His boyfriend was curled beneath the sheets, breathing slow, one hand resting palm-up on the pillow beside him like he’d been reaching out even in sleep. Haru couldn’t help it, he reached first, fingers brushing gently against (y/n)’s.

(y/n) stirred with a soft hum.

“Mm? Haru?”

“I had a nightmare,” Haru whispered, voice thick, barely audible.

(y/n) didn’t hesitate. He sat up immediately, pushing the covers aside and opening his arms. Haru crawled into them without a second thought, burying his face into (y/n)’s shoulder like it was the only place he could breathe right. He felt the way (y/n)’s hand slid up his spine, slow and grounding, until it cupped the back of his head.

“You’re alright,” (y/n) murmured, voice soft and sure against his ear. “I’ve got you.”

Haru didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. But his body told the truth, clinging, shaking, trembling every time (y/n) exhaled.

(y/n) kissed his temple, then his cheek. Haru turned toward the contact like it was oxygen, lips brushing against (y/n)’s jaw in a quiet plea.

“You want me to help you forget?” (y/n) asked gently.

Haru nodded, small and urgent.

(y/n) smiled against his skin, but his tone shifted. Gentle still, but laced with something firmer now. Something more commanding.

“Good. Then you’re going to listen to me tonight.”

Haru shivered, and not from fear.

“Lie back,” (y/n) told him, already pushing gently at his chest. “And take your boxers off.”

He obeyed without question, eyes wide and needy as he settled back into the pillows. (y/n) straddled his hips, leaned down, and kissed him slow, tongue against his, warm and languid like he had all the time in the world to make Haru feel better.

And then (y/n) was grinding against him, bare and soft at first, just enough to make Haru gasp.

“Look at you,” (y/n) whispered as he pulled back just enough to study him. “So hard already. You really need me to tell you what to do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Haru breathed.

“Say it.”

“I need you to tell me what to do. Please.”

(y/n) kissed him again, rougher this time, and rolled his hips slow and deliberate until Haru’s head fell back against the pillow. Then he reached down, guiding Haru’s cock between his cheeks, holding it there without taking him in yet.

“You’re not going to fuck me like you usually do,” (y/n) murmured, dragging his nails gently across Haru’s chest. “You’re going to do it how I want. You’re going to let me use you.”

Haru let out a shaky sound, half whimper, half moan.

“Yes. Anything. Please.”

(y/n) reached between his legs, positioned himself slowly, and sank down on Haru’s cock inch by inch with a soft, drawn-out sigh. Haru was already trembling, hands gripping the sheets like if he touched (y/n) now, he might fall apart.

But (y/n) didn’t let him stay still.

“Touch me,” he said firmly. “Right here. Hold my hips.”

Haru obeyed immediately.

“Now stay there. Don’t move. I ride you until I say you can do anything else.”

The control in (y/n)’s voice, warm and sweet but sharp with command, shot straight to Haru’s core. He nodded helplessly, fingers digging into (y/n)’s skin as the other began to move.

(y/n) rode him slow. So slow it was almost torturous. Tight heat dragging over Haru’s cock with every shift of his hips, every roll and grind that had him nearly begging already.

But (y/n) wouldn’t let him.

“Don’t come yet,” he warned, leaning close to nip at Haru’s throat. “I’m not done using you.”

Haru was gasping now, head pressed back, eyes fluttering shut.

“No,” (y/n) said firmly. “Look at me.”

He forced Haru’s gaze back to his, fingers gripping his jaw.

“I want you to watch the way I ride you. Feel how deep you are. How good you stretch me.”

Haru’s lips parted in a moan, pupils blown wide.

“I’m yours,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You feel so good, baby.”

(y/n) softened at the sound, but his movements didn’t falter. If anything, he moved harder, fucking himself on Haru’s cock with precise control. His own cock was leaking between them, untouched.

“You gonna make me come without even touching myself?” (y/n) teased, but his voice wavered just a little, breath hitching as he bounced harder on Haru’s lap. “That’s how good you are. So good, Haru.”

Haru was shaking again, but not from the nightmare this time.

“Please,” he begged, chest heaving. “Please let me move. Let me come.”

(y/n) slowed for just a second, watching his face.

“You promise to come with me?”

Haru nodded desperately.

“Then fuck up into me,” (y/n) whispered, and just like that, Haru was moving. Hips thrusting up, rhythm ragged and deep, matching the pace (y/n) kept riding him with.

Their moans tangled in the dark. Sweat slicked their skin. (y/n) leaned down and kissed him again, soft and filthy, tongues meeting as their bodies locked together in desperate rhythm.

“Inside,” (y/n) gasped. “You come inside me, Haru. I want it. I want to feel you fill me up.”

That was all it took. Haru let go with a sob, cock throbbing inside (y/n) as he came deep, body going stiff beneath him. (y/n) followed seconds later, whimpering as his own release painted their stomachs, his walls clenching around Haru in aftershocks.

They stayed like that for a moment, tangled and shaking, breathing hard.

(y/n) leaned down, pressed his forehead to Haru’s.

“Still with me?” he asked softly.

Haru nodded, eyes glassy, mouth parted. “You feel like home,” he whispered.

(y/n) smiled, brushing his hair back. “Then I’ll always be here when you wake up scared.”

Haru pulled him into a hug, cock still buried inside him, and (y/n) let him hold on as long as he needed.

They cleaned up after a while, but not before Haru whispered, half-asleep and clinging:

“Next time I have a nightmare… do that again.”

(y/n) kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I will. Every time.”

“You need to eat more than that,” Wumuti chided gently as he handed (y/n) a neatly arranged bento box he had picked up while the others were filming their solo shots. He crouched in front of him, pulling out a pair of chopsticks and offering the first bite straight to (y/n)’s lips.

“I’m not that hungry,” (y/n) mumbled, still chewing the last of a rice ball.

“You need to eat. Come on, one more bite.”

(y/n) opened his mouth with a dramatic sigh, letting Wumuti feed him another piece.

“That’s my good boy.”

Wumuti didn’t even register what he’d said until (y/n)’s eyes flicked up at him, amused and sharp, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“You really do treat me like a spoiled boyfriend, you know,” (y/n) teased, licking some sauce from his lip.

“Maybe you are,” Wumuti shot back easily, taking a napkin and wiping the corner of (y/n)’s mouth. “You’re mine. Someone’s gotta look after you.”

(y/n) gave him a smug little smile and leaned into the touch, his voice a low purr.

“If you keep babying me like this, I’m gonna start calling you mommy.”

Wumuti froze.

It hit him like a truck. Something in his chest clenched, lower belly tensing with a heat that spread too fast, too deep. He stared at (y/n), expression caught somewhere between stunned and turned on.

(y/n) noticed immediately. “…Oh?” he said slowly, lips curving into a wicked grin. “Did that do something to you?”

Wumuti stood up, grabbing the now-empty bento box, trying to play it off with a tight laugh.

“Eat the rest. I’m gonna grab you water.”

He left the room a little too quickly.

But all day, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way it sounded in (y/n)’s voice. The playful tone edged with just enough sincerity to rattle something inside him. And now, no matter how many times he reminded himself to keep it cool, his thoughts kept looping back to it like a siren call.

Mommy.

By the time they got back to Wumuti’s apartment that night, (y/n) had long since dropped the joke and was lounging in bed after his shower, towel wrapped low on his hips, curls damp, phone in hand as he scrolled lazily through something.

Wumuti was pacing.

“You okay?” (y/n) asked, not looking up.

Wumuti ran a hand through his hair, then turned and crossed the room in three fast strides. He stood at the foot of the bed, towering over him, arms crossed.

“Say it again.”

(y/n) blinked. “Huh?”

“That thing you said. At the studio.”

(y/n)’s lips curled. He pushed himself up onto his elbows slowly.

“You really liked that, huh.”

“Say it.”

“Mommy,” (y/n) said softly, licking his bottom lip.

Wumuti exhaled hard through his nose, jaw tight.

“Again.”

“Mommy.”

Wumuti climbed onto the bed like a man possessed, crawling up between (y/n)’s legs and catching his mouth in a kiss that was anything but sweet. His hands were already pulling at the towel, tossing it aside. He kissed (y/n) until he was breathless, dragging his fingers down his chest, nails grazing over his ribs before gripping his thighs and spreading them apart.

“You shouldn’t have said that if you didn’t want to find out what it does to me.”

“I did want to,” (y/n) breathed. “I wanted to see what it would make you do.”

“Fucking brat,” Wumuti groaned, pressing open-mouth kisses to the inside of his thigh. “All that teasing. You want mommy to lose control?”

“Yes. Want you to lose control all over me.”

Wumuti’s eyes darkened. He grabbed the back of (y/n)’s knee, lifting it, folding him in half so fast it knocked a gasp out of (y/n)’s chest. He kissed him again, this time slower, deeper, pouring the tension of the day into it. When he pulled away, his voice dropped to a low, hungry murmur.

“Stay still.”

He reached for the lube on his nightstand, slicking his fingers quickly before pressing one inside, working (y/n) open with precision and care. (y/n) whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, hips rolling into the motion.

“That’s it. Let me stretch you out,” Wumuti whispered, brushing kisses along his jaw. “My pretty boy. Always so good for me.”

“Only for you,” (y/n) panted.

“Say it again.”

“Mommy.”

Wumuti moaned, adding a second finger and curling them just right.

“You’re gonna drive me crazy.”

He kept at it until (y/n) was whining, sweat prickling across his skin, toes curling from how sensitive he already was. Then, with one hand braced on (y/n)’s hip, he lined himself up and pushed in slow, deep, every inch dragging a needy sound from (y/n)’s throat.

“Fuck,” Wumuti gritted out. “You feel like heaven.”

(y/n)’s back arched, legs trembling as he tried to take all of him. He was already so close, already gone.

“More. Please more..-”

“You think you can take all of mommy’s cock?” Wumuti groaned, voice ragged. “You think you deserve it?”

“Y-Yes, please..-”

Wumuti started moving. Slow at first, then harder, deeper, building into a rhythm that had (y/n) gasping with every thrust. His hands were everywhere, gripping (y/n)’s hips, dragging his nails down his back, tilting his chin up so he could watch his face as he wrecked him.

“You look so good like this. All fucked out. Taking me so well.”

“Don’t stop..- don’t stop..-”

“Not until you beg.”

“I am begging.”

“Say it again.”

“Mommy..- please..-want you to come inside me..- need it..-”

Wumuti slammed into him harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, (y/n)’s cries getting higher, more desperate. Wumuti angled his hips and hit that spot that made (y/n) see stars.

“That’s it. Come for me.”

“I-I can’t..-”

“Yes, you can. Come for mommy.”

(y/n) came with a choked cry, body locking up, clenching around Wumuti so tight it pulled a broken moan from his throat. Wumuti didn’t last long after that, thrusting deep once, twice, before groaning (y/n)’s name and spilling inside him, his grip almost bruising.

They collapsed into each other, sticky and shaking.

Wumuti didn’t pull out right away. He kissed (y/n)’s temple, brushing the sweat-damp hair from his forehead. He stroked his cheek with his thumb, eyes full of something soft and wild all at once.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

(y/n) nodded, still catching his breath.

“You really like being called mommy, huh.”

Wumuti smiled. “Only when you say it.”

(y/n) kissed him again, slow and messy. “Then I guess I’ll have to say it more often.”

“You better,” Wumuti whispered, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close. “Because now that I’ve heard it… I don’t think I can go back.”

They stayed like that, tangled under the sheets, (y/n) still full, still twitching from the aftershocks. Wumuti tucked him in, kissed every inch he could reach, and promised to run him a hot bath in a bit.

But for now?

He just held him. Close. Safe. Loved.

Exactly where he wanted him.

(y/n) sat on the couch, shoulders unusually tense, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve in silence. His phone buzzed, once, then twice. He didn’t look at it.

Wumuti noticed. He always noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, kneeling slightly beside the couch, trying to peek up at (y/n)’s downturned face.

(y/n) tried to nod. His lips opened, closed, and then he muttered something about his older brother. That he hadn’t replied to his texts in weeks.

“It’s been like this since he stopped talking to our parents. Since he left everything behind.”

Wumuti stayed silent, giving him space to continue.

“He used to say he didn’t owe them anything. That they were toxic. He cut them off completely.” (y/n)’s voice cracked at the end.

“And now… I think he’s cutting me off too.”

That’s when the first tear fell. (y/n) quickly turned his head, ashamed of the emotion unraveling in front of someone else.

“I don’t want to be like him,” he whispered. “Even if they’ve hurt me too. Even if I hate going home. I just… I can’t leave them. That’s still my family.”

Wumuti moved closer, careful and slow, like approaching a scared animal. He didn’t say anything at first. He just offered warmth.

His hands were steady, one resting over (y/n)’s trembling ones.

“You’re not abandoning them just because you’re hurting,” he said after a long pause. “Wanting space isn’t the same as leaving forever.”

(y/n) cried harder at that. Not loud or messy, but the kind of grief that comes from holding too much in for too long.

Wumuti pulled him close, let him cry into his shoulder, fingers brushing lightly at the nape of his neck.

“You’re allowed to stay. And you’re allowed to go. Neither one makes you like your brother.”

“Then what am I?”

“You’re (y/n). And I’m here.”

They stayed on the couch for hours. No more phones, no more words. Just two people breathing in sync, one anchoring the other through the storm.

Wumuti didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t offer advice or draw conclusions. He just held (y/n) like a promise.

Rui 🦋 ~

Rui always described (y/n) as calm. Quiet in a thoughtful way, like someone who had learned to survive without taking up too much space.

That evening, Rui had invited (y/n) over after practice, eager to share a new song he had choreographed to.

(y/n) smiled when he arrived, like always, but Rui could tell something was off. There was a tightness in his expression, something tired in his eyes.

They sat side by side on Rui’s bed, legs just barely touching. The room was lit with fairy lights and soft music, but (y/n) kept staring at the floor.

Rui waited. He never pushed. He knew (y/n) would talk when he was ready.

“I got a call from my mom today,” (y/n) said after a long silence. “She asked why I’ve been distant. If I’m trying to be like my brother.”

Rui turned off the music with a quiet tap on his phone. He looked at (y/n) gently, patiently.

“My brother cut everyone off. First my parents. Then me. Just… disappeared. And now they think I’ll do the same.”

(y/n)’s voice wavered. He bit his lip, eyes starting to glass over.

“But I’m not like him,” he whispered. “I can’t just leave them. No matter how bad it gets. That’s still my family.”

Rui’s heart ached at the way (y/n) clutched his own sleeves, like he was holding himself together with just his fingertips.

“They make me feel like I’m the problem if I take space. But staying feels like I’m suffocating.”

(y/n) tried to laugh, but it cracked halfway through. “I hate that this hurts so much.”

That’s when he finally broke. No warning, no dramatic collapse. Just quiet, helpless tears that spilled too fast to stop.

Rui moved without thinking. He reached out and pulled (y/n) into a hug, arms firm but gentle, letting him hide his face in Rui’s shoulder.

“Crying doesn’t mean you’re weak,” Rui murmured into his hair. “It means you still care. That’s not something to be ashamed of.”

(y/n) clung to him like he was drowning. Rui’s shirt grew damp, but he didn’t flinch.

“You’re not abandoning them,” Rui continued softly. “You’re trying to survive. And that matters too.”

They sat like that for a long time. Rui swayed them slightly, like a lullaby in motion, grounding (y/n) in the safety of his arms.

“You don’t have to figure it out all at once,” Rui whispered. “Just… let me stay with you. However long it takes.”

(y/n) didn’t answer right away, but his grip loosened just enough for Rui to know he heard him.

Rui tucked a blanket around them, still holding (y/n) close, still quiet, still there.

Sometimes love didn’t need answers. It just needed someone who stayed.

Hyun 🐵 ~

Hyun wasn’t good with emotions, especially other people’s. He grew up learning how to bottle things, not spill them.

But there was something about (y/n) that made him want to try.

They had a quiet sort of closeness. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, knees almost touching. Sharing playlists without talking much. Communicating in silence more than words.

That night, something was different. (y/n)’s face was drawn tight, eyes flicking to his phone every few minutes, not saying anything.

Hyun noticed. He didn’t say anything about it at first. He just handed (y/n) a warm drink and sat beside him.

“My brother texted today,” (y/n) said suddenly. “Said he didn’t talk to our parents anymore. Said he doesn’t want to talk to me either.”

Hyun paused. He waited, letting (y/n) say the rest.

“I don’t blame him for cutting them off. Things were bad. Still are.”

(y/n)’s voice was calm, but too even. Like he was holding something down with force.

“But I’m not like him. I don’t want to disappear. I don’t want to be the one who leaves too.”

His hands started shaking slightly as he gripped the mug.

“They’ve done a lot of things I hate. But they’re still my parents. And even if it hurts to talk to them, it hurts more to imagine never doing it again.”

(y/n)’s eyes welled up before he could stop it. The first tear fell.

“I don’t want to be like him,” he repeated, barely above a whisper. “But I don’t know how to stay either.”

Hyun didn’t know what to say right away. He wasn’t the comforting type. He didn’t have flowery words or emotional speeches.

So he set down his own cup and reached out, brushing his fingers lightly over (y/n)’s hand. Just enough to let him know he was here.

(y/n) looked up, tears falling now without resistance. There was something so raw in the way he finally let go.

“It’s okay to not have answers,” Hyun said quietly. “You’re allowed to feel torn. That doesn’t make you weak.”

(y/n) didn’t speak. He just leaned forward, resting his forehead against Hyun’s shoulder like he needed something solid to hold onto.

Hyun wrapped an arm around him, steady and sure. He didn’t pull him closer fast. He let (y/n) come to him in his own time.

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do,” Hyun said into his hair. “But I’ll stay. However long you need.”

They stayed like that, unmoving, until the weight of it all settled between them. Heavy, but shared.

Hyun wasn’t good with emotions. But he was good at staying. And sometimes, that was enough.

Haru 🦊 ~

Haru was usually the sunshine in the room. Loud laughs, playful teasing, bright energy that filled the silence.

But he wasn’t clueless. He noticed when (y/n) smiled a little too tightly or laughed a little too late.

They had just finished watching an animated film on Haru’s tablet, curled up under a blanket on the dorm floor with snacks between them.

(y/n) had barely touched his food. He kept zoning out, chewing on the edge of his sleeve and staring at the paused screen like he was somewhere else entirely.

Haru nudged him gently with his shoulder. “You okay?”

(y/n) blinked and gave a tiny nod. Too quick. Not real.

“You don’t have to pretend around me,” Haru said, voice softer now. “I mean it.”

There was a long pause before (y/n) spoke.

“My brother stopped talking to me.”

Haru tilted his head, listening closely.

“He stopped talking to my parents years ago. Now… it feels like he’s cutting me off too.”

(y/n)’s hands were clenched in his lap. His voice was quiet but tight, like the words cost him something.

“I get it. Why he left. It was bad. It’s still bad sometimes.”

He looked down, eyes fixed on nothing.

“But I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to leave them too. Even when I’m angry. Even when I feel like I should.”

The first tear rolled down before (y/n) even noticed. He didn’t wipe it away.

“If I go, there’ll be nothing left of us. It’ll be like we never had a family to begin with.”

Haru didn’t know what to say at first. His chest ached at how small (y/n) looked in that moment.

He gently reached out, placing his hand over (y/n)’s, his fingers warm and grounding.

“You’re not like him,” Haru said softly. “You don’t have to choose between staying and breaking.”

(y/n) sniffled and looked at him, eyes red, overwhelmed.

“But I feel like I’ll fall apart either way.”

Haru nodded slowly. “Then let’s fall apart here. Just for tonight. I’ll be with you.”

(y/n) leaned into him without needing to be asked, head tucked against Haru’s shoulder. Haru wrapped both arms around him, rocking them slightly.

“You’re allowed to feel lost,” Haru murmured. “But you’re not alone.”

The movie still sat paused on the screen, forgotten. The snacks went untouched. The room was quiet, save for the sound of quiet tears and Haru’s steady breath.

Haru didn’t try to cheer him up with jokes or distract him with noise. Not this time.

He just stayed. Held on. Let (y/n) cry without fear of being judged.

“Whatever you decide, I’ll still be here,” Haru whispered, voice barely above the sound of the rain beginning to fall outside.

And in that moment, (y/n) believed him.

There was another train in fifteen minutes, but it wouldn’t matter. He was already late. And now he’d be even more late.

No use standing around. With a resigned huff, (y/n) turned and started heading up toward the street level, weaving through the morning crowd at a brisk pace. His pace might’ve been a little too brisk.

Because as he rounded the corner of a narrow alley shortcut, trying to save even a single minute, he collided hard with someone.

“Ah!”

The impact knocked the air from his lungs. Cold liquid soaked his shirt, spreading sticky and wet across his chest. A soft thud followed, the sound of a second cup hitting the pavement, its contents fanning out across the concrete like a sugary grave.

(y/n) stood perfectly still.

The stranger in front of him took a step back, wide-eyed and panicked. “Oh my god..- I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you, I swear! Are you okay?”

(y/n) slowly looked down at his white shirt, now ruined with some kind of iced americano. The brown liquid clung to the fabric like cruel ink on canvas.

Of course it was coffee.

He hated coffee.

(y/n) blinked. Once. Twice. He looked back up at the stranger, tall, dark-haired, attractive in a “somehow famous” kind of way. The guy looked genuinely horrified. Hands half raised, mouth still open like he wasn’t sure if he should apologize again or run.

Meanwhile, (y/n) just stood there. Frozen. Not out of rage, no, he was too tired for that. More like a quiet contemplation of fate. Maybe he should just go back home. Crawl back into bed. Pretend today never started.

He was so done.

“…Are you… okay?” the stranger asked again, a little softer this time.

(y/n) gave him a slow blink. “Do I look okay?”

Hyun’s mouth opened, then shut again. There was something weirdly captivating about the boy in front of him. Soaked shirt clinging to a surprisingly fit torso. Eyes staring at him like he was the final boss of inconvenience.

“I.. No. No, you don’t,” Hyun admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, let me..- Here, I have tissues. Or napkins. Something..”

He started patting his pockets frantically.

(y/n) just sighed. “It’s fine.” He was already pulling his hoodie from his bag and slipping it on over the sticky mess. “Guess I’ll just show up to class late and smelling like a Starbucks.”

Hyun stared. “You’re still going to class?”

(y/n) zipped the hoodie halfway. “I guess.”

“…I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look this done and still keep going.”

That finally drew a small noise from (y/n). Somewhere between a tired huff and a laugh. “Story of my life.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Hyun offered, awkward but sincere, “At least let me buy you another drink. Yours hit the ground too.”

(y/n) looked down. The plastic cup lay shattered, matcha latte pooling at his feet.

“…That was my favorite,” he said quietly. Then he looked up again. “Do you even know what matcha is?”

Hyun bristled. “I’m not that clueless.”

(y/n) raised a brow. “You’re holding an americano. That’s basically the enemy.”

“It’s just morning fuel,” Hyun defended, lips twitching in a reluctant grin. “I don’t actually like it.”

(y/n) narrowed his eyes. “Liar.”

Hyun held up both hands, surrendering. “Okay, a little. But I like sweet drinks, too. I swear.”

Another pause. (y/n) stared at him again. The boy was tall, obviously fit, probably an idol or a trainee. He had that too-perfect skin and the kind of controlled panic only someone media-trained could manage. But (y/n) didn’t recognize him.

Maybe this was just fate’s weird attempt at giving him a reset.

“…Fine,” (y/n) said eventually. “You can buy me another drink.”

Hyun’s relief was instant, like a weight lifted from his shoulders. “Really? Great. There’s a bubble tea place around the corner.”

“You do have taste,” (y/n) muttered, tugging his hoodie sleeves down. “Congratulations.”

As they started walking side by side, Hyun glanced at him. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“(y/n).”

“Hyun,” he replied. “Nice to meet you. Again. Accidentally.”

(y/n) snorted. “You owe me a shirt.”

“I’ll add that to the list,” Hyun said, chuckling under his breath. “Drink first. Shirt later.”

(y/n) has a gorgeous singing voice, smooth like honey, but he’s shy about it. He’s embarrassed by how vulnerable he sounds when he sings.

Wumuti has joked about “stealing his voice” if he ever hears it, calling it a national treasure.

When XLOV releases “1&ONLY,” (y/n) is quietly proud of him. He decides to record a private cover of the song, soft, breathy, and layered with harmonies.

He doesn’t post it publicly, just sends the audio file to Wumuti with a casual “congrats on the comeback.”

Wumuti listens to it in bed that night, expecting something cute.

He ends up sitting there wide-eyed, shirtless, one hand hovering over his mouth as (y/n)’s voice melts through his headphones like silk.

It’s so intimate. So sensual without even trying. And he realizes he’s never been so attracted to his best friend in his life.

He plays it again. And again. Until he can’t stop imagining (y/n) whispering those lyrics in his ear.

nsfw

The next time they hang out, Wumuti can’t look (y/n) in the eye without remembering that voice.

(y/n) thinks he’s just being weird. Until Wumuti corners him in his apartment, low voice in his ear: “Why didn't you tell me you sound like that?”

(y/n) turns red. Wumuti leans in, teasing. “You know what that song’s about, right?”

It starts with kissing, slow, deep, needy. Wumuti’s fingers dig into (y/n)’s waist, like he’s been waiting for this.

He murmurs “sing for me” against (y/n)’s throat while grinding against him, half-teasing but clearly very turned on by the memory.

The moment (y/n) lets out a breathy moan that sounds too close to a note, Wumuti loses it.

He whispers lyrics from “1&ONLY” while undressing him, mouth trailing down (y/n)’s chest, “you’re mine, you know that?”

Every time (y/n) makes a sound, Wumuti praises him or whispers “again” until he’s breathless.

He gets so vocal during sex. Encouraging, possessive, desperate.

Wumuti’s hands are everywhere: in (y/n)’s hair, holding his thighs apart, stroking his sides as he moves.

By the end of it, (y/n)’s voice isn’t so hidden anymore, it’s all moans and whimpers, every sound Wumuti imagined and more.

Aftercare is soft but still teasing: “You better sing for me again… or I’ll just make you.”

Rui 🦋 ~

sfw

Rui and (y/n) are close best friends. The kind that share late-night ramen, FaceTime without makeup, and fall asleep on each other’s shoulders during movie nights.

(y/n) has an angelic voice, clear, emotional, full of warmth. But he hates singing in front of people. Even Rui has barely heard him hum.

Rui’s teased him about it plenty. “You sound like a Disney prince, I swear, just sing already.”

When XLOV releases “1&ONLY,” Rui is proud but secretly hoping (y/n) might actually sing it for him.

A few days after the MV drops, Rui gets a surprise: an text from (y/n), no words, just an MP3 file.

He clicks it, and time stops.

(y/n)’s voice on his lyrics? Breathy, sweet, intimate, like a soft caress. Rui listens to the cover with a hand over his mouth, heart racing.

The harmonies are tender. The runs are smooth. The delivery is so close, so personal.

Rui plays it again. This time lying on his bed, flushed. The room feels hotter. His hand slowly drifts downward.

He can’t stop thinking about (y/n) singing like that underneath him, breathless, high-pitched, whispering his name.

He sends a text: “You've been hiding this from me? Come over. Now.”

(y/n) doesn’t know what he’s walking into.

nsfw

As soon as (y/n) steps through the door, Rui doesn’t waste time. Pulls him in by the waist. Whispers: “That voice is going to drive me insane.”

(y/n)’s confused. Rui presses him against the wall, lips brushing his ear. “You didn’t think I’d just listen to that and do nothing, right?”

Rui kisses him slow and deep, tasting, teasing. Like he’s trying to memorize the voice that’s haunted his fantasies.

(y/n)’s shy at first, stuttering soft “wait”s, but Rui keeps his voice low and firm: “You sound so pretty, baby. Don't hold back.”

Rui takes his time undressing him, whispering how good he looks, how much he’s wanted this.

Once they’re on the bed, Rui doesn’t just top, he worships. Eyes never leaving (y/n), hands caressing every inch like he’s something rare.

He goes slow at first, just to hear (y/n) gasp and moan. “That’s it. That’s the voice I wanted.”

Every time (y/n) whimpers, Rui groans and thrusts deeper, more possessive.

(y/n)’s voice breaks halfway through, whispering Rui’s name like a melody. Rui curses under his breath and kisses him breathless.

Rui bites softly at his shoulder and murmurs, “You’re mine. My only.”

He finishes with (y/n) a shaking mess beneath him, legs trembling, lips swollen from Rui’s kisses.

“Sing for me again,” Rui murmurs into his neck, “and I’ll ruin you softer next time.”

Aftercare includes Rui pressing gentle kisses to every mark he left, tucking (y/n) into his arms and humming “1&ONLY” quietly against his skin.

Hyun 🐵 ~

sfw

Hyun and (y/n) have that quiet, unshakable kind of friendship. The kind where neither says much, but they understand each other better than anyone else.

(y/n) is soft-spoken and reserved, especially about his voice. He’s a beautiful singer, but refuses to sing around others.

Hyun has always suspected it. He caught (y/n) humming once in the kitchen and it stopped him cold.

Hyun teased him lightly after that: ”You're hiding something from me?”

(y/n) just blushed and shook his head, but the mystery lingered.

When “1&ONLY” drops, (y/n) is quietly supportive. He reposts the teaser with a little purple heart and tells Hyun he’s proud.

A week later, Hyun gets a message: “I tried something. Please don't judge me too hard.”

It’s a voice memo. (y/n)’s voice, low, close, trembling with sincerity, singing his part.

Hyun freezes. Headphones in. Still as stone.

(y/n)’s voice is gorgeous, but it’s the emotion in it that kills him. The way he delivers the lines like he means them. Like he’s singing to Hyun.

Hyun listens again. And again. One hand over his mouth, the other clenched in his blanket.

He’s turned on before he realizes what’s happening and he doesn’t even feel guilty.

He just texts: “Come over. Now.”

nsfw

(y/n) arrives at the dorm expecting to hang out, but Hyun opens the door with a dark look in his eyes.

No words. Just a hand on (y/n)’s waist pulling him in and a kiss that’s hungry, desperate.

“You sang like that and expected me to just sleep?” Hyun whispers against his neck.

(y/n) stutters out an excuse, but Hyun’s already pushing him back against the door, pinning him with a hand to the chest.

“You sound like a dream. And now you’re mine.”

Clothes come off in quiet urgency. Hyun’s normally calm demeanor shatters, he’s breathless, starved for him.

He’s gentle but possessive, whispering praises in (y/n)’s ear, guiding his body like he’s memorizing every reaction.

“You’re so pretty when you moan. Like when you sing.”

He makes (y/n) ride his fingers first, murmuring for him to “sing something,” voice thick with need.

(y/n)’s breathy whimpers are the song. And that’s enough.

When Hyun finally pushes in, it’s slow but deep. He wants to feel everything. Wants (y/n)’s voice to break from pleasure.

“You don’t get to hide that voice anymore,” he says, thrusting harder, “Not when you sound like that.”

(y/n)’s shaking, panting, gripping the sheets. Every whimper gets Hyun more unhinged. He’s kissing him between thrusts, murmuring, “Mine. Mine.”

He finishes with a groan, buried deep, one hand tangled in (y/n)’s hair.

Aftercare is quiet but intimate. Hyun ran his fingers down his back, whispering: “You're never hiding that voice from me again. I’ll make you sing every time I touch you.”

Haru 🦊 ~

sfw

(y/n) is one of Haru’s closest friends. Despite their differences, they click effortlessly. (y/n) is more quiet and reserved, while Haru’s playful nature brings him out of his shell.

Haru is super clingy with (y/n). He drapes himself over him during movie nights, sends him 30 selfies a day, and calls him “my favorite hyung” in front of the others.

What Haru loves most though is how flustered (y/n) gets when complimented, especially about his voice.

(y/n) has a stunning, honey-smooth singing voice, but he’s shy about it. He’s refused to sing in front of Haru, no matter how much he begs.

Haru’s tried everything. Aegyo, bribes, fake pouts, but nothing works.

When “1&ONLY” is released, (y/n) tells Haru privately how much he loves the song. That alone makes Haru blush.

But then.. a week later, Haru gets a link in the middle of the night. From (y/n). No context.

He opens it and it’s a cover of “1&ONLY.” Just vocals.

And (y/n)’s voice? Gentle. Intimate. Full of warmth and something.. deeper.

Haru’s jaw drops. He listens once. Then again. Then with headphones.

Something stirs in his chest. And his pants.

He clutches his phone to his chest, face hot, whispering: “Hyung… what the hell…”

He immediately video calls (y/n) with his usual bubbly smile, but this time, his tone is lower. Eyes sharper. “Come over please. I need to talk to you.. about your voice.”

nsfw

When (y/n) shows up, Haru doesn’t waste a second. He closes the door, turns, and traps him against it with a kiss that shocks them both.

“You’ve been hiding that from me?” he murmurs against (y/n)’s lips, pupils blown. “Do you know what you did to me?”

Haru’s usually energetic and giggly, but right now, he’s hungry. Dominant in the way only someone who’s held back too long can be.

He pulls (y/n) into his room, throws him on the bed, climbs over him and whispers: “Sing for me now, or I’ll have to make you.”

When (y/n) stammers, Haru just smirks. “Guess I’ll make you either way.”

His hands are everywhere. Unzipping, teasing, touching like he’s been dreaming of this (because he has).

Haru talks a lot during sex. Constant praise, teasing, filthy little comments in a soft voice: “You sound even prettier like this, hyung..” “Bet you didn't know how much I wanted this.”

He moves his hips slow but deep, grinding in as he leans over to kiss (y/n)’s neck and whisper the exact lines (y/n) sang in the cover, but twisted into a promise.

(y/n) is a whimpering mess beneath him, his sweet voice cracking in pleasure.

“That’s it,” Haru says, breathless, “Sing for me again, pretty.”

Haru finishes inside, trembling, kissing every inch of (y/n) with a dizzy smile.

Aftercare is chaotic and sweet: snacks, cuddles, Haru humming “1&ONLY” while curled around (y/n)’s body like he never wants to let go.

He sets the cover as his private ringtone. “Only I get to hear you sing like that. Got it, hyung?”

(y/n) stood just off the side, trying his best to focus on his clipboard. But his hands had gone still the moment Jihwan’s solo began.

That dance break.

The way his shirt clung to his sweat-damp chest. The sharp pop of his hips. The slick drag of his fingers across his tongue before he rolled them down his body.

It was too much. Too deliberate. And then he locked eyes with (y/n) during the final pose and smirked. Like he knew.

Fifteen minutes later, (y/n) found himself pressed into a dark backstage corner, heat still prickling across his cheeks. Between a locked storage room door and a stack of black stage crates, Jihwan stood in front of him, towel over his neck and a half-finished water bottle in hand.

“You were watching me pretty closely,” Jihwan murmured, voice low and amused. His lips were still pink and swollen from the stage.

“I was just doing my job,” (y/n) mumbled, trying to look anywhere else. His voice betrayed him, thin and dry.

Jihwan leaned in a little closer. “Oh? Because it looked more like you were imagining things. Dirty things.”

He took a sip of water, then let the bottle fall from his fingers, forgotten. “Should I be flattered or show you what it’s like up close?”

Before (y/n) could process that, Jihwan’s mouth was on his. Hot and fast. A kiss that tasted like peppermint and adrenaline. Jihwan’s hands came down on his waist, strong fingers curling through the fabric of his shirt to pin him back.

“I saw how red your ears got when I licked my fingers,” he whispered, lips brushing over (y/n)’s jaw, warm and teasing. “You’re so easy to read, hyung. It’s cute.”

“Jihwan.. Someone could see..” (y/n) started, breath catching.

“Let them,” Jihwan growled. “You like it when I dance dirty, don’t you?”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he spun (y/n) around so his front hit the wall, hands braced flat against the cool surface. Jihwan pressed in behind him, his cock already hard and firm against the curve of (y/n)’s ass.

“God,” he groaned, grinding slightly, just enough to make his point. “You drive me crazy.”

His hand snuck beneath (y/n)’s waistband, fingers wrapping around his cock like it belonged to him. (y/n) gasped, hips jerking forward.

“No holding back,” Jihwan whispered into his ear. “I want to hear everything.”

His pace was maddening, slow strokes with just enough pressure to keep (y/n) on edge. The other hand moved lower, tugging at the waistband, pushing it down until his fingers found bare skin. He didn’t hesitate. Spit-slicked fingers teased at (y/n)’s hole, slipping one inside, then another, working him open with practiced skill.

“I was thinking about this,” he breathed. “The way you’d squirm. Beg. Maybe even cry if I take my time.”

(y/n) whimpered, head falling forward. “Jihwan, please…”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me.”

That was all it took.

Jihwan pushed in with one steady stroke, deep and smooth, stretching him wide. They both moaned at the contact, Jihwan’s breath catching as he bottomed out.

He didn’t wait long. His hips set a punishing rhythm, driving into him again and again, hands gripping his waist to keep him steady. The sound of skin on skin echoed in the enclosed space, masked only slightly by the hum of backstage equipment.

“Look at you,” Jihwan panted. “Already falling apart. You feel so good around me.”

Each thrust hit deeper, harder, making (y/n)’s legs tremble. The teasing was gone now. This was pure need.

“You want me to cum inside you? Fill you up like you were made for it?”

“Jihwan!”

With a final groan, Jihwan slammed into him one last time and came, hips jerking with every pulse. (y/n) followed soon after, crying out as he spilled into his own hand, body twitching from the release.

Silence settled between them, broken only by their heavy breathing.

Then, Jihwan leaned in and kissed the back of (y/n)’s neck, soft and lingering.

“I’ll be thinking about that every time I dance now,” he whispered, smiling against the skin. “Hope you’ll be watching closely again, hyung.”

(y/n) crossed the room in three strides.

“What the hell happened?”

Wumuti didn’t look at him. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t look fine.” (y/n) knelt in front of him, eyes narrowing at the sight of Muti’s ankle already swelling beneath the elastic of his dance shoes. “Is that why they called me? Because ‘fine’ means you can’t stand up without flinching?”

“I can stand,” Muti said, as if to prove it. He shifted his weight and immediately winced.

(y/n) glared. “Sit down.”

For once, Muti obeyed.

Someone had already brought over an ice pack, but it was still sealed. (y/n) tore it open, activating the cold compress with a firm shake before gently pressing it to Muti’s ankle. Muti hissed, jerking slightly.

“Oh, now you feel something,” (y/n) muttered.

“I felt it when I did it,” Muti said through gritted teeth. “Just thought I could dance through it.”

“You thought wrong.”

A pause stretched between them. The others had cleared out by now. It was just the two of them, (y/n) crouched in front of Wumuti like some frustrated field medic.

“I said I’m fine, not broken.”

“You’re sprained, not invincible.”

Muti huffed a breath and finally looked at him. “You always get this worked up when I’m hurt?”

“I always get this worked up when someone I care about tries to dance on a sprained ankle.”

There it was. That flicker in Wumuti’s eyes. Just for a second. Then: “If you wanted to hold my foot, you could’ve just asked.”

(y/n) rolled his eyes and shoved the ice pack a little harder against his skin. “I should’ve left you in the hallway.”

Muti grinned. “But you didn’t.”

“No. Because I knew you’d try to crawl back into rehearsal with a broken leg.”

(y/n) shifted back slightly, sitting beside him now instead of in front, the ice pack resting on Muti’s ankle, his hand still pressing it gently in place. A silence settled. It wasn’t tense, it was full.

“I hate sitting still,” Muti said eventually, voice lower now. “Hate feeling like I’m not doing enough.”

“You’re not doing nothing,” (y/n) said softly. “You’re healing. That’s just a different kind of work.”

Muti turned to him again. His expression wasn’t smug anymore. “You always say the right thing, huh?”

“I just don’t lie to you.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Wumuti leaned his head back against the mirror with a sigh. “Stay here. Just for a bit.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, almost shyly, and shifted until his legs were stretched across the floor and his head was resting against (y/n)’s shoulder. His body was warm. Heavy. Trusting.

“You know,” he said, after a while, voice drifting, “you’re the only one I’d let see me like this.”

(y/n) glanced down at him, surprised. Muti’s eyes were already closed.

“…I know,” (y/n) said, almost a whisper. “And I’ll be here the whole time.”

Rui 🦋 ~

The first sign that something was wrong came at 10 a.m., when Rui didn’t post a single selfie.

The second sign was when (y/n) walked past the living room and found Rui curled up under three blankets on the couch, hoodie strings pulled tight until only the tip of his nose was visible.

“…Rui?”

A sniffle. Then a dramatic sigh. “(y/n)… is that you? I can’t see… I think… I’m fading…”

(y/n) blinked. “You’re being so normal today.”

“I’m dying,” Rui groaned, voice croaky and weak. “Like, actually. Probably in the next hour or two. My body.. this flawless vessel.. is betraying me.”

(y/n) walked over, knelt beside the couch, and placed the back of his hand on Rui’s forehead. Warm. Definitely a fever. But not deathly.

“You have a cold.”

Rui’s eyes peeked out from under the blanket, glassy and pathetic. “A terrible cold. My nose has rebelled. My throat is sandpaper. My skin is dry. I’m..- What’s the word? -..wilting. Like a beautiful, fragile flower.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Not denying it.” Rui sniffled again, then reached out with both arms, grasping at air. “Hold me.”

(y/n) raised an eyebrow. “So you do have the energy to be annoying.”

“(y/n)…” Rui wheezed, flopping over like a fainting royal. “Please. This may be the last time we speak. I need you… close.”

(y/n) sighed but let Rui grab the sleeve of his hoodie, tugging him down until their foreheads were pressed lightly together.

“You’re hot,” (y/n) murmured.

“I know,” Rui croaked, voice scratchy and smug. “Even now.”

“I meant your forehead.”

“Oh.”

Still, he didn’t let go.

(y/n) stood again and disappeared into the kitchen. Rui groaned dramatically from the couch like it was his deathbed.

“I feel your absence in my soul…”

“Shut up and drink this,” (y/n) said when he returned, kneeling beside him with a mug of warm honey-ginger tea.

Rui sat up slowly, taking the cup with both hands like it was the elixir of life. “You made this for me?”

“Do you see anyone else sick?”

Rui sipped carefully, then made a satisfied sound. “You’re good at this. Nurse (y/n). My savior. My angel.”

(y/n) pressed his knuckles to Rui’s flushed cheek. “You really shouldn’t have gone out in the cold without a jacket yesterday.”

“I needed the aesthetic,” Rui muttered, already sinking back into the pillows.

“You needed common sense.”

There was no answer. Rui had passed out mid-sip, the cup barely hanging on in his hands. (y/n) sighed, took it gently away, and set it on the table. He pulled the blankets tighter around Rui and ran his fingers through sweat-dampened hair, brushing it off his forehead.

Rui stirred. “…Still here?”

“Yeah.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “Don’t leave. It’s cold.”

“I won’t.” (y/n) settled down beside the couch, Rui’s hand reaching down to tangle loosely in the sleeve of his hoodie again.

A few quiet minutes passed. The rain started outside, soft against the window panes.

Then, in a murmur so faint (y/n) almost didn’t catch it:

“I think I like you… even when I’m dying…”

(y/n) froze. Rui was already asleep, breath soft and even.

He didn’t reply. Just leaned his head back against the couch, a quiet smile playing on his lips.

Hyun 🐵 ~

The cameras had stopped rolling, but the lights were still hot.

Hyun sat with his back pressed against a stage pillar, arms draped over his bent knees, sweat clinging to his skin like regret. Everyone else was celebrating the last MV take, chattering about dinner, about how great the final cut looked. But Hyun’s ears were ringing.

He hadn’t eaten in over twelve hours. He hadn’t slept properly in four days. It didn’t matter.

It never mattered. Until the edges of his vision blurred and his head started to sway.

He barely registered the sound of someone calling his name until it was closer. Quieter. Worried.

“Hyun?”

He looked up, eyes unfocused. The silhouette that knelt in front of him came into clarity slowly. A familiar frown etched into every line of his face.

(y/n).

“Are you okay?” (y/n) asked, voice even but tight.

Hyun opened his mouth to answer, but what came out was more of a sigh. His body slumped sideways. (y/n) caught him instantly.

“Hey..- Hey. You’re burning up.”

“I just… need a minute,” Hyun mumbled, trying to sit back up. His hands trembled as he pushed against the floor. “I’m fine.”

(y/n) didn’t respond. He just gently grasped Hyun’s wrist, thumb brushing over the faint pulse there, before helping him into a seated position against the wall. Then he stood, exchanged quick words with the staff, and reappeared with a bottle of water and something wrapped in foil.

“Eat first,” he said, unwrapping a rice triangle and holding it out. “Then argue.”

Hyun stared at it for a second too long before accepting it. His fingers were shaking. He hated that (y/n) could see.

“I didn’t mean to..” Hyun started, but (y/n) cut him off gently.

“I know.”

Hyun chewed in silence, eyes down. His pride felt heavier than his body. “Don’t tell the others. Please.”

“I won’t,” (y/n) said. “But they’re worried, too. You don’t always have to be the one carrying the weight.”

Hyun laughed, but it came out brittle. “Feels like I do.”

(y/n) didn’t respond right away. He waited until Hyun had finished eating, handed him the water bottle, and then quietly sat beside him on the cool studio floor. Not touching, just close.

“Why?” (y/n) asked eventually. “Why do you push so hard when no one’s asking you to?”

Hyun didn’t answer for a long time. Then: “Because if I stop, I feel like I’ll fall behind. Like someone better will come and take my place. Like I’ll fade.”

(y/n)’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “You won’t. You’re not behind. You’re here. That’s already enough.”

Hyun’s throat tightened. He turned his head, not to hide, but to see. (y/n)’s gaze was steady, open in a way that made it hard to lie to himself.

“I’m not used to being looked after,” Hyun said quietly.

“Then get used to it,” (y/n) replied, brushing Hyun’s sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Something in Hyun cracked. Not loudly, not visibly. Just a tiny, silent shift. A wall loosened. A breath exhaled.

“…Will you stay?” he asked. “Just for a little?”

(y/n) nodded. “Yeah.”

They didn’t move. Hyun leaned his shoulder lightly into (y/n)’s. Not enough to fall asleep, but enough to feel that someone was there.

That someone saw him.

Haru 🦊 ~

(y/n) didn’t even knock before pushing open Haru’s bedroom door.

“Haru, what the hell were you thinking..-”

He stopped short at the sight in front of him.

The youngest was a bundled mess in bed, swaddled in two comforters, a hoodie drawn over his flushed face, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead. His cheeks were red from fever. His nose was stuffy. His ears poked out pathetically from the mountain of fabric.

“…Hi,” Haru croaked, voice hoarse and faintly nasal. “You came.”

(y/n) sighed, long and deep, before closing the door behind him. “You snuck out at midnight… in the rain… in a tank top. For ice cream.”

“It was the mint one,” Haru mumbled. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m sick,” Haru whined, sinking deeper under the blanket. “You can’t yell at me when I’m sick. That’s emotional abuse.”

(y/n) walked over, pressed the back of his hand to Haru’s forehead, and frowned at the heat radiating off his skin. “That’s called consequences.”

Haru just blinked up at him, glassy-eyed and pouty. “Are you gonna take care of me or not?”

(y/n) looked heavenward for patience. “Yes, you idiot.”

Haru beamed. Weakly. “I knew you loved me.”

“You have a 38.8°C fever. You can barely sit up.”

“Still counts.”

(y/n) disappeared for a moment and returned with medicine, a water bottle, and a bowl of lukewarm porridge. Haru grimaced. “You cooked?”

“It’s instant.”

“Oh thank God.”

(y/n) set everything down on the nightstand. “Sit up. You need to eat something before you take the meds.”

Haru tried. He really did. But the moment he shifted upward, he made a soft noise of protest and flopped right into (y/n)’s chest, arms loosely wrapping around his middle.

“…Okay,” Haru mumbled, cheek pressed to (y/n)’s hoodie. “This is good too.”

(y/n) froze, then sighed, reaching around to support him with one arm. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I am lucky,” Haru mumbled, sleepy now, clutching at him like a koala. “You’re warm. And nice. And mean in a good way.”

“You’re delirious.”

“You’re pretty when you’re mad.”

(y/n) rolled his eyes, but his hand was already brushing through Haru’s hair, careful around the sweat-damp strands. Haru melted at the touch, eyelids fluttering shut, his breathing slowing.

“You always come when I’m hurting,” Haru whispered.

(y/n) looked down at him, this stubborn, sweet, ridiculous boy who ran out into the rain for a mint popsicle, and softened.

“Of course I do.”

Haru shifted, murmuring something else. (y/n) leaned in.

“I think I like you,” Haru breathed, warm and drowsy. “Even when you’re grumpy.”

(y/n)’s heart did something traitorous in his chest.

Haru drifted off before he could hear the quiet answer: “I like you too.”

The TV was still flickering low in the corner of the room, some sci-fi flick long forgotten after the first round of drinks. (y/n), all sprawled on the couch in a loose tank top and grey sweats, stretched with a yawn and glanced toward his best friend.

San hadn’t moved. Just sat curled up, hoodie sleeves bunched around his hands, biting at the edge of his thumb in a nervous tic (y/n) had seen a hundred times but never this intense.

“…Sannie?”

San flinched slightly at the nickname. (y/n) tilted his head, concern creeping in despite the slow, sultry grin he wore like armor.

“You alright?”

San hesitated, then nodded. Then shook his head. Then said, “I wanna ask you something, but you can’t make it weird.”

(y/n) quirked an eyebrow. “When have I ever made anything weird?”

San gave him a dry look. “You flirted with my dance instructor until he forgot what he was saying.”

“…he was hot. And flustered. Like someone else I know.”

“(y/n).”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” (y/n) leaned closer, resting his elbow on the back of the couch. “Ask. Whatever it is, you know you can.”

San swallowed hard, dark eyes flicking to (y/n)’s lips, then down to his lap, then away again. His voice was quiet.

“…I wanna try bottoming.”

There was a pause.

“…Okay,” (y/n) said, voice low, calm.

San looked up. “Okay?”

“Yeah. I mean. Good for you?” (y/n) shrugged one shoulder. “Wanna ask me for recommendations? Toys? Positions? I’ve got a mental library.”

San flushed. “No..- I mean… not just advice.”

Another beat.

“Ah.” (y/n)’s lips curled, finally understanding. “You want me to be the one who..-”

“Yes,” San cut in quickly, ears bright red. “I trust you. You’re experienced. And hot. Annoyingly confident. You’d know how to… y’know. Do it right.”

(y/n) couldn’t stop the slow spread of his grin, sharper now.

“You’re asking me to fuck you, San.”

The way San clenched his hands in his hoodie sleeves made (y/n)’s cock twitch in his pants. But he held himself back, waiting.

San nodded, breath caught in his throat. “If that’s okay.”

(y/n) didn’t answer at first. Instead, he leaned forward, his fingers brushing the edge of San’s jaw. “Look at me.”

San did. He always did when (y/n) used that voice, low, commanding, just short of a growl.

“You sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to take my time with you? Show you what it’s supposed to feel like?”

“…Yes.”

“You’re gonna have to be a good boy for me, Sannie. Can you do that?”

The whimper San gave him was answer enough.

They didn’t rush. (y/n) led him to the bedroom, fingers brushing over San’s back as he helped him out of his hoodie. There were kisses, slow and open-mouthed, San practically melting as (y/n) explored his neck, his collarbone, his hips.

“You’re gorgeous, you know,” (y/n) murmured, letting his hands drag slowly down San’s bare waist. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you, underneath me.”

San gasped as (y/n)’s mouth found his chest. “You have?”

“Oh yeah. The way you dance. The way you look when you’re breathless after rehearsals…” He smiled into San’s skin. “Knew you’d be a fucking dream.”

By the time San was on the bed, spread open on soft sheets. (y/n) had him whimpering from just his fingers, slick with lube, slow, curling up until San’s legs trembled.

“Still okay?”

San nodded feverishly. “Feels weird. But good. More.”

(y/n) laughed, soft and low. “Needy already? Greedy boy.”

He took his time prepping him, teasing with shallow thrusts of his fingers, praising every shiver and whine. San’s cock lay hard against his stomach, leaking with anticipation.

“You ready for me, sweetheart?”

San nodded. “Please, (y/n). Want you.”

The first push had San gasping, fingers fisting the sheets.

“Breathe. Relax. That’s it.” (y/n) kissed his thigh, voice velvet. “You’re doing so good for me, baby.”

When he bottomed out, San let out a moan that made (y/n)’s stomach flip.

“Fuck,” San whispered. “You’re so deep.”

“You’re taking me so well,” (y/n) groaned, hips starting to move. “Tightest fucking thing I’ve ever felt.”

The rhythm was slow at first, letting San adjust. But soon the room was full of slick, rhythmic sounds and the breathy gasps of San moaning his name like prayer.

“Faster, please..-” San begged, nails digging into (y/n)’s shoulders.

(y/n) grinned, kissing him hard as he picked up the pace. “Told you I’d make it good.”

And he did. Each thrust hit just right, San writhing beneath him, legs wrapped tight around his waist.

“You’re perfect like this,” (y/n) whispered. “Fucked out and begging.”

San was nearly crying by the time he came, untouched, clenching around (y/n) so tightly he saw stars.

(y/n) groaned deep and followed, hips stuttering as he spilled inside. They collapsed together, bodies sweaty and tangled.

“…Holy shit,” San mumbled.

(y/n) laughed, brushing San’s damp hair back. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

San blushed, smile lazy. “Can we do it again sometime?”

(y/n) leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Only if you say please.”

Wumuti stood at the edge of the bed, shirtless, his toned frame relaxed, but his eyes searching. “You sure?” he asked gently, voice barely above a whisper. His hand reached out, brushing over (y/n)’s cheek, then slipping into his hair, curling loosely at the nape of his neck.

(y/n) nodded, quiet. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I want to.”

Still, his fingers tugged at the hem of his oversized sleep shirt, twisting the fabric. His scars peeked out under the cotton, the flat planes of his chest already rising with quicker breaths.

Wumuti didn’t move too fast. He sat on the bed first, inching closer. “We go slow,” he promised, kissing (y/n)’s temple. “You tell me anything. Stop, slower, different, anything you say, I listen.”

(y/n) smiled, small and a little nervous. “Okay.”

They kissed slow at first, (y/n)’s lips soft and parted as Wumuti leaned in, deepening it only when (y/n) pulled him closer by the waistband of his sweats. Fingers threaded in each other’s hair, and the space between them narrowed until Wumuti was pressing (y/n) back gently against the pillows.

Wumuti pulled (y/n)’s shirt off first, easing it over his head with the same care someone might use unwrapping a gift. His hands paused at (y/n)’s chest — fingertips tracing the faint lines of healed scars, the rise and fall of (y/n)’s breath. He didn’t speak, just kissed across his sternum, slow and reverent, until (y/n) let out a breathless sound and arched into his touch.

“Fuck,” (y/n) whispered, his face flushing. “You don’t have to..-”

“I want to,” Wumuti said. “All of you. You’re beautiful, (y/n).”

That made (y/n)’s eyes flutter closed. He let Wumuti explore, gentle kisses trailing down his stomach, hands careful but not hesitant. When Wumuti reached the waistband of (y/n)’s boxers, he glanced up again.

“Can I?”

(y/n) nodded quickly. “Yeah. Please.”

Wumuti stripped him carefully, his lips brushing (y/n)’s inner thigh as he eased the fabric down and off. (y/n)’s breath hitched, vulnerable now, bare and open. But Wumuti’s hands never left him. One anchored at his hip, the other brushing over his stomach, grounding him.

Wumuti moved slower here, peppering kisses across (y/n)’s thighs, soft and reassuring. When he finally leaned in and tasted him, (y/n) gasped, hips twitching, his hand flying to Wumuti’s hair.

He’d never been touched like that before, not like this. Not like he was wanted, like someone knew exactly how to make him feel good without making him feel like he had to be anything other than what he was.

Wumuti took his time, learning every soft spot, every sound (y/n) made when his tongue flicked just right or his fingers teased slow circles around sensitive skin. (y/n) trembled, moaning into his hand, thighs falling open wider as his body started to melt into the sheets.

“Mu-Muti, wait..-” (y/n) gasped, tugging lightly at his hair. “I..- Shit, I’m..-” His face was flushed, eyes wide and glassy.

Wumuti kissed his thigh again, then moved up, hovering over him. “Too much?”

(y/n) shook his head, dazed. “No… just..- can I have you now?”

Wumuti kissed him, deeper now, letting (y/n) feel just how much he wanted this too. When he lined up between (y/n)’s legs, he took his time, slick fingers prepping him gently, murmuring praise against his skin.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he said, voice low and reverent. “So perfect like this, (y/n).”

(y/n) was already trembling when Wumuti pushed in, slow, so slow, both of them gasping as they finally fit together.

It was overwhelming, tight, warm, intimate in a way that hit deeper than just physical. Wumuti buried his face in (y/n)’s neck, whispering breathy curses against his skin as (y/n) clung to him.

“Okay?” Wumuti asked, voice ragged.

(y/n) nodded, wrapping his legs around him. “Yeah. Just… don’t stop.”

They moved together slowly, rhythm steady and tender. Wumuti kissed everywhere he could reach. (y/n)’s mouth, his jaw, his shoulder, and every time he sank deeper inside, (y/n) moaned soft and sweet under him.

The tension built slowly, like a wave pulling back. Wumuti’s hand slipped down between them, rubbing (y/n) in time with their bodies. The combination made (y/n) writhe, panting, his eyes fluttering shut as his orgasm took him, full-body, overwhelming, a strangled cry slipping past his lips.

Wumuti followed soon after, hips stuttering, a soft groan breaking as he came inside, arms wrapped tightly around (y/n)’s waist. He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, kissing (y/n)’s damp temple.

They lay tangled up afterward, limbs heavy and hearts pounding. Wumuti never let go, one arm snug around (y/n)’s waist, the other brushing soft, lazy patterns against his back.

“Was that okay?” he asked eventually, his voice rough with emotion.

(y/n) looked up at him, eyes soft. “More than okay,” he whispered. “You made me feel… safe.”

Wumuti leaned in and kissed him again, slow and lingering, like a promise.

“Good,” he said. “Because I love you.”

(y/n)’s breath caught, but then he smiled, cheeks pink.

“I love you too.”

That’s how Youmin ended up here. Eyes glassy, eyeliner smudged, his body sprawled across the bed in (y/n)’s dorm, thighs trembling and bound apart with his own damn belt. His voice was a wreck of whimpers and curses, but he hadn’t said that smug little “hyung~” in over an hour now.

“You thought you could brat your way through rehearsal today?” (y/n) asked, fingers dragging up the younger’s inner thigh, smearing a mix of lube and cum across sticky skin. “Touching me under the table when the others were right there? What were you thinking, pretty boy?”

Youmin sobbed. Actual tears this time, not the fake crocodile kind he used when he was being a flirt. “I-I didn’t..-” he stammered, only to be cut off by (y/n)’s palm gripping his jaw, tilting his head up.

“You did. You just wanted attention, huh? Couldn’t stand me ignoring you for two days.”

“(y/n)-hyung, please,” Youmin gasped, his body twitching as (y/n)’s fingers teased the base of his cock again. Red, swollen, twitching and denied for the third time tonight. “I c-can’t, I’m gonna..- Please, I wanna cum, I’ll be good, I swear!”

(y/n) leaned down, lips ghosting his ear. “You’re always so loud on stage. Where’s all that confidence now, Youmin?”

Youmin whimpered again, chest heaving as (y/n) finally wrapped a hand around him and squeezed. It was enough to make him jerk, back arching helplessly, heels digging into the mattress. His thighs tried to close, but the belt held them wide, completely exposed to the older idol’s pace.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” (y/n) murmured, voice low and teasing. “Wrecked. Begging. Crying because I won’t let your cock do what it wants.”

“Hyung!” It came out strangled, almost broken. Youmin shook, a sob catching in his throat as his head thudded back against the pillows. “I can’t..- I need to cum, p-please, please!”

“Then ask me like you mean it.” (y/n) slowed his strokes, tightening his grip just enough to make Youmin squirm. “Use your words, superstar.”

Youmin bit his lip hard but then it cracked. “Please, (y/n)-hyung, I’m sorry, I was a fucking brat, I need you so bad..- need your cock, please let me cum, I’ll do anything!”

That cracked voice, desperate and raw, was what finally made (y/n) give in. He unbuckled the belt from Youmin’s thighs, only to flip him over like he weighed nothing. The younger gasped as his cheek hit the cool sheets, ass in the air, already flushed and slick.

(y/n) lined himself up, no teasing now, and slid in in one brutal, unforgiving thrust.

“You wanna cry?” he growled against Youmin’s ear, hips snapping hard enough to slap. “Then cry for me.”

Youmin did.

He sobbed, cursed, gasped as (y/n) fucked into him like he owned him, each thrust angled to hit exactly where it hurt and felt good at the same time. He couldn’t tell anymore what was sweat and what was tears. His voice was wrecked, his body nothing but sensation. Over and over, (y/n) dragged him to the edge, only to keep him dangling.

“Look at you,” (y/n) panted, one hand wrapped around Youmin’s cock now, pumping with brutal rhythm. “You thought you were in control, didn’t you?”

Youmin screamed, actually screamed, when he finally came, after being edged and teased into oblivion. He collapsed onto the bed like a ragdoll, (y/n)’s cock still deep inside him, riding out the aftershocks with twitchy, oversensitive moans.

(y/n) followed soon after, his thrusts going erratic before he buried himself one last time and came with a grunt, body shaking against Youmin’s.

They stayed like that a moment. Youmin limp and boneless under him, body marked with (y/n)’s teeth and hands, ruined and used, but never unloved.

(y/n) finally pulled out, gently this time, and brushed a thumb under Youmin’s swollen eyes. “You okay?”

“Mmhmm,” Youmin mumbled, utterly fucked out, voice hoarse. He blinked blearily up at him. “Still cocky, though.”

(y/n) raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” (y/n) smirked, already reaching for the belt again. “Let’s go another round.”

His reaction is instant and visceral. His jaw clenches. He grips the armrest of the couch with white knuckles, hiding how quickly he’s hardening under his sweatpants.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low and thick. (y/n) shrinks a little, thinking he did something wrong. Until Wumuti walks over and grabs him by the waist.

Wumuti drags him off into one of the empty dressing rooms and locks the door.

“Wanna show off that pretty stomach, hm? Then I’ll give you a reason to show it off more.”

His favorite position becomes bending (y/n) over the makeup counter, forcing (y/n) to see himself in the mirror while he takes him from behind.

Loves marking the same exposed spot that flashed on stage, red welts, scratches, even bites. Just enough that it peeks out when (y/n) lifts his arms during choreo.

When the stylist comments, “You must’ve scratched yourself,” Wumuti smirks behind his water bottle.

He starts “forgetting” to bring (y/n) a fresh rehearsal tee. “What? I thought you liked the crop top,” he teases while palming (y/n)’s ass.

Possessive. Anyone even looking at (y/n)’s waist after that performance gets silently blacklisted from Wumuti’s good side.

After that, (y/n)’s not allowed to cartwheel unless he’s wearing something tighter. “If they’re gonna look, they’ll know you’re mine.”

Rui 🦋 ~

warnings: bottom reader

Rui’s first reaction is pure mischief. “Yah, are you trying to replace me?” he jokes, but the moment (y/n)’s shirt slips up, his playful grin falters.

He stares. Hard. Tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek. Eyes tracking the curve of (y/n)’s waist like a predator.

That night, Rui makes (y/n) re-do the move at home. Multiple times. “I just wanna see how it looked again,” he says with a teasing lilt.

After the fourth time, Rui traps (y/n) when he finishes the cartwheel. Shoves him to the wall and kisses him breathless.

“Next time you do that on stage, wear nothing underneath,” he whispers against (y/n)’s throat.

Rui’s a cocky, passionate top. He pins (y/n) down, rides the high of performance energy, and fucks like he’s still dancing.

Obsessive about (y/n)’s waist. Loves dragging his fingers along the line of his stomach, teasing the muscle trembles when (y/n) clenches around him.

Moves against (y/n)’s hips with his own rhythm, whispering, “This is my part, remember? You only borrow it, baby.”

Starts choreographing “stretching sessions” that involve (y/n) on his back, legs up, with Rui’s mouth between his thighs instead of a yoga mat.

Encourages (y/n) to wear looser clothes just so he can see that teasing skin during practice. Then punishes him later for “tempting” the others.

“If you wanna show them that, I’ll make sure they know I’ve already been there. Inside you.”

Hyun 🐵 ~

warnings: bottom reader, edging, stomach bulge, jerking off

Hyun pretends not to notice. Pretends. He watches (y/n)’s accidental crop-top moment with the blankest face possible. Until he turns away and swears under his breath.

Goes quiet. Too quiet. Later, (y/n) asks if something’s wrong, and Hyun corners him backstage. “You really have no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?”

He fucks hard when he’s frustrated and (y/n)’s cartwheel moved him into near-dangerous territory.

He lays (y/n) down and pulls his shirt up again, but slowly this time. “I want to see every inch you let them see… but from above.”

Dominant but methodical. He edges (y/n) until he’s whining and overstimulated, stomach fluttering with each thrust.

Loves fucking him deep while watching (y/n)’s tummy bulge with the shape of his cock.

Mutters possessive things against (y/n)’s lips: “You looked so fucking good like that. Too good. Don’t you ever do it again unless you’re ready for what I’ll do to you after.”

Watches the rehearsal footage later while jerking off in secret, gripping himself tightly and whispering (y/n)’s name.

After that performance, he starts grabbing (y/n)’s waist way more during choreo. Not even part of the routine, he just needs to.

Starts wearing tighter tops himself too. If they’re going to stare at (y/n)’s waist, they’ll look at his and know exactly who’s in charge.

Haru 🦊 ~

warnings: bottom reader, dom haru

Haru straight-up whines when he sees it happen. Slaps Rui’s arm and points at the screen like, “Did you SEE that?! He showed his tummy!!”

Instantly flustered but also turned on. Like eyes-wide, mouth-open, innocent-on-the-surface but perverted-in-his-core turned on.

Later in private, he jumps onto (y/n) like an excited puppy. “Do it again! Do it again!” Then pouts when (y/n) refuses.

The pout doesn’t last long. Haru gets his way eventually. And when he does? He goes feral.

Despite being the youngest, Haru is a surprisingly dominant and chaotic top. Especially when he’s riled up.

Pins (y/n) down and bites just below his navel, muttering how “cute” and “unfairly hot” he looked with his shirt halfway up.

He pulls (y/n)’s shirt higher every time he fucks him, lips tracing down from collarbone to pelvis, tongue teasing his skin.

Haru’s obsessed with the softness of (y/n)’s stomach. He squeezes it, touches it, kisses it.

Starts gifting (y/n) cropped hoodies and oversized shirts with cheeky winks: “Wear this to rehearsal, please? For me?”

Becomes extremely touchy. Always hugging (y/n) from behind with his hands sneaking under his shirt.

Teases (y/n) constantly on stage: pulls his shirt during live performances, pinches his waist during fan signs, whispers “Remember what I did to you last night?” during livestreams.