one lazy flick before going still again, and you moved like someone too tired to think through what they were doing.
So when you tucked your knees in and curled into the space above his thighs, he didn’t stop you.
He only adjusted slightly to make room—one arm sliding behind your back, the other settling lightly on your thigh. Not holding you down. Not pushing you away. Just there. Calm and solid.
You let out a quiet breath against his neck, the kind that sounded like your body giving up the last of its tension. His scent hit you immediately, familiar in a way that made your chest loosen. Crisp and clean—black tea and something colder underneath, like rain on stone. It wasn’t the kind of cold that warned you off. It was the kind that drew you in, steady and grounding.
So you leaned closer without thinking. You nuzzled into the side of his neck, cheek settling against the slope of it, your breath warm where it brushed his collarbone. The hoodie shifted as you moved, riding up your thighs just enough for bare skin to graze the fabric of his sweatpants. Your tail slid lazily to the side, and your hips followed—easing forward with no urgency, no real intention.
It was just instinct. Quiet and automatic. Your body was chasing something it couldn’t name—pressure, comfort, warmth. You shifted again, a slow drag that barely registered as movement at first, just the soft pull of friction through fabric. Your pussy pressed gently against the front of his joggers, and beneath you, Minho’s cock started to harden.
He didn’t move, tense or flinch. He didn’t try to correct you or pull you back. He just stayed still, letting you settle however you needed to, letting you take what your body was reaching for without making it into anything more than it was.
His hands stayed exactly where they were—one resting gently behind your ribs, the other loose over the curve of your thigh. He kept his breathing even, quiet and controlled, like he was trying not to disturb you. The only real sign of strain was the way his jaw had tightened, muscles set hard beneath his skin.
You moved again, another slow, unhurried roll of your hips. Your breath hitched slightly as your body pressed down, barely noticeable, but Minho felt it immediately. The heat between your legs had soaked through the fabric now, slick spreading warm and wet as his cock pushed up beneath you, firm and steadily growing harder.
He felt all of it. Every sleepy shift. Every slow grind. Every instinct-driven roll of your hips as your body searched for something it couldn’t name—something you didn’t fully understand, only knew you wanted. And still, Minho didn’t move.
He let you shift however you needed to. Let you take the comfort your body kept reaching for. He didn’t stop you or rush you or make it into something heavier than it was. He just stayed there, quiet and steady, waiting you out with a kind of patience that made his restraint feel almost impossible.
Your breasts brushed against his chest with every small movement, barely held in place by the oversized hoodie you’d stolen earlier. Each slow shift dragged their soft weight across him, again and again, matching the gentle rhythm of your hips. Under you, his cock was fully hard now—thick and throbbing beneath damp cotton.
But he didn’t chase it. He didn’t thrust up or rut into you, no matter how easy it would’ve been. He only held you there, keeping you close without guiding your body at all.
You were warm in his lap, loose and pliant, your instincts coming forward in that quiet way that only happened when you felt safe. You weren’t frantic or heat-drunk—just soft. Trusting. Comfortable in the deep, animal part of you that relaxed when every warning bell went silent.
That safety let you move like this, like you did with Chan. Yiu stayed tucked against him, slick and warm, dragging wet and lazy over the hard line of his cock without the faintest idea how close you were to undoing him.
Then your hips gave one more shallow rock, slower than the rest, more like a sleepy twitch than a real movement. Your breathing changed after that—slower, deeper, softer.
Minho stayed quiet. His chest rose once beneath your cheek, then again, controlled and steady. He didn’t shift you, didn’t pull you away. Instead, he reached for the blanket nearby and drew it up gently, tucking it around your waist with careful hands. Then his palm moved down your spine in a slow, soothing stroke, fingers brushing lightly through your hair where it had flattened against his shirt.
You let out a soft sigh into the curve of his neck—warm and weightless. And then you went still. Completely quiet. Completely asleep.
Minho leaned back against the couch, head tilted toward the ceiling, every muscle pulled tight with restraint. His cock throbbed beneath you, soaked through and pressed snug between your thighs—a constant pressure that pulsed harder with every breath he tried to keep even.
But he didn’t move. Didn’t shift to relieve the ache. Didn’t even let his breathing falter. He just held you. And waited for it to pass. You hadn’t pulled away. But you hadn’t asked for anything more either.
So Minho stayed still. Motionless, despite every nerve in his body being lit up from the heat of you asleep in his lap. His cock pulsed in slow, heavy beats under your slick warmth—wet, snug, unintentional.
And you—quiet, soft, completely unaware—slept like you were meant to be there.
The door creaked open. Minho didn’t look up. Your breath stayed warm against his throat, lips parted slightly, arms tucked between your bodies like you were trying to get even closer. Footsteps crossed the floor in slow, measured steps. You didn’t stir, but Minho’s shoulders pulled just a little tighter.
Chan didn’t say anything right away. He stood a few feet away, quiet, taking in the sight of you curled in Minho’s lap—the tension beneath Minho’s stillness, the heavy calm that settled over the room like something they both weren’t quite ready to name.
They both had seen it before—the way you folded into someone like that, how your body went soft with sleep, instinct easing in where thought used to be. He remembered the way your hips moved when you didn’t know you were moving. The shift in your breathing once you felt safe enough to chase comfort without thinking.
So he didn’t ask for an explanation. He just crossed his arms over his chest and spoke low.
“She climbed into your lap?”
Minho’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”
Chan’s gaze dropped to where you were settled—still and snug over the hard line in Minho’s sweatpants, your legs loose around his waist. Most of you was hidden beneath the blanket, but the shape of it made the situation obvious anyway.
“She move?” Chan asked, even though he already knew.
Minho gave a single nod. “For a while.”
“And now?”
“Out cold.”
Chan stepped a little closer, keeping his voice low. “Did she say anything?”
“Not a word.”
“She just…came to you?”
Minho breathed out through his nose. “Came over like she wasn’t even thinking. Climbed into my lap, straddled me, curled up…and started moving.”
Chan tipped his head slightly. “Instinct.”
Minho let out a quiet huff, something edged and bitter. “That’s what you called it last time, right?”
Chan didn’t flinch. “You remember—she did the same thing to me last week. She doesn’t know.”
“I know she doesn’t.” Minho said, voice even, controlled down to the last syllable. “That’s what makes it harder.”
Chan didn’t answer immediately. His attention drifted to Minho’s hand, hovering just behind your back. Not stroking. Not soothing. Just there—steady, restrained, like even a little movement might break whatever delicate, wordless thing had settled between the three of you.
“She’s been out for a while?” Chan asked softly.
“A bit, yeah.” Minho murmured.
Chan nodded slowly. “And you’ve been hard the whole time?”
Minho finally looked up at him, brow raised. “You really need to ask?”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Chan’s mouth. “Didn’t think so.”
Minho’s jaw worked for a second before he spoke again. “She soaked through.”
“I know.” Chan said gently. “Same thing happened with me.”
“I didn’t move.” Minho added, like he needed it said out loud. “Didn’t push. Didn’t grind back.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
Minho’s gaze flicked down to you, softer for just a second. “She trusted me.”
“She still does.”
Minho’s voice dropped, quieter now, the tension underneath it sharper than before. “I don’t want her to wake up and—”
“She won’t.” Chan cut in, firm but not unkind. “You didn’t take anything from her. You just held her. That’s what she needed—whether she understands it yet or not.”
Minho didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped back to your face—soft and peaceful where you lay against him, more relaxed than you’d looked in days.
He just watched you for a moment, breathing slow and controlled, still holding you like he didn’t trust himself to loosen his grip.
“She didn’t even flinch.” Minho said quietly. “She just…melted.”
Chan’s expression softened. “That’s how you know she feels safe.”
Minho let out a slow breath and nodded. Silence settled between them after that. Rain tapped steadily against the windows, the house humming with its usual quiet, and your breathing stayed warm and even against Minho’s chest.
Chan shifted a little closer. “You want me to take over?”
Minho shook his head immediately. “Don’t move her.”
Minho didn’t respond at first. His jaw flexed once, like he was grinding down the truth before letting it out. Then, in a low voice, he said, “She rubbed against me until she passed out. I can still feel her. I’m hard as hell. I’m fucking aching. But I’m not moving.”
Chan stepped closer and crouched in front of him, one hand braced against the edge of the couch.
“You’re not doing this alone, Minho.”
“I know.”
Chan’s gaze stayed steady. “I wanted her the first time it happened, too. Still do.” A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “That doesn’t make us bad people.”
Minho shook his head. “It’s not the wanting that bothers me. It’s making sure she gets what she needs.”
“And you are,” Chan said simply. “You’re giving it to her.”
Under the blanket, Minho’s hand shifted just slightly—only enough to cover the small of your back. His fingers rested lightly near the waistband of your leggings, protective and careful, like the smallest touch still mattered.
“She’s gonna wake up like this.” Minho murmured.
“Then let her.” Chan said gently. “And be there when she does. You didn’t do anything wrong, Minho. You comforted her. That’s all.”
Minho swallowed, throat working. “Even if my cock’s still pressed against her?”
“Especially then.”
Minho let out a rough breath that was half laugh, half groan. “Fuck.”
Chan stood and gave his shoulder a firm squeeze as he passed.
“She came to you.” He said again, voice low. “Don’t forget that.”
And then he walked back down the hall, leaving Minho alone with the quiet. Still sitting there with his legs spread, cock hard beneath your sleeping weight, arms wrapped around the warm, soft body that had climbed into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You didn’t stir. So he didn’t move. Because you hadn’t asked him for anything except closeness, and that was all he was going to give you. No more. No less. Even if it hurt. Even if the ache stayed lodged deep in his chest and lower still, pulsing with every slow breath he forced himself to keep steady. Even if all he could do now was wait.
——
The house had gone quiet just before the storm hit. You’d finished your bath not long ago—the towel still slung over the sink, your hair damp and clinging to your shoulders in uneven strands. You hadn’t bothered fully getting dressed. You’d only pulled on an oversized hoodie, sleeves hanging past your fingertips, the hem brushing your thighs. Nothing underneath. You didn’t need anything else for padding barefoot down the hallway, for existing in the soft hush before the rain came.
You’d barely started working a towel through your hair when the sky split open. Thunder crashed so deep and close it seemed to shake the bones of the house, rattling the windows in their frames.
You flinched hard. Your ears folded back, tail tucking low, and that sharp, invisible pressure tightened behind your ribs—the instinctive panic storms always pulled out of you. You didn’t stop to think, didn’t weigh whether you were interrupting anything, didn’t hesitate even for a second.
You just moved.
Down the hallway, fast and quiet, passing dim rooms and shut doors. Another crack of thunder hit—louder this time—and your breath caught in your throat as you hurried quicker, almost jogging now.
Their bedroom door wasn’t fully shut. You slipped inside without a word and climbed onto the bed like it was the only place you could breathe again.
There was warmth. Movement. Skin. The slow, wet sounds of bodies moving together.
But you didn’t register it—not right away. Not with the storm still ringing in your ears, not with your instincts screaming for safety, for closeness, for arms around you. All you knew was that you needed to be held, and you went straight toward the first warmth you could find.
The only things you registered were the soft give of the mattress under your knees, the thick warmth in the air, and the sound of breathing that wasn’t yours.
You crawled forward—guided by instinct, by the deep, unshakable need to be close—until your legs straddled the center of the bed. Straddled someone.
Chan.
He was warm beneath you, skin bare and slick with sweat, his chest rising unevenly with each breath. His hands found your hips without thinking as you settled over him—knees braced on either side of his waist, your weight pushing him gently into the pillows. The hem of your hoodie rode up as you moved, and your thighs brushed the sides of his torso.
But you didn’t stop. You kept going, chasing the comfort you needed, clinging to the heat of him—until you felt another body press in behind you.
Minho.
You recognized him instantly. His breath was warm against the back of your neck, close enough to stir your still-damp hair. His body fit flush against yours—his cock, still slick from before, caught between you as you leaned back into him. The only thing separating you was the thin layer of your hoodie, draped loosely over skin that hadn’t fully dried.
Your ass pressed snug against him, bare beneath the fabric. Your body curled instinctively into the space between them, caught in the warmth of their silence.
Neither of them said a word.
Minho’s hands found your waist, steady and gentle. Chan’s remained where they’d landed when you first climbed onto him, fingers still curled loosely at your hips.
You tucked in closer, cheek pressed to Chan’s collarbone just as thunder rolled across the roof again.
“Sweetheart…” Minho’s voice was low and careful, still rough around the edges from what you’d walked in on. “You okay?”
You nodded quickly, arms sliding around Chan’s chest as you pressed in closer. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Chan’s voice was hoarse but warm. “You’re okay.”
You nuzzled deeper into him, your hips shifting without thought—dragging the heat of your body back against Minho’s cock, still hard where it rested against the thin stretch of your hoodie. He twitched at the contact, sharp and immediate, but you didn’t seem to notice.
“I just…” You swallowed. “Didn’t want to be alone.”
Minho’s hands flexed gently at your waist—not pulling, not urging—just steady. Like he needed the reminder that you were really there.
“Was it the thunder?” Chan asked, his hand slipping beneath your hoodie to trace along the curve of your spine. His palm moved slowly, grounding you, the fabric bunching up slightly with each stroke.
You nodded. “It scared me.”
Minho leaned in closer, his chest warm against your back, lips brushing your shoulder. “You’re ok. You're not alone, baby.”
The bed creaked softly beneath the weight of the three of you. You stayed straddled over Chan, thighs wrapped around his waist, your body rising and falling with the slow rhythm of your breath. Minho didn’t pull away. His cock, still slick and fully hard, remained snug between your body and his, separated only by the thin fabric of your hoodie. Your tail flicks a little, laying against your thigh.
You shifted again—just slightly, unintentionally—and the movement dragged your hips across him. The friction made his cock twitch up against you, and Minho let out a tight breath through his nose, trying to keep himself steady.
You froze. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re fine.” Minho said gently, his voice low and a little strained. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I can move.” you offered, starting to lift yourself off.
Chan’s voice stopped you. It was firmer now, though still gentle. “No. Don’t.”
You blinked, unsure.
“You don’t have to move just because we were in the middle of something.” he said softly, his hands sliding down your sides. “You’re allowed to need us. Even now.”
“I didn’t know…” you whispered.
Minho kissed your shoulder again, slower this time. “You were scared. You came to us. That’s what matters.”
Their bodies stayed curled around you—bare and warm, skin still flushed from earlier, breaths just beginning to settle. Minho was still hard behind you, pressed close, but he hadn’t moved. Not once since you climbed into their bed.
You shifted slightly, thighs squeezing as you settled lower, closer. It wasn’t meant to tease or tempt—just to be held. To feel safe. Chan’s breath caught.
Behind you, Minho let out a quiet groan and lowered his forehead to your shoulder blade. “You’re not making this easy, sweetheart.”
“I’m sorry…” you whispered.
He gave a soft laugh, warm against your skin. “I didn’t say I wanted you to stop.”
You moved again—just a small roll of your hips, unintentional, just trying to get comfortable. Minho’s cock twitched hard against the curve of your ass.
You blinked. “You were…?”
“We were close.” Chan said gently.
“Oh.”
Minho’s teeth grazed your shoulder, catching a bit on the fabric of your hoodie. “You can stay.”
You let out a soft breath. “I wasn’t planning to leave…unless you wanted me to.”
The room went quiet again. Just your breathing, the low hum of the storm outside, and the thick stillness of everything unsaid.
Then Chan spoke, his voice gentle. “Do you want us to stop?”
You paused, thinking—really thinking. Your breath had finally evened out. Your skin was warm, humming faintly from where they pressed in on either side of you. Their hands were still at your hips—steady, unmoving. Not pulling, not holding you in place. Just there.
Your voice came quiet. “No.”
Minho’s cock twitched again against you, and this time, your breath left you slower.
“You can…keep going.” you added, a little shy now. “If you want.”
Minho’s fingers flexed at your waist. “If we want?”
You nodded, swallowing. “I like it. Watching. Feeling it. I just…didn’t want to be alone during the storm.”
“You’re not.” Chan murmured. His hands started to move again, slow and steady, tracing along your thighs like he was reminding your body it was safe. “You won’t be.”
Minho pressed his mouth close to your ear, body warm against your back, his voice low and rough with restraint. “Then stay right where you are.”
And then they moved—careful and controlled, like neither of them wanted to startle you. Minho shifted his hips first, easing himself back onto Chan with a slow, deliberate roll. The slide between them was thick and slick, and the mattress dipped a little as their bodies adjusted around you.
You didn’t flinch, staying tucked between them, held in place by warmth and skin and steady hands. Your chest pressed to Chan’s, your head resting beneath his chin, Minho’s cock still snug against your ass. You breathed evenly, staying soft, staying right there.
This time, you didn’t startle at the movement. You just let out a slow exhale through your nose, the tension easing out of your body. Your tail relaxed where it had been curled tight along your thigh, loosening as your mind caught up to the fact that you were safe. Your ears twitched once at the sound behind you, but they stayed lifted—calm now. No panic. No fear.
Just warmth. Just closeness. Just the steady rhythm of them moving again, with you sheltered in the middle like you belonged there.
Minho’s hands found your waist again, thumbs brushing lightly over the soft curve above your hips. He still wasn’t moving much—not really—but you could feel him there, the weight of him solid behind you. His cock was hot and slick where it rested against you, pulsing slowly in a way that was impossible to ignore. His legs shifted on either side of Chan’s hips, bracing as his body tightened with effort and control.
In front of you, Chan kept stroking your thighs, patient and grounding. His cock was still deep inside Minho, and you could see it in the way Minho’s stomach pulled tight, in the way his breath caught every time he rocked even slightly.
There was tension in both of them—quiet but intense, humming beneath the surface. Like every muscle in their bodies was working overtime to stay careful, to stay controlled, to keep you comfortable while they fought the instinct to lose themselves.
And without meaning to, your breathing started to change—still slow, but deeper now. More aware.
Your hoodie had ridden up higher around your waist, pushed by the slow, warm glide of Minho’s skin against yours. The entire lower half of your body was bare now, nestled between the heat of their bodies. Your tail stayed low and relaxed, no longer curled in tight with fear.
You shifted slightly—a subtle roll forward as you adjusted your weight where you sat across Chan’s stomach.
The movement pressed your cunt flush against him, warm and wet. The slick between your legs was undeniable now. And you realized it wasn’t because you were scared. Behind you, Minho’s cock slid higher along the curve of your back, the head slick as it caught just beneath the hem of your hoodie with that tiny shift.
He let out a sharp breath through his nose, his jaw clenched. Still holding steady. Still not moving more than he needed, but feeling every bit of it.
“Baby…” Minho’s voice came low and rough against your ear, his breath warm where it grazed your skin.
“I didn’t mean to move like that…” you whispered.
“But it felt good?” Chan asked softly, his lips near your cheek, so close you could feel the words more than hear them.
You hesitated, then gave a small nod. Minho’s hips rolled forward as he shifted on top of Chan—just enough to let his cock slide along the curve of your ass again, a slow, slick drag of heat against your skin.
Your tail flicked once behind you, instinctive. Your body followed the motion—shifting forward, then back. Not exactly with intention, but not out of caution. Just because it felt right. You didn’t pull away from the contact. You leaned into it.
Minho let out a quiet groan, barely more than a breath, but it was real—low and raw, the kind that said he was holding back with everything he had.
“I’m gonna move…” Minho murmured, more to Chan than to you. “Unless you tell me not to.”
Chan’s hands tightened gently around your thighs, steadying you. “You okay, sweetheart?”
You nodded quickly, breath catching. “Yes. Please don’t stop.”
So Minho didn’t. He moved carefully—thighs tensing, knees shifting wider on either side of Chan’s hips as he lifted himself slowly. Now that he was moving again, you could hear everything more clearly: the wet drag of Chan’s cock sliding free, the faint hitch in Minho’s breathing as his hands tightened around your waist to keep you steady.
Then he sank back down again, slow and deep. The motion rocked you forward against Chan’s torso, and your clit dragged over the firm lines of muscle beneath his skin. It pulled a small, surprised whimper from your throat before you could stop it. Minho rolled his hips down again, and his cock slid back against you as he settled into Chan.
Chan’s breath stuttered. “You liked that?”
You nodded, shy but honest, voice barely above a whisper. “It…felt good.”
“You can move,” Minho said softly, “if you want to.”
So you did—slowly at first, more deliberate than before. You rolled your hips forward, dragging your slick heat over the hard plane of Chan’s stomach, then eased back again, brushing your ass against the length of Minho’s cock behind you and leaving him just as wet in return.
Minho groaned under his breath. “Fuck…”
The next time he moved, it was deeper—heavier. A slow grind downward that pressed him firmly along your lower back as he sank into Chan again. You could feel all of him in that motion—thick and hot, dragging between your cheeks, the swollen head catching against your skin as he eased down, steady and controlled.
You pushed your hips forward again and let out a soft gasp when your clit dragged over the firm ridges of Chan’s stomach—sharper this time, the pleasure hitting fast and sudden through the warm haze of your breath.
Then you did it again. Forward, then back. Nothing about it was frantic. Nothing rushed.
It was slow, instinctive—your body settling into Minho’s rhythm like it had been waiting for it, learning where the friction landed, where the pressure felt best. You found a steady pattern without even meaning to: your pussy sliding over the tight plane of Chan’s stomach as Minho lifted, then rocking back into Minho as he sank down again behind you, his cock dragging slick and hot along your skin.
Every time you moved like that, Minho’s breath caught. Chan’s fingers curled a little tighter around your thighs, holding you steady.
“Good girl.” Minho murmured, voice low and warm. “You’re doing so good.”
Something in you softened at the praise, like it loosened a knot you didn’t know you’d been carrying. A quiet whimper slipped out when your hips twitched and your clit dragged over Chan’s skin in just the right way.
“You feel what you’re doing to us?” Chan whispered near your ear, voice rough and thick. “You feel how soaked you are, all over me?”
You nodded, breathing shaky, and Minho’s next thrust came slower and deeper—his cock sliding down against you in a thick, wet drag that made your body tremble.
“I didn’t know it could feel like this.” You breathed, sounding almost stunned.
“You’re not even really being touched yet.” Minho said, his voice strained, like it cost him to hold back.
“You’re just moving.” Chan added, hands still steady on your thighs, grounding you while your body chased the feeling.
Your next words came soft, but there was no hesitation left in them. “I want more.”
Minho’s mouth brushed your shoulder as he spoke, voice lower now, rough with restraint. “Tell us how. Tell us where.”
You rocked back into him again, and the sound was louder now—slick, needy—your body already building toward something that felt too big to ignore.
“I want…you to help me…” you whispered.
“We’ve got you.” Chan said gently, his hands sliding a little higher as if he could hold you together through it. “You want to feel good between us, baby?”
You nodded quickly, breath catching. “Yes. Please.”
“Then don’t stop moving, sweetheart.” Chan murmured. “Grind against me. Let him feel all of you.”
Minho’s hands tightened around your waist—not pushing, not pulling, just guiding. Helping you keep the rhythm when your body started to shake with it. His movements fell into sync with yours, the drag of his cock along your skin turning slower and heavier with every descent, like he was matching you beat for beat and making sure you never lost the feeling.
Your hoodie had bunched around your waist, completely forgotten. With every motion, your tail flicked through the air, responding to the rhythm of your body. Your ears—once pinned flat from the thunder—were upright now, twitching at every sound behind you. Every soft breath. Every groan. Every word of praise.
You moved with them, caught between their bodies, wrapped in heat and tension, riding something slow and building—something deeper than you fully understood.
And then something shifted. You rocked forward a little too far, chasing the pressure, and when Minho lowered his hips again, the head of his cock slipped from its usual path—catching instead right at your entrance.
You gasped and Minho froze, his breath stuttering out hot against your ear. His jaw pressed tightly against your shoulder. “Shit—” he breathed. “That wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”
“I moved.” You said quickly, your voice rushed and quiet. “I didn’t mean to either—”
Chan’s voice came from beneath you, steady and calm. “Are you okay?”
You blinked, your breath still catching. Your cunt fluttered from the sudden contact—barely more than a brush, but enough to leave you throbbing. You nodded slowly. “It didn’t hurt. Just…surprised me.”
Minho still hadn’t moved. His cock hovered right there, slick and warm, nudging just slightly against your entrance. The mix of arousal between your thighs and his made the contact feel heavier than it was. One small shift, and he’d be inside.
Chan’s hand came up to rest under your thigh, steady and warm. “You want more, sweetheart?”
You hesitated for just a breath before nodding. “Yes. Please.”
Behind you, Minho let out a low, rough groan, his voice barely more than a growl in your ear. “If you need me to stop—say it right away.”
“I will.” You whispered.
So he moved—slow and careful, not rushing anything. His hips rolled downward as he sank back onto Chan’s cock, and in the same breath, he gently pulled you back and pressed forward into you. His cock slid inside—hot, slick—and the stretch was deep and steady.
Your eyes fluttered shut as your breath caught. The feeling hit all at once—full and warm, pressure blooming low in your belly until your whole body trembled. Your hands clutched at Chan’s chest, desperate for something to hold onto as Minho eased in the rest of the way, steady and patient. His grip on your waist stayed firm, anchoring you, keeping you grounded.
His thighs tightened around Chan’s hips, locking all three of you together.
“Fuck…” Minho groaned, voice raw and barely held together. “You’re so warm…already clenching around me.”
A soft whimper escaped before you could stop it, your body adjusting to the stretch. You rocked forward instinctively, your clit dragging over Chan’s stomach, your chest pressing against his with the motion.
Chan caught you without hesitation—one hand bracing at your hip, the other slipping under your hoodie again, fingers spreading wide across your spine. He let out a quiet hum, grounding you with his warmth.
“Can I?” He asked softly, his palm moving to your ribs when you got situated.
You nodded quickly, breath catching. “Yes…please.” You weren't really sure what he was asking for, but you didn't care.
His hand moved slowly, carefully—warm and steady as it slid up to cup your breast fully. His thumb brushed over your nipple in slow circles, teasing without rushing, tender without hesitation. You shivered at the touch.
“Fuck…” Chan murmured, awe softening his voice. “You’re so soft here. So warm.”
Behind you, Minho’s hips rolled again—slow and deep, a gentle grind that pushed his cock deeper inside you. Every movement was perfectly in sync with the rhythm he used to ride Chan beneath him. The pressure built quickly, curling tight behind your ribs until it felt like you couldn’t catch your breath.
You whined softly, your hips shifting as the sensation washed over you—overwhelming in the best way.
Minho’s hand shifted from your waist sliding forward until his fingers slipped beneath the edge of your hoodie and moving up, joining Chan’s hand already there. Now they were both touching your breasts. Chan cupped from underneath, Minho from the back. Their hands brushed against each other as they moved together in sync, both focused on you.
Their thumbs circled your nipples, teasing lightly, flicking just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You gasped, hips jerking without meaning to.
“Easy, baby girl.” Minho murmured at your ear, his voice low and warm. “Just let us feel you.”
Chan rolled one nipple between his fingers, a soft pinch that sent a pulse straight through your stomach. Minho followed his lead, a little firmer now—his fingers massaging, coaxing, learning what you liked. He pushed your hoodie higher, bunching the fabric until your whole back arched into their touch.
You were beginning to tremble from how good it felt to be held like this. Touched and seen like this.
“You’re so fucking pretty like this.” Minho whispered, voice rough with emotion. “You’re perfect.”
Chan hummed beneath you, the corners of his mouth lifting in a soft smile. “You like being touched, baby?”
You nodded quickly, breath already gone. “Yes—yes, I…please don’t stop.”
Minho’s next roll was deeper—slow and steady, the kind of grind that pushed his cock further inside you as he settled down over Chan again. The movement rocked you forward, pinning you between the heat of them, and your nipples dragged across their hands as they kept touching you—cupping, rubbing, coaxing soft sounds out of you that you couldn’t hold back even if you tried.
“Fuck.” Minho breathed, voice rough with something like awe. “She’s trembling. Feel that, Chan?”
“Yeah.” Chan murmured. Both of his hands were cradling your chest now, taking in the weight of you, the way your body kept flexing and rocking on instinct against his stomach. He could feel how wet you were, too—heat soaking through as you ground down into him. “She’s soaking me.”
You let out a broken little whimper, hips moving harder now without you thinking about it. Every slow drag of your body around Minho’s cock sent heat snapping up your spine, and every brush of their thumbs over your nipples pushed you closer to the edge until you felt like you couldn’t breathe properly.
Minho leaned in, chest pressed flush to your back as his arms moved around your waist. His breath was warm at your ear. “You’re gonna come for us, aren’t you?”
You nodded even though you didn'tknow waht they meant. Your eyes fluttered, your mouth parting on a shaky exhale.
“You’re being so good.” Chan whispered, voice low and heavy with praise. “Letting us touch you like this. Letting us feel all of you.”
Minho’s hands slid back down to your waist, holding you steady as he started to move again—deep, careful thrusts that rolled through your entire body. The rhythm stayed slow but relentless, matched to the way his hips rocked down onto Chan beneath him, every motion pressing you tighter between them, every breath you took turning more uneven than the last.
A high, breathless cry slipped out of you as one of Chan’s hands moved lower, fingers sliding between you. He found your clit and started rubbing with just the right pressure—quick enough to make your whole body jolt, steady enough to keep you right on the edge.
“I’m— I think I’m—” You gasped, voice cracking.
Minho’s voice went raw, thick with restraint. “Let go. It’s okay. Come for us, sweetheart.”
Chan lifted his head just enough to press a kiss to your breast, right where Minho’s hand had been moments ago. His lips were warm, gentle, almost reverent—and when his tongue flicked over the sensitive peak, something inside you finally snapped.
You came with a full-body shudder, the moan tearing out of you sharp and soft and completely unguarded. Your walls clenched tight around Minho, thighs trembling as the heat inside you surged and broke—wave after wave rolling through you, strong and all-consuming. Like thunder, crashing low through your limbs.
You trembled between them, breath catching, fingers curling weakly into Chan’s chest as your orgasm ripped through every inch of you.
They didn’t let go. They held you through all of it—Minho staying buried deep, his cock twitching with every pulse of you around him, while Chan’s fingers slowed on your clit, easing you back down with gentle care. Their hands stayed where they were—Minho’s grip still firm on your waist, Chan’s touch warm and steady, cradling your chest.
You didn’t pull away. You didn’t want to. You just sank deeper into the space between them—into the heat, the pressure, the quiet, overwhelming safety of being held like this.
Minho pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. Chan traced slow, grounding circles along your thigh.
“You’re perfect.” One of them whispered—you weren’t sure who. But the words settled deep, warm and heavy in your chest like a truth you hadn’t realized you needed.
Your orgasm hadn’t even fully faded before Minho started moving again—slow, careful, unrushed. His hands stayed steady at your waist, thumbs stroking gently beneath your ribs as he began to rock into you once more. His cock still buried deep, every motion filled with care. With hunger. With want.
You were soft now—completely open to them, breathless and warm, your body pliant in their hands. Still trembling with aftershocks, flushed and slick, but you didn’t want it to stop. Not yet.
Your tail flicked lazily behind you, loose and relaxed, responding to every shift of their bodies. Your ears tilted forward with each movement—catching Minho’s stuttered breaths behind you, the quiet praise that spilled from Chan’s lips beneath you, soft and reverent like a prayer.
Minho was still straddling Chan’s hips, his thighs braced wide, knees sinking into the mattress for leverage. With every drop of his hips, Chan’s cock slid deeper inside him—slick and steady—and with each roll back down, Minho pushed into you again. Harder now. Deeper. And your body welcomed all of it.
The rhythm was starting to fray—just a little. The steady control Minho had held onto was slipping, giving way to something rougher, more urgent. His hands tightened on your waist, fingers digging in as he chased the feeling of you.
He was starting to lose himself too—dragged under by the heat, by the way your body gripped him so perfectly, so helplessly.
Your breath hitched as you shifted your weight, thighs bracketing Chan’s waist, body sinking lower. The friction changed—deeper now, the angle sharper—and Minho groaned into your back as he bottomed out, hips meeting yours with a soft, wet slap.
“Fuck—” He rasped, voice breaking at the edges. “You’re so tight.”
“You’re doing so well, Princess.” Chan murmured from beneath you, hands still steady on your chest. His thumbs moved in slow, teasing circles over your nipples as your back arched into him, chasing the touch without thinking. “Letting us feel all of you like this.”
You whimpered, completely caught up in the feeling—breathless, trembling, undone beneath the weight of them and still aching for more.
Minho’s pace picked up just slightly, enough to change the rhythm. The room filled with the slick sound of him moving inside you, each thrust dragging wet and deep. His body rocked in perfect time with the motion of riding Chan beneath him, and every push forward knocked you gently into Chan’s chest.
Each slow roll of Minho’s hips made your tail twitch, overstimulated and flicking with every spike of heat building in your core all over again. You were getting close.
“I can feel her squeezing me.” Minho groaned, his breath hot against your ear. “She’s so wet…fuck, baby, you’re making such a mess.”
And you were—slick dripping down your thighs, coating everything between you, spreading across Chan’s abs every time your hips rolled forward. Messy and warm and perfect. Every inch of you was telling them how much you needed this—how much you needed them.
Chan’s hands never left your body. He kept touching you the whole time—cupping your breasts, stroking you gently, rolling your nipples between his fingers just to watch the way your ears twitched at the sensation. Grounding you. Winding you tighter and keeping you open.
“You like this?” Minho murmured, voice low and rough. “You like the way we touch you here?”
Your hips jerked at the sound of it, your breath catching in your throat.
“Say it, baby.” Chan whispered, his lips brushing along the curve of your jaw. “Tell us what you want.”
“Yes.” You gasped. “I like it—I like when you touch me.”
Minho swore under his breath and snapped his hips forward a little harder, the sound sharp and wet as it echoed through the room. Your tail flicked suddenly behind you, ears flattening for a second before twitching upright again—your body reacting instinctively, completely open and raw.
Chan let out a quiet, rough laugh beneath you. “She likes it when you go deep.”
“She’s squeezing me so fucking tight, Chan.” Minho ground out, voice taut with effort. “I’m not gonna last—”
You moaned again, the sound breaking apart as it left your lips.
Chan lifted his head slightly, his mouth brushing the soft swell of your breast. “Can I?” he asked, his voice warm and close.
You nodded quickly, breath shaky. He leaned in, lips wrapping around your nipple—slow at first, gentle, his tongue flicking softly over the sensitive peak before he sucked deeper. Your body jolted at the sensation, hips twitching again on instinct.
Behind you, Minho let out a strained groan, his rhythm faltering as your walls clenched hard around him.
“Fuck—Chan—”
“I’ve got her.” Chan murmured against your skin, his voice thick, reverent. His mouth was still hot over your breast as he spoke. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she, love?”
“She is.” Minho breathed, and his next thrust came harder—rougher now, his hips snapping forward with more urgency. The sound of skin against skin echoed louder, more desperate, every movement driving deeper.
Each grind sent you rocking forward against Chan’s stomach, your breath coming faster as the pressure inside you climbed again—sharp and fast and impossible to stop.
“Please—” You gasped, voice cracking. “I’m close again—”
“Let go, Princess.” Minho said, voice tight and pleading. “Come for me. I want to feel you fall apart again.”
Chan’s mouth closed over your nipple once more, sucking harder this time—just rough enough to tip you over. And that was all it took.
You came with a cry, your whole body tensing, clenching hard around Minho’s cock as the orgasm surged through you—bright and sharp, crashing down your spine like lightning. You shook between them, overwhelmed, the pleasure knocking the breath from your lungs.
Your ears pinned back from the intensity, your tail giving one final flick before going still—soft and loose behind you as you melted between them, undone all over again.
Minho groaned your name—low and broken. His hips snapped forward one final time, deep and hard, and then he stilled—buried to the hilt. You felt everything. The twitch of him inside you. The slow, steady pulse, then the sudden, spreading heat as he came—spilling deep inside you, his arms tightening around your waist to hold you right there. His whole body trembled with it, every wave hitting harder than the last, his cock pulsing with each release.
“Fuck—fuck—” he gasped against your shoulder, his voice ragged. “You’re perfect…fuck, you’re—”
He didn’t stop. Even as the orgasm ebbed, even as the sensitivity set in, his hips kept rolling—slow and shaky, every breath turning into a whimper, soft and wrecked.
And beneath you both, Chan was still inside him—still holding steady—but his control was slipping fast. You could feel it in the way his body tensed beneath you, coiled tight and straining at the edge.
“You want me to come too, baby?” Chan asked, voice low and frayed.
You nodded, still shaking, still fluttering around Minho where he remained inside you—softer now, but not gone. “Yes…please, I want—”
Minho shifted just slightly, just enough to roll forward and push Chan deeper inside him. The sound Chan made wasn’t even a moan—it was raw, closer to a growl, pulled straight from his chest.
His hands slid from your chest, then around you to Minho’s hips, gripping hard.
“Hold her.” He breathed, voice thick with restraint.
Minho wrapped his arms fully around you then, pulling you tight against him, bracing across your belly. Holding you steady and safe. You were surrounded, pressed between them like you were meant to be there.
You barely had time to breathe before Chan started to move.
Short, controlled thrusts—each one deep, each one landing with weight. The bed creaked beneath the rhythm, your body jolting slightly with every stroke as Chan chased his release—buried inside Minho, holding you both.
You felt it all. The ripple of tension rolling through Minho’s body. The deep, flexing muscle tightening around you. The slick, rhythmic sound of their bodies moving together—louder than your own heartbeat.
And then Chan came. Chan’s breath caught, head tipping back as a broken moan tore from his throat. His hips jerked once—twice—deep and final as he came, warmth spilling into Minho in sharp, pulsing waves.
You felt Chan’s muscles spasm under neath you as he twitched inside Minho. Minho twitched inside you in return. And then everything stilled.
The only sounds left were the ragged drag of breath and the quiet thrum of three racing hearts. Their arms stayed wrapped around you—tight, steady—holding you like something precious. Like something fragile. Like they couldn’t bear to let you go.
You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Your body was soft, spent—completely wrecked and trembling, flushed and slick in the aftermath. You stayed right where you were, cradled between them, your ears twitching faintly while your tail curled loosely around your thigh.
There was no thunder now, the storm having quieted some time ago. There was just quiet now. Just warmth. Just the sound of skin and breath and hearts still beating steady all around you.
Chan was the first to move—barely. His hand drifted slowly over your thigh, a gentle, grounding stroke. Minho’s grip eased at your waist, his fingers trailing up your side beneath the hoodie. When it fell back down, you don't know. Their touch soft and reassuring.
“You alright, sweetheart?” Chan asked, voice low and careful.
You nodded against his chest. “Mmhm.”
Minho pressed a kiss to your shoulder, lips warm and lingering. “Still with us?”
“Still here.” you whispered, soft but certain.
Chan let out a quiet chuckle, a breath of affection. “You were incredible.”
Minho hummed against your back, still nestled deep inside you. “You really were.”
You let out a slow exhale, and your tail gave a gentle flick in response—not quite a word, but they understood.
“Don’t move yet.” You murmured. “Just…stay.”
And they did. They stayed with you—bodies softening, sweat cooling between warm skin, arms still wrapped around you like you were something to be held, not used. Something cherished.
And when it was finally time—when the stickiness became too much, and your muscles began to ache—they moved gently.
They helped you up with quiet care, lifting you from where you lay, supporting every part of you with steady, warm hands. Together, they carried you into the bathroom, never letting you go for more than a second.
Minho turned on the water, adjusting the temperature until it was perfect. Chan dipped a soft cloth into the basin and brought it between your thighs, cleaning you with slow, careful strokes—tender, never rushed. Just patience. Just care.
They carefully undressed you, peeling the hoodie off with gentle fingers, handling you like something precious. And when your ears flicked down again from the soft ache of being seen so fully, they kissed them. Light, reverent, and loving.
When you stepped into the bath, they came with you—one sliding in behind, the other in front, settling you between them as the warm water rose around your bodies.
Their hands moved differently now. No urgency, no hunger. Just soft touches, just presence. Fingers gliding over your ears, down the length of your tail, across skin they’d once touched with heat now touched with calm.
It wasn’t just aftercare. It was a promise.
That you were safe, that you were theirs, and that no matter what came next—no matter when the thunder returned—you’d never face it alone again.
Happily Ever After Looks Like This: L.M & B.C
Lee Minho x fem!reader x Bang Chan (College AU)
WC: 21.6K
CW: Explicit Sexual Content / Smut (warnings below cut), Reference to previous anonymous sexual encounters, discussion of historical racism in Disney media (portrayal of Asian caricatures in The Aristocats and Lady and the Tramp), Polyamory / Ethical Non-Monogamy, Reader is Filipino, Korean and Malaysian, mentions of cheating by a past partner, lying, dumb plans, mention of vomiting, mentions of morgues and cadavers, Changbin is the best bestie, background Jilix & HyunBin, Jisung is slightly insane
Smut Content Warnings: Detailed and graphic depictions of sex acts (oral, penetrative, anal, and group sex), BDSM-adjacent themes (light bondage, dominance/submission, spanking, orgasm control), Double penetration, Dirty talk, degradation kink, consensual power dynamics
The morgue smelled like antiseptic and dead dreams. You puked once, right after that first cold, lifeless hand flopped over when the sheet got pulled back. Changbin held your hair like a trooper, face pale as hell but still managing to talk shit even as his own eyes were watering. Of course, twenty minutes later, he lost his lunch too. The moment a med student casually cracked open a ribcage, he'd bolted for the bathroom with a hand over his mouth and you’d followed after him, dry heaving into the sink next to his stall.
Now, walking up to the Alpha Phi frat house with your hair in a ponytail, strands framing your still-traumatized face, you pull the zipper of your blush pink top up to your neck like it’ll ward off ghostly hands or something. The slim-fit fabric clings to your frame, the high collar doing nothing to stop the bone-deep chill still clinging to your spine. Your black cargo pants swish with each step, sneakers kicking up tiny clouds of dust as you follow Changbin up the porch steps.
“I swear on every protein shake you’ve ever made, Binnie, if I see a zombie tonight, I’m throwing you at it and running.”
“Dude,” he says, dragging out the word in that way only he can, eyebrows raised as he pushes open the front door, “we agreed earlier that I’m throwing you at the zombie. You’re more likely to survive. You’re flexible and short. I’m short and built like a damn freezer. I’m not outrunning shit.”
“You’re the size of a mini fridge, not a freezer. Get it right.”
“I’m not going back to my dorm tonight,” you announce, as you slide your bag off your shoulder and toe off your sneakers by the door. “I will not sleep if I am alone. I’m scared zombies are going to get me now.”
Changbin pauses, staring at you like you’ve said something deeply philosophical. Then he nods seriously. “Sleepover here tonight. Me and you versus the undead. Hyunjin can sleep in his room for once. He’s always draped over my ass anyway, maybe tonight he can spoon a pillow.”
You nod solemnly. “If the zombies run towards us, we sacrifice the rest of Alpha Phi.”
“We throw Jisung in first.”
“No hesitation,”
As you both move toward the living room, the noise level dips just enough to catch low voices. You glance over and slow to a stop. Chan and Minho are on the couch, each of them hunched over one of their phones. They’re scrolling through something, brows furrowed, Minho occasionally swiping angrily while Chan’s jaw works like he’s chewing on words he can’t spit out.
“They okay?”
He glances over, squints, and sighs. “Come on. Let’s go make some strawberry smoothies. I’ll tell you everything.”
You follow him to the kitchen, grabbing a stool while he yanks the fridge open, and pulls out a tub of strawberries, almond milk, protein powder, and Greek yoghurt like it’s muscle memory. He slams it all down on the counter, grabs the blender, and plugs it in.
The blender roars to life, and that’s when he leans in close and starts talking.
“So, the masquerade party last week? The pair of them,” he jerks his thumb toward the living room, “hooked up with some girl in the upstairs lounge.”
You tilt your head. “Okay?”
“They don’t know who she is.”
“...Okay?”
“They’re obsessed with finding her.”
“Okay?”
“She had a blonde wig. Silver mask. Pastel blue dress. Clear heels. Sound familiar? Because it does to me. Because I helped you pick out that slutty Cinderella outfit"
Your brain short-circuits. You stare at him. He tosses in a scoop of protein powder and starts the blender again. You’re still silent when he leans over the counter, one brow raised.
“That hot threesome you were telling me about the other day?” he whispers. “You fucked Minho and Chan.”
Your mouth falls open, and all you can manage is a hoarse, “I think I’m going to pass out.”
Changbin’s smirking now, obviously enjoying every second of this. “Whatever magic is between your legs has got them fucking hooked. They want to find out who the girl was and invite her on a date.”
You slump forward, forehead on the counter. “This is what a stroke feels like. Or a coronary event. Changbin, I’m going to die, right here, on the spot.”
“Minho keeps saying how perfectly submissive she was,” he adds, tone casual as hell. “Like, I knew you were a sub. I knew it.”
“Just shoot me,” you groan. “It was meant to just be a hot rebound threesome after the whole mess with Yeji.”
“I will still fight her if you want,” he says, yanking the blender lid off and pouring the smoothie into two mugs.
“If she sends another apology text, I might let you do that,” you mutter. “But Chan and Minho cannot find out. Ever.”
He hands you your mug. “They won’t hear it from me. But they want you to be the subby feminine meat in that sexy double dommy dick sandwich.”
“Just stab me. Right here. Use the spoon.”
He grins and leans back against the counter. “Okay, so listen. I know you’re dying of embarrassment, but Minho literally said her ass has to be genetic. And Chan goes, so do her tits. And honestly? I have met your eomma. They are fucking genetic. That Filipino blood gave you god-blessed tits and ass.”
You let out a whine and slide off the stool, lying flat on the cold kitchen tiles. “This isn’t happening.”
Changbin sips his smoothie with way too much glee. “All those years of gymnastics came into play, huh?”
“I didn’t know it was them! They had masks on! They had temporary hair dye! One had black hair and the other had blue hair! They’re purple and blonde usually! How is a girl supposed to figure that out when she’s horny?!”
“Poor thing. Two hot men want to fuck and possibly date you. What a hard life you lead.”
“I’m glad you know my pain,”
He snorts. “They also remember the little inner thigh tattoo she had. A barb wire heart”
You slap your hands over your face. “I can never wear shorts in the frat house again.”
“Then they’ll question why you’re dressed like a nun all the time.”
You peek through your fingers. “I thought they were two random bi guys. Not an established couple I know! Oh, Changbin, why do you let me make these decisions?”
“Because it’s fucking funny,” he says, completely unrepentant.
You wail again and kick your legs out across the floor. He laughs and tosses a strawberry into your mouth. “Here. Eat this. There’s no way those two idiots will figure it out.”
“I didn’t even know it was them,” you mumble around the fruit. “They were wearing masks, and one of them had a voice so deep I thought it was fake. And the other whispered in my ear in a way that made me fucking levitate, okay?!”
Changbin turns the blender back on for a second, then leans in. “Chan said she spoke in a language neither of them knew. He repeated what he could remember, and I recognized the Tagalog from the lessons you’ve given me over the past two years.”
You sit bolt upright. “That means I can’t speak Tagalog anymore.”
“You don’t here anyway!” he laughs. “You speak Korean like the rest of us because none of these dumbasses know your languages. Jisung knows a little Malay, yeah, but that’s it.”
You groan again, dropping your head back against the cabinet. “I’m gonna have to fake my own death.”
Changbin shrugs. “Or just wear a new mask, fuck them again, and vanish.”
You throw your strawberry stem at his head.
He just laughs and finishes his smoothie.
Two days later, and it’s still the same scene in the Alpha Phi living room, Chan and Minho tangled up on the couch, legs overlapping, limbs comfortably knotted together but their faces are anything but relaxed. The blinds are halfway open, letting in thin ribbons of afternoon light, but all that does is cast dramatic shadows over their increasingly annoyed expressions.
Chan’s got his arm thrown over Minho’s shoulder, his chin resting on his boyfriend’s head as they scroll through the same fifty fucking pictures they’ve been flipping through since breakfast. Neither of them says anything for a moment, the silence dragging until Minho exhales harshly through his nose.
“This is fucking useless,” he mutters. "The whole goddamn point was anonymity. I hate people. I hate parties. I hate masks.”
“You suggested the masquerade theme,” Chan reminds him, dragging his fingers through Minho’s hair.
“Yeah, because I thought it’d be hot, not a fucking logistical nightmare. I didn’t think we’d get attached to the sex fairy from hell!” Minho huffs. “She let us fuck her at the same time. In the same hole, jagi. We double-penetrated her. On the upstairs lounge couch. I can’t move on from that!”
“Please stop describing it like that-”
“I won’t,” Minho snaps. “Because it was glorious. Transcendent. Our masked sex nymph fairy gave us something pure. She let us both wreck her like she was made for it and now she’s just vanished into the ether. I’m tired of spit-roasting all these fucking one-night stands. Having them suck you off while I fuck them is boring now. Tasteless. We can't go back to that. It’d be like chewing on unseasoned chicken after being served fucking wagyu.”
“Minho-”
“She was interesting! Kinky as fuck!” Minho waves dramatically. “And she kept the fucking mask and wig on during sex, which was hot as hell at the time, but now it’s fucking inconvenient. Our mysterious little subby sex demon is hiding from us and I need more!”
Chan doesn’t argue. He just slowly nods, eyes half-lidded with desperation. Their cuddling is less affection now and more trauma bonding.
“I remember her bouncing on your dick while I sat on your face,” Minho says as if recounting a dream. “And then half an hour later, we both fucked her at the same time, and she still took it like a fucking champion.”
“Stop talking,”
“I can’t! Me and her made out over the top of you like you were just a fuck prop,” Minho continues, voice louder. “While your tongue was buried in my ass, and you were bouncing her on your cock like a goddamn machine. She was giving us her entire soul and it was a religious experience.”
“Please, Min.”
Minho grabs his shoulders. “I’m not fucking letting this go! I want our sex fairy back! We had something beautiful!”
That’s when Jisung finally coughs from the other end of the couch. He’s sitting sideways in a beanbag chair, an actual notebook on his lap and a pen tucked behind his ear like he’s investigating a murder, not a threesome. “You two are really going through it, huh?”
“No shit,” Minho mutters.
“Have you considered the idea that maybe,” Jisung says, flipping a page in his notebook with dramatic flair, “this girl doesn’t want to be found?”
Minho turns to him slowly like he’s been personally offended. “Outrageous. Chan and I gave her the night of her life. Abs. Big dicks. Three hours of hot sex. What else does she fucking want? A pension plan?”
“Maybe she just wanted a one-night stand?” Hyunjin offers from where he’s perched on the armrest, sipping an iced Americano like he hasn’t been plotting in his head this entire time. “She leaned into the whole anonymity thing. People do that for a reason, you know?”
Chan lifts his head. “But she was so-”
“Hot,” Minho interrupts. “Flexible. Submissive. Wet. Genetically blessed. Her tits, her ass, that waist- Flawless.”
Chan nods solemnly. “She was a subby dream. We cannot lose her.”
“She spoke in, like, four different fucking languages too!” Minho throws his hands up. “Who does that mid-fuck? We were fucking cultured.”
“Okay, but,” Jisung says, adjusting his notebook, “you guys fuck guys and girls all the time for one night, and then go right back to being disgustingly in love with each other. Like everyone else is just a blip on your horny little radar. What’s so different about this one?”
“Everything. We haven’t even had couple sex since that threesome. It’s like we’ve peaked. We’ve plateaued. We’ve been defeated by our own excellence.”
Chan rubs his face slowly. “We’ve tried. We’ve tried everything. I bent Minho over yesterday and couldn’t even get hard. That’s never happened before.”
Jisung stares, eyes wide. “Oh damn. You two usually fuck like rabbits.”
Minho slumps further into Chan’s side. “We’re like sad, limp, big noodles now.”
Chan nods again, dead-eyed. “Floppy. Tragic.”
Hyunjin watches them with barely concealed amusement, but deep inside his soul is screaming. Because earlier that day, before you and Changbin hit the gym, he was cornered in the laundry room with a threat so severe he still feels the chill.
“If those two figure out it was Y/N, I’m putting you on a six-month sex ban. No loopholes. I will take the lube. I will hide the toys. I will revoke blowjobs.”
Hyunjin had gasped like he’d been shot. “You’re a fucking monster.”
“I’m serious,” Changbin said flatly. “She was freaky and anonymous. That was her right. If they find out, and it fucks her up, you’re done. Six. Months.”
So Hyunjin is motivated. He is determined. And like any man faced with the threat of celibacy, he will lie his ass off.
“Okay,” Hyunjin says, setting his coffee down. “What if it was Oh Iseul?”
Jisung tilts his head. “Who the fuck is that?”
“She’s in my art history class,” Hyunjin says smoothly. “Loves costumes. Has a thing for drama. Totally fits.”
Chan blinks. “Wait. That name sounds familiar.”
“She’s got a fat crush on both of you,” Hyunjin adds innocently.
Minho’s eyes narrow. “Was she even at the party?”
“She told me she was going,” Hyunjin lies, heart pounding. “Said she was doing the whole mystery girl fantasy thing. She probably didn’t expect you to remember her, but now that you do...”
Minho’s mouth tightens. “The girl had a very specific thigh tattoo.”
“She has that tattoo,” Hyunjin blurts. "I’ve seen it. Trust me. I’ll talk to her.”
Jisung is silent, pen tapping against his notebook. He knows Iseul. Has seen her at a few parties. He can’t definitively say she wasn’t at the masquerade, but something about this doesn’t sit right. Iseul doesn’t know four languages. She’s not the most coordinated either, he watched her trip over a barstool last month and land on Seungmin.
He keeps quiet, but inside, his investigative journalism brain is screaming. This doesn’t add up.
Hyunjin keeps pushing. “I’ll message her. You two will finally get to nut and stop being dramatic little dick ghosts. Win-win.”
Chan nods like he’s already convinced. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Let us know what she says.”
Jisung writes something in his notebook without comment. Just in case. Something is off, and he’s going to figure it out. Because once Jisung’s curiosity is piqued, there’s no stopping him. He’s already planning questions. Alibis. He’ll ask Felix if he remembers seeing her. He’ll find out who bought blonde wigs in the week before the party. He’ll even check the guest list.
As the others continue discussing how to approach Iseul, Hyunjin’s leg bounces nervously, but he keeps a perfect poker face. Anything to avoid six months of celibacy.
The Alpha Phi kitchen smells like old pizza, banana peels, and whatever unholy combination of protein powder and desperation Seungmin tried to microwave yesterday. You sit cross-legged on one of the mismatched bar stools, the worn wooden counter cool beneath your forearms as you lean over Changbin’s big tub of ice cream. Your spoon digs mercilessly into the frozen mass as you swipe lazily through a dating app with your other hand, ankle swinging under the counter.
You’re wearing your favourite wide-leg black cargo pants and a sage green long-sleeve crop top that hugs your boobs like a second skin and stops just under them, showing off a generous stretch of midriff. The butterfly claw clip holding up your hair is the same shade of green, sparkly and shaped like actual wings.
Changbin’s out picking up takeout for the two of you, post-workout bulgogi and banchan from that place near campus that always throws in extra kimchi when you flirt with the tired-looking ajumma behind the counter. The plan is food, cramming flashcards into your brains for your upcoming kinesiology test, and maybe more ice cream if your “I got cheated on” card keeps working. So far, it’s been fucking golden. Changbin had barely blinked when you stuck a spoon in his tub and gave him puppy eyes.
You grin as you swipe right on a hot girl with short pink hair and muscles that could crush a watermelon. Her profile bio says Dom. Big fan of brats. Swipe with caution. You let out a delighted, “Fucking yes,” under your breath, wiggling your shoulders as you tap the heart.
“Hey, Y/N,” Chan says, voice warm and low, and you look up from your phone as the two men responsible for your recent religious experience stroll into the kitchen like they don’t carry the weight of your sexual awakening in their extremely muscular arms.
Chan’s got his usual oversized hoodie on, his platinum blond hair tousled and Minho follows right behind, sleeves pushed up his forearms, purple hair still damp from the shower, face makeup-free and gorgeous in the way that makes your chest ache in places you pretend don’t exist.
“Hey,” you chirp, flashing them a sunny smile, even though your insides are in freefall. Your fingers curl protectively around your phone like it’s going to save your ass from the oncoming storm. You do not want them to know you’re the mystery girl. The memory of that night still flickers behind your eyes at the most inappropriate times, like when you’re buying bread or brushing your teeth or sitting in church for your lola’s birthday mass last weekend. You should probably talk to someone about that.
Chan leans against the counter beside you, his fingers drumming idly on the wood, and Minho slides into the seat across from you, all sharp eyes and unreadable expression.
“Changbin told us about Yeji,” Chan says gently, and your heart clenches a little. He always sounds so sincere. “You deserve better, Y/N.”
Minho lifts an eyebrow. “Want me to pop her tyres? No one would know. I’m stealthy.”
You grin around a spoonful of ice cream. “It’s fine. Felix and Jeongin already sent her glitter cards. You know, the ones you open and poof. Glitter everywhere, forever.”
Minho lets out a sharp laugh. “Fucking iconic.”
Chan chuckles and bumps his shoulder into yours. “Gwenchana?”
“I am so okay,” you sing, tapping through your app again. “I’m good. Great. Fantastic, actually. Yeji broke my heart two months ago, and now I’m just looking for anyone who can give me an orgasm. Multiple preferably. I’m ready to be bisexual in public again.”
Minho blinks. “You sure about that?”
You nod, eyes glued to your screen as your thumb works overtime. “Yup.”
“She cheated on you,” Minho says, voice sharper now, like he’s trying to pick at a wound.
You shrug, licking your spoon clean. “Yup. And now I’m looking for quick, hot sex. Preferably with someone who knows how to make me forget my name for a few hours.”
Chan snorts, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”
Minho frowns, arms crossing over his chest. “Dating apps? Really?”
You finally look up, offering him a wide-eyed smile. “Yup. I’m embracing the slut arc. Time to get dicked down or whatever the sapphic version is. Scissored up? Strapped down? I don’t know.”
Minho blinks again, expression flat. “I think either is applicable.” He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, but you cut in before he can change the subject.
“Oh,” you say, real casual-like, taking another spoonful of ice cream. “Changbin mentioned something about a mystery girl you two are trying to find. From the masquerade party?”
Chan’s face lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. “Apparently it’s some girl from Hyunjin’s art history course. We’re meeting up with her for coffee later this week.”
Relief floods through your body so hard you almost collapse onto the counter. You don’t let it show. You just nod slowly, like that’s news you’re processing with curiosity, not soul-crushing anxiety. Inside, you’re mentally high-fiving Hyunjin’s chaotic gay soul for pulling it off.
“Have you met Iseul?” Minho asks, narrowing his eyes.
You blink, brain scrambling. “Uh. I think Hyunjin introduced me to her once. At a party. The uh, Greek gods and goddesses one. Few months before the masquerade. She was Aphrodite, I think. I’m not sure. I was a very drunk Persephone.”
“What did you think?” Minho presses.
You lie straight through your teeth. “Oh, she was great. So pretty. Sweet. Like, really sweet. Totally the type to go under the radar at a party like the masquerade. And she was wearing a really sparkly dress. Or maybe that was someone else. I was, again, very drunk. At one point I was eating grapes out of a stranger’s hand like a baby bird.”
Chan smiles. “I hope it’s her. She sounds great.”
Minho nods in agreement, and you can feel your shoulders finally relaxing. They’re convinced. Fully. The relief is so intense, you could cry. Instead, you shovel another bite of ice cream into your mouth and grin.
None of you notice the faint creak from the lower cupboard near the fridge. The one that’s always empty because Felix refuses to keep any snacks below knee level. None of you see the tiny crack in the door, or the glint of round brown eyes peeking through the shadows like a goddamn cryptid. Because, Han Jisung, investigative journalism major, short king of chaos, is currently curled up in that cupboard, scribbling notes into a tiny pocket journal.
Jisung knows Iseul. Knows she was definitely at the Greek gods and goddesses party. But the masquerade? He can’t confirm she was there. He’s checked every picture, asked every person he knows, even sent a totally casual message to her class group chat. Nothing.
But more than that, something is off. He watches you from the gap in the door. You’re acting too chill. Too unaffected. And Jisung is nothing if not paranoid. He doesn’t know why, but his gut, and also, as he’s been telling Felix all week, his left ball is tingling. And his left ball never lies. It tingled during the fake ID scam of freshman year. It tingled when Jeongin tried to pass off hashbrowns as vegan nuggets. It tingled before Chan and Minho confessed they were into opening their relationship.
It’s tingling now.
His eyes narrow as he silently writes in his notebook. Y/N. Sage green top. Looks hot. Suspiciously relaxed when asked about mystery girl. Too calm = guilty? Cross-reference height and tattoo location. Note to future HJs: Buy more pens.
He will not rest until this mystery is solved. Not even for Felix, who has stopped joining Jisung in his room because Jisung keeps muttering about “timeline inconsistencies” in his sleep and once whispered “masquerade titty fairy” during a blowjob. Felix now games alone in his room with the door locked, sending only the occasional please hydrate text.
But Jisung isn’t worried about collateral damage. The truth is out there. And he’s going to find it. Even if he has to live in the kitchen cupboard to do it.
The air outside the cafe is cool and crisp, but the tension under Minho’s skin is boiling. He walks alongside Chan, both of them a little too well-dressed for a casual meetup, Minho in his charcoal overshirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows like always, his purple hair slicked back out of his face, and Chan in his standard fitted black hoodie, the neckline stretched slightly from constant tugging, platinum blonde hair half flattened under a black cap.
They look like two men about to interrogate a witness, not meet a girl who may or may not have been their anonymous sex partner from nearly three weeks ago. Chan exhales slowly as he pushes open the door, the scent of roasted beans and sugar-syrupy syrups hitting them immediately. Minho spots her first, sitting at a window seat, latte cup in her hands, soft pink lips curled up in a bright, eager smile the second she sees them.
“Fuck,” Minho mutters under his breath, leaning toward Chan. “I swear her boobs were bigger that night. She’s definitely wearing a push-up bra right now, and they’re still smaller.”
Chan doesn’t even blink. “Maybe. But we’re here now, so be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Minho huffs.
“You’re not,” Chan says. “At all.”
Minho scowls but nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m just saying, I’m never wrong about boobs, Chan. I know what my hands held that night. Those are not the same tits.”
Chan rolls his eyes and starts walking. “Just. Be. Nice.”
They reach the table and Iseul lights up like she’s won the fucking lottery, cheeks flushing, eyes crinkling as she beams. “Minho-oppa! Chan-oppa!”
Chan gives her a soft smile, sliding into the seat opposite her. Minho follows with a stiff nod and a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Iseul is already blabbering, practically vibrating with excitement. Minho clocks the too-tight bra immediately, chest squished together to give the illusion of volume, and the angle still isn’t fooling him.
“So, I was so surprised when Hyunjin-oppa told me you wanted to meet me!” she says, voice light and sweet. “I really didn’t think you remembered me from the party. I wore that blue dress, remember? Silver mask? Blonde wig? It was so surreal, I was so nervous.”
Minho leans his elbow on the table, watching her. “Yeah?”
She nods quickly. “Yeah, but you both made me feel really safe. I remember Chan-oppa kissed my neck right before we started, and Minho-oppa held my hand the whole time. It was so intimate.”
Chan blinks. “You remember that?”
Iseul nods solemnly. “Of course. You were so careful, even when things got intense. Especially during you know. The second time.” She giggles, covering her mouth. “Double. You know.”
Minho narrows his eyes slightly but doesn’t say anything. She’s hitting the right notes. Not word for word, but close. Close enough. Too close, actually, almost like she's been coached which she has been.
You, Hyunjin, and Changbin spent three goddamn hours in your dorm running Iseul through a crash course in “How To Pretend You Got Absolutely Railgunned by Two Sex Gods in Disguise.” You recounted every movement, every position, every moan. Hyunjin made flashcards. Changbin pantomimed half of it for clarity. Iseul got a full script.
Iseul is proud. Proud as hell that she’s remembering her cues. But she’s also hyper-aware that you exist. And if you ever decide you do want a second go at Chan and Minho, she’s out. Finished. Her one shot at becoming relevant in their lives would be gone in the blink of an eye. So as the conversation flows, she slips in little things. Little landmines.
“Y/N helped me pick the party outfit for that night, actually,” she says sweetly, sipping her latte. “I told her you guys were going to be there, and she laughed and said she wasn’t interested in you guys at all.”
Minho’s eyebrows twitch, but he says nothing.
“She’s always like that,” Iseul continues with a delicate pout. “Pretends she’s nice, but honestly? She’s a little, um, messy. You know she lied about the Yeji thing, right? That Yeji cheated?” She leans in conspiratorially. “It was actually the other way around. Y/N cheated, but Yeji let her lie about it because she didn’t want to ruin Y/N’s reputation. Sweet, right?”
Chan’s head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to be noticeable. Minho’s face doesn’t move an inch, but the silence that stretches after Iseul finishes speaking is deafening.
They remember how broken you were. How you disappeared for two days after it happened. How Jeongin, Felix, Hyunjin, Jisung, Changbin, and even Seungmin took shifts bringing you back to life. The glitter cards, the smoothies, the very illegal edible-laced brownies from Felix's secret stash. They remember how you cried into Changbin’s chest until you hiccuped like a toddler and Jisung and Felix rubbed your back and whispered comforting things in three languages. There’s no fucking way you lied. No way in hell.
Chan clears his throat, polite but clearly not believing a word. “Huh. Must’ve been a miscommunication.”
“Yeah,” Minho says blandly. “Miroh’s rumour mill is always full of shit.”
Iseul wilts slightly but recovers fast. “Maybe I got it wrong. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to gossip! I just- I really hope this means I get to see you both again.” She bats her lashes. “In a more private setting.”
They both offer vague smiles and nods. She doesn’t seem to notice Minho keeps glancing at her chest with the intensity of a man solving a geometry equation. He’s not checking her out, he’s analyzing. Calculating. Because these boobs, the ones being shoved up under this cheap padded bra, are not the boobs that were in his hands as he fucked into the masked girl from behind. The curve is different. These don’t match the muscle memory burned into his palms.
He glances at his hands for the hundredth time, fingers flexing slightly under the table. The tits he held that night were natural, full, soft but firm with that perfect weight. These are perky. Definitely smaller. Different. He knows this because he knows boobs. Just like he’d be able to pick Chan’s dick out of a photo lineup without hesitation, he could pick Mystery Girl’s boobs out of a crowd. These aren’t it.
Across the cafe, at a table in the corner with fake monstera leaves hiding the view partially from behind, two suspicious figures sit with newspapers up and iced americanos untouched. They wear black wigs, bad sunglasses, stick-on moustaches, and baseball caps pulled low over their foreheads. One of them has a tiny camera poking out from behind the menu. The other is trying to discreetly eat a croissant without dropping crumbs on the stakeout notes.
It’s Jisung and Felix.
Felix had no intention of coming. In fact, he’d threatened to throttle Jisung with a USB cable if he even brought up the case again. But then Jisung had dropped to his knees, literally, and given Felix a blowjob so intense, Felix saw colours he wasn’t sure were real. And when Jisung followed it with two slick fingers inside him, curling just right, whispering that he just needed “a few hours of surveillance, Lix,” and Felix folded like a goddamn beach chair.
So now, here they are. Felix sighs under his breath, chewing with a frown, while Jisung scribbles frantically. “She’s making shit up,” Jisung mutters. “She’s fucking lying. I can feel it in my left nut.”
“Your nuts are not the holy grail of investigative journalism,” Felix mutters.
“They are. You just came so hard you screamed into my pillow and now you’re doubting me?”
“I didn’t say your mouth wasn’t holy. I said your nuts aren’t.”
“Same system,” Jisung hisses. “Shut up and pass me the zoom lens.”
They both watch as Iseul laughs at something Chan says, her fingers twirling her straw. Jisung’s eyes narrow, and he mutters, “I will solve this.”
“That's great, Ji baby, solve it before I start fingering myself out of boredom.”
After an hour, Minho and Chan stand. Iseul hugs them both. She smells like caramel and desperation. Minho stiffens when her chest presses into him. Still not the right boobs.
As they leave the café, Chan glances sideways at Minho. “Thoughts?”
Minho sighs. “I want to believe it.”
“But?”
“But those aren’t the boobs, Chan. I know tits. Those are not her tits.” He flexes his hands again. “They don’t match.”
“Okay,” Chan says, voice tight. “Back to square one?”
“Back to fucking square one.”
Chan is on his knees, sweat rolling down his back, scrubbing at a suspicious smear on Minho’s bedroom floor with a vengeance he hasn’t felt since that one time Seungmin dared to reorganize his soundboard presets. He’s in nothing but his boxers, hair tied back with a clip he found on Minho’s desk and his entire torso glistens with effort. Across the room, Minho’s balancing on a stool, wiping down the top of his shelves like he’s about to host a royal dinner.
“I’m telling you,” Minho says, flicking dust onto the floor like the absolute menace he is, “it’s not Iseul. I don’t care how many lines she memorized. It’s. Not. Her.”
Chan grunts. “I didn’t say I believed her, Min. I said she got close. I said maybe. I said we should be nice.”
“I am nice,” Minho snaps, then immediately frowns. “Okay, no. I’m not. But I know tits, Chan. I do. I know them like I know my own dick. Better, even. Iseul’s are not the same tits. Mystery girl’s tits were-” He pauses, thoughtful, voice dropping to a reverent tone. “-angelic. Like fucking handcrafted. These ones? Off-brand.”
Chan makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as his phone vibrates against the nightstand. He picks it up, frowning at the screen. “Jisung’s calling.”
Minho freezes, arm halfway into an old hoodie sleeve. “What the fuck does that gremlin want now?”
Chan answers. “Hello?”
“Get your asses to my room immediately,” Jisung’s voice rasps on the other end, weirdly low and cryptic, like he’s trying to be intimidating but just sounds like he smoked a pack of menthols.
Chan blinks. “You good?”
“Bring Minho. Just come. Now.”
They don’t bother changing. Why would they? This is Alpha Phi. It’s not like seeing your friends half-naked is abnormal. Everyone’s seen everyone’s ass at some point. So they just walk through the hallway like twin sins, and make their way to Jisung’s room.
They open the door and they freeze.
“What the actual fuck,” Minho breathes.
One entire wall has been transformed into a sprawling mystery board with string, printouts, hand-written notes, and at least three printed screenshots from what looks like a private Instagram story. Felix is lounging on the bed, arms crossed, wearing sweats and a tank top.
“You were at the cafe?” Minho asks, pointing at a grainy zoomed-in photo of himself hugging Iseul with visible discomfort. “That’s me! That’s Iseul! You were there?!”
“Yes,” Jisung says proudly, standing in front of his wall like he’s about to give a TED Talk. “And thank fuck I was, because you two dipshits almost fell for Iseul’s bullshit.”
Chan crosses his arms. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she’s not your mystery girl. She never was. Hyunjin’s story? Pulled straight out of his fine art major ass like a clump of emotional haemorrhoids. I asked myself why he would lie, and then it hit me.”
Minho sighs. “Dick.”
“Exactly.” Jisung points like it’s the most profound word ever spoken. “Changbin threatened a sex ban. And you know Hyunjin. He would absolutely sell his soul to avoid a dry spell.”
Chan nods grimly. “He’d lie to Jesus for dick.”
“Exactly!” Jisung gestures at his board. “So I went full investigator mode. We’re talking alibis, timestamps, social media posts. And guess what? Iseul was in fucking Namyangju helping her sick halmeoni during the masquerade party. Look-”
He points to a row of screenshots from Iseul’s Instagram, timestamped and geotagged. There she is, blurry selfies with her grandma in a hospital bed. Videos of soft piano music playing in the background. A picture of herbal tea.
Chan steps closer. “Holy shit.”
Minho rubs his face. “So she lied. Why the fuck would she lie?”
Felix groans. “Because she wants to fuck both of you, obviously. She saw a shot and took it. Honestly, I respect the hustle, but I also want to hit her in the tit for ruining my sex life.”
“Which brings me,” Jisung says with a flourish, “to the real culprit. I narrowed down everyone who attended the party versus those who disappeared for exactly three hours during the time of your demon-level threesome. And I came up with one single match.”
He pauses dramatically.
Minho raises an eyebrow. “Is he broken?”
“Let him do it,” Felix mutters from the bed, dead-eyed. “He’s been obsessing. He needs the dramatics so I can finally start fucking him again. I have gotten crumbs of his ass since this party bullshit started. ASS. CRUMBS.”
Jisung throws a hand in the air. “The girl who broke your dicks forever is none other than L/N Y/N.”
The silence is deafening. Chan and Minho just blink. Jisung marches to the far end of the wall and points to a picture tacked near the bottom.
“Hyunjin took this selfie the night of the masquerade. Look behind him, blurry as hell, sure, but there’s Y/N, sitting on his bed in a pastel blue silk dress, blonde wig on her lap, silver mask in her hand. Pregaming with Changbin and Hyunjin.”
Chan stares. “No fucking way.”
Minho takes a slow step forward. “That looks like her.”
Jisung nods. “I also remember seeing the masked girl hanging around Changbin most of the night before she disappeared. And you know how Hyunjin gets. The only girl allowed within a three-foot radius of Changbin’s fine ass without Hyunjin turning into a petty little bitch? Y/N.”
Chan stumbles backwards, clutching his chest. “Holy shit.”
Minho drops onto the edge of Jisung’s desk chair like he’s been shot. “She was the masked girl.”
“And now,” Jisung says, striding to the final section of the wall like he’s delivering the finale of a murder trial, “the nail in the coffin. The final, most damning piece of evidence comes from her private Instagram. Only a few of us are on it, me, Changbin, Felix, Hyunjin, Jeongin. Look.”
He slaps a photo up onto the board. It’s you, in a mirror selfie taken in Hyunjin’s room, flanked by Changbin and Hyunjin. You’re holding a peace sign. Wearing the same silk dress. Blonde wig on. Silver mask dangling from your fingers. Your thigh is propped up on the bed, fully visible.
There, clear as fucking day, is the infamous barbed wire heart tattoo.
“I also have,” Jisung adds with manic glee, “multiple photos of that exact tattoo. Look-”
He holds up a photo of you and Changbin at the gym, your leg stretched high during a warm-up, your shorts riding up just enough for the barbed wire heart to peek out. Another from the beach. Another from a pool party. All of them timestamped. All of them irrefutable.
Chan covers his face. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Minho stands up so fast that the chair beneath him nearly topples over, and he doesn’t even notice. His hands are clutching at his own face and his eyes are wide and horrified, his voice incredulous when it explodes out of his mouth like a fucking scream in a horror movie.
“Both our dicks were in Y/N’s pussy! At the same fucking time! Y/N! L/N Y/N! We double-penetrated our friend! We ate her out!”
Chan groans, dragging his hands down his face. “And it was the best three hours of sex we’ve ever had in our entire fucking lives.”
Minho nods rapidly, frantically, pacing the length of Jisung’s rug like a caged animal. “Like, ever, Chan. Ever. We've had so much sex. So much. We’ve had threesomes, foursomes, that one orgy at the ski lodge-”
“We don’t talk about the ski lodge,” Chan interrupts, horrified.
“Right, fine,” Minho waves it off. “But still! The point stands. That night? That night was next level. Body chemistry altered. Cells rearranged. Brain matter rewired. Fucking divine. I need that taste on my tongue again.”
Felix chokes on his water and turns around, laughing into his sleeve.
Chan slumps down to sit on the floor like his legs have stopped working. “We made out. Against her pussy. Like, our tongues were in her cunt at the same time. And it was perfect.”
Minho whirls around to face the others like a prophet revealing the end times. “I should have known! Those tits! Tits of perfection! That’s not the kind of rack you forget. Those were the eighth wonders of the world. And her ass! Don’t get me started on her ass. I want to write poetry about her ass.”
Chan, Jisung, and Felix all nod solemnly in full agreement.
“Filipino ass and titties,” Felix says, reverent like he’s invoking a holy name.
“Filipino ass and titties,” they all echo like they’re in church.
And then Minho does the thing he always does when he’s overwhelmed and his brain is short-circuiting: he makes Chan, Jisung, and Felix line up like soldiers in the middle of Jisung’s bedroom, and he starts going down the row, cupping each of their asses with an intensity that borders on spiritual.
Chan barely reacts; he’s used to it. Jisung sighs and leans into the grab. Felix just sticks his hip out and adjusts his stance so Minho can get a better grip.
“I don’t even know what to do with myself,” Minho mutters, squeezing Felix’s ass as if it’s a stress ball. “My brain is soup. I’m soup. Chan, help.”
“Don't look at me, I’m also spiralling,”
“So what are you two going to do?” Jisung asks, voice deadpan as Minho starts fondling his ass again. “Y/N clearly didn’t want you to know. And she probably didn’t know it was you guys either. I mean, full masks, fake hair, temporary dye? Come on. Anyone would’ve been clueless.”
Felix hums, crossing his arms. “And clearly she figured it out later. Probably had a meltdown. So she cooked up that Iseul diversion. Which, honestly, was smart. But it had Changbin’s fingerprints all over it. I guarantee he helped her. Probably figured it out himself, laughed for six hours, then helped her and Hyunjin build the lie.”
Minho finally pulls his hands away from Jisung’s ass, moving back to Chan like he’s orbiting him. “She gave us a night that literally altered our fucking body chemistry and she wants to hide from us? Fuck that. I’m not letting this go. We’re going to romance the fuck out of her. We’re going to make her forget that bitch ex-girlfriend. We’re going to become the best boyfriends she’s ever had. I’m talking husband material. Matching tracksuits. Power throuple gym sessions. Sundays at the dog café. The whole fucking dream.”
Chan sits up. “You’re talking full sap. Rings and shit?”
“Rings and shit,” Minho confirms.
“Pet names?” Chan asks.
“Fucking corny ones,” Minho nods. “Whatever she wants. Princess. Babygirl. Fucking sunflower muffin, I don’t give a fuck.”
Jisung sighs. “Maybe don’t tell her straight away that you know it was her. If she freaks out, she’s gonna set her mini army on you.”
Felix points at both of them. “If you scare her, I cut off both of your dicks. Right off. I will superglue them to your foreheads. Limp-dicked unicorns forever.”
Minho gasps, clutching his dick. “You wouldn’t.”
“I will. And I’ll even add glitter,” Felix beams. “So everyone knows what happens when you fuck with our Y/N.”
Chan and Minho exchange a look, horror painted across their faces.
Minho starts pacing again, hands twitching, alternating between grabbing Chan’s ass and Jisung’s as he mutters to himself. “Okay, okay. What’s the plan? What does she love? The gym. She always goes with Changbin.”
“We know her gym schedule,” Chan says, eyes wide with sudden inspiration.
Minho snaps his fingers. “We’re showing up at the gym. Full glory. Tight tanks. Sweaty muscles. We’re going to remind her exactly who fucked her so good she screamed in four languages.”
Jisung salutes him. “Godspeed.”
Just as the plan is taking form, Chan’s phone buzzes on the floor. He picks it up, glances at the screen, and grimaces. “It’s Iseul.”
Jisung lunges across the floor and snatches it, jabbing the answer button and immediately putting it on speaker. “Hello, lying liar who lies!”
There’s a pause, and then Iseul’s confused voice comes through. “Who the fuck is this?”
“Jisung. The short but righteous god of justice. And guess what? Chan and Minho know you’re a liar, so they won’t be meeting you for coffee again. Ever. Also, your boobs aren’t that great.”
Felix leans forward. “And you shit-talked Y/N! You think we’d ever forgive that? Not with the boobies she has.”
“Yeah!” Jisung shouts. “And your ass? Nothing compared to Y/N! We’re talking subpar. You barely have ass. It’s a suggestion of an ass.”
Iseul tries to respond, but Felix talks over her. “Your pitiful acting attempt only worked because Chan and Minho were pussymatized and desperate. But even Minho knew your tits were off-brand. Like, you’re trying to pass tofu off as mozzarella.”
Iseul splutters. “You’re all insane.”
“No,” Jisung says with a grin. “We’re loyal.”
And then he ends the call.
Minho raises a hand. “Okay. New plan. Tomorrow. Gym. Y/N goes with Changbin. We show up. Warm up. Flex. Casual banter. No weirdness.”
Chan nods. “No telling her we know. Just normal.”
Felix sighs. “You are not capable of normal.”
“We’ll try,” Minho says.
Felix claps his hands once. “Now get out of this room. I’m gonna fuck my boyfriend for the first time in weeks.”
Minho and Chan salute him and head out the door, whispering and plotting like the absolute chaotic dumbasses they are.
Minho starts showing up at the gym with a suspicious amount of consistency. Chan, too. At first, it’s subtle. Nothing that would raise alarms in your perpetually sunny, post-breakup mind. They just start popping up a little more when you’re there, usually with a towel slung over their shoulders, water bottles in hand, and that casual swagger that makes half the campus stupid. You’re so used to seeing them around, that it doesn’t occur to you how specifically aligned their gym schedules are becoming with yours.
The first few times, you wave from the yoga mat where you’re stretched out doing a backbend over a foam roller, sports bra snug and low-cut enough to give anyone within range a glimpse of the good stuff. Your leggings cling to your thighs like a second skin and you’ve long since stopped caring how many eyes are on you. You’re not here to sweat your soul out anyway, you’re mostly here to keep Changbin company and stay bendy enough to do stupid shit on request. Like that time Felix dared you to do a handstand into a split and you nailed it so hard a man had walked into a wall.
Minho nearly drops a dumbbell the first time you tip into a deep forward fold and the fabric of your leggings stretches tight across your ass. He nudges Chan, who’s standing next to him curling weights, and Chan just lets out a low whistle and mutters, “Fucking hell,” under his breath.
Minho nods like he’s receiving divine confirmation. “This is our good karma. This is our blessing. The gods of bi-poly boyfriends have finally smiled upon us.”
Chan grunts, switching to heavier weights without even realizing, clearly inspired.
They keep it cool, though. They don’t crowd you. They don’t hover. They make small talk. Minho throws a grin here, Chan tosses a compliment there. But mostly, they orbit you with quiet consistency, becoming background noise. Comfortable. Familiar.
It’s the second week of their soft launch into your life when the universe hands them an opening wrapped in glitter and chaos.
It starts with a bang. Literally. A loud fucking bang.
You’re in the kitchen with Jisung and Felix, the three of you surrounded by mixing bowls, a mountain of chocolate, and a weed grinder that’s been going since 2 PM. Jisung is shirtless in his apron, Felix is dancing to a Doja Cat remix blaring from his phone, and you’re laughing so hard at something Jisung said about Seungmin’s resting bitch face that you almost don’t hear the thud from upstairs.
Then comes the scream. “FUCK! FUCK, OH MY FUCKING GOD!”
Followed by Hyunjin’s panicked, echoing yell. “YOUR ANKLE ISN’T BENDING THE RIGHT WAY!”
Felix stops dancing. Jisung stops stirring. You freeze with brownie batter halfway to your mouth.
There’s another scream and Hyunjin’s voice cracks. “CHANGBIN SLIPPED- HIS LEG- SHIT- CHAN!”
You’re all way too high for this. Chan storms into the kitchen two minutes later, grabbing his keys off the counter and you salute him weakly with your brownie-covered spoon.
“Take care of them,” he tells Minho, who appears behind him in sweats. He doesn’t even question the command. Just steps into the kitchen and watches the three of you in varying degrees of fucked up.
You’re the most gone, sprawling across the couch with brownie batter on your nose and laughter still bubbling in your chest even though your best friend’s ankle is apparently twisted like a pretzel upstairs.
Minho sighs and grabs a throw blanket from the corner, tossing it over you as he sits down beside you. “Head here,” he says, patting his thigh.
You blink up at him. “Minho. Your thighs are like national monuments. I can’t just-”
“Do it.”
You melt into him without another word, head settling in his lap like it’s always belonged there. Jisung plops down on the floor in front of the couch and Felix curls up in a beanbag, already cueing up Frozen II on the big TV.
Halfway through Show Yourself, you reach up and pat Minho’s chest softly.
“Your heart is beating so fast,” you murmur. “Are you nervous?”
Minho chuckles and brushes hair from your face. “No, angel. Just very aware that you’re lying on my lap.”
You giggle and go back to watching Elsa freeze a fucking fjord or whatever the hell she’s doing. Felix is weeping softly, Jisung is whispering Into the Unknown every five seconds, and Minho just strokes your arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The next day, Changbin’s officially off his feet. Crutches, ice packs, dramatic moaning every time Hyunjin breathes near him. And you? Gym partner-less. So Minho and Chan, the heroes of the story, swoop in.
“We’ll go with you,” Chan offers casually when you mention it at breakfast. “You shouldn’t have to go alone.”
You blink. “You guys don’t even go at the same time I do.”
“We do now,” Minho says with a shrug.
By the third session, they’re basically your built-in workout buddies. Chan prefers the weight machines, grunting through reps like a man possessed. Minho floats between the boxing bag and machines, occasionally stopping to spar with himself in the mirror like he’s auditioning for a drama about hot street fighters. You mostly hang out on the yoga mats, sprawled in ridiculous shapes, headphones in as you move through sequences with surprising grace and focus.
Minho watches you more than he works out.
“Do you even lift?” you ask him one day, upside down in a headstand.
“I lift your energy,” he says with a wink.
Chan groans from the leg press. “That was so dumb.”
You giggle, collapsing onto your side. “I’m not even that serious about working out,” you admit, tugging your leggings back up your hips. “I mostly came with Changbin so he wouldn’t be alone. Hyunjin hates the gym. I just do this to stay flexible. You guys should do yoga with me!"
Chan looks horrified. “I bend like a fucking tree. Rigid. Stiff. Tragic.”
Minho shrugs. “I did ballet. I’ll give it a shot.”
“You did ballet?” you blink, pleasantly surprised.
“Yeah. Gave it up when I realized I wanted to stick my hand up cow asses and become a vet instead of pirouetting on stage,” he says, deadpan.
Chan nods solemnly. “It’s true.”
So the next morning, you teach them yoga. You guide them through deep stretches and poses, correcting their form with soft taps and gentle hands. Minho catches on quickly, graceful and strong, his balance shockingly good. His core is tight, and his movements fluid. You’re honestly impressed.
Chan, however, is a disaster. He wobbles. He groans. He almost falls on you during downward dog.
“This is humbling,” he mutters from the floor as you guide him into child’s pose.
“Your hips are so tight,” you giggle, kneeling beside him.
“You’re telling me,” Chan grunts.
Minho’s already in a deep straddle stretch, almost hitting the splits. He grins at you. “I can’t go all the way down though.”
“Why not?” you ask, stretching opposite him.
“Because I have balls,” he replies simply. “They get in the way. Splits are a no-go.”
You burst out laughing, falling forward into the mat.
Chan nods from his crumpled heap. “Valid. Can confirm.”
You grin, stretching your legs out beside them. You still have no clue they know. No idea they’ve been planning this whole infiltration. And no idea that every stretch, every yoga pose, every glistening drop of sweat rolling between your tits is driving them absolutely fucking insane.
The gym at night is quiet, almost eerily so. The kind of quiet that lets every breath, every footstep, every distant clink of metal echo like a whisper through the walls. The air is still tinged with the faint scent of sweat and industrial cleaning spray, the fluorescents overhead flickering just enough to be mildly annoying. You’re on the treadmill, hoodie sleeves rolled to your elbows, earbuds blasting early 2000s girl group bops as your feet pound rhythmically on the belt. You’re not sprinting, you’re just vibing, legs moving at a steady jog, ponytail bouncing, skin glowing in the low light of the late-night gym.
Across the room, Chan and Minho are full-blown grappling like two wolves in heat. It started as light sparring, something casual. But the second Minho hooked his leg around Chan’s and slammed him into the mat, it escalated fast. Now they’re panting, grinning, covered in sweat, and rolling on top of each other with a level of homoerotic tension that should be illegal. Shirts long gone, boxers slung dangerously low on their hips, their muscles glisten as they twist and slam and taunt each other.
Minho has Chan in a chokehold, Chan flips them, and they laugh breathlessly as Minho wraps a thigh around Chan’s waist like he’s about to ride him into another dimension.
“If you’re gonna fuck, do what everyone else does and go to the locker rooms. I hear the third shower stall has the best acoustics.”
Chan barks a laugh, struggling under Minho’s thigh. But then Minho opens his mouth. And all hell breaks loose.
“Not like you’ve not been between us before,” he says casually.
And it’s like the fucking world stops.
You trip over your own foot, eyes going wide as you fumble for the emergency stop button. The treadmill slams to a halt with a violent jolt and you go flying forward, just barely catching yourself on the handles. You spin around, breath caught in your throat, and stare at Minho.
Chan slaps Minho’s arm so fast that the sound echoes through the gym. “MIN!”
Minho freezes. Eyes wide. Hand flying up to his mouth like he can shove the words back in. “Oh fuck. Fuck. Oh my god. I didn’t- I mean, I did, but- Fuck-”
“YOU KNOW?!”
“Well, clearly you knew before us!” Chan yells.
“I figured it out after corpse day!” you cry, voice hysterical, “Like a week after the party! Changbin basically spelt it out for me!"
Chan throws his hands in the air. “You knew for almost a month before we figured it out?!”
“I was gonna take it to my grave, Chan!”
Minho scrambles to his feet. “You RUINED our dicks!”
“WHAT?!”
“You broke our fucking dicks, Y/N! And then tried to redirect us to Iseul! I knew it wasn’t her! Her tits are like two sad peaches! You’re, like, fucking melons! How the fuck did you think I wouldn’t notice?!”
“Oh my god. How the fuck did you two figure it out?!”
Chan gestures wildly. “Jisung went full cracked-out detective mode! He came at us with a fucking conspiracy wall and evidence folders!”
“How the fuck did JISUNG figure it out?!”
“Left nut instinct,” Chan says solemnly.
“I hate this,” you whisper. “I hate this so much.”
Minho throws his arms wide. “NO HIDING ANYMORE! You are a SEX WITCH. You subby little SUCCUBUS. We haven’t fucked in weeks because of you! Me and Chan?! No boning! We wake up humping each other and then remember mystery girl doesn’t exist anymore and it’s like post-nut clarity without the nut! It’s torture!”
“I’M SORRY I’M GOOD AT SEX!”
“YOU SHOULD BE!” Minho yells. “You BROKE two grown men's dicks!”
You’re all sweaty, out of breath, faces flushed, and screaming in an empty gym at midnight like absolute lunatics. Then, suddenly, Minho stops pacing, breathes in deep, and looks you dead in the eye.
“Now go on a date with us.”
You freeze. “Say what now?”
Minho walks up to you, completely serious despite the ridiculousness of the entire situation. “Me and Chan are going to take you, L/N Y/N, on a date. A real date. Wine and dine. The whole fucking thing. I can’t believe you thought me, Lee Minho, boobs, ass, pussy and dick extraordinaire, would not realise Iseul was, like, two whole cup sizes smaller than you. I’m offended, honestly. I knew the moment I saw her sad little boobies in the café.”
Chan props himself up on his elbows. “It’s true. We were just too fucking desperate.”
“So go on a date with us,” Minho says again, grinning now. “Let us romance the shit out of you. Then you can decide if you want to be our girlfriend and become a throuple. Us. Together. Dick, dick, and pussy forever.”
You blink. Slowly. Several times. “I- What?”
“You heard me.”
“Okay,” you say, voice faint, “I’ll go on the date with you two.”
Both of them whoop.
“Now someone help me sit down before I pass out,” you mumble.
Chan jumps up and grabs your elbow. Minho gently guides you down onto the mats like you’re made of glass. The second you’re down, he pulls a glucose gel packet from his gym bag like he’s been preparing for this moment his whole life.
“Suck,” he says, holding the packet to your lips and squeezing. “Suck this. Suck hard.”
“Don’t say it like that,”
Chan rubs your back in slow circles. “Breathe, you’re fine. I think your blood sugar just crashed.”
“Yeah,” you whisper, “that was too much queer panic in one space.”
Minho tuts. “You need a better diet. I mean, Chan and I both know from your pussy taste that you drink a lot of pineapple juice-”
“This is how I die,” you groan, pulling your hoodie over your head and burying your face in your cap.
Minho and Chan collapse beside you, laughing so hard they can barely breathe.
“Seriously though,” Chan says, wiping a tear from his eye, “it is impressive.”
“I hate both of you,” you say into your hoodie.
“You love us,” Minho teases, poking your side.
You kick his shin and he just grins.
Your dorm room looks like a drag queen tornado hit it. There’s fabric everywhere, makeup brushes scattered like casualties across every surface, and music blaring loud enough that your neighbours have probably considered calling campus security twice already. Felix is currently scream-singing Candy Store from Heathers while simultaneously helping Jeongin dig through your closet, his phone propped up on the windowsill and blasting musical theatre like it’s sacred scripture.
Changbin is stretched out dramatically across your bed, casted foot propped up on your throw pillows, and he keeps throwing M&M’s into his mouth with zero accuracy. Half are bouncing off his cheek, and Jisung is keeping score like it’s an Olympic sport.
“You need to give a visual callback to the night you fucking destroyed them,” Felix says over the music, dramatically pulling out a glittery silver crop top before immediately shaking his head and tossing it aside. “Blue and silver. That’s the theme. We’re paying tribute to the masked pussy fairy.”
“Absolutely,” Jisung agrees. “Constantly remind them of the hottest night of their lives that you gave them.”
Hyunjin snorts from behind you, where he’s currently working your hair with terrifying precision. He’s got your roots sectioned off with butterfly clips, blowing your hair out straight with a round brush and more sass than necessary. “Honestly, if we don’t get you looking like the sexed-up reincarnation of Cinderella tonight, I’ll exile myself from the gay community.”
You sip from your favourite tumbler, the infamous one that says queer slut in swirly cursive, a gift from Hyunjin after the Yeji disaster, and hum happily around the pineapple juice Felix filled it with earlier. You’re sitting at your vanity in your bra and panties, skin glowing from your earlier shower, legs crossed and shoulders relaxed while your chaos brigade dances and preens around you.
Changbin tosses another M&M. It hits the wall. “I demand you wear something that shows off your thighs. Chan's a thigh man. I’ve watched him look at them in the gym like they’re his religion.”
“I’m just saying,” Jeongin says, dragging out a dramatic satin something from the back of your closet, “if you don’t show up tonight and have them weeping at your feet, we’ve failed.”
“Oh my god,” Jisung gasps, leaping up like he’s been struck by divine lightning. “I forgot about the light blue satin one! The mini with the structured strapless top and the pearl strands! Where the fuck is it? I know you bought it when we went on that completely irresponsible shopping trip with Hyunjin and Jeongin, you were on your period and emotional and said ‘I deserve to look like a rich bitch fairy.’”
You nearly choke on your juice. “That was a moment.”
“And now it’s having a fucking comeback,” Jisung says, yanking open your closet and digging like a raccoon in a glitter bin. “Aha!”
He spins dramatically and holds it up. The light blue satin glows under the overhead light, the decorative faux pearl strands catching like moonlight across the structured bodice, down the waist, cascading artfully to the thigh. The hip is ruched, the fabric flowing into a dramatic sash that trails down like a fucking dream, all while the mini-length hemline ensures your thighs remain fully on display.
Felix claps like a pageant mom. “YES! YES! YES! It’s giving ethereal Cinderella who slays her evil stepsisters with a strap-on and has five fairy queerfathers!”
Felix dashes across the room and grabs your clear stilettos from the shoe rack. “Glass fucking slippers, bitch. Chan and Minho aren’t going to know what hit them. They’re going to be so horny they’ll start barking.”
Jeongin grabs your faux pearl choker and matching earrings from your jewellery drawer, holding them up triumphantly. “We’re leaning into the theme. Fake luxury. Real effect. You’re about to go full subby siren.”
Hyunjin finishes blowing out your hair and pulls the clips free, letting the soft, silky strands fall over your shoulders like a shampoo commercial. “Alright, you hot little disaster, let’s beat your face.”
Felix starts slow dancing with Jeongin in the background as Jisung twirls around in your curtain like it’s couture. Changbin tosses another M&M and finally lands one in his mouth.
Hyunjin works fast, dragging blue and white shimmer across your eyelids like he’s painting a masterpiece. He adds soft white to the inner corners of your eyes and then starts carefully placing tiny pearls right at the edges, delicate and gleaming.
“Cunty Cinderella,” he murmurs like a prayer.
Felix nods. “Cunty Cinderella.”
Jisung nods too. “Cunty Cinderella.”
Jeongin studies you, eyes narrowing in that critical fashionista way. “It’s giving subby angel.”
Hyunjin smiles as he dusts highlighter across your cheekbones and the bridge of your nose. “Exactly what we want. Ethereal. Glowing. Looks like she’s never cussed in her life but is one orgasm away from destroying the patriarchy.”
You sip more pineapple juice, glowing like the bisexual goddess you are.
Jeongin taps your shoulder. “Okay. No bra with this dress. The structure is gonna push your tits up like the royal titties they are. Bra straps with a strapless dress are a crime punishable by death.”
“Obviously,” you say, rolling your eyes. “No bra strappage here.”
Jeongin gestures grandly. “Good. You are a woman of class. Now lose the bra so we can get this dress on you without fucking up Hyunjin’s masterpiece.”
You slide it off with ease and Jisung immediately clutches his chest like he’s being spiritually attacked. “Titties! My kryptonite!”
Felix fans himself. “Our queen. Our icon.”
Hyunjin holds the dress open as Jeongin and Jisung guide you into it like you’re being prepped for a coronation. The satin glides over your skin, cool and luxurious, and when the bodice hugs you tight, lifting your chest perfectly, you glance in the mirror.
“Holy shit,” you whisper. “I look expensive.”
“You look like a meal,” Jeongin says. “Three-course. Michelin-starred. Served on a silver fucking platter.”
Felix adjusts your hair, tucking a few strands behind your ear before slipping the pearl earrings into place. “They’re gonna lose their minds.”
Hyunjin sprays your hair into place and hands you the clear heels. “Now go forth, slutty Cinderella. Your princes await.”
Changbin raises his glass of Sprite like it’s champagne. “Make them cry.”
You step into the stilettos, tall and radiant, your team of fairy queerfathers beaming around you like proud pageant dads.
And deep down, under all the chaos and glitter and laughter, you feel it. The heat, the buzz, the excitement curling in your stomach like butterflies on speed.
The night air wraps around your skin like silk as you step out of your dorm building, the heels of your clear stilettos clicking softly against the concrete. Minho and Chan are leaning against Chan’s stupidly fancy sports car, parked right out front like they own the building. Which, to be fair, with their matching smirks and sinful silhouettes under the streetlights, they fucking look like they do.
Chan’s in a deep navy suit tailored within an inch of his life, the delicate red piping along the seams giving just the right amount of drama. His shirt matches the tone of his suit, buttoned up but without a tie, collar relaxed, blonde hair slicked back just enough to show off his face and jawline.
Minho, on the other hand, is in an all-black ensemble that could kill a man. His crisp button-up is tucked into tailored black trousers that hug his waist perfectly, cinched with a minimalist belt that glints subtly in the light. His tie is only half-knotted, resting loose around his neck like he couldn’t be bothered to finish it, and the effect is painfully hot. His hair is pushed back, revealing the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the way his eyes darken the second he lays them on you.
They both go still. Dead quiet. Just staring.
“Holy fuck,” Minho mutters.
Chan lets out a low whistle, lips curling into a grin. “You trying to kill us before we even leave campus?”
“Maybe.”
Minho pushes off the car and meets you halfway, eyes dragging slowly from the hemline of your dress to your face. He twirls a strand of your hair around his finger with a fond smirk. “I prefer this. The natural hair. Blonde was fun but this?” He lets the strand slip through his fingers before taking your left hand in his and lifting it to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Gorgeous.”
Chan mirrors him on your right, taking your hand and kissing it with the same reverence. “Ready to be wooed?”
You nod and Minho opens the car door with a wink, and you carefully lower yourself into the plush leather of the backseat, the dress riding up your thighs a little more than intended, but you pretend not to notice. Minho slides in beside you and Chan closes the door behind him before slipping into the driver’s seat up front. The engine hums to life, smooth and purring, and you lean back, smoothing your hands over your lap.
Minho, however, is not subtle. The moment the doors are shut and the car begins to glide out of the parking lot, he’s leaning closer, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him. He inhales deeply, nose hovering near your shoulder like an absolute menace.
“Strawberries. Vanilla. And violets?” he murmurs.
You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “Body lotion and perfume. You done sniffing me?”
“No,” he says simply and keeps doing it.
You just sigh and let him, amused. It’s not like you didn’t spend an hour marinating in that exact combo for this very reason.
“So,” you ask, glancing toward the front seat. “Where are we going?”
Chan smirks into the rearview mirror. “It’s a surprise.”
Minho hums beside you. “I know this isn’t the moment for it, but I have to say it, your tits look fantastic right now.”
“Minho-”
“I’m just being honest,” he says, not even bothering to pretend he’s looking at your face. “This dress was made for you. And I’m guessing, no bra?”
“It’s a strapless dress,” you reply. “I’m not a savage.”
Chan chuckles up front. “She’s got a point.”
The car glides along the road, smooth and seamless. But you swear to god, every single fucking pothole or speed bump they find on the road, Minho uses as an excuse to stare down at your tits like they’re a religious experience. Every bounce, every shift of fabric, every movement, his eyes are locked on like a man possessed.
“I swear to fuck,” he mutters after a particularly aggressive bump, eyes wide, “this dress is struggling. Want me to hold them for you? Just for support. For science.”
You laugh, hand coming up to lightly smack his shoulder. “You are ridiculous.”
You let out a breathy laugh, nerves and arousal tangling in your gut. This is new territory. Yes, you’ve fucked them. Yes, you’ve moaned and screamed and came so hard between them that your legs were shaking for hours after. But that was behind a mask. Anonymous. A night carved out of chaos and heat and impulse.
This is a date. This is them, now, looking at you without masks, openly wanting you, openly admiring you, openly asking you to be part of their world. The flirting feels heavier now, more sincere, more affectionate beneath the teasing. You can feel it in the way Chan watches the road but glances back at you at every red light, eyes soft. In the way Minho’s hand brushes your thigh once, then again, each time lingering longer.
Minho leans in, whispering again, “You good?”
You nod, smiling. “Yeah. Just overwhelmed in a good way.”
Minho smiles and leans back, not pushing, not pressing. Just close enough to remind you he’s there.
Chan drives in calm silence, eyes fixed on the road, the gentle hum of the engine making everything feel surreal. You lean slightly into the leather seat, trying to process the fact that this isn’t a dream. You’d expected a restaurant, maybe some rooftop place with candles and overpriced appetizers. But the longer he drives, out of the city, then looping past some back streets, then straight back toward campus, you start to get the feeling that something’s up.
But you don’t ask.
You just watch the way Minho's fingers twitch on his lap, the way Chan’s jaw clenches and relaxes in the rearview mirror like he’s biting back a grin. It’s like they know a secret you don’t, and you’re not even mad about it. You’re too curious, too warm, too giddy.
After another slow twenty-minute loop, Chan finally turns into familiar territory and your brows lift slightly when the frat house comes into view. But still, you say nothing. Chan pulls up smoothly to the curb, parking directly in front of the main entrance like this is a goddamn hotel, engine purring to a stop before he gets out and circles around the car.
He opens Minho’s door first, offering a hand with dramatic flair. Minho rolls his eyes but accepts it, letting himself be pulled up like a debutante. Then they both turn to you, standing in sync, side by side, two beautiful devils in dress clothes.
Both extend their hands toward you with twin grins, and you sigh, taking each of their hands as you step out. The sash of your dress drapes elegantly behind you, stilettos hitting the sidewalk with soft clicks.
Minho leans in, his lips brushing just behind your ear as he murmurs, “We needed the time. The others had to run back from your dorm after helping you get ready, and Seungmin was on supervision duty in the kitchen the whole time. Hence, the scenic forty-minute detour.”
Your jaw drops as you whip your head toward him, eyes wide. “You drove me around just to stall?!”
Chan shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “We had to buy them time.”
You’re still blinking at them as they each loop an arm around yours and guide you up the steps into the house.
The door creaks open, and the moment you step inside, your breath catches in your throat.
The entire downstairs is dark, save for a string of twinkling fairy lights that wind from the living room doorway and disappear into the hallway. You glance between them, stunned, and they just smile, gently nudging you forward.
As they guide you into the dining room, you let out a genuine gasp.
The dining table, the shitty, beer-stained, permanently sticky table that’s hosted everything from beer pong to midnight strip poker, has been transformed. A crisp white tablecloth drapes over it, lit candles glow in the centre, casting warm, romantic shadows across the table, and the overhead lights are dimmed. Fairy lights run along the walls, wrapped lazily around picture frames and shelf edges.
Chan pulls a chair out for you with a flourish, bowing slightly as he motions for you to sit.
You do, stunned into silence as you carefully smooth your dress down and settle into the seat. Minho drops into the chair beside you, legs spreading comfortably, his arm draped behind you on the chair like he owns it. Chan sits opposite you, grinning like a man who knows he just pulled off a ridiculous fucking stunt.
“Wait for it,” Minho says.
Chan lifts a tiny silver bell from the table and gives it a single dainty ring.
You hear shuffling from the hallway. Then Jisung strides in wearing a white button-down shirt and black trousers, a folded towel over one forearm, and a wine bottle held in his other hand. He’s even wearing a clip-on bow tie and there’s a fake moustache drawn on his upper lip in what looks like eyeliner.
You immediately slap your hand over your mouth to smother your laugh, shoulders shaking.
“Bonsoir,” Jisung announces in a horrible French accent. “Welcome to Alpha Phi’s exclusive dining experience. I am your sommelier, Jean Sung. Tonight, we have prepared only the finest cuisine, paired with our house vintage.”
Minho bites his knuckle like he’s trying not to cry from laughter. “Please, Jean Sung. Tell us about the wine.”
“Ah, yes,” Jisung says, holding the bottle up to the candlelight and examining it like he’s fucking Monet. “This is a very rare bottle of... Château de GS25. Imported from the exotic lands of... the local convenience store. Aged to perfection for exactly seventy-two hours on the bottom shelf.”
You snort, eyes watering as Chan wheezes across the table.
“It has a bold bouquet,” Jisung continues, totally committed, “with top notes of cherry-flavoured chemicals and subtle undertones of we didn’t have time to get actual wine glasses, so please enjoy these plastic ones.”
Minho claps. “Magnificent. Bravo.”
Jisung bows deeply, popping the bottle open with unnecessary flair, and proceeds to pour generous servings into plastic wine glasses with all the grace of a drunk pirate. He sets one in front of each of you with an exaggerated flourish.
Chan raises his to toast. “To Jean Sung.”
“To the most ridiculous fucking sommelier I’ve ever met,” you add, raising yours as well.
Minho grins. “To our first official date.”
You clink the cheap plastic together, wine sloshing slightly.
Jisung backs out of the room with a final bow, muttering something about fucking nailing it and you lean back in your chair, face warm from laughter and wine and the overwhelming feeling that you’re being truly, deeply cared for.
Chan’s fingers curl around the tiny bell again, and he gives it a delicate jingle that somehow manages to sound ridiculous and fancy at the same time. You barely have a second to breathe before Jeongin, Hyunjin, and Felix file in like a fucking performance troupe.
Felix is in full chef whites, with the tall hat and everything, even though you know damn well he found that thing on Gmarket for fifteen thousand won. Jeongin and Hyunjin, meanwhile, are dressed in white dress shirts, black bowties, black slacks, and matching smug expressions like they’ve been hired to serve Michelin-star food.
Each of them carries a plate: one with Kimchi Fried Rice, another with Bibimbap, and the last with perfectly arranged yaki mandu.
They place the dishes down in front of the three of you with synchronized, exaggerated bows. You cover your mouth with your hand, trying to suppress your laughter as Jeongin gives you a cheeky wink. Hyunjin smirks, and Felix stands tall with his chin up like Gordon fucking Ramsay.
Then they turn to leave.
“Uh, excuse me,” Minho calls after them, voice dry. “You didn’t explain the dishes.”
The three of them stop mid-shuffle and rotate like malfunctioning NPCs. Felix steps forward, adjusting his ridiculous chef hat with the grace of a cat who’s just knocked over a glass and pretended it was on purpose.
He points at each plate dramatically. “To your left, we have Kimchi Fried Rice, perfectly balanced heat and umami. Centre dish is Bibimbap, a classic, made with every vegetable Hyunjin could cut without slicing his thumb off. And finally, we have yaki mandu, crisped to golden perfection, because I know you love dumplings, and I am a man of culinary excellence and emotional intelligence.”
Hyunjin crosses his arms and mutters, “I helped.”
Jeongin shrugs. “I stirred something.”
Felix turns back to the three of you and places his hands on his hips. “Enjoy your date. Do not fuck until after dessert. Please and thank you. Ring the bell once you're ready for the main course.”
You open your mouth, but he’s not done.
“I slaved over this meal. With love. And with the lingering rage of Yeji’s bullshit and Iseul trying to talk shit about my favourite girl, who, by the way, has the best titties on this entire campus. Including Jisung's, and he has fantastic titties.”
From the kitchen, a muffled voice echoes, “Facts!”
Felix salutes dramatically, Jeongin blows you a kiss, and Hyunjin mouths “text me if they’re weird” before they all vanish like gremlins scurrying back into the dark.
Minho shakes his head, already reaching for his chopsticks. “We live with cartoons.”
“Actual fucking clowns,” Chan adds, grabbing his own utensils.
You dig into the food with a hum of appreciation. “Felix cooked his ass off.”
“He really did,” Chan agrees, eyes closing around a bite of rice. “Like, I might wife him after this. Sorry you two”
You snort softly as you pop a bite of mandu into your mouth, chewing happily.
Minho wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans his cheek into his hand, eyeing you thoughtfully. “So, Y/N. Is your favourite movie Cinderella?”
You nod as you finish chewing. “Yeah. The 1950s one.”
Chan raises an eyebrow. “Wasn’t her dress silver in that?”
“Yes!” You perk up immediately, eyes gleaming. “In the original 1950s animated film, Cinderella’s ball gown was a silvery-white colour. Disney changed it in a lot of the marketing and merchandise over time to this pale blue shade, probably because silver didn’t pop as much in advertising, especially when you’re printing posters and dolls and shit. Blue stood out better. And a silver dress sometimes reads too close to a wedding gown, which they didn’t want.”
Minho leans in, interested. “So if they were trying to differentiate characters, why make Elsa’s dress blue too?”
“Well,” you say, sipping your wine, “Elsa came out over sixty years later. Completely different era of design. Also, Elsa controls ice, it makes sense to dress her in an icy tone. That’s the thematic tie-in. But her dress colour changes. By the end of Frozen II, she’s in white and lavender, which I think is about her identity evolving again. Disney uses colour as a visual metaphor. Changing her dress is also a great way to create more merch, let’s be real.”
“Alice and Wendy wore blue too,” Chan says, mouth full of mandu.
“Obviously,” you reply. “They’re not Disney princesses, which is bullshit. Both deserve better. But Disney uses blue a lot. It represents selflessness, innocence, and empowerment. Blue’s like the good girl with a core of steel colour. That’s why Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Alice, Wendy, Elsa, Anna, Merida, Belle, so many characters wear blue at some point. It’s practically a trope.”
Minho whistles. “Shit. You should teach a class.”
“Disney for horny adults,” you grin.
“I’d enrol,” Chan says, raising a brow.
You point your chopsticks at him. “You’d enrol just to hit on the professor.”
“Correct,” he says with no shame.
Minho shifts slightly, gesturing with a piece of mandu. “Okay but like, real talk, Rapunzel’s dress being purple in Tangled? That’s straight-up royalty foreshadowing, planting visual narrative cues in the colour palette, and I respect the fuck out of that.”
“Thank you!” Chan slams a hand down, agreeing. “I’ve been saying that! Purple is literally the colour of royalty, and it’s subtle but it’s there. Her mom wore purple, the banners had purple, it was all planned.”
You lean forward, elbow on the table, chin in your hand. “You two are so much geekier than you pretend to be.”
Minho shrugs. “I contain multitudes.”
Chan deadpans, “I cried at Mufasa’s death. Twice.”
Minho lifts the tiny silver bell between two fingers like it personally offends him and rings it with a flourish that’s more dramatic than necessary. The sharp chime rings through the room, and Chan shifts beside you with an excited grin.
“So,” he says, leaning in slightly, resting his arm on the table as his eyes shine with that bright, sparkly curiosity he always gets when he’s about to go full nerd, “Tiana.”
You tilt your head, grinning. “We talking about the symbolism in her outfits?”
Chan points at you like you just solved a murder. “Yes! Exactly. Like, the green, right? It’s not just a nod to her being a frog for most of the movie. There’s more.”
You nod along eagerly, already hyped. “Absolutely. Disney leaned so hard into green because it’s associated with nature, life, new beginnings but also money. Like, her dream is to open her own restaurant. She’s grinding. That girl was about business. It’s entrepreneurial symbolism and also connects her visually to Naveen once he becomes a frog. They made her visually match her love interest but also highlight her individuality and drive.”
“And then,” Chan says, waving his wine glass slightly, “when she’s in blue, early in the movie, it’s nighttime scenes, moments where she’s daydreaming, or reflecting. Blue is that classic Disney princess colour, right? But with Tiana, it’s not about being delicate or damsel-y. It’s serenity, clarity. She’s composed, self-reliant. The colour just reinforces how she’s in control of her own path.”
Minho’s smirking beside you, sipping his wine with his head tilted as if watching a tennis match. “God, you’re both such dorks.”
You grin over your shoulder at him. “Shut up, you’re worse.”
Right on cue, Felix enters through the kitchen doorway, dramatically balancing a large tray, followed by Jeongin and Hyunjin, who have once again fully committed to their roles as fake waitstaff. Jeongin’s sleeves are now rolled halfway up his forearms and he’s wearing sunglasses indoors like a security guard for Michelin-star dining. Hyunjin struts like he’s about to walk the damn Met Gala red carpet, carrying two dishes like he was born to serve. Felix’s chef whites are even messier than earlier, stained with actual sauce and flour now, and he looks like he’s just left the set of a cooking show mid-finale.
“Main course has arrived,” Felix says, setting down the tray with a flourish.
Jeongin slides a dish in front of each of you with exaggerated flair, like he’s drawing swords. “Bulgogi Deopbap for our dainty debutante.”
Hyunjin nods solemnly, placing another. “Samgyupsal sukju bokkeum, because someone here needed pork in their life.”
Felix gestures to the third dish. “Galbitang, soul-soothing and sexy. And this one-” he points dramatically at the final plate, “-is sataejjim. I was going to make agujjim, but our queen here has a fish allergy and I love her so you’re getting slow-braised beef short ribs instead. Don’t get emotional. I’m already the best friend you’ve ever had, I don’t need more compliments tonight.”
Jisung strolls in next, looking like he’s had a glass of the wine himself, refilling your plastic goblets with the same absurd flair as before.
Felix claps his hands once. “Enjoy your date. No fucking until after dessert, I mean it."
Felix bows, followed by Jeongin’s mock salute and Hyunjin’s “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” before they all vanish again, leaving the three of you surrounded by the scent of steaming meat and spices.
You’re halfway through a bite of sataejjim when Minho suddenly sits back and gasps like he just had a fucking revelation.
“Oh my god,” he says, “I have one Disney thing to talk about.”
You glance over, chewing, then swallow. “What?”
Minho’s eyes light with fire and fury. “The racist-ass cats in Aristocats. And don’t even get me started on the ones in Lady and the Tramp.”
You nearly choke on your bite, covering your mouth as Chan lets out a loud groan beside you.
“No seriously,” Minho says, leaning forward, gesturing with his chopsticks like they’re weapons. “I’m a very feline-coded Korean man. I love cats. I saw the title ‘Aristocats’ and I thought, ‘fuck yeah, cats in France, let’s go.’ But what do I get?”
He slaps his hand on the table. “Fucking slanted-eye caricature cats playing the piano with chopsticks while singing in fake-ass accents. What the fuck?!”
Chan is already snorting with laughter. You’re trying to drink wine and listen, which is dangerous at best.
“We are all Asian!” Minho continues, eyes wide, pointing at each of you. “We are Koreans! Asians! I repeat, we are ASIAN!”
He points dramatically at you. “And you! You’re triple Asian! Filipino, Malaysian, Korean! It’s even worse for you, darling! That’s a triple insult! Disney spat in three parts of your bloodline!”
You start laughing, full-bodied and loud, shoulders shaking as Minho continues his rant with zero signs of stopping.
“I mean, I watched that as a kid thinking it was normal! And then I grew up and rewatched and I was like, ‘Oh fuck, this is racist!’ Like violently racist. Just punch-me-in-the-face levels of racist. And don’t even bring up the Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp. Who approved that?!”
Chan covers his mouth, shaking silently as you wheeze into your wine.
“And then!” Minho slams his chopsticks down for emphasis, “the biggest crime in Disney history. The most heinous act ever committed. Worse than the cats.”
You and Chan look up, both breathless.
Minho glares. “The shitty-ass bob Eugene gave Rapunzel.”
“OH MY GOD, YES.”
“I MEAN,” Minho says, standing up now, hands flailing, “this man had ONE JOB. Cut her hair so she wouldn’t get used for her magic anymore. Cool. Fine. I support that. But why did he have to give her the most tragic haircut of all time?!”
Chan’s practically doubled over now. “He really gave her the Triangle Bob.”
“He could have cut it to her waist!” Minho yells. “Her shoulders! Anywhere manageable! So a hairdresser could shape it! But no, he went for the DIY kitchen scissors, blindfolded hack-job. And she had to live with that. Live with it! It was blunt! It was uneven! It was a chopstick-holder hairstyle and I will NEVER forgive him.”
You’re gasping for air, tears at the corners of your eyes as you grip your stomach.
Chan wheezes, “Triangle Bob is a hate crime.”
Minho collapses back into his chair, folding his arms with a scowl. “Justice for Rapunzel’s hair.”
Chan rings the bell for dessert just as Minho, mid-ramble, is in the middle of telling you both about his bisexual awakening, gesturing animatedly with a half-eaten mandu still in his hand.
“I swear to fuck,” Minho says, mouth full of dramatics and absolutely no shame, “I was thirteen, and I was rewatching Aristocats for the first time in years. And then suddenly, BOOM, Thomas O’Malley.”
Chan leans back in his chair, wine glass in hand, grinning. “The alley cat?”
“Yes,” Minho confirms with wide, passionate eyes. “He was charming. He was smooth. He had swagger. I didn’t know what was happening, but I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at Duchess.”
You’re already giggling into your hand, trying not to choke on your water as Minho continues.
“But then!” Minho slams his palm on the table. “Duchess? Duchess had me like, do I want her or do I want to be her? She was elegant, refined, beautiful. She had three kids, she was basically a MILF in cat form. So I’m thirteen, sitting there on my halmeoni's couch, sweating, realizing I had a crush on both of them and I didn’t know what the fuck to do about it. I was like, is this puberty? Is this bisexuality? Is this the start of my villain origin story?”
Chan’s wheezing now, barely able to breathe, and you’re hunched over your plate laughing so hard your shoulders are shaking.
“And don’t even get me started on Simba,” Minho says, pointing aggressively. “You know the moment. You know the moment!”
“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “No.”
Minho barrels forward. “The slo-mo hair flip as he walks across the log? The glow-up montage? The muscles? The fucking strut?! That was peak awakening. And then Nala? With those goddamn bedroom eyes during Can You Feel The Love Tonight? Yes, Elton John, yes I fucking can! What was that?! That was not kid-appropriate. That was a fuck-me gaze! She looked at Simba like she wanted to climb him like a tree!”
Chan’s banging on the table now, head tilted back as he howls with laughter. You’re crying, wiping at your eyes, your stomach aching from how hard you’re laughing.
Minho just crosses his arms and sits back like he’s just delivered a sermon. “Disney really out here giving kids complicated emotions about animated animals.”
You can barely get a word out as you giggle. “You’re so unwell.”
“Extremely,” Minho agrees. “And still hot.”
Before Chan can chime in with another sarcastic quip, the door swings open again, and your favourite quartet returns, Felix in full chef whites once again, looking far too pleased with himself, Jeongin and Hyunjin behind him, each balancing trays covered in colourful desserts. Behind them, Jisung trails in with a wine bottle tucked under his arm, already grinning.
Felix sets the first tray down with a flourish. “Dessert time, bitches.”
Jeongin and Hyunjin follow suit, lining up plates with a precision that clearly took at least two practice runs.
“We have,” Felix begins, clapping his hands, “Yaksik, sweet rice with jujubes, chestnuts, and pine nuts, soaked in honey. Makgeolli ice cream, soft, creamy, and slightly boozy. Goguma cake, that fluffy sweet potato masterpiece. Chapssal doughnuts, fried to golden perfection and rolled in cinnamon sugar. Gyeongdan, which I made with love and a little chaotic bisexual energy.”
Hyunjin carefully places down a fruit platter, meticulously arranged slices of strawberries, bananas, kiwi, and melon encircling small bowls of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry-flavoured dips.
Jisung plops the rice wine bottle down with a grin. “Here. Because we’re classy.”
Felix nods solemnly. “Each dessert was crafted with intention. With precision. And yes, with aphrodisiacal energy. I put crystals in my chef’s hat.”
Chan blinks. “You what?”
“I manifested horniness. These desserts are blessed.”
You bite your lip to keep from laughing again as they bow one last time, Felix muttering, “Enjoy your threesome or whatever the fuck is gonna happen,” before they all disappear again to the sound of Seungmin yelling from the kitchen, “If you don’t bring me the leftovers right fucking now, I’m breaking someone’s nose.”
Back in the now dessert-laden dining room, Minho grabs a ripe strawberry from the fruit platter and dips it into the chocolate sauce, swirling it around before holding it up to your lips.
You arch a brow, amused, but lean forward and take the strawberry between your teeth, biting off the chocolate-soaked half with a hum of appreciation as Minho watches you eat it like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
Not to be outdone, Chan picks up a slice of banana and dips it in the strawberry sauce before turning to Minho and holding it to his mouth. Minho’s eyes flicker from the banana to Chan, then to you, then back to Chan as he smirks and leans forward, lips wrapping around the banana slice with exaggerated slowness.
Chan doesn’t flinch. He just watches as Minho licks his fingers clean with zero shame.
You raise your eyebrows higher.
Minho winks at you. “What? He’s tasty.”
“You’re such a slut,” you mutter, laughing.
“I’m a slut with taste,” Minho replies, already reaching for a piece of Goguma cake.
You all start digging into the desserts properly, plates filling up with little bits of everything.
Minho is practically purring after his third bite of Goguma cake. “Okay. This? This is fucking criminal. I would do illegal things for more of this.”
Chan leans in, his voice low and playful. “Would you suck a dick for it?”
“Depends. Whose?”
“We’re not even at the end of dessert yet, and you’re already planning the blowjob schedule?”
Minho tilts his head. “I like to be organized.”
Chan just laughs, taking another sip of wine. “That’s why he colour-codes our shared calendar.”
And just like that, the three of you dissolve into laughter all over again, cheeks flushed, stomachs aching, hearts full. Your desserts are still on the table, the candles still flicker, the wine still flows. And yet, nothing tastes quite as rich as this moment, surrounded by food, warmth, and two ridiculous, passionate, wonderful idiots who clearly adore you.
And you? You adore them right back.
The door to Chan’s room closes with a quiet click behind you, and the soft noise feels heavier than it should. Final. Decisive. Like crossing a line you’ve been toeing for weeks.
His room smells like cedarwood, clean laundry, and something darker beneath it, skin, sweat, heat. The lights are low, warm and golden from the lamp in the corner. It’s quiet except for the soft shift of fabric as Minho drops his suit jacket over the back of Chan’s desk chair, and the way Chan’s breath hitches softly behind you.
You feel their eyes on you before you turn around. You can feel the air shift, the tension gathering like a storm. The way they look at you now is different than before the date, before dessert and laughter and the teasing jokes about animated animals and colour symbolism. There’s a new weight behind their gaze. Hunger. Possession. Something distinctly, deliciously dangerous.
Chan moves first, always steady, always grounding. He steps into your space, fingers brushing your waist, thumb dragging over the skin exposed by your dress. The satin fabric rustles quietly as he leans in, mouth just barely brushing your ear.
“Still with us, sweetheart?”
You nod, lips parting, but he catches your chin between his fingers before you can speak. His eyes search your face, expression dark and focused.
“Use your words.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “I’m with you.”
Minho makes a quiet, approving noise from somewhere behind you. You feel his approach without turning, he’s the kind of presence that fills a room like gravity. His hands slide around your waist from behind, firm and possessive, pulling you gently against his chest. His lips find the side of your neck, the heat of his mouth just barely grazing your skin.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice low and rich. “We were starting to wonder how long you were going to tease us. Wearing that fucking dress like you wanted to be ruined.”
Chan smiles against your cheek, hand sliding up your spine to the zipper of your dress. “You’ve been driving us insane all night. We didn’t say anything at dinner because we wanted to play nice, but now?”
The zipper comes down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room. Your breath catches.
Minho slips the dress down your body, mouth still pressed against your neck as the fabric slips down your body. It pools at your feet in a soft whisper, and you feel the temperature shift against your bare skin. You didn’t wear a bra, and the cool air kisses your nipples, sending them tight and aching. Minho’s hands slide up to your breasts immediately, fingers rough against the softness as he rolls them in his palms, teasing with slow, deliberate pressure.
Chan steps back for a moment, watching. His gaze is fire, burning its way down your body. You’ve never been looked at like this, like you’re prey, like you’re art, like you’re both. He unbuttons his shirt with slow movements like he’s giving you a show, and every inch of skin he reveals makes your thighs squeeze tighter together.
Minho pinches your nipples, hard, and you gasp. He smirks against your throat.
“I want to make something very clear,” he says, and his tone drops, velvet laced with steel. “Tonight isn’t just about fucking you. We’re not doing this just to scratch an itch.”
Chan tosses his shirt aside and comes back into your space, thumb sliding across your lower lip.
“We’re going to ruin you,” he says softly. “You’ll never be able to think about sex without thinking about this night. About us.”
Minho turns you around slowly, hands guiding your hips, and when you face him, you nearly lose your breath. His expression is pure dominance, restrained only by the barest thread. He’s stripped down to his dress pants, belt still on, the outline of his cock thick and hard beneath the fabric. He cups your jaw and tilts your head back, making you meet his eyes.
“You belong to us now,” he says, quiet but firm. “Understand?”
You nod again, but it’s not good enough for him. His hand tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground you.
“Say it.”
“I belong to you.”
Chan makes a soft, broken sound behind you. “Fuck, I love how she says it like she means it.”
Minho kisses you and it’s not gentle. His mouth claims yours, tongue sliding past your lips without hesitation, and you melt into him, moaning softly into the kiss. His hand slides down your back, gripping your ass roughly, pulling you flush against him.
Behind you, Chan’s hands start moving again, sliding over your thighs, up to your waist, over your ribs. He palms your breasts from behind, brushing his thumbs over your nipples in time with Minho’s kiss, and the dual sensations make your knees buckle.
Minho breaks the kiss just enough to speak. “Get on the bed.”
Your body moves before your brain catches up. You climb onto the mattress, sitting back on your heels in the centre, heart pounding in your chest. Minho follows, kneeling behind you, while Chan circles to the foot of the bed, eyes locked on yours.
“Hands,” Minho says.
You hold them out obediently, wrists together, and he grabs a length of black silk, his tie, you realize, the one he wore to dinner. The sight of it being looped around your wrists, tight and careful, sends heat pooling low in your stomach.
Minho knots it with ease, then guides your arms above your head, tying them to the headboard with just enough give to let you shift. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s perfect. You test the restraint once, a soft gasp escaping you at the way it tugs your spine straight.
“Look at her,” Minho says, low and dark. “Fucking perfect.”
Chan kneels between your legs, palms on your thighs, and spreads them slowly. He takes his time, watching your expression, watching your thighs tremble under his touch.
“She’s already shaking,” he murmurs, sounding pleased. “Barely touched her and she’s already falling apart.”
Minho leans in from behind, mouth at your ear. “You like this, baby? Being spread open for us like a good little slut?”
“Yes,” you whisper, voice catching.
Chan dips his head, lips brushing your inner thigh. “We’re going to make you beg tonight. Make you forget your name. You think you can take us again?”
“I can,” you breathe. “I want to.”
“God, look at her,” Minho says, his voice thick with hunger. “Dripping for us already.”
Chan hums in agreement, trailing kisses up your thigh, stopping just short of your pussy. His breath is hot against your skin, and when he finally licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, you cry out.
Minho cups your breasts, kneading them as Chan eats you out with slow, deliberate pressure, tongue curling around your clit, teasing it with just enough friction to make your hips buck. He holds you down easily, one hand spread across your lower stomach, anchoring you to the bed.
“You taste like you’ve been thinking about this all night,” Chan says, voice muffled against your pussy. “You taste like ours.”
Minho pinches your nipples again, harder this time. “She is ours.”
Your wrists pull against the tie as your body arches, sensation starting to tip toward overwhelming. Chan doesn’t let up. His tongue is relentless, working your clit while two fingers slide inside you, curling just right, just deep enough, making your back arch again.
“Please,” you gasp. “Please-”
Minho leans over, mouth at your ear again. “You wanna cum, baby?”
“Yes, please-”
“Not yet.”
You whimper, hips twitching, and Chan grins against your cunt. He pulls back, licking his lips, and looks up at you, face flushed, pupils blown.
“She’s close. I can feel her pulsing around my fingers.”
Minho moves down, nudging Chan out of the way. “Let me taste her.”
Chan pulls his fingers free and sucks them clean, making eye contact with you the entire time. Minho doesn’t wait. His mouth replaces Chan’s without hesitation, tongue diving deep, nose brushing your clit. You choke on a moan.
He’s rougher than Chan, less teasing, more focused on wrecking you. His mouth works you open like he’s trying to imprint the feeling of him on your body permanently. You feel your orgasm start to rise again, sharp and fast.
“Please- please let me-”
Chan brushes his fingers over your nipple again, voice soft but firm. “You want to come already, sweetheart? We’ve barely started.”
Minho groans against your pussy, and the vibration sends a shock through your spine.
“Cum for us,” he says. “Right now.”
The command hits you like a freight train. Your orgasm crashes over you in a wave, legs trembling, breath shattering in your chest. You cry out, the sound raw and needy, and Minho keeps licking, keeps fucking you with his tongue until you’re whimpering, too sensitive to bear it.
Your orgasm shudders through you like a shockwave, your muscles locking and twitching as Minho keeps working your clit with merciless precision. Even with Chan holding you still, your hips jerk against Minho’s face, tears springing to your eyes from the sheer intensity. It’s too much, you whimper, it’s too much but you don’t want it to stop.
Chan watches you closely from behind, his arm secure around your waist, eyes dark and tender at once. As soon as Minho pulls back, face wet with your arousal, lips shiny and swollen, Chan reaches around and unties your wrists with careful fingers. The moment your arms fall forward, he catches them, guiding them down to your sides and rubbing slow circles into your wrists to ease the stiffness.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your shoulder. “You did so fucking good. Breathe for us.”
Minho shifts down, sliding his hands under your thighs again, but this time not to pin you. He strokes gently down the length of your legs, palms kneading into your sore muscles, coaxing you back down from the edge. His thumbs work into your calves, the arches of your feet, before moving up again, pressing into your thighs with a gentleness that borders on reverent.
“You were beautiful like that,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “All spread out and shaking for us. You came so hard, baby. You made a mess on my face.”
Your chest heaves as you try to steady your breath, warmth blooming in your stomach from the praise and the way their hands move over you with such care. It contrasts deliciously with how rough they were moments ago. The shift between their dominance and this deep affection is dizzying, addictive. You feel cherished even while ruined.
They’re both naked now, when that happened, you’re not sure. But you can feel the heat of their bodies as they press close again, Minho nudging your chin up with two fingers to kiss you deeply. You can taste yourself on his tongue, the slick glide of his mouth devouring yours with new urgency.
Chan shifts behind you, hands stroking down your spine before he eases away just long enough to reposition himself on the bed. When you open your eyes again, Minho is crawling forward, and Chan lies back beneath him, stretching out like a throne made of muscle and sin.
“Want me to take a seat?” Minho asks Chan, voice a low purr as he glances down at him.
Chan grins, eyes already fixed on Minho’s ass as he licks his lips. “You know I fucking do.”
Minho doesn’t wait. He straddles Chan’s face, knees planted on either side of his head, his cock heavy and flushed against his abdomen as he leans forward on his hands and lowers himself slowly. Chan’s hands immediately grip his thighs, holding him steady as his mouth opens and he starts licking into him, tongue wet and eager, licking slow circles around Minho’s hole before plunging in with a groan that vibrates against Minho’s skin.
The sound Minho makes is obscene, part moan, part broken laugh, like he’s already losing control. He looks at you, dark eyes locked onto yours, and crooks a finger.
“Come here,” he says, voice raw.
You crawl forward, still trembling, and Minho meets you halfway. He pulls you into his lap, straddling Chan’s chest now, your knees pressing into the mattress as you sit just above Chan’s sternum. Minho kisses you again, deep and demanding, his hands running down your back, nails raking lightly over your spine until you arch into him.
Chan groans beneath you both, his hand sliding up between your legs again, two fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, deliberate circles that make you twitch in Minho’s grip.
“Look at her,” Chan gasps against Minho’s hole, pausing only briefly. “Dripping again already. Our perfect little cock-drunk whore.”
Minho bites your lip and tugs. “She’s insatiable. You love being used, don’t you, baby? Just a little plaything for us to fuck and ruin. You’re already making a mess all over his chest.”
Chan groans again, his fingers rubbing faster, coaxing more wetness from your already oversensitive cunt. You gasp into Minho’s mouth as the pressure builds again, nerves raw from your last orgasm, but hungry for more.
Minho kisses you again, then breaks it, panting as Chan starts fingering him from below with slick fingers, the lube cool and slippery as it sinks in. His eyes flutter shut, then snap open again, and he pulls back from your mouth just enough to speak.
“Not yet. Don’t let me cum. I want to come inside her. Want to fill her up while you’re already fucking her.”
Chan’s fingers slow, but he doesn’t stop entirely. Minho’s face is flushed, jaw clenched, muscles tense as he rides the edge. Then he grabs your hips and hauls you forward off Chan’s chest, dragging you up until you’re nose-to-nose with him again.
Minho guides you, carefully, to straddle Chan’s hips. His cock is thick and flushed beneath you, leaking pre-cum against his stomach. You reach for the lube he tosses up to you and coat his length, spreading the slick down his shaft until he groans, his hands gripping your waist.
“Ready?” he asks, voice hoarse.
You nod, and he lines himself up. You sink down slowly, inch by inch, your walls stretching around him as you gasp and shake in his lap. He fills you completely, the stretch familiar and overwhelming all at once. His hands grip your hips tighter as he groans beneath you, his eyes fixed on the way you take him.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “You were made for this.”
You start to ride him, slow and steady at first, your thighs trembling from effort. His hands guide your pace, hips bucking up to meet your movements, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the room.
Minho slides behind you, hands stroking down your back again, then lower, until he’s spreading your ass with both hands and leaning in to press soft, open-mouthed kisses along your spine. His lips leave trails of heat in their wake, and then his hand slides down to your pussy, fingers circling your clit as he whispers in your ear.
“Gonna take both of us, sweetheart. Gonna stretch you open around two cocks. Can you do that? Can you take it for us?”
“Yes,” you whimper, voice cracking.
Minho’s fingers dip into the jar of lube again, coating his hand before he reaches down. You feel the cool slickness against your cunt again, this time lower, careful and deliberate as he presses one finger into your already stuffed pussy alongside Chan’s cock.
You cry out at the stretch, but you don’t stop him. You don’t want him to stop.
“That’s it,” Minho murmurs, voice husky. “Loosen up for me. Relax. Let me in.”
Chan is stroking your hair now, gently running his fingers through the strands as you breathe through the pressure. Minho adds another finger, scissoring slowly, opening you wider around Chan’s cock.
“You’re doing so good,” Chan whispers. “Taking it like our perfect little toy.”
Minho leans forward, pressing his chest against your back, his hands never stopping as he preps you. “Gonna ruin you, baby. Gonna make you beg for more. You’re gonna forget what it feels like to fuck anyone but us.”
When he finally pulls his fingers out, you’re shaking, gasping, ready. You feel him line up behind you, his cock thick and slick with lube, the blunt head pressing against your already stuffed entrance.
“Breathe,” he says softly.
Chan holds you steady, one hand on your hip, the other cradling the back of your head as Minho starts to push in.
The burn is intense. You’re so full, so stretched, the sensation bordering on pain as your body fights to take him. But he goes slow, painfully slow, his hands sliding up your back to soothe you, whispering soft words as he presses in deeper.
“That’s it, just a little more. You’ve got it. You’re perfect. You can take it.”
Chan kisses your temple, murmuring praises as you start to sink fully onto both of them. Minho’s hips finally meet yours, and you sob, body trembling between them, stuffed to the brim with cock and praise and fire.
“Holy shit,” Chan groans. “She’s squeezing the life out of me.”
“She’s fucking tight,” Minho grits out. “Look at you, taking both of us. Such a filthy little slut.”
You whine, overwhelmed, and Minho tugs your hair back, making you arch against him. His other hand slides down and slaps your ass hard, the crack sharp, the pain blooming hot across your skin.
“You like that? You like being our little fucktoy?”
“Yes,” you gasp, eyes rolling back.
Minho moans, hips starting to move now, shallow thrusts that make both you and Chan cry out. Chan grips your thighs and starts to buck up into you, their cocks sliding in and out in a rhythm that builds quickly, bodies slapping together, sweat slicking your skin.
You’re sandwiched between them, pressed to Chan’s chest as he licks and bites at your neck, marking you with hickies, sucking dark bruises into your skin with possessive intent. Minho spanks you again, then grabs your hair and yanks your head back to kiss your throat.
“You’re ours. “No one else gets to fuck you like this. No one else gets to ruin you.”
“She’s dripping,” Chan groans. “I can feel her soaking both our cocks.”
Minho leans over you, grabs Chan's face, and kisses him over your shoulder. It’s hot, wet, messy, tongues tangling, teeth clicking, and you moan at the sight, your cunt clenching even tighter around them both.
They thrust harder now, synced up in a rhythm that drives you higher and higher. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You’re split open and full, every nerve ending lit up like fireworks, your orgasm building with terrifying speed.
Chan slaps your ass this time as he groans. “You close, baby? You gonna cum for us again?”
You moan, the sound broken, desperate. You’re close again already, your clit throbbing, cunt clenching so hard around them that Minho hisses and leans forward, biting into your shoulder.
“Gonna cum,” you gasp. “I can’t- fuck- I can’t-”
“Yes, you can,” Minho snaps, thrusts turning punishing. “You’re gonna cum with both our cocks in you. You’re going to make a mess all over us.”
Chan’s hand sneaks between your legs, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight, fast circles until your vision whites out. You moan, loud and hoarse, as your orgasm crashes over you, every muscle locking, cunt convulsing around them so hard that it drags Minho over the edge with you.
“Fuck- Fuck, baby,” Minho groans, slamming into you one last time as he cums, hips jerking, cock twitching inside you.
Chan holds you tighter, kissing your face, your shoulder, your temple, murmuring soft praises as Minho collapses against your back. Chan’s thrusts slow, dragging the last of the pleasure out until he groans deep and spills inside you too, warmth flooding your cunt as the three of you sag into each other.
They don’t pull out right away. They hold you there, trembling, stretched and shaking and so full it feels like you could burst.
Minho’s hands are steady as he eases you off Chan and onto the bed, the mattress welcoming you with a soft sigh beneath your aching limbs. The room is warm, the air still thick with the quiet aftermath of the night’s intensity. You’re pliant, exhausted in the way that only full-body pleasure and emotional surrender can bring, your chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths.
He presses a kiss to your temple, lips lingering as his thumb traces soothing circles along the curve of your waist. The gentle scrape of his voice is low, grounding. "You did so well," he murmurs. “Our good girl.”
Chan moves around the room quietly, bare feet against the wooden floor, the mini fridge humming to life as he crouches to retrieve water and one of the electrolyte drinks you like. His back is turned, muscles loose now, sweat still glistening along his spine as he uncaps a bottle and returns to your side.
He settles down next to you, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing every line again. You can’t help but smile, slow and a little dazed, when he brushes a thumb across your cheek and tips the bottle toward your lips. “Small sips,” he says. You do as he says, swallowing slowly, grateful as the cool liquid soothes your throat and brings you back to your body one careful drink at a time.
Minho’s arm curls under your shoulders, pulling you into his chest. His skin is warm, slicked with the remnants of exertion, and his heart beats steady beneath your cheek. You rest your hand over it, breathing in the scent of him, sweat, faint traces of his cologne, something uniquely him that wraps around you like home.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Both of us do.” His hand smooths along your back, up and down, rhythmically, and every stroke helps you float a little closer to being grounded again.
Chan’s fingers stay curled gently around your wrist after helping you finish the drink. He watches your eyes blink slowly, chest still rising and falling like the tide. His voice is quiet, but sure. “Let us clean you up, yeah?”
Minho hums in agreement, eyes dipping to yours. “Quick rinse, just a body wash. We’ll take a proper shower in the morning, hmm?” His lips graze the crown of your head as he waits for your answer.
You nod against him, and the response is immediate. He shifts with you in his arms, rising carefully and keeping you close, hands under your thighs as he carries you toward Chan’s ensuite bathroom. You feel the soft puff of his breath against your neck, the press of his cheek to yours.
In the bathroom, the lights are dimmed, casting the tiles in golden warmth. Steam curls gently from the faucet as Minho sets you down on the edge of the tub, brushing your knees with his thumbs.
He turns back to you, taking one of the hair clips left near the sink and gathering your hair up, fingers deft but gentle as he twists it and secures it. “Let’s keep this dry,” he says softly, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. His touch never stops, even as the water starts to run, even as he tests the temperature and helps you step into the tub.
The water is warm as it trickles over your skin, rinsing away the remnants of sweat and intensity. Minho pours body wash into his hands and starts lathering you with it. He moves slowly, methodically, gliding his hands over your shoulders, down your arms, down your back.
Chan joins a few minutes later, a clean towel slung over his shoulder. He kneels beside the tub, fingers brushing your knee before trailing down to your calf. “You doing okay, angel?” he asks, voice tender.
You nod again, lips parting slightly. “More than okay.”
The corner of his mouth tugs upward. “That’s what we like to hear.”
Minho rinses the suds from your back and thighs with a handheld sprayer, careful not to let the stream hit too harshly. Every time you shiver, he kisses the spot it touches. His hand finds yours again, holding it as Chan leans in and kisses the other side of your neck, less biting now, just soft, almost reverent.
When the rinse is done, they both help you step out, Minho steadying your waist while Chan wraps a towel around your shoulders. Their hands don’t rush. They press warmth into your skin as they dry you, as if they're anchoring you with every pass of the fabric.
“Let’s get you into bed,” Minho says as he brushes a final kiss to your cheek. “I’ll do your lotion in bed. Make sure your legs don’t cramp.”
Chan strips the bed quickly while Minho helps you back out into the bedroom, his arm a solid weight around your waist. The sheets are fresh when you return, cool, clean and inviting. You settle into them with a sigh, Minho joining you on one side, Chan on the other.
The bottle of lotion is already in Minho’s hands. He starts at your calves, working upward, strong thumbs pressing into sore muscles until you groan in relief. He moves with patience, rubbing out the tension in your thighs, the lingering tremble in your hips, even the soles of your feet. Every time you twitch, every time you flinch from a sensitive spot, his hands soothe, adjust, never judging.
Chan returns with a warm compress he made from a damp towel in the microwave and presses it gently to your lower back, kissing your spine as you exhale deeply into the pillow. “There she is,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along your shoulder. “That’s our girl.”
Minho kisses your ankle as he finishes the massage and tugs the blanket over you, sliding in beside you with a groan. “We’re not moving again until morning,” he says. “Not even if the house catches fire.”
“Agreed,” Chan chuckles, wrapping an arm around your middle as he settles in. You’re in the middle of them again, but this time it’s all comfort, no tension, no urgency, just shared breath and tangled limbs and the kind of silence that feels sacred.
Minho reaches over you to grab his water bottle from the nightstand and offers you another sip. You take it, nestling back into the pillows when you're done. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “So fucking proud of you,” he whispers. “You gave us everything tonight.”
Chan’s fingers trace up your spine, feather-light. “You’re everything we’ve ever wanted.”
The morning light filters lazily through the barely drawn blackout curtains in Chan’s room, streaking across the floor and casting a soft golden hue over the chaos of clothes, discarded shoes, and the three tangled bodies currently occupying his bed. It’s quiet, save for the occasional creak of the mattress and the sound of someone breathing deeply against your collarbone. You blink a few times, slowly waking up, vision blurry and limbs too heavy to move yet.
Your legs are thrown over Chan’s thigh, who’s pressed up against you like a human-sized heater, arm slung possessively around your waist. Minho is lying on your other side, half on his back, phone in hand, shirtless and looking unfairly good for someone who was railing you stupid six hours ago. Your body is comfortably nestled between them, wrapped in a pair of Minho’s old basketball shorts and one of Chan’s oversized t-shirts that smells like cedarwood and laundry softener. You feel like you’ve been steamrolled by affection, dick, and several hours of thoroughly unholy athleticism.
Minho glances down at you, clearly noticing your eyes blinking open. He doesn’t even greet you with a good morning. Instead, he smirks and says, “You forgot to take your makeup off properly last night even with the shower, and also, you got railed by us again, so now your mascara looks like you lost a fistfight with a raccoon.”
Your groan is muffled against Chan’s pillow. “Oh my god.”
Minho doesn’t stop. He’s already pulling the tiny mirror from Chan’s nightstand drawer like this is a part of his morning routine. He holds it up to your face with zero mercy.
You glance, wince, and then groan again, dropping your face back into the pillow. Your eye makeup is a smeared masterpiece, glitter and liner in disarray, and your neck is covered in hickies, a constellation of purple and red blooms that stretch down your collarbones and disappear under the neckline of the t-shirt. You look like you’ve been gently mauled.
“See?” Minho says proudly. “Masterpieces. I should’ve signed my name on your ass in hickies.”
“You might’ve,” you mumble.
Chan stirs behind you, snuggling closer as he mutters, “Pretty sure he left a few handprints too.”
Minho rolls his eyes, setting his phone down. “Sit up, a bit. Come on.”
You shift slightly, wincing at the soreness in your legs, and Minho props himself on one elbow as he grabs a container of wipes from Chan’s drawer. He pulls one out and gently starts wiping at your face, surprisingly soft for someone who definitely bit you hard enough to bruise last night.
“Are you feeling okay this morning?” he asks after a pause, his eyes scanning your face as he wipes away the smudged eyeliner.
“My legs ache,” you say honestly, “and my vagina needs three to five business days to recover.”
Minho snorts loudly, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “Fair. You took it like a champ though. You were fucking incredible.”
“You two broke me.”
“We worshipped you,” he corrects with a wink, grabbing another wipe and folding it as he continues. “Besides, you didn’t seem too broken when you were riding Chan like a prize pony.”
Chan hums against your back. “That was a great moment.”
You laugh softly, half-embarrassed and half-flattered. “Okay, perverts. Jesus.”
“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain when you came screaming it last night,” Minho teases, leaning in to kiss your shoulder before opening a new bottle of cleanser. He pours some onto a cotton pad and starts wiping again, this time more methodical.
“So,” he says after a beat. “How did you find the date?”
You blink up at him, smiling sleepily. “I’ve never had anyone put that much effort into a date before. Let alone two people. It was amazing.”
Minho’s expression shifts, something softer behind his usual snark. “Which is bullshit,” he mutters, dabbing around your jawline, “because you’re worth it. And more.”
Your chest tightens a little, and you just nod, biting your lip as you let him take care of you. The cotton pad goes in the trash, and Minho reaches for toner, soaking another pad before pressing it gently to your cheek.
He’s quiet for a second. Then, almost casually, he says, “We want you to be our girlfriend.”
Your breath hitches.
“The three of us,” Minho continues, carefully brushing the toner down your jawline. “As equals. No weird love triangle, no secrets. Just us. Together. How does that sound?”
You don’t even have to think about it. The words are already at the tip of your tongue, warm and certain.
“It sounds really good,” you whisper.
Minho finally smiles, wide and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners like it’s physically impossible for him to hold it back. He finishes with your cheeks and moves to your forehead.
Chan, who’s been half-asleep this whole time, mutters into your back, “That was easier than I expected.”
Minho scoffs, offended. “Easier? Channie, darling, we had sex with her, couldn’t find her, got misled by fucking Hyunjin, and spent literal weeks pining like dumbasses. We changed our entire gym schedule to match hers, she had a whole breakdown when she found out we knew, and then we had to recruit the frat clown squad to roleplay as restaurant staff for a fake date-night restaurant we set up in the dining room, Jisung drew on a moustache, Felix summoned horniness with his fucking crystals, and Seungmin almost stabbed us when we made him work kitchen clean-up.”
Chan grumbles, “Okay, okay, point made.”
Minho throws the used toner pad into the bin and grabs moisturizer. “You make it sound like this was easy.”
“I just meant-” Chan yawns, stretching behind you, “-she said yes, like, super chill. Not even dramatic.”
“That’s because she’s mature,” Minho says as he begins rubbing the moisturizer into your skin. “Unlike us.”
You can’t help but smile, warmth blooming in your chest as you lie there between them, pampered, teased, held like something precious. It’s intimate, not just in the physical closeness but in the care, in the routine of it. Minho tending to your skin like it’s second nature. Chan curled around your back like you belong to him. You’ve never felt more cherished, more understood, more wanted.
“I feel gross but loved,” you murmur.
“You’re beautiful,” Minho replies instantly, smoothing the last of the cream into your cheek. “Even when your mascara’s halfway down your face and you look like you’ve just come out of a brawl.”
Chan lifts his head, blinking at you. “You’re ours now, right?”
You nod, still a little breathless from how fast your life shifted. “Yours.”
“Good,” Minho says, sitting back and admiring his handiwork. “Now let’s figure out what you want for breakfast. Because you’re gonna need the energy. And not just for healing your pussy.”
The kitchen smells like fried kimchi, garlic, and something vaguely toasted as Minho moves around the stovetop like he was born to command it. You sit on one of the counter stools with your legs pulled up under you, oversized hoodie sleeves hiding your hands as you sip a big mug of hot honey lemon tea. The hoodie is Chan’s, of course, soft and oversized, with fraying cuffs and his scent all over it. Chan’s sprawled out in the chair beside you, shirtless and smug, looking like a man who slept like a baby after rearranging someone’s guts, which, technically, he did.
Minho hums to himself at the stove, flipping slices of kimchi toast in the pan, a plate of Gyeran Mari already sitting on the counter. He’s shirtless too, just wearing sweats, hair still a little damp from the quick shower he took with you earlier. Your legs are sore, your throat is a bit raw, and you’re pretty sure one of the hickeys on your neck is the size of a small country. But you’re happy. You’re soft. You’re safe.
Minho turns slightly, using the spatula to point at the plate of rolled omelette. “Eat,” he orders.
“I’m waiting for the toast,” you say, sipping your tea with a lazy smile.
Chan’s already eating, tearing into the Gyeran Mari with one hand while rubbing his eye with the other. “He gets really intense about breakfast,” he mumbles.
“It’s his love language,” you say, grinning at Minho.
Minho glances over his shoulder with a smirk. “Damn right, it is. You two get orgasms and breakfast. I’m spoiling the fuck out of you.”
He slides two pieces of golden-brown kimchi toast onto a plate and turns off the heat before bringing it over and setting it in front of you with a flourish. “For the love of my life. And my other love of my life.” He presses a kiss to your temple, then one to the top of Chan’s head.
You’re mid-bite, the spicy, tangy crunch of the toast exploding on your tongue when you hear footsteps. The frat house is waking up.
First to appear is Jisung, wearing neon yellow boxers and a university hoodie with the hood up, hair sticking out like he got electrocuted in his sleep. “Jesus fucking CHRIST,” he groans. “Could you three be any louder last night? I think the walls were vibrating.”
You almost choke on your toast as Chan starts laughing, and Minho doesn’t even blink.
Then comes Hyunjin, in silk pyjama pants and nothing else. “Y/N,” he drawls dramatically, “I love you, I support you, but if I have to hear you scream one more time through my wall, I’m throwing myself off the balcony.”
Felix walks in after him, hair a mess, wearing a giant t-shirt that says Feed Me and Tell Me I’m Pretty. “There was a point where I was like... do I want a turn?”
Jeongin stumbles in last, looking offended. “I was in the kitchen getting water at, like, 2 am. I heard someone say ‘harder’ and then a crash. Was that the bed?”
Minho finally speaks, not even looking up as he cuts another piece of Gyeran Mari and slides it onto your plate. “You’re all still alive. That’s disappointing.”
Changbin appears behind them on his crutches. He’s still wearing a boot cast from the ankle fuckcident in the shower, hair pushed back, and an evil grin on his face.
“You’re so loud,” he announces. “I have one good leg, and it still managed to spasm from hearing you moan.”
“Stop,” you laugh, covering your face with your hands.
Jisung leans against the fridge, yawning. “You know what’s worse? I had to walk past Chan’s room to take a shit this morning, and I saw the door open. The mattress is barely on the frame. It’s off-centre. There’s scratches on the wall.”
Chan lifts a piece of toast and points it at them. “I regret nothing.”
“I regret having ears,” Jeongin deadpans.
Hyunjin leans over the counter, looking at your food. “That Gyeran Mari up for grabs?”
Minho slaps his hand away without even blinking. “Touch my girlfriend’s food and I commit a six-man homicide right now.”
There’s a pause as you and Chan slowly turn to look at Minho, who is still lovingly arranging more toast on your plate like he didn’t just threaten mass murder in the same tone people use to ask for more sugar.
Minho shrugs. “I said what I said.”
The room goes silent and then, all five frat brothers collectively peace the fuck out.
Felix and Jisung flee first, mumbling about breakfast being a warzone, followed by Jeongin yelling “I didn’t even want toast anyway!” as Hyunjin grabs Changbin’s arm and helps him hobble away.
“I need to disinfect my brain!” Hyunjin cries as he walks out with Changbin who is shouting something about needing noise-cancelling headphones just to survive in this house.
Within thirty seconds, the kitchen is yours again. Peace restored.
Chan sighs happily, nudging his foot against yours under the table. “God, that was satisfying.”
“They really are dramatic,” you say, mouth full of toast.
“They’re all just mad they’re not getting laid,” Minho says as he sits down across from you and picks up his own plate. “And that they’re not getting fed.”
Chan leans over and feeds you a bite of omelette with his chopsticks. You chew happily and then reach across to feed Minho a piece of your toast in return.
He smirks. “See? This is the life.”
Chan clinks his chopsticks against yours. “Poly power.”
Minho raises his mug. “To fucking and feeding.”
You giggle, raising your tea. “To loud orgasms and good breakfast.”
The three of you clink together like a bunch of unhinged but happy weirdos who somehow found love in the middle of frat house madness, post-threesome chaos, and a campus-wide mystery. And as you laugh and eat and bask in the morning light pouring in through the windows, you think to yourself that maybe, just maybe, this is what happily ever after looks like for you.
Proofread by the amazing @hwangjoanna <3
Bang Chan Taglist: @0haerireah0
Lee Minho Taglist: @0haerireah0 @linowzzzz @puppymsworld
The world fell apart quietly. No warnings. No mercy. Just the slow decay of cities, the infected flooding the streets, and the silence that followed.
You've been surviving alone for over a year, keeping your head down, your heart guarded, and your hatchet close. But when you're forced to venture farther than ever before in search of winter supplies, you stumble into something you never expected-others.
Eight strangers. Scarred, sharp-edged, and secretive. You don't trust easily-and neither do they.
But in a world this broken, you don't get to choose who saves you. Or who you end up falling for.
Dark secrets. Harsh survival. Slow-burning connection.
And in the silence of what's left... something begins to grow.
Estimated words 77,000
Estimated read time 4.5 hours
summary . . . why verivery members couldn't sleep with you on your wedding night.
❪ 私たちの春 ❫ headcanons newlyweds suggestive crack (at least i think its funny hehe) verivery x f!reader 376 cw ノ suggestive (minors proceed with caution), undressing, one mention of foreplay, nothing explicit this is just supposed to be funny 〃 ♡ ⸝⸝⸝ usually i don't write smth like this but the idea suddenly came and i couldn't stop laughing thinking about it (started with gyehyeon's idea for the record) / 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄
LEE DONGHEON ﾐ 이동헌
in his eagerness trying to get you undressed, he ends up ripping your wedding dress
like, badly ripping it
you both freeze realizing the dress that cost you thousands now has a massive tear in it
whatever sexy mood was in the air vanishes with it
BAE HOYOUNG ﾐ 배호영
you're both too exhausted to even think of doing it
on the same wavelength, you both order fast food and relax after the day
will have a slightly sweet intimate moment when he helps you out of your dress and the millions of pins in your hair, but you both know you're too tired to take it anywhere
HONG MINCHAN ﾐ 홍민찬
parties too hard at reception and gets way too drunk
although he is very eager and definitely wants to give you the wedding night of your dreams, you put the cap on it
you want him to also remember whatever happens on your special night, and he's far too blackout drunk for any coordination let alone recalling it in the future
JO GYEHYEON ﾐ 조계현
falls asleep mid foreplay and is just completely knocked out, there is no chance of waking him up again
given how tiny his social battery can be you should have predicted it would be completely drained after the wedding and night of partying
he'll make it up to you in the morning
JU YEONHO ﾐ 주연호
you both keep getting interrupted whenever you try to make any moves
the hotel phone rings, room service comes, there's a noise complaint next door and staff are trying to resolve the conflict in the hallway, the fire alarm sounds… you name it
after about 4 different interruptions and only getting half your clothes off you decide to both give up
KIM YONGSEUNG ﾐ 김용승
wanted to watch the stars with you on your wedding night like the astronomy nerd he is (and promises once you get back to the room he's all yours!)
but you end up falling asleep while listening to him talk about constellations
not your fault his voice is very soothing (and the day was exhausting)
YOO KANGMIN ﾐ 유강민
is scared and doesn't know what to do (and is also probably still trying to learn how to function in front of you again after seeing you in your dress)
ends up sitting with you on the bed awkwardly like um… what do married people do now????
despite all the hints you might throw at him, he is not picking ANY of them up, and you eventually give up and call it a night
You decide to misbehave and your boyfriends have to punish you to teach you a lesson ;)
Wc: 1245 Genre: smut 18+ ONLY, college AU
Tw: professor's assistants chan and minho, oral, deepthroathing, voyeurism, cum eating, masturbation, hard dom minho, soft dom chan, name calling, spitting
Part of my valentine's day collab!
Minho’s lips were hot on yours. His kisses were hungry, he wanted to consume you whole, he wanted to take you down and then build you back up. His hands raked your body feverishly. He was always like that, impatient and harsh while your other lover was the complete opposite, slow and sweet.
“Minho, we’re in the middle of the hallway, we can’t do this here,” you whispered to him, afraid that somebody might catch you. Minho just sighed and parted from you, his heat leaving your body.
“Let’s go,” his tone was harsh, feigning annoyance but his grasp on your wrist was gentle. You knew better than to think he was actually annoyed, he knew that making out in the middle of the hallway during class hours was risky and he would never expose you to that; sure he might’ve teased you about it but only to rile you up, nothing more nothing less.
Minho led you through the hallways of your college with purpose, he knew where he could go to avoid being disturbed. His study was his sacred place and something that came with being a PA. His hand twisted the knob and then closed the door roughly, without sparing a glance to the other guy in the room.
“Hey, baby,” Chan greeted you with a sweet smile and swiftly got up to plant a gentle kiss on your temple.
“Hey Channie,” you shivered at his touch. Your arousal was starting to coat the inner part of your thighs, going paintieless might’ve been a bad idea. Minho scoffed at the interaction.
“You don’t deserve that treatment, whore.”
“What did she do this time,” Chan sighed at the younger boy, his hands rubbing your back in soothing circles. Channie was always sweet.
“Show him, slut, get on the desk and spread your legs,” Minho’s tone was harsh and youo looked at Chan for comfort.
“Go on,” he gently reassured you. Your lower lip wobbled and you pouted at the treatment one of the boys reserved for you, but the wetness in between your legs told a whole other story.
You slowly sat on the desk and brought your legs to your chest. Normally every command would’ve been met with a swift reaction from you but you already misbehaved that day so why not go all out.
“I don’t have all day,” Minho’s aura was menacing, you knew he didn’t like misbehaving.
“Baby, do as Minho says, okay?” Chan’s tone was gentle as usual.
With your hands planted behind you for support, you slowly opened your legs to expose your glistening bare cunt, your skirt pooled at your hips. Chan sharply hissed at the sighed, his big warm hand landed delicately on your calf.
“No panties, baby?” he asked with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He liked when you were daring.
“It’s your valentine’s day present,” you felt hot and excited as the two boys eyed you like you were dessert.
“I don’t see anything wrong with it,” he looked at the other boy with a raised brow. At the same time his hand moved from your calf to your knee, his thumb circled your smooth skin.
“Was spreading your legs during class and showing me your pussy in front of everyone also a part of the present?” he stepped dangerously close to you and gripped forcefully your other knee, a stark contrast compared to Chan, “ did you forget that this is only ours to look at?”
Minho landed a harsh slap on your outer thigh and you whimpered.
“Is that true, baby?” Chan’s demeanor had changed but he was definitely less scary than Minho.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry baby, but this time I can’t defend you,” he let go of your knee and took a seat at his usual armchair, “punish her how you see fit, I’ll watch this time,” he talked to the other boy in the room.
Minho shot one of the most fiery and intimidating looks you had ever seen on him. His hand lifted and came in contact with your pussy delicately. His index and middle finger swiped slowly through your fold and played with your wetness. A small whimper escaped you, your eyes closed in an attempt to savor the small pleasure he was giving you. A harsh slap landed on your cunt.
“Get down and on your knees, slut.” He clearly wasn’t asking you and you struggled to get down from the desk without crumpling all of the documents on it.
Minho looked even more breathtaking when you were on your knees, you had never found an angle from which he looked ugly. Your boyfriend fumbled with his zipper and then took out his hard cock. Your mouth watered.
“Do you know what to do to stop?”
“Three taps on your right thigh,” you nodded. His hand carded through your hair. What seemed a sweet gesture quickly changed when he fisted your hair and pulled your hair.
“Mouth open.”
He gathered the saliva in his mouth and harshly spat out. His warm spit slowly trickled down your tongue. A moan slipped your lips at his harsh actions, but you didn’t have time to beg for more because Minho shoved his dick in your mouth. You whined.
He felt heavy on your tongue, his taste intoxicating. The tip of his thick cock pressed at the back of your throat, your teary eyes on Minho.
“You should see her right now, hyung, she looks just like the whore she is,” he spoke to the other guy in the room calmly, like his dick wasn’t down your throat.
“Oh I can see her don’t worry,” Chan’s voice sounded strained.
“Eyes on him whore while I fuck your mouth or you don’t get to cum for a week.”
You looked at Chan. The sight in front of you made you whine and clench in need; your other boyfriend had his pants and underwear shoved down and slowly fisted his cock. As soon as you made eye contact with Chan, Minho began to fuck your throat, setting a brutal pace. You did your best to help send him over the edge and tightened your throat around his big cock. A moan escaped Minho’s lips, his facade slipping for a second.
Chan on the other hand was still leisurely stroking his cock, he clearly had no intention of cumming so quickly but he was enjoying the view. You raked your eyes over his body, he looked like an ancient adonis. He was spectacular.
“You’re doing so well, baby. Can you make him cum?” asked Chan, his hand picked up the pace slightly. You hummed in agreement, the vibrations sending sparks up and down Minho’s cock. Your tongue started swiping the underside of his cock slowly.
“You’re good at this slut,” Minho grunted, his head thrown back and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. You moaned again, pleased with his reaction.
“God, I’m gonna cum, be good and swallow it all.”
Minho pushed his dick to the very back of your throat, your nose brushed his pelvis. Hot ropes shot down your throat while Minho moaned and pulled your hair tighter in his fist. Your hands made contact with his thigh to help you stand up.
“Stop.” You froze at the command.
“Stay like this and keep my cock in your mouth for the rest of the day, if you want to act like a whore then you should be treated like one.”
