#tm reader

he’d met you while volunteering for an on-campus pride event (he liked doing that sort of thing). the two of you were responsible with setting up the booths and decorations hours beforehand. you didn’t talk much aside from a polite “hi” at the start, an energy hongjoong matched. you both silently worked for roughly 2 hours before a break was in issue. other volunteers responsible for food and drinks brought out lemonade for everyone to share, and hongjoong retreated to the shade of a faraway tree, one that let him soak up the glory of his (and your) hard work.

you joined him mere seconds later, face in your cup so your eyes wouldn't wander, quietly sitting a (polite) distance from him.

you spoke first, voice wet and rasped from the citrus and probably some other thing: “i like your hair.”

hongjoong smiled to himself. “thanks. i like your voice.”

you tense. it was a genuine compliment. “thank you,” you’re whispering at this point, “i like yours, too.”

the conversation ended there for the moment, the two of you sitting in silence until you were both summoned for more hard labor.

hongjoong is the one who picks the conversation back up once everything’s set (you were wistfully watching him the rest of the day, so he decided to put you out of your misery).

one thing led to another, and you both became fast friends.

it was easy to be around you—the shared identity partly facilitating it. it was never something you both outright said, just a quiet, unspoken understanding. maybe you’d absentmindedly asked him for a pad one time, or maybe hongjoong mentioned adjusting his packer a little too casually in front of you. either way, it was amusing how quickly you both clicked after a few hangouts. from bumping into each other after classes, to riding shotgun in hongjoong’s car to grab lunch, to staying late at either’s dorm and even sleeping over if it got too dark.

soon you were going shirtless in front of each other. you were even inadvertently introduced to his parents (who had their hearts in the right place when they asked “what you were”—hongjoong apologized profusely when you both got back in the car.)

and when you both binge movies in the living room on the nights his roommates have late classes, you allow your legs to sprawl across hongjoong’s. usually, you’d have to move to his bedroom so you don’t bother his roommates when they do come back. and he doesn’t have a tv in his room, so you’re both cramped together, shoulder-to-shoulder on his twin bed, staring into the screen of his laptop.

and, honestly, what did you both expect? the proximity, the way the hair on his arm felt against your own, the itch beneath the very surface of your skin as you grew more accustomed to his warmth.

moving to hongjoong’s bedroom had been a courtesy. and you both nearly forgot that fact, with the way you were both rutting against one another like dogs, panting puffs of hot air in each other's mouths; making you both sweat with the effort it took to keep the moaning low but the pressure enough.

there was a part of you, in the soberness of the following morning (you woke up to hongjoong in the kitchen making a sorry attempt at breakfast), that feared a shift from these new developments.

but hongjoong reassured you—nothing had to change.

and nothing really did. you and hongjoong remained thick as thieves (but his fingers scissoring you open were even thicker). 

around a month or two into this newfound aspect of your dynamic, hongjoong began to mention a boy from class.

song mingi got into college on a scholarship: football, spent his high school years plowing through hordes of big, sweaty men.

according to a friend of a friend (who’d dated mingi once upon a time), he wasn’t passionate about athletic life. wasn’t aiming for a spot on a big-name team. but it’s not like he could quit.

and he was good, apparently, based on the way a trio of gymbros hongjoong was well-acquainted with sung his praises.

all of this hongjoong sniffed out after catching said football star staring at him in the middle of lecture. at first, hongjoong thought mingi was spacing out. just happened to lay his mindless eyes over hongjoong’s frequently-gawked-at frame

so hongjoong glanced his way—casual, brief, fleeting. just to see what was up.

and song mingi flinched. like he’d been caught. tried to act like he hadn’t nearly jumped out of his skin, turning back towards the projector in front.

naturally, all of this was repeated to you over lunch (big fat burrito in your two cupped hands, takeout leftovers in an oily tupperware for hongjoong).

and according to that friend of a friend, mingi's only ever dated girls.

by the time hongjoong finished dropping that truth bomb on you, the bite of burrito you’d just taken was threatening to fall out of your mouth.

“interesting,” you say through a mouthful of burrito. hongjoong’s finger taps against his plastic fork.

“you think he’s confused as to whether i’ve got a dick or not?”

you roll your eyes, scoffing into your tortilla.

“would you ever get with a cisguy?” hongjoong continues, peering at you through his lashes.

you shrug. “dunno. i wouldn’t seek them out specifically, but i’m also not, like, thinkin’ about it in the moment.”

you take a bite, then speak between chews, "plus, isn’t he most likely straight?"

“well, for now,” hongjoong replies, not looking at you.

you stare at him.

“you have no self-respect,” you say suddenly, bluntly, mouth half-full and words muffled by ground beef. hongjoong can’t help but grin, not responding. his fork meets the container once more, flicking peas and cubed carrots around. 

your eyes blow wide, "you're really considering this?"

hongjoong grits his teeth, nervous at your less-than-stellar reactions.

“i’m talking in theoreticals! i don’t sleep with bigots."

silence. you’re still staring at him.

"and, i don’t know. haven't you fantasized about, like… turning a straight guy?"

you opened your mouth, then shut it again. your eyes dart across his face.

"you're perverted," is all you could muster, but there was a warmth on your cheeks. hongjoong's grin grew wider.

“i wouldn’t call it ‘turning’,” you offer, taking another bite of your burrito. “opening his eyes sounds better. blowing the hinges off his closet door.”

hongjoong laughs. he finally takes a bite of his food, staring off into the distance as he chews. 

“you should come to class with me," he offers a few seconds later, like it was something so simple. "so you can see him."

"so i can see him?”

hongjoong nodded. “you know, so you can get a sense of what i’m dealing with. it’d be fun.”

you blink.

and so you did. wednesday afternoon, a 2-hour lecture about art history or something similar. black-and-white photographs on a big projector screen. you and hongjoong were shoulder-to-shoulder in the middle aisle, the infamous song mingi sitting a few seats away, in the corner of your eye.

he was big, even while sitting. you'd first spotted him when he walked in a few minutes after you and hongjoong had sat down—broad shoulders and a head that looked like it suited a bulky football helmet.

and, oh, was he staring. in short intervals, gaze flicking towards the front of the room and then back to you both. hongjoong said something about having “two hot guys to stare at” and all of the sudden the shit on the screen seemed way more interesting than hongjoong’s bastard grin in your ear.

but there was something intoxicating about it, the attention, the clear attraction, whatever it meant. how he seemed incapable of prying his eyes off the two of you, absolutely bewitched.

class ends quicker than you expected, and immediately hongjoong’s asking your thoughts on the not-so-secret admirer. you’re shoulder-to-shoulder in the hallway, giggling like schoolgirls over how obvious he was, unaware of the hulking beast lurking in the doorway and soon stalking over to you both like a nervous dog.

“hey,” is all song mingi says at first, sneaking up from behind, halting you and hongjoong in your tracks. simultaneously you both turn to look, the football player standing nearly a full head taller than the both of you.

you and hongjoong exchange glances.

“hey,” hongjoong returns, crossing his arms.

“we’ve never spoken before,” mingi says, surprisingly formal, “i’m mingi.”

“hongjoong,” he’s smiling as he says it, and gestures to you as he gives mingi your name.

“yeah, i noticed you were new,” mingi asks, eyes now locked on you, and for a split second you feel like a cornered prey animal.

you chuckle nervously. “yeah, just visiting.”

“can’t believe it took this guy dropping by once for you to finally introduce yourself,” hongjoong butts in, eyebrow raised. your eyes bug out, alarmed at the forwardness of the accusation.

mingi seems to vaguely share your expression; mouth hanging open, though the corners of his lips are upturned in amusement.

“i’m joking,” hongjoong lies. “you do stare, though.”

mingi’s smile is coy, “i— i didn’t realize it was that bad.”

your eyebrows raise, because how did he not? but hongjoong grins all the same, waving it off.

“all good. i’m flattered. we’re flattered.”

mingi blushes, trying to play it off by pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“we’re probably gonna grab something to eat if you wanna join,” you find yourself saying, because mingi approached with intention, and you’re sure he was going to ask for your instagrams or something stupid like that, and then this would never go anywhere. hongjoong nods.

“oh, cool. thanks.”

“c’mon, you’re a big boy, you can handle it,” is what hongjoong’s cooing into mingi’s ear as he caresses the back of his head, fingers threading through damp locks of hair.

mingi became pretty talkative after he settled in. the three of you decided to go off campus for dinner, some fast food place nearby, and sat in mingi’s car as you all ate (normally you’d take hongjoong’s car, but mingi had offered. hongjoong cracked a joke in your ear about chivalry, and you whispered back that if mingi started saying stupid shit, you’d jump him.)

2 hours of just talking turned into hongjoong throwing signs; flirty comments that could’ve easily been taken as “friendly” soon evolving into propositions. you’d been sitting in the back seat (a “punishment” for “taking attention away from hongjoong”). eventually, mingi’s driving back to the dorm with hongjoong’s hand on his thigh, massaging distractingly.

now mingi’s on his back, elbows wobbling where they sink into the mattress but still kept politely at his sides. his bottom lip’s still glistening from the last swipe of his tongue, eyes threatening to close. hongjoong’s other hand is fisted into your top, which sticks to the underside of your arms and the small of your back from perspiration and the heat and the effort it takes for you to grind in tandem with the impressively deep rolls of hongjoong’s hips. what’s even more impressive is the space mingi’s thighs grant, allowing hongjoong and you to perch atop him and rut against his throbbing cock to near exhaustion. it’s also pretty fucking impressive mr. song mingi hasn’t blown his load yet. you have to admit, you underestimated him.

where you begin, where hongjoong ends and where mingi pulls you both together is merging, mixing into one massive, writhing pound of flesh in your mind. your eyes are wired shut, head thrown back in a messy mix of ecstasy and fatigue, the only thing keeping you upright being hongjoong’s grasp on your shirt. your hips move on autopilot as you become numb to the burning sting of your muscles, the abdominal cramp threatening to rear it’s nasty head.

your head lolls forward with the weight of a bowling ball, hair sticking to your forehead. hongjoong’s zeroed in on where your dicks all meet, tongue caught between his teeth in a wicked smirk like he’s hypnotized, and he probably is, because there’s no way he’s still going with this much energy of his own accord. it’s gotta be some kinda fucked up evil t-boy magic (if so, why hasn’t it kicked in for you?)

you let out a groan from deep within your spasming gut, head rolling back, making hongjoong’s eyes flick upwards.

“don’t die on us,” hongjoong’s saying, but you can barely hear him through the wet slide, the headiness clouding your brain and the sound of mingi’s whimpering.

suddenly you’re being yanked forward, limply pulled like you weigh nothing, practically colliding with hongjoong’s hungry, talkative mouth. your teeth gnash briefly, and the jolt of pain knocks some sense back into your brain before hongjoong’s tongue licking at the inside of your mouth steals it away.

you can’t see because your eyes are rolling into the back of your head, but mingi’s staring at the two of you through his lashes, which are soaked in his tears. beneath you and hongjoong, mingi’s hips sputter and twitch.

hongjoong pulls away unhurried, mingi’s eyes fixated on the thin string of saliva briefly connecting the two of you. he’s equally fixated on your blissed out face, lips swollen and wet from being mauled by the other hot guy on his lap. at this point, your hips have stopped moving, instead erratically jerking as you wade in and out of consciousness.

“you wanna give him a kiss, too?” hongjoong grins, wide and predatory, and mingi’s not a fucking idiot so he nods (nearly knocking himself out with the speed of it).

the hand hongjoong used to keep you upright has moved to cup your cheek, thumbing against your skin with a tenderness that’s giving you whiplash. “hey, you still with us?”

you nod, blinking back to reality. hongjoong plants a chaste kiss on your hanging mouth.

“why don’t you go and give the big boy what he wants?”

you giggle drunkenly, “hell yeah.”

you and hongjoong move in tandem; you sprawl against mingi’s chest, hands at his head, looming over him like a shadow. hongjoong licks a fat stripe against his palm before dismounting, jerking mingi off. it also grants him a front row seat to you and mingi making out—a lot less violent than you and hongjoong, but much sloppier. even through your shirt, hongjoong can get a sense of the strength in your arms as you hover over mingi. he leans over to grope at your tricep, the smirk on his face growing bigger by the second.

mingi groans against your mouth, low and rumbling through you as hongjoong pumps his weeping cock. you rub against his stomach, head tilting and pushing deeper into his mouth when he responds with an encouraging squeeze of your ass.

hongjoong taps mingi’s thigh, “get up.”

it takes a solid 4 seconds for you to pull off of mingi (you mouth one last time at his jaw before finally leaning back on your side, catching your breath), hongjoong beckoning you closer.

he maneuvers you into position: atop him, pretty as a picture, giving your ass a quick squeeze (deja vu). behind you both remains mingi, his hands balled into fists on his thighs, leaking cock jumping where it sits along wide legs. if you focused hard enough, you could probably see a tail wagging behind him.

you let out a much-needed sigh, flopping down on hongjoong, your hands folded below your chin, body nearly gelatinous. hongjoong gropes at your ass, squeezing and parting and dusting his fingertips over the hair. you look back to watch mingi approach, shy but eager, leisurely fisting his cock while he rubs lovingly on your bottom (god, obsessed much?)

hongjoong takes two fingers and parts your lips, showing off your cock to tease mingi. it seems to work.

his dick slides between you and hongjoong with humiliating ease, the three of you moaning low at the wet glide. mingi gets in a few test thrusts, peering over at the both of you for any signs of discomfort, before bracing his large hands along your waist and fucking into you both with renewed vigor.

“fuck!” mingi cries, voice peaking in time with a particularly rough slap of his balls against hongjoong’s ass, “i’m not gonna last long.”

your teeth sink into your bottom lip, savoring the slip and the need dripping from mingi’s voice. “feel free. i’m fucking your face if i don’t cum, though.”

mingi shivers, hip stuttering momentarily.

“maybe i’ll join. bring my favorite dick out,” hongjoong chimes in from below, planting wet kisses and nibbles along your neck. he speaks against your pulse, “you ever had your ass fucked, mingi?”

mingi’s hand jumps up along your spine, pressing you down. you briefly catch sight of his eyes closing as his body trembles once again. “n-no. i haven’t.”

“really? not even a finger?” hongjoong continues, and he’s trying his damndest to peer past your shoulder to watch mingi’s reactions. “you’ve got a nice ass. surprised you haven’t.”

mingi gasps sharply, and hongjoong flashes you a triumphant, shit-eating grin.

“well—fuck—one time… o-one time, with this girl i slept with. it was just— one f-finger.”

“you interested in changing that?” you sing, “you sound so cute now, can’t imagine how you’d sound with a dick in you.”

“hah—! fuck, i’m gonna cum. i’m gonna cum. i can cum, right? can i cum?” mingi’s blabbering, mouth going a mile a minute, barely cognisant as his orgasm steadily, rapidly approaches. his thrust grow more erratic by the second. you pant, open-mouthed into hongjoong’s chest as mingi sputters.

“of course,” hongjoong coos, locking eyes with you for a split second, “cum for us, big boy.”

mingi’s hand pulls back, fully flattening you against hongjoong, a welcome squeeze for his cock (along with yours and hongjoong’s). mingi groans and he spurts onto hongjoong’s chest, eyebrows knotted together. your mouth remains open, like it’d been your dick, your body twitching alongside him.

hongjoong reaches below you, taking mingi’s cock in his hand and giving it a few extra pumps, beads of cum leaking out of him. mingi whines in response, and you shudder as you watch, hongjoong’s nose nuzzling into the top of your scalp.

mingi flops forwards as hongjoong releases him, you and hongjoong letting out sharp squeaks of pain at the feeling of an over 6 foot man’s deadweight crushing you both. mingi doesn’t seem to hear, or even care—eyes closed and breathing shallow. for a split second you believe he’d began snoring.

mingi shifts, sleepily draping his chin over your shoulder, peering at hongjoong below, rubbing his cheek up against yours affectionately. hongjoong runs a hand through you and mingi’s hair. you feel mingi’s dick twitch between your asscheeks, and you chuckle to yourself.

“so,” mingi begins, breathlessly like he’d just ran a marathon, “round two in 10 minutes?”