Work Text:
“Seungmin,” Chan drawls, voice muffled, breath warm where it ghosts along Seungmin’s nape. “Stop pretending you don’t like this.”
“Hyung,” Seungmin groans, face half-squished into Chan’s pillow, one of his legs trapped between both of Chan’s thighs. “You’re literally suffocating me.”
“Bullshit,” Chan mumbles, arms tightening around Seungmin’s middle, dragging him closer—how is that even possible—until Chan’s chest is flush against his back, and his stupid leg, the heavy one, is back over Seungmin’s thigh, basically his crotch. “You smell good today. ‘S nice.”
“I swear to fucking god—”
“Shhh. Don’t ruin it.”
It’s 1:42AM. They finished recording hours ago. The rest of the dorm is asleep or pretending to be. The studio lights are dim, monitors still glowing from whatever half-finished song Chan had been tweaking before Seungmin had walked in and immediately gotten dragged into his lap. Well—technically, onto the couch. And then into his lap. And now… this.
Chan is wrapped around him like a dog who’s gotten used to sleeping on its owner’s face. It’s not even a real blanket fort, just Chan’s hoodie draped over both their heads while he snuggles in close and inhales Seungmin like he’s some weird little omega-scented drug. His arms are locked around Seungmin’s waist, like a seatbelt, and his thigh is right there. Pressed up against—
“Move your fucking leg, hyung.”
“No.”
Seungmin inhales. Clenches his jaw. Focus. Focus on something else. Like the ticking from the wall clock. The slight hum of the computer. The way Chan’s nose is literally pressing into the skin right behind his ear—
“Stop sniffing me like a goddamn mutt—”
“You’re my omega,” Chan grumbles, muffled. “It’s literally normal. It’s comforting. You smell like home.”
Seungmin’s eyes flutter shut. His neck is hot. “I’m not your omega.”
“You will be.”
“Excuse me?”
Chan just chuckles, soft and low, like he’s already made up his mind. Like the world is already shaped the way he wants it to be. “Dunno what you’re acting all pissy about. You know you love this.”
Seungmin does not. He doesn’t. He absolutely shouldn’t. Not when he’s like this—tense, irritated, exhausted and very fucking pent-up, in the way omegas get when they haven’t had time to cycle off the hormones from their last heat. In the way omegas get when they’re too busy training and practicing and living in the same building as their annoying alpha crush who keeps touching them and doesn’t even realize how hot he is.
Because that’s the worst part.
Chan genuinely doesn’t get it.
He doesn’t get that curling around Seungmin with his sweat-damp tank top still on, with his thighs sticky from practice and his warm alpha scent seeping into every damn inch of space between them, isn’t just “affection.” That it’s so much worse. That his voice, gravelly and soft after midnight, shouldn’t be allowed to rasp out words like “mine” or “home.”
Because Seungmin is trying.
He’s really, genuinely trying.
Trying not to rut against that thigh. Trying not to let his body react to the soft exhales, the sleepy mumbling, the way Chan keeps unconsciously tugging him closer like he can’t physically stand the idea of them not being chest-to-back, like he needs it. Needs him.
“Hyung,” he mutters, “your leg’s right on my—”
“I know,” Chan whines, nuzzling in like an oversized, sweaty puppy. “That’s the point.”
Seungmin chokes. “What the fuck—”
“You’re warm. I’m cold. Solution? Spoonmin.”
“…Don’t ever say that again.”
Chan just snickers, clearly pleased with himself.
Seungmin squirms, trying to shift Chan’s weight off his groin with a knee. Doesn’t work. Chan’s too heavy. Warm. Scented. Comforting in a way that’s starting to break through Seungmin’s defenses.
It’s fucking unfair.
Because Chan smells good. Of bergamot, cedar, clean sweat, something naturally him that makes Seungmin want to lie down and roll over and—no.
No. Absolutely not.
“You need to go back to your bed,” Seungmin mutters, mostly for his own sanity.
“Mm. No bed. You’re the bed.”
“I’m not joking—”
“Neither am I,” Chan says, drowsy and affectionate. “You’re the comfiest bed I’ve ever had. You sigh all grumpy and then settle like you’re mad about how much you like it.”
“…I’m gonna kill you.”
“You won’t,” Chan says smugly. “You love me too much.”
The silence stretches.
Seungmin does not respond to that.
And Chan—fucking bastard that he is—sighs, like he’s been waiting all day to get here. To wrap himself around his favorite omega and just be. Like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.
Seungmin’s body betrays him.
His hips twitch. The pressure of Chan’s thigh against him shifts, hits just right. His cock pulses. No.
He forces himself to still, to ignore the tiny, traitorous whimper that tries to escape.
But Chan’s already half-asleep.
Which is the only reason Seungmin hasn’t shoved him off yet. That—and the fact that he doesn’t want to.
Fuck. This is going to kill him.
Next day.
It’s raining when practice ends.
Raining in the most inconvenient, dramatic-as-fuck way possible: sheets of cold water crashing down the moment they step outside, blurring every streetlight into long, smudgy streaks. No umbrella. Of course not. Because apparently no one in this damn group plans ahead. So they all run to the van like wet rats, hoodies soaked, sneakers squelching.
Chan gets hit the worst.
He’s the last out of the building, after double-checking the studio doors, and ends up jogging to the van alone while yelling, “WAIT—fuck, Jisung, you didn’t even hold the—” BAM. Door slams behind him. Soaked. Like, dripping.
And then, because the universe has it out for Seungmin specifically, Chan ends up squished into the backseat right next to him.
Not just next to him. Practically on top of him. Because the others are taking up all the space and Chan’s giant ass thigh is jammed against Seungmin’s, and his drenched hoodie is pressing into Seungmin’s side, and—
“Don’t lean on me,” Seungmin mutters, elbowing him. “You’re literally a fucking puddle.”
“I’m cold,” Chan whines, shaking his arms out slightly. “My hair’s stuck to my scalp. I look like a rat. Give me body heat, c’mon.”
“No. Get off—”
“Just a little,” Chan says, slumping his head onto Seungmin’s shoulder like he owns the place. “Lemme borrow some warmth, Minnie. Just like… this. Just for now.”
His voice is low. Soft. Sleepy, almost.
And Seungmin wants to fight it. He wants to shove him off, make a sarcastic comment, tell him to go beg Hyunjin instead—but…
But Chan’s shivering.
He really is. The kind of tired, damp, slow-motion shiver that comes after long rehearsals and a freezing downpour. His fingertips are cold where they curl over Seungmin’s wrist. His thigh is pressing into Seungmin’s in a way that shouldn’t be sensual, but absolutely is. And the hoodie—God, the hoodie’s wet, but it smells like him, like clean sweat and aftershave and fucking alpha. Bergamot and something sweet and—
Seungmin’s throat bobs.
He turns his head slightly, feels Chan’s hair brush his jaw. The strands are wet. Soft. He imagines curling his fingers in them, tugging just a little, tilting Chan’s head back until—
No. Stop. Focus.
Chan exhales against his neck, slow and steady. “You’re warm,” he mumbles.
Seungmin stares out the foggy van window, jaw clenched.
“Don’t fall asleep on me.”
“Mm.”
“I’m serious. You’re gonna drool. It’ll get in my shirt.”
“I like your shirt.”
“You’re not even making sense—”
Chan shifts again. His hand slides further over Seungmin’s wrist, and his knee bumps his thigh again, and Seungmin can feel everything. His whole body is humming, wired and tense and way too aware of how close Chan’s mouth is to his throat.
He swears under his breath. Focus on anything else.
Minho’s voice filters through from the front: “You two done fucking back there or what?”
Seungmin kicks the seat in front of him immediately. “SHUT THE FUCK UP.”
Chan snorts, laughing sleepily. “We’re just cuddling.”
“You’re on my lap—”
“Exactly.”
It’s so casual. So normal. So insane.
Because Chan does this all the time. He leans. He sprawls. He wraps himself around Seungmin like it’s instinct, like Seungmin exists for the sole purpose of holding him up. Of keeping him grounded. It’s a habit. A need.
And the worst part is—Seungmin lets him.
Like a fucking idiot.
Because deep down, he wants to be needed like this. Wants Chan’s alpha instincts to pull him close. Wants that dumb sleepy voice whispering “you’re warm” in his ear, like Seungmin’s heat and body and presence are the only things that matter.
Which would be fine.
It would maybe be manageable.
If it didn’t make his cock ache every time.
Seungmin bites the inside of his cheek, breathing through his nose. Don’t get hard. Don’t get hard. Don’t fucking get hard. Think about—think about the choreo. Think about broccoli. Think about JYP in a crop top. Anything.
Chan shifts again.
Presses in tighter.
His thigh is half over Seungmin’s now, damp denim brushing too close to sensitive spots. His hand moves absentmindedly—he’s fidgeting, always fidgeting—and it settles low on Seungmin’s stomach like it belongs there.
“I missed your scent today,” Chan murmurs.
Seungmin goes rigid.
“What?” he croaks.
Chan yawns. Nuzzles his neck. “I dunno. Just—you weren’t around that much. Kinda drove me crazy. Couldn’t focus. Made me wanna crawl outta my skin.”
Seungmin says nothing.
Because if he speaks now, he’ll let something horrible slip. Something like I fucking want you to rut me in this van or get off me before I hump your leg in front of Hyunjin.
His cock is throbbing. Hard and hot in his pants. And it’s so obvious, so unavoidable, he has to subtly shift his thighs just to hide it from view.
But Chan’s eyes are closed. Oblivious. Content.
Seungmin breathes out slowly.
Just one more block.
Just one more fucking block until they’re back at the dorm and he can sprint into his room and maybe hump a pillow and scream into his mattress and bite something.
Because this alpha is going to be the death of him.
It’s almost 3AM when Seungmin wakes up to the sound of his door clicking open.
He doesn’t move at first.
Just lies there, face mashed into his pillow, letting the familiar creak of hinges and the softest possible footfalls settle over him.
He already knows who it is.
Who else would let himself in like he owns the place? Who else would have the audacity to come in uninvited, hours after everyone’s gone to bed, and crawl into someone else’s bed without so much as a “you up?”
And sure enough, a second later, the mattress dips behind him.
“Hyung,” Seungmin groans, voice thick and raspy, “what the actual fuck.”
“Shhh,” Chan whispers, already pulling the covers up and throwing a leg over Seungmin’s like it’s just routine at this point. “Go back to sleep.”
“You go back to your own fucking bed—”
“But yours is warmer,” Chan mumbles, nuzzling in behind him. “And you smell better.”
“You’re deranged.”
“You love it.”
Seungmin is too tired to deal with this. His body aches. His thighs burn from rehearsal. His hair is still damp from the post-practice shower, and he’s wearing nothing but a loose t-shirt and boxers.
So of course Chan chooses tonight to sneak in.
The worst part?
Chan’s only wearing boxers too.
Like. That’s it.
Just soft black fabric barely clinging to his hips and skin that feels way too warm against Seungmin’s back. His thigh is hooked over Seungmin’s again, like a koala. His arm snakes under the pillow, fingers grazing Seungmin’s stomach, and he does that thing—that fucking thing—where he exhales against the back of Seungmin’s neck like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe.
“You’re shivering,” Chan murmurs. “Were you cold?”
“No,” Seungmin says flatly.
“Are you sure?”
“You’re making me cold. Get off me.”
“Liar,” Chan hums, lips brushing his skin. “You’re burning up.”
It’s the boxers.
It’s the fucking boxers.
Because Chan is pressed in so close, pelvis to ass, chest to back, legs tangled—and Seungmin can feel his cock through the damn fabric. Soft, warm, just barely there, like a threat.
Not hard. Just present.
And Seungmin—Seungmin is struggling.
“Hyung, your dick is basically touching me.”
“Mhm,” Chan says, clearly unbothered. “Yours too.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Seungmin clenches his jaw. Focuses on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Don’t grind back. Don’t rub. Don’t let your body react.
But his omega instincts are losing.
Because it’s Chan. His crush. His best friend. His walking fucking problem.
Chan wraps tighter around him.
The covers are warm. The room smells like clean detergent, faded shampoo, and Chan’s scent, ever-present, flooding Seungmin’s senses with every inhale. It’s lazy and low and safe—the kind of alpha scent that melts through your walls when you’re not looking. That makes you stop thinking and just feel.
“You always smell better when you’re sleepy,” Chan mutters, voice barely above a whisper.
Seungmin’s whole body tenses.
“What?”
“I dunno. It just… hits different. It’s like. Calmer. Sweeter.”
“Stop—saying shit like that.”
“It’s true though.”
“Hyung, I swear to god—”
Chan shifts. Rolls his hips just slightly—just fucking slightly—and his thigh slides higher between Seungmin’s legs, brushing right where Seungmin doesn’t need him.
Seungmin chokes. Grabs at the sheets.
Chan pauses. Still half-asleep, but very much aware of the noise.
“…Did I—”
“Don’t. Move.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
Then: “Are you—?”
“Nope.”
Chan’s hand twitches on his stomach. Stays there.
Then: “It’s okay if you are.”
Seungmin doesn’t answer.
Can’t.
He’s rock hard now, cock straining against his boxers, aching, humiliatingly obvious. It hurts. It actually hurts. And Chan’s thigh is still there.
“Minnie…”
Chan’s voice is soft. Careful. Like he’s walking into a dangerous place and doesn’t want to scare anything off.
“…You want me to move?”
Seungmin finally rolls over—big mistake—and finds himself chest to chest with him. Chan’s face is barely an inch away, brows furrowed, hair a mess, lips parted like he’s still caught in some sleepy daze.
“Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?” Seungmin grits out. “You—you fucking climb in here half-naked, you touch me, you press your entire dick on my ass like it’s no big deal—”
“It’s not—”
“—and then you sniff me and say shit like ‘you smell like home’ like you’re not literally fucking killing me—”
Chan blinks.
“You’re hard,” he says, like it just clicked. “Oh.”
“No fucking shit, Sherlock.”
Chan’s eyes flicker down. Then back up.
“…Do you want help?”
Seungmin’s whole brain shuts off.
“What?”
“I mean…” Chan shifts again, hand brushing low on Seungmin’s stomach now. “I don’t mind. If it’s uncomfortable. I can help.”
“…Help how, exactly?”
“However you want,” Chan murmurs. “You can rut on me, if that helps. Or I can just hold you while you do it. You don’t even have to—y’know. You don’t have to touch me or anything. You can use my leg. Like before.”
Seungmin stares at him.
“You knew?”
“I’ve always known.”
“Then why—”
“Because you never asked,” Chan says simply. “I didn’t wanna push. But I’m yours, Minnie. You can take what you need. Whenever.”
Silence.
Then, like the most unhinged person alive, Seungmin grabs Chan’s wrist, yanks him flat onto his back, and climbs over him—straddling one thigh, panting, teeth clenched.
“I’m not gonna fucking last,” he hisses, rutting down once, twice—fuck—like his body’s been waiting for this forever.
“Good,” Chan whispers, voice hoarse, eyes locked on him. “Then don’t.”
Seungmin didn’t mean to.
He really didn’t.
But now he’s grinding.
Rocking down onto Chan’s thigh like a fucking mess, boxers pulled low enough for his cock to press against soft, warm skin. His hands are braced on Chan’s chest, arms shaking, whole body flushed hot and too far gone to care.
Chan’s letting him do it. Just—lying there. Like he’s made to be used for this exact thing. Like his entire job is being the personal sex toy of one very pissed-off, very needy omega.
“Fucking hell,” Seungmin pants, pressing down harder, dragging his cock along the curve of Chan’s thigh with an audible slick-wet grind. “I—I can’t, I’m gonna—fuck—”
“Good boy,” Chan breathes, voice rough and low, hand gentle on Seungmin’s hip. “Take your time, pup.”
Pup.
Seungmin groans so loud he practically chokes on it.
His thighs are trembling. His eyes are half-closed. And he hates—hates how good it feels. How right it feels. Like his whole body was made to fuck against Chan’s. Like this has always been inevitable.
“Why do you let me do this,” he gasps, rutting faster, chasing friction like his body’s on autopilot. “Why the fuck do you just—just let me—”
“Because I want you to,” Chan murmurs, other hand sliding up to pet Seungmin’s back under his shirt. “Because I need it, Minnie.”
“Don’t say that—fuck—”
“You do as well,” Chan insists, voice dipping lower, filthier. “You need someone to take care of your cock like this, don’t you? Just a warm place to fuck into when you can’t sleep.”
“Chan—hyung—”
“You sound so pretty when you grind, pup. You whine every time your cock rubs the head, did you know that?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Seungmin groans, grinding harder. His cock’s leaking precome, dragging slick and easy against the skin of Chan’s thigh. “You’re so—so fucking warm, and you smell like—like you—”
“I’ve got you.” Chan cups the back of his neck, gently pulling him down until their foreheads are touching. “I’m yours, baby. Use me however you want.”
And that—that’s what shatters him.
That tone. That “yours.”
Seungmin lets out a desperate, broken whimper and rocks his hips so hard he nearly loses his balance. His cock drags again—hot, swollen, twitching—and fuck, he’s going to come, he’s going to—
“I’m gonna—I’m gonna—fuck—hyung—”
“Come on me,” Chan whispers, eyes wide and dark and needy. “Do it. Come for me. Show me how much you need your alpha.”
Seungmin shudders.
Then explodes.
Not literally—but it fucking feels like it. His whole body convulses, hips stuttering, cock spilling in thick, hot pulses between them. It hits Chan’s thigh, everywhere, messy and wet and so much.
“Fuck—” Seungmin chokes out, half-sobbing, collapsing onto Chan’s chest. “Holy fuck, I—I can’t—”
“I’ve got you,” Chan whispers, wrapping his arms around him instantly, petting down his spine, rocking him gently like Seungmin didn’t just use his thigh like a toy and then absolutely paint him. “You’re okay, pup. You’re perfect. You did so good.”
Seungmin twitches. Can’t even breathe right. His boxers are soaked. Chan’s skin is glistening. His cock is still giving one or two pathetic aftershocks, twitching against the alpha’s thigh, and it’s the most humiliating, satisfying thing in the world.
He hides his face in Chan’s chest.
“…Don’t tell the others.”
Chan laughs. Low and warm and so smug.
“I think they know, Minnie.”
“Fuck you.”
“Hm.”
“…Don’t look at me.”
Chan’s grin could power a small city. “I’m not.”
“You are. You’re literally smiling.”
“I can’t help it,” he says, still brushing his fingers down Seungmin’s back like he’s the most precious thing on earth and not a mess of post-orgasmic come and sweat and shame. “You’re so fucking cute when you’re grumpy.”
“I just came on your leg.”
“And?”
“And you’re acting like it’s romantic.”
Chan chuckles, voice deep, sleepy, and fucking fond. “It was romantic.”
“Hyung—”
“You used me,” Chan says softly, pressing a kiss to Seungmin’s temple, “like I’ve wanted you to for months. You really think I’m not gonna be a little smug about it?”
Seungmin groans. Loudly. He shifts just enough to pull back and flop onto his side, glaring at Chan from an inch away. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m right.”
“You’re disgusting and right, and I hate you.”
Chan’s lips twitch. “You came so fast, pup.”
“I will walk out of this room.”
“You humped me like a dog in heat.”
“I am a dog in heat.”
“Exactly,” Chan says, rolling toward him now, propping his head up on one hand. “And you’re mine.”
Seungmin pauses.
His breath catches. Just slightly.
Because Chan says it with zero hesitation—like it’s already decided. Like it’s a fact.
Like Seungmin being his omega is inevitable.
“…You’re gonna keep saying that,” Seungmin mutters, “until I believe it, huh?”
Chan shrugs. “You already do. You just like pretending you don’t.”
He reaches out again, brushing hair off Seungmin’s forehead, gaze soft. Fingers careful. Like he’s not allowed to stop touching. Like letting go now would hurt.
Seungmin swallows.
He doesn’t have a response to that. Not one that won’t betray how fucking real that moment felt. How much of his actual self just uncurled in Chan’s hands.
So he rolls back over, face half-buried in the pillow, mumbling, “You’re annoyingly good at this.”
“Good at what?”
“This,” Seungmin huffs. “The alpha thing. The… holding me after I grind the soul out of my dick on your leg thing.”
Chan laughs, warm and deep, and shifts behind him, pulling him in again without missing a beat.
“You always talk like that after you come?” he murmurs, mouth way too close to Seungmin’s ear now. “So rude. So filthy.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m a gentleman, Minnie. I hold your pretty little omega body when you’re done wrecking yourself on my thigh, and this is the thanks I get?”
“You’re so annoying.”
“You’re so cute.”
Seungmin squirms. He can feel the smug radiating off him like body heat.
And then—
Then he notices it.
“Wait.”
Chan freezes slightly.
Seungmin shifts. Looks over his shoulder. “Are you—hard?”
Chan sighs.
“Chan.”
“I didn’t wanna make it a thing.”
“Hyung—”
“I told you you could take what you needed!” Chan blurts, flustered now, ears pink. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to get off—”
“You’re hard,” Seungmin says again, with so much offense it sounds personal. “You just let me use you like a fucking pillow and you’re hard?”
“I’m an alpha and you were moaning and your slick was literally soaking my thigh—what did you expect?”
“Oh my god,” Seungmin mutters, eyes wide, slowly turning onto his back again as if just realizing. “You’re needy.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re fucking needy.”
Chan’s jaw tightens. His arms cross.
It’s so funny. Big strong alpha Channie, suddenly shy, suddenly a little pink in the ears because he’s been hiding a rock-hard cock under the covers this whole time while pretending he’s “just happy to help.”
Seungmin grins. “You want me.”
“I’ve always wanted you.”
“No, I mean you want me now. Right now. Like, bad.”
Chan’s nostrils flare. “I want to take care of you.”
“You want me to ride your thigh again.”
“Minnie—”
“You want me to turn over and grind on your cock this time.”
Chan growls.
Low, involuntary, sharp and startled like a sound he didn’t mean to make—but it’s there. It’s real. It vibrates out of his chest and straight into Seungmin’s spine.
They stare at each other.
Seungmin’s smile disappears.
“…Fuck.”
Chan looks tense. Breathing uneven now.
“…Don’t tease me, Minnie,” he murmurs, voice low and warning. “Not if you don’t want it.”
There’s a beat.
Seungmin’s cock twitches, pathetically, against his stomach.
He licks his lips.
“What if I do?”
Chan’s entire body reacts.
His nostrils flare again. His hand clenches on the sheets. His pupils blow wide, jaw going tense like he’s hanging on by a thread—and Seungmin sees it, feels it, loves it.
Loves that he did this. That Chan, big strong self-sacrificing leader, is so strung out over him that one teasing little breath has him ready to snap.
“Hyung…” Seungmin whispers, slowly reaching for him. “…You wanna fuck me so bad, don’t you?”
Chan’s control breaks.
He surges forward.
Grabs Seungmin by the waist, flips him easily onto his back, and hovers over him, panting—his face flushed, body trembling with restraint, his hard, hot cock pressing right up against Seungmin’s inner thigh through thin, sweat-damp boxers.
“Don’t play with me, Minnie,” he rasps, voice low and shaky. “Not unless you mean it. I won’t be able to stop.”
Seungmin’s heart is pounding. His legs fall open instinctively, like his body is begging to be taken. “Then don’t stop.”
Chan groans. A sound from deep in his chest, raw and ruined.
And then he kisses him.
Hard.
Their mouths crash together like it’s the only thing left in the world. Like all the months of slow-burn tension, the grinding, the teasing, the nightly cuddles—like it all explodes at once.
Chan’s tongue is filthy—licking into Seungmin’s mouth, groaning at the taste of him, like he’s starving.
Seungmin gasps, hips jerking up into Chan’s.
Their cocks slide together, still trapped between their boxers, slick and hot, and both of them whimper.
“Take them off,” Seungmin breathes, clawing at the waistband of Chan’s boxers. “Hyung—fuck—take them off.”
Chan does.
And when he finally pulls back—panting, flushed, eyes glazed over—he looks down between them and just moans.
Because Seungmin’s naked under him now, thighs spread, cock flushed and leaking again, and his scent is flooding the room. Sweet and dizzying. The purest fucking omega heat pouring off of him, raw and unfiltered.
Chan’s cock is huge. Thick, red, heavy against his stomach, already leaking precome, the base just slightly swollen—his knot forming slow, just from instinct.
Seungmin stares at it.
“Oh my god,” he mutters.
Chan’s face breaks into a soft, breathless grin. “Still wanna tease?”
Seungmin grabs his arm. Pulls him down until their bodies are flush again, cocks pressed together, sweat mixing.
“Just fuck me.”
“I will,” Chan whispers, voice suddenly softer. “But slowly.”
He rolls his hips once, grinding their dicks together—hot, slick, perfect.
“Gonna make you feel so good, pup.”
Then he shifts down, drags his tongue along Seungmin’s neck, licks at his gland until Seungmin’s entire body arches.
Seungmin gasps when teeth graze his nipple.
Then—hands on his thighs.
Spreading him open. Positioning him carefully. Chan kneels between his legs, licking his lips.
“I’ve thought about this,” he admits. “Touching you here. Opening you.”
Seungmin’s cock twitches. “Then do it.”
Chan grins—and leans down.
He starts with kisses. Slow, wet kisses on the inside of Seungmin’s thighs, then one right above his hole. Seungmin jerks, startled.
“Relax, pup,” Chan murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”
Then he spits.
A thick line of spit drips down onto Seungmin’s hole. Chan watches it, mesmerized, then spreads it with two fingers.
“Fuck. Look at you. You’re already twitching.”
He presses in slowly—just one fingertip—and Seungmin gasps, back arching.
“You okay?” Chan murmurs.
“More.”
Chan groans. Pushes in further, then adds a second finger with deliberate slowness. He twists, rubs, presses up.
“There,” Seungmin breathes, eyes fluttering. “That’s—fuck—”
Chan keeps working him open.
Patient. Precise. His other hand strokes Seungmin’s thigh, soothing him through every stretch, every new push. He curls his fingers just right and—
“Fuck—Channie—” Seungmin gasps. “Don’t stop—please—”
“You’re doing so good, baby.” Chan leans in to kiss his neck again. “My good little omega. Taking me so perfectly.”
Seungmin’s cock is leaking. His thighs are shaking. And when Chan adds a third finger, scissoring him open, he actually whines.
“You’re ready,” Chan breathes. “Don’t you think?”
Seungmin nods, fucked-out and desperate. “Please. Now.”
Chan strokes his cheek. Kisses his forehead.
Then grabs a pillow, lifts Seungmin’s hips, slides it under to prop him up. Positions himself again.
His cock nudges Seungmin’s entrance, hot and heavy and thick.
“You want it all?” he murmurs. “You still sure?”
Seungmin grins, ruined and proud. “Wreck me, hyung.”
Chan pushes in.
He goes slow. Painfully slow.
Seungmin claws at the sheets, gasping, feeling every single inch of Chan’s cock as it sinks in.
“So—full—” he chokes out, thighs trembling.
“I know,” Chan groans, hands tight on his hips. “You’re taking me so well, Minnie. So fucking tight. Fuck—you feel like home.”
He bottoms out. Stays there.
Their eyes meet.
Seungmin’s lips are parted, eyes glassy.
And when Chan starts to move—deep, slow thrusts that press against his sweet spot—Seungmin whimpers. Loud and needy.
“Faster,” he begs.
Chan shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“Hyung—”
“Gotta feel you first.” Chan leans in, nose brushing Seungmin’s. “Let me do you properly.”
And he does.
He fucks him through the mattress. Slow, deep, constant pressure. Over and over. Cock hitting perfect spots. Seungmin sobbing his name.
“Channie—I’m gonna—I’m gonna come—”
Chan groans. “Come for me, pup.”
Seungmin’s body locks.
Then shatters.
He comes hard, untouched, hole squeezing around Chan’s cock so tight he nearly blacks out.
And Chan—Chan snarls. Slams in deep one last time. His knot swells, pops inside, and they both scream.
“Mine—” Chan growls, voice rough and wild. “You’re mine—gonna fill you—fuck, Minnie—”
Come floods Seungmin’s insides. So much. Thick and hot and endless. His body milks it, knotted, locked, owned.
And when they finally collapse, panting, trembling, stuck together—Chan pulls Seungmin close, nuzzles his hair, and whispers:
“You were made for me.”
It takes a while for either of them to speak.
They’re still knotted—still connected. Still breathing each other in like oxygen.
Seungmin’s curled sideways into Chan’s chest, one thigh draped over his hip, cock soft but twitching from aftershocks. Chan’s knot is locked inside him, still pulsing faintly, still leaking deep—and he’s stroking gentle circles into Seungmin’s back like he knows how much Seungmin needs it.
Their bodies are stuck, but everything else—every wordless touch, every breath, every murmur—is pure ease.
“Can’t feel my legs,” Seungmin mumbles into Chan’s chest. “You broke me.”
“You broke yourself,” Chan says, all smug and sleepy and fucking glowing. “I told you to take your time, but you kept begging like a little heat-drunk mutt.”
“Because you fingered me like a whore and then told me I felt like home.”
Chan hums, pressing a kiss to Seungmin’s temple. “You do.”
Seungmin doesn’t say anything for a second.
Then quietly: “You didn’t mean that, right?”
Chan tilts his head. “Mean what?”
“You know…” Seungmin swallows. “The ‘mine’ stuff. All that alpha-omega bonding talk. That was just because you were… y’know. Horny.”
Chan goes quiet.
Seungmin looks up—meets his gaze.
Chan’s brows furrow like he’s confused by the question.
“Minnie,” he says softly, brushing hair off Seungmin’s forehead. “I’ve always meant that.”
“…What?”
“You’re mine,” Chan repeats. No hesitation. No flinching. Just absolute certainty. “Doesn’t matter if I’m fucking you or spoon-feeding you ramen. I’ve always been yours, and you’ve always been mine.”
Seungmin stares at him.
Chan smiles—small, soft, so annoyingly sincere it makes Seungmin’s chest ache.
“Is this the part where I propose?” Chan teases.
Seungmin chokes. “You’re so fucking lame—”
“I’d get you a little collar with a tag that says ‘pup’—”
“Don’t you dare—”
“With a tracking chip just in case you run off—”
“Don’t test me.”
Chan laughs and wraps his arms tighter around him.
They lie like that for a while.
Knot slowly going down. Warmth still humming through Seungmin’s stomach, still sticky and sweet between his thighs.
When the knot finally softens and slips out, Seungmin whines.
Not in pain—just from the loss of being full.
Chan pulls back gently, careful not to drag, and watches the mess spill down Seungmin’s thighs like it’s his favorite sight on earth.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s hot.”
“You’re so disgusting.”
“I wanna take a picture.”
“Hyung.”
“For science.”
“Clean me up,” Seungmin whines, burying his face in a pillow.
“Yeah, yeah.” Chan grabs tissues, water, a towel—everything—and starts gently wiping between Seungmin’s thighs.
They’re quiet during it, but not the bad kind. The kind where everything feels safe.
After, Chan finds one his hoodies in Seungmin’s closet (probably left it there during his last midnight visit) and throws it over Seungmin’s head.
“Sleep in this,” he says. “You’ll smell like me.”
Seungmin pulls it on, swimming in it, sleeves swallowing his hands. He melts back into the bed as Chan climbs in next to him again.
Chan reaches out. Pulls him close.
Spooning. Again.
Seungmin’s eyes are half-shut when he whispers, “You know this doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you spoon me every night now.”
“You say that,” Chan murmurs, already dozing off, “but you’re wearing my hoodie and curling into my chest like a baby.”
“I hate you.”
“I know, pup.”
He presses one last kiss to the back of Seungmin’s neck.
“Love ya too.”