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It started small.
A harmless thing, really. Seungmin had known Minho was seeing someone—Jisung, sweet-faced and soft-voiced, the kind of guy who brought homemade cookies and laughed too easily at Minho's deadpan jokes. Seungmin had been fine with it. Happy, even. His older brother deserved someone who looked at him like he was the whole damn universe.
The first time they fucked, Seungmin barely noticed.
He'd been in his room, headphones on, grinding through a late assignment. A few thumps through the wall, a muffled laugh, then silence. No big deal. He'd cranked his music and forgotten about it by morning.
But it didn't stay a one-time thing.
It became a rhythm.
Tuesday nights, Thursday afternoons, sometimes Saturday mornings when Seungmin was still half-asleep and the sounds drifted through his door like a cruel alarm clock.
Minho never warned him. Never texted hey, Jisung's coming over, make yourself scarce.
He just… brought him home. Every time. And every time, Seungmin heard it all.
The first few weeks, Seungmin buried himself in distractions.
He turned up his TV until the dialogue crackled. He ran the shower longer than necessary, letting the steam drown out the noise. He even tried going for late-night walks, wandering the empty streets until his legs ached, just to avoid being in the apartment when the headboard started its familiar, relentless pounding.
But he couldn't escape forever. He lived there.
The sounds seeped through the thin walls like water through cracked drywall.
The wet, sucking noises of Minho's mouth on Jisung's skin. Jisung's high, breathy gasps, begging for more. And Minho's voice—low, commanding, laced with a possessive growl that Seungmin had never heard from him before. "Take it. Take all of it. You can do better than that, baby."
Seungmin would lie in bed, jaw clenched, fists balled in his sheets, staring at the ceiling while his brother fucked his boyfriend three feet away.
He hated it. Hated the selfishness of it. Hated that Minho never once considered how it felt to be trapped in the next room, forced to listen to every goddamn moan and slap and creak. Hated that Minho acted like Seungmin didn't exist when Jisung was around.
And that hate curdled into something uglier.
No, Seungmin resented Minho. For being so careless. For treating their shared home like a fucking love motel. For never once asking if it bothered him.
Tonight had been the worst.
Jisung had arrived at nine, giggling and flushed, already pulling Minho toward the bedroom before the door was fully closed. Seungmin had been in the kitchen, making ramyeon. He'd watched them disappear, heard the lock click, and felt something snap.
The ramyeon went cold. He'd sat on the couch, bowl untouched, listening.
Jisung had been loud tonight.
So loud.
Screaming Minho's name in a pitch that bordered on desperate, and Minho answered with grunts and curses and the brutal slap of skin against skin.
It went on for over an hour.
Seungmin's hands trembled from sheer irritation. He wanted to bang on the wall and tell them to shut the fuck up. He wanted to march in there and drag Minho out by his ear like they were kids again.
But he didn't. He sat there, seething, counting the minutes until it ended.
When it finally finished, Seungmin heard the soft murmur of aftercare—water being poured, Jisung's quiet thank-yous, a kiss that lingered too long.
Then footsteps. The front door opened. Closed. Jisung's cheerful "Goodnight, Minho hyung!" echoed through the hallway, and then silence.
Seungmin waited exactly thirty seconds. Long enough for Minho to settle down, to think the night was over. Then he rose from the couch, his body vibrating with a rage that felt too big for his frame, and marched to Minho's door.
He didn't knock. He pounded.
And when the door swung open, when he saw Minho standing there in nothing but sweatpants, flushed and half-hard and infuriatingly smug, Seungmin's blood boiled.
"You've got some nerve," Seungmin spat, voice low and shaking. "Every single fucking night, hyung. Do you even remember I live here? Or am I just furniture to you?"
Minho's smirk only widened. "Jealous, Seungmin-ah?"
"Jealous? What the fuck is your problem?" Seungmin laughed, bitter and sharp. "I'm annoyed. There's a difference. Try having some damn consideration for once!" Seungmin's fist was still clenched at his side, his nails digging crescents into his palm.
The smell hit him first—sweat and sex, cloying and thick, spilling out of the doorway like a physical wall. He wrinkled his nose, disgust curling his lip.
Minho leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, sweatpants riding low on his hips. His chest was still slick, his hair dishevelled, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. "You done?"
"No." Seungmin's voice came out sharper than he intended.
"I'm not done. I've been done for months, hyung. Every goddamn night—"
"Not every night." Minho held up a finger. "Tuesday and Thursday, sometimes Saturday. That's three nights a week. Perfectly reasonable for a relationship."
"Reasonable?" Seungmin's laugh was brittle. "Reasonable is warning me. Reasonable is keeping it down. Reasonable is not treating our apartment like a soundstage for your porno."
Minho's smirk didn't waver. He pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer, and Seungmin instinctively stepped back—but forced himself to hold his ground. He wasn't going to be intimidated in his own home.
"You're so dramatic," Minho said, his tone light and teasing. "If it bothers you that much, get noise-cancelling headphones. Or move out. I hear the closet under the stairs is available."
Fury flared in Seungmin's chest. "This isn't funny."
"I'm not laughing." Minho doesn't falter.
His eyes were sharp, studying Seungmin with an intensity that felt like a spotlight. "But you're standing here, pounding on my door, lecturing me about my sex life like you're our mom. What do you actually want, Seungmin? An apology? A schedule? Me to break up with Jisung because you can't handle hearing a little action?"
"It's not a little action. It's—" Seungmin gestured wildly at the room behind Minho. At the rumpled sheets, the discarded condom wrapper glinting on the nightstand, the lube bottle half-knocked over.
"It's that! Every single time! Do you even care that I live here too?"
Minho's expression flickered. Something unreadable passed through his eyes—annoyance? Regret? Hard to tell with him. Then it was gone, replaced by that infuriating calm.
"I care," Minho said, his voice softer now. "But you're not a kid anymore, Seungmin. I'm not going to tiptoe around my life because you're uncomfortable. Jisung is my boyfriend. We have sex. That's what couples do."
Seungmin opened his mouth to argue, but Minho cut him off.
"If you have a problem with me, say it. Don't hide behind complaints about noise." He tilted his head, a challenge in the gesture. "What's really bothering you? That I'm happy? That I'm getting laid and you're not?"
The words hit like a slap. Seungmin's jaw tightened, his ears burning red. "You're an asshole."
"Maybe." Minho shrugged. "But I'm an asshole who's tired of this conversation. Either accept that I have a sex life, or move out. Those are your options. Pick one."
"You can go fuck yourself, Minho," Seungmin spat, his voice trembling with barely contained rage.
He didn't wait for a response. He spun on his heel, storming back to his room, and slammed the door so hard the frame rattled. The sound echoed through the apartment like a gunshot, satisfying and final.
His chest heaved as he pressed his back against the cool wood, fists still clenched, nails digging crescents into his palms. The anger was a living thing inside him, coiling and writhing, demanding release. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to scream. He wanted to wipe that smug, satisfied look off Minho's face so badly it made his teeth ache.
"Either accept that I have a sex life, or move out."
The words replayed in his head, each repetition a fresh spike of irritation.
Who the hell did Minho think he was? Mr. Perfect, with his perfect boyfriend and his perfect life, acting like he owned the goddamn place just because he was two years older.
Seungmin pushed off the door, pacing his room like a caged animal. His eyes swept over his desk, his bed, the posters on the wall—none of it offered answers. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration.
There had to be something. Some way to wipe that smirk off Minho's face.
He flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind churning. What would get under Minho's skin? What would make him feel even a fraction of the annoyance Seungmin had been swallowing for months?
And then it hit him.
It hit him like a truck, sudden and brilliant and so perfectly, deliciously petty that a grin spread across his face before he could stop it.
He'd do the same thing.
He'd bring someone back. He'd fuck with them loud and messy and obnoxious, right through those thin walls, and Minho would have to lie there and listen, powerless and annoyed, just like Seungmin had been.
The thought sent a thrill through him.
His mind immediately went to Chan.
Chan, his close friend, the one he'd hooked up with a couple times before—casual, easy, no strings attached. They'd been friends for years, and yeah, sometimes their friendship blurred into something else after a few drinks, but it was never complicated. Chan was perfect for this. He was understanding, he didn't judge, and he'd probably find the whole revenge scheme hilarious.
Seungmin pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he found Chan's name. His thumb hovered over the message button, the grin still plastered on his face.
Hey, you busy this weekend? I need a favour.
He typed it out, then deleted it. Too vague.
Hyung. You free Friday night? Got a plan that requires your... expertise.
He sent it before he could second-guess himself. Then he added another message:
Trust me. It'll be fun. And I'll owe you one.
He tossed his phone onto the bed, lying back with his arms behind his head, a satisfied smirk curling his lips.
Minho wanted to act like he ran the place? Fine. Let him see how it felt to be on the other side of those paper-thin walls.
Seungmin was already counting down the days.
Seungmin met Chan at a small coffee shop a few blocks from the apartment. The place was quiet, nearly empty—perfect for what he had in mind.
He'd already texted Chan the bare bones: I need your help getting back at my brother. It involves loud sex. You in?
Chan had replied with a string of laughing emojis and a simple Tell me when and where.
"So let me get this straight," Chan said, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You want me to come over, fuck you stupid, and make sure your brother hears every single moan, slap, and curse word through the walls."
Seungmin nodded, a determined glint in his eye. "Exactly. He's been doing the same thing with his boyfriend for months. I've had to listen to them. Now it's his turn."
Chan chuckled, shaking his head slowly. "That's... beautifully petty. I love it." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping.
"But you know I'm not gonna half-ass it, right? If we're doing this, we're doing it right. I'll have you screaming so loud the neighbours might call the cops." The heat in Chan's voice sent a shiver down Seungmin's spine.
He'd hooked up with Chan before—they knew each other's bodies, knew what buttons to push. That was exactly the point. He needed someone who could really perform.
"Not might. Will," Seungmin corrected, grinning. "That's the goal. I want him to feel the same annoyance I've been swallowing for months."
Chan pulled out his phone. "Alright. When's he out of the apartment?"
"Tomorrow afternoon. He has a study group but he usually backs out after half an hour passes. Perfect time to get caught." Seungmin grins.
"Perfect." Chan typed something into his calendar, then looked up, eyes dark with amusement. "I'll bring lube. And maybe a gag, in case you change your mind about being loud."
Seungmin laughed, shaking his head. "No gag. I need every noise to carry."
The next day, Seungmin's nerves buzzed under his skin like static. He'd spent the morning avoiding Minho, keeping his door shut, pretending to study. Through the thin walls, he could hear Minho shuffling around, the occasional hum of music from earbuds. Normal. Oblivious.
At 1:45, Minho's footsteps padded past Seungmin's door toward the front entrance. The jingle of keys. The creak of the door.
"Hey, I'm heading out," Minho called, his voice casual, unconcerned. "Don't burn the place down."
Seungmin forced a neutral tone. "Yeah, sure. Whatever."
The door clicked shut. Silence.
Seungmin counted to sixty, just to be sure his brother wasn't coming back for a forgotten phone or wallet. Then he pulled out his phone.
Coast is clear.
Chan's reply came instantly: On my way.
The knock came five minutes later. Seungmin opened the door to find Chan leaning against the frame, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, a lazy grin on his face.
"Ready to make some noise?" Chan asked, stepping inside before Seungmin could answer.
"More than ready."
Chan dropped the bag near the couch and looked around the living room. "So, where's the best spot? Close to his room?"
Seungmin pointed toward the hallway. "My room's next to his. The shared wall is the one with my bed."
"Perfect." Chan grabbed his bag and headed down the hall, Seungmin following close behind. Inside Seungmin's room, Chan tossed the bag onto the bed, unzipping it to reveal lube, condoms, and a small vibrator.
"Thought we might need some variety," Chan said, winking.
Seungmin's cock twitched in his jeans. He hadn't been this wired for a hookup in a while—the revenge angle added a layer of adrenaline that made everything feel sharper.
Chan stepped closer, hands settling on Seungmin's hips. "Let's start slow. Build up to the real show." He tilted his head, voice low. "But once I get you going, I'm not stopping until you're hoarse."
"Deal."
Their lips met—soft at first, then hungry.
Chan's tongue slid into Seungmin's mouth, tasting faintly of mint. Seungmin's hands found Chan's shoulders, gripping the fabric of his jacket. They moved toward the bed, shedding clothes in a trail of discarded fabric.
Chan pushed Seungmin onto the mattress, kneeling over him, already hard. He trailed kisses down Seungmin's neck, biting lightly at the collarbone, leaving marks that would bloom purple by morning.
"You good?" Chan murmured against his skin.
"Yeah. More than good."
Chan worked Seungmin open slowly, methodically, with slick fingers that curled and stretched until Seungmin was squirming, breath hitching. The vibrator buzzed against his balls, making his toes curl. Every touch was deliberate, designed to build anticipation rather than release.
"Please," Seungmin finally gasped, hips bucking. "Just fuck me already."
Chan grinned, rolling on a condom and slicking up his cock. "Patience, baby. We have time." He lines up, pushing in inch by inch, watching Seungmin's face twist with pleasure.
The first full thrust drew a sharp cry from Seungmin's throat.
"Fuck—Hyung—"
"Yeah?" Chan bottomed out, holding still, letting Seungmin adjust. "That what you wanted?"
Seungmin nodded frantically, nails digging into Chan's shoulders. "Move. Move, goddammit."
Chan obliged, setting a punishing rhythm from the start. Each thrust drove Seungmin up the bed, his moans turning into a staccato of curses and whimpers. The headboard began to knock against the wall, a steady thump thump thump that echoed through the room.
Seungmin was lost in it—the stretch, the heat, the feeling of being filled and fucked relentlessly. He wrapped his legs around Chan's waist, pulling him deeper, encouraging louder, faster, harder.
They shifted positions, Chan flipping him onto his stomach, driving into him from behind. The new angle made Seungmin see stars, his face pressed into the pillow as he cried out, muffling nothing.
"That's it," Chan growled, gripping Seungmin's hips hard enough to bruise. "Let them hear you. Let him hear you."
Seungmin's back arched, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. "Y-yeah—right there—don't stop—"
They were in the middle of it—sweat-slicked skin, heavy breathing, the wet slap of flesh meeting flesh—when Seungmin heard it.
The front door. The click of the lock. His heart jumped.
Minho.
He was home.
But instead of panic, a savage grin spread across Seungmin's face. He reached back, grabbing Chan's wrist, urging him to keep going.
"Harder," he gasped, deliberately loud. "Fuck me harder, Chan—right there—yes—"
Chan got the memo immediately. He slammed into Seungmin with renewed vigour, the bed creaking on its frame. Seungmin let loose a full-throated moan, knowing exactly where Minho would be—standing in the hallway, frozen, hearing every single sound through the goddamn paper-thin walls.
"Gonna—fuck, I'm gonna cum—" Seungmin yelled, half-truth, half-performance.
"Then cum," Chan growled, driving deep. "Scream for me."
Seungmin did. He let out a long, broken cry as his orgasm hit, body shuddering, Chan following close behind with a guttural groan.
They collapsed together, panting, chests heaving. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing.
The sound of a door slamming shut was heard after a few seconds of recalibrating.
Seungmin laughed, breathless and triumphant, burying his face against Chan's shoulder.
"Payback's a bitch, hyung."
Chan’s lips lingered against Seungmin’s one last time, soft and warm, before he pulled back with a satisfied smirk, the squelching sound his dick hissed out as Seungmin keens at the lost of being filled. His hand slid down Seungmin’s spine, pressing lightly against the small of his back, where a dull, delicious ache had already settled deep into the muscles.
“Good?” Chan asked, his voice husky with adoration.
Seungmin hummed, stretching slowly, feeling the pull in his hips and thighs. His hole was sore, slick with lube and cum, a raw emptiness that made him clench instinctively. “Better than good. Perfect. I forgot how much I missed having you.”
Chan chuckles, giving Seungmin one last kiss on his back, as he grabs his duffel bag from the floor. “Text me if you need a repeat performance. Or if your brother tries to murder you.”
Seungmin creaks a smile at that, as Chan puts on his clothes. “I’ll handle him. It’s about time he gets a taste of his own medicine.” Confidence buzzed under his skin as he watched Chan slip out of the door, giving him another kiss goodbye as the lock clicked into the apartment's wall, echoing.
For a moment, Seungmin just stood there in the hallway, naked except for the loose t-shirt he’d pulled on in a rush to send Chan off. His ass ached with every heartbeat—a pulsing, full-body reminder of being stretched and fucked into the mattress. His thighs were sticky, a thin trail of cum already starting to leak down the inside of his leg.
He should clean up. He knew that. But the sound of Minho’s door slamming earlier still rang in his ears, and the satisfaction was too sweet to wash away just yet.
He padded barefoot toward the living room, intending to grab a water bottle from the kitchen. As he was about to round the corner, he freezes.
Minho was sitting on the couch.
Not in his room. Not on his phone.
Just sitting there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the hallway Seungmin had just emerged from. His was was tight, his posture rigid. The air in the room felt thick—charged with something Seungmin couldn’t quite name.
“Oh.” Seungmin’s voice came out steadier than he felt.
“You’re back already?” He tries to act sly.
Minho’s gaze travelled over him slowly—deliberately—lingering on the bare legs, the rumpled t-shirt, the flushed skin. His eyes darkened.
“Who was that?” Minho’s voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it. A crack beneath the surface.
Seungmin shrugged, walking past him toward the kitchen, making sure his steps were unhurried. “Friend.”
Simple. Short answer. Astute. That should get him off his back.
“Bullshit.”
Seungmin grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting the cap off and taking a long drink. He could feel Minho’s stare burning into his back. When he turned, he leaned against the counter, spreading his legs just slightly, letting the ache in his spine remind him of exactly what he’d done.
“You heard everything, didn’t you?” Seungmin asked, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Every moan. Every slap. Every please, right there, fuck me harder.”
Minho’s nostrils flared. He uncrossed his arms, planting his hands on his knees, leaning forward. “You did that on purpose.”
“Maybe,” Seungmin took another sip of water, watching his brother over the rim of the bottle. “How does it feel, hyung? Having to listen to someone else’s sex life through the walls? Having to sit there and know what’s happening just a few feet away? It doesn’t feel good, does it?” Seungmin mocks, trying to go back into his room.
Minho stood up abruptly, the couch creaks with his weight. He walked in front of Seungmin, each step measure, predatory. Seungmin held his ground, though his pulse quickened.
“You think this is funny?” Minho stopped barely a foot away, close enough that Seungmin could smell the faint scent of his cologne, could see the tension in his shoulders.
“I think it’s fair.” Seungmin’s voice dropped, losing its playful edge.
“You’ve been shoving your relationship with Jisung in my face for months. You don’t get to be pissy when I do the same. That’s not how this works. You don’t get to benefit just because I don’t do it as well.” Seungmin argues, looking straight into this eyes. A challenge.
MInho’s hand shot out, grabbing Seungmin’s wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm. “Except you didn’t do it to have sex. You just did it to get back at me.”
“And?” Seungmin didn’t pull away. He tilted his chin up, meeting Minho’s nostrils. “It worked, didn’t it? You’re standing here, shaking, because you couldn’t stand hearing me get fucked.”
Minho’s grip tightened. HIs breath was coming faster now, his eyes scanning Seungmin’s face, his neck, the little hickeys blooming along his collarbone.
“Who was it?” Minho asked again, quieter this time. Almost a growl that wanted to claw out of his throat but he persists.
“Chan-hyung.” Seungmin smugly answers. “Jisung’s ex.”
Minho’s jaw clenched at what his little shit of a brother is implying. Chan. Of fucking course.
He’d never personally asked Jisung about his relationship back then with Chan, seeing as it was no business of his, considering how madly in love they were with each other now. But for Seungmin, to even target Chan of all people?
How long have they been hooking up? Was it a one-off thing or were they a thing this whole time? Minho’s brain scrambled at the multiple thoughts. Was Seungmin trying to sabotage their relationship by bringing Chan along into the mix?
Fuck.
Fuck Seungmin.
And fuck what his pants are doing at the same time.
Seungmin studies the way Minho’s gone silent, seeing his breathing and chest heaving from the tension. “I also heard from a little birdy that they used to be a thing,” Seungmin speaks out of nowhere.
Minho’s eyes flicker towards him with predatory glaze. His face was glowing red, from all the wrong reasons. And was it all the wrong reasons, if he’s finding it every moral compass in himself to shove Seungmin into a wall and shut him up?
Seungmin’s eyes flicked down, chuckling and thinking about the next few words but it all dies down.
He’d thought Minho’s redness was supposed to depict anger, to shove him and beat him up in the hallway, but instead, with the familiar fury, came with the clenched jaw, the flared nostrils, the vein pulsing at his temple.
And it was there.
Something. Big.
His smirk died down.
The fabric of Minho’s sweatpants strained, a thick, unmistakable bulge pressing against the grey cotton. Hard. Aching. Obvious.
Seungmin lets out a sharp laugh—brittle and loud, echoing off the kitchen tiles.
“Oh my god.” He pulled his wrist free, Minho's grip loosening in surprise. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“What?” Minho’s voice was rough, defensive, but he’s so humiliated to even think about his brother in this way.
Seungmin pointed at his crotch, incredulous. “That. You’re standing here, yelling at me about getting revenge, acting all morally superior—and you’re hard? From listening to me getting fucked by someone else?”
Minho’s face went redder, but it wasn’t just anger anymore. A flicker of shame crossed his features before he masked it. “That’s not—”
“Not what?” Seungmin cut him off, stepping closer, his voice dripping with mock pity. “Not exactly what it looks like? Hyung, you’re fucking pathetic. You get off on hearing your little brother get railed, and then you have the nerve to confront me about it? You’re the weirdo. A fucking freak.”
Minho’s hands clenched at his sides. “Seungmin.”
“Disgusting,” Seungmin continued, savouring the word. He tilted his head, letting his eyes roam over Minho’s body deliberately. “Really. I mean, I knew you had no boundaries, but this? Getting hard while I’m standing here trying to reason with you? That’s a new low, even for you.”
Something snapped in Minho’s eyes.
He moved faster than Seungmin expected. One hand shot out, grabbing the collar of Seungmin’s shirt, twisting the fabric. With a grunt, he yanked upward, lifting Seungmin clean off the floor, effortlessly. All those gym times and handling Jisung’s weight were no comparison to how light his brother was.
Seungmin’s breath caught, his hands instinctively grabbing at Minho’s wrist. His feet dangled, the shirt bunching around his neck, riding up his torso. The hem dragged higher, exposing his bare hips, the stomach.
Minho’s gaze dropped, and froze.
The slick on his thighs.
The shiny, substance reflecting from the dim kitchen lights.
The cum has started to dry, but fresh trails still glistened, as one slid down inside Seungmin’s legs. His hole was visible—red, puffy, stretched. Another thin bead of white trickled out, escaping the abused rim, trailing down his thigh in a slow, obscene line.
Minho’s grip tightened, his breathing turned ragged.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself.
Seungmin’s bravado flickered, replaced by a jolt of real tension. He was completely exposed now, his legs slightly spread from the way Minho held him. The cool air hit his wet skin, making him shiver.
“Put me down, fucker,” Seungmin said, but his voice lacked the conviction.
Minho didn’t respond.
Instead, he drew Seungmin closer, until they were chest to chest, Seungmin’s bare thighs rubbing and pressing against Minho’s sweatpants, against that rigid, throbbing hardness. Minho’s other hand came up, fingers brushing along Seungmin’s thigh—and then pressing into the mess, gathering the slick cum.
Seungmin’s breath hitched.
Minho.
Brought his fingers to his mouth.
Slow and deliberate.
Tasting it.
His eyes never left Seungmin’s.
“Disgusting?” Minho repeated, his voice low and rough.
“Look at yourself. Running around half-naked, filled to the brim with someone else’s cum, parading in front of me like a slut in heat. And you call me the freak?” Minho snarls, as Seungmin whines a bit from the words.
He lowered Seungmin just enough that his feet touched the ground, but kept him pinned against the counter, one hand still twisting the shirt, the other now pressing flat against Seungmin’s stomach.
“You wanted my attention?” Minho growled, his lips brushing Seungmin’s ear.
“You got it.”
Minho’s hand slid down from Seungmin’s stomach, fingers trailing through the mess on his thigh, gathering the slick residue. His other hand kept the shirt twisted, holding Seungmin still, chest to chest, the heat of their bodies mingling.
“Look at you,” Minho murmured, his voice a heavy and dark gruff against Seungmin’s ear. “So full of someone else’s cum you’re dripping like a broken faucet. Did you think that would make me jealous? Did you think I’d be impressed by what you’re trying to put up against?”
Minho bites his earlobe in a pent-up motion, as Seungmin yelps from the sensation. His breaths came in short, shallow gasps, but he still managed to force a smirk on his lips. “Jealous? No. I thought it’d piss you off. And it did. Misison accomplished.”
Minho’s jaw tightened. His fingers pressed deeper into the skin, tracing the path of the cum down to the curve of Seungmin’s ass. Without warning, he pushed two fingers inside.
Seungmin gasped, his body jerking, hands flying to Minho’s shoulders.
“What the fuck—”
“Shut up, fucking brat.” Minho’s voice was cold, clinical, even as his fingers worked deepers, spreading the cum that was already there, scooping it out. “You wanted to make a point, didn’t you? Let me show you what real revenge looks like.”
Seungmin thrashed, trying to push him away, but Minho had always been far more stronger and bulkier than he was. Every movement only drove the fingers deeper, curling inside him, scraping against the sensitive walls that were already raw from Chan’s cock.
“You’re disgusting,” Seungmin spat, but his voice cracked.
The stretch was different from Chan—not better, not worse, but familiar in a way that made his stomach flip. Minho’s fingers were longer, thinner, but they knew exactly where to press. “Get off me!”
“Make me.” Minho crooked his fingers, rubbing against that spot deep inside, and Seungmin’s legs buckled. A choked moan escaped his throat before he could stop it.
Minho’s eyes gleamed. “That’s it. That’s the sound you make when you’re not faking it for an audience.”
He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, letting the cum drip onto the kitchen floor. Then he pushed them back in, two at first, then a third, stretching Seungmin open wide. The squelching sound filled the quiet kitchen, obscene, wet, and so fucking deliciously wrong.
Seungmin’s head fell back, his hands gripping Minho’s shirt now instead of pushing. HIs mind screamed at him to fight, to bite, to claw—but his body remembered the thrill of being taken apart, and it responded before he could think.
"Look at you," Minho repeated, his voice dropping lower.
"You just like getting your dick wet, don't you, hyung?" Seungmin managed, his voice shaky but still mocking. He forced his eyes open, watching Minho's face. His gaze slid down, catching the outline of Minho's cock straining against the sweatpants, visibly twitching with every thrust of his fingers.
Seungmin licked his lips without thinking. Is he even bigger than Chan? But… he's my brother.
Minho caught the look. His fingers stilled inside Seungmin, and he leaned in, forehead nearly touching Seungmin's.
"You want to know, don't you? Whether I'm bigger. Whether I'd fuck you better."
"Fuck you," Seungmin breathed, but it came out weak.
Minho's fingers resumed their work, but slower now, almost tender. He watched Seungmin's face, reading every micro-expression, every flicker of pleasure and shame.
Inside his own head, a war raged.
I have Jisung. He's perfect. He's my boyfriend. And this piece of shit is my brother. My blood. Fuck, fuck, fuck. But Seungmin's hole gripped his fingers tighter than Jisung ever did, clenching around them with a desperate hunger that made Minho's cock ache.
"You're a slut," Minho said, his voice rough. "A fucking slut who got himself filled by one guy and now gets fingered by his brother. What would Chan think, huh? What if I invited him back in here to see you get filled the right way?"
Seungmin's eyes flashed, a spark of defiance cutting through the haze. He pushed against Minho's chest, hard, forcing a few inches of space between them. "He'd think you're the fucked up one who can't keep his hands off me. You're the one fingering your brother's hole, not the other way around."
Minho's grip on the shirt tightened, but he didn't retort. He just stared at Seungmin, breathing hard, fingers still buried deep inside him.
The silence stretched, thick and dangerous, as both of them teetered on the edge of something they couldn't take back.
The words were barely out of Seungmin's mouth when Minho's hands moved.
He shoved his own sweatpants down in one rough motion, letting them pool at his ankles. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, the tip already slick with precum.
It was bigger than Seungmin had imagined—thicker than Chan's, the veins prominent along the shaft, curving upward with an angry, hungry look.
Seungmin's throat went dry. "What the fuck are you doing—"
Minho didn't answer.
He grabbed Seungmin's hips, spun him around, and bent him over the kitchen counter in one fluid motion. The marble edge bit into Seungmin's stomach as Minho's chest pressed against his back, the heat of his brother's skin searing through the thin fabric of the shirt still bunched around his neck.
"Hyung—" Seungmin's voice cracked, panic rising.
Minho's hand found his own cock, guiding it through the mess of cum and lube still dripping from Seungmin's hole. The tip nudged against the entrance, and Seungmin's entire body went rigid.
"Wait—"
But Minho didn't wait.
He pushed forward, and the head of his cock slid inside, breaching the tight ring of muscle with a wet, obscene sound. Seungmin's breath left him in a sharp cry, his hands scrambling for purchase on the slick countertop as Minho kept pressing deeper, deeper, impossibly deeper.
"Fuck," Minho groaned, the word torn from his throat. His hips stalled as he bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside his own brother.
The heat was unbearable—tight, gripping, perfect in a way that made his brain short-circuit.
Why the fuck is he still tight? Chan just fucked him. He should be loose, sloppy. But he's clamping down like a virgin.
Seungmin's legs trembled.
His vision blurred at the edges.
Minho's cock reached a spot inside him that Chan's hadn't—deeper, pressing against something that sent electric jolts through his entire nervous system. His mouth hung open, a thin line of drool escaping as he tried to process the sheer fullness.
"You're so deep," Seungmin whimpered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Minho's hips twitched, grinding slightly, and both of them moaned in unison—a raw, guttural sound that filled the kitchen. The heat was too much, too good, so fucking wrong that it made their teeth ache.
"Fuck," Minho repeated, his voice strained. He leaned forward, his lips brushing Seungmin's ear. "Why the fuck are you still tight?"
Seungmin's mind screamed at him to fight, to kick, to push away. Anything that could stop this irrational act before it goes further.
But his body had other plans. His hole clenched around Minho's cock like a vice, as if punishing him for even thinking about pulling out.
"Get your fucking dick out of me, hyung!" Seungmin gasped, his voice breaking. But even as he said it, his hips pushed back, grinding against Minho's pelvis, taking him deeper.
Minho's laugh was dark, desperate. "Your ass and hips are saying otherwise."
He pulled back slowly, letting Seungmin feel every inch of his cock dragging along those sensitive inner walls, then slammed forward again, burying himself to the base. The counter rattled. Seungmin's cry turned into a strangled moan, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge.
"Say it again," Minho growled, thrusting harder. "Tell me to stop. I dare you."
Seungmin's mouth opened, but no words came out. Just a broken, breathy sound as Minho hit that spot again, sending waves of pleasure-pain through his gut. His eyes rolled back. He was drowning in it—the smell of Minho's sweat, the weight of his brother's body, the impossible stretch of his cock.
"Th-that's—" Seungmin's voice faltered. "That's not fair."
Minho's hand snaked around, grabbing Seungmin's chin and forcing his head back.
Their eyes met in the reflection of the dark microwave across the room—Seungmin's blown wide, tears clinging to his lashes, a flush spreading down his neck. Minho's gaze was wild, animalistic.
"Fair?" Minho panted, his thrusts quickening. "You wanted revenge. You wanted to piss me off. Well, congratulations. You fucking won. Now I'm balls-deep in my own brother because I couldn't stop myself. Is this what you wanted?"
Seungmin's reply was lost in a shuddering moan as Minho's cock rammed into him again, the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin echoing off the tiled walls.
Every nerve in his body was on fire. The shame, the thrill, the wrongness—it all blurred into one overwhelming tide that threatened to swallow him whole.
Minho's rhythm grew sloppy, desperate. He knew he shouldn't be doing this. Jisung. Jisung. His boyfriend.
The one who made him come just hours prior when he had to excuse himself for a “study group” session. And now he was fucking his brother in the same kitchen where Seungmin had been bragging about Chan.
But Seungmin's heat pulled him in, tighter and tighter, until all he could think about was coming inside him. Marking him. Claiming him in a way that Chan never could.
"Don't come," Seungmin gasped suddenly, his hand flying back to grip Minho's thigh. "Don't you fucking dare come inside me."
Minho's thrusts faltered. He pulled out slowly, shakily, the tip catching on Seungmin's rim before slipping free. He jacks himself off in a furious motion. One strong hard tug, sets him off the edge, as his cum flies out in spurts, painting Seungmin’s bent over figure and back with streaks of his own cum.
It slides down, some of it catching on the rim, as Minho’s darker thought is to fuck it back inside, to make sure Seungmin is reminded of what he’s done. What they’ve done. To fuck his cock back in to chase one last embrace of the tightness.
They both stood there, panting, trembling, the air thick with the smell of sex and the weight of what they'd done.
Minho's hand was still on Seungmin's hip, his fingers digging into the skin. His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper. "Why did you let me?"
Seungmin didn't turn around. His forehead rested against the cool marble, his body still quivering, his hole still clenching around nothing. "I didn't let you," he said, but there was no fight left in his voice.
Minho stared at the back of his brother's head, at the mess he'd made, at the cum trickling from a place he'd just been buried inside. The guilt hit him like a wall, but it was laced with something darker, something hungry that refused to subside.
For a second, both brothers stared at each other.
A flickering thought.
Fuck. I want to do it again.
The morning light filters through the curtains, casting pale stripes across the living room where Seungmin sits stiffly on the couch, a bowl of cereal untouched in his hands.
He stares at the TV but doesn't see it. Every nerve in his body is tuned to the sound of footsteps upstairs, the creak of floorboards as Minho moves around his room.
When Minho finally comes down, the air in the room shifts.
He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes scanning the space until they land on Seungmin.
For a split second, their gazes meet—and then both of them look away so fast it's almost violent. Seungmin's jaw tightens. He shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth just to have something to do, chewing mechanically, tasting nothing.
Minho walks past him to the kitchen without a word.
The silence is thick, suffocating.
It fills every corner of the apartment, pressing down on them both. Seungmin can hear Minho opening the fridge, pouring himself a glass of water, the clink of the glass against the counter.
Each sound feels amplified, loaded with everything they're not saying.
Neither of them speaks. They move around each other like strangers sharing a crowded elevator, careful not to brush shoulders, not to make eye contact. Seungmin finishes his cereal in record time and retreats to his room, closing the door with a soft click that feels more like a slammed door in the quiet.
An hour later, the doorbell rings.
Seungmin hears Minho get up to answer it, and then Jisung's cheerful voice cuts through the tension like a blade of sunlight through gray clouds.
"Good morning, baby!"
There's a pause. Seungmin can picture it: Jisung leaning in for a kiss, Minho accepting it mechanically, his mind elsewhere.
"Hey," Minho says, his voice flat.
Seungmin stays in his room, listening. He hears Jisung's footsteps padding into the living room, the rustle of a bag being set down.
"Is Seungminnie home?"
"Yeah." Minho's voice is clipped.
"Seungmin!" Jisung calls out, his tone bright and deliberate. "Come out here! I brought pastries!"
Seungmin takes a breath. He can't avoid this forever. He pushes himself off his bed and walks out, his face carefully neutral.
Jisung is on the couch, already perched close to Minho, one hand resting on his thigh. When he sees Seungmin, his eyes light up, and he gives a little wink—quick, unhinged, as if they share some secret.
Fuck, Seungmin thinks. Does he know? Can he tell?
"Hey Seungmin! How have you been?" Jisung asks, his voice warm and friendly. Too friendly. Like he's trying extra hard to smooth over whatever tension he can sense in the air.
"Fine," Seungmin says, keeping his voice flat. He grabs a pastry from the box on the coffee table, taking a bite just to have an excuse not to talk.
Jisung turns back to Minho, peppering his face with little kisses—on his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. "Missed you," he murmurs against Minho's skin. "Last night was early. I thought you'd call."
Minho doesn't answer. His eyes have drifted past Jisung's shoulder, locking onto Seungmin's.
And suddenly, Jisung might as well not be there.
The air between the two brothers crackles. Seungmin's eyes narrow, sharp and dangerous, screaming a clear message: Don't you fucking dare say anything to him. Not a word.
But beneath that threat, there's something else. A question. A challenge. An ache that Seungmin can't quite bury. Will it ever feel the same fucking him tonight? Will I ever be able to forget the way you felt inside me?
Minho's throat works as he swallows. His jaw clenches. He looks torn, caught between guilt and hunger, between everything he should feel and everything he can't stop wanting.
"Babe?" Jisung's voice cuts through, soft and confused. "You okay?"
Minho blinks, snapping back to the present. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, then stands up, pulling Jisung with him. "Let's go to my room."
Jisung grins, oblivious, and lets himself be led. But as they pass Seungmin, Jisung gives another wink, as if to say yeah, I'm about to get laid, sorry not sorry.
Seungmin doesn't react. He just watches them go, his pastry forgotten in his hand, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The door to Minho's room clicks shut.
Jisung turns around, wrapping his arms around Minho's neck immediately, pressing their bodies together. "Finally," he murmurs, tilting his head up for a kiss.
Minho kisses him back. He does. His hands find Jisung's waist, his hips, pulling him closer. But there's a disconnect. His lips move against Jisung's, but his mind is elsewhere—downstairs, replaying the look in Seungmin's eyes, the unspoken question hanging between them.
Will it ever feel the same fucking him tonight?
He shoves the thought down, deep into a dark corner of his mind, and focuses. He has to focus. Jisung is his boyfriend. Jisung loves him. Jisung is here, warm and eager and trusting.
Minho deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue into Jisung's mouth, letting his hands roam down to cup his ass. Jisung moans softly, arching into the touch, his fingers tangling in Minho's hair.
They stumble toward the bed, shedding clothes as they go. Shirts hit the floor. Jeans are unbuckled and pushed down. Minho lays Jisung back on the mattress, covering his body with his own, kissing down his neck, his chest, sucking on a nipple until Jisung gasps.
"Fuck, hyung," Jisung breathes, his hands raking down Minho's back. "I missed this. Missed you."
Minho doesn't answer. He just keeps moving, keeps touching, keeps trying to lose himself in the familiar rhythm of Jisung's body. He wraps his hand around Jisung's cock, stroking him slowly, feeling him harden and twitch.
Jisung's hips buck into his fist. "Yeah, just like that," he pants. "Fuck, baby, you're so good."
Compliments that used to make Minho's chest swell with pride now feel hollow, like echoes in an empty room. He keeps going, keeps working Jisung up, waiting for his own body to catch up.
It takes longer than usual. He has to think about it, picture things—Jisung's pretty mouth, his long legs, the way he moans—to finally coax some blood into his cock. It rises slowly, reluctantly, as if it knows it's being lied to.
Finally, mercifully, he's hard.
He positions himself between Jisung's legs, lining himself up. Jisung looks up at him with half-lidded eyes, a soft smile on his lips. "Ready when you are."
Minho pushes in.
And it's... nothing.
The heat is there. The tightness, the familiar slick slide of lube and skin. But there's no spark. No thrill. No electricity shooting up his spine. It's just a body around his cock. Warm. Tight. Wrong.
He starts moving, mechanical thrusts that should feel good. Jisung moans beneath him, his legs wrapping around Minho's waist, pulling him deeper. "Fuck, yeah, right there—"
Minho fucks him. He fucks his boyfriend, the person he's supposed to love, and it feels like going through the motions. His mind drifts, unbidden, to the memory of Seungmin beneath him. The way his brother's body had clenched around him, so tight it was almost painful. The sounds he'd made—not moans of pleasure, but gasps of shock, of forbidden discovery. The way his eyes had been wide and dark and full of something Minho couldn't name.
That had felt real. This—
This feels like a ghost of sex. A hollow imitation.
He closes his eyes and pictures Seungmin's face. The defiant tilt of his chin. The way his lips had parted. The smooth skin of his thighs.
His hips stutter. A spark finally flickers, weak and shameful, and he chases it, fucking into Jisung with renewed urgency.
"Yes, yes, fuck, Minho—" Jisung's voice is breathy, desperate. He's close.
Minho keeps going, keeps picturing it, keeps pretending. And when he comes, it's with Seungmin's name trapped behind his teeth, unspoken, burning in his throat.
He pulls out and collapses beside Jisung, staring at the ceiling. Jisung curls up against his side, still catching his breath, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder.
"That was good," Jisung murmurs. "Needed that."
Was it? Minho thinks. Was it good?
He can't bring himself to answer. He just wraps an arm around Jisung, pulls him closer, and stares at the ceiling until his eyes go dry.
And all he can think about is the look in Seungmin's eyes. The question that still hangs between them, unanswered.
Will it ever feel the same?
He doesn't know.
And that terrifies him more than anything.
The hours after their last encounter had crawled by like nails on a chalkboard. Minho had shut himself in his room, stared at the ceiling, tried to convince himself that what happened between them was a mistake—a lapse in judgment born from frustration and lingering resentment.
But his body didn't agree. His cock still throbbed with the memory of Seungmin's heat, of the way his brother had moaned under him, of the slick slide of his fingers and the desperate sounds that escaped Seungmin's lips.
Jisung had texted. You okay? You seemed off today.
Minho had typed back a lie: Just tired. Early day tomorrow. Then he'd tossed his phone aside, unable to face his boyfriend, unable to face the truth.
He paced his room, running his hands through his hair. His reflection in the mirror looked haggard, eyes dark with guilt and hunger. He was the hyung. The older one. The one who was supposed to protect Seungmin, not corrupt him.
He's my brother. The thought hit him like a cold wave. My real brother. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.
Minho's jaw tightened. He needed to fix this. To put the boundaries back, to talk like a rational adult. He would go to Seungmin's room, sit him down, and explain that what they'd done couldn't happen again. That they needed to find a way to be brothers again, even if it meant pretending the last few days never happened.
It was the right thing to do. The mature thing.
He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked down the hall. The door to Seungmin's room was closed, a sliver of light underneath. Minho raised his hand, hesitated, then knocked.
"Seungmin-ah. It's me." His voice came out softer, to ease the blow. "Can we talk? Please."
There was a long pause. Then the sound of shuffling, a soft click, and the door opened just a crack. Seungmin's face appeared, half in shadow, his eyes cautious and guarded.
"What do you want?" His tone was flat, but Minho caught the tremor underneath. The vulnerability he was trying so hard to hide.
"To talk. Like brothers." Minho's voice softened. "Please, Seungmin. I'm not here to fight. I just..." He trailed off, searching for the right words. "I think we need to sort this out. Before it gets worse."
Seungmin stared at him for a long moment, then slowly pulled the door open, stepping back to let him in. His movements were stiff, careful, and Minho noticed he was wearing loose shorts and a hoodie—an unusual choice for bed, given the warmth of the night.
But Minho didn't think much of it. He walked in, sat on the edge of the bed, and gestured for Seungmin to sit beside him. Seungmin complied, though he kept a noticeable distance, his hands resting on his thighs, fingers twitching.
Minho took a breath. This was it. The rational talk.
"Listen," he began, keeping his voice low and even. "I know things have been... messy. Between us. What happened, what we did—it shouldn't have happened. I'm the hyung. I should've stopped it. I should've been the one to think clearly."
Seungmin said nothing, just stared at the floor.
"I care about you, Seungmin. You're my brother. And I don't want to lose that. So I think—" Minho paused, swallowing hard. "I think we need to forget this ever happened. Go back to how we were. Fight, bicker, whatever. But not... this. Not crossing that line."
He waited for a response. For Seungmin to argue, to agree, to say something. But Seungmin remained silent, his breathing shallow, his body tense.
"Seungmin? Are you listening?"
Still nothing.
Minho frowned, a flicker of irritation rising. He reached out and shook Seungmin's shoulder gently. "Hey. I'm trying to talk to you. At least acknowledge me."
Seungmin let out a small whine, almost involuntary, and Minho's brow furrowed. He shook again, a little harder. "Seung? You feeling okay? Talk to me."
On the second shove, Seungmin's body tilted, and he let himself fall back onto the mattress with a soft, breathy moan that was entirely out of place in the tense conversation.
Minho froze. The sound—it wasn't a moan of pain or discomfort. It was pleasure. Raw, familiar pleasure.
"Hey, what the fuck's wrong with you?" Minho's voice cracked, a mix of concern and suspicion. He pushed Seungmin's shoulder again, more firmly this time, and Seungmin's hips bucked, another moan escaping his lips, louder this time.
And then Minho saw it.
Beneath the loose fabric of Seungmin's shorts, when he shifted, the outline of something firm and round pressed against the thin material. A dark silicone circle, nestled right where it shouldn't be.
Minho's mind went blank. His hand hovered, trembling, as the realization crashed over him like ice water.
Was he... was he fucking himself with a plug? While I was trying to be the responsible hyung?
The rational part in him evaporated the second Minho's eyes locked onto that shape beneath the fabric. His mouth went dry, his pulse hammering in his ears, drowning out every careful word he'd rehearsed in his head. He'd come here to fix things. To be the responsible hyung. To draw a line that should never have been crossed.
But Seungmin lay there, sprawled on the mattress, lips parted, breaths shallow and uneven, his hips twitching involuntarily as if the plug inside him was pressing against something perfect. Something intentional.
"Seungmin." Minho's voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper. "What the fuck is that?"
Seungmin's eyes were half-lidded, hazy with pleasure, but there was a flicker of defiance in them. He didn't answer. Instead, he shifted, spreading his legs just slightly, as if inviting Minho to look closer.
Minho's hand shot out before he could stop it, gripping the waistband of Seungmin's shorts. He pulled them down just enough to expose the base of the plug—a black silicone circle, nestled snugly against Seungmin's ass, the skin around it red and slick with lube. The sight hit him like a punch to the gut.
His brain short-circuited.
Every rational thought he'd clung to—he's my brother, this is wrong, we need to stop—shattered into a thousand pieces. All that remained was raw, animal need, mixed with a fury he didn't fully understand.
"You—" Minho's jaw clenched. "You were sitting there, listening to me talk about fixing things, and you were fucking yourself on this?"
Seungmin let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound trembling with arousal. "You were taking too long, hyung. I got bored."
The words slithered through Minho's chest like hot wire. He'd spent the last hour pacing his room, wrestling with guilt, trying to be the good brother. And all the while, Seungmin had been here, prepped and waiting, like a trap he'd willingly walked into.
Minho's hand tightened on the plug's base. He didn't pull it out—not yet. Instead, he twisted it, just a fraction, watching Seungmin's eyes flutter and his lips part in a sharp gasp.
"You're a fucking brat," Minho growled, leaning over him, his face inches from Seungmin's. "You know that? You planned this. You wanted me to find you like this."
Seungmin's tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip. "Did it work?"
Minho's resolve crumbled completely. He shoved Seungmin's shorts down to his ankles, exposing the plug fully, his fingers tracing the stretched rim of Seungmin's hole where the silicone met skin. Seungmin whimpered, bucking into the touch.
"I was going to be good," Minho muttered, more to himself than to Seungmin. "I was going to walk away. But you—" He pushed the plug deeper, earning a choked moan. "You just had to make it impossible."
Seungmin's hands flew up, grabbing Minho's shirt, pulling him down. "Then don't walk away. Stop thinking, hyung. Just—fuck me. Please."
The word please snapped the last thread of Minho's sanity. He pulled the plug out in one slow, deliberate motion, watching Seungmin's hole clench around nothing, desperate and empty. He lowered his mouth to it, licking a wet stripe over the slick, stretched skin, tasting lube and Seungmin and everything he'd been trying to resist.
Seungmin cried out, his back arching off the bed, fingers tangling in Minho's hair. "Yes—fuck, yes—"
Minho's brain was a mess of static and hunger. He couldn't think. Couldn't rationalize. All he knew was the taste of his brother's skin, the sound of his moans, and the burning need to claim him, to ruin him, to make sure Seungmin never even thought of anyone else.
The rational hyung was gone. In his place was something feral, something that had been waiting for permission to break free.
And Seungmin had given him exactly that.
The words hit Minho like a physical blow, each syllable winding him, stripping away the last remnants of control. His mouth opened, but nothing came out—just a broken sound, caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. Seungmin's voice was sharp, cruel, cutting through the haze of lust and guilt that had clouded Minho's mind.
"Tell me," Seungmin repeated, his hand still tangled in Minho's hair, yanking his head back so their eyes met. "When you were fucking Jisung earlier, who were you thinking about? Huh? Did you imagine it was me instead? Did you pretend those tight little sounds were mine?"
Minho's throat worked, trying to form words, but they dissolved before they could escape. Because Seungmin was right. Every thrust into Jisung—every moan, every kiss—had felt hollow. He'd been going through the motions, his mind wandering to the scent of Seungmin's sheets, the memory of that night in the shower, the taste of his brother's skin.
"Did he even make you come?" Seungmin's voice dropped, lower now, trembling with restrained fury and something darker. "Or did you have to finish yourself off, thinking about this?" He pressed his heel against Minho's crotch, feeling the hardness straining against his jeans. Minho gasped, hips bucking involuntarily.
"I didn't hear you, hyung." Seungmin's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Not a single groan. Just Jisung, crying out your name. But you—you were silent. Like you were somewhere else entirely."
Minho's hands trembled where they gripped Seungmin's thighs. He wanted to deny it. To say it wasn't true. But the words felt like acid on his tongue, burning him before they could even form.
"Seungmin-ah—" he started, his voice cracking.
"No." Seungmin cut him off, leaning up until their foreheads touched, his breath hot and uneven against Minho's lips. "Don't. Don't lie to me, hyung. I know you too well."
Minho's chest heaved, his heart pounding so hard he swore Seungmin could feel it. "I... I shouldn't have—"
"You shouldn't have what?" Seungmin's voice rose, cracking at the edges. "Shouldn't have come in here? Shouldn't have seen me? Shouldn't have touched me?" He let out a shaky laugh. "Too late for that, hyung. Way too fucking late."
Minho closed his eyes, trying to block out the weight of Seungmin's words, the heat of his body, the aching emptiness where the plug had been. But Seungmin didn't let him hide.
"I know I shouldn't have kept pushing," Seungmin said, quieter now, almost vulnerable. "I know using Chan was a shitty thing to do. I wanted to hurt you the way you hurt me. But..." His voice broke, and he pressed his face into Minho's neck, his lips brushing against the pulse point. "I can't forget you, hyung. I can't forget this. What we did. How it felt. All I could think about was you."
Minho's arms moved before he could stop them, wrapping around Seungmin's waist, pulling him close. The touch of skin against skin sent a shudder through both of them.
"I tried to pretend it didn't matter," Seungmin continued, his voice muffled against Minho's throat. "I tried to tell myself I hated you. And I do, hyung. I fucking hate you for making me feel this way. But I can't stop."
Minho's hands slid up Seungmin's back, fingers tracing his spine, feeling the tremors running through him. "Seungmin... I—"
"Shut up." Seungmin pulled back, his eyes red-rimmed, shiny with unshed tears. "Just... shut up and fuck me. Make me forget everything except you."
Minho's brain screamed at him to stop. To push Seungmin away, to walk out, to salvage whatever was left of their relationship before it was too late. But his body had already made the decision for him.
He surged forward, capturing Seungmin's mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing the moan that spilled from his brother's lips. His hands found the plug on the floor, slick with lube, and he pressed it back against Seungmin's entrance, teasing, not pushing in—not yet.
"Tell me," Minho growled against Seungmin's mouth, his voice rough with desperation. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me."
Seungmin's answer was a whimper, his legs wrapping around Minho's waist, pulling him closer. "I want you, hyung. Fuck—I want only you."
The confession broke something inside Minho. He pushed the plug back in, watching Seungmin's face contort with pleasure as it slid home, hitting that perfect spot. Seungmin cried out, his nails digging into Minho's shoulders.
"Then take it," Minho whispered, his lips brushing Seungmin's ear. "Take all of it. And don't you dare think about anyone else while I'm fucking you."
The world narrowed to the heat between them, the slick slide of the plug, the desperate sounds of Seungmin falling apart beneath him. Everything else—the guilt, the shame, the rationalizations—burned away, leaving only this.
Only them.
The slick heat of Seungmin's body enveloped him again, inch by torturous inch, and Minho's eyes fluttered shut. He doesn't know how Seungmin manages to keep that replicating experience of a tight virgin hole, and Minho shouldn't be feeling addicted to that feeling, as his dick starts to spasm a bit when Seungmin's walls clamp down tightly.
For a fractured second, a ghost-image flashed behind his eyelids—Jisung's face, curious and trusting, asking what's wrong, hyung? before Minho had sent him a lie on text. The guilt was a sharp, familiar ache, but it was already being drowned out by something far more primal.
Fuck. What am I doing? He's my brother. Jisung is waiting for me. I should stop. I should pull out and forget this ever happened.
But his hips kept moving, sliding deeper, and the thought of Jisung dissolved like morning frost under a brutal sun. All that remained was Seungmin—hot, tight, trembling beneath him, eyes glassy with shame and want.
Minho's lips curled into something mean.
The deranged, wicked thought caught to him like a virus. "You know," he said, voice low and condescending, each word punctuated by a shallow thrust, "Jisung's probably texting me right now. Wondering where I am. Wondering why I left him half-hard on the bed."
Seungmin's breath hitched, but his nails dug into Minho's shoulders, pulling him closer. "Then answer him, hyung. Tell him you're busy fucking your brother."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Minho snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. Seungmin's head fell back, a choked moan spilling from his lips. "You want him to know. You want him to see you like this—spread open, taking my cock, crying because it feels too good."
"Shut up," Seungmin whimpered, but his legs locked tighter around Minho's waist.
"Make me." Minho's pace turned brutal, each thrust deep and punishing, aimed at reducing Seungmin to a mess beneath him. "You're the one who started this. You and your little revenge plot with Chan. Did you think I wouldn't take it? Did you think I'd just let you walk around with his cum dripping out of you and not do something about it?"
Seungmin's laugh was broken, hysterical. "And what are you doing about it, hyung? Filling me up with more cum? Real smart."
Minho's hand shot out, wrapping around Seungmin's throat—not choking, just holding, a reminder of who was in control.
"I'm giving you what you wanted. Attention. Mine. Every fucking drop of it." He leaned down, lips brushing Seungmin's ear. "And you're gonna take it. You're gonna lie there and let your brother fuck you until you forget Chan's name. Until you forget your own name. Understood?"
Seungmin's response was lost in a sob as Minho angled his thrusts, hitting that spot that made his vision go white. He was close—they both were—the tension coiling tight and unbearable.
"Please," Seungmin gasped, not even sure what he was begging for. More. Less. To stop. To never stop.
Minho's rhythm faltered, his own release building at the base of his spine. He looked down at Seungmin—tear-streaked, flushed, utterly wrecked—and felt something crack open in his chest. This was his brother. His blood. And he was about to spill inside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
There's no going back after this. Not really.
But the thought didn't stop him. It never could.
"Come for me," Minho growled, his hand moving from Seungmin's throat to wrap around his cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. "Come on your hyung's cock. Show me how much you love being a dirty little slut for your brother."
Seungmin's orgasm hit him like a wave, violent and consuming, his body convulsing around Minho's length as he cried out—a broken, desperate sound that was half pleasure, half anguish. The feeling of Seungmin clenching around him was Minho's undoing. With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep and came, hot and thick, filling his brother with everything he had.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the sticky heat of their bodies pressed together. Minho should pull out. He should clean up, get dressed, pretend this never happened.
But he didn't.
Instead, he cupped Seungmin's face in his hands—so gently, so tenderly, it was almost absurd after the roughness of their fucking—and looked into his eyes. Seungmin's gaze was hazy, vulnerable, waiting.
Minho leaned down and kissed him.
It wasn't rough or demanding. It was soft, lingering, a seal pressed over a wound that would never heal. His lips moved against Seungmin's with a reverence that bordered on worship, tasting the salt of his tears, the copper of blood from a split lip.
When he finally pulled back, Seungmin's eyes were wide, wet, searching.
"Hyung..." His voice cracked.
Minho pressed their foreheads together, breath warm and uneven. "Too late now," he whispered, the words carrying the weight of a confession and a curse. "We did this. We keep doing this. And I don't think I can stop."
Seungmin said nothing. He just pulled Minho down into another kiss, deeper this time, more desperate, as if trying to drown in the wrongness of it all.
And Minho let him.
"Hey, baby!" Jisung's voice snaps Minho out of the trance.
"You alright? You haven't touched any of the food I bought." Jisung quips with a mouth full of food.
Minho just gives him a reassuring smile. "Sorry, baby. I might've had too big of a breakfast."
Seungmin's eyes darts back and forth between him and Jisung, fork at a standstill, like a freeze frame. He shifts uncomfortably on his chair, as a prodding feeling starts to trickle down his spine, and he has to pretend he's alright.
"Aww, if I'd had known, I would've bought less! That's okay. Seungmin, you can finish all of this, right?" Jisung's own innocent dialogue breaks him.
"H-Huh? O-oh, yeah. I can. Th-THAnks for the food." Seungmin yips a bit when he feels a deeper plunge and twist of finger breach his hole through the shorts, toes curling at the sensation.
"You alright as well? You look red."
"He's fine. He's just being dramatic." Minho leans on the table, one hand resting on his chin and the other buried deep into Seungmin's.
"Alright. I should be leaving soon. I'm sorry I couldn't stay long." Jisung weeps, pouting at both brothers. "Call you later, love." Jisung makes his way around the table, giving a quick peek at Minho's cheeks.
"Have fun at work." Minho just gives him a small smile.
Seungmin's mouth tries to give him his best departing look, as they both listen to Jisung's footsteps fade out into the hall. After a few more seconds, and the hinges of the door click, Minho's already moving Seungmin up onto the table, slamming him down with his fingers still buried inside Seungmin's.
"I thought he'd never leave."