Work Text:
Seungmin signed up to coach thinking it would be a low-stakes, rewarding way to spend time somewhere that wasn't the office or his too-empty apartment.
And somehow, like ever, the Universe has proven him wrong.
Lee Minjoon slides into third (a pretty decent slide, by the way—Seungmin has been drilling those hard) and the umpire calls him out. It's a fair enough call, as far as Seungmin can see. The slide had been good, but it just ultimately wasn't enough to get the kid on base before the baseball made it to the opposing team’s third baseman.
He's ready to shrug it off, pat the kid on the back and tell him he did a good job sliding in, when—
“Are you fucking blind, ump?!”
Seungmin knows it's Lee Minho, Minjoon’s father, without even checking over his shoulder. He has already been warned—repeatedly, in person, over the phone, and via email—to not heckle the umpires. It's fucking Little League, and the cursing also isn't exactly appropriate.
Seungmin sighs and turns to tell Minho to knock it off, when—
“Yeah!” Changbin agrees from inside the chain link fence, storming over to the umpire. “Kid was safe by a mile, come on!”
Seungmin blinks. Had he missed something? Changbin is his assistant coach, and he can get fired up, but he wouldn't randomly heckle an umpire just for the hell of it.
On the other side of the chain link fence, Seungmin sees Chan already restraining Minho, trying to insistently shush him. Jisung, on Chan’s other side, isn't helping, and is instead excitedly hopping from one foot to the other, pointing at third base and saying whatever nonsensical gibberish he thinks sounds right.
“Yeah!” he insists, parroting whatever Changbin and Minho say, probably because he thinks it's fun. “He was totally safe! You can't just call kids out because you feel like it!”
“Jisung, baby, stop,” Chan says, and Jisung immediately obeys, going still and looking a little sheepish.
“Sorry, sorry!” Seungmin calls to the umpire, offering an apologetic smile. Chan has successfully clamped a hand over Minho's mouth, and Seungmin ushers Minjoon to the dugout, noting the way his cheeks turn red at his dad’s behavior.
He wouldn't go so far as to say that Lee Minho has been the bane of his existence this season but… he feels a little bad for his kid. Minjoon seems to really enjoy playing on the team, seems to really enjoy baseball in general. Honestly, for a team of 8-year-olds, he's their star player, especially since some of their players (he's not naming names, but—Ben, Chan’s kid) seem to care more about picking flowers in the outfield than properly playing.
And Minjoon’s dad is honestly probably embarrassing the hell out of him, yelling at umpires every game.
Still, the situation is under control—for now. Changbin is at first base, coaching runners, and Seungmin is between third base and the dugout, depending on where he's needed most. Chan has a wary arm around Minho, ready to shut him up if need be, and probably he can manage to shut the fuck up for the next three innings.
The opposing team’s pitcher is probably eight years old, going on fourteen. Seriously, there's no way he's actually eight—the kid is way too beefy. Seungmin never knew how vicious the world of kids’ baseball could be.
Anyway, it seems the opposing pitcher has perfected a knuckleball. The ball moves slowly, unpredictably, and Seungmin has absolutely not drilled his team for it. He's still trying to get some of them (again, not naming names, but—Ben, Chan’s kid) to not duck out of the batter’s box when a fastball comes their way.
Seungmin can't blame Minjoon for swinging at it. It looks like a strike, but dips at the last moment to what the umpire calls a ball. It doesn't matter, anyway, because Minjoon swings hard and hits nothing but air. The umpire calls the third strike, and Minjoon makes to head back to the dugout.
“Ridiculous, that was a ball!” Minho calls, and Seungmin’s shoulders immediately slump. Minjoon scurries faster to the dugout. “You can't strike out on a ball! Rigged!”
Changbin, arms crossed over his chest and standing stationed outside the dugout, close to where Minho is rattling the chain link fence, mumbles, “You can if you swing at it.”
“That's not fair!” Minho protests. “Hey, I think this umpire is favoring the other team!”
“Min—” Chan tries, but Minho breaks free, points aggressively at the umpire, his index finger poking through the fence.
“Listen here—”
“Nah, you're out of here,” the umpire says, pointing to Minho then flinging his arm away from the field. “You’re gone.”
There's a snicker among the gathered parents, and Seungmin has to suppress an incredulous little grin, too. You can get ejected from a Little League game? What's he going to do, go sit in his car until it's time to drive his kid home?
For some reason, the thought absolutely cracks Seungmin up. Minho is indignant, of course, but Chan manages to manhandle him away from the field before he embarrasses himself (and Minjoon, who’s currently trying to melt into the dugout bench) further. Jisung stays behind to collect Chan’s son once the game is over, and he’s altogether far quieter without Minho’s influence.
“Okay, good job today, everyone,” Seungmin praises in the huddle after the game. His team looks pretty defeated—they’d lost, after all, but he thought they’d played well. He’d seen a lot of the things they’d been working on in practice put to work.
“Chin up, everybody,” Changbin insists, patting Ben on the shoulder. The kid doesn’t look too put out, Seungmin thinks—he’d spent most of the game cringing away from the ball and chasing butterflies. So it goes, in Little League. “Sometimes you play well and you still lose. That’s life.”
“And the umpire was a big cheater!” declares one kid proudly, beaming.
“Um—” Seungmin says. He hates when he has to be a role model, or whatever. “No, I think the umpire called things pretty fair. I mean—you know, sometimes people want to win so badly, they see what they want to see. That’s why we have umpires.”
“We should play a game without any!”
“Sure,” Seungmin agrees, nodding. “In practice.” There are several children who look dejected, but Seungmin isn’t going to allow his team to start heckling umpires. That’s a sure-fire way to get his team banned, or something. “Anyway, uh—good work today, keep it up, and we’ll work harder in practice this week, okay?” He puts his hand in the middle, and a dozen childish hands pile atop his own—then Changbin’s, on the top of the stack. “Strays on three,” Seungmin instructs—their team name comes from a stray dog that had hung around and majorly disrupted their first practice. The dog is gone, but the name (and mascot) had stuck. “One, two, three—Strays!”
The children obediently chorus their team name with him, in varying levels of enthusiasm. Then, just as quickly, children are breaking the huddle, giving Changbin or Seungmin high-fives, and running to their parents.
Minjoon hangs around, Minho and Chan still nowhere in sight. Jisung shuffles over, jacket draped over his arm. “Did you have fun, Ben?” he asks, because you played well is not really the correct sentiment here.
“Here,” he says, and presents a four-leaf clover to Jisung.
Jisung positively beams; from what Seungmin has gathered in his limited interactions with parents, Jisung is the stepfather desperately trying to gain his stepson’s approval. “Oh, wow! Great luck!” he says enthusiastically. Judging from the look on his face, Seungmin thinks he’ll probably weep with joy telling Chan about it tonight. He composes himself, and nods to Seungmin and Changbin. “Thanks again,” he says. “Um—you know, he’s not mine, but sorry about—” He glances at Minjoon, and elects to instead silently mouth, “Minho.”
Seungmin’s answering smile is probably pained. “Hey, Minjoon, Ben,” he says, “can you two do me a big favor and gather up all the balls and bats? We should put them away, and I’m going to talk to Ben’s stepdad.”
The two boys set off without any problem; they seem close, as do their parents. Seungmin doesn’t know how they all know each other, but it seems they’ve known each other since before the Little League season started.
The second they’re out of earshot, Seungmin turns to Jisung. “What the hell is Minjoon’s dad doing?”
Jisung falters, blinks. “I… think he’s just pretty into baseball?”
“He doesn’t even know the rules,” Changbin protests. “Seems like it to me, anyway.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” Jisung says. “Channie and I don’t really know about baseball, either. It’s just something you do with kids, you know? Anyway, that’s just how Minho is. Really protective of his kid, but also really fucking annoying about it.”
“He can’t act like that at games,” Seungmin says with a frown. “We’ll get banned.”
Jisung grimaces. “I don’t know what you want me to do about it. Talk to Minho—though I doubt he’ll listen. He doesn’t even listen to Channie.”
“What good are you?” Changbin asks, cocking his head.
Jisung seems offended. “Look, I’m just a dad, here.”
“Stepdad,” Seungmin immediately corrects.
“I’m the dad who stepped up,” Jisung says immediately, 100% unironically, and Seungmin and Changbin both burst into giggles before they can help it.
And somehow, despite Jisung’s foolishness, Seungmin can’t help but think that Ben is more like him than Chan, biologically related or no.
“Why’d you side with Minho today, Bin?” Seungmin asks, trying to keep the accusation out of his voice. He’s two beers in, which is exactly enough to become confrontational—which is an unusual reaction when his legs are draped across Changbin’s lap.
“What do you mean?” Changbin mumbles back, still staring at his phone.
“When he was yelling at the umpire about Minjoon being safe,” Seungmin says, irritation creeping into his voice. He doesn’t remember something along the lines of safe by a mile?
“Oh,” Changbin says, then shrugs, sips his beer. “Because Minho’s cute, and it's fun to yell.”
Seungmin scowls and slides down the couch a little further—but he is not sulking.
Changbin grins. “Sorry, does that offend you?”
So. He and Changbin are… not nothing. Don't get him wrong, they're also not something. In that thin, blurry line between something and nothing, what is there? Seungmin and Changbin, somewhere.
He scoffs. “No,” he mutters, sounding pouty. “Why would I care?”
“You know,” Changbin says, sliding closer and wrapping an arm across his shoulders, “I still think you're cuter.”
“Don't be disgusting,” Seungmin gripes, shrugging his (beefy, muscular) arm off his shoulder irritably.
“You should drink more,” Changbin says, good-natured as ever. He playfully tips the bottom of Seungmin’s beer bottle up, to his lips, and Seungmin obediently takes a few gulps. “Until you’re done with pretending you think I’m annoying.”
“I always think you’re annoying.”
“Fine, then until you wanna make out a little.”
Seungmin shuffles, but not away. He’s just readjusting. “I don’t know,” he says, glancing over at Changbin. “If you think Minho’s so cute…”
“Oh, come here, you big baby,” Changbin says, and hooks Seungmin around the neck to drag him towards him. Their lips meet (or rather crash together), and it’s like all of Seungmin’s prickliness fades. He melts against Changbin, falling into his chest. Although he knows Changbin wouldn’t tease him for it—far from it—he’s still a little embarrassed by how deeply he wants Changbin, always.
When this had started, he thought it had simply been too long. He had pent-up energy to release, and once he released it with Changbin, he’d be fine. Then it had kept happening—and happening—and happening. And here they stand, not something but not nothing. It’s Seungmin who’s too afraid to define anything; Changbin is much too mature for such internal squabbles.
Seungmin moans and whimpers and whines into the kiss, which is inherently humiliating, especially when he’s being manhandled into Changbin’s lap, but Changbin says nothing. He just slides a hand up Seungmin’s thigh, creeping up his ass, his back, and mumbles, “So how do you want it tonight?”
Seungmin twines around Changbin needily, as if anything might separate them, and mumbles back, “However you want to give it to me.”
Seungmin is… moderately hungover still, squinting in the bright sun, another beautiful day to play baseball. Changbin’s busy coaching half the team at batting, and Seungmin is drilling kids to receive grounders, not run from them.
“Keep a hand above the glove when you’re fielding a grounder,” Seungmin instructs, demonstrating with his own hands. “They can pop up and get you in the chin, or the mouth, or the eye, so it’s just an extra precaution.”
Ben’s hand shoots up in the air. “That sounds dangerous, Coach Kim.”
“It’s dangerous if you do it wrong, Ben.” Seungmin clarifies, already sensing another area where the kid won’t be interested in playing ball. “That’s why we practice.”
Ben frowns, but doesn’t protest further. Seungmin has a feeling when they’re running drills Ben will be running from the ball, scared of getting hit. He really does remind him of Jisung.
And his inkling is proven right. Some kids do better than others—Minjoon takes to it like a dream—and Ben is still cringing away from the grounders bouncing along the grass. Seungmin takes a deep breath: it’s just Little League, he reminds himself. It’s a fun thing for kids.
It’s about time for them to switch groups, so Seungmin’s kids can go practice batting with Changbin. Divide and conquer, and all that. They’re two grown-ups on a dozen or so kids. Seungmin turns from accepting a dandelion from Ben (“Make a wish!!”) and sees Lee Minho at the chain link fence behind home plate, dressed from work and evidently still on a work call.
Minjoon stops short on seeing him and glances up at Seungmin. “Coach Kim,” he says. “Um—can I do more practice with grounders, actually?”
He suppresses a sigh. As he suspected: Minjoon is deeply embarrassed by his father. He’s innocuous enough now, probably broiling in his suit and arguing with someone on the phone. Seungmin doesn’t actually know what he does—generic office worker, he supposes.
“Actually, Minjoon-ah,” Seungmin says, “since you were doing so well with our drills, do you want to show the next group some pointers? I have something else to take care of really quickly.”
Minjoon absolutely beams, nodding exuberantly. “Yeah—absolutely! I’ll drill them hard, Coach Kim!”
Seungmin pats him on the shoulder, his eyes already locked on Lee Minho. Changbin, also annoyingly in his line of sight, gives him a cheesy grin, making the connection of who he’s going over to chew out.
Minho catches his eye, too, still on the phone, though it seems he’s wrapping up by the time Seungmin successfully stomps over there. “Listen, just—that’s one of our biggest possible sales, you know? I don’t care if you have to get on your knees to make him happy, just make it work, yeah?” He listens briefly for the reply, then rolls his eyes and hangs his phone up. He offers Seungmin a cheesy grin, leaning against the chain link fence. “Fancy seeing you here, eh?”
“I—?” Seungmin says, his eyebrows knitting together. “Listen,” he says, shaking his head to clear it. “We need to talk about your behavior at games.”
“I know,” Minho responds. “I’m, like, the only who gives a shit if we win or not.”
“It’s Little League,” Seungmin deadpans. “The goal is to have something to do with your kid's nights and weekends. If they happen to learn a little bit about baseball in the process of that, yippee.”
Minho frowns. “Not true. Minjoon cares if he wins or not. He was upset when we lost last game. Kept talking about how well they’d played. Those fucking umpires—”
“Sometimes you play well and you lose,” Seungmin says, cutting him off. “That’s life. It’s good for kids to learn that, too. And—you’re embarrassing Minjoon. Can’t you see that?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, grinning. “Didn’t anyone tell you that’s one of the perks of fatherhood? Embarrassing the shit out of your kid?”
He sees nothing wrong with what he’s doing. Seungmin’s hands clench into fists. “Listen,” he says. “If you keep heckling umpires, our team is going to get in trouble, maybe banned. Then there’s no baseball for anyone.”
Minho blinks, considering. “You know, I think there’s a kids’ soccer league somewhere around here…”
Yeah, they’re fucking doomed.
He takes a deep breath. “Minjoon likes baseball. And he’s good at it.”
“He got all of my strapping athleticism, obviously,” Minho says, with a touch of irony.
Seungmin blinks. Minho doesn’t look… unathletic. That said, he clearly doesn’t know the first fucking thing about baseball and doesn’t seem to care if that’s the sport his kid plays, or something else.
“Just—” Seungmin starts, and closes his eyes, breathes deep. “Rein it in. For the good of the team, yeah? Quit yelling at umpires doing their jobs.”
“Unless I see a particularly egregious call,” Minho says serenely, smiling at Seungmin.
“No, you—!”
Minho’s grinning again, right in his face, through the barrier of the chain link fence. Seungmin isn’t violent, but he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to punch somebody so badly—maybe nobody has ever been asked to get punched so much. “Wow,” Minho says. “That little vein on the side of your head is going nuts. If I keep going, will it explode?”
He’s winding him up. He’s provoking him on purpose—why? Just because he’s kind of an asshole? That’s probably the answer. And he’s still smiling serenely, showing his teeth and scrunching his eyes up.
“What’s going on here?” Changbin asks, having abandoned batting practice. Both of his hands come down on Seungmin’s shoulders, and he peers over at Minho. “Hey there, Minho.”
“Coach Seo,” Minho returns, smiling pleasantly. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
“Could do with a breeze,” Changbin returns nonchalantly. “Seungminnie, you good?”
He feels like his blood pressure is through the roof. Minho’s smile, his nonchalance, is fucking infuriating. “Fine,” he grits out, his teeth clenched.
“Great!” Changbin says. “Hey, wanna go supervise some children?”
Seungmin looks between Changbin and Minho, his nails leaving crescent moons in his own palms. “Yes,” he decides, because staying over here will almost certainly lead to a medical emergency. “Yes, I have to go make sure they’re fielding grounders safely.”
“Yes, you do,” Changbin says calmly. “Hey—see you after practice, okay, Minho?”
“Sure, sure,” he says, still grinning at Seungmin. His eyes are fucking maniacal, wide and bright and—and he’s still trying to get to Seungmin. “Hey, really, don’t mind me. I’ll just be watching, yeah?” He backs up, sits on the bleachers behind him. “It’s like I’m not even here.”
Changbin forcibly turns Seungmin, his hands still vicelike on his shoulders, and shoves him back towards the outfield.
“I hate him,” Seungmin says vehemently. Now it’s his hands dug into Changbin’s shoulders, bowed over his body as Changbin drives upward, in and out of his hole. “I can’t—I can’t fucking stand him.”
“Yeah?” Changbin breathes, his hands clutching Seungmin’s hips. “I think he likes you, Seungmo.”
“No, he—” Seungmin has to pause, to hook his arm around Changbin’s neck. “Fuck, Bin, he—” He buries his face in Changbin’s neck, the sensation proving too much for him. “He’s infuriating. I want to punch his smug face.”
“Mhmm,” Changbin hums, sounding like he doesn’t believe it. “I think he’s pulling your pigtails, Min.”
The audacity! They’re adults; they’re well beyond the tease-the-person-you-like phase. What is this, an elementary school playground?
Seungmin doesn’t dignify his assumption with a response; instead, he clamps his teeth on his pulse point, lets Changbin’s hand find his cock, and sprays wet and messy between them. His teeth clamp hard enough that it has to hurt Changbin, but he doesn’t complain.
He slows down, for Seungmin’s benefit—Changbin hasn’t come yet. “You know,” Changbin mumbles, dusting kisses to his shoulders, guiding Seungmin to grind weakly in his lap, whining at the overstimulation, “I can’t tell you the last time I came with my mortal enemy on my mind.”
“It was your cock,” Seungmin mutters, irritable. “Your hand. I wasn’t thinking about him.”
Changbin is grinning when he pulls Seungmin out of his neck. With a tight grip on his chin, he brings their lips together, and Seungmin pretends like he doesn’t care, like it doesn’t send a swarm of little butterflies through his tummy.
“I think you were,” Changbin mumbles against his lips, grinding against his over-sensitive prostate. “And I think that’s kind of hot.”
Seungmin scowls at him. “Can you get off, already?” he gripes, even as his thighs tighten around Changbin’s hips, holding him captive. Changbin is good at reading between Seungmin’s lines, his actions that speak louder than his words, and that’s probably why he’s stuck around so long. “I’m ready for you to go home.”
“No invite to spend the night, dear?” he teases, bringing his hands down to Seungmin’s ass, readjusting him in his lap.
“Do what you want,” Seungmin huffs, slumping against Changbin’s chest again, a melted puddle of goo. “You always do.”
“Good thing I mostly just want you,” Changbin returns, fucking cheesy as always—Seungmin is glad Changbin can’t see his face, and how all the blood in his body immediately rushes to it.
“Bin, you have to go talk to him,” Seungmin murmurs as they supervise the kids’ warm-up. He narrowly avoids looking over his shoulder to where he knows Minho is sitting, lounging with Jisung and Chan and waiting for the game to get underway.
“Am I meant to mediate?” Changbin asks with amusement, and his arm creeps around Seungmin’s hips, a too-familiar, too-fond gesture for what they’re meant to be in public. Seungmin jolts away, drawing more attention to what had been a subtle gesture.
“No—just—help,” Seungmin begs, and Changbin pats him on the head.
“Yes, dear,” he says obediently, and Seungmin forgets to even tell him that they’re not, like. A thing. A unit. A—a whatever. They’re really not.
He keeps his focus entirely on the kids doing their stretching. He does not strain to hear what Changbin is saying to Minho, and he is not infuriated when he distinctly catches a friendly, “How’s it goin’ today, Min?”
And, distantly—“If I get one more work call on a fuckin’ Saturday—”
Good, good. Maybe if Minho keeps getting work calls, he won’t be able to yell at the umpires.
Their opponents today are more reasonable, and by more reasonable, Seungmin means that they aren’t middle schoolers masquerading as elementary schoolers. As a result, they actually do okay.
Okay, so they’d done really well in the last game, of course, but what Seungmin means is they actually stand a chance of winning this one.
And Seungmin learns that the odd Saturday work call will not prevent Minho from passionately shouting at the umpires. “What do you mean?” he yells after muting his phone call. “Kid’s out, he was tagged!”
The umpire turns to Minho and, through his mask, raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t I eject you last week?” he asks. “You wanna make it the whole season?”
“I’m just standing up for the kids, here,” Minho scowls, unapologetic. “Doesn't seem fair.”
Of course he tries to pass off his stupidity as being noble. He nudges Changbin until he gets the message and goes over to run interference—it's in Seungmin’s best interest to just tune him the fuck out.
Miraculously, through the combined efforts of Chan and Changbin (and maybe Minho’s repeated work calls), he doesn't get ejected this game. More than once, Seungmin’s gaze strays over and he finds Minho huddled off to the side, whispering angrily into his phone, arguing with someone who isn't one of their umpires. Thank fuck.
And, even more miraculously, they win. Minjoon gets an incredible line drive off the opposing pitcher, and Ben, at Changbin’s prompting and encouraging, manages to make it home in the bottom of the ninth.
Seungmin makes sure his team displays the proper sportsmanship (even if the parents’ behavior leaves something to be desired, there) and forces them to line up and shake hands with the opposing team, childish choruses of Good game, good game, good game…
Minho has at last put his phone away, and wraps his son in a huge, embarrassing hug. “Look at you,” he tells Minjoon. “Winning despite those biased umpires.”
“Dad,” Minjoon groans. “Coach Kim says they're calling fair.”
Minho ignores this, and pats Ben on the head next. “Good running, kid,” he praises, as Jisung and Chan also hurry onto the field.
“You did so good!” Jisung praises immediately, wrapping the kid in a hug. “Oh, sorry, Channie, go ahead…” Jisung had been overzealous as a stepfather again, but Chan flashes him a fond smile as he crouches in front of Ben to praise his base running. “Really good hit, Minjoon,” Jisung praises. “I think Coach Seo’s hitting lessons have been paying off,” he says, glancing at Changbin.
“He did a good job,” Changbin affirms, clapping Minjoon on the shoulder.
“Alright, kid,” Minho says, arm around his shoulder. “I’m turning my phone off, and we’re going for milkshakes.”
And, miracle of all miracles, Minjoon smiles gratefully at his dad, still smeared in dirt from the infield. “Yeah, dad, that sounds great.”
Ben immediately perks up. “Dad, Jisung—”
Jisung turns to Chan with some killer puppy dog eyes. “Yeah, Channie, can we—?”
Chan laughs and pats Ben on the head, drapes an arm around Jisung’s shoulders. “Yeah, yeah, if Minho and Minjoon will let us crash.”
“Works for me,” Minho affirms. “Coach Kim, Coach Seo, see you at practice tomorrow.”
“Yeah, hey, Ben, what do you say?” Jisung prompts, hurriedly directing Ben towards his coaches.
“Thank you, Coach Kim, thank you, Coach Seo, see you tomorrow,” Ben chants dutifully.
“Yeah, thanks!” Minjoon echoes belatedly, hovering near Minho.
Seungmin is a bit puzzled by their relationship. Minjoon is embarrassed by Minho but also seems to crave his attention—was he like that as a kid? He can’t remember, and his dad wasn’t really the embarrassing type, anyway.
Oh. He needs to respond, instead of stupidly gaping at the kids. “Uh—no problem,” he manages to respond, charitably ignoring the sneer on Minho’s face. “See you all at practice tomorrow, and great work today!”
“Yep, great work,” Changbin echoes, clapping a hand around Seungmin’s shoulders. “Coach Kim and I are gonna clean up and then go get ice cream for ourselves, right?” And he looks meaningfully to Seungmin, a grin on his face.
Is ice cream code for sex now?
Sunday practice is insignificant, largely because Minho spends the practice pacing behind the fence, on the phone the entire practice. When Minjoon catches Seungmin staring (which he isn’t, by the way), he helpfully informs him, “Dad’s trying to close a big deal, he says.”
He had blinked down at Minjoon, cocked his head, and said, “Okay?” Like he’s supposed to care!
Seungmin is more run down on Monday than he’d anticipated. Coaching Little League had been meant for stress relief, but it also means that his weekends aren’t exactly his own. But Changbin wakes up early to go to the gym, and he makes sure to make Seungmin coffee and leave him breakfast. Seungmin had been half-conscious for a forehead kiss as Changbin had gotten dressed in the dark and—
And when had Changbin started spending work nights, anyways?
He decides not to let it trouble him, half-asleep as he gets himself ready for work. He takes the remainder of the pot of coffee in a tumbler to the office.
It’s the usual gauntlets of meetings that could have been emails, meetings that could have been phone calls, and meetings that he has to trek across town for.
His job entails listening to a lot of bullshit sales pitches, which he almost always declines. He’s in charge of budgeting, and he runs a pretty tight ship, in that regard.
But his last meeting before lunch is one that he has to trek across the city for; he calls Changbin as he boards the train.
“Well, hey, Seungminnie. So you did get up and make it to work, I assume?” he answers, cheerful.
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “The coffee saved me, thanks.”
“No problem,” Changbin says, and he can hear the smile in his voice. “You on lunch already? It’s early.”
“No,” he sighs. “Spending my lunch catching a meeting. Listen, I was really calling because I might be a few minutes late to practice today. Busy day.” It’s not primarily the reason he’d been calling. He just—he hadn’t spoken to Changbin this morning. It seemed polite to thank him for the coffee, the breakfast—the forehead kiss.
“I can hold the kiddos down until you get there, Seungmo,” Changbin says.
There’s silence on the line. Seungmin hears the clack of a keyboard in the background, phones ringing. Changbin had picked up in the middle of work for him, and his throat weirdly closes up.
He’s on the verge of bringing up the forehead kiss, the fact that Changbin is just inviting himself to spend nights now and Seungmin doesn’t despise it, when his phone buzzes with another call.
“Shit,” he curses. “Sorry, Bin, getting another call. Hey—see you at practice?”
“Sure thing, Seungminnie, see you then.”
It’s an unfamiliar number, but that’s nothing new. There are always people cold-calling him, though he specifically ignores unknown numbers on nights and weekends, on principle. He needs some modicum of work-life balance.
He clears his throat, and—“Levanter Co., this is Kim Seungmin, Head of Accounting.”
“Oh, gross, are you on the clock? Is this your work phone?”
A voice Seungmin would recognize anywhere. Fucking Lee Minho. “Minho?” he asks, deflating. “How did you get my cell number?”
He knows without Minho even saying so: “Jisung.” Of course. At the beginning of the season, Jisung had sidled up to Seungmin and Changbin both, insisting he needed their numbers just in case. Overprotective (step)parent bullshit, Seungmin assumed.
“So, are you calling me about Minjoon?” Seungmin presumes.
“Oh, yeah,” Minho remembers. “I’m actually running to his school right now; kid got sick, apparently. He won’t be at practice, yeah? Maybe not tomorrow, either. He was puking.”
“Okay,” Seungmin says. “I’ll let Changbin know, too. Let him know we hope he feels better soon, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah, I will—fuck, it’s already 11:30? Jesus, I’m gonna be late,” he groans. “Listen, I’ve gotta call Jisung to meet me at school, okay? I’ve got to get back to work—just—see you in a couple days, okay?”
“You’re not obligated to come to Minjoon’s practices,” Seungmin reminds him.
He can hear the smirk over the phone, the curling of Minho’s lip. “But you’d miss me too much, wouldn’t you?”
Seungmin doesn’t even say goodbye, just hangs the phone up. Minho isn’t worth it, and he doesn’t have time to lose his cool—he has to sit, level-headed, through another useless sales pitch.
Seungmin checks in with the receptionist, whose eyes widen with understanding as he introduces himself. “Kim Seungmin, Levanter Co. I have a 12:00 meeting, I believe…?”
“Yes, sir!” she says, and directs him towards a couch. “Um—I believe Mr. Lee had to step out, but he should be back soon. Could I get you coffee, tea, water…?”
The guy doesn’t even have the decency to be on time to their meeting. This isn’t looking good for them.
Five minutes pass, then ten, then fifteen. The receptionist anxiously calls him, hunched behind her desk. “Sir? Um—your twelve o’clock…?” Seungmin’s shoe taps on the floor as he casts around the overwhelmingly corporate waiting room; his stomach growls the slightest bit. He’s resigned himself to missing lunch today.
And then, at last—he barrels in. He looks harried, hair swept off his forehead, breathing heavily. He straightens as he sees Seungmin, and—wow. It looks like one thing has gone Seungmin’s way at last.
“Kim Seungmin,” Minho says, stiffening, eyes widening.
“Lee Minho,” Seungmin says cordially, his mouth twisting into a grin. He extends his hand, shakes Minho’s sweaty one. “I’ll forgive you for being a little late—I understand your son got sick?”
“I, um,” he says, his eyes shifting over to the receptionist. “Mr. Kim, would you like to step into my office?”
“Certainly,” he says, failing to conceal his maniacal grin. “After you, Mr. Lee.”
Seungmin follows Minho into his office. It’s sparsely decorated, save a dying plant in the corner and a wealth of photos of him and Minjoon scattered in frames across his desk. Minho drops the façade, and sinks in his office chair with his head in his hands.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hands tearing at his hair. “Fuck, it—it has to be you, doesn’t it?”
Seungmin blinks politely. He recalls something from a phone call of Minho’s: I don’t care if you have to get on your knees to make him happy, just make it work, yeah? Had that been about him? How amusing.
“So am I the big sale I’ve been hearing about so much this weekend?” he asks, sitting in front of Minho’s desk, crossing his legs. He’s smug—doesn’t he deserve to be?
“There’s no point even pitching to you, is there?” Minho asks, his voice hollow. Defeated. “Jesus, fuck, I—”
“Now, now,” Seungmin says, enjoying this immensely and not bothering to hide it. “I’ll still hear your pitch. I won’t deny you just because of our personal history. But I have a pretty tight fist when it comes to our company’s budget, I must admit.”
Minho looks up, slumped over his desk. Are those—tears in his eyes? He looks defeated, and instead of feeling victoriously smug, Seungmin just feels… kind of horrible, all of a sudden. “I can’t,” he admits, sounding pitiful. “I—I mean, even if you weren’t you. I—Not today. Not now. Not to you, especially.”
Seungmin blinks. This is unexpected, the sudden change of tone. The pitiable demeanor. What is this? “Minho,” he says, gentle. “Is Minjoon alright?”
“You wouldn’t get it,” he mumbles, slumping back onto his desk. “You’re not a parent. But I—this fucking job. I can’t just leave and take care of my own kid. I’ve got to dump him with Jisung the trophy wife. He’s fine—it’s just one of those childhood illnesses, you know? He’ll get over it, just fever and throwing up, but I—I worry, yeah? I’m a dad, I worry. And I have to come back into the office and pitch a sale I don’t even give a fuck about while Jisung’s taking care of my kid.”
Yeah, maybe Seungmin can’t understand. He has a demanding job himself, of course, but at least he doesn’t have a kid to take care of. He doesn’t even have, like, a fish to worry about. Just himself.
“I should be the one taking care of him,” Minho says, not bothering to look up at Seungmin. “But I’m stuck here with you, and you won’t take our sale because it’s me, and I’m stuck back at square one. I fucking hate this place.”
Seungmin sits back in his chair. He’s not—He won’t comfort Minho. That would be strange, to reach across the desk and pat his back. There, there.
But he—he has to throw him a bone, right? He gets the distinct feeling that Minho doesn’t want to be having a breakdown in front of him. But the stress of the job, the sick kid, his important sale being Seungmin—it seems to have all caught up to him.
“I apologize,” Seungmin says, standing up. “I’ve only just realized—it seems I double-booked. We’ll have to reschedule this.”
Minho looks up, confused. His cheeks are stained with tears, his eyes red. “I—Seungmin, what?”
“We’ll have to do this meeting another time,” Seungmin says. “How’s Wednesday? If we do another lunch meeting, though, I do insist on being taken out to a restaurant, by the way. I’m not giving my lunch break up to listen to a sales pitch.”
Minho sniffs, attempts to sit up. “I, um, wait,” he says, and consults his desk calendar. “Yes. Wednesday. I can do Wednesday. Um—there’s a steakhouse around here?”
“I like steak,” Seungmin confirms, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, I’m afraid I don’t really know what the culture is like here, but. Surely you could get the rest of the day’s work done at home? I believe you were just coming into the office on my behalf, but, as I said, it seems I double-booked.”
Minho goes quiet; more tears slip down his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I—Seungmin, I don’t like being indebted to you.”
“Stop yelling at Little League umpires for doing their jobs,” Seungmin instructs. “And consider us even.”
Minho nods earnestly. “Yeah, um—yeah, I can do that. I—fuck, I can’t leave like this. Give me a second, yeah?”
Fair enough—he’s a mess. His face is blotchy, streaked with tears and snot. His lips keeps wobbling uncontrollably, and it seems he’s fighting to keep his breathing even.
For the first time, Seungmin looks at him and feels something other than hate, than rage. He—kind of wants Minho, he thinks. He just—he’d look awfully pretty under Seungmin, wouldn’t he? Crying, begging.
He, um. He might bring that up to Changbin. Just to see if he’s still on board.
For now, though, he sights the box of tissues on the corner of Minho’s desk, grabs a wad of them in his hand, and passes them silently to Minho.
“What are we?” Seungmin mumbles into the nape of Changbin’s neck, still locked inside of him. He’s usually fastidious about cleaning up after, but Changbin had whined so prettily that he didn’t want Seungmin to pull out yet, and, well, he’s only human. And now he’s sleepy, and in serious danger of falling asleep like this. “We’re definitely something, right?”
“Whatever you want, Seungminnie,” Changbin returns, sounding equally sleepy. He presses his hips back, like he can’t get enough of Seungmin. “Just as long as you admit that we’re not nothing.”
“If we’re not nothing, we’re something,” Seungmin reasons.
“Mhmm,” Changbin says.
“You like Minho,” he accuses.
“Minho likes you,” Changbin returns. “What a fucked up little love triangle, huh?”
“I want Minho,” Seungmin admits, in a lazy little mumble to Changbin’s skin. “Even more fucked up.”
“Just because we’re something doesn’t mean you can’t want Minho,” Changbin rationalizes. “And, yes, I am being greedy and selfish here, because I’m hoping you’ll bring him to bed.”
Seungmin imagines Changbin and Minho; his teeth bite into the meat of Changbin’s shoulder, his hips rock forward.
“You can go for it if you want, Seungminnie,” Changbin mumbles. “Just as long as you remember that we’re something. I know the code here now, anyway. You’re not getting rid of me.”
And why would he ever want to, he wonders, as he grips Changbin’s hips and rocks forward more insistently.
“Mr. Kim,” Minho says, awkward as he stands to his feet, sliding out of the booth.
“Cut the bullshit,” Seungmin says, immensely enjoying himself yet again. “Give me your pitch so I can enjoy my free lunch, okay?” He perfunctorily shakes Minho’s hand, then slides into the booth. He pauses to glance up at the waiter. “Just water for me, please.”
He’s spent the past couple of days hemming and hawing over the ethics of this, and then come to the obvious conclusion that the term business ethics is an oxymoron. His company’s millions of dollars aren’t necessarily trickling down to him; if he uses it to help a friend and his career advancement, who is he to give a fuck?
“So,” Seungmin says, as the waiter nods and hurries off. “Your pitch?”
“Right, um,” he says, fumbling already. Seungmin is forced to presume that he’s a bit more graceful when it’s someone who isn’t Seungmin that he’s presenting to. “So, our company—”
“How much is it and what services, exactly, will Levanter Co. receive?” Seungmin asks simply, folding his hands on the table.
Minho blinks, then stammers through the package they’re looking to offer Seungmin’s company. He purses his lips. “Cut the price by 5% and make our contract three years, not five, and we can pretend we spent the better part of the afternoon haggling over it.”
Minho nods once, stunned. “So—it’s a deal?”
“Of course,” Seungmin says, extending his hand again. “I want to enjoy my lunch. Have you been here?” he asks, perusing the menu. “Is the pasta any good?”
“Why are you doing this?” Minho asks quietly, staring at him.
He places the menu on the table, folds his hands in front of him. “Minho, I don’t really give a fuck about any of this. I’ve saved my company easily 30 times my own salary in my time here. I have the opportunity to throw someone I know a bone, and I can disregard business ethics just enough to help you out.”
Minho scoffs. “It’s a fucking oxymoron, isn’t it? Business ethics.”
Seungmin grins. “Exactly. See, I knew I’d like you if I met you outside the lens of fucking Little League baseball.”
Minho ventures a smile, a hesitant one. “You don’t understand because you’re not a parent.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Seungmin can admit. “You have more responsibility than I do. I just have a boytoy to consider, and that’s all.”
Minho gapes. “You and—you and Changbin, right?”
Had they been that obvious, or is Minho just that obsessed with him? He’d like to think it’s the latter. “We’re not nothing,” he confirms, hiding his smirk behind the menu. “So I guess we’re something.”
Minho nods. “That’s—um, good for you.” He looks away, awkward.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Minho,” Seungmin says. “But you’re not really the type to cry in front of others, are you?”
He stiffens. “If you think you’re allowed to humiliate me just because you threw me a fucking bone,” he hisses, “I’d rather you just rescind your offer.”
“Apologies,” he says. “I hadn’t meant it to come across like that. The deal’s done, as far as I’m concerned, whatever happens between us.”
“Between… Seungmin, there’s no us,” Minho insists. “There’s… You have Changbin.”
“Changbin thinks you’re pretty,” Seungmin informs him.
Minho scowls. “Just spit out whatever you’re beating around the bush about. What do you want?”
“You,” Seungmin says, as the waiter returns with his water. “Ah, thanks—I was thinking about trying the pasta?”
“Excellent choice,” the waiter deadpans, sounding disinterested. “For you, sir?”
Minho stammers through his order, the waiter departs, and he turns to Seungmin incredulously. “What the fuck do you mean?” he hisses.
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Seungmin says. “You can tell me to fuck off, if you’d like, no hard feelings. I’ll even take my pasta to go. Or, if you’d rather, we can use the pretense of our business meeting to spend the afternoon together. I mean, fuck, do you want to go bowling, or something?”
“Bowling,” Minho deadpans. “You want our first date to be bowling?”
Seungmin shrugs. “It’s up to you. What would you like our first date to be?”
Minho blinks. “I live pretty far and my office isn’t soundproof.”
A wide grin spreads across Seungmin’s face. “Well, I probably live a few stops away from here. Can you wait that long?”
“It’s been too long,” Minho whines, already pawing at Seungmin’s belt. He’d wasted no time in pressing Seungmin against the door. To be fair, Seungmin had spent a significant amount of time in the restaurant riling him up. And it had been worth it, Seungmin palming him under the table until Minho forcibly ripped his hand away. Can’t, he’d panted. I’ll come, I can’t—can’t come here. Like this.
“Has it?” Seungmin asks, shucking Minho’s suit coat off and flinging it over a chair.
Minho pauses, his fingers tangled in Seungmin’s belt loops. “Yeah,” he admits. “Yeah—not since Minjoon—” He drags his eyes up to Seungmin’s, filled with determination. “I need this, Seungmin.”
He grins, nods his head down. “Go ahead, then.”
“You’re fucking infuriating,” Minho grumbles, even though he continues undoing Seungmin’s pants. “If I didn’t want to suck your cock so fucking bad—”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Seungmin asks politely, grabbing him by the shoulders to drag him to the living room. “Let me get comfy, then.”
“You’re so annoying,” Minho huffs. “Why do I want you so bad?”
“I could say the same for you,” Seungmin says, and shucks his clothes off, settles in his armchair. He offers Minho a pillow for his knees, spreading his legs to allow him to kneel between them. “But I want you, anyway. Maybe it’s a nice contrast to Changbin being too nice to me.”
Minho pauses, his hand poised around Seungmin’s cock. “What does it mean?” he asks. “Us—if you and Changbin…?”
“You want to include him?” Seungmin asks, stroking Minho’s hair. “Want me to take a video of you sucking my cock to send to Changbin?”
Minho’s hand squeezes around Seungmin’s cock and he visibly shudders. “Is that—that’s okay?”
“He’ll probably leave work to come over here,” Seungmin confirms, rooting through his discarded pants for his phone. “Are you okay with that?” Minho nods, pressing his legs together, his gaze drawing up as Seungmin positions his phone. “Do a good job, then, Minho.”
He watches Minho through the phone screen, the way he brings his mouth down to Seungmin’s cock and tentatively licks a stripe up it. His tongue pokes up to circle the head, and then he takes the head into his mouth. He hollows his cheeks, shifting uncomfortably on the ground, and then he blinks his round eyes up at Seungmin.
He’s teasing him, which is hardly uncommon for Minho, but this seems to be an even more innate reaction for him. This isn’t for Seungmin, it’s for Minho. He enjoys it, maybe, the taste of Seungmin leaking into his mouth, the feel of his sensitive head against the flat of his tongue.
Seungmin uses his free hand to grab a delicate fist of Minho’s hair, even though he’s looking right at him, blinking slowly. “You’re not even trying to tease me, are you?” he asks gently, stroking through Minho’s hair. “Just like it like this?”
“Yeah,” he whispers, his voice rough. He barely pulls off, close enough that his breath is hitting the head of Seungmin’s cock. “I just—It’s been a while. Like I said.”
“However you want it, Minho,” Seungmin promises, and Minho leaves a grateful kitten lick to his head.
He’s treating Seungmin’s cock like it’s massive and he couldn’t possibly take all of it—and maybe it’s true that he couldn’t take all of it, but he isn’t exactly massive. He is, at best, a tick or two above average. He can’t help but think that it’s the idea of this, more than the sporadic, uneven stimulation, that has him leaking a steady stream, which Minho dutifully laps up.
His thumb finds Minho’s cheek and strokes it, the bulge of Seungmin’s cock in the pocket of his cheek, fond. He’s fond he thinks because the miracle of cock has finally shut Minho up—which is what he will swear to his grave. Really, he thinks it might be the slight pathetic air he’s put on, the sparkly eyes he has when he glances up at Seungmin.
In any case, he cuts the video and sends it to Changbin, no caption, no context. And then he locks his phone and tosses it aside, because if Changbin wants to be involved so bad, he can get his ass over here himself.
“Come here,” he breathes to Minho, tugging him up into his lap, straddling him. Minho goes all too willingly, clutching his face as he drags their lips together. He’s grinding his hips down, and lets out a frustrated little huff at the layers he still has on, but he must be unwilling to let go of Seungmin to fix that problem.
Seungmin’s got him, even as Minho’s tongue surges in his mouth, his fists clench in his hair. He manages to get all necessary buttons and zips undone, even if Minho refuses to separate from him long enough to actually get them off.
“Minho,” Seungmin breathes. “Help me help you.”
Minho makes a dissatisfied little noise in the back of his throat, grinding his hips down onto Seungmin’s cock. “Are you going to fuck me?” he asks. “Or am I going to have to take matters into my own hands?”
“You’re not even stretched yet,” Seungmin points out, managing to strip Minho fully even with him stuck to Seungmin like glue.
“I don’t care,” Minho says with a whine. “I’ll be fine.”
Oh no, is it up to Seungmin to be the responsible adult? A recipe for disaster.
“Couch,” Seungmin orders. “I have lube in the coffee table.”
Minho sniffs, still grinding against Seungmin. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes I want Changbin to fuck me on the couch.”
Minho’s breathing heavily, summoning the strength to remove himself from Seungmin, to drag him for the couch. “It’s fucking pathetic that I’m so excited by that,” he acknowledges.
Seungmin grins, latching an arm around Minho’s waist and forcing him up, leering over him. “Don’t tell me you’re vanilla.”
Minho scowls. “I haven’t had sex in so long I’m not much of anything. You seem like the most boring vanilla fucker in the entire world.”
“And yet you want to fuck me so bad,” Seungmin reminds him, cocky.
“There has to be something wrong with me,” Minho mutters, clutching Seungmin and straddling him again on the couch. “Get your stupid lube, I need your fingers in me.”
Minho doesn’t make it easy, savagely attacking his neck and making some bruises that will be very difficult to explain at work tomorrow, while Seungmin is reaching back and trying to fumble for the sticky little bottle of lube he keeps hidden away in a drawer.
“So do you finger yourself?” Seungmin asks, finally snagging the tacky bottle, craning his neck obediently for Minho’s lips, his teeth, his tongue.
“I have a dildo,” he says, defensive. “It’s just a matter of when I’m able to use it.”
“Poor thing,” Seungmin intones.
“My dildo is bigger than you,” Minho scowls.
Seungmin doesn’t doubt it. Somehow, Minho seems like the bigger is better type—and yet he’s still begging for Seungmin’s cock, impatiently clawing at his skin. “And have you ever thought of me when you used it?”
“You come up in my mind a lot because you fucking irritate me,” Minho mutters, even as he lavishes kisses along the places he’s just been savagely biting. They’re similar, Seungmin thinks dizzily—they’re really far too similar for their own good. Poor Changbin.
“Sorry,” Seungmin says, and surges a finger into Minho without warning. He gasps, and nearly pitches forward, but catches himself against the back of the couch. “I’ll try to make a different impression on you, okay?”
Minho huffs, a hand digging into Seungmin’s shoulder. “You’re so full of it.”
Seungmin bites back the comment he’d been planning to make; the pulsing of his finger in Minho’s ass, even this little bit, has him damn near strangling Seungmin, muffling his whines into his skin.
“Give me another,” he mumbles, rocking his hips down.
Seungmin very charitably doesn’t make a snarky little comment and just obeys, groping Minho’s ass as he slots another finger in.
“Oh my god,” Minho gasps, slumping entirely onto Seungmin, thrusting his hips back. “I forgot how good it is with someone else.”
“With me?” Seungmin asks, cocking an eyebrow.
“In this case, yes,” Minho admits. “Just don’t let it get to your head.”
He twists his fingers just so, and Minho cries out, and—yeah, it’s definitely gone to his head. He’s good enough to make Minho feel this good, and somehow, that’s everything. So, yeah, he goes a little overboard, zeroing in on that one spot that has Minho nearly crying, writhing in his arms.
Minho’s chanting his name, probably so incoherent he’s not even aware that he’s doing it, and he feels a teardrop sliding down onto his shoulder—Minho’s crying. “Let me see,” he mumbles, pausing the movements of his hand to pull Minho from his neck, to observe him.
He’s a mess, his cheeks wet, his eyes red. He looks so pretty like this, absolutely fucking gone because of Seungmin, because of what he’s doing to him. It hadn’t even taken much—a bit of fingering, and that’s it?
“Stop,” he protests, trying to dry his tears. “I just—it’s a lot.”
“You want me to stop?” Seungmin checks, and reaches out to dry his tears. Probably he can tease Minho for this later, but now he’s shrinking back, retreating into a shell.
“N-no, I just—let’s not talk about it.”
“You’re really pretty like this,” Seungmin encourages.
“That’s fucked up,” Minho sniffs, rubbing his arm at his cheeks to dry them. “But if I’m so pretty, you should massage my prostate more.”
When a pretty boy who cries pretty tears tells you to massage his prostate, you do it, by god. And if he wants to cry into Seungmin’s shoulders, overwhelmed, while it’s happening, he’ll allow him—just this once.
He’s up to three fingers and Minho is incoherently mumbling into his skin when the door slams open and Changbin appears, in a panic.
“Oh, thank god,” he says. “Thought I missed it.”
Minho jolts at the sudden sound, but doesn’t look up from Seungmin’s shoulder. “You want Changbin, too, still?” Seungmin checks, and Minho sniffs.
“Yeah.”
“Say less,” Changbin says, immediately shucking his own work clothes. “Told my boss I had a personal emergency and had to take off early.”
“We’re negotiating over Minho’s sales pitch,” Seungmin informs, still knuckles deep in Minho’s hole. “Right, baby?”
He whines again, then manages to lift his head and reach for Changbin.
“Oh, why are you crying?” Changbin coos, cupping his cheeks. “Seungmin’s pretty bad at sex, huh?”
Seungmin snorts a laugh, and he thinks Minho cracks a smile, too. “Yeah,” he mumbles, letting Changbin wipe his pretty tears away. “Save me.” His voice is weak—he doesn’t mean it—but Changbin brings their lips together, over and over, much softer than whatever he’d been doing with Seungmin.
“He’s such a liar,” Seungmin says with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t you still want me to fuck you, Minho?”
“I do,” he mumbles, “so much.” He looks to Changbin, glances down at his cock. “Can I suck you off?”
“It’s all I’ve been thinking about since I saw that video,” Changbin admits, bringing his fingers to stroke through Minho’s hair. “Come here, we’ll readjust.”
Changbin settles himself on one end of the sofa, arranging Minho between his legs. Minho raises his hips high in the air for Seungmin, and when he finally sinks in, he falls forward onto Changbin’s cock like he’s desperate for it.
It’s really something, seeing Minho like this, Seungmin thinks. The tight heat around him, first of all, is not something he thought he’d ever experience from Lee Minho. But, no, there’s the arch of his back as Seungmin drives forward, the dimples at the base of his spine. Seungmin presses his fingers into them, and hears Minho choke on Changbin’s cock.
Changbin’s taking good care of Minho, stroking his hair and murmuring praise and letting him pull back when he needs to. It’s good, because Changbin is good at that stuff—Seungmin’s brain has pretty singularly rotted to the point where he doesn’t think he’s capable of comforting Minho much at all. His movements are harsh, snapping into Minho to the very root, then pulling all the way back out to do it again. His grip is probably painful, and slap of their hips together drowns out any gentle praise Changbin offers, even any moans Minho might make.
Changbin looks up, catches Seungmin’s eye, and—“Oh, baby, you’re gone, too, huh?” he asks. “Minho feels that good, Seungminnie?” Seungmin clutches tighter at Minho’s hips, his movements growing more jarring, more erratic. “Minho,” Changbin says gently. “Do you want Seungminnie to come in you?”
Minho shakes his head as best he can with a mouth full of cock—fuck. Seungmin’s not positive he has that kind of self-restraint in him, not when Minho’s hole is tight and warm and pretty much begging him to fill him up.
Changbin gives Seungmin a warning glance, a serious one, and he almost whines. Minho is so annoying.
But he is undeniably close, pretty much singularly focused on his own cock. He snakes a hand underneath Minho so he can at least try to get Minho off, too, but Minho whimpers and bats his hand away. Seungmin’s own hand comes away sticky and wet, covered in Minho’s release—he’s come. When had he fucking come?
It’s this realization that somehow does it for Seungmin; with every ounce of willpower he contains, he pulls out of Minho and strokes himself until he’s finishing over his ass, pretty white ropes over the red from Seungmin fucking into him so hard.
Minho is still valiantly working at Changbin’s cock, but pulls back with his tongue out; the message is clear enough. “Shit,” Changbin mumbles, fumbling to fist his own cock, working it until he’s releasing over Minho’s presented tongue and his face at large.
Seungmin hooks Minho around the waist and tugs him back; he’s tucked his tongue back in his own mouth, but the rest of his face is a mess. There’s a particularly dangerous white glob tacking up his eyelashes, and he shuts his eye before it can drip.
“What do you know,” Changbin sighs, catching his breath. “You’re pretty like this, too, Min.”
Seungmin drags his lips through Minho’s hair, pointedly avoiding any trace of Changbin’s come. “Yeah, you’re alright,” Seungmin agrees. “I guess we’ll keep you.”
Minho whines, stretches forward for Changbin. “Shower. Towel. Something.”
“Oh, we’re definitely something, right?” Seungmin asks, glancing at Changbin.
“Definitely not nothing,” he agrees with a broad grin.
“Yeah, you two are super witty and all,” Minho says, snapping back to his old self, “but I’m not trying to go blind from your sperm impregnating my eyeball. Towel.”
“Of course, dear,” Changbin agrees with a smile, stretching forward to peck his lips again, perching a hand beneath his chin.
“Are you going to cry again?” Seungmin ventures, and this time gets wrestled into a headlock for his cheek—balance is restored.
“Okay, team,” Seungmin says in their final team huddle. “It was a good season, yeah? We saw a lot of improvement, and most importantly, we had fun.”
“My dad always says winning is most important,” Minjoon says, blinking over at Seungmin.
“That’s certainly one way to look at it,” Changbin says with a grin. “Anyway, we hope to see you all next season. Strays on three?”
They do their team chant for a final time, and then break. Most kids offer high-fives or hugs to Changbin and Seungmin before scurrying off to their parents.
Minjoon still looks confused, looking between Seungmin and Changbin. “So… winning isn’t most important?”
“Of course it is,” Minho says, coming up behind Minjoon and placing his hands on his shoulders. “Don’t let them tell you otherwise, Joon.”
Jisung sidles up, bundles of fabric suspiciously and conspicuously bunched in his arms. “So, like, I got you both something,” he says. “Not for coaching, either! Just, like—okay, so Minho told me—”
Seungmin seizes Jisung by the arm and drags him well away from Minho and Minjoon—they haven’t quite told Minjoon yet, wanting to finish out the season and figure out themselves before they sprung that on the kid. Maybe it’s, like, traumatic or something, having your dad date both of your Little League coaches.
“What, Jisung?” Seungmin asks, and Changbin meanders over, too.
“We’re, like, basically stepdads in law, so…” he mumbles, and thrusts the shirts to each of them.
Seungmin unfolds the shirt, and—no. He cannot be serious. This is Jisung, and Jisung is ridiculous, but—no.
“Holy shit,” Changbin murmurs. “Jisung, we have to wear this out, all three of us.”
Jisung beams. “Perfect!”
“I”m not—” Seungmin protests, not fucking believing this. “I’m not wearing a shirt that says I’m not the stepdad, I’m the dad who stepped up on it.” It’s even worse than just that—the letters are literally on fire, and this has to be the corniest T-shirt Seungmin has ever seen. He would literally rather die than wear—
“You don’t like it?” Jisung asks, pouting. Are those fucking tears in his eyes?
“Of course we like it,” Changbin says. “Seungmin’s just a buzzkill. I’ll make him wear it, Jisungie, don’t you worry.”
“Yay!” Jisung says, and flings his arms around Changbin, then Seungmin. “Channie was talking about maybe going out this weekend, so we can all match!”
Seungmin grimaces as Jisung skips back towards Chan and Ben, then turns on Changbin. “What are you—”
“Think how humiliated Minho will be,” Changbin says with a broad grin. “Payback for all the shit he gave the umpires this season, don’t you think?”
Seungmin pauses, considers. He has a fucking point. And he can tolerate the embarrassing fucking T-shirt if Changbin is also wearing it, and if it’s all at Minho’s expense.
“...Should we maybe get matching cowboy hats?” Seungmin suggests.
Changbin’s face breaks into a broad grin; he leans to press a kiss to the side of his head. “That’s the spirit,” he says.