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Chan is a dog person. He understands the animal, relates to its straightforward nature—consistent training yields consistent results. You treat me well; I treat you well. You prove yourself a worthy leader, and I will follow you everywhere. Love is met with love.
He misses Berry.
Now that he’s moved out of the trainee dorms, the quiet of his one-bedroom apartment is deafening in the spaces between work and sleep. He often whittles them down to slivers, wrangling compositions and lyrics until his itchy eyes droop.
It is nice, though, not sharing a space with several barely post-pubescent boys. It's just that he got used to the noise. The routine.
It’s funny how he’d told himself it would be nice to eat whatever he wanted after nine years of strict diets, but most days Chan survives on coffee and ramyeon. He avoids the cafeteria these days. It's too hard, forcing down a salad while watching those who still have hope and those who already made it spear him with pitying looks. Or perhaps the pity clings to his corneas, and he cannot observe anything with clarity through the blur.
At least he still goes to the gym. The boys he is writing music for keep dragging him with them after recording sessions, and he’s embarrassingly grateful for it. His bathroom mirror doesn't need additional reasons to frown back at him.
His schedule wouldn’t allow for a pet, of course. He’s rarely home before seven, and waking up before work for a walk would mean cutting down his sleep from five hours to four. He’s puffy enough in the mornings as it is.
A part of him fears a dog would only highlight the solitude of his existence outside of the studio. They're pack animals. He would only infect it with his loneliness.
***
Chan notices the cat on his long walk home from the tube station. He’d chosen space over location when he’d bought his place, and he doesn’t mind the time outside, especially on balmy late autumn nights like this one. Several stray cats roam the narrow streets in this part of town, but they are usually quick to dart away when they hear him approaching.
This one walks toward him with unexpected determination under the golden orange pools of streetlights. It’s pale grey and reed-thin with long legs and an elegant, swishing tail. It looks expensive—like a balding man in a tweed jacket and a bowtie should stretch it like putty on a podium.
Chan crouches instinctually. He might not have the same familiarity with cats as with dogs, but an animal is an animal, and he will never turn down an opportunity to pet a friendly thing with fur and four legs.
“Hey there,” he murmurs as the kitty approaches him. He extends his hand for the cat to sniff, but it ignores the offer and knocks its forehead against his knee instead. The force of the movement catches Chan off guard, and he wobbles on the tips of his clunky boots.
“Woah,” he chuckles and steadies himself with his fingertips on the pavement. “Feisty one, aren’t you?”
The cat meows at him. Chan moves to stroke it behind the ears, but it evades his touch and takes a few hasty steps toward where it came from. It waits there, looking at Chan over his shoulder.
This is the reason he likes dogs. In thirty seconds, the feline has made a fool out Chan. He pushes himself up and dusts his fingers on his baggy jeans, glancing around to see if anyone witnesses his humiliation, but the street is empty.
Chan expects the cat to run away when he walks, but it stays a few paces ahead, giving him looks Chan can’t decipher. He’s about to turn a corner, intending to pop into the small shop down the street to refill his ramyeon cupboard when the cat yowls at him.
It’s insanely loud in the late-night lull of the street, and Chan flinches, suppressing the urge to shush the animal. A few steps later, the demanding meow rings out again, closer. The cat follows him into the side street, but it turns back toward the mouth of the street when Chan whirls around. Like it wants him to follow.
Maybe there’s a boy down a well in the park.
Or an organ harvester has trained themselves an idiot-sniffing cat.
Chan wavers. A young couple strolls down the street from the direction of the shop, and Chan strides after the cat simply to avoid standing in the street like a weirdo.
At least the thing stops yelling at him. Chan trails after the kitty down the previous street a few more blocks. At the entrance to a narrow alleyway between two high rises, the animal halts. Only when Chan catches up to, it does it dash down the alley. It’s poorly lit, a space for a row of dumpsters for street-level businesses in the buildings. Chan does not want to enter Trash Murder Lane, but the cat howls at him again. The sound echoes off the concrete walls, and Chan jogs after the thing just to stay out of sight of possible curious onlookers.
“What the fuck am I doing,” he mumbles, stepping over a broken bottle only to have his boot squelch into a puddle of spilled bio-waste.
He can make out the shape of the cat at the very back. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and taps on the flashlight before proceeding.
There are empty folded-up cardboard boxes propped against the back wall. The cat calls out, softer this time, and almost immediately, there is an answering meow from behind the sheets of soggy cardboard. A beat later, a shaggy head pops out.
The second cat is smaller, with long, coffee bean-coloured fur tangled in dirty mats. Its head is round and flat whereas the other has a more angular look. It doesn’t look well—thin and scraggly with a dejected look in its down-turned eyes.
Well, shit.
Chan shrugs out of his bomber jacket and lays it on the ground. He briefly wonders what he’ll do if the cat doesn’t want his help, but the brown one pads out from his hiding spot and settles on the shiny, orange satin without hesitation. Chan lifts the bundle slowly, careful not to trap the thing, but the cat curls up into a ball in the crook of his arm and purrs loud enough for the sound to ping off the surrounding walls.
It must be someone’s pet.
Chan eyes the grey cat as he arranges the sleeves around the warm fur ball. It doesn’t look like something he’d want to pick up without thick gloves, but he’d hate to leave it behind. Maybe he can come back with a cat carrier later and try to lure it in with food.
Chan needn’t have worried.
The cat follows them home. It even slips into the elevator with Chan like it has done it a million times, sitting primly next to him and waiting for the doors to open again. Chan can't stop staring at it until they get out. Perhaps he knows less about cats than he thought.
Brown has fallen asleep in its makeshift nest but rouses when Chan slides the jacket onto the sofa. It emerges from the folds of the army green fabric and starts sniffing the sofa. Grey disappears when Chan plops down on the armchair at the other end of the coffee table. He googles on-call vet clinics in the area and finds one open until eleven pm.
A pair of gleaming eyes study him from under the TV stand while he talks to a nice veterinary receptionist.
It would be cheaper to bring the cats in tomorrow morning, the woman tells him, but they have a vet open for emergencies if he wants them looked at immediately.
Chan tells her they’ll be there in half an hour.
He doubts a taxi would take two free-roaming cats as passengers, and he doesn't even have any leftover cardboard boxes lying around.
Chan turns to stare at the living room wall.
The only thing Chan knows about his next-door neighbour is that the man has cats—well, that and that the man is jacked. He hears him talking to his pets sometimes when Chan’s lying in bed waiting for sleep to take pity on him. At least he hopes it's a cat he's talking to. He could also just have a weird relationship with his partner.
Chan doubts he'd carry that much kitten litter home for fun, though—unless he has a really weird relationship with his partner. The man never gets in the elevator, either, even though they live on the seventh floor. He might have got buff just from lugging the heavy sacks up the stairs three times a week.
The man answers the door in a black tank top and basketball shorts. Chan’s gaze settles somewhere above his left ear while he explains his situation.
“You want one carrier or two?” the man asks, ushering a plump tabby deeper into the flat when Chan steps in to wait in the hallway.
“Um, I think one is enough? They seem pretty attached. Maybe they’re from the same home.”
“You’ll still want to buy two litter boxes. Three would be better, but I know it might be hard to find space for them in a one-bedroom apartment.”
“Oh no, I’m not keeping them. I just want to make sure they’re okay before I find their owner,” Chan says.
His neighbour emerges with a light blue plastic carrier. In his other arm, he has an empty litter box. Another cat, a white-and-orange one, peeks out behind his legs.
“You can borrow this. It’s a spare. The food you’ll find at the corner shop is fine in a pinch, but it’s worth investing in proper grainless wet food in the long run. And quality kibble, too. Change their water daily and don’t put it near their food plates. Plates, not deep bowls; they don’t like it when their whiskers hit the side of the bowls. Running water is best. I have a cat fountain, but fresh water in a shallow bowl should do if the cat eats wet food daily. Toys. Treats in moderation. If you want to take them out for walks—”
“Woah, okay, thanks for everything, but they’ll only be staying for a few days,” Chan chuckles, balancing the awkwardly shaped items in his arms. “I’ll return these by the end of the week if that’s okay?”
“Sure. I don’t have any trips planned. One more piece of friendly advice, if I may?”
“Mmhm,” Chan, already half out the door, hums.
“Don’t name them. If you’re not keeping them.”
“Haha, okay.”
***
Two and a half hours later, Chan returns home with the carrier in one hand and a plastic bag full of pricey vet-approved cat food in the other. The cats got a clean bill of health beyond dehydration and malnutrition. The vet was astounded that he found such fine purebreds wandering the streets. They are male, unneutered, young adults around the same age. She agreed with Chan’s assessment of them probably being pets but found it odd that neither was micro-chipped.
Chan promised to look into missing cats in the area tomorrow.
He feeds them first. Brown gobbles up his food in less than a minute, hunched low to the floor, but the grey one takes his time, savouring each bite of the chicken fillet in gravy. Eventually, it lets the smaller one finish his portion, watching it devour the last pieces with its tail flicking lazily.
“Okay, you need a bath,” Chan murmurs to the long-haired one once it has finished licking both plates clean. The vet had given him a sample bottle of pet shampoo and sold him a brush that cost as much as his weekly coffee budget. The kitty meows at him, golden eyes crinkling.
Chan knows washing dogs is a pain, but he does not know how cats react to water. The internet has led him to believe they’re not a fan, and Chan prepares himself with a thick hoodie and an old pair of leather gloves.
The reality is infinitely more heartbreaking. The kitty loses about two-thirds of its bulk the second Chan gets it wet. It looks like some sort of rodent-cryptid with its skinny back arched, short tail between its legs, and face scrunched up in deep displeasure. Brown doesn’t fight him. It simply huddles at the bottom of the tub, yowling so miserably that Chan gets caught between amusement and pity.
He doesn’t know what possesses him, but he wriggles out of his protective gear and jeans and climbs into the tub with the shivering kitty, cooing soothing nonsense at it while he works the mildly scented shampoo into the tangles over his tail. Miraculously, his presence seems to comfort the animal. It creeps close to his thigh and hunches there, mewling periodically but not nearly as loud anymore.
Chan hasn’t noticed the other cat entering the bathroom, and he almost jumps out of his skin when the sleek creature jumps on the edge of the tub by his shoulder.
“Checking on your pal? Oh—” The cat steps down on Chan’s knee and into the cradle of his legs. “You want a wash, too, huh? Okay. Hold on.”
He lathers the cat’s silky fur with the last droplets of the shampoo. It takes the treatment more gracefully, sitting on his hind legs facing Chan. The animal is as thin as it looks, the ridges of its rib cage sharp just under the layer of fur. Chan wonders how long they've been on the streets.
Brown licks water droplets from Chan's leg while it waits. Its tongue is coarse to the point of discomfort, but Chan lets it. At least the activity keeps it quiet.
He rinses the cats and dries them with fresh towels. They slip out the door when Chan is done, Grey chasing Brown. Chan hears them run around the living room. Soft thumps and the machine gun patter of eight paws. No sounds of items breaking, although the free-standing lamp in the corner of the room clatters when someone collides with it. Chan suspects it was Brown.
Chan takes a quick shower and then spends thirty minutes carefully combing the knots from the smaller cat's fur on the living room rug. The feline seems to enjoy grooming. It purrs and rolls over as Chan works the brush over his neck and sides. It is such an adorable, vulnerable little thing. Its pink belly is visible through the sparser fur when it flops on its back. Chan strokes its chest, but when his hand wanders downward, the cat snaps shut like a trap, hooking all its claws into the sides of Chan's hand.
“Ow, shit,” he mutters, withdrawing his hand on instinct. Brown holds on, carving bloody gashes on the skin before Chan tears his hand free. The kitty scrambles up and lunges under the sofa.
“Sorry!” Chan calls after it. “No pets on the belly. Noted.”
Grey observes him from his perch on the back of the armchair. His narrowed eyes are assessing.
“Do you want me to brush you, too?” he asks, waving the tool in the air.
Grey looks away and licks his shoulder in a manner Chan could only describe as haughty.
Now, there's an adjective you'd never use for a dog.
Chan realises he forgot to pick up kitty litter while brushing his teeth. He puts some newspaper on the bottom of the litter box shoved into the corner between his bathtub and the toilet.
“Sorry, I’ll buy some tomorrow, okay?” he says to the grey cat approaching the box.
The look he receives in response is scalding.
“I’ll get some treats, too, yeah? Just don’t pee on my stuff, please?”
Chan sighs, crawling into bed in his boxer briefs.
“Great. I’ve had cats for one evening, and I’m already bargaining with them.” He rubs his eyes and reaches over to click his bedside lamp off.
“Oof!”
Brown launches himself from the darkness, landing squarely on Chan’s chest. It’s not a big cat, even in adulthood, but it’s sinewy, and the sharp claws dig into his solar plexus.
Unbothered by Chan’s flailing, it settles on between his pecs in a tight furl, like a cinnamon roll. Cats must not even have spines, Chan muses. It's like they're liquid.
Chan usually sleeps on his stomach, but what is he supposed to do? He tries to get comfortable without jostling the cat too much. The grey kitty takes a spot by Chan’s feet. Chan can’t resist nudging it with his big toe and gets a claw embedded into it for his insolence.
Chan smiles.
It’s nice. The warmth. The companionship. The interaction.
Fuck, he’s pathetic.
Maybe he should see about asking the hot hunk next door out for coffee sometime.
Yeah, right.
***
Over the next week, Chan does everything he can to find the owners. He scours the internet, puts up posters, and contacts shelter and vet clinics in expanding circles, to no avail. He finds many people willing to take the cats off his hands, and even one who claims to have owned them in the past, but the woman doesn’t know that the grey one has a little white at the tip of his tail, or that the brownie will only drink from an open kitchen tap, so Chan blocks her.
He orders another litter box and enough toys to create an even layer of fabric mice, feathers, and crinkly balls on his living room floor.
The brown one will play by himself—it’s especially fond of the honeybee full of catnip—but the grey one will only attack things Chan dangles in front of it.
Grey dotes on Brown, allowing him to eat off his plate, licking his head until its fur sticks out in wet tufts, and always keeping them in his field of vision while Chan brushes or plays with it. He's slowly warming up to Chan, too. His sleeping spot on the bed shifts higher and higher each night. On the twelfth evening, he allows Chan to scratch him under the chin with two fingers before turning his back to him when he's had enough.
The following day, Chan works from home. He's been doing it as much as he can get away with, unsure of how the animals would react to being left alone for ten to twelve hours. Chan wears headphones most of the day, but every few hours, he takes a break and plays with the kitties or takes photos of them for his Insta.
Twenty-three minutes into cat tree research on company time, Chan realises he might own two cats.
At the heels of the awareness, comes a wave of irrational panic. He grabs the cat carrier he's been meaning to return and dashes out the door, remembering to snatch his keys from the side table at the last minute.
The neighbour is home even though it's barely two pm.
“Thanks for the loan,” Chan says, suddenly embarrassed he didn't think to buy the man something to show his gratitude.
“Did you find their owner?” The man is in loose light blue jeans and a maroon cable-knit sweater today. The colour compliments his red wine hair.
“Not yet, but I'm still looking. People have offered to buy them from me, but—I dunno.” Chan scratches his head.
“Have you named them yet?” The guy smiles. It's a little crooked, and his almond eyes twinkle as he cocks his head.
“Nah. I just call them Brown and Grey. But it’s starting to feel rude.” He chuckles, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“I'm Minho,” the man says. “So don't name one that.”
“Ah, okay,” Chan chuckles again. He sounds like an idiot. “I'm, um, Chan. But if one of your cats is called that, I can change it.”
Minho blinks at him.
“I mean, my name is Chris! Was. Is. I moved here from Australia, but my parents are Korean. I go by Chan here, but Chris is also fine.” Stop talking, Chan. Chris. Clown.
“No Chans among my brood. Or Chrises.” Minho smirks. “I'm terrible at English, I'm afraid, so Chan is fine. Come by anytime you need cat advice. I'm at the dance studio most evenings, but my babies need to be fed at 9 pm on the dot, or they turn into gremlins, so I'm home after that.”
“Oh, okay! Thanks. I’ll probably take you up on that. I have no idea what I'm doing, haha.”
“I'm sure you're doing great. Maybe stop apologising to them so much, though. You'll spoil them.”
Chan flushes, and Minho flashes him another angled smile.
“Have a nice day, Chan.”
“You too, Minho.”
Chan feels a little light-headed as he returns home.
The cats are utter menaces for the rest of the day.
They jump on his keyboard. Yowl demandingly at him before and after he gives them their lunch. Then again after he gives them treats. Grey knocks over a glass of water. Brown chews on his phone charger. Grey chases Brown up the curtains. There's half a kilo of kitten litter on the bathroom floor when he goes to pee.
When Chan heats a microwave meal and finds Brown lapping up the chicken broth, he loses it.
“Shoo, off, you little—” He stomps on the floor and claps his hands together. Brown takes the cup with him when he leaps off the counter, and soup spills all over the kitchen floor.
Chan is not proud of the roar he lets out. Both cats disappear in an instant.
After mopping the floor, Chan feels like shit. He plops down on the shaggy living room rug and pours a handful of meat treats on the floor by his folded legs.
Brown creeps from his hiding spot under the armchair first. Chan scoops up a handful of treats to save for Grey, but he doesn't appear.
“Sorry, I yelled at you,” Chan mumbles to Brown. It's scarfing down the stinky pellets, ignoring him. Chan doesn't go for a pet. Let the creature finish his treats in peace.
“I'm not so good at this after all,” he sighs, massaging his face and immediately regretting it when an overwhelming stench of stale, processed meat assaults his nose.
Brown climbs over his legs and licks his cheeks.
“You forgive me at least, huh?” Chan scratches the cat behind his ears, and it purrs.
“Sung,” Chan says. “Because you have tangled fur. Do you like that, hmm? Sungie?”
The cat licks his eye.
Grey hides all evening. He doesn't even show up for dinner, and Chan watches Sung empty both plates with gusto.
They were finally getting somewhere, Chan thinks, rinsing the empty plates in the sink. Now he's fucked it all up.
Sung vomits the excess food on the hallway rug while Chan's in the shower. He cleans it up and apologises for giving him too many treats earlier. His face burns thinking about Minho possibly listening in on the other side of the wall. Should he teach the cats English?
He files the thought into a mental cabinet labelled ‘never share with anyone’.
Chan is almost asleep with Sung snuggled up on the divot above his tailbone when the bed dips.
“Hyun,” Chan mumbles, drowsy. His mystery kitty.
A warm presence settles against his side, and Chan falls asleep.
***
A rolling wave of pleasure carries Chan toward the shore of consciousness. He feels hot and heavy from his toes to the roots of his hair. His skin tingles with electricity, and he stretches languidly, relishing the tension tugging at his muscles. He's not prone to sporting morning wood, but his dick is definitely on board with whatever he was dreaming about.
“I think hyung is waking up, jagiya,” someone says with a buttery voice.
Chan's eyes fly open. He jerks, disturbing some of the weight draped over his sides.
What the fuck.
“What the fuck,” Chan croaks, head swivelling from one side to the other.
A grey-haired young man lies beside him on the left, looking up at Chan with half-lidded, eerily familiar green eyes. Silky, pale strands spill over a beautiful face—sinfully pouty lips under a wide nose. There's a mole under his left eye that whets the narrowed, evaluating quality of his gaze.
On his right, a curly-haired youth with lovely, round features hides behind the curve of Chan's rib cage. The dark chocolate tone of his hair sends another mind-bending stab of recognition through Chan. The man's heavy lashes flutter over full cheeks as he kitten-licks the lowermost jut of Chan's ribs apologetically. His eyes are a deep golden colour, like straw at harvest time.
“Is hyung upset with us?” Sung—because it is Sung, Chan knows it at his core—asks Hyun.
“Hyung was just startled, jagiya. Like when someone pets you while you're dreaming of dogs. Right, hyung?”
Chan can't scrounge up a single word. His brain and lungs are locked in a battle over which one malfunctions first.
Hyun bends down and licks a long stripe over Chan’s ribs, pulling a startled gasp from him. Sung follows Hyun’s lead, inching upward, his tongue leaving wide, wet stripes on Chan’s skin. They meet in the middle, beaming and petting each other’s hair affectionately before drawing closer together.
They lap at each other’s mouths with slow swipes, one breathing in the content sighs of the other. Their cheeks rest against Chan’s chest; heat, sweat, and drool gather on his skin under their faces. Each has a knee hitched over Chan’s blanket-covered legs and a hand on his waist. Their hips shift against his sides, seeking friction where they're both stiff between their legs.
Chan gawks. He doesn't know what to do—torn between the insistent ache in his groin and the disorientation of reality dancing away from him.
Sung pulls back. He shoots Chan a shy look under his fringe as he bends down and flicks Chan’s right nipple with the tip of his soft tongue. It pebbles under the attention, and Chan makes an embarrassing sound.
“Why does it go hard like that?” Sungie asks, repeating the action experimentally.
“It means hyung likes it. Remember the sounds hyung made in the shower when the door was closed? It's like that.”
Hyun takes the other nipple between his plush lips and suckles. Chan's stuttering brain finally gets into gear.
Too bad it's a ‘92 Ford Escort.
“What—How are—Why is—Ahh—”
Hyun bites down on the sensitive nub, and Chan grips the back of his head on reflex, arching into the sweet pain.
“I like the sounds hyung makes,” Sung says, kneading Chan's abs with his sharp-nailed fingers.
Hyun hums. He grazes the swelling nipple with his teeth, watching Chan for a reaction.
Chan's cheeks feel too full of blood, inflamed.
“He changes colour too, see? Pretty,” Hyun notes. He surges up and nuzzles the side of Chan's face. “It's so warm.”
Hyun traces the slashes of crimson over Chan's cheekbones with his tongue, and Chan wants to sink inside the mattress with shame when he feels pre-cum soak into his underwear. Sung joins his companion, tasting the skin of his jaw, tongue rasping over the morning stubble. They don't kiss him as much as they lick in and around his lax mouth. His lips and chin are soon wet with saliva.
Chan whimpers again, overheated and so turned on his ears ring with it.
Unhurriedly, the men lick and nibble their way down. They suck on the rippled planes of his stomach, childishly delighted by the red marks their mouths leave behind. They compete over which one can produce the largest bloom on his pale skin. Then there are teeth alongside the single-minded suction, and Chan struggles to stay still, his heels kicking at the sheets. He covers his face with his hands, hoping to God he'll catch the tail end of his thoughts soon because he can't just lie there while—
“Oh, something smells delicious,” Sung says. Cool air hits his thighs as someone yanks off the covers from his lower half. Sung noses the trail of sparse hair leading to the waistband of Chan's boxer briefs while Hyun sucks the damp cotton over his swollen cockhead into his mouth. Chan grunts, hurtling toward an orgasm with unprecedented speed.
“Hyune,” he says, not sure if he's begging or delivering a warning.
One of them pulls his underwear down his thighs, and Chan groans as his erection springs free.
“Oh, it's big. Why is it so big, Hyun? Will it fit?”
“Hyung wouldn't hurt us, jagiya.”
A flickering tongue gathers the thin liquid dripping down his shaft as another circles the glans and the head. Chan twitches, fingers searching for purchase in the sheets. He's so tense that his torso lifts off the bed, abs quivering to keep him suspended between action and surrender.
“Hyung tastes amazing,” Sung says. He chases wayward droplets with his tongue over Chan's sac, and Chan's legs move farther apart to make room for him on their own accord.
“Mmm,” Hyun agrees, hot breath ghosting over Chan's slit.
A mouth engulfs the head, suckling and humming. Chan thumps back against the mattress, and the bedsprings creak in protest. Damp lips trail down the underside, nibbling on the velvety skin—Sung is careful with his teeth, only the seam of his mouth exploring the texture. Feather-light touches pepper the hollows under his hipbones, his balls, and his lower belly.
Chan moans, low and gravelly, when Hyun takes a little more of him into his mouth. In tandem, the two look up at him curiously through their long lashes as their long, pink tongues, and red mouths familiarise themselves with the shape and taste of him.
Chan's release is wrenched from him against all his efforts.
He grunts, bucking and curling on the bed, fingers twisting the sheets. The two men gape at his cock, slack-jawed and wide-eyed as he paints their pretty lips and faces with ropes of cum.
Chan’s head hits the pillow, and his chest heaves like he’s run a mile. Mortification follows at the heels of the pleasure, and apologies spring upon his tongue, but before he gets a single one out, Sung licks his lips and Chan's brain jams right up again.
Hyun collects a white glob from the bridge of his nose and pops it into his mouth, eyes slipping shut as he hums around his digit with a smile.
They fight for the rest of it—there is no other way to put it. They lick it from Chan's spent cock, from each other's faces and mouths, tongues sliding out and tangling together and dipping deep inside, the glistening mess stretching between their lips when they part and pant for air.
Chan stares. It's like watching porn live but that's his spunk they're eating like it's sugared cream. His mind refuses to wrap around the notion. It's yet to attempt the fact that until yesterday evening, the men were cats.
Then the pair rises on their knees. They rub their slim chest together. Nudge each other's faces with their noses. Bump foreheads. Their erect cocks jut out over Chan's thighs, small and wet. Oddly, they're hairless everywhere, smooth and more tan than Chan whose only contact with sunlight is during his morning walks to the tube station.
Hyun nuzzles the side of Sungie's face and pets his glistening, cherry-red cheek before shoving two fingers into the young man's open mouth. Sung doesn't seal his lips around them, pushing his tongue further out instead. Tiny, keening noises well up from his throat as Hyun fucks it with his elegant fingers, knuckles bumping against the protruding row of small, white teeth.
Chan's dick fills again. He is helpless against it; the desire bubbling to the surface like from a coke bottle someone's pitched down a flight of stairs.
Hyun pops his sopping index and middle fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean of the stretchy strings of Sung's saliva.
“Ah, hyung is growing big for us again!” Sung exclaims, spotting the semi between their bodies.
“Hyung is so good to us. I'm glad he named us before that man in the hall spread his legs for him.”
Chan's mind reels.
“What—”
“We are sorry for misbehaving yesterday, hyung,” Sung says. He pulls off the underwear altogether and straddles one of Chan's thighs, massaging it up and down with his hands.
“I'm not,” Hyun scoffs. “You deserved it after flirting with him. You are ours, hyung. I chose you, and you named us.”
Chan can't follow the logic, but he can barely concentrate on Hyun's words with Sung's fingers poking the sensitive insides of his thighs. The brunette grinds down on his thigh with his head thrown back and his throat bobbing.
“Desperate for it, jagiya, aren't you?” Hyun croons. “Hyung will help, it's okay.”
The number of hoops Chan's brain goes through pondering the ethical angles of losing his virginity to the human forms of the stray cats he adopted is staggering.
Maybe he slipped into a coma last night, and this is all a pre-death hallucination. They will discover his cum-spattered corpse half-eaten by his cats in several weeks, and his family will have to hold a closed-casket service and his youngest cousin will take a peek anyway and be scarred for life—
Hyun bends down to lick and slurp his cock, which continues to harden despite the shitstorm raging between Chan's ears. He dribbles bubbly spit over the shaft, spreading it around with casual strokes. Once he's happy with the results, he positions himself behind Sung, pushing down on his spine until the man leans down, hips angling up. Sung slobbers over the mottled love bites on Chan's stomach as Hyun spreads the brunette's asscheeks with his long-fingered hands and fucks his tongue into the crevice between.
If his first orgasm hadn't already dulled the sharpest edge of his arousal, Chan would have spurted on the spot. He groans, his hips lifting off the bed. It should be impossible to get this horny, but then again, he’s never shared a bed with anyone—much less two of the most stunning men Chan’s ever seen.
Hyunjin eats Sung out like he can’t get enough. The lower half of his face is glossy with saliva when Chan catches glimpses of it over the round curves of Sung’s ass. The sounds of his sloppy work fill the room, mingling with the bewitching, pleasure-drunk sighs and whimpers from the brunette. He presses his against Chan’s belly, and he’s drooling freely, a puddle spilling rivulets down Chan's waist. The man looks half-conscious with his heavy lids flickering open and shut and his tongue lolling out of his mouth. His fingers dig rhythmically into Chan’s stomach under his jaw, and when he twists his head back and to the side so that he can look at Chan, cross-eyed and dopey, his pink face harpoons Chan with such fierce want that his whole body clenches and stiffens with it.
He's already entered the twilight zone; why not go to hell, too?
They need—
Chan gets an elbow under himself and rummages around his bedside table until he locates the mostly full tube of lube.
“What is that, hyung?” Hyun asks. He rests his spit-smeared cheek on Sung’s tailbone and peers at the tube. Chan can see his hand moving against the smaller man in the space between Hyun’s neck and Sungie’s ass. The brunette thrusts backward into the touch. His body contorts as he tries to glimpse what Hyun is talking about.
“It’s, um, lube,” Chan says. He rises higher, and Hyun helps Sung up, supporting his floppy weight against his chest while Chan shuffles into a sitting position. A thin, buckling strand connects Sung’s cock to a wet patch on Chan’s leg, and for a moment, Chan thinks he already came—there’s so much—but he’s still erect, flushed cock straining toward his belly button.
“It helps—if—with—” Chan resists the urge to resort to crude hand gestures. “It makes it not hurt,” he finally says. “Here. Can I?” He extends his arms toward Sungie.
Hyun considers Chan for a long moment.
“Be good to him, hyung.”
Chan nods, throat seizing up. Hyun presses an open-mouthed kiss on Sung’s shoulder before sliding down the bed. Sungie falls forward against Chan’s chest. He’s shivering, scorching hot to the touch as Chan gathers him in his lap, arranging his limp legs on either side of his hips. He brings his knees up for extra support, caging the lithe body in.
Hyun watches them from the foot of the bed. He suckles on his own fingers, a rosy blush high on his cheekbones.
Chan pops the cap and squeezes out a dollop of the clear liquid on his fingers. He tosses the tube on the bed, out of the way but close by if they need more.
Chan smears the lube up and down Sung’s cleft. It's a little chilly, and Sungie shifts in his lap, gasping into his neck.
“Sorry, it'll warm up,” Chan whispers.
No way, he thinks when he first brushes the pad of his thumb against Sungie's hole. He can't possibly fit. Chan’s seen porn—knows how bodies work—but his gut tells him it has to hurt, and the idea of causing this trusting creature clinging to him any sort of pain makes bile creep up his oesophagus.
He spends a long time circling the area softly, feeling the tight pull of the skin, the tiny tremors running through the brunette’s body. Sungie buries his face in the crook of his neck. He’s nibbling on the skin there—unconsciously, most likely. More drool trickles down Chan’s back. The have covered him with it. Marked him.
“Hyung,” he pleads into Chan’s skin. “Please—”
Chan presses down. Only a little, with the very tip of his blunt fingernail—and sinks in, just like that, to the first knuckle like nothing. He gasps, dick twitching between the heated press of their bellies.
It’s not resistance he finds inside but hungry, fluttering velvet around his finger, and Chan’s stomach drops with a fresh stab of lust. He inserts another finger, shoves deeper, and Sungie takes him, works himself down on the digits with greedy swivels of his narrow hips.
On screen, there’s always that magic spot that makes the bottom moan and writhe, but Chan’s half-convinced it’s bullshit—a fantasy with which to sell the act to young gay men experimenting with their preferences, but when he crooks his fingers, Sungie jolts in his lap, whining into his ear and tightening his arms around Chan’s shoulders.
“Feels good,” the man slurs. “Hyung makes Sungie feel so good.”
Chan is at a loss. His dick throbs, so hard it borders on an ache, but—
“It’s okay, hyung,” Hyun calls out. “He’s ready for you. Show him, jagiya.”
Sung tries, but he’s uncoordinated and shaky in his arousal. He reaches back and attempts to manoeuvre Chan’s cock free from between their bodies, but his knees sink into the cheap, too-soft mattress and he can’t quite lift himself high enough, whining in frustration as it catches on the tense tendon on his inner thigh.
More out of pity than anything else, Chan helps, lifting the man off his lap with arms around his thighs. Sung gasps. Chan’s dick slips free, the head nudging the lube-drenched crease.
“Now, hyung, I need it, please, I can take it, I know I can, hyung.”
Sung wriggles impatiently, and Chan adjusts his hold. He circles the man's obscenely tiny waist with one arm, keeping him tucked high against his chest. With his free hand, he spreads the remaining lube on his cock, careful to keep his touch light and perfunctory—he's already wound up so tight, he could come on a breath.
Sung's arms are trapped between their bodies. His fingers knead into Chan's chest in a definitively cat-like manner, and it speaks to Chan's derangement that it only spurs him on.
He grips the base of his cock and holds it steady while he lowers Sung on it. The fat head catches on the rim, and Chan falters.
“Ahh, hyung—”
Sung writhes free of Chan's grip and grinds down, shuddering through the first breach. His eyelashes flutter, mouth hanging open on a thin, blissed-out moan as sinks onto Chan's cock. It is a tight fit despite the lube and spit dripping down Chan's shaft, but Sung doesn't seem to care.
It's Chan who gapes and gasps. Flushed. Overwhelmed. Sungie’s ass bumps against his hand, and he lets go, groaning at the sensation of slowly being engulfed to the hilt. Sung's ass settles over his sac, and Chan's mouth can't stop spewing shameful, reedy whimpers. He’d been happy with his own hand for years, but this—the pressure and the heat and the give of another person stretching to take him, it’s—
“Ah, hyung, I love it,” Sungie says, sounding dazed. “It doesn't hurt at all, it's perfect, hyung is perfect. I want to sleep like this, every night, I need—”
He fights to get a foot flat against the mattress. Chan widens the vee of his bent legs on instinct as Sung pushes himself up before slamming down hard onto the cradle of Chan's hips.
Chan falls apart, spilling deep inside Sungie with aborted thrusts of his hips and a string of breathless grunts. It’s a whiteout of pleasure. Chan loses all sense of time and place for a minute. It’s like his muscles are unfurling from years of coiled tension, the release of endorphins so strong he feels borderline nauseous.
When he blinks his eyes open again, Hyun is on his knees between Chan’s legs, chin hooked over Sungie’s shoulder, and he’s—stuffing his slender cock alongside Chan’s softening one in the brunette’s sopping hole. The realisation squeezes a last, weak spurt out of his drained dick.
Sungie is whining, face sweaty and warm against the hollow of Chan’s throat. His nails dig painfully into his pecs.
The chafe of Hyun’s erection against his sensitive skin is uncomfortable, little lighting bolts of sensation zapping up his spine, and Chan hisses, shifting away. He slips out, feels cum squirting through the loosened ring of muscle, and jesusfuck he would get hard again in an instant if he could.
Hyun’s face is set with determination. He fumbles for Chan’s hand and shoves it in the tight spaces between himself and Sung in a wordless command while rocking into the smaller man’s squirming body. His other hand goes around Sung's waist and finds his neglected cock against Chan's belly.
Chan fumbles his way to where they’re joined, hooks a finger, then two on the rim, hugs Sungie to his chest, and rubs, graceless and embarrassed and apologetic—
Not long after, Sungie spurts between them, puffs of ah’s falling from his slack mouth.
Hyun pulls out and flattens himself on the bed to—bloody hell, lick the seeping cum from Sung’s pliable hole, and Chan is ruined forever, nothing in his life can ever compare to this, could make him feel the same way—how could he ever chat up a stranger at a bar without thinking about Hyun’s tongue laving between his fingers to catch every drop of cum—his cum—pouring out of this beautiful, trusting, soft thing in his arms.
Once Sung mewls from oversensitivity, Hyun lets him be. Sungie is a boneless weight against Chan’s chest, and he moves him as carefully as he can, laying him down on the bed.
“Do you want me to—” Chan looks at the erection still poking out of Hyun’s folded legs.
Hyun studies him in that coolly calculating way Chan’s growing used to. He shakes his head. Chan can’t help but feel disheartened by the rejection.
“I don’t like to—” the man says, wavers, “—give control, hyung. It has to be—taken from me.”
Chan doesn’t have a clue what to do with that.
“Okay,” he says, stupidly.
Hyun plasters himself against Sung’s back and licks droplets of sweat from his shoulder blades.
“I’ll, um, go draw you two a bath,” Chan squeaks and dashes out of the bedroom.
His heartbeat won’t quiet down. He takes a quick shower and turns on the tub tap. He stares at the water level not rising for three minutes before realising he forgot to insert the drain stopper.
Chan plops down on the closed toilet lid.
What happens now? Do they turn back into cats at some point? Do they want to study? Do they have allergies? Where will they sleep? They will need clothes. How can they work without social security numbers? Will they need their own phones? Will they even want to stay? Can they read?
Will they want to have sex again?
Fuck.
It’s one thing to defile your adopted shapeshifter cats but to do it badly—
Chan flushes, clutching the receding hairline at his temples.
The tub overflows.
“Shit.” Chan drains some of the water and adds a splash of the eucalyptus bath oil he received as a gift from his mom for his birthday before getting dressed.
“The bath is ready!” Chan calls out from the door like the coward he is. “I’m just going to pop to the shop for some lunch, okay?” It’s not even nine am. “I’ll be right back!”
“Hyung?”
The front door slams shut behind him.
***
Chan doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at the crate full of watermelons on the produce aisle before he hears a familiar voice behind him.
“Chan?”
Minho’s shopping cart is full of fruit and veg, chicken breasts, and fresh fish. A man who cooks for himself. Chan glances at the box of cereal, bowtie pasta (chickpea? What the hell?), and the two cans of tuna in curry sauce in his basket and grimaces.
“Hi, Minho. Fancy bumping into you here.”
In the only decent grocery store within walking distance from their apartment building—
“Is it?” The corner of Minho’s lip quirks up.
“I guess not,” Chan chuckles, flushing. “Sorry, I’m a little out of it today.”
“I figured. It was that, or you’re very particular about your melons. You’ve been standing here for at least five minutes.”
“And you’ve been watching me for five minutes?”
“I’m very particular about my men.”
Chan chokes on his spit.
“Not to suggest you can’t cook—I’m sure a starving student would love a seat at your table—but can I invite you over for lunch?”
“I need to feed my, um, cats,” Chan blurts.
“And wash your hair afterward? It’s okay. It was only an offer. No hard feelings.” Minho shrugs, smiling.
“Actually,” Chan calls out before Minho can turn away. “I could use some advice? If that’s not weird?”
“Not unless you make it weird,” Minho replies with a raised eyebrow. “Come on. Grab one of those melons for dessert, if you’d like.”
Chan likes watermelon, so he does.
***
It’s comfortable, to Chan’s surprise.
Minho’s flat is freakishly neat and organised, especially for a man with three cats. The furniture is nothing fancy but of good quality. The colour scheme is muted with browns and smokey blues and greys. Minho’s only houseplants hang from pots from the ceiling in front of the window. They are thriving, as far as Chan can tell. The flat is a mirror image of his. A clever shelving system on the wall doubles as steps and perches for the cats, saving floor space and giving the pets a free, safe roam of the place. A large tabby scowls at them near the ceiling.
Minho’s kitchen is infinitely better stocked than his, and unlike Chan who eats at his desk or the counter, he has a small dining table crammed between the open kitchen and the living room. His sofa is smaller, a two-seater, and his TV is wall-mounted.
Chan stays out of the bedroom. He sits at the table with an unopened can of sugar-free iced coffee and watches Minho prepare ingredients for lunch. It’s a little early for it, but Chan skipped breakfast, and his stomach growls. He opens the coffee and takes a sip.
“So what’s going on?” Minho asks, looking up from the leek his rinsing.
“What does it mean when someone tells you they need control taken from them?”
It is not the most subtle way to broach the subject, but effective.
Minho’s eyebrows shoot toward his—very healthy—hairline.
“Well, I think that’s pretty self-explanatory, Chan.” He shakes the halved leeks and places them on a cutting board.
“Let’s imagine, for a second, that you’re talking to someone who just woke up from a nine-year coma and knows very little about how the real world works.” Chan hides behind the coffee can. The bitterness burns his throat.
Minho gives him a curious, sideways glance.
“Alright. Well, the first thing I’d ask is how did you get an insane body like that lying in bed for nine years.”
Chan—and Minho’s tablecloth—is lucky he just swallowed the coffee in his mouth.
“The second thing I’d ask is how much these two people trust each other. Any kind of scenario that involves the give-and-take of control requires trust and communication above all. Sure, the idea of just throwing someone down and ravishing them sounds hot in theory, but unless it has been discussed and agreed upon beforehand, things can go very wrong.”
Chan mulls over the words, turning the can in his chilled hands.
“Do I have a sticker on my back or something?” Minho asks over the steady sound of the knife whispering through the leeks.
“Huh?” Chan looks up.
“How did you know I was a dom?”
Chan blinks. The can sweats against his palm.
“Shit, you didn’t.” Minho barks out a laugh. “You just thought it was a normal thing to ask a neighbour you’ve known for two weeks. Incredible.” He shakes his head, grinning in that crooked way of his.
“Sorry,” Chan mumbles. “Like I said, I’ve had a weird decade.”
“It’s cool. Cult escapee?”
“Idol trainee reject,” Chan says and toasts the air with his can.
“Ah, so close. That explains the body.”
Chan smiles, self-conscious, and wipes his damp hand on his jeans.
“Who’s the lucky guy, then?” Minho scrapes the leeks into a pan and starts peeling an onion.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Chan snorts.
“A celebrity? Someone from the company?”
“God, no. It’s—complicated.”
“Okay. No pressure.”
Minho talks him through the basics of what he calls ‘the scene’. Safe, sane, consensual. Safewords. Agreements. Kink compatibility. Aftercare.
Chan’s head swims.
“I just—want to take care of them,” Chan admits quietly. “But I don’t know if—I’m good enough.”
They’ve eaten and washed the dishes. Minho is brewing tea. Mint, by the smell of it. Chan can’t remember the last time he had tea.
“That’s a good starting point,” Minho says as he carries the steaming mugs over. “And it’s not something you’re automatically good or bad at. You prioritise your partner’s safety and health above everything else and you work together from there. You practise. You apologise and make amends when you fuck up and try again. It’s a process.”
Speaking of fucking up—
“Oh shit, what time is it?”
“Half-past one, why?”
“Shit. I gotta go. Thanks for everything!”
Chan is such a fucking piece of shit. He just left them there, naked and covered in his cum, and fled. They have no way of contacting him, nothing to eat but instant noodles they probably don’t know how to prepare, and what if they tried and left the gas on—
He fumbles with the keys, heart hammering out of his chest as the door swings inward.
The apartment is quiet and dim. The curtains are still drawn in the living room. There are no signs of anyone having used the kitchen. Chan peeks into the bathroom. His chest clamps around a burning knot when he sees the bathtub still full of water, the faint scent of eucalyptus wafting out. At least there are damp towels in a pile on the floor. Five or more by the looks of it.
He pads toward the bedroom, suddenly viscerally afraid that they’re just gone, never to be seen again, nothing but the memory of the morning to keep him company in the cold light of the computer screen—
There’s a large lump under the bedding. Chan’s knees almost buckle with relief.
“Hyune? Sungie?” he whispers, creeping closer.
He sits on the edge of the bed and peeks under the covers.
Sung’s spine is no longer as bendy as before, but he’s tried to make himself as small as possible—knees to his chest, arms around his shins, neck bent painfully over his legs. There are tear streaks on his plump cheeks and the tip of his nose is pale pink. His thick lashes are clumped together, twitching in fitful sleep. He is sucking on two fingers—not his own—drool slipping out from the corner of his mouth.
Chan’s cheeks grow hot and prickling.
He peels back the blanket, coming eye-to-eye with Hyun curled around the brunette. The look in his emerald eyes is glacial. Chan recoils from the contempt in them.
“Hyun,” he whispers and reaches out, but the man hisses at him, a wholly primitive sound that has Chan scrambling off the bed.
He staggers into the living room, suddenly out of breath, his failure lodged in his throat like a wishbone.
“Chan, you forgot your tuna—oh. Sorry.”
Minho stands in the hallway with Chan’s measly shopping bag dangling from one arm. Hell, he’d left the door open in his panic.
“Thanks,” Chan chokes out. “You can just leave it anywhere.”
“Hey, what’s the matter? Is something wrong with the cats? Did you leave the window open?”
Chan huffs out a raw chuckle that sounds more like a sob.
Minho steps in and shuts the door behind himself, plonking the shopping bag on the kitchen counter on his way to the living room. He puts a soothing hand on Chan’s shoulder and peers into his face, almond eyes crinkled with worry.
Chan has just enough time to turn his head and see Hyun fly from the bedroom. He plants his feet on the shaggy carpet and shoves Minho so hard that the man falls on his ass on the sofa.
“Leave hyung alone, he is ours! You can’t have him! I picked him, and he named us. He named us!” the man screams, feathery grey hair flopping over his reddening face.
To his credit, Minho takes being assaulted and yelled at by a strange naked man with grace Chan doubts he could have mustered if the situation was reversed.
He looks from Hyun to Chan with wide eyes, lifting his hands up in a universally placating gesture.
“Okay. Hello. I’m Minho. I’m not taking Chan from anyone. Sorry, if there’s been some misunderstanding—Hi.”
Minho’s gaze slides to the left, and Chan turns on his heel toward the bedroom door.
Sung crouches by the frame, only his ashen face visible.
“Hello,” Sung replies politely. His voice is tiny and sleep-soft.
“Your cats turned into humans,” Minho says, flatly. It’s not a question. “Okay. Wow.”
“What? How can you—”
“I’ve been around cats more than I have people, Chan. I can tell. Um. Okay. I didn't mean to intrude. I’m sorry. Do you—Should I just go—?”
“Yes!” Hyun spits. He takes a step to the left, blocking the bedroom doorway from Minho. His thin chest heaves, ribs still standing out starkly, but he is muscled too, thick veins running down his arms, strong-looking thighs tense with adrenaline. In the weak light filtering through the opaque curtains, it's hard to tell, but there are paler slashes on his skin. Scars.
Chan is out of his depth. It must show on his face because Minho leans forward and offers him a drawstring smile before addressing Hyun.
“Can we can all calm down and talk for a bit first? I promise you, I’m not here to take Chan from you in any shape or form. He came over today because he wanted advice on how to take better care of you two. I’m sorry he was gone so long. It was my fault. I talk too much. He was just being polite.”
“Is hyung mad at us?” Sungie asks, a little more of him poking out behind the wall.
“No!” Chan cries out. “Never, God, Sungie. I’m so sorry.” Chan sinks to his knees on the black rug. Sung hesitates only for a beat before he scrabbles into the room and throws himself into Chan’s lap.
Chan would feel flustered to do this in front of Minho, but he’s too overcome by relief. He hugs Sungie to his chest, covering as much of his nakedness with the baggy sleeves of his hoodie as he can with one arm over his hips and another around his torso.
“Please forgive me, Sung. I didn’t mean to leave you alone like that, or for so long. I was just a little freaked out by everything. I don’t know if I’m—good enough to take care of you, and I got scared.”
“Hyun chose you. You named us. You’re good enough. You’re the best, hyung,” Sung babbles into the hollow of his throat.
Hyun climbs into the armchair. He settles into it in a tense crouch, glaring at Chan and Minho.
“They turned this morning?” Minho asks quietly.
Chan nods, still petting Sung.
“Huh. Well, forget everything I said earlier today about the lists and agreements. This is different. You need to trust your instincts. Earn their trust.”
“Thanks, Minho. And sorry you got dragged into this. I made it weird after all, haha.”
“Let’s call it—’ interesting’, shall we?” He eyes Sungie with a small smile. “You’re a very good kitty, aren’t you?”
Sung turns his head so he can see Minho with his cheek still pressed to Chan’s chest.
“Thank you. You have pretty hair,” the brunette says. The trembling tension bleeds from his body.
Minho glances up at the dark red fringe over his eyebrows.
“Thanks. What’s your name?”
“Sung. It means someone with tangled hair. Hyung took care of it for me, though,” he explains, shaking his frizzy curls.
“I can see that. He takes such good care of you, doesn’t he, Sungie?”
“Yes, he does.” Sung pulls back far enough to look up at Chan with large, imploring eyes. “I like him, hyung. Can I sit in his lap?”
Chan flushes to the tips of his ears.
“Um,” he offers helpfully. He’s comforted to see Minho’s face do the same to his right.
“Ah—” Minho laughs. “It’s fine by me if it’s okay with Chan.”
Not trusting his voice, Chan just nods.
Sung clambers off Chan’s lap and crosses the short distance to the sofa. Minho leans back, keeping his eyes on the young man’s face with such frozen intent that it hints at a struggle behind the scenes.
Clearly expecting him to position himself sideways on his thighs, Minho lifts his arms out of the way, but Sungie straddles him instead, and Chan feels a certain satisfaction seeing his neighbour’s nails digging into his palms as they hover over the brunette’s shoulders.
Then Sung tilts forward and licks Minho’s cheek.
Oh, okay.
Hyun looks at his companion with such disgust that Chan can only snicker.
Minho, still unsure of what to do with his hands, shoots Chan a pleading, wide-eyed look behind Sung’s ear.
Welcome to my world, Chan thinks, letting his legs sprawl open.
“Uhh, Sungie, you don't have to—” Minho stutters. He finally decides the safest place for his hands is by his sides on the sofa. Sung bites on the hinge of Minho's jaw, and the redhead hisses, hips twitching against the cushion.
Chan watches Hyun. He has the body language of a guard dog poised to pounce at the slightest provocation. Chan thinks back on the past week; the shared portions, the grooming, the eyes never straying far from the chocolate ball of fur. The scars. Sung’s smooth, unblemished skin.
I chose you.
I don't like to give control.
Because he couldn't. There was no one to give it to. No one to shoulder the burden with him—for him. How long has he been keeping Sung safe? Fed? Loved?
Hyun's cutting gaze sweeps to him when Chan crawls past the coffee table to the armchair.
“Hyune,” Chan says, the name thick in his mouth.
Another gasp rings out from the sofa, and Hyun turns to look, but Chan catches his chin in his hand and forces it toward himself.
“Sung is fine.”
Hyun scowls at him. He doesn't fight the grip Chan has on him, but his eyes drift away again.
“Look at me, Hyun. You chose me, yeah? And I named you. I belong to you, but you—you belong to me too. I'm going to look out for you from now on. I know I messed up today, and I probably will again, but I promise you that you will never go hungry or cold ever again. I won't let anybody hurt you. Do you hear me?”
“You hurt us,” Hyun says. It's vicious, but vulnerable, too. “Today, you hurt Sung when you left like that. He thought you weren't coming back. He cried himself silly. He always cries.”
His voice is tight, eyes unfocused again, and Chan's throat bobs as he tries to swallow the acidic clot expanding behind his Adam's apple.
“I'm so sorry, Hyun. That won't happen again. I will always come back. I swear. I will always come home to you.”
Chan strokes a hand up Hyun's thigh. The bumps and nicks are like braille against his palm. Hyun moves to swat Chan's hand away from him, irritation furrowing his brow.
“Stop,” Chan says. Not meanly. Quiet and firm.
The hand stalls mid-air.
Hyun's pupils dilate and he relaxes—only a little, but it's enough for Chan. It's like stepping into a clear, deep lake after plodding through a muddy swamp.
“You're mine, Hyune. You don't have to worry about anything anymore. Leave it all to me.”
Hyun's eyes are glued to him—as gorgeous in soft awe as they are in feigned indifference. Chan reaches out and caresses the jut of his cheekbone. It flushes under his knuckles.
“My pretty baby,” he murmurs.
Hyun holds himself still as a statue, but he can't control the blood flow to his dick. It twitches to life between his legs, and Chan's skin suddenly feels a size too small. He rubs the corner of Hyun's plush lips with his thumb, and they part for him immediately. Fuck, they're lovely. Chan stares, struck dumb by the memory of his cockhead slipping between them. Chan skirts the wet seam, his gut coiling tighter with every quickened exhale against his fingertip.
“Go into the bedroom and choose the position you want to be fucked in.”
He blushes with his own daring, thinking that he pushed too far, but Hyun utters half a syllable, and a shudder works its way through his entire body. His eyes dart to the two figures entwined on the sofa.
“No. Don't mind them. Go.”
Chan pulls his finger out and moves out of the way.
Hyun obeys.
Watching him slink into the bedroom is a thrill Chan did not expect.
“Um, Chan—”
On the sofa, Minho looks—conflicted. He is pink-faced; the skin gleaming after Sung's thorough administration. The brunette is rolling his hips against the wider man shamelessly, and Chan would bet his bottom dollar that the front of Minho's white t-shirt now has a soaked spot at the front.
Chan sits on the coffee table behind Sung and ruffles the messy curls. Sung turns to look at him over his shoulder.
“I'm going to look after Hyune. Do you want to stay and play with Minho, Sungie?”
Sung nods, shy, cute rosy dots on the apples of his cheeks.
“Is that okay with you, Minho?”
The man looks half-drunk—flushed and heavy-lidded, but his hands are still in respectful fists by his side.
“Ah—are you sure?”
“I trust you with him. Be gentle, yeah? Oh, wait, I'm gonna get you some—”
Chan jogs to the bedroom.
Hyun is face down on the bed. His face is squished into a pillow he's hugging, and his toes wriggle against the mattress as Chan stomps past the bed.
“I'm getting Minho something, I'll be right back, Hyun. Don't move.”
Chan retrieves the tube from the floor and hurries into the living room.
Sung is sucking on Minho's neck. Biting, too, if the pinched look on his neighbour's face is anything to go by.
“Hand.”
The redhead holds out his cupped palm behind Sung’s back. Chan squirts some lube on it, eager to get back to the bedroom.
“That enough?”
Minho closes his fingers and snorts.
“To fuck or to set up a slip'n'slide?”
“Shut up. Coma victim, remember?” Chan laughs.
“Didn't sound like that to me just now.” Minho gives him a pointed look that quickly dissolves when Sung paws open his jeans. “Ah—Sungie, we don't have to—do that—if you don't wa—ahh—Wait, wait, wait—”
Sung has taken out Minho's dick and is trying to impale himself with it with no prep. He whines when Minho stops him.
Chan leaves them to it.
In the bedroom, he closes the door and takes a moment to admire the offering on his bed. The long, lean lines of Hyun are mouth-watering. There are a few marks on his back; faded white stripes across his lower back and a few on his shoulders. He seems to sense Chan studying him. His right knee slides higher on the bed, exposing the pink pucker between his cheeks.
“Oh, Hyune. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.” Chan strokes a reverent hand up one smooth calf.
Hyun jams his face further into the pillow. It muffles most of the whimper the confession draws out of him. Chan sheds his clothes and crawls on the bed.
“You've taken such good care of Sungie. I'm so proud of you.”
He forces the long, slender legs even further apart, bending one knee up toward Hyun's hip.
“It’s your turn to be taken care of.”
Hyun jerks at the first press of Chan's tongue against him. He squirms higher on the mattress, mumbling something into the cotton. Chan grabs his thighs and holds him steady.
“Stay still.”
“Hyung,” Hyune chokes out.
Chan doesn't know what he expected, but all he tastes is clean skin when he licks over the rim. Hyun's thighs flex in his hands, and Chan digs his fingers in, earning another whine from above.
Cataloguing Hyun's reactions, Chan experiments. He alternates between long swipes up the crack and shorter, teasing flicks, changing it up with a bite on the firm flesh of his buttock or a poke with the tip of his nose. The ring gradually loosens under the bed of his tongue, and the first dip inside is mostly an accident. Hyune keens and his thighs quiver under Chan's palms.
“Did you like that, baby?”
He gets a garbled mumble in response.
Chan lets go of Hyun's legs in favour of prying apart his asscheeks and worming the tip of his tongue into the spasming hole. It drives Hyun wild. He bucks up into Chan, his broken moan swallowed by the bedding
Chan goes a little crazy himself. Chasing those desperate sounds out of Hyun proves addictive; he wouldn't have thought the man was so responsive, but now that he has let go, he is loud and fidgety, and Chan can't get enough. Only once he's drenched from nose to chin, Hyune sobbing and slurring under him, does he come up for air.
His own arousal crashes into him like a tsunami. He is shaky with it, his hands wobbly as he squeezes out more lube.
“No,” Hyun mutters when Chan prods him with two slick fingers. “I want hyung.” He twists his head to the side, and Chan sees his flushed profile under a curtain of grey strands.
“I don't want to hurt you, Hyune. I promised, remember?” Chan hesitates. His dick pulses in tandem with his heart, and the thought of pushing into the needy creature under him is dizzyingly tempting.
Hyun shakes his head again, rubbing his face into the navy blue cotton.
“Okay, baby. I got you.”
Chan considers their positions. He reaches for the spare pillow on the left-hand side of the bed and pats Hyun's hips.
“Up.”
He complies, and Chan shoves the folded pillow under him. His knuckles drag over a wet puddle on the sheets, and Chan’s brows twitch in confusion. He extracts his hand and discovers milky liquid clinging to the back of his fingers. Sungie had dribbled pre-cum everywhere in the morning, but this—
“Hyun—Did you—finish already?” he asks, stunned.
The man hides his burning face again, hips moving up and down against the pillow. Chan sneaks a hand in between his thighs and finds him drenched and half-hard again.
“Fuck, Hyune-ah—”
Chan licks the mess off his hand without a second thought. It tastes different from his own—what he remembers from his late teens, anyway. Sweeter, with an aftertaste like tears. Hyun watches him with dark, glittering eyes.
He manhandles Hyune's legs back together and plants a knee on either side of his hips. The bend of his lower back is mesmerising. Chan traces it with one hand, feeling the knobs and dents of his spine. They’re so—malleable. He's never been into anything extreme, porn-wise, but the sheer animalistic wantonness of the pair has awakened something dark in him. A desire to test the limits of their bodies, their endurance, their insatiability.
If only he could gain control of his own first.
Chan coats his cock with the lube and guides it between Hyun’s cheeks. The slick head slips upward, and Chan has to use his body weight and a thumb to get it to catch on the tight rim. Hyun inhales sharply under him, and Chan pauses, waiting for him to relax. The tension eases incrementally, and Chan hooks his thumbs on the supple flesh and pulls gently, wanting to see Hyun take him inside.
The sight of the muscle closing around under the crown almost undoes him on the spot. Chan wipes sweat from his brow with his forearm and closes his eyes for a moment, dredging up the memory of Peniel spilling his protein shake all over Chan's laptop—
Hyun tries to push back, to feed himself more of Chan's length, but Chan puts a hand that dip in his back and thrusts down, pinning him into the mattress.
“No. You lie there and take it, Hyune-ah.”
“Hyungg—” It's barely an exhale. Hyun's body is taut to the point of tremors, every muscle standing out in clear definition through the skin.
Chan needs to put some meat on those bones.
But first—
Chan tilts his hips and exerts gentle pressure. Hyun struggles to take him. Whereas Sung was lax, giving inner heat, Hyun can't seem to get himself under control. He tenses after every inch, his muscles clamping down on Chan like a vise no matter how long he spends skimming his fingers over his hips and murmuring endearments.
Then it clicks.
Chan lies down on top of Hyun and wraps his arms around him, one circling his neck and the other, his shoulder. Their slight height difference forces Hyun's back to arch further, but the effect of the pressure and weight is instantaneous. Chan slides inside, his hips flush against the raised curve of Hyun's ass.
“There you go,” Chan whispers. “Good boy.”
Hyun makes a sound a lot like a sob.
Chan grinds down in a slow circle, captivated by the way Hyun's body goes pliant in his hold. The position doesn't allow for a lot of movement, but Chan soon realises that he loves it like this; pulling out just enough to snap back in, each thrust jostling Hyun into the pillow. This close, he hears every breathy sighs and honeyed moan. Hyun's eyes are screwed shut, his eyelashes wet. The red of his ears and jaw is hot against Chan's lips and tongue. Chan nibbles lower, on his shoulder, licks and bites like Sungie did, but rough, calling blood to spread under the surface.
The warmth between their bodies, the rich musk of their mingling sweat is strangely intimate, even more so than the cock plunging in and out of Hyun's yielding hole. If the morning left Chan wondering if it was all a dream, the intensity of taking Hyun like this—like he would shatter into pieces if Chan let go—leaves no room for doubt.
This is real. He can have this—this pleasure. This happiness. This fucked-up little family.
And he wants to give, too, so much. Wants to own something, for once, to hold on to something tooth and nail.
He tightens his grip on Hyun's neck, a surge of base possessiveness like smoke from wet kindling shrouding his thoughts.
“Should I collar you, Hyune-ah?” he growls softly into the man's eucalyptus-scented hair. “A nice, thick leather collar with my name on it, so that everyone knows who you belong to, who to return you to—”
This time, Chan feels it from the inside when Hyun comes. He is quiet through his release, but his muscles contract and jump so hard that Chan's yanked through the edge himself. He fills Hyun with spurt after spurt, teeth biting into the solid muscle between the neck and shoulder.
They lie there for a long time, Chan pressing mindless kisses into Hyun’s mottled neck and back. The man looks like he’s fallen asleep, but when Chan pulls out, meaning to fetch a towel, Hyun rolls over and grabs his wrist.
“No,” he says, tugging.
“Okay.”
Chan settles next to him and hugs the damp, overheated body to his chest.
“You did so good for me, Hyune-ah.” Chan rubs the teeth imprints on Hyun’s neck. “You even have my mark on you now,” he murmurs. Hyun whimpers and presses his face harder into Chan’s chest.
“Cute,” Chan remarks. Hyun bites his pec.
“Ow, you little demon. You clearly need more training.”
“Shut up.”
Chan grins and kisses the top of his head.
In the ensuing silence, Chan hears murmured voices from the living room.
“Hyune!” Sung calls out.
“Hey, wait—” Minho says.
A loud thump.
“Oh shit, are you okay?” Minho’s low, concerned voice.
“Hyun, Minho-hyung broke my legs,” Sungie says, bright and giggly.
Hyun shoots up, but Chan keeps him on the bed with an arm around his waist, smiling to himself. So much for gentle.
“They feel like—what’s that thing Chan always eats? Soup?”
“Ramyeon,” Hyun replies, frowning.
“Really? Always?” Minho asks.
Chan turns into the pillow and groans. Shit.
“Mm-hm,” Sung hums. “Sometimes he microwaves rice and sprinkles this smelly green stuff on top and eats that. He mostly just drinks coffee.”
“That’s it. You’re all permanently invited over for lunch!” Minho announces. “I’m not kidding. I’ll give you a spare key. Come over whenever!”
Hyun scoffs. Chan wrestles him onto the mattress and kisses the scowl off his face.
***
Chan expects a level of awkwardness afterward, but he’s proven wrong. Once they’ve cleaned up, Sungie and Hyune cuddle up on the bed, and Chan joins Minho in the kitchen. The redhead is going through his cupboards with a perplexed glower on his face.
“You have more worth in cat food than in human food in here, Chan. What the hell? Didn’t they teach you that a balanced diet comprises more than noodles and instant coffee at the trainee boot camp?”
Chan secures Minho against the counter with hands on the man’s hips and kisses him before he loses his nerve. Minho responds without a pause. He brackets Chan’s face, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows under his jaw, and opens his mouth for Chan’s overeager tongue. They make out for lazy minutes, finding a rhythm that works for both of them before Minho upends Chan with a growling bite on his lower lip.
“Fuck, you’re hot,” Minho mutters when Chan’s hips jolt against him at the tang of blood on his tongue. “Please tell me you’re open to some experimentation because I have been rubbing myself raw thinking about tying you up and fucking that ridiculous mouth of yours for two weeks straight.”
Minho swipes his tongue over the nick on the swell of his lip, and Chan wonders how many times an adult human male can come in one day.
“Yeah,” he says, embarrassingly raspy. “Anything, fuck, you can do anything to me. I—I might not be very good, though, haha—I’ve never, um, sucked dick. Sorry—”
“Oh my god.” Minho exerts more pressure where his fingers are digging into Chan’s neck. His eyes are a little glassy, the dusting of pink on his cheeks darkening steadily. “Get on your knees.”
Chan drops to the floor like a cartoon anvil, and Minho’s pupils dilate. He fumbles with his jeans, and Chan itches to help, but he keeps his hands in his lap, pressing down on his dick chubbing up in his joggers with the side of his hand.
“I will not hold you. You can set your own pace. Gagging is normal, don’t force it; it takes practice to control the reflex. Use your hand on what you can’t take. Don’t worry about technique, this is not a performance, okay?”
The assurances soothe Chan, although his skin won’t stop feeling like it’s about to melt off his skull.
Minho’s cock is lovely. The unfamiliar weight and girth of it in his hands is exhilarating as he strokes it to full hardness. It’s not as big as his own, but above average if Chan had to guess. He doesn’t have much experience in the area outside porn.
He starts with a shy lick around the head and shaft, straining to see Minho’s reactions. The redhead is gripping the edge of the counter. He looks down at Chan with a sweet smile on his upturned lips. Encouraging. Chan throbs with the desire to make this good for him, and he takes the tip between his lips. The pearl of salty pre-cum dissolving into his mouth is a pop of blazing pleasure in his gut. He surges forward, suddenly ravenous to feel his throat clench around the thickness. Tears well up in his eyes when the head slides over that fragile point of discomfort at the back of his tongue. It’s not as intense as Chan had feared, though. The blooming arousal helps subdue the tightness in his throat, and he swallows around the crown before easing off, saliva slipping over the curve of his lip. He gathers the excess drool in his mouth and spits it on the shaft before he sinks down again, testing out the balance between suction and minding his teeth. He’s not sure he’s getting it quite right, feeling clumsy when his lips nudge against the hand wrapped around the base and more saliva spills out. He loves the sensation of Minho’s cock twitching as it knocks into his throat. It makes him feel—powerful. Useful. Like he’s doing a good job.
He hums with the pleasure of it, palming himself more firmly over his pants.
Minho’s eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open when Chan finally pulls back and blinks wetly up at him.
“Okay?” he asks, a weird shyness taking over.
“Chan, I—” Minho looks somewhat lost himself. Chan feels more pre-cum dribble against the seam of his lips and he suckles the tip between his lips, not wanting to waste a single drop. “I—ah—think we should talk to the superintendent about taking down the wall between our apartments.”
“What?” Chan’s gawks at him.
“We can talk about it later,” Minho says hurriedly. “Can I touch your head?”
Chan nods, pushing down the panicked thought of Minho laughing at his thinning hair to the back of his mind.
‘Touching his head’ means Minho lacing his fingers on the back of it and holding Chan in place while he thrusts tentatively into his mouth.
It’s good, so good, and Chan moans as Minho grows bolder, his hips lurching forward faster and faster. The tempo eventually overtakes Chan’s control, and he gags, but even that only turns him on more—the mess of it all, spit dripping down on the laminate between them—and he tilts forward when Minho tries to back off.
“Chan, you—fuck—”
Minho comes without a warning. Luckily, it doesn’t hit Chan quite in the back of his throat, but the warm outpouring on his tongue is unfamiliar, and he’s not sure if he wants to swallow all of it. His instincts take over and he just—opens his mouth, letting the milky strands trickle from his mouth. Minho’s dick spurts weakly again, and he groans, gripping himself at the base like it hurts.
Three seconds later he is tackled to the floor. Sung and Hyun climb on top of him and lick at his drenched face and mouth with feverish aggression that has Chan shoving a hand down his joggers. He orgasms almost immediately with the feeling of two tongues bullying their way into his slack mouth.
He stares at the dusty white pendant in the kitchen ceiling, and thinks, smiling dazedly, this is my life now.
***
It’s not without its hiccups.
Hyun doesn’t warm up to Minho in the coming days despite Chan’s best efforts. Minho doesn’t seem to worry about it as much as he does.
“Cats are like that, Channie,” he says with a shrug when he brings it up one evening at the dinner table.
Sung loves to come over to Minho’s place—he bonded with all three of Minho’s cats on day one—but he hates leaving Hyun alone, so Chan brings them their dinner in Tupperware containers when he comes back home.
“You can’t force it.”
The next Sunday afternoon Minho asks to use Chan’s computer to review some footage from his studio; he left his laptop charger in his office, and the battery had died. Chan, in the middle of giving his kitchen a much-needed deep clean, tells him to knock himself out.
Hyun, lounging on the sofa with a sketch pad and a pencil, ignores the redhead as always—until the music plays. It’s a fast-paced song from a group Chan is familiar with through work. He’s seen Minho practice the choreo to it in his kitchen while he waits for the steaks to sear, and he could probably make a passable attempt at the chorus himself.
Chan watches Hyun shift positions on the sofa so that he can see the screen across the room. After five minutes, he slides onto the rug, then gets on his feet and pads over to the desk in the corner between the wall and the door to the bedroom.
Minho senses his hovering presence behind the chair and twists around.
“Oh, hi, Hyun. Do you want to join me? I’m just going through our latest choreography to see if there’s something we could improve. I can get you a stool?”
Hyun doesn’t speak or even nod, but he doesn’t leave either. Minho throws Chan an amused glance and goes to fetch the stool in the hallway. Hyun has slid into the office chair when he returns, but Minho takes it in a stride, settling on the stool next to him. He presses play on the video.
Hyun is riveted. They watch the 2o-minute recording twice, and his eyes are fixed on the screen the whole time.
“I’m going to the studio later today, do you want to come with me?” Minho asks casually.
Hyun gives him a flat look and goes into the bedroom to wake up Sungie.
Chan sighs, wringing the sponge he’s been using to scrub dried takeout grease from the bottom of his fridge, but Minho simply smiles.
When Minho goes to put on his shoes half an hour later, Hyun emerges from the bedroom and yanks the slim black leather boots with silver buckles Chan bought for him onto his feet without a word.
Chan opens his mouth, but Minho shakes his head behind Hyun’s back.
They leave in silence.
It’s the first time Hyun has ventured out of the apartment without Sung and Chan.
Sung seems a little anxious for the rest of the evening. He wanders in and out of the bedroom like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He watches Chan work on a song for a while, then gets himself a glass of juice and leaves it, untouched, on the coffee table, and plays a game on Chan’s old iPhone on his back on the rug. He reads a book for all of three and a half minutes. He eats some grapes.
Chan would quit working and take Sung out for ice-cream or something, but he’s already been putting off finishing the bridge for the song for days. He has to knock it into the shape before he heads to the studio tomorrow morning.
Chan kicks his chair back when Sung crawls under the desk and lays his head on his lap.
“Hey, baby,” Chan pets him. The new conditioner he bought has worked wonders on the hair, and his fingers glide smoothly through the soft curls. “Missing Hyune?”
Sung’s thicker bottom lip pokes out further, and he nods, turning the motion into a nuzzle against Chan’s flannel bottoms.
“It’s okay. He’ll be back before you know it. Do you want to go play with Soonie, Dori and Doongie? I can give you the key—”
Sung noses into the crook of his thigh and groin, and Chan’s legs fall further open on either side of his small body.
“Sungie, I can’t—It’s not that I don’t want to, but I have to finish this by tomorrow—”
Undeterred by his feeble protests, Sungie digs out Chan’s mostly soft dick with his small, warm fingers and takes the head into his mouth.
Chan is already resigning himself to a sleepless night by the computer, blood flooding south, but Sung simply settles his head back against Chan’s tense thigh and closes his eyes. He suckles on the tip lazily, with no actual intent, his arms wrapping around Chan’s leg for support.
“Oh.”
Minutes tick by.
Chan stares at the brunette’s peaceful face, flailing between explosive arousal and fondness like a netted butterfly. Sungie’s cheeks are sleepy-pink, long eyelashes fanning over the relaxed contours. Saliva leaks on Chan’s thigh and pools on the faux leather of the chair.
Chan leans forward over his keyboard and tries to focus on the song. He fucks around with the tempo, adds a few effects in the pre-chorus. Removes them. Layers a few harmonies over each other, resets everything and starts over.
His cock hardens in the limp warmth of Sung’s mouth. After thirty minutes, Chan leans back in his chair and peeks under the desk. Sung is asleep. Chan’s erection juts against his upper teeth unpleasantly, and he shifts, the head bumping against Sung’s soft palate. The man hums, and his mouth tightens around him, cheeks hollowing on reflex.
Chan’s hips rock forward involuntarily, seeking more of that sweet suction, and Sung makes another drowsy noise, curling further around Chan’s calf.
“Sungie, you’re going to get a crick in your neck like that. Let’s get you to bed.”
Chan wheels back in his chair, pulling the man with him by his armpits. Sung whines when Chan’s dick falls out of his mouth, and instinctively, Chan prods two fingers into his gaping mouth after collecting him into his arms. Shuffling into the bedroom with the floppy body and a boner is a graceless process, but he manages it without dropping Sungie or tripping over.
Chan means to let Sung sleep, he really does, but the man starts to toss and whimper when left alone on top of the covers, and Chan is plastering himself to his back before he can think twice about it.
“Hyung,” Sung mumbles contentedly.
“Oh, my clingy little dumpling,” Chan murmurs. Sung’s hair smells amazing, and Chan buries his face in the curls, stroking the cute little roll of Sung’s belly over the top the waistband of his sweats.
Sung if out cold in minutes, but Chan can’t calm down. Arousal thrums through him with every soft snore and shift of Sungie’s loose body. Chan rubs his clothed dick against the gap between Sung’s thighs, and his hand dips under the waistband on his next round of massaging soothing circles onto the man’s stomach. Sung’s not wearing underwear.
Fuck.
He pulls the sweats down carefully, baring the pert swell of the brunette’s ass. Chan’s cock smears shiny trails of pre-cum on the skin as he pushes it into the hot crack under Sung’s sac.
The idea takes hold of him by the neck, and Chan’s reaching for the lube before his mind has time to freak out over consent. While Sungie hasn’t explicitly given him permission, but Chan has woken up more than once with his dick in someone’s mouth, and he feels it in his gut that his pretty pet won’t mind.
Will love it, in fact.
Chan squirts some into his palm and warms it up between his hands before coating himself and slathering some on the cleft. He doesn’t plan on penetration, he just wants the heat and the friction between his thighs, but Sungie’s is so pliable and warm, and keeps making tiny, puffing whimpers, and so, so adorable with his toothy, open mouth and twitching nose—before he knows it, Chan’s holding his hip and rocking against the unresistant hole. It sucks him in greedily.
Sungie doesn’t stir.
Chan is gentle, at first. Tender, small nudges deeper inside. Loving pecks on the top of Sung’s head. Sweet caresses on the bend of his waist, shirt rucking up.
Then, out of nowhere, that wicked urge to ravage awakens again. It’s been gaining more ground over the course of the week, especially with Hyun, who’s fast learning new tricks to coax it out of him.
Chan is usually more careful with Sungie even though he’s seen—and stroked himself off to—Minho bending the lithe boy in half and fuck two orgasms out if him with bruising ferocity.
But now, he wants it, wants to wreck the stillness of his defenceless body. Chan rolls Sung face-first into the mattress and flattens his palms against on either side of his spine before rising on his arms and ramming into him to the hilt.
Sung gasps awake.
“Ah, hyung,” he cries out, wriggling under Chan’s weight.
Chan fucks into him, hard and rough, fingers fisting in the damp hairs at the nape of his neck. Sungie takes it with the same dignity he took his first bath on his first night home. He mewls and sniffles wretchedly, but doesn’t wrestle out of Chan’s grip.
“Oh, hyung, I’m—I’m gonna—,” he slurs, and Chan sees him rut against his own hand he’d sneakily shoved into his sweats at some point.
Chan leans back and sinks his fingers into Sungie’s hips, yanking him back onto his cock viciously.
Sungie howls when he trembles through his orgasm, rubbing his forehead into the sheets as his whole body arches like a bow.
Chan pulls out and flips Sung over, knee-walking up the bed until he’s high enough to paint the man’s reddened face with his cum. Sung’s lips part and his tongue sticks out automatically. Chan groans at the sight of his release filling the boy’s mouth, and when Sungie scrabbles up to share his treasure with sloppy kisses, Chan lets him even though he’s not as fond of the stuff as his roommates.
They flop down on the bed side by side, breaths slowly evening out.
“Thank you, hyung,” Sungie says after a while. “That was so nice.” It sounds like he’s about to fall asleep again, the words slightly unwieldy in his mouth.
“No, thank you, baby. Love you.”
Sungie hums and burrows against his side.
“Love you, hyung.”
After an hour-long unplanned nap, Chan wakes to a message from Minho. It’s a picture of Hyune. The man scowls at the camera under his overgrown fringe. Sweat beads at his forehead, runs down in streams over his cheeks. He has his middle finger in his mouth, and cum glistens on his lower lip, some running down the slender digit.
Hyun’s staying over tonight, the text below reads. He’ll start coming to the studio with me starting tomorrow.
Huh.
Chan grins into the darkness.
Two hours later, Sung ambles out of the bedroom, covered in dried cum stains and his hair flying every which way. He settles on Chan’s lap on the desk chair, back to chest, without asking for permission.
He watches Chan click around for a while.
“Try layering the violin over the bridge but distort it a little, like it’s coming from down, like a well. Then, pick up the tempo here,” he says and points at the lines just before the chorus, “and push back the vocals…”
Chan gapes.
Sung has been watching him work from every day, before and after his transformation, but Chan did not know he was paying any proper attention to what he was doing.
An hour later, they have the track in decent shape.
Chan chews on his lower lip as they listen to it one more time.
“Sungie, would you like to come to work with me tomorrow?”
“Oh, hyung, really? Yes!”
***
They knock down the wall in late November. Neither bedroom is big enough for two king-sized beds pushed together, but they order a custom-made bed that costs a fortunate is a bitch and a half to assemble. It’s barely big enough for four grown men, but Sungie and Hyun are incapable of sleeping unless they are on top or under someone so it just about works.
Minho offers Hyune an official teacher’s position at his studio before Christmas. Hyun pretends not to hear him, but digs out Minho’s rope kit from the closet in the evening, and closes the bedroom door in Sung and Chan’s faces. They try to sleep on the sofa, but get distracted by the sounds coming from the next room, and fuck instead.
Two weeks later, the company offers Sung an official job. He is so proud of himself, dancing and hollering when the call comes in, that Minho and Chan can’t help but reward him by spit roasting right there on the living room carpet while Hyun watches, choking on his own fingers with a toy between his legs.
On the last day of April, Chan’s boss introduces him to Changbin, a talented rapper and writer they poached from a rival company after a rumoured scandal of him having an affair with a trainee. Chan likes him immediately. He is easy-going, a little goofy, and a hard worker. Over coffee, Changbin confesses to falling a new hire, an Australian boy called Felix. Chan is overjoyed to have someone from back home join their social circle, and invites the couple for dinner.
Minho cooks lamb racks, and after four bottles of red wine, Changbin bends Sungie over the armchair and fucks into him while Felix swallows Chan’s cock like it’s a lollipop under the dinner table.
Things don’t get really complicated until Hyun drags home a young, gangly student from his hip-hop class and tells them that Jeongin needs help with the cat he found on the street outside his apartment building. The thing is feral, Jeongin explains tremulously, showing them the deep, bloody scratches on his arms, but he’s determined to keep him. The no-kill shelters in the area are all full, and Jeongin just knows that Minnie has a golden heart under all the distrust and fear.
Chan doesn’t know how Hyune could tell, but Minnie turns into a human the following night.
Jeongin calls them at six in the morning, panic lacing his sweet voice. Minnie hurt him, he tells Hyun, but he really liked it; is that normal?
Minho goes to stay with them for five days, and Jeongin blossoms after that. Chan’s company signs him in August. Minnie joins them in December—he's as mean as an alley cat, but has the pipes and looks of an angel.
The idea forms during one sticky-hot June evening, after hours spent drinking and horsing around in the park.
Felix is sunburnt and loopy after two hard lemonades. He naps wrapped around Sungie so tightly you can only tell where one ends and the other one begins from the difference in their skin tone.
Minho is modelling, unwittingly, for Hyun scratching away at his pad on the grass under a nearby tree. The redhead argues with Seungmin about the song choice for their next project. Out of the corner of his eye, Chan sees Jeongin slide the bread knife under the picnic blanket.
“We should start our own group. Independently,” Changbin says, sloshing beer all over Chan’s lap as he bumps him in the shoulder with his forearm. “We would kill it, dude. Your talent is wasted with JYP. What do you say?”
Chan studies the men in the hazy burnt-orange light of the setting sun.
“Yeah,” he says. “What the hell. Why not.”
Chan is still a dog person, but he’s learning that much of the same principles applies to cats—and people—too.
You treat them well; they treat you well.
You prove yourself a worthy leader, and they will follow you anywhere.
Love is met with love.