Work Text:
Mingi should be unpacking.
His new room across the hall, which still smells like fresh paint and the lemony sting of cleaning products, is packed from wall to wall with haphazardly labelled boxes and overflowing bags of clothes. He has no idea how he managed to accumulate so much stuff over the years, but it’s all there, ready to be sorted and organized.
That’s what he should be doing, if only to make it easier for him to get to his bed without tripping over something.
However, doing that would require that he stop kissing San, and even though they’ve probably kissed ten thousand times by now, he’d rather pull his own teeth out than put a pause on that, especially for something as boring as unpacking.
San’s room is less chaotic than his own, but only because he has all of his boxes neatly stacked on top of each other, and he’s put away most of his clothes. He’s even put together his new computer chair and tucked it under his desk and made his bed, tasks that Mingi has yet to check off.
But despite how inviting his bed looks, with the blanket squared off neatly and San’s pillows lined up against the headboard, they’re on the floor. San is leaning against the bed frame, and Mingi is in his lap, sitting back on San’s firm thighs as San grips the back of his shirt. The gray carpet is, thankfully, plush underneath Mingi’s knees; by contrast, San’s shoulders, exposed by the simple blank tank top he’s wearing, are hard as cement under his grasping fingers. When he absently smooths his hands down San’s arms, San’s biceps ripple under his exploring palms, and Mingi doesn’t know whether to moan appreciatively or groan fuck off under his breath.
Same reaction, really.
He’s not exactly sure how he ended up here, with his half-hard dick pressing into San’s stomach and San’s tongue dancing against his. He’d come into San’s room what he thinks was half an hour ago to ask to borrow a pair of scissors so that he could start unpacking. He has a vague recollection of San waving at a pair resting on his desk.
But somehow, in the process of actually putting those scissors to use, he’d ended up sidetracked, ended up with San moaning into his mouth and flexing his muscles under Mingi’s wandering hands.
He’d be surprised if it weren’t for the fact that, for literal years now, San has been the most powerful of temptations, and he’s long since given up on resisting.
That being said, while he’s happy to put unpacking off for a couple more hours, they should probably close the bedroom door, at least for Seonghwa’s sake. Sure, he hasn’t left his bedroom for hours, is probably ecstatic to have a new space wholly his own that he can decorate as he sees fit, but it would be just Mingi’s luck that, as soon as he got San’s dick out, Seonghwa would make an appearance, which would lead into a long lecture on boundaries (not the first one he’s given them about that exact topic).
“Sannie,” he sighs, smearing the word against San’s swollen lips, “we should get the door.”
“Yeah, we should.” San cranes up and starts leaving a meandering trail of kisses on the thin, sensitive skin underneath Mingi’s jaw. “In a minute.”
Mingi doesn’t believe for a second that they’ll actually comply with that timeframe, but what is he going to do, move away from San’s mouth?
Not likely.
He loses track of time again as San continues to work on his throat, nipping gently and soothing each bite with a lingering kiss. It’s so different from the way he likes to be treated, from how he likes to be bitten and scratched until he’s marked-up and sobbing, and the tenderness, the way San is treating him like he’s a porcelain vase to be handled with the utmost of care, has what feels like every drop of blood in his body going straight to his dick. As he arches forward, his cock presses into San’s hard chest, and they both moan, the sounds weaving together harmoniously.
“Fuck, Mingi.” San drags his palm over the hot skin of Mingi’s stomach before he curls it around the tent in his sweatpants. “This for me?”
Mingi groans from deep in his throat and drops his forehead against San’s, mouth open as San slowly jerks him off, the soft, worn fabric of his sweatpants dragging directly against his sensitive skin, no underwear to muffle the sensation.
God, they really need to close the door.
Before he can convince himself to leave San’s lap for the couple of seconds it would take to do precisely that, he hears the front door open, followed by a familiar voice that makes his blood go hot.
“Honey, I’m home!”
They’d texted Wooyoung earlier, as soon as the last box had been delivered, and he’d promised to stop by at some point in the evening. Without a definitive time given, Mingi had kind of forgotten about his plan to visit. But now, as he hears Wooyoung rustling around in their kitchen, he knows, for a fact, that he won’t be getting any unpacking done tonight.
When he tries to slide off San’s lap, San wraps his arm around his back, keeping him pinned against San’s chest.
“Stay,” he says, rubbing his thumb over the head of Mingi’s cock. He can feel the fabric sticking to him, and he’s sure that if it wasn’t for his pants being black, if he looked down, he would see a damp patch staring back at him, living proof of how easy it is for San to get him worked up. “He’ll like seeing you like this.”
It doesn’t matter that, since Wooyoung joined their situationship a few months ago, they’ve all seen each other in a variety of positions - the thought of Wooyoung walking in on them like this has a rush of embarrassment and arousal flooding through Mingi’s cheeks. He stays where he is, gripping the bed frame and slowly rolling up into San’s grip, even as he hears footsteps coming up the hallway. They pause in the doorway, and when he glances back over his shoulder, hair falling into his face, Wooyoung is leaning against the doorframe. He has a clear tote bag over one shoulder, through which Mingi can see a couple of bottles of soju and a handful of shot glasses. Mingi can feel his gaze sweep over the two of them, as tangible as if he was shining a spotlight on them. When his eyes flick back up and lock on Mingi’s, a sharp grin slides onto Wooyoung’s ever so alluring mouth.
“You two starting without me?” he asks, sinfully pink tongue momentarily visible as he licks his bottom lip.
Before Mingi can form a reply, another door opens, this one down the hallway. This time, Mingi tumbles off San’s lap and brings his knees up to his chest so that it isn’t painfully obvious how hard he is. He’s just gotten situated, leaning against the bed frame beside San, when Seonghwa appears in the doorway. He’s already in his favorite pajamas, a matching blue silk set, and his hair has been pulled back into a tiny ponytail. His mouth looks encrusted with sugar, like he was in the middle of doing a lip mask.
He also looks extremely annoyed.
“Which one of you gave him the code already?” he asks, jerking his head at Wooyoung.
“Nice to see you too, hyung,” Wooyoung answers with a grin, saving Mingi from having to reveal that he was the one who texted the code to Wooyoung, mere moments after he discovered what the code was for himself. Gently shaking the bag, Wooyoung asks, “Want some soju?”
“Can’t get any peace in my own home,” Seonghwa mutters. “I’m going to help Hongjoong unpack.” He points at Mingi and San, and Mingi suddenly feels like he’s about a foot tall. “But we’re definitely going to talk about this tomorrow.”
“You should probably just spend the night with hyung and Jongho.” Wooyoung leans over and plants a loud smack of a kiss on Seonghwa’s cheek. “Love you!”
Scrubbing at his face with his sleeve and muttering under his breath, Seonghwa disappears down the hallway, and Wooyoung steps into the room and kicks the door shut behind him. After setting his bag down on San’s desk, he sinks to the floor and tugs at Mingi’s ankles. Even though he is genuinely mortified at the thought of indirectly kicking Seonghwa out of his own place on their first night living together and might actually die tomorrow when they talk about it, he’s still half-hard, a fact that is made obvious when he follows Wooyoung’s prompting and stretches his legs out, until his feet are pressing into San’s desk.
“You did start without me,” Wooyoung says, smoothing his palms up Mingi’s thighs. For a moment, he thinks that Wooyoung is going to slide into his lap, and his breath hitches at the thought of Wooyoung grinding against him until he’s fully hard again.
But instead, after patting Mingi’s leg once, Wooyoung backs away.
“You two are lucky you’re hot.” He reaches up and behind himself, body curving into a graceful, gorgeous arc, and snatches the bag of drinks off San’s desk. After placing it on the floor, he starts emptying it of its contents, neatly lining up the shot glasses and a handful of bottles, their colorful caps shorthand for their flavors - peach, pineapple and blueberry. “Now, who wants a drink?”
&.
Mingi takes it slow, sips gradually from his shot glass instead of downing it all at once. Taking his time serves a couple of purposes. It lets him savor the taste of tart blueberry combined with the sweet, smooth soju. It also ensures that he won’t get too plastered too fast - his anti-anxiety meds don’t mix very well with alcohol, and while they don’t have a schedule until tomorrow afternoon, he needs to put his public face on in the somewhat near future, and working while hungover is the absolute worst.
But mainly, he doesn’t want to get drunk because he doesn’t want to run the risk of not being able to put San’s new bed to good use.
Frankly, he’s surprised that they haven’t gotten there yet - usually, if any combination of the three of them are in a room with a bed and free time, they fall together within seconds, so long as they aren’t dead on their feet. But they’re still on the floor, sprawled in an untidy pile of limbs, bouncing from conversation topic to topic, the room occasionally filling with Wooyoung’s infectious laugh and San’s giggle.
And it feels good. Months ago, in those torturous few weeks before they became a single unit, he never would have imagined that they could exist like this without any kind of underlying tension. And sure, it took a hell of a lot of work for them to make it this far, awkward conversations and countless discussions that Mingi should have had with San years ago. There are still some days where that communication breaks down, where they end up hurting each other, but…
It’s good to be here with two of his favorite people, body warm and flushed from the alcohol and the feeling of them both pressed against him.
It definitely beats unpacking.
As he winds up a long description of the first thing he plans on cooking in his new kitchen, Wooyoung, who is sitting in San’s lap with his legs sprawled across Mingi’s thighs, leans forward and passes his glass to Mingi. “Can you fill this up for me?”
Mingi picks a bottle at random, and the scent of peach wafts into his nose as he tops Wooyoung up. As he passes it back, Wooyoung presses a kiss to his temple and casually says, “Good boy.”
And maybe, despite only finishing a single glass, Mingi is more tipsy than he thought, because he fucking moans.
The room goes silent. Wooyoung pauses in the middle of raising his glass to his mouth but, rather than staring at Mingi, he turns to look at San and quirks an eyebrow up. San raises one as well, and his lovely mouth furls into a satisfied smirk that has the smouldering campfire in Mingi's gut turn into a roaring bonfire.
While Mingi has (mostly) gotten over any lingering issues he has with San and Wooyoung being self-professed soulmates, this is a wall that still exists between them. Or rather, more of a chain link fence - it's a barrier, but one that he can see through, one that doesn't necessarily stop a determined person. Wooyoung and San have their own language, built up over years of living in each other's pockets. It's not a language composed of words and syllables - if it was, Mingi would be able to muddle through, would be able to memorize enough to have the most basic level of fluency.
No, this is a language composed entirely of glances and microexpressions. A single look that passes between them says more than a full paragraph. Sometimes, watching the two of them have an entire conversation with almost no sound feels like standing in front of a thick window - they're all able to see each other, but Mingi can't hear what they're saying, can only watch as their mouths move.
But it doesn't feel like that now. As they nod at each other and turn to look at him, as Wooyoung tosses his head back and swallows his shot in one go, Mingi doesn't feel like an outsider.
He feels like prey. Like a mouse who has been cornered by two feral cats with sharp claws and glistening fangs.
When Wooyoung gracefully pours from San's lap into his own, like a raindrop gliding along a window, the bonfire in his chest consumes him.
“What was that?” he asks, combing his long fingers through Mingi's messy hair. Mingi cranes up into it, seeking the gentle pressure of Wooyoung's fingertips against his scalp as his face flushes with heat, all the way to the tips of his ears.
If he thinks about it logically, there's no reason for him to be embarrassed. Wooyoung and San are very much aware of his…thing for being praised. Any opportunity at keeping that particular cat in the bag passed a long time ago. Hell, he's pretty sure that the rest of the group knows. Hongjoong definitely knows.
(The less said about a certain incident where Hongjoong had praised him so effusively after a grueling recording session that Mingi didn't know whether to come or cry, the better.)
But still, he's not normally this obvious about it. It usually takes more than a single comment, an offhand comment at that, to have him moaning.
Must be the soju.
“No idea what you're talking about,” he replies, eyes falling shut as Wooyoung scratches through the hair at the base of his neck.
“No?” San slides over and presses a gentle kiss to Mingi's shoulder. Even through the fabric of his shirt, Mingi can feel the intoxicating warmth of San's mouth. “You mean you didn't just moan for Young-ah and I?”
“I’ve never moaned in my entire life.” He tries to fill the words with bravado, the kind that comes so easily when he's spinning an exaggerated story to make someone laugh. Instead, they waver out of his mouth, unsteady and shaky.
“Shame,” Wooyoung sighs, theatrically clicking his tongue as he shares another glance with San.
“Truly a shame.” Suddenly, San leans in close to Mingi's ear, and as Wooyoung tightens his fingers in Mingi's hair and pulls his head back, San whispers, voice as smooth as silk, “Must have been some other good boy then.”
The sheer volume of his second moan takes Mingi by surprise.
“Gotcha,” Wooyoung says triumphantly. He tugs on Mingi's hair a little harder, and in the moments before he steals Mingi's mouth with his own, Mingi catches a glimpse of his smug grin, showcasing all of his sharp teeth.
“You don't need to lie to us, Mingi,” San murmurs as his tongue flicks out and caresses Mingi's jaw. “We like when you're loud, princess. You make the hottest sounds when you want us.”
The only thing that keeps Mingi from moaning again or whispering something like I always want you two is that his mouth is thoroughly occupied by Wooyoung's talented tongue, which tastes like a mishmash of fruits, acidic pineapple and sweet peach. He settles for grabbing at the zipper of Wooyoung’s hoodie and yanking it down so that he’s one step closer to feeling Wooyoung’s warm skin against his own. Without breaking the kiss, Wooyoung shrugs out of it and throws it across the room where, based on the faint crash and the long-suffering sigh San buries against the side of Mingi’s throat, it crashes into something San has yet to unpack.
“Sorry,” Wooyoung shrugs, leaning back slightly. For a second, he stays connected to Mingi’s lips by tendrils of spit, but they snap when he pulls his flimsy tank top over his head and tosses it away as well. “I’m sure nothing broke.”
“You better hope not,” San mutters, but the words lack conviction. Mingi understands why. It’s hard to be upset when faced with Wooyoung’s chest, with smooth, golden skin pulled taut over defined muscle. The black lines of the tattoo on his ribs flow as beautifully as a river, and Mingi doesn’t know whether he wants to trace over them with his thumb or wrap his lips around one of Wooyoung’s pretty brown nipples.
In the end, San makes the decision for him by curling his hand around Wooyoung’s ribs, like he’s trying to replace the tattoo with a brand in the shape of his palm. While he does that, Mingi cranes up and takes one of Wooyoung's nipples in his mouth. As the bud hardens against his tongue, arousal surges through him. The wave crashes against him like high tide against a breakwater when Wooyoung gasps and threads his hand back into Mingi’s hair. He doesn’t pull this time - he simply holds on, keeping Mingi pressed against his chest.
“God, your mouth,” Wooyoung sighs as Mingi gently scrapes his teeth against Wooyoung’s swollen nipple. “Always feels so fucking good. Right, Sannie?”
San hums as he shoves a hand between them and tugs Mingi’s shirt up, trapping the rucked-up fabric under his armpits. “Always.” He moves on to tracing his thumb around where Mingi and Wooyoung are connected. “Always looks so pretty wrapped around our cocks.”
Mingi whines, head swimming with the recollection of a night on tour where he’d taken turns sucking them off until his throat was raw and coated in come and his head was so blissfully empty that he’d passed out before he could even brush his teeth.
As his mouth opens wider, San slides his thumb inside and presses it to Mingi’s tongue. He can feel saliva dripping down his chin as he tries to divide his attention between sucking on San’s thumb and lapping at Wooyoung’s hard nipple. It feels like he’s half-assing both, like he’s doing nothing more than making a mess, but Wooyoung’s gasps and San’s murmured words spur him to keep going, tongue and teeth working at them both. He only stops when Wooyoung starts rolling his hips down, and the steady friction against his cock makes him suck in a shaky breath.
“Young-ah,” he gasps out, gripping Wooyoung’s firm thighs as Wooyoung slowly grinds down on him, body effortlessly rolling, muscles shifting underneath his skin. “Fuck.”
“Sounds like it feels good,” San murmurs. His thumb slides free from Mingi’s mouth, and his warmth disappears from Mingi’s side. Even with Wooyoung pressed against him, Mingi feels cold, but he’s able to deal with it by taking in the sight of San sliding behind Wooyoung, kneeling between Mingi’s legs while he presses his broad chest to Wooyoung’s back. His hands curve around Wooyoung’s narrow waist, guiding him into another slow roll. As his back arches, his head falls back onto San’s shoulder, and he messily mouths at San’s throat, hand slipping out of Mingi’s hair in favor of grasping at the collar of his shirt.
As his fingers tug Mingi’s shirt up higher, Mingi manages to find the physical room required to yank it off and toss it aside, into the minefield of unpacked boxes. When their bare chests touch, the dry friction makes darts of pleasure sink beneath his skin, and it takes a moment for his hazy brain to make out what Wooyoung says next.
“Mingi, wanna ride you so fucking bad.”
It’s certainly not the direction Mingi was expecting the evening to go in, so far as he’d been able to think about anything other than their bodies colliding in some way, shape or form. But sinking deep into Wooyoung’s tight heat, of having Wooyoung babbling above him while he bounces on his cock, all while San does whatever the hell he pleases, pulls on Wooyoung’s hair or slides his tongue into Mingi’s open mouth, sounds like absolute paradise.
“Please,” he groans, digging his fingers into Wooyoung’s ass. “Wanna…” The next words stick in his throat, and he has to swallow before he can bring them up. “Wanna make you feel good.”
“You always do, baby.” Nuzzling into the side of San’s neck, he asks, “You okay with that, Sannie?”
San chuckles as his hands slip from Wooyoung’s waist and glide up his chest, until he’s pressing his thumbs into both of Wooyoung’s nipples. “You seriously have to ask?”
“Yeah,” Wooyoung gasps, knees digging tight into Mingi’s hips. “What if you wanted something different?”
“Trust me.” San uses his nose to nudge Wooyoung’s head to the side, and as he lowers to scrape his teeth against the sharp line of Wooyoung’s jaw, he locks eyes with Mingi and says, “I’m more than happy to watch Mingi fill you up. Splits you open so well, doesn’t he?”
Wooyoung curses and nods, and Mingi bites down on his own lip as his cock twitches. It doesn’t matter how many times he witnesses San’s duality - it never fails to shake him how San can go from being a whiny, desperate mess begging to get fucked one day to being subtly in charge the next, to leading the two of them around with a couple of quiet words and a meaningful glance. He loves both, doesn’t really have a preference between fucking San until he’s gone non-verbal or being the one to lose his grasp on the real world, but there is something special about the times when San taps into his stage persona and uses it to twist the two of them to his will.
“Take your clothes off,” San says, dragging one thumb down the center of Wooyoung’s chest, through the faint trail of hair that’ll probably be waxed away in a couple of days, and hooking it into the waist of Wooyoung’s joggers. He snaps the elasticized band against Wooyoung’s stomach before he gets to his feet. “Both of you. I need to find the lube.”
“What do you mean, you need to find the lube?” Wooyoung asks as he tips backwards and starts tearing at his pants and boxers. Before Mingi can move to take off the remainder of his own clothes, he gets distracted by the sight of Wooyoung’s bare body, revealed in its entirety - his long legs, the further tattoo striped across his thigh, the way his beautiful cock bobs against his abdomen, flushed dark and wet at the tip.
“Um.” When Mingi tears his eyes away from Wooyoung’s body, San is rubbing at the back of his neck, confident smirk replaced by something much more sheepish. “I haven’t unpacked it yet.”
“What?” Wooyoung repeats, this time at a much higher volume. He grabs at Mingi’s sweatpants and starts tugging them down Mingi’s stretched-out legs. When Mingi’s cock is freed, it hits his stomach with a wet slap that would be embarrassing if the room was silent and not filled with cross-talk. “How was that not the first thing you unpacked?”
“Was it the first thing you unpacked?” San shoots back, tearing into a box labelled Bathroom.
“Obviously!” Wooyoung tosses Mingi’s pants at San’s broad shoulders. “I don’t know where my toothbrush is, but I damn well know where my lube is.”
It’s always dangerous to get between the two of them when they’re bickering like this, too easy to get caught in the cross-fire, but on this occasion, it’s worth the risk to wade in. Mingi clears his throat and reaches out to turn Wooyoung’s face back towards him.
“I unpacked mine,” he says. Even though he knows that Wooyoung won’t judge, the confession still makes his face burn hot. It was one of the first things he’d unpacked, carefully placed in his bedside drawer along with his phone charger and spare pair of glasses, the real necessities.
“Finally, someone else with their priorities straight.” Wooyoung grins and slides back into Mingi’s lap. “Where is it?”
“Bedside table,” Mingi grits out as their cocks brush together.
“I’ll go get it,” San says. As he walks towards the door, he strips his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the bed, a bed that would probably be better on Mingi's back than staying on the floor. Sadly, it also looks too small to fit three people, especially when two of those people are as restless and energetic as San and Wooyoung.
He’s sure that, at some point in the future, they’ll be able to figure out how to make it work, but the next time they move dorms, Mingi is asking for a king size bed.
“You're gonna have to, because I'm not moving, and neither is Mingi.” Before Mingi can wonder what plans Wooyoung has for him while San is gone, Wooyoung presses two of his long fingers to Mingi's slack bottom lip. He can faintly taste soju on Wooyoung's warm skin. “Can you get these wet for me?”
Mingi opens his mouth wider so that Wooyoung can easily slide in, fingertips caressing his tongue as Mingi seals his lips around them. He doesn’t hold back, doesn’t try to keep himself from making a mess - he sloppily licks around each of Wooyoung’s fingers, takes them down to the last knuckle, head bobbing as he looks up through his own eyelashes. He doesn’t know what to think about more - the way Wooyoung’s fingers feel stretching him open, effortlessly finding his prostate, or the way Wooyoung stares down at him when his cock is in Mingi’s mouth, lips slack and eyes hazy, like he’s witnessing a miracle.
It’s the same way he’s staring down at Mingi now, actually, as he strokes the thumb of his free hand over Mingi’s cheek.
“Just like that,” he says quietly, digging his thumb into Mingi’s flesh, until Mingi is sure he must be able to feel his own fingers on the other side of his cheek as they press down on Mingi’s tongue, releasing another flood of spit. The words sink into Mingi’s chest, and he closes his eyes again, fairly certain that he’s going to go cross-eyed from the sweet praise. He channels his focus into getting Wooyoung’s fingers as wet as possible, at making sure they’re dripping when a few moments later, Wooyoung slowly slides them free. Sitting up on his knees, he reaches back behind himself, and Mingi grabs his ass to knead his fingers deep into the firm muscle and spread Wooyoung open, to make it a little easier for him to open himself up.
He can tell when Wooyoung sinks at least one finger in. His eyes roll back and he moans from low in his throat as he grabs tight at the back of Mingi’s neck with his other hand.
“Fuck,” he sighs contentedly. “Should wear a plug next time I come over, then I could just, ah, sink down on you. Won’t have to wait.”
“It didn’t take me that long.” San steps back into the room, stripped down to his boxers and carrying the bottle of lube from Mingi’s nightstand. “You really that impatient, Young-ah?”
“To have this in me?” Wooyoung chuckles as he curls his fingers around Mingi’s cock, and Mingi bites back a moan, unable to stop himself from thrusting up into Wooyoung’s grip. “Always. And you can’t judge, I’ve heard you beg for it before.”
“Shut up,” San grumbles as he sinks back down behind Wooyoung. As the sound of a lube cap clicking open fills Mingi’s ears, Wooyoung grins and turns back over his own shoulder, tongue poking between his teeth.
“Make me.”
The slightly abashed look on San’s face vanishes in an instance, replaced with a stone wall Mingi recognizes all too well. It’s the look San brings out when Wooyoung is really testing him, and even though it’s never directed at Mingi-
(okay, almost never - the handful of times he’s managed to draw it out of San, he’d gotten railed so hard that he could barely sit down the next day)
-it still makes his blood run hot.
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he slides in closer, and suddenly, Wooyoung cries out, body flowing like a wave, like he’s unsure if he wants to push back into where San, presumably, just shoved one of his fingers in alongside Wooyoung’s or fall forward into Mingi’s chest. His hand drops from Mingi’s cock, and he messily smears a kiss against his lips as he digs his nails into Mingi’s shoulders.
“Fuck,” he chants against Mingi’s mouth, tongue skating along the line of Mingi’s teeth. He doesn’t stay in one place long enough for Mingi to properly kiss him, lifts up and graces Mingi’s temple with another messy kiss as he shoves his hips back.
“Thought that might work,” San says. Mingi hears a quiet squelch, and Wooyoung yelps again, even as that mischievous grin finds its way back onto his mouth.
“Think again.” His body rolls again, fluid and graceful, and he steals Mingi’s mouth, this time staying long enough for Mingi to kiss him. When the kiss breaks, Wooyoung leaves a trail down to Mingi’s throat, each small press of his lips feeling like a burning candle pressed to his skin, and says into Mingi’s ear, pausing in the middle to gasp sharply, “Gonna fuck me so good, Mingi-ah, always feel so full when you’re in me.”
Mingi can’t do anything but moan in response and squeeze Wooyoung’s ass even tighter, muscle dimpling under his grip. On a typical day, Wooyoung has a way of saying things that make his mind go blank, but today, it’s unrelenting, feels like he hasn’t had a coherent thought in hours. The only thing he can think of is how desperately he wants to be inside Wooyoung, wants to hear his voice go shaky and manic as he gets closer to coming, wants to hear San talking to them both, directing sugar-sweet words at Mingi and chastisements, gentle or not so gentle, at Wooyoung. And even if they abruptly decide to do something different, he would be fine with that too, because while he wants all of the above, more than anything, he just wants them, in whatever way possible.
“Mingi, you still with us?” San asks. His fingers carefully brush a piece of sweaty hair away from Mingi’s forehead, and the touch is so soft, like a flower swaying in the sun, that he almost cries. Instead, he nods and clears his throat, buying himself a couple of seconds as he remembers how to speak.
“Yeah,” he rasps out, gasping as Wooyoung nips at his throat, sharp like a kitten. “I’m here. Just… want you both so bad.”
“We’re all yours, baby. Woo, do you need more?”
Wooyoung shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.” With a soft curse, he slips his fingers free and wipes them off on his own thigh. Pressing a kiss to the corner of Mingi’s mouth, he asks, “Lie down for me?”
Between the furniture and the pile of unpacked boxes, there’s barely enough room for Mingi to do that. With his head almost pressed up against a box that’s labelled clothes, his shoulder brushing the legs of San’s desk chair and an empty bottle of soju rolling against his calf, he thinks again about asking if they should try and move things to the bed.
But then Wooyoung slides back on top of him and wraps a slick palm around his cock. As he works lube down the length, Mingi curls his fingers into the carpet, grasping at the plush material as each nerve in the area surrounding his dick lights up with fireworks. He fucks up into Wooyoung’s loose grip, so entranced by the sight of the flushed head sliding through Wooyoung’s fingers that he doesn’t notice San hanging off the end of the bed with a pillow in his hand until it bumps into his cheek.
“Here, lift up for me.”
Mingi settles his head back on the pillow just as Wooyoung lets go of him and slides up higher, until his knees are braced on either side of Mingi’s waist. Reaching back, he takes hold of him again as San returns to what seems to be his favorite position of the night - kneeling behind Wooyoung, this time with his absurdly defined arms loosely slung around Wooyoung’s neck.
“Ready, princess?” Wooyoung asks as the head of Mingi’s cock brushes against him, so goddamn close to popping inside.
Mingi was already close to begging, but Wooyoung bringing that particular pet name out now breaks the dam.
“Please,” he moans, grabbing at Wooyoung’s taut thighs, not caring about the fact that his skin is sticky with residual lube and spit. “Please, please, need it so bad.”
“Good boy,” Wooyoung croons. With that, he bears down ever so slightly, and Mingi is engulfed in slick heat that scorches through his entire body, from the tips of his toes all the way up to his scalp. His mouth is open in a soundless moan - even if he had been making sound, it would have been buried by the way Wooyoung is laughing with his head thrown back, body long and drawn taut like a bow string.
“God,” he groans, smiling like he’s won the lottery or discovered the secret to eternal life as he sinks down another inch, driving the air from Mingi’s chest. “It’s been too long.”
“I literally fucked you three days ago,” San says with a huffed laugh of his own.
(And what a sight it had been, watching San bend Wooyoung in half in Mingi’s bed and edge him until Wooyoung had come so hard that he’d hit himself in the throat. Mingi had been too tired to do much beyond sit back and jerk off while taking in the show, but god, what a show.)
“I said what I said. Three days is, fuck, too long.” With a shuddering gasp, he releases Mingi’s cock and fully sinks down, drawing moans from everyone in the room. Underneath his palms, Mingi can feel Wooyoung’s muscles fluttering, and as Wooyoung stays still, adjusting, Mingi traces his thumbs along the crease where Wooyoung’s thighs meet his pelvis, feeling the contrast between soft, sensitive skin and rough stubble.
“How’s he feel, Mingi?” San asks, lowering his hands to grip Wooyoung’s narrow waist, as if he’s playing with the idea of directing Wooyoung’s movements, pulling him up and dragging him back down.
Tight is the word on the tip of Mingi’s tongue, but it’s driven out of his mouth when Wooyoung raises up ever so slightly before he lowers back down with a noise that’s very nearly a whimper. The best answer he can give, in the moment between two of Wooyoung’s slow movements, is “So fucking good.”
“You always fill him up so well.” Two of San’s fingers delve between Wooyoung’s legs, tracing over where they’re connected, and Mingi’s moan is only barely beaten in volume by Wooyoung’s.
“Fuck, yeah.” After another slow roll, Wooyoung plants his hands on Mingi’s chest and starts bouncing in earnest, cock hitting his own stomach. “God, it’s like I can feel you in my throat.”
It’s obviously an exaggeration, but the way he says it, with the passion he puts into everything he does, from caring about his friends to performing to fucking himself on Mingi’s cock, makes Mingi believe it all the same.
“You mean here?” San curls one hand around the front of Wooyoung’s neck, while the other remains around Wooyoung’s waist, fingers visibly pressing into his flesh. Wooyoung nods and laughs again, sounding on the cusp of unhinged.
“Right there.” His nails catch on Mingi’s nipple as he continues bouncing, and Mingi hisses at the sharp, glorious sting of pain that threads through his chest.
San hums. “I know the feeling. Makes it hard to breathe sometimes.” He cups his fingers around Wooyoung’s jaw and turns him into a kiss. Mingi can see their tongues tangling together, see the veins and tendons in Wooyoung’s neck standing out against his throat, and he wishes Wooyoung was a little closer so that he could lick over the throbbing lines, have the salty taste of Wooyoung’s sweat flood his mouth.
But since that option is just out of reach, he settles for taking in the vista before him - the way that San and Wooyoung kiss like they’ve been doing it their entire lives, the way Wooyoung’s thighs tense and flex as he moves, the way he can feel excess lube pooling at the base of his cock as Wooyoung works himself up and down, moaning into San’s mouth as he presses hard into Mingi’s chest, like he’s trying to find his heart and dig it out.
A pleasant haze falls over him as he continues to watch Wooyoung chase his own pleasure, using Mingi’s cock to get himself off. It probably shouldn’t hit Mingi’s praise thing-
(kink, it’s definitely a kink, but he’ll never say it out loud)
-but, even not taking into account the way Wooyoung and San keep talking, saying things like so big, Mingi, and feels so fucking good and fill him up so well, looks so hot from back here, it does. The fact that his body is enough to have Wooyoung babbling and clenching around him makes him feel like a marshmallow held over a fire, slowly dissolving into sweet ooze.
He’s never tried drugs or cigarettes, never sampled anything heavier than alcohol, and why would he? The feeling of being wanted like this, wholly and completely, is already addictive on its own.
He can tell when Wooyoung is getting close - his words are downright incoherent, almost like he’s speaking in tongues, and he’s almost painfully tight around Mingi’s cock. Mingi grips Wooyoung’s thighs harder and coaxes his legs open a little wider to change the angle ever so slightly.
But before Wooyoung can do so much as rise back up to test the new angle, San uses his firm grip on Wooyoung’s waist to hold him down, keeping him pinned into position with Mingi’s cock fully buried inside of him, so deep that Mingi knows that if he were to put a hand on Wooyoung’s stomach, he’d be able to feel himself there, fitting perfectly, like Wooyoung’s body was designed (at least in part) for this specific purpose.
“Sannie, why?” Wooyoung cries, slapping at where San’s fingers are wrapped around him. “Was getting so close.”
“Oh, I know.” San chuckles and hooks his chin over Wooyoung’s shoulder. As he kisses Wooyoung's throat, which is glossy with a fine sheen of sweat, he keeps his gaze on Mingi, and under the weight of his heavy, dark eyes, Mingi swears that he can feel his bones threatening to crumble into ash. “Mingi, when I let go, I want you to fuck our boy until he can’t think straight. Okay?”
Our boy.
Two simple words, and yet, the sound of them, the implication of them, makes Mingi want to dissolve. He wants to grab onto the two of them and never let go.
He also wants to do exactly as San asked, and based on the way Wooyoung whimpers and drags his nails down Mingi’s chest, leaving a trail of fine red welts all the way to his stomach, Wooyoung wants the same.
“Yeah,” Mingi answers. His voice is almost unrecognizable, ruined and deep, like it's coming up from a cavern far below the earth. He’s been floating in a blissful state for so long that he almost forgets how to go about fulfilling San’s request, but his body remembers the motions. He plants his feet on the ground so that he’ll have better leverage to thrust up and smooths his hands up to Wooyoung’s hips, right underneath where San is holding him down. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.” Abruptly, San drops his hands. “Go on.”
It’s like a switch has been flipped somewhere deep inside of him. He’s barely aware of San somehow finding the room to squeeze in beside them, so that he’s sandwiched between Wooyoung’s side and his own desk. He has a single point of focus, a solitary goal to achieve.
He curls his toes into the thick carpet, bites his fingers into Wooyoung’s narrow hips, and thrusts up hard.
Wooyoung shrieks.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” he chokes out as Mingi falls into a pace just shy of brutal. It’s not one that he can maintain for long, but based on the way Wooyoung is scratching at him, eyes rolled back into his head, Wooyoung will be tapping out long before Mingi has to. “Mingi, baby, please, don’t stop.”
Mingi doesn’t. He presses every inch of his cock into Wooyoung over and over again as Wooyoung rapidly falls apart. When San takes hold of Wooyoung’s dick and starts roughly jerking him off, Wooyoung’s babbling turns into full on gibberish, almost entirely incomprehensible aside from the occasional moan of San or Mingi or a messy, slurred fuck me. Eventually, he claws at San’s forearm and says something that Mingi can’t interpret, something that might not even be in Korean.
San, however, seems to understand, and he leans in closer, until he’s hovering an inch or so away from the slope of Wooyoung’s shoulder, close enough that the bulge that’s barely being constrained by his boxers is nearly touching Wooyoung’s side.
“C’mon, Youngie.” The muscles in his forearm flex as he continues harshly stroking Wooyoung’s cock. “Show Mingi how good he makes you feel.”
With a sudden cry, Wooyoung’s whole body draws tight, like an elastic stretched to the breaking point. As San continues to stroke him, hot come shoots onto Mingi’s stomach, and he groans as it spreads across his skin, marking him like a tattoo. As Wooyoung continues to whimper and shake, Mingi scoops up a thick glob of the mess and jams it into his mouth, moaning as the salty taste coats his tongue and floods his throat. As he sucks on his fingers until all he can taste is his own skin, he keeps thrusting, slowing down over time so that he doesn’t drive Wooyoung into overstimulation territory. Eventually, Wooyoung goes boneless, only held up by Mingi’s hand on his hip and San’s arms, which are back around his middle.
“You did so good, Mingi.” San nuzzles into Wooyoung’s hair and receives a quiet groan in return. “He’s definitely not thinking straight now.”
“Fuck you, I never think straight,” Wooyoung mumbles. “Help me up.”
“Would a ‘please’ kill you?” San asks, already in the process of gently lifting Wooyoung up.
“Probably, ah, shit,” Wooyoung whimpers as Mingi slips out of him. Mingi whimpers too, but for a different reason - after being so thoroughly engulfed by Wooyoung’s body for so long, the sudden change in temperature is downright disconcerting.
Even though Wooyoung was the one getting fucked, Mingi feels empty without him.
After a moment to get his bearings, Wooyoung clambers up onto the bed, with his head facing the end, and collapses onto his stomach. With a crooked, dopey smile, he dangles one arm off the edge and skims his fingertips down Mingi’s bicep as he says, “God, I love your cock.”
It’s not the first time he’s expressed such a sentiment - Wooyoung says shit like that all the time, even when he didn’t just come his brains out. Hell, Mingi is pretty sure it’s not even the first time he’s said those exact words. And yet, he still has to fight the urge to bury his face in his hands and whine.
They really are going to be the death of him, one day.
“Mingi,” San says, sliding between Mingi’s legs and smoothing his hands down Mingi’s thighs, which are definitely feeling his earlier exertion, twitching underneath San’s palms. “How do you want to come?”
Mingi glances down, to where San is very clearly hard. There’s a tiny wet spot on the front of his light gray boxers, and Mingi kind of wants to ask San to come up to his mouth so that he can lick over that wet spot until it’s dark with his own spit.
But more than that, as much as it would be nice to bury himself into San’s ass, he doesn’t have the level of energy that would be required for that, not if he wants to make San fall apart like Wooyoung. So instead, moving carefully so that he doesn’t accidentally kick San in the face (or the dick), he rolls onto his stomach and props himself up on his hands and knees. Fine tremors are already running through his arms and legs, but he does his best to ignore them as he looks back over his shoulder.
“Want you to fuck me,” he rasps out, hair falling down into his face. He’s pretty sure that he has carpet burn striping up his back, and he really hopes that the stylists don’t plan on putting him in anything sheer tomorrow, or he’s going to have to answer some truly awkward questions.
San groans deep in his throat and plants one palm on Mingi’s lower back. He barely puts any pressure behind it, but it’s still almost enough to send Mingi face-first into the carpet.
“That’s what you want? Want me to fill you up?” Dragging his hand down Mingi’s back and over his ass, he carefully presses one thumb against Mingi’s hole, and Mingi curls his fingers tight into the soft carpet and drops his head down to hang between his shoulders.
“Please,” he gasps, leaning back into the pressure of San’s thumb. It’s too dry, but it’s such a tease, just makes him think of how good it’ll be to have San sliding into him, carving out a space for himself.
“Good boy,” San rumbles, thumb catching on his rim before he backs away. As he hears the quiet sound of fabric sliding down muscled legs, Mingi takes a moment to breathe, already trembling from a single touch and San’s sweet words.
But he only gets a moment of relief, because as he hears the lube pop open again, long fingers tuck his hair back and flow whisper-soft over the shell of his ear.
“So pretty like this, begging for Sannie’s cock.” Wooyoung sounds half-asleep, words slow and syrupy. As Mingi forgets how to breathe again, he turns his head and realizes that like this, with him on his knees and Wooyoung lying on the bed, they’re at the same height, close enough that he can see the sparkle lingering in Wooyoung’s dark eyes. “So good for us, you know that, yeah?”
Mingi drops his head again, eyes hot as one of San’s slicked-up fingers presses inside of him. His chest is tight, like he’s about to come, even though he’s barely been touched. It’s on the verge of too much, the constant stream of praise from the two of them, the way one of San’s short, thick fingers is so carefully breaching him while Wooyoung rubs a thumb over Mingi’s cheekbone. It’s so good and sweet that it hurts, like he’s going to burst with it, a star gone supernova.
“Please,” he whispers again, the only word he can reliably say without it breaking into nonsense syllables. Even then, it’s a close call.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” As he sinks in to the final knuckle, San curls his finger up and strokes him inside, coaxing his body to relax. It’s a spell that Mingi rapidly falls for, and what feels like mere moments later, San starts working a second in as well, nudging it inside so slowly and thoroughly that Mingi swears he feels it in his throat.
Ah. So that’s what they were talking about earlier.
His mind goes molten as San keeps working him open. By the time he’s made it up to three fingers, Mingi’s arms are shaking like he’s been out in the cold too long, which is an absurd feeling when combined with how damn hot his body is, with how Wooyoung’s fingers burn into him like lit candles whenever they brush against his face or lips or shoulders. When San’s three fingers are fully buried in him, he grabs one of Mingi’s thighs with his other hand and squeezes lightly.
“Love your thighs,” San says, gripping a little harder. “So fucking thick, think about them all the time.”
Mingi’s arms give out.
He drops down onto his forearms and buries his face into the pillow. It’s hard to breathe, but it also keeps Wooyoung and San from seeing the hot tears running down his cheeks, tears that only intensify when San takes advantage of the different angle and carefully prods at Mingi’s prostate. Between his legs, Mingi feels himself dripping onto the floor, and he whimpers at the thought that it’s their first night in the new dorm and he’s already leaving a mark, possibly a permanent one, in San’s room.
When Wooyoung speaks again, it sounds like his voice is coming through water, like Mingi is sitting at the bottom of a pool and Wooyoung is speaking to him from above, form shaky and blurred through the waves.
“Do you need us to stop?”
That thought, of the two of them pulling away when he needs them most, makes more tears burn down his face, and he shakes his head, forehead dragging against the soft pillowcase. He manages to lift himself up just long enough to say, in a rush, “No, no, please, no.” With that, he collapses back down, gripping the pillow between his fingers and trying to remember how to make his lungs work.
He still doesn’t have the hang of it by the time San replaces his fingers with the blunt, slicked-up head of his cock. When he starts pressing inside, splitting Mingi open, he loses any chance of remembering how. All he can do is desperately gasp into the pillow, fingers slipping off to claw at the floor, and hope for the best.
He’s pretty sure that he’s drooling, but that knowledge is so incredibly distant, like a whisper coming from the next room.
Once he’s bottomed out, San lets out a long exhale and holds still. When Mingi shifts slightly, he feels San’s cock twitch inside of him, and he nearly blacks out at the realization that San is holding back for him. His hands smooth up and down the slope of Mingi’s back, and the gentle glide is so lovely that Mingi barely cares about how he can feel San’s palms slipping through the sweat coating the long line of his spine.
At least he’ll have a good excuse to try out their new shower, if he’s able to stay standing for that long, a possibility that grows fainter with each second that passes.
“Fuck, Mingi.” Wooyoung’s hand slides down Mingi’s back and curls tight around his ass. “Wish you could see yourself right now.”
“Gonna start moving now, okay?” San asks, hips pulsing in a tiny movement that stretches Mingi out more. Mingi groans and nods, nose skating through a wet spot on the pillowcase, hoping that the move will be enough to give San the go-ahead. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything coherent if he opens his mouth again.
Thankfully, it works.
Gripping Mingi’s waist tightly, San pulls out a couple of inches before he presses back in. He repeats the pattern a handful of times until only the tip of his dick is still inside Mingi, holding him open.
Mingi is about to start desperately squirming when San thrusts back inside and takes his breath away.
It’s the last reprieve he gets.
San doesn’t quite hit the level of intensity that Mingi fucked Wooyoung with earlier, but he comes close. Mingi can feel San’s thighs flexing against the back of his own as he drives forward hard enough to make Mingi’s knees slide against the carpet in a way that he knows is going to cause welts or irritation later. His grip is bruising on Mingi’s waist, and Mingi hopes that the marks stay, that he’ll be able to look at himself in the days to come and see San’s fingerprints outlined against his skin.
It would only be fair, with all the times he’s marked San up like a heavily graffitied bathroom wall.
And all the while, despite his voice still being deep with exhaustion, eerily close to how he sounds in the morning, Wooyoung flits back and forth, keeps up a running commentary that makes the knot growing in Mingi’s stomach cinch tighter and tighter. He hangs off the bed and combs his fingers through Mingi’s damp hair, he traces the individual bumps of his spinal cord, he brings his palm down on Mingi’s ass just hard enough for it to sting. Intermittently, his voice goes quiet, replaced with the wet sounds of his mouth on San’s, and even though he saw them kiss plenty earlier, Mingi wishes that he had the energy to look back so that he could take in the sight once again.
When San hits Mingi’s prostate, it startles a shout out of his chest, and he feels his cock jump between his legs. Another burst of precome drips from him, but he can’t find the energy to be embarrassed, not with the way that, now that San has found his sweet spot, he’s hitting it relentlessly, making sharp waves of pleasure ripple through Mingi’s core.
Those waves only grow higher when he feels something slicked-up prod at where he’s stretched around San. By the time he realizes what it is, Wooyoung has worked his fingertip inside, carefully tugging at his rim as San continues to relentlessly drive forward, grunting with exertion.
“You know,” Wooyoung says, somehow finding the room to slide his whole finger inside, “I bet, if we took our time, you could take both of us, princess.”
And like that, without anyone touching his cock, Mingi is swept away, caught on the undertow and dragged underwater. He’s only vaguely aware of San coming inside of him with a final groan - the heat of him flooding Mingi is a drop of water in the ocean of sensation slamming through his body.
He floats for a long, long time.
When awareness starts to come back to him, he’s still facedown on the floor, but he’s collapsed fully, legs sprawled out, belly and inner thighs damp with come. Something wet and slightly rough dips between his legs and over his ass, and for a hazy second, he thinks that someone is eating him out. But then the texture resolves into that of a washcloth, and he momentarily wonders if San had to tear into one of his boxes to find it. He shivers as the fabric rubs over his sensitive hole, and even that involuntary movement is enough to make him float again, to the point where he hears the conversation that San and Wooyoung are having, but cannot participate for most of it.
“Do you think hyung knows how to get come stains out of carpet?”
“Oh, probably,” Wooyoung replies. “But do you want to be the one who asks him?”
San grumbles wordlessly. “Good point. Maybe Yeosang would know?”
“Yeosang doesn’t even know what a fucking vacuum is, Sannie. Jongho might know, but I am not asking our maknae that. He’d probably just laugh at us.”
“Yeah, probably.” San sighs. “I’ll ask hyung in the morning.”
“I’ll do it.” Mingi is surprised that the words successfully leave his mouth, rather than staying in the swirling mist of his brain. Experimentally, he twitches his hand and is just as surprised to discover that it listens to him, that his nerve pathways aren’t totally shattered. After a moment, he manages to plant one hand on the floor and uses it to roll over onto his back. When he blinks his gummy eyes open, it’s to the sight of Wooyoung peering down at him from the bed, while San, who is wearing a clean pair of boxers and nothing else, is in the process of dropping the washcloth into the laundry hamper by his door.
“I’ll do it,” he says again, clearing his throat, which is so dry that he’s tempted to grab one of the unopened bottles of soju that have rolled underneath San’s desk and take a swig. “I’m the one who made the mess.”
“I’m not going to make you do that alone.” San drops to his knees on the floor and extends a hand, which Mingi gratefully takes. As he slowly sits up, body twinging in half a dozen spots, San says, “We can ask together. He can only be mad for so long.”
“We could probably just look it up,” Wooyoung muses, smoothing Mingi’s hair away from his face. He’s dressed again, and his hands smell like the lavender scented soap that Seonghwa bought as a housewarming present for them. “Rock paper scissors to see who gets to put that into their search history?”
“Absolutely not,” Mingi replies. Even with incognito mode being an option, he thinks he’d rather face Seonghwa’s disappointed face.
He needs to have a shower and eat something, but even though he’s managed to sit up, he can tell that his legs are still mostly offline. Before he can decide if he should stay on the floor or awkwardly stumble across the hall to his own room, Wooyoung flips around so that he’s up at the headboard and pulls the blanket back.
“C’mere.” Mingi’s hesitation must show on his face, because Wooyoung follows up the request with, “Just for a bit. Just until you’re good to move again.”
Mingi isn’t sure how long that’ll be, but even if it’s only a couple of minutes, squeezing into San’s bed sure beats staying on the floor.
Once he gets to his feet on legs that feel like they belong to a newborn deer, Wooyoung slides over to the edge of the bed and presses his back to the wall. Mingi gratefully flops onto the mattress, and while he tries to leave some space so that Wooyoung isn’t so squished, Wooyoung slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls him over, until his forehead is pressed against Wooyoung’s collarbone.
“Just… need a few minutes,” he says, shoving one arm underneath San’s pillow and curling the fingers of the others into the front of Wooyoung’s loose shirt. “Don’t want to make more of a mess on your bed.”
“Don’t worry about that.” San slides into bed behind him, broad chest fitting to Mingi’s back as he gently strokes Mingi’s bare hip. “Wooyoung already got come on my blanket.”
“I regret nothing.” Wooyoung presses a kiss to the top of Mingi’s head. “Did so good for us, Mingi. Take as much time as you need.”
Mingi floats away again.
&.
When he wakes up, his mouth feels like the embodiment of a drought.
There’s a headache pounding at his temples, his skin is clammy with half-dried sweat, and his body is throbbing in half a dozen spots. He’s so warm that he feels like he’s in an oven, and it takes him a second to realize that he’s baking because he’s still underneath San’s duvet, surrounded by the body heat of both Wooyoung and San. They’re wrapped around him, and they’re both snoring quietly, bodies slack and heavy with sleep.
He doesn’t think that he slept through the entire night - he still feels groggy, like he had a brief nap, as opposed to a full night’s rest - but he should really move. He needs a shower more than ever, and if he doesn’t get something to drink soon, he’s going to be painfully dehydrated tomorrow, which is not a great way to start off the day.
But with how thoroughly intertwined the three of them are, there’s no way that he can slip free without disturbing San and Wooyoung. And after everything they did together, the way they worked in tandem to shatter and piece him back together, they need the rest just as much.
Five more minutes, he decides as he closes his eyes again and sinks into their dual embrace, biting back a giggle as San’s hot breath tickles the nape of his neck. He can wait that long.
(His last thought before he falls asleep again, carpet burn stinging at his knees and down the length of his spine, is that the next time they do this, they’re definitely using the bed.)