#sub leeknow

Sometimes when Minho wakes up in a mood, a mood that tells him that he is about to be so annoying today. Because asking for it wouldn't be fun and despite what Minho might say, he loves to have fun.

It’s a specific kind of itch under his skin, a restless energy that can only be settled by a couple hours of being down right insufferable and eventually a good fuck. But Minho is a creature of pride and whims; simply crawling into your lap and asking to be handled would be far too easy, and in his words to Han, humiliating.

Unfortunately for him, you also know exactly what it’s like when he wakes up in a mood. You can see it in the way his eyes track your every move, daring you to snap, and you're not about to let him get his way that easily. If he wants to have fun, he’s going to have to work for it. It's simply a matter of who will break first.

You're trying to work. You're settled on the couch with your laptop, focused on a deadline, when Minho decides he's gonna crawl across your lap, his movements slow and deliberate, intentionally blocking the screen. He drapes himself over you like a cat, very much in the way his cats often do, his weight heavy, obstructing your vision.

He starts to tease you, his fingers tracing the hem of your shorts while he looks up at you with an expectant smirk. He leans in close, his breath hot against your neck as he lets out a low, mock-innocent hum, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. It’s a direct provocation, he’s waiting for you to slam the laptop shut, grab him by the scruff, and tell him exactly how much of a brat he’s being.

Instead, you just blink, shifting the laptop slightly to a new position to see it. You reach down and scratch behind his ear with a sweet, unaffected smile. "Are you looking for attention, Minho? You’re being so affectionate today, thank you for the cuddles," you say, your voice as smooth as silk as you go right back to typing, completely ignoring the frustrated heat radiating off him.

Minho’s smirk falters. He pushes off you with a sharp huff and storms off into the kitchen, if he had a tail it would be lashing with irritation.

He spends the next hour being a walking disaster, cycling through every trick in his repertoire to get a rise out of you. He starts practicing his choreography right in the middle of the living room, his movements sharp and loud, intentionally invading your peripheral vision as he huffs and snaps his hips to a beat. He stops occasionally, looking over to see if you're watching his sweat-slicked form or the way his shirt clings to his back, but you don't even lift your eyes from your screen.

When you finally set your work aside to take a sip of your tea, he’s already there. He snatches the cup right out of your hand before you can reach it, holding it just above his head with a challenging grin, daring you to reach for it or complain. When you don’t, he takes a slow, mocking sip of the liquid, ignoring the fact that it's far more floral than he usually likes, just to see if you'll finally snap at him for being a thief. Instead, you just stand up and walk toward the kitchen without a word, pouring another cup as if you hadn’t even noticed the theft.

He follows close behind, his movements frustrated, as he "accidentally" tips your cup over, watching the liquid pool and spread across the counter you just wiped.

You don't sigh. You don't even look annoyed. You just meet his gaze with nothing but affection, wiping the spill with a smile before moving to the living room to pick up a book. He cranks the music volume to a jarring level, but you just reach for your headphones, sliding them on with a wink. When you have to take a quick work call, he talks over you with loud groans and whines, but you simply step into the other room, blowing him a kiss as you close the door on his antics.

By mid-afternoon, he’s physically restless, trailing after you like a ghost that wants to be exorcised, a menace of a kitty boy who is running out of ways to make you snap. He’s knocking things over, making snide remarks about your outfit, and being intentionally difficult about what to have for dinner.

"I don't care," he snaps when you ask for his input. "Everything you suggest is boring anyway."

He’s practically vibrating with the need for you to grab him by the collar and tell him he's being a brat. He wants to be pushed against the wall. He wants more. But you just tilt your head, looking at him with a sort of pitying sweetness.

"You must be tired, Minho," you say softly, reaching out to brush a stray hair from his forehead. "You're so cranky today. Why don't you take a nap? I'll finish up the chores so you can rest."

The touch burns him. It’s too soft. It’s too kind. Almost dismissive. It’s the opposite of what he needs. He jerks away from your hand, his face twisting with a mix of anger and genuine hurt, why don’t you understand. "I'm not tired! I'm being a dick! Can't you see that?"

"I see a boy who’s desperate for my hands on him," you reply, that tiny, ghost-like smirk finally gracing your features. You turn your back on him, walking toward the bedroom with a nonchalant shrug. "But since I'm such a 'boring' person, I think I’ll just go lie down alone for a bit. I wouldn't want to bore you."

The silence of the house feels like it’s suffocating him. His pride is screaming at him to stay on the couch, to keep being annoying until you crawl back to him, like you always do, but his body is losing the war. Like a pit in his stomach… Why aren’t you paying attention to him?

He follows you into the room, watching as you slowly unbutton your jeans. He’s standing in the doorway, hands fisted at his sides, looking every bit like a defeated cat.

"You're doing it on purpose," he accuses, his voice trembling now. "You're ignoring me."

You look at him over your shoulder, your expression unreadable. "Am I? I thought I was being very patient with you, Jagi. Considering how insufferable you've been."

"You're supposed to be mad!" he bursts out, taking a frantic step toward you. "I was rude. I made a mess. I... I was a brat!"

"And?" you prompt, turning fully to face him. You cross your arms, letting him see the spark of dominance in your eyes that you’d been hiding all day. "Aren’t you always?"

Minho flinches, the dismissal stinging more than a scolding ever could. He stops a foot away from you, his head dropping as a cold wave of insecurity washes over him, far heavier than the mood he’d started the day with. His first instinct is to snap, to say something sharp to regain some shred of his dignity, but the bravado he’d carried all morning is crumbling into something jagged and painful.

"Just say it then," he barks, the defensive bite in his voice immediately betrayed by the way his fingers tremble as they hook into your belt loops. "If you're bored of this, just say that. I don't even want to play anymore, anyway." His voice hitches at the end, the faux-disinterest dissolving.

Before he can actually pull away, to hide that trembling lip and retreat back into his usual prickly shell, you reach out and snatch the back of his neck. You pull him back toward you, your fingers sinking into his hair with a firm grip. You tilt his head, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are wide, big black boba eyes blinking at you.

"Of course I want to play, Minho," you murmur, your voice dropping in a way that makes him shiver. "Otherwise, I would have said so, you silly boy. Do you really think I'd spend my entire afternoon playing this game with you if I didn't want you?"

You lean down, your lips brushing against his forehead. "It's just no fun giving you what you want right away, is it?"

Minho lets out a shaky breath, the tension dropping from his shoulders as he melts into your touch, his body betraying just how much he needed the contact. But even here he can’t just be good, "I actually hate you," he mutters, his voice muffled by your shirt.

"No, you don't," you say, your hand tightening in his hair. "You've been begging for my attention all day, haven't you?" You let out a soft, mocking laugh. "Oh, poor baby... throwing such big tantrums all afternoon just to get a reaction."

Minho groans, his ears turn bright red. He tries to look away, his pride still fighting a losing battle. "Just give me what I want if you know," he snaps, his voice cracking.

"Is that how you ask?" you whisper, your grip shifting to the scruff of his neck, forcing him down to his knees. "I think you owe me an apology before you get anything you want."

Minho sinks to the rug, his knees hitting the soft fabric with a dull thud. He looks up at you, his jaw set stubbornly even as his eyes betray his desperation. "You already know," he mutters, his pride refusing to say the words, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Stop playing stupid."

"Still a brat," you sigh, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. You reach out, grab him by the arm, and haul him roughly across your lap. He lets out a surprised yelp, his body flailing for a second before your hand pushes him down across your thighs.

"You want me to stop playing stupid?" you murmur, your voice cold and low. "Fine. Let's get right to the part where you regret being such a nuisance."

Without another word, you pull his pants down, exposing his bare skin to the cool air of the room. You raise your hand and bring it down with a heavy, echoing thwack against his bare backside. Minho jumps, his fingers curling into your jeans, but he doesn't stay quiet.

"Is that all?" he grunts into the mattress, his voice tight but still mouthy. "You're getting weak."

"Is that so?" you reply, your smirk widening. You rain down three more strikes in quick succession, heavy, stinging swats that leave his skin humming. "You’ve been begging for this all day, Minho. My full, undivided attention. So why are you still acting like such a brat?"

Thwack. Thwack. You can feel his hard-on rubbing shamelessly against the sheets and your leg, his hips hitching with every heavy strike in a desperate attempt to find some sort of relief. He’s whining now, a high, needy sound that he tries to work you up with, his body seeking any kind of contact to ease the ache you’re ignoring.

"I wasn't... I didn't..." he starts, but his words are cut off by a particularly hard strike that makes him let out a broken cry.

"You did," you taunt, leaning down so he can feel your breath on his ear. "You threw a six-hour tantrum like a toddler because you were too scared to just ask me to hold you."

You can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin, and finally, the cold exterior starts to shatter. The defensive comments stop, replaced by ragged, hitching breaths. When your hand comes down again, he doesn't snap back, he just lets out a long, shuddering sob, his body finally going slack against you. You run your hand over the bright red blooming on his cheek, trying to soothe the very fire you just lit while he trembles beneath you.

"I'm sorry!" he finally chokes out, his voice cracking as the weight of the day. He buries his face in the blankets, his body going limp across your lap. "I'm sorry, Jagi. I'm sorry I was a brat... please, stop. I'm sorry!"

"There he is," you coo, though your hand stays resting firmly on the small of his back, keeping him pinned. "I knew you had an apology in there. Why couldn't you just be this good earlier?"

"I don... I don't know," he gasps, his face soaked with tears. "I just...."

You shift him, hauling him up until he’s straddling your hips, his legs automatically locking around your waist. His face is a mess, flushed, snotty, and tear-streaked, and he looks just as pretty as he does on stage.

You pull him flush against you. "Look at you," you whisper against his ear, your hand stroking the hair back from his damp forehead with mocking tenderness. "All that big, tough talk this morning, and here you are, crying in my lap because I finally gave you some attention. Does my little menace feel better now?"

Minho lets out a humiliated whine, burying his face in the crook of your neck to hide the shame, but he doesn't pull away. You reach down and hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down to his thighs. His length slaps against his tummy.

You reach down, your hands clamping onto his hips with a bruising strength. You guide him, forcing his body to move against yours, dragging his cock up and down the length of your thigh in a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm. You watch the way his eyes roll back, his mouth hanging open as he whines.

"So needy," you titter, a soft, degrading laugh that makes him shiver. "Are you going to be a good boy now, or do you need me to turn you around and start over? I didn't realize my Minho was such a sensitive little thing. One little spanking and he’s a puddle."

He’s lost in the feeling, the sting of the punishment still humming in his skin while the pleasure of the friction takes over. He clings to you like a lifeline, his hands clutching at your shoulders, his tip leaking all over your skin and making little squelching noises as he’s forced to rub against you.

"Answer me, baby," you prompt, pulling back just enough to see his glassy eyes. "Are you my good boy now?"

"Yes," he breathes, his voice small, broken, and utterly defeated. "Please... just don't stop."

He lets out a strangled, high-pitched cry, his body going rigid as he finally cums. He spills all over your leg and the sheets, a hot, sticky mess all over his tummy. He falls against you, his chest heaving, his face buried in your shoulder as he whimpers through the aftershocks. You hold him there, your hand stroking the back of his neck.

"I've got you, you silly boy," you promise.

The room is thick with tension, the warm, musky scent of sweat mixing with the sharp gleam of your strap-on. You slide the harness over your hips, the cool touch of the leather tightening snug around you, the head slick and glistening from your saliva. Your boys kneeled obediently before you, eyes wide with anticipation, breaths already shaky with want.

“Let’s get this ready,” you say softly, voice low but commanding.

Both Jisung and Minho lean forward, mouths opening as they take the base of your strap-on between their lips. You feel their warm, wet tongues swirling over the slick leather, sucking and licking as they work to heat it up. The sounds of their eager mouths slurping, soft hums, and wet noises, fill the room and send a delicious shiver down your spine, as their tongues slide against each other.

Jisung’s cheeks flush a rosy pink, eyes shining with that familiar desperate need. His hands fidget at his lap, already straining against the fabric of his pants as you murmur dirty things just loud enough for him to hear.

“Such a good boy, getting so worked up for Mommy,” you tease, trailing a finger gently down his flushed cheek.

Minho scoffs beside him, dark eyes flicking sideways. “Look at Hannie, creaming his pants already. Can’t even wait, like a baby.”

Jisung whimpers softly, cheeks burning deeper as he swallows hard. You ignore Minho's snarks, focusing on your pretty angel, wide eyed, mouthing at the tip of your strap. You giggle as you push his head further down. 

"Look how well you're taking it~" you coo as him, while Minho huffs as the motion practically knocks him away. You take your time working Han over your strap, as he gasps and blubbers as it hits the back of his throat, rubbing his legs together, shifting his erection. 

You shift your attention to Minho, who was watching you with a stubborn scowl.

“You're just jealous of my pretty boy, aren't you?” you ask, voice softening just a touch.

Minho’s lip trembles. “NO.”

You shake your head, a sly smile playing on your lips. You move your feet to press Ji's erection, almost palming him in a way, as he whines around your strap. It only takes a couple more seconds for him to cum in his pants, tears spilling out of his eyes as he mumbles apologies around your cock. 

That grabs Min's attention as he perks up to mock his boyfriend, "See, I told you he can't do it right."

You scowl at him, not amused. “That’s enough out of you.”

Minho opens his mouth to retort, but the sharp raise of your brow silences him. You grab him by the collar and pull him up, letting him stumble to his feet, breath catching as your body presses close to his.

“You think you’re so clever, huh? So much better?” You lean in, your voice dropping into something thick and dark. “If you’re that confident, ride me. Show me how well you can do it all by yourself.”

His eyes widen just slightly, lips parting in disbelief. “What?”

“No hands from me. No help. Since you’re so cocky.” Your tone leaves no room for argument as you move back, planting yourself on the bed, strap glistening and upright. “Now get on.”

Minho glares, but it’s shaky at the edges, his bravado already fraying. Jisung stays kneeling on the sheets, dazed and blinking through the haze of his orgasm, cheeks flushed and legs twitching as he catches his breath beside you. He looks up through wet lashes and smiles softly, proud and content. Your hand slides over his head in a soft stroke, and he nuzzles your palm, the perfect contrast to the brat currently standing frozen in front of you.

Minho hesitates. But then, slowly, he climbs into your lap. He straddles you awkwardly at first, his breath ragged as he grips your shoulders for balance. His thighs are already trembling with anticipation, or maybe frustration.

You don’t help him. Not even a hand to steady. Just your eyes, cool and expectant, and Jisung’s quiet panting beside you.

“Go ahead, baby,” you murmur. “Since you know so much better.”

He sinks down the first inch and gasps, a choked, frustrated noise that slips past clenched teeth. You don’t move. You just watch, one arm draped lazily over the headboard, the other resting on Jisung’s knee. 

Minho rides you in broken, uneven movements, hips stuttering as he lowers and lifts, trying to get the right angle. It’s not enough. His brows furrow deeper with every failed attempt to push himself closer to release. The sweat glistens on his chest and collarbone, his hair clinging to his forehead. Every time he gets close, his thighs start to shake, and his rhythm falters, leaving him teetering just below the edge.

“Mommy,” he finally whines, breathless and humiliated. “I-I can’t…”

Jisung lets out a soft sigh and leans against you. You run your fingers through his hair slowly. “Of course you can’t. Not like this.”

Minho’s hands are digging into your shoulders now, not in defiance, but desperation. His lip trembles. His thighs buckle again, and he slumps forward, burying his face into your neck.

“You’re so mean,” he mumbles, voice thick. “So-so mean.”

You hum thoughtfully. “You wanted to be in control. You said you could handle it better than Ji.”

“I didn’t mean… like this,” he stammers. His hips twitch in a pathetic attempt to keep moving. “Please-please,”

You finally sigh, feigning annoyance as you guide him off you. He whimpers at the loss, trembling in your grip, pliant and desperate.

“You really are useless when you get like this,” you mutter, flipping him over with little effort, pressing him chest-to-chest with Jisung, who’s already blinking up at you with wide, sleepy eyes.

Minho lets out a gasp, the contact of Han’s body and your strong hands making him melt further. You line yourself back up and push in with no warning this time, and he practically sobs from the relief. You don’t slow down. You thrust hard and steady, forcing his legs wider, driving every edge and sob out of him.

Till finally, he breaks. His whole body locks up, legs trembling violently as he cries out and spills between himself and Han, soaking both their stomachs. Jisung whines softly at the sensation, wrapping his arms around Minho’s back and babbling, breathless nonsense into his ear.

You don’t let go of Minho until his trembling slows, until his breathing turns to little hiccups. Then you press soft kisses to his damp cheeks, shushing his frantic gasps.

“There’s my good boy,” you murmur. “You just needed Mommy to take care of you, didn’t you?”

Minho nods miserably, burying his face in Han's neck again. Jisung giggles sleepily, stroking Minho’s back with a lazy hand, smiling softly, nuzzling into your neck as you wrap your arms around both boys.

He’s still in the outfit. That’s the first thing you notice when you unlock your hotel room and find him already inside, curled up awkwardly on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone like he’s trying to disappear into it.

“Hey,” you say softly, and Minho startles, eyes wide as they meet yours.

You look him over, really look. The same silky white blouse with puffed sleeves and pearl buttons that had everyone melting on set, tucked into a tight pastel pink pleated skirt, stockings still on. Heels kicked off somewhere near the door. His lips are tinted a subtle cherry red, and you can still see the light shimmer of glitter dusted over his cheekbones from hair and makeup.

“Didn’t change yet?” you murmur.

Minho’s face floods with color. “I-I was just resting. I was gonna…”

You shut the door behind you and lean against it, smiling lazily. “You wore the panties too, didn’t you?”

He chokes. “I-it was for the concept! It was funny-”

“Pink?” you ask. “Lacy?”

His silence gives him away. You cross the room slowly, and his eyes drop to the floor. He looks so fucking pretty like this, legs squeezed together, shirt slightly wrinkled from where he’d been curled up, a soft mess of brown hair around his face. He's always so pretty but like this… So far from the sharp, teasing Minho the public knows. So much more real.

You sit on the bed next to him. “Everyone said you looked cute.”

He groans into his hands. “They kept calling me noona. And ‘unnie’ in the comments. And Jisung told me I had to ‘get used to it’ because I was ‘slaying too hard.’”

You hum. “He wasn’t wrong.”

He peeks out from behind his fingers, pouty. “You were worse. You didn’t stop calling me baby girl the entire day.”

You just smile. “You didn’t tell me to stop.”

He lets out a soft noise, frustrated, embarrassed, but not denying it.

You lean in, close enough to speak against his ear. “What’s wrong, Minho? You like the attention when it’s just me, don’t you?”

His breath catches.

You shift, one hand sliding gently up the bare skin of his thigh where the skirt has ridden up. “You like being my good girl. Wearing pretty little things. Letting me touch you like this.”

He nods slowly, cheeks burning.

Your fingers slip under the skirt, and there it is. Soft, delicate lace, barely containing the bulge already straining against it. Pale pink, just like you’d imagined.

“Oh, sweetheart.” You tug the waistband gently. “You’ve been like this all night?”

Minho bites his lip. “Since the shoot ended. Since you kept looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I was… yours. Like you wanted to do this to me.”

You hum, pleased. “I always want to do this to you.”

You push him back onto the mattress, slow and deliberate, crawling over him until you’re straddling his waist. His hands instinctively reach up to grab your hips, but you press them down to the bed, firm.

“Ah-ah,” you tease. “Pretty girls don’t get to make the rules. Just lay there for me…”

Minho whines. “Please.”

You grind down lightly, letting your hips move in slow, shallow rolls. The pressure makes him gasp, your clothed core against the damp front of his panties. You can feel just how hard he is now, twitching under the lace.

“You’re soaked,” you whisper. “Just from being dressed up for me?”

He moans, eyes fluttering shut. “You kept calling me pretty. I couldn’t stop thinking about-about you bending me over in this stupid skirt-”

“Mmm, I could,” you murmur, grinding down a little harder. “Skirt up. Panties pulled to the side. You’d be dripping before I even touched you.”

His hips buck desperately. “Please touch me. Please-”

You finally give in, sliding a hand between you to cup him through the panties. The fabric is wet to the touch, clinging to his cock. You stroke him slowly, savoring every twitch, every helpless noise.

He’s squirming now, thighs spread wide beneath you, panting like he’s going to lose his mind. You rub your thumb in soft circles over the leaking tip through the fabric and watch his whole body tense.

“Gonna cum in your panties like a needy little thing?” you whisper, voice saccharine. “You want that, baby girl?”

Minho sobs, “Yes- please, please, I wanna-”

You keep stroking him, slow and controlled, until his thighs tremble and his back arches off the bed. He cums hard, gasping your name, soaking the lace as his hips jerk beneath you.

You don’t stop right away, just a few more teasing strokes, enough to make him shiver. His whimpering turns to soft whines, too sensitive, too full. You finally ease off, brushing his hair back from his flushed face.

“You did so well for me,” you murmur, kissing his temple. “Such a pretty girl. My perfect little doll.”

He clings to you as he comes down, heart still racing under your palm. You gently help him out of the ruined panties, wiping him down with a warm towel from the bathroom, pressing soft kisses to his thighs as he blushes and hides behind his hands.

You pull one of his hoodies over his head, dwarfing him instantly, the hem almost hiding his bare thighs completely. He looks impossibly soft now, cradled in your arms.

“Feel better?” you ask.

He nods sleepily. “I like when you call me that.”

“What? Pretty?”

“…Yeah. That.”

You smile and kiss the top of his head.

“Then you’d better keep that skirt around. I have a lot more ideas.”

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The apartment was quiet, too quiet, when you stepped inside. No music. No talking. Just a strange hush, punctuated by the sound of something soft: a breath? A whimper?

You kicked off your boots and slid your bag to the floor, eyebrows lifting. “Boys?” you called, voice even. “I’m home.”

No answer, just barely audible came a moan from the living room.

Your brows rose higher. You padded silently toward the door, stopping just before the corner. You didn’t announce yourself.

“…Minho w-we’re not supposed to- she said we can’t-” Chan’s voice, breathless, nervous.

“Oh, come on,” Minho drawled. “What she doesn’t know won’t kill her. Or us. Unless you want her to catch us.”

A whine. “That’s not- Minho, fuck”

You peeked around the corner.

Chan was flushed and naked from the waist down, legs spread on the couch, back arched and thighs trembling. His hands were in his lap, desperately trying to cover himself, but you could still see the flush in his chest, the shame and arousal all over his face.

Minho was curled beside him, fully clothed, smirking like the devil himself. His fingers were ghosting along Chan’s inner thigh.

“Let me guess,” you said coolly, stepping fully into the room. “I tell you to behave for a few hours and come home to find you corrupting my good boy?”

Chan jumped, practically scrambling off the couch, while Minho just smiled and stretched like a cat. “Oh. Welcome home, sweetheart.”

You raised a brow. “Minho.”

“Yours truly.”

“Hands off Chan.”

He lifted his hands mockingly. “You’re no fun.”

“Sit,” you ordered.

He tilted his head, but obeyed, plopping into the armchair like he hadn’t just been caught red-handed. Chan was standing now, blushing hard, trying not to meet your gaze, hand ghosting over his erection trying to hide it.

You turned to him, voice softer. “Come here.”

He crossed the room quickly, eyes wide, still panting.

“Chan,” you murmured, reaching to brush your fingers over his cheek. “Did you forget the rules?”

He shook his head immediately. “No- I didn’t- I told him, I swear, I tried to say no, but he-he”

Your fingers curled under his chin. “Breathe.”

Helmet out a shaky breath.

“You didn’t touch yourself?”

His voice was small. “No! But- he's so pretty- I-.”

You looked into his eyes for a beat, interrupting him. “You still want to be good for me?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Then strip the rest of the way and kneel on the couch. Hands behind your back. Legs spread.”

He shivered at the command, but obeyed without hesitation, shedding his shirt and climbing onto the couch. Kneeling upright, hands locked behind him, thighs apart just enough for you to see how hard he was already.

You turned to Minho.

“You, on the other hand,” you said, voice icy, “are going to tell me exactly what you were doing teasing him when you knew damn well he’s not allowed to come without permission.”

Minho shrugged. “He looked bored. I was doing him a favor.”

“Is that what you call trying to fingerfuck my good boy into disobedience?”

“I didn’t touch him-” he grinned. “Well. Not really.”

You crossed the room in two slow steps and gripped his jaw.

“Do you want to be punished?” you asked quietly.

His eyes glittered. “Maybe. If you’re offering.”

You smiled and turned back to Chan.

“Look at him,” you said, gesturing at Minho. “Smirking, fully clothed, like he didn’t do anything wrong.”

Chan whimpered. “He said we’d stop before you got home-”

You brushed your thumb across his lower lip. “You think he ever listens?”

Chan shook his head, eyes big and eager. “No.”

You moved behind him and ran your hands slowly down his sides, then slid a hand between his legs. He was already dripping.

“Poor thing,” you cooed. “He got you so worked up, didn’t he? But you didn’t come.”

“No,” he breathed.

You bent down to whisper against his ear. “You want to come now?”

“Yes please- please”

Minho scoffed from the chair. “Pathetic.”

You turned sharply. “Say that again.”

He opened his mouth, but paused.

“You think you’re so smug,” you continued. “You get off on pushing him over the edge, but you can’t stand that he’ll always be my good boy. Why can't you behave?”

You nodded to the floor. “Strip and crawl.”

Minho’s expression flickered, challenge, excitement, obedience tangled in one, but he stood. He stripped slower than he needed to, clearly putting on a show, and then dropped to his knees and crawled toward the couch.

You stopped him with a foot to his chest. “Back. Hands behind you. Watch only.” 

He obeyed, breath catching.

You turned to Chan. “Touch yourself,” you said. “But don’t you dare come until I say.”

Chan moaned already, fingers wrapping around his cock, hips twitching at the first stroke.

You kissed his shoulder, lips soft. “That’s it. Good boy. Just like that.”

He whimpered. “Feels so good”

“You look so pretty like this.”

Behind you, Minho let out a low groan. You turned toward him.

“Hard already?” you mocked. “All I did was praise him.”

He glared, but his flushed cock betrayed him.

“Maybe I should keep praising him,” you purred. “Let him come all over my hand while you watch.”

Minho made a sound, such a desperate sound.

You grinned. “Oh, you don’t like that idea, do you? What’s wrong, brat? Want me to touch you instead?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“I don't think you deserve it.”

Minho gritted his teeth.

“You wanted to play games,” you said sweetly, “but I make the rules here.”

He clenched his fists behind his back. “Please.”

You tilted your head.

“Please what?”

“…Please touch me.”

“Why?” You pretended to think. “You were such a little shit earlier, though. And now you’re whining like you don’t love being denied.”

Chan gasped again, faster now, hand stroking quick.

“M-mommy~ please- I-”

“Don’t come yet,” you warned him, placing a hand around his wrist to still him. “Just a little more, baby.”

He nodded frantically, tears in his lashes.

You turned back to Minho, cocking a brow. “Look what you did to him.”

Minho licked his lips. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not. But I’ll make sure you are.”

You moved to Minho, finally giving him a single slow stroke of your hand, and he arched, eyes fluttering shut, hips chasing you.

“One touch,” you whispered. “That’s all you get right now.”

He growled. “That’s not fair!”

You grinned, leaning in. “I don’t play fair with brats.”

You returned to Chan. “Sweetheart,” you said softly, tugging his hand away. “You’ve been so good for me. Ready to come?”

“Yes- yes, please~”

You wrapped your hand around his cock and stroked him firmly, just once, then again, fast and tight, he cried out, body jerking as he spilled into your hand, moaning your name like a prayer.

You kissed his jaw as he trembled. “Good. Such a good boy.”

Then you turned to Minho.

“Now you,” you said, voice dark. “On your back. Legs open.”

His eyes went wide.

You leaned in close. “If you’re going to act like a needy little slut, I’ll treat you like one.”

He obeyed without a word this time, lying flat, legs parted just enough.

You sat between them and ran a teasing fingertip over his cock. “No touching. No squirming. You’ll come when I say. Understood?”

“…Yes.”

"Yes, who?"

"Yes… Mommy,"

You smirked. “You want to be my toy, brat? You’re going to learn what happens to toys that misbehave.”

He bit back a moan when you start slow, steady strokes, your palm firm, your lips murmuring filth into his ear. “You want to be a good boy now, don’t you? Too late.”

Minho whimpered.

“Chan’s such a good boy… why can't you behave and just be good” you taunted. 

“I- fuck please-”

“Beg better.”

“Please, mommy! I need to come- need you- anything-”

You finally relented. "Fine," you feign disinterest. 

He screamed, whole body arching as he came hard over your hand, into his stomach, legs trembling, eyes wild. You watched him fall apart with a smug grin.

Minho groaned from the floor. “Fuck.”

You chuckled. “Next time, I won't be this nice… Let go clean up”