Raezz

“Be…normal, please.”

That was the last thing your boyfriend had told you before he had left for the PPX kickoff performance. You had rolled your eyes at him, making some sort of snide comment about how you’re “always normal”, and that he was just being dramatic. 

“You’re hot normally, I’ll be as normal as I always am.” You had declared, and he had just sighed, waving you off.

You had spent the rest of the day wondering why he had asked you to be normal. I mean, you were fairly reasonably feral after he performed, and he usually indulged you after a show, high on adrenaline and the crowd’s energy, so you didn’t see why this time was different.

And when Chan has sent you a message, telling you that he could get you backstage so you could catch them immediately after the show? Something about a little surprise for Minho, who had been working so hard to make this performance perfect, and well, you’d be damned if you were going to turn that down, especially after Minho’s little comment earlier. You had to be there now, prove how “normal” you could be.

…unfortunately for everyone you were not capable of any sense of normalcy after that performance.

Chan had a staff member grab you earlier, and ever since, you’ve been passed around like a hot potato to keep you out of Minho’s sight. They hid you in makeup, then in the dressing rooms, and then you had ended up in an empty green room when the boys were passing by to go to the stage. Jeongin had seen you for a moment when staff was moving you, eyes widening in surprise, and you had to make some very frantic (and threatening) gestures to get him to keep his mouth shut. He had mimed zipping his lips shut, giving you a mock salute as you were dragged around the corner into yet another crowd of staff.

You hovered backstage, watching the performance on a large screen with the other staff members. You had apologized endlessly for all the trouble you’d caused, but they had just waved you off, laughing amongst themselves.

“You brought some fun into our day! It was almost like a heist, like an action movie,” the girl closest to you had said, smiling up at you, “Plus, nothing can be worse than when we caught Jisung-ssi making out with-”

“YAH! Don’t tell them that!” One of the managers hissed, turning sharply towards the two of you. “You didn’t hear that!”

“Hear what?” you responded, eyes twinkling.

Before they could respond, Stray Kids took the stage, and damn. Chan’s presence, even alone, was unmistakable, and the room fell into a hush immediately. No one could look away from the screen, not when Chan kicked off the performance with a solo routine.

And oh. Suddenly you understand why your boyfriend had asked to be “normal” earlier.

There he was, dressed in all white, front and center. His body flowed through the air like water, moves fluid and perfect, and you’re already thanking the stylist endlessly in your head for how they’ve dressed him today. The white of the outfit made him look angelic, but to you, he was the picture of sin. Shirt cut too low to be safe, the V dipping just low enough to show off the peak of his chest. His footwork was light, and you felt a low thrum of heat rush through your body. There was something so mesmerizing about the way he moved through space - like the air was bending to make way for him.

You’re also certain they knew what they were doing, putting him front and center for the chorus of Thunderous. Your thoughts couldn’t be anything less decent if you tried, your brain already imagining touching him over the outfit, fingers teasing the skin peeking out of his shirt. And when he dares to let out a little smirk as the laughter rings out during the chorus? All you can think about is wiping that smug smirk off his face by pressing him to the green room wall in front of all of his members and taking him, right then and there. Show them that they may get this version of Lino on stage, all suave and cocky and confident, but you were the only one who was truly allowed to have him. You’re the one who gets to take him apart piece by piece, remind the god on stage that he’s nothing but a mortal in your presence.

Damn. You’re tugging at the hems of your sleeves now, bottom lip caught between your teeth. You can feel the sick warmth of arousal curling through your abdomen, heat crawling up your neck as you watch your boyfriend perform.

You thought maybe you would get a reprieve, maybe just a moment to breathe, but your boyfriend never made it easy to catch your breath. You watched the cut of his shirt dip even lower during God’s Menu with every sharp movement, watched the way his eyes became wilder as he got even more into his movements, body wound tight.

S-Class gave you a chance to snap yourself out of it. You were surrounded by staff who had no idea who you were. Your relationship with Minho was secret - beyond his fellow members and a select few managers, no one had any idea of who you were. When the boys came back to the green room after this performance, you had to congratulate each one of them with the same energy, lest anyone catch on to anything. A dating rumor now, when the comeback is going so well and the mini album is almost ready to be out? That could be ruinous.

So you bite your tongue when Ceremony starts, although Minho makes it hard for you to stay still. The shirt was barely even doing anything anymore, and your thighs pressed together before you could stop yourself. You were hoping it was subtle, but the way the girl standing next to you gives you a very knowing look makes you flush a bit, pretending not to see her glance.

How were you supposed to help yourself, though? Minho is glistening with sweat at this point, and you're sure if the camera quality was better you could catch the way it was running in rivulets down his chest. You can almost taste his skin on your tongue, salty with perspiration and flushed from exertion. Shit. He expected you to be normal? After this? You don’t really remember much between the performance ending and you being rushed to the green room where they would be unwinding. Everything was a blur, sounds muffled behind the ringing in your ears. All you could see was the way he looked in that damn outfit, little pieces of his bangs sweaty and sticking to his forehead. You weren’t sure if you wanted to shower him in praise or scold him for letting anyone but you see him like that, all sweaty and panting. Making the same face he makes when he’s all fucked out, cock engulfed in your wet heat and eyes unfocused from how good he feels.

There’s a chorus of sounds happening around you, but it’s all a cacophony until his voice cuts through, low and heavy with fatigue. You can hear how worn he is from the way his voice frays at the edges, teasing notes dull and lazy.

Your eyes meet before you can say a word, and you watch him short-circuit in real time. You know he can see how you’re feeling as clear as day - the way your chest heaves, the way your cheeks are painted a sharp pink, the way your legs involuntarily press closer together when he sees you gives you away - and you can tell it takes everything in his power not to drop everything and take care of you now.

You move as if on autopilot, rising out of your place on the couch (when had you sat down?) to congratulate every single one of them. You start with Felix and Jisung, who flop to take your place on the couch after you stand. You snort, though it sounds forced, kind words falling off your tongue without you being quite sure what they are. Felix searches your face for a moment, eyes all knowing, and you know it clicks into place when he grimaces, shrinking further into the couch.

“Gross.” He murmurs, just loud enough for you to catch it.

You flip him off subtly, moving on to talk to someone else before Jisung catches on to your state, too. Seungmin, Hyunjin, Chan…every interaction flies by, a blur of white noise and sweet words, though everything has an edge of static around it.

That is, until Minho comes back into your frame of view. The world comes back into focus, dullness sharpening into something hungry, something predatory. Before you can even say anything, he’s moving towards you, a storm brewing in his eyes. He grabs you by the wrist and drags you off, giving Chan some half-assed excuse about fixing his outfit in the other room. Felix shoots you a glance as you pass, and you squint your eyes at him, trying to tell him to shut up without actually saying it. He just rolls his eyes, flopping back into the couch like he doesn’t have the energy to deal with you.

The second you’re out the door and into the quiet of the hallway you flip the tables, wrist flicking out of his grasp just to wrap your fingers firmly around his. He blinks back at you in surprise, but you take long strides to step in front of him, guiding him in a zigzag past dressing rooms and closets. You reach your target quickly - an empty single stall bathroom - and shove him inside, glancing both ways to make sure no one was there before stepping in yourself, locking the door behind you with a quiet click.

“What are you-mmph!”

He doesn’t even get a full sentence out before you’re caging him against the sink, lips pressed to his frantically as your hands come to grip the edge of the sink, trapping him in front of you. It’s messy, teeth clicking together and spit dripping down your chin, but you don’t care - can’t care, not when he’s finally in front of you. A barely ten minute performance and you’re pretty sure it’s made you more horny than you’ve ever been in your life, arousal pooling and staining the inside of your underwear.

He pulls away to breath and you let him, mouth trailing down his jaw to his neck. You lick a stripe up his neck, letting out a satisfied hum at the salty taste on your tongue and the way he tenses, broken whimper tearing out of his throat. Your nip lightly, knowing better than to mark him in such an obvious place, but the idea of leaving a mark right on his neck where everyone could see sends a ripple of arousal rolling through you.

“J-jagi, hold on-hold on!”

He fumbles to push you off of him, fingers curling into the front of your shirt like an anchor. He’s panting again, eyes already wild and you’ve barely even touched him.

“Hm?” is all you’re willing to give him, disentangling his fingers from the soft cotton of your shirt so you can lean back in.

You’re pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck again before he can stop you, trailing to lick up the sweat collecting at his collarbone. He shivers, head falling back, fingers coming to grip at your waist to pull you even closer. You think you’ve sufficiently distracted him, but only for a moment, because almost instantly his head snaps back up so he can look at you properly.

“What happened-hah-to being normal?” he teases, though the way his hips twitch upwards when your lips find a particularly sensitive part of his neck gives him away.

You just huff, sending him an incredulous look.

“You knew I was going to react like this,” you accuse, sliding his loose top to the side to dig your teeth into his shoulder, “You warned me this morning! Why ask me to be ‘normal’ when you knew you’d be in-” you gesture to his outfit, “-this??”

He tries to smirk down at you, but it’s wobbly. “You like it that much, kitten?”

Your tongue drags down his neck, down past his collarbone, until it’s roaming the expanse of his chest, sliding the deep V of his shirt open even further. He hisses when one of your hands slides into the opening, cupping his chest and flicking at his nipple.

“H-hey, stop that.” He whines, ears colored red.

You just raise an eyebrow, finger properly pinching at his nipple now, and he squeaks, high and choked like he was trying to hold it back. He flushes, eyes looking anywhere but you.

You just laugh, low and mean, hand searching under the hem of his search for his belt. Your mouth doesn’t cease its assault, still worshipping the plane of his chest. You don’t bite down or suck hard enough to leave a lasting mark, but there’s lingering red splotches from places you’ve teased littering his chest. They’ll fade by the time you’re done with him, but for now, he looks like a piece of art, even under the fluorescent bathroom lights.

His hands join yours, helping you slide the belt out of its loops. It falls to the floor with a loud clank!, and you make quick work of the button on the front of his pants, fumbling to tug them down his legs just far enough to expose his straining erection. He’s leaking already, precum darkening the front of his boxers, and he lets out a breathy moan when you cup his through the fabric. You know you can’t tease him too much - won’t be long before someone comes looking for him - so you pull away, mouth removing itself from his chest.

He lets out a whine, but it quickly morphs into a moan when you drop to your knees without hesitation, now eye to eye with his cock. You mouth at the wet spot, suckling gently to get a rise out of him. He’s white-knuckling the sink’s edge now, lower lip red and swollen from how hard he’s biting it to keep his sounds at bay.

The taste of his precum that you got has you craving more, so you hook your fingers under his waistband, tugging it down low enough for his cock to spring free. It’s so heavy with arousal that it doesn’t even smack his abdomen when it springs free, instead only rising halfway. You catch it on your tongue, looking up at Minho through your lashes as you tease the tip with your tongue. He lets out a proper moan, the sound of it echoing off the walls, and you pull back, sending him as stern of a look as you can from your knees.

“You gotta be quiet, jagi,” you chastise, bringing a loose fist to jerk off his cock while you talk, “Don’t want to get caught now, do we?”

He twitches in your hand, whimpering, but not responding. Your smile turns sharp, something mean sparkling in your eyes.

“Oh you want that, don’t you? Want all the boys to know that their big bad hyung is nothing but a slut for his partner?”

He shakes his head frantically, but another bead of precum rolls down the side of his cock, betraying him. You suckle the sensitive head into your mouth without warning and his hips buck up into your mouth, another loud moan escaping from him without his permission.

You pull back for only a moment, face stony as you say, “One rule: don’t come until I say so. Okay?”

You wait until he opens his mouth to respond before diving back down onto his cock, tongue swirling around the tip as you take him into your mouth. The sound that falls out of his mouth is caught between a wail and a sob, and he reaches up to smack a hand over his mouth, muffling his sounds.

That simply won’t do, at least not in your books. One hand reaches to stabilize you by pressing into the meat of his hip, and the other hand trails upwards, hooking through his elbow and tearing his hand off his mouth. He gasps, glassy eyes looking down nervously at you.

“Addendum: don’t try to muffle your sounds. You’ve got such good control on stage, you don’t need to cover your mouth to hold them back, do you? You’re not that pathetic, right?”

“I’m not pathetic at all,” he sneers, hand coming to tangle through your hair, “Don’t you start thinking you have control, now. I’m always in control.”

“Can’t ever be good, can you?” you say with a sigh, releasing your grip on his cock.

The hand tangled in your hair clenches, trying weakly to push your face towards where he needs you most. But you’re already standing up, brushing off your knees. He looks at you like you’re crazy as you peek around him to look at the mirror, straightening out your hair.

“Hey what are you-where are you going?” he says, grasping at your wrist as you try to move away.

“You clearly don’t need my help. If you’ve got such good control, you can make that thing go down yourself.” You say frankly, shaking yourself loose of his hold.

Your fingers wrap around the door handle, about to push down when he yelps out, voice tinged with desperation.

“Hey hey hey, stop, don’t-don’t go.”

You pause your movement, not turning around to look at him yet.

“Why not? You’ve already wasted so much of our time already. I’m sure your members are looking for you by now.”

“I’ll-fuck you’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

You just tilt your head in response, waiting. You can hear him huff behind you, shifting from foot to foot.

“Fine. Fuck you. I-I need you. Need your help to finish me off. Okay? There. I admitted it. Help me now.”

“I didn’t hear the magic word!” You singsong, turning to glance at him over your shoulder with a sly grin.

“Please?”

“Didn’t even hesitate to beg,” you murmur, but your legs are already carrying you back towards him, “Good boy.”

He bristles at the praise, heat creeping down his neck, but he doesn’t move, bashfully waiting for you to come back and help him. You’re on your knees again in record time, mouth coming to kiss up his cock from base to tip. Once you’ve reached the top you don’t hesitate to swallow around him, throat constricting as the head of his cock hits the back of it. You gag a little, but the way his hips involuntarily lift up into your mouth when you do has you sinking back down, breathing through your nose to take even more of him. Your nose comes to press against the soft patch of curls at the base of his cock, fully taking his length down your throat. His mouth is open in a silent scream, opening and closing uselessly as no sound comes out. 

Your hands slide up his thighs, rubbing soothing patterns into the skin there as you just sit there, throat cockwarming him. You let out little hums every once and a while just to watch him jolt, eyes rolling back into his head when you let out a proper moan around his length. He’s grinding his teeth together, trying so incredibly hard to keep quiet, and you’re a little disappointed that he’s succeeding so far.

So obviously you have to up the ante. You start bobbing your head, slowly at first, paying extra attention to the head when you come back up. Every time your tongue dips into his leaking slit when you come back up has him squirming, trying so hard to stay cool but failing. Little moans are slipping past his control now, low and coming from the depths of his chest. He’s still wearing that god damn top, sweat dripping down his neck and sliding down the exposed part of his chest. He looks so obscene like this, makeup smudged and stage outfit askew. He’s even sweatier than he was on stage, and you burn the image into your retinas as best you can, loving how his body arched and shook for you now, not for Stay.

This version of Minho was yours and yours alone. The version of Minho that let himself go, let his eyes tear up and makeup smudge as you took him apart, piece by piece, and put him back together again to your liking.

“Gonna, ‘m gonna, can-ahn! Can I? Can I, can I, please please please-”

He gasps when you pull away, your hand replacing your mouth as you quickly jerk him off.

“That’s it, my perfect, pretty boy, looked so good out there on stage. Now you look so good, all for me, hm?”

He nods frantically, cock twitching in your hand as you bring him closer and closer.

“Words.”

“Yes, yes, ‘m so good for you, look so good for you, can I come? C-can I, please, jagi, can I?”

“Come.”

You let your mouth fall open again, relaxing your throat so you can take him all down your throat, his tip bumping the back of your throat. He can’t stop it this time, his mouth dropping open and a wail escapes him. The sound is so loud it startles him, and his hand comes up to cover his mouth again, but he stops himself just short, though the sounds don’t stop. It fades into whimpers as he twitches in your mouth, salty release coating your tongue. He’s shaking now, body bending forward over you, hands coming to steady himself by tangling with your hair. His grip is so tight it almost hurts, but the edge of pain fuels you to suck on him a little more, eyes crinkling when he whines from the overstimulation.

You hold him in your mouth until he’s fully soft and his eyes come back into focus. His grip in your hair loosens, and you pop off of him, cum still swirling in your mouth. You pull yourself up to your feet and kiss Minho, pressing your tongue into his mouth, forcing him to taste his own cum. He makes a low sound but lets it happen, your spit and his come mixing between you.

You pull back and swallow, heat rushing through you when he swallows, too. As you’re basking in the afterglow, helping Minho back into his clothes (which turns out to be a little more confusing than you thought it would be), a sharp set of knocks ring out, and an exasperated voice calls out through the door.

“They’ll be distracted for five more minutes max,” Felix says, tired and unhappy, “You two both owe me one. I hope you’re happy. I will be cashing that in at the least convenient time.”

“Thanks Fefe!” you chime, Minho burying his face in your shoulder, embarrassed. “I’ll get him back to you soon, don’t worry.”

Felix makes some sort of garbled, dismissive sound, footsteps padding away. You finally wrangle Minho’s stupid belt back into place, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you ruffle his hair. He glares at you, but his lip twitches upwards like he can’t help himself.

“Go get ‘em, tiger!” You say, grinning up at him.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he groans, turning to fix himself up in the mirror, “I hated that.”

“C’mon, tiger, what are you talking about? Don’t like being my little tiger?”

He just groans, sending you his signature glare over his shoulder.

“Don’t even start.” “Too late, the ship is already sailing, tiger!”

He pushes you lightly, but it doesn’t stop you from laughing uncontrollably, face scrunching up as you watch his face switch from frustration to exasperation to something akin to fondness. Your laughter fades out and he starts to walk to the door, dragging his feet like he doesn’t want to leave.

“I’ll get you back later.” He says.

“What?” You respond, tilting your head.

“You made me come. I’ll pay back the favor later. Wait for me, won’t you?” He winks over his shoulder as the door clicks open, smirk back on his face like you didn’t just suck his soul out.

You blink at him, flabbergasted, and he just leaves like he didn’t just promise you more later. It was so very Minho of him to leave you hanging like this, forcing you to wait until he got home later.

You suppose, for Minho, you can wait. No matter how wired you are right now, Minho would always be worth the wait. He keeps his promises, after all.

Later can’t come soon enough.

Bang Chan

Red Lights

Channie decides to show you what his new song is about (Railway

He shows you how deep he's about to go into you

Lee Know

he likes to tease you

you're cute when you do it

he didn't know you were already home

he is punishing you

Changbin

He likes mess

he loves it when you scream his name

it turns him on when he looks at you in the mirror

he loves to tease you

Hyunjin

your pussy is so exciting to him

hyune wants to cum on your pillow

quiet

Sub Hyunjin

———————————————

Rio crashed into the scene like a tiny tornado. “Hi!” he announced, planting himself beside the stranger. The man glanced up, and your breath hitched—not at his sharp jawline or the faint scar threading his brow, but at the way his smile transformed his face. Crow’s feet crinkled, warm as summer honey.  

“Hey there, adventurer,” he said, tilting his head to match Rio’s height. “I’m Minho. Wanna try?” He offered the feather wand, handle first. Rio seized it with a warrior’s cry, sending the kitten pouncing.  

Minho rose, brushing cat hair off his jeans. His gaze found yours, steady and curious. “He’s a natural,” he said, nodding toward Rio, who was now giggling as the kitten batted his shoelaces. There was no pity in his tone, no *single-mom radar* flicker—just genuine warmth. You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of your faded jeans and the granola bar wrapper peeking out of your tote.  

“Thanks,” you said, softer than intended. “He’s been… obsessed.”  

Minho crouched again, steadying Rio’s grip on the toy. “Obsession’s good here,” he replied, glancing up through his lashes. “Means he’s got passion. And good taste.”  

The kitten leapt, landing in Rio’s lap. Your son’s squeal of delight echoed off the walls, and for the first time in weeks, you felt your shoulders relax. *Just looking*, you’d said. But as Minho’s laughter tangled with Rio’s, something fragile and hopeful stirred in your chest—a feeling you hadn’t dared name in years.  

Weekends bloomed into a rhythm of shelter visits, the three of you falling into a routine as comfortable as an old sweater. Minho became a fixture in your Saturdays, his patience with Rio as endless as his cat trivia. He taught your son to cradle kittens like clouds, guiding his small hands with a steadiness that made your throat tighten. “Support their paws, buddy—like they’re holding tiny secrets,” he’d say, and Rio would nod, solemn as a scholar.  

You learned Minho was 26, a grad student in animal behavior who spoke of feline body language like it was Shakespeare. “Cats arch their backs not just to scare foes, but to feel bigger when they’re scared,” he explained once, demonstrating with a theatrical curve of his spine that sent Rio into giggles. But it was the slow blinks that undid you—the way Minho would lock eyes with a wary cat, lids drifting shut in a languid Morse code. “They’re saying, ‘I trust you,’” he murmured to Rio during one lesson. Then, glancing at you across the playpen, he repeated the gesture, slow and deliberate. Your cheeks burned. *It’s just a demo*, you told yourself, even as your pulse skittered.  

One rainy afternoon, the shelter emptied early, the patter of droplets harmonizing with the kittens’ purrs. Rio dozed in his stroller, thumb tucked in his mouth, worn out from chasing a energetic tabby. Minho appeared beside you, two steaming mugs in hand. “Matcha latte,” he said, voice low to avoid waking Rio. “No sugar, just like you mentioned last week.”  

You blinked, startled he’d remembered your offhand comment about hating sweet drinks. His fingers grazed yours as you took the mug, calloused from scrubbing litter boxes yet impossibly gentle. The silence between you thickened, charged like the storm-heavy air.  

“He’s lucky,” Minho said suddenly, nodding at Rio. “Not every kid gets a mom who works two jobs *and* lets him turn her kitchen into a cat art gallery.”  

Your grip tightened on the mug. He knew. Of course he did—you’d confessed it weeks ago, that offhand moment when he’d asked about Rio’s father. But hearing him acknowledge it now, without a trace of pity, unraveled something in you.  

“Some days, it doesn’t feel like enough,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could cage them. “The deadlines, the daycare bills… What if I’m just—”  

“Enough.” Minho’s interruption was soft but firm. He stepped closer, the scent of matcha and cedar enveloping you. “You’re *everything* he needs.”  

Tears breached your lashes before you could stop them. You turned away, but Minho was already there, offering a tissue printed with a grinning cat and the pun *“Hang in there, paw-some human!”* A wet laugh escaped you. “Do you stock these for all the crying women who wander in?”  

“Just the ones who pretend they’ve got it all figured out.” His smile was tender, a silent invitation to lean in.  

Outside, rain drummed its approval. Rio sighed in his sleep, Tofu—the tabby he’d claimed as his soulmate—curled at his feet. And in that fragile, honeyed moment, you let yourself imagine: Minho’s hand brushing yours not by accident, his slow-blink smiles reserved just for you, weekends that stretched into years.  

The rain softens to a whisper as Minho leans against the adoption desk, his gaze steady on yours. *“You know,”* he begins, tracing the rim of his mug, *“I started volunteering here after my sister’s cat, Mochi, passed. She’d had him since we were kids.”* He pauses, a shadow flickering in his eyes. *“She’s in remission now, but back then… the shelter was the only place that didn’t feel heavy.”*  

Your breath catches. This is more than he’s ever shared—a fissure in his usual playful armor. *“Minho, I…”*  

He shakes his head, smiling faintly. *“Don’t. I’m not fishing for sympathy. Just… you should know I’ve seen how love can be a lifeline. Even the furry kind.”*  

The admission hangs between you, raw and real. You glance at Rio, his lashes fluttering in sleep, then back at Minho. *“After Rio’s dad left,”* you say, the words tasting less bitter than usual, *“I almost gave up freelancing. Too unstable. But then Rio drew his first cat—a scribbled blob with fangs—and I thought…* Okay. We’ll build a life where he gets to keep that joy.”  

Minho’s thumb brushes your wrist, fleeting. *“You did.”*  

A kitten mews from a nearby crate, breaking the tension. Minho chuckles, scooping up the bold calico intruder. *“This is Soybean. She’s a door-dasher—escapes every chance she gets.”*  

*“Like someone else I know,”* you tease, nodding at Rio, who’s begun snoring softly.  

Minho cradles Soybean against his chest, her purrs a rumbling echo of his next words. *“When I’m with you two… it feels like I’ve found something I didn’t know I was searching for.”*  

Your heart stammers. *“Minho—”*  

*“Not asking for labels,”* he interjects, setting Soybean down. *“Just… want you to see what I see. A woman who paints worlds for a living, raises a kind-hearted kid, and still makes time to laugh at my terrible cat puns.”* He gestures to the tissue still crumpled in your hand. *“That’s not surviving. That’s* thriving.”  

The shelter’s clock ticks, loud in the silence. You step closer, until the steam from your mug curls into his. *“What if I see you too?”* you whisper. *“The guy who teaches kittens—and single moms—how to trust again?”*  

His slow blink is answer enough.  

The adoption day arrives, and Tofu—now lord of Rio’s sock drawer and ruler of half-eaten goldfish crackers—officially becomes family. When Minho shows up at your apartment with a cat tree taller than Rio, your son erupts into a frenzy, launching himself at Minho’s legs. “Hyung! Tofu needs a *castle*!”  

Minho laughs, setting down the box with a thud. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms still scratched from last week’s kitten wrestling match. “Every queen deserves a throne,” he says, winking at you. You cross your arms, feigning suspicion. “And you just *happened* to have a cat tree lying around?”  

“I’m full of surprises,” he says, tossing Rio a package of felt mice to “test” for Tofu. For the next hour, you watch Minho assemble the tower with the precision of an engineer, indulging Rio’s demands to add “secret tunnels” (a cardboard tube) and a “treasure box” (your old sunglasses case). Tofu watches from the couch, her crooked tail flicking in approval.  

By sunset, the living room is a jungle of scratching posts and dangling toys. You order pizza, and Minho stays—not because you ask, but because Rio tugs him to the table with sauce-stained hands. “You *gotta* try the pepperoni, hyung! It’s Mama’s favorite.” Minho’s knee brushes yours under the table, lingering a beat too long.  

Later, after Rio’s bedtime stories (*“Again, Mama! The one with the space cat!”*), Minho hovers at the door, his usual confidence fraying. “The shelter’s fundraiser… I’d like you both there. With me.” He hesitates, fingers drumming his thigh. “Not as volunteers. As… my date.”  

Your pulse stutters. *Date*. The word feels too big, too bright for your cluttered life. But Minho’s gaze is steady, his vulnerability disarming. “Okay,” you whisper.  

The fundraiser glows with string lights and the murmur of well-dressed attendees. Rio, in a bow tie that keeps slipping sideways, drags you and Minho to a photo booth plastered with cat-ear headbands. “Family picture!” he declares, shoving a pair of cardboard whiskers at Minho. You freeze, but Minho just grins, clipping the whiskers to his hair. “Your majesty,” he says, bowing to Rio.  

The camera flashes: Minho’s arm around your waist, your head tilted toward him, Rio mid-laugh with frosting smeared on his chin. When the strip prints, Minho tucks it into his wallet, his ears pink. “For luck,” he mutters.  

You escape to the garden when the crowd swells, Rio asleep in your arms. Cherry blossoms drift around you like confetti. Minho brushes a petal from your hair, his voice soft. “I know I’m younger. I know your world is… *a lot*. But I’m not going anywhere.”  

Your throat tightens. “Why?”  

He steps closer, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Love isn’t about age,” he says, nuzzling your temple as Rio’s breath evens against your shoulder. “It’s about who stays.”  

The kiss is gentle. When you pull back, Minho’s forehead rests against yours. “I’m not asking for a spotlight,” he whispers. “Just a corner of your chaos.”  

You laugh, tearful, and his mouth finds yours again. *Chaos*, you think, as Rio snores and Tofu bats at a falling blossom. *Maybe chaos is where love grows best*. 

As you and Minho lingered under the cherry blossoms, Rio’s frosting-smeared face pressed against your shoulder, the night felt suspended in time—soft and hopeful. But then a voice cut through the quiet.  

“Minho! There you are!”  

A woman in a sleek black dress approached, her heels clicking sharply against the garden stones. She was familiar—a longtime donor, maybe, or a board member. Her gaze flickered to Rio, then to your intertwined fingers, before settling on Minho. “We need you inside. The press wants a quote about next year’s expansion.”  

Minho hesitated, his hand still warm on your waist. “Give me five minutes, Soojin.”  

Soojin’s smile tightened. “Now, Minho. This is the *real work*.” Her emphasis lingered, a blade thinly veiled.  

You stiffened, shifting Rio higher on your hip. “Go,” you said, too quickly. “We’re fine.”  

Minho searched your face. “I’ll be right back.”  

But he wasn’t.  

Minutes bled into an hour. Rio grew restless, tugging at his bow tie, while you paced the garden path. Laughter and clinking glasses spilled from the venue, a world away from the sticky reality of motherhood. When Minho finally reappeared, his tie loosened and hair ruffled, Soojin trailed behind him, her laugh sharp as champagne bubbles.  

“—such a *natural* with the donors,” she purred, patting his arm. “You’ll go far, if you stay focused.” Her eyes slid to you, polite but dismissive. “Goodnight.”  

Minho reached for you, but you stepped back. “You should get back,” you said, voice brittle. “The *real work*.”  

He flinched. “That’s not what I—”  

“It’s fine.” You adjusted Rio’s blanket, avoiding his gaze. “We’re used to being an afterthought.”  

The words hung between you, cruel and untrue, but fear had already coiled around your heart. Minho’s jaw tightened. “You think I’d choose *that* over you two?”  

You didn’t answer. Rio whimpered in his sleep, and you turned toward the exit.  

“Wait.” Minho caught your wrist, his voice raw. “I’m not him. I’m not going to vanish because something shinier comes along.”  

Tears blurred the fairy lights. “How do I know that?”  

He stepped closer, his thumb brushing your pulse point. “Because I’m asking you to trust me,” he whispered. “Even when it’s hard.”  

The gulf between you trembled, fragile as a spiderweb. Then Rio stirred, his small hand patting your cheek. “Mama, go home?”  

Minho released you, his eyes shadowed. “Let me drive you.”  

You shook your head. “We’ll take a taxi.”  

The ride home was silent, Rio’s head heavy on your shoulder. As you tucked him into bed, Tofu curled at his feet, your phone buzzed.  

**Minho:** *I’m here. However long it takes.*  

You didn’t reply. But you didn’t delete the message either.  

A week of silence. Seven days of Minho’s unanswered calls piling up like unread apologies, and Rio’s relentless questions chipping away at your resolve. *“Did Minho-hyung get lost? Is he mad at us?”* You’d deflected with hollow excuses—*“He’s just busy, sweetheart”*—but Rio’s crumpled frown mirrored the guilt gnawing at your ribs.  

On Saturday morning, you flee to the park, pushing Rio’s stroller through the fog-thick air. Tofu peers from the basket, her tail flicking like a metronome counting down your dread. The lake glimmers ahead, its surface still as held breath. Rio babbles to Tofu about turtles, unaware as you round the bend—and there he is.  

Minho slouches on a bench, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms still marked with fading kitten scratches. A paper cup sits abandoned beside him, steam long gone. His gaze is fixed on the water, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the sky. You pivot sharply, but Tofu leaps from the stroller with a yowl, darting straight to him.  

“Y/N.”  

His voice is sandpaper-rough, and you flinch. Rio twists in his seat, squealing, *“Hyung! Mama, look—it’s Minho!”*  

You fumble for Tofu, but she’s already in his lap, kneading his thighs like dough. Traitor.  

“Hey, troublemaker,” Minho murmurs, scratching her chin. His eyes lock onto yours, shadowed and sleepless. “Missed you.”  

Rio tugs your sleeve, lower lip wobbling. “Mama, *please*.”  

You crouch, adjusting his scarf to avoid Minho’s stare. “Stay here with Tofu, okay? Just for a minute.”  

“But—”  

“*Please*, Rio.”  

He nods, solemn, and you rise on unsteady legs. Minho meets you halfway, the morning chill sharpening the lines of his face.  

“You’ve been ghosting me,” he says, voice low.  

“I’ve been… figuring things out.”  

“By shutting me out?” He steps closer, Tofu pressed to his chest like a shield. “Talk to me. *Please*.”  

The plea unravels you. “What’s there to say? You saw how Soojin looked at me—like I was a *distraction*. And I can’t—I won’t be the thing that holds you back from—”  

“From what? Schmoozing donors?” He laughs, bitter. “That’s not me, Y/N. Never was.”  

“But it’s part of your job! Your *future*—”  

“I quit.”  

The words hang between you, brittle as ice.  

“What?”  

“Donor relations. Events. All of it.” He sets Tofu down, his hands trembling. “I told them I’m sticking to the cats. And the kids. And… you.”  

Your breath hitches. “You didn’t have to do that.”  

“Yeah, I did.” He swipes a hand over his face. “Because I’d rather mop piss puddles every day than lose you two.”  

Rio’s laughter floats over, Tofu now chasing a leaf he’s waving. Minho’s gaze softens. “I’ve been here every morning. Hoping you’d come. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”  

Tears blur the fog-drenched trees. “I’m scared,” you whisper.  

He reaches for you, pausing just shy of your cheek. “Let me be scared with you. Let me *help*.”  

You lean into his touch, his palm warm against your skin. “What if I break?”  

“Then I’ll put you back together.” His thumb brushes away a tear. “However many times it takes.”  

Rio crashes into your legs, Tofu circling his ankles. “Group hug!” he demands, arms stretched wide.  

Minho scoops him up, your little trio—*family*—colliding in a tangle of limbs and purrs. The fog lifts, sunlight spilling gold across the path ahead.  

The click of Rio’s bedroom door echoes like a held breath. You retreat to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fill the kettle. Moonlight spills through the window, silvering the mugs you set out—the chipped one Rio painted with paw prints, and Minho’s favorite, striped like a tabby’s fur.  

Footsteps pad behind you.  

“Need help?” Minho leans against the doorway, sleeves rolled up, shadows pooling under his eyes.  

You shake your head, but he steps closer anyway, his warmth a quiet challenge to the distance you’ve carved. The kettle whistles, sharp and urgent.  

“Why’d you really quit donor work?” you ask, pouring hot water too fast. It sloshes, scalding your thumb.  

Minho catches your wrist, guiding the kettle down. “Because I finally figured out what matters.” His thumb brushes the burn, soothing. “Saw my dad chase promotions my whole childhood. Missed every school play, every birthday. I swore I’d never be that guy.”  

You stare at the steam curling between you. “And us? Are we just… another promise?”  

He turns your hand over, tracing the lines of your palm. “You’re the reason I keep them.”  

The confession hangs, fragile. You pull away, busying yourself with tea bags. Chamomile for him, earl grey for you—he’d remembered.  

“I keep waiting for you to realize this is too much,” you whisper. “A single mom, a chaotic kid, a cat who hates your shoes—”  

“Y/N.” He steps into your space, the counter’s edge pressing into your back. “You think I don’t know what I’m signing up for? I’ve seen your late-night panic over daycare bills. The way you cry when Rio draws family pictures with *three* people now. Hell, I’ve scrubbed puke off my favorite jeans thanks to Tofu’s hairballs.” His voice cracks. “I’m not here for *easy*. I’m here for *you*.”  

Tears blur the mugs. “What if I’m not enough?”  

He frames your face, calloused palms anchoring you. “You’re everything. The deadlines, the mess, the *fear*—it’s all part of you. And I want all of it.”  

Your breath hitches. “Even when I push you away?”  

“Especially then.” His forehead rests against yours, the tea forgotten. “You don’t have to be brave alone anymore.”  

The admission unravels you. “I don’t know how to do this,” you rasp. “To trust someone to… stay.”  

Minho’s thumb catches a tear. “Let me show you.”  

Outside, rain begins to fall, tapping a rhythm against the window. The first brush of Minho’s lips is tentative, a question whispered into the fragile space between your breaths. But when your fingers fist in his hoodie, tugging him closer, the hesitation shatters. His hands slide from your face to your waist, lifting you onto the counter with a ease that steals your breath. Tea mugs clatter forgotten as he steps between your knees, his mouth slanting over yours with a hunger that mirrors the storm outside.  

This isn’t the careful Minho who blinks slowly at skittish kittens. This is wildfire—calloused palms skimming your ribs, teeth grazing your lower lip, a groan rumbling deep in his chest when you arch against him. His hoodie smells like cedar and the faint musk of the shelter, a scent that’s become as familiar as your own chaos.  

“Minho—” you gasp, breaking the kiss, but his name is a plea, not a protest.  

He stills, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, but his thumb traces the hammering pulse at your neck, betraying his own unraveling.  

You don’t. Instead, you knot your hands in his hair, dragging him back. The counter digs into your thighs, the cold edge a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth. He kisses like he’s memorizing you—the sigh you stifle when his tongue flicks yours, the hitch in your breath as his hands slide under your shirt, branding your skin.  

Minho guides you through the darkened hallway, his steps careful and measured despite the desire thrumming through his veins. Your bare feet pad silently across the wooden floors, past Rio's room where soft snores filter through the crack under the door, and Tofu's favorite sleeping spot by the window.

His hands never leave your body - ghosting over your hip, tracing the small of your back, fingers intertwined with yours as he leads you to your bedroom. The door clicks shut behind you with barely a whisper, and suddenly the air feels charged, electric with anticipation.

Moonlight spills through your curtains, painting Minho's bare chest in silver shadows as he backs you toward the bed. His movements are controlled, deliberate - every touch calculated to keep quiet. When your knees hit the mattress, he catches you before you fall, lowering you to the sheets with such care that your heart swells.

"Shh," he breathes against your ear when the bed frame creaks slightly, his warm weight settling over you. His fingers trail down your sides, hooks in your belt loops. "We'll have to be very, very quiet."

The challenge in his whispered words sends a shiver down your spine, especially when his teeth graze your earlobe, testing just how silent you can stay.

Minho's fingers tremble slightly as they work at your jeans button, his usual confidence wavering as moonlight reveals the vulnerability in his eyes. When you reach to help, he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"Let me," he whispers, "I want to remember every second of this." His hands slide your jeans down with aching slowness, but you notice how he hesitates at the scars on your thighs, the stretch marks mapping your hips. Before self-consciousness can take root, he's tracing each mark with reverent fingers, then following with his lips.

"Beautiful," he breathes against your skin. When you start to protest, he silences you with a deep kiss. "Every inch of you."

You reach for his belt, but notice his own moment of hesitation as your fingers brush his stomach. This confident man who spends his days wrangling large dogs suddenly seems unsure, and you remember the burn scars he usually keeps hidden under long sleeves.

"You don't have to—" he starts, but you quiet him by pressing kisses along the scarred tissue of his right arm, feeling his breath catch. Your fingers work his belt open as your lips trace each mark, each imperfection that makes him perfectly him.

Soon you're both down to underwear, skin against skin, every touch electric yet tender. His fingers trace the curve of your breasts through your bra, while yours map the hard planes of his chest, both of you learning each other's bodies with wondering hands.

"You're sure?" he asks, thumbs hooked in your panties, waiting for permission despite the obvious desire straining against his boxers. His eyes hold yours, dark with want but soft with something deeper.

You nod, lifting your hips to help him slide your panties down your legs. His breath catches as he takes in your naked form, illuminated by moonlight. Your instinct is to cover yourself, but the raw adoration in his gaze holds you still.

Minho trails kisses up your inner thigh, his touch growing bolder as your breathing quickens. When his tongue finds your clit, you have to bite your lip to stay quiet. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he works you with his mouth, each stroke of his tongue deliberate and precise.

You reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. His responding groan vibrates against you, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Your other hand fists in the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as the pressure builds.

"Minho," you gasp, barely a whisper, "I need you. Please."

He crawls up your body, kissing a path from your navel to your breasts, then capturing your lips. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he positions himself between your thighs, the hard length of his cock pressing against your entrance.

"I adore you," he breathes against your mouth as he slowly pushes inside, stretching you deliciously. "Gosh, I adore you so much."

Your bodies move together in the darkness, finding a rhythm as natural as breathing. Each thrust is measured, careful not to make the bed creak, but the restraint only makes it more intense. His forehead presses against yours, sharing each shaky breath as you climb toward ecstasy together.

Minho's thrusts grow deeper, more urgent as your walls clench around him. His cock fills you perfectly, hitting spots that make you see stars. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, changing the angle until he's grinding against your clit with each movement.

"Fuck," he pants against your neck, struggling to keep his voice down. "You feel amazing. So tight, so perfect."

Your nails dig into his back as the pressure builds, every nerve ending on fire. The familiar coil of heat in your belly winds tighter and tighter. Minho seems to sense how close you are - his fingers find your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me," he whispers, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the delicious stretch of him inside you sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around him as you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cries.

The feeling of you coming undone triggers his own release. His hips stutter, losing their rhythm as he buries himself deep inside you with a muffled groan. You can feel his cock pulsing as he fills you, his whole body trembling with the intensity of his orgasm.

For several long moments, you lie there tangled together, hearts racing, bodies slick with sweat. Minho peppers soft kisses across your face - your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose - as if he can't bear to stop touching you.

Minho chuckles softly against your neck, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your hip. "You know," he murmurs with a playful nip at your earlobe, "if we keep this up, Rio might get that little sister he's been begging for."

Your laughter bubbles up, soft and intimate in the darkness. "Only you would think about making babies right after our first time," you tease, turning to face him with a grin. Your fingers trace the smile lines around his eyes, memorizing how he looks in this moment - hair mussed from your hands, lips swollen from kisses.

"Hey, I'm just being practical," he defends playfully, pulling you closer. "Rio's been asking for a playmate ever since he saw Mrs. Kim's new baby. And Tofu could use another human to train."

You snort, burying your face in his chest to muffle the sound. "Of course you'd bring the pets into this conversation," you whisper. "Such a typical shelter worker."

"Speaking of," he murmurs, his hand sliding down to cup your ass, "we should probably practice that baby-making technique a few more times. You know, for science."

Three years later, sunlight drips like honey through the windows of your shared home, gilding the mosaic of chaos and love that is your life. Minho stands at the stove, spatula in hand, crafting pancake dinosaurs with the precision of a man who’s learned to find art in the messy. His free hand rests on the curve of your belly, where your daughter kicks impatiently, as if already eager to join the fray. “Princess Appa’s practicing her roundhouse kicks,” he teases, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.  

Under the table, Rio—now six and savant of all things glitter and mischief—huddles with Tofu, their whispers punctuated by the crinkle of a manila folder. You bite your lip, heart swollen, as he peeks up at you. *“Now, Mama?”*  

You nod, tears already pricking your lashes.  

Rio scrambles out, folder clutched to his *Star Wars* pajamas, and tugs Minho’s apron with the gravity of a diplomat. “Appa! Father’s Day present!”  

Minho grins, flipping a T-Rex onto a plate. “Let’s see it, space ranger.”  

Rio thrusts the folder forward, its cover a masterpiece of sticker explosions: cats in rocket ships, a lopsided family portrait labeled *“ME, MAMA, MINHO, TOFU & BABY SIS,”* and a glitter-glue galaxy that glints in the light. Inside, the adoption papers gleam, their legalese softened by Rio’s crayon scrawl: *“PLEEZ BE MY REEL DAD”* looping across the top.  

Minho freezes. The spatula clatters to the floor.  

“Mama did the grown-up words,” Rio explains, bouncing on his toes, “but the *‘forever daddy’* part is *mine*! And Tofu helped!” He points to the corner, where a smudged paw print is stamped in purple ink.  

Minho sinks to his knees, the linoleum cool against his palms. He stares at the papers, then at Rio’s hopeful face—so like your own—then at you. “You… you’re sure?”  

You crouch beside him, Tofu weaving figure-eights around your ankles. “We’ve never been surer of anything.”  

A tear splashes onto the folder, blurring the “DAD” in Rio’s title. Another follows. Rio’s eyes widen. “Did I spell it wrong?!”  

Minho drags him into a hug, laughter and sobs tangled in his throat. “It’s perfect. *You’re* perfect.”  

Later, after pancake dinosaurs fossilize and the notary—a friend from the shelter who’d arrived with confetti and cat-shaped cookies—witnesses the signatures, Minho sits on the porch swing, Rio sprawled across his lap, sticky with syrup and dreams. Your daughter pirouettes beneath your skin, and Minho presses his palm to your belly, his thumb brushing the spot where her foot jabs. “Hey, little comet,” he murmurs. “Your brother’s already plotting your first mission to Mars.”  

You lean into him, the adoption papers now framed beside Rio’s first crayon cat drawing. Tofu’s paw print is immortalized in gold ink beneath your signatures—a family relic. “Think she’ll survive the chaos?”  

Minho’s slow blink is a language only you know. *I love you. I’m here. Always.* “She’ll be the chaos queen,” he says, grinning.  

Chan sits in his usual spot, headphones snug over his ears as he works on a new track he has just created. The bass pulses softly through his headphones, shutting out the rest of the world. It wasn't until he felt light taps on his shoulder that he realized that it was Seungmin who managed to slip into his bedroom without him noticing. 

Seungmin asks Chan for the picture that he took of him earlier. Chan nods absentmindedly before pulling his phone out of his pocket and unlocking it. "Yeah, just send them to yourself. You can give it back later" he says, handing over the device before turning back to his laptop.

"And by the way, if it locks, the password is Y/N's birthday" He adds before Seungmin shuts the door to his bedroom. 

Seungmin plops himself on he bed as he scrolls through the pictures, deleting the ones he didn't like and keeping the other. After sending the pictures he wanted to his own phone, his thumb pauses mid-swipe. A new image caught his attention.

It is a photo of you.

Seungmin has been in love with you for a while, a long while. He remembers the first time Felix introduced you to the group, proudly declaring you as his close friend. 

Seungmin can still remember the exact shade of the pastel blue dress you wore that day. Scattered with delicate dandelion prints, the kind of dress that seemed made just for you. Seungmin could still remember how his breath had caught in his throat, how the world seemed to slow for a moment as you smiled at him. He hadn't been the same since.

Days by days, and week by week had passed. He found himself falling deeper and deeper into you. The way you giggled every time he cracked a joke about Chan or the way you smiled at him every time you saw him made him think that. Maybe you were in love with him as much as he was in love with you. He had believed that. 

But before he could summon the courage to confess, you and Chan had announced your relationship to the group.

He could still hear Chan's voice as he introduced you as his girlfriend. He could still feel the weight of his own forced smile as everyone cheered. Inside, it had felt like something in him had shattered.

Chan was a good man, a better man. Smart, kind, talented, everything a person could ask for. You deserved someone like him, and Seungmin had convinced himself he couldn't compare. Telling himself that the two of you were perfect together and maybe in that way he wouldn't feel so hurt. 

You are smiling at the camera, your eyes crinkling with joy as a few stray strands of hair fall softly across your face. The background blurrs behind you and it makes you look radiant and effortlessly beautiful. He was then quick to airdrop it to his phone.

Chan wouldn't mind sharing some more pictures of you, right?

Seungmin scrolls and scrolls. He swipes from one picture to another, until one swipes too far and it makes Seungmin's breath catch in his throat. It feels like his heart stopped beating. 

It's a picture of you standing in front of a mirror with Chan's large frame behind you. His arms are wrapped around your waist in a possessive yet tender embrace, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he smiles against your skin. Usually, this would have passed as a normal couple's photo, but it wasn't. 

Because you- oh god  

You are dressed in nothing but a black lace lingerie set, with cute white bows on it. 

The fabric clung to every curve of your body in ways Seungmin had never allowed himself to imagine. The thin fabric reveals just enough tease but still manages to cover the most intimate areas but it doesn't matter. It was more than enough. Enough to send a rush of blood southward, a rush that Seungmin couldn't ignore.

Chan must have forgotten to hide the picture. 

Seungmin clicks off the picture and his fingers swipe rapidly across the screen. The Face ID prompt appears. 

Denied. 

The phone denies the unfamiliar face. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, what is the password? 

Fuck, he doesn't know. 

The password, the password, the pass- 

And then Seungmin's fingers flew across the numbers. A soft click echoed as the screen unlocked. 

He did it.

He managed to open Chan's secret folder. 

Seungmin wasn't the kind of man who let his desires control him. He prides himself on his discipline, prides himself on the fact that he had never thought anything unethical about you. 

His sweet innocent girl.

But then why, why is he now tugging at his stiffened cock at the images of you, at the sounds that play through the phone speaker? 

The room is dark illuminating only by the dim glow of his phone screen as he scrolls through the videos. He has scrolled through so many videos. And oh god you were not the sweet innocent girl he had thought you to be. 

He had seen you from angles he had never dared to imagine. He had watched as you crumbled under Chan’s touch, your body arching, your lips parting in soft, breathless cries that felt too intimate to witness.

He had heard it all. The delicate sighs that escaped your lips, the high-pitched whimpers when Chan hit just the right spot.  

And your voice- God, your voice calling Chan’s name like it was the only word you knew. Over and over, in so many tones, so many variations and it's now all burned into his brain.

In one clip, he watches as Chan sinks his fingers into your other tight hole. Your cries as Chan scissors you open, have Seungmin biting down on his lips so hard that it hurts. The way Chan's fingers move against you to just then later on be replace it with his cock. 

(A/N: Tell me that the bracelet doesn't make it look like Chan's hand and I'll be blocking you)

One, where it's a close up of your pretty cunt as Chan rams into you. Seungmin can hear that the both of you are close and it only makes him tug harder at his own cock, each stroke faster as he squeezes tightly on his sensitive tip. Seungmin eyes focus on the video again and the only thing he can see is Chan filling up your abused cunt, the milky white liquid oozes out of you as you collect your breath. 

Another video leaves Seungmin twitching hard as he buckles into his fist. It's when Chan teases you. His cock runs through your soaked panties while you plea and beg him to sink his cock into you. Telling him that you'll behave, that you will be a good girl for him so please just stretch you open already!

You begged so so nicely but Chan only drags his length through your moist folds, letting the tip sink in just enough to drive you mad before pulling away. 

"That's not sincere enough, baby. Try again."

Ohh, he's so cruel. 

Seungmin's jaw clenches. Seungmin's mind spiraling at the way Chan toyed with you and all it takes is a single drag of his cock and you'll be begging for mercy. He hate how much it make his skin burn with envy but at the same time, he couldn't seem to stop the movement of his fist either.

Yet another video on the coffee table in the living room. The coffee table where Seungmin sits every day, eating meals and chatting with the members. That same table that had you sprawled across it, legs spread wide as Chan's hips slammed into you. The two of you moaned and gasped like the world didn't exist outside of that room.

And then there's a video. A video where Chan is being extra mean, holding your wrists behind your back and pressing your face into the mattress. His thrusts are harsh and deep, each one making you cry out. "Such a fucking whore" Chan growls before giving a harsh slap on the mold of your ass, making your whole body jerk forward at the pain. "Purposely pressing your tits against Seungmin's arm today like that. Was it fun, baby? Whoring yourself on my members?" 

With a big grip on your hair he yanks your head backward, forcing you to look up from the mattress. Your face is flushed, tears brimming in your eyes as you struggle to respond. 

"Answer me, baby" Chan demands, punctuating his words with a sharp thrust that made you let out a high-pitched whimper.

'Seungmin' 

'Seungmin' 

Seungmin's heart pounds against his ribs, the mere mention of his name playing on repeat in his head. 

Was it true? Had you really been pressing yourself against him, purposely leaning into his side, clinging to him in a way that Chan had noticed? The possibility sent a shiver down his spine. 

His palms grow clammy and he clenches them into fists, trying to steady himself. But his resolve crumbles as a thought plants in his head. 

What if you really had been trying to get closer to him? What if it wasn’t just a coincidence?

A slimmer of hope bloms in his chest, feeding to the long forgotten desire in him. It was wrong, all of it was wrong, but Seungmin couldn’t stop himself from drowning in the fantasy. Downing in the thought that maybe, just maybe you found interest in him too. 

It had unlocked something in him. Something he wasn't sure if he could control anymore. 

Tossing the phone aside, Seungmin let your voice from the ongoing video continue to spill into the room as he reaches for the nearest pillow. 

His hips move instinctively, grinding himself against the soft fabric beneath him, desperate for friction. Your moans fill his ears as if it mingle along with his own gasps and grunts. 

Seungmin let his eyes close shut, letting his own fantasy take over him entirely. He pretends that it is him. It's him who makes you sound like that. He pictures himself above you, your body trembling beneath him as he drives into you.

It should’ve been me.

Seungmin bites on his lip as his movements grow more desperate, his mouth slightly agape as he lets the pleasure consume him. 

He imagines sinking into your warm cunt and letting your walls wrap around him, pulling him deeper. He isn't as grithy as Chan but there's one thing he’s sure of. He's longer than Chan and he'd make sure to use every bit of it to make you see stars.

He swears that if he ever gets the chance, he wouldn't stop at his cock. He'd worship you properly, with his mouth and hands, until you can't take any more. He'd bury his face between your thighs, tasting you, teasing you and making you come so hard on his tongue that your legs would shake and squeeze his head. The thought alone drags a whimper from his lips as his body jerks against the pillow. 

The pressure building higher the more he let the thoughts wander, his movements becoming erratic as he clutch the pillow tighter. Your moans seems to grow louder as well as if you're urging him on.

With one final thrust Seungmin cries out, his body shuddering as he comes hard, spilling himself all over the plush fabric beneath him. His release left him trembling, panting, and utterly spent.

Even when his mind is in a blurry haze right now, he still has one thing in his mind.

He needs to take you back from Chan, doesn't matter what.

I’m planning to write a pt 2 on this one and if you want to be added comment down below!

Chan is sure he had closed the blinds completely shut last night before he went to bed. So why is the goddamn sun shining so aggressively through the window and right onto his face? He brings both his hands to his face to rub his eyes sleepily, stretching his whole body, still his eyesl remain firmly closed. With one swift move he turns around in his bed, away from the bright sun, determined to get some more sleep since his alarm hadn't gotten off just yet. He makes no move to open his eyes as he pulls the blanket tighter around his body, humming softly as he slowly feels himself drifting back off to sleep.

The loud sound of the alarm rips him out of his deep slumber just about one hour later and he groans, barely opening his eyes which are still heavy with sleep. He blindly reaches out for the phone and when he finally feels it in his hand, the brightness of the screen burning his eyes, he immediately turns off the annoying noise of the alarm. It is then that he realizes that this is not his phone. Confused, he sits up and rubs his eyes slowly before he takes a look around the room. This is not his bed and also not his room.

He quickly pulls the blanket off of him, gasping when he sees the pokemon pyjama pants that he most definitely did not put on last night when he went to bed. His vision blurs as he turns his head, catching a glimpse of something blue in the mirror. He blinks a few times to get rid of the blur and to make sure he's seeing this correctly. That is not him in the mirror.

The reflection staring back at him is no other than his best friend Felix, who he also has a big crush on. If he's in Felix's body now, that could only mean that Felix is soon gonna wake up in his. Shit.

Chan gets up from the bed and immediately steps closer to the mirror to take a good look at Felix’s body, running his fingers along the pretty freckles on his face. He lets his eyes wander down his body, his fingers following the path of his eyes down his throat to his collar bones, then further down to his abdomen. He shouldn't, but he can't help himself as he lifts up the shirt to take a look at the muscles. His fingers run along the soft skin of his stomach, biting his lip as he lets his fingers move lower until they hit the waistband of his pants. Chan knows that it's wrong fot him to touch his friends’ body like that but he can't stop himself. He's dreamt of this for so long. To be able to touch Felix like this, see him like this.

A soft knock on the door pulls him from his thoughts and he swallows thickly, pulling the shirt back down before he mumbles out a soft “Yeah?” Seungmin opens the door and steps inside the room, plopping himself down on Felix’s bed with a huff. “Manager Hyung just called, the interview for today has been canceled. Apparently the studio has been booked double and they'd rather have the other group come. So they called to cancel. That means we only have dance practice later today if the hot sauce hyungs can be forced out of the studio… Do you maybe wanna go shopping before practice?”, he asks, crossing his legs. Chan panics a little, how is he supposed to act around Seungmin? He clears his throat and shakes his head, running his fingers through the bright blue hair. “Any other day I'd say yes, but I'm not… feeling quite like myself today. I'd much rather stay inside my room until we have to leave for practice,” Chan says, giving Seungmin what he hopes is a reassuring smile. Seungmin just nods, then gets back up from the bed and places a hand on Chans shoulder. “Are you okay, hyung? You're not getting sick, are you?” he steps closer to him and looks at him, worried. Chan doesn't meet his eyes and instead wraps his arms around his friend. This is something Felix would do, right? Felix likes skindship, so this shouldn't be suspicious. But Chan feels weird, almost awkward when Seungmin returns the hug. Usually the younger male would fight any affection from him or run away dramatically whenever Chan comes closer.

“I'm fine Minnie, I promise,” Chan tells him, before he lets go of the hug and smiles at Seungmin again, “don't worry about me,” he adds. Seungmin nods again and makes his way to the door, turning around to look at him once before he opens it. “I'll see you later then, hyung.” And just like that, Chan is alone again. He looks back at the mirror, sighing before he decides that he probably should take a shower.

In the bathroom, he grabs one of the towels out of the drawer and places it on the hook right next to the shower. He then quickly gets undressed, trying not to look down his body and avoiding the mirror that's hanging over the sink. While he does want to have a look at Felix's body, it feels wrong to him. This is not his own body, so he shouldn't even think of that and just put his own damn feelings aside. Felix wouldn't like that, he would probably feel violated and never speak to Chan ever again if he found out.

He turns on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up before stepping in and letting the water hit his skin. His eyes fall shut as the warm water pours down on him, drowning all his thoughts and worries and flushing them down the drain. Without thinking, he grabs the first shampoo bottle he can find and squeezes a generous amount on his hands, massaging it gently into the hair. As he washes the shampoo out, a bit of blue dye catches his eye and he curses to himself quietly for not thinking of the freshly dyed hair. He should've checked the shampoo bottles, because of course Felix has to have special shampoo for his hair. Right?

But, he doesn't see any color protecting shampoo in the shower. A sigh of relief leaves his lips and he grabs the only body wash he sees in the shower, rubbing it onto his arms and chest, then his legs. His hands get closer to Felix's dick and he bites his lip, face burning hot as his fingers brush against it. Why is he getting embarrassed? This is not much different from washing his own body, right? The only difference is that this is his best friend's body. No big deal, he thinks, this is no big deal, yeah. He finishes washing off, then he steps out of the shower and wraps the towel around his waist before he makes his way back to Felix's room. In the hall he meets Jeongin, who gives him a smile and a “morning hyung” as he makes his way to the bathroom. Chan smiles back at the maknae, patting him softly on the back as he passes him.

Once he's back in Felix's room, he locks the door behind him, his towel dropping to the floor. He does not care though. Instead he just leaves it on the floor and makes his way to Felix's wardrobe to get something to wear. While he goes through one of the drawers to get some underwear, he stumbles upon a box tucked away in the far back. Before he can stop himself, he grabs it, eyes widenening when he removes the lid and sees what is inside it. His dick twitches at the sight of the toys sitting in the box and he grabs one of the dildos, running his fingers over it. This could be about his size, he thinks but he's not too sure since it looks so big in Felixs small hands. He puts it back, face flushed bright red. Once again, his dick twitches and he can feel himself getting hard at the thought of Felix using the toys on himself. The way he would lay on his bed, stretching his hole with his fingers first, working himself up to three fingers before using the toy to stretch himself even more. Pretty pink lips parting with loud moans as he fucks himself hard, hitting his prostate with every thrust. Would he moan Chans name? What would he sound like? Would he wish that Chan was fucking him instead? How pretty would he look all fucked out, begging for Chan to fuck him?

“Fuck it,” he says out loud, putting the box back. He's fully hard by now, the tip an angry red and already leaking beads of pre cum. Felixs dick is cute, just like him. A bit on the smaller side, sure but it still has Chan salivating over it.

“I am so sorry Lix.” Chan stumbles back until his legs hit the bed and he sits down on it, eyes fixated on the mirror in front of him as he hesitantly wraps his hand around his dick and gives it a slow testing tug. The moan coming out of his mouth startles him a bit, it sounds so deep and so different from his own moans. His eyes don't leave the mirror, fixated on how Felix's body looks, as he spits on his hand and wraps it around his dick again. He looks so pretty like this, Chan thinks, and he feels guilty for taking advantage of the situation. He isn’t supposed to see his best friend (and crush) like this without his consent.

The added saliva makes the glide of his hand so much easier and smoother. “Fuck,” he moans out, “oh my god.” He sucks in a breath, biting down on his lip while his hand finds a rhythm that feels good. A blush spreads across his face as he watches himself (or rather Felix) masturbate in the mirror. His whole body is on fire, waves of pleasure crashing over him with each stroke of his hand. He moves his thumb through the slit, spreading the pre cum around, gasping and moaning at the sensation before he forms a ring with his pointer finger and thumb, watching the tip peek through as he moves his hand. Another string of moans fall from his lips, this time louder and he slaps a hand over his mouth to quiet down but the noises still ring loudly in his ear. As much as he'd like to hear all the noises, he can't risk getting caught.

Felix's body is sensitive, he notes. Each stroke of his hand has him biting back more moans, dick twitching and leaking so much pre cum.

Chan moves back on the bed, leaning against the headboard and spreading his legs, giving him a good view of more of Felix's body. His eyes wander over the reflection in the mirror, watching how Felix's small hand moves over his dick, trying to burn this image into his memory. He's moving his hand a bit faster now, the wet squelching noise echoing through the room. Chan brings the other hand to his nipple, his fingertip just barely grazing over it and his whole body twitches in response with pleasure. A moan falls from his lips but now he doesn't care to hold them back anymore. He wants, no, he needs to hear Felix's moans. They're turning slowly from deep groans to high pitched whines the closer he gets to orgasming. Chan pinches a nipple between his fingers, his other hand speeding up the movements on his dick, concentrating on the tip. That's where Felix is most sensitive, his whole body reacting to it, toes curling and body shaking. He's oh so close, he can almost taste his orgasm on the tip of his tongue.

“Fuck,” he moans out, toes curling as he thrusts his hips up to meet his hand, chasing his high. “Ah~ oh god…”

A thought crosses his mind, how would it sound if he moaned his own name with Felix's voice? Would it be weird to moan his own name? Surely, but he really wants to hear what it sounds like coming from Felix. This is the closest he'll ever get to the real thing, he thinks.

“Ah Channie, Chris~ I'm so close… gonna cum,” he groans, his hips stuttering as he finally reaches his orgasm, shooting pearly white ropes of cum onto his chest and stomach. He continues to move his hand on his dick to ride out his orgasm, whimpering slightly with how sensitive he is now. In his post orgasm haze he lets one finger run through the cum coating his stomach and then brings it up to his lips, wrapping them around his finger and moaning at the taste.

As his mind clears up, the haze slowy disappearing, he feels waves of guilt coming over him, ashamed at what he's just done. He tries not to meet Felix's eyes in the mirror when he gets up to grab a wet tissue to clean his mess up with.

Felix would hate him if he ever found out, Chan is sure of it, his head hanging down in shame as he shakily gets himself dressed to go to the other dorm to apologise to Felix. He feels absolutely horrible, hands trembling as he fumbles with the buttons of his shirt and his stomach is churning at the thought of facing Felix. After the fifth try to button up his shirt he sighs out in frustration and he runs his hands through his hair, sitting back down on the bed.

He needs to tell Felix, confess to him that he fucked up.

But today is not that day.

“Well, where are your manners, young man?” You laugh coldly and cross your legs.

Minho grunts, he doesn’t like to be spoken to like that. Yet his cock twitches and a desperate urge to put you in your place and at the same pleasure you until you make a mess, courses through his veins.

“I said spread them, Noona.”

A moment passes where you just stare at each other defiantly.

“Make me, boy.” You dare him.

Minho scoffs and looks away momentarily before bringing his attention back to you, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

“Hmm.” He smirks. “This is his how you like to play.” He says approaching you slowly. “Just like the other day when I fucked you into the brick wall.”

He drops to his knees in front of you and looks up at you with lust filled eyes. He hopes you can’t tell that on the inside he’s so incredibly desperate for you. That he’d fucking do anything to be between your legs.

“Noona,” he says softly, endearingly, even. His eyes drop to where his finger traces the thigh that’s crossed over the other leg. He has to be careful, he mustn’t let you know that you have the upper hand, and that his heart is beating a million miles a minute.

He squeezes your thigh, noticing your breath hitch. He smirks to himself and peels your legs apart. You don’t even try to resist, allowing him to press your legs open as far as they’ll go. He sucks a breath between his teeth, and shakes his head. So fucking perfect.

He rubs delicate circles on your inner thighs as he kisses his way up from your knee to where your inner thigh meets your pussy. Your breath quickens the closer he gets to your centre. When he pulls away, he doesn’t miss the tiny whimper you didn’t want him to hear, and sits back to watch his thumb lazily play with your clit.

You’re already quivering as you look down to watch the younger man touch you. He can feel your eyes on him. With one hand still placed on your inner thigh to ensure you stay nice and wide for him, Minho presses two fingers to your tight entrance. It’s already dripping. Fuck, he can’t wait to taste it on his tongue.

His fingers slide in easily, yet with enough resistance that you’re bound to feel the stretch. Exactly what Minho wants. He wants you to feel full of him. Whether that’s full of his fingers, tongue, cock, or filthy little thoughts of him that pop into your head while your having lunch with your girlfriends.

He withdraws his fingers, and with eyes fixed on yours, he pops them into his mouth. Better than he imagined. You taste like heaven. He swallows hard when your eyes start begging him for more.

He kisses your other inner thigh, slowly making his way towards your pussy again. As his mouth finally meets your labia, he closes his eyes and inhales your scent. Sighing, and taking a moment to compose himself, he nuzzles his nose against your clit.

You cry out when his tongue slips out of his mouth and makes contact with your lips, spreading them and dipping slightly into your entrance.

“Stay still, Noona.” Minho mumbles from between your legs. Your taste, smell, the way you feel, it makes his dick throb. The sounds you’re making, because of him, because of what he’s doing to you, are driving him wild. You’re so loud, just like last time. You don’t care who might hear.

He hooks his arms under your thighs, pulling you further to the edge of the bench you’re on, and then folds and pushes them up towards your chest.

Your cunt is on full display for him, and he think he might cum untouched. That wouldn’t be ideal. If he’s going to cum he wants it in one of your holes, not the insides of his boxers.

Minho licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, sucking hard on the sensitive bud, before starting again at your entrance. Over and over, relentlessly lapping at your sweet pussy.

He’s in absolutely no hurry to make you cum. He wants you writhing on his face, begging him to push you over the edge. He wants tears running down your cheeks because you’re needing to come so fucking bad.

Your hand finds the back of his head, your fingers threading through his hair.

“Minho! Fuck… how are you… so…” you roll your hips against his face. “…good at this? … ahh!” You cry as you throw your head back.

You roll your hips faster, harder against his face. You’re whimpering, crying out almost like you’re frustrated.

Good.

Minho wants to break you, own you, tame you, so that the only name on your lips is his. Even when you’re fucking your husband. He doesn’t want you to forget him. Long after whatever this thing is, he needs you to remember him.

“Please… hurry… someone… oh fuck s’good…might…ahhh… find us.”

Minho stops and peels himself away from your dripping cunt.

“Don’t you fucking dare pretend you care about that.” He wipes his chin with the back of his hand. “I know you love the thought of someone hearing us, of someone catching us.” He drags his fingers roughly over your folds.

You shake your head.

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” He pushes two fingers inside you making you whimper. “You’re getting wetter by the second just thinking about one of your rich girlfriends walking in and catching you with my fingers buried in your cunt.”

He fucks your needy little pussy with his fingers, causing loud wet sounds to fill the room. Your eyes roll back in your head and you’re mumbling something Minho can’t quite understand.

“Let me cum!” You finally wail. “Please!” You sob.

The corner of Minho’s mouth curls up. Perfect. You’re so fucking perfect begging for him.

With his fingers still deep inside you, he returns his mouth to your clit. Licking and sucking whilst he angles his fingers to push into your g-spot.

Your legs shake, but Minho is strong, holding your leg open with his free hand. Your hand grips the edge of the bench seat, the other remaining on his head, and you grind your self against his face.

“Make me come, Minho. Make me come all over that pretty face of yours.” You rock your hips harder. “Can you do that? Ahhh!”

Minho doubles down, giving you his absolute everything. He needs you to come on his face. He needs to feel your release. He needs to be the one who makes you lose your fucking mind.

“Oh god… I’m… shit… I’m coming.” You whimper as your whole body tenses up and your walls squeeze around his fingers. Your essence dribbles down his hand.

Eventually, your breath calms and Minho releases his fingers, and sits back on his knees to admire his work.

You look like a fucking mess. Not as fucked up as the first time when you had a grazed cheek and a bleeding neck bite, but still, you look thoroughly pleasured and that pleases Minho.

As he leaves you there naked and quivering in the changing hut, he’s certain you’ll be thinking about him in your bed tonight.

But now he needs to go fix the problem in his pants. He probably could have fucked you just now, but he wants to leave you craving for him. For his cock.

He heads back to the main building of the Country Club, wiping your arousal off his chin as he passes your group of friends.

🎾🎾🎾🎾

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