He looks so sweet. Always.

For as long as Taeyang has known Jongseob, he's never looked anything short of an angel.

Jongseob fell asleep on the couch after several hours of straight gaming. Jiung bid his goodbyes after helping Taeyang clean up the clutter of take out boxes littered across the floor of the living room and shuffled back to his dorm for the evening.

And now, Taeyang stays planted, hands scratching at his thighs over his basketball shorts, staring at the soft rise and fall of Jongseob's chest, the soft parting of his lips open, lashes fanned over his plump cheeks. An angel.

Jongseob hates it whenever anyone calls him cute—he'd never say it out loud, but Taeyang's seen the extra effort he's put in to grow up, to grow into himself. It makes his stomach hurt.

Taeyang leans over, strokes his hand up Jongseob's arm, skin soft, warm, bare. Jongseob doesn't stir, just buries the side of his cheek into the cushion further. Taeyang positions him onto his side, lays him out on his side onto the couch in a position that must be better on his neck. It takes some effort, Jongseob's limbs deadweight in his slumber, but Taeyang manages.

He still looks so sweet, even with the little bit of drool slipping out of the corner of his mouth. He must be so tired.

Taeyang can't resist, his mind seemingly drifting away to the far corner of the room, as his fingers slip over the edge of Jongseob's waistband. He pulls at the elastic, inching the fabric down over Jongseob's ass, letting it free to cinch around the tops of the back of his thighs. The front of the elastic band pulls just above his cock, and Taeyang doesn't bother to maneuver it—that's not for him to worry about right now.

Taeyang maneuvers him again, keeping his legs pinned together to curl him into a ball, and it allows just enough room for Taeyang to see Jongseob's taint, the faint dusting of hair from the back of his balls leading a path between his cheeks. Taeyang puts three of his fingers in his mouth, lets his spit coat them, then traces his forefinger from his taint and up, up to his hole. A drying trail of spit shines in the faint light as Taeyang uses his other hand to lift one cheek, giving him a better look at his fingertip tracing around the hole.

He can feel him tense up a little, and Taeyang wonders if it tickles in his sleep, if it's cold—

Taeyang spits onto this fingers, spits another string directly on Jongseob's ass, watches hit slide down to his hole. This time, his finger gives so easily, like Jongseob was waiting for it. It makes Taeyang's heart hammer faster, wondering just how far he can take this before he wakes up—

He's not exactly gentle about it, but Taeyang keeps fingering him, long strokes and fascination watching it sink allt the way in and out, and with enough spit, he gets a second one in there.

And that's when Jongseob lets out a small sigh, having Taeyang's stomach leap out of his throat with the pads of his fingers rubbing faint circles near his prostate. Jongseob's eyebrows furrow every so slightly, a sharp inhale catching in his throat.

Taeyang brings his his mouth down to meet his fingers, tongue tracing his entrance, greedy for all of it. He puts his free hand on the front of Jongseob's shorts, feels the outline of Jongseob's cock twitch against his palm.

Taeyang wastes no time, slips his fingers out from Jongseob's fluttering hole, admires the slight, relaxed stretch. He shucks down his own pants and underwear, just enough to free his cock that slaps against his shirt. It aches, can't believe he grew this hard without touching himself. He uses the spit that gathered down his hand to stroke himself, and even if it's a little dry—

He watches Jongseob's closed eyes flutter as he pushes the head past the rim. He looks so precious, the apples of his cheeks flushed hot pink, and Taeyang bites his lip to hold back the sounds of his pleasure to sink deeper.

Jongseob's mouth parts wider, and this time, a moan slips out, his eyes finally squinting open. He looks a little disoriented, hole clenching around Taeyang as he bottoms out.

Jongseob turns to look Taeyang dead in the eyes, half awake, wiping the small trail of drool with the back of his hand. Taeyang doesn't stop looking at him, inches out ever so slightly to fuck back into him slowly, doing everything in his power to resist blowing his load this soon. He can feel his pounding heart in his ears, all other noise static in his head.

Jongseob cups his hand against Taeyang's face, eyes slipping closed again and pulls Taeyang closer, their labored breaths mingling together, inches apart.

"Don't stop," Jongseob whispers.

Minho should learn to be less of a brat.

In the heat of the moment, that's exactly what he's thinking—maybe he shouldn't have pushed Chan's buttons today. He didn't see this coming.

"Stay still." Chan cradles the back of Minho's neck, his long fingers just barely pressing into the skin and base of his skull. Minho's on all fours, elbows dropped with a face smashed against a pillow. He wants nothing more than to thrash his head this way and that, his fingers clawing at the bed linen as his skin blooms with heat.

Chan rubs his other palm against the globe of Minho's ass, and it makes everything worse. So, so much worse, it makes Minho's toes cramp as he lets out a sob. He's gritting his teeth because any movement makes him clench, and when he clenches—

"Take it out," Minho begs. "Please, Channie hyung, take it out."

Chan hums out a satisfied laugh, fingers squeezing his ass again. He ignores Minho's pleas and gives him another light smack. It makes Minho gasp and yelp even louder, and he can feel a trace of ginger juice drip down his taint.

This is their first time–Chan wanted to try something different, and Minho wasn't entirely sure how different having a hand-carved plug of raw ginger up his asshole would be. He was a fool, a complete fool for not looking into his beforehand, and this is really testing his limits. Every hit Chan deals makes Minho regret giving him this much power.

Minho whines, trying his best to keep his breathing steady, to ignore the burning blooming from his insides. Chan starts to play with the plug, teasing to pull it out, spitting into his Minho's hole a couple times before inserting it back in.

Smack, smack, smack, and all Minho can do is count, just as Chan instructed him. Every crevice feels overheated, the sweat on his hairline soaking into the pillowcase with the drool dripping from his mouth. He's unsure if Chan is even bothering to make sure the numbers falling from his mouth are correct at this point—or maybe Minho's doing it right, maybe he is finally being good—

"Please," Minho begs again, hoping he sounds pathetic enough for Chan to listen. "Enough, hyung, enough."

Chan instead wraps his hand around Minho's cock, hanging hard between his thighs, and it feels so good, except it makes him clench around the ginger, and Minho doesn't know how much more he can take—

Smack, smack, smack.

Minho whimpers, knees sliding further apart. He's fully spent.

Chan shushes him, gently rakes the matted hair from his face and rubs his hand up and down the back of Minho's thigh. It makes Minho shiver as he leans into his touch.

"Has my devil bunny learnt his lesson?"

It's cruel how comforting it all feels.

He's nervous.

Except he's not. But he is—but it's—

Steph moves into the stall, unbuckles his pants, peels the waist down his hips and gets a hand around his soft cock. He didn't bother wearing underwear tonight—the pants were hard enough to get on, and honestly, after an hour in the club, he regrets it. The cool air hitting his skin feels like a balm, a great distraction to the fact—

He strokes over his soft cock, once, twice, thinks he should at least put in some effort of excitement before—he's over thinking it. But my god, what if he flags? Why is he doing this, he's insane—

He looks down at the hole in the wall, duct tape framing it, just large enough for him to see a hand wave through. Bony fingers beckoning him, and Steph can hear the person on the other side fall to their knees on the tile.

Steph wipes the sweat from his brow, looks down at his cock, it's finally stirring with interest—they shouldn't have to do all the work over there—and quickly brushes his neatly trimmed pubes with the tips of his fingers. Looks good.

"Anyone there?" the hand asks—or rather, the voice of the hand—and he sounds a little tipsy. Maybe Steph should get out of here until he remembers he's in a nightclub bathroom, the soles of his loafers sticking to the floor when he steps forward.

Steph doesn't answer, just places his cock onto the palm of the open hand. He closes his eyes when the hand closes around it, tries to focus on the conversation by the sinks and not the fact he's getting a handjob from a stranger.

"Come closer," the hand asks again. It disappears and returns with a glob of glistening spit, and the sight makes Steph's toes curl.

He obeys, palms pressing into the shared wall between them to get his dick through the hole. He almost pulls way when he feels wetness—a tiny kitten lick to the underside of his head, then the flat of an entire tongue tracing lower, lower, to his balls. It's insane how the person on the other side wastes no time, doesn't even care he's half hard, just immediately sucks each ball into his mouth.

From here, Steph can tell his lips must be obscene. The ghostly imprint on his nerves tells him as such, from the way they wrap around his length, working up and down in tandem with his calloused hand. The contrast in the warmth of his mouth with his rough hands makes Steph crazy, his humid breath sticking to the wall in front of him. He's sweating everywhere, feet rocking back and forth on his heels and toes, hips rutting up against it to fuck deeper into the wall.

The person pulls off, and Steph can hear him gasping to catch his breath, the obscene slick sounds of the hand working all of his gloopy spit over Steph's cock.

"You close?" the voice rasps. "'M getting tired."

Steph bucks his hips forward, a silent 'yes,' and the mouth is back on him, this time taking him all the way down, no patience, his gag reflex echoing in the stalls. Steph shouldn't find it so hot, it should disgust him—this stranger could vomit all over him, and all he could do is wipe off whatever he could (if there's even paper stocked in the stalls) and tuck it back into his pants. No underwear. God. And yet—

The person gags again, moans, sucking him down, slurping up whatever doesn't drip down, down Steph's balls, and probably onto the floor and duct tape between them. Steph moans, nails scraping against the wall, and cums. The person pulls off before he's finished, gurgles up a cough and a hiccup, hand never faltering to keep milking him through. He rest of it must fall onto the floor, or even his face and opened mouth. Steph wouldn't know, but it feels good. So good.

"Shit." Steph murmurs, cheek smashed against the wall. He feels the hand let go of his cock, now at half mast, and he pulls himself back through the hole. His cock is still glistening, the last remnants of spit and cum covered across the surface. The sight makes him twitch, doesn't even care if some of it's going to crust up on his pants.

He cleans himself up with the last two squares of toilet roll in the stall, tucks himself back in, and opens the door. The bathroom has mostly cleared out, and he sees one person washing their hands and face at the sink.

Steph inches closer, unable to make out who it is until he sidles up to the sink beside them. He tries to be subtle, to only look out of the corner of his eye—

"Intak?"

“It’s not supposed to hurt,” Minho says against Jeongin’s mouth.

He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of hers, the warmth of his palm rubbing a gentle circle against a mound above her clit. It’s making Jeongin’s breath stutter, just enough to feel each throb between her legs run lightning through her her veins.

She can feel him against her leg, denim and the teeth of his jeans scratching against her bare thigh. The weight of his cock is straining against his boxer briefs, and she wonders how that is going to get inside of her.

It’s not like Minho is particularly large, it’s just—she’s never—

“You’ll be okay.” His voice sounds so sweet, so assuring. It makes her belly ache as she squeezes her thighs around his wrist tighter. He laughs, nosing at her hair line. “Just think about how long you’ve been waiting.”

It makes Jeongin choke—heat licking across her face with embarrassment. His palm moves up, fingers playing with the edge of the fabric of her panties. It makes her shiver, knowing how close he is to her.

She /has/ been waiting—ever since Felix introduced her to his older brother, and for years she would stare across the dinner table at Minho, longing for him to look her way. Maybe all along he knew—she tried to not be so obvious, but she liked to think she was subtle about her crush.

But she never thought it’d amount to this, like all the times it played out in her head like a movie before she’d fallen asleep: on her back, in Minho’s bed with Minho touching her.

It was easier there, in her fantasies—her legs would spread so easily for Minho, not a hiccup of worry, and her desire filled in all the gaps as she’d touch herself to orgasm under her duvet. But now, she’s uncertain—

“I’ll be gentle,” Minho assures her, hips rutting harder against her. “I promise.”

She shouldn’t be scared, she’s been wanting this—

Minho lets out a noise against her ear that makes her blush burn harder. Jeongin buckles, thoughts plummeting into the endless nights of desire she’s imagined, over, and over.

She loosens the hold on her thighs, pushing her knees apart.

“Good girl,” Minho says, slipping a finger inside. Jeongin gasps, fighting the urge to close her legs again.