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‘Come on,’ he says, in the tone of voice that has an 85% success rate. Similar to how he sounded when he asked his parents if he could pleasepleaseplease take a gap year before uni and move in with Chan. Similar to how he sounded when he cornered Minho in the living room, that one time, and clumsily tried to seduce him, whispering hyung doesn’t have to know.
He was so mad when Minho and Chan started dating. He’d spent his entire adolescence oscillating between a crush on either, sick and queasy for wanting to fuck his brother’s best friend—sicker and queasier for wanting to fuck his brother too. It was bad enough when they were just best friends, Minho staying for dinner, Minho in Chan’s bedroom, Minho sleeping over and the two of them awake till three playing some stupid video game without asking Jisung if he wanted to join. Jisung in his own room listening to their voices through the wall. Summer afternoons, shirtless in the backyard, kicking around a football. Minho emerging from the bathroom in the morning with wet hair, in just his boxers, smiling at him like Jisung’s crush was obvious, which it probably was. He could never control his own face.
When Minho slipped back into Chan’s bedroom, Jisung would sneak into the bathroom and jerk off in the shower like the biggest cliché. He’d bite his own knuckles, scared anyone would hear him.
It was bad enough; then it got worse. It was only after they got together that Jisung made a move on Minho. He wasn’t even drunk. He was just stupid, a little spiteful, weaned on wanting something he never received. His whole life spent wanting; it’d drive everyone crazy. And Minho turned him down anyway. Well, sort of. He didn’t want to do anything without hyung knowing.
‘Come ooon.’ He gets a little whinier. Sometimes that helps. ‘I’m not going to break.’
‘You could,’ Chan says. He touches Jisung’s hipbone tenderly, the way he always does, the way he’s always been so fucking kind it’s a little disgusting. He taught him how to tie his shoelaces with the bunny ears method. He helped him with his maths homework and pep-talked him before class presentations and piggybacked him around the house. He shared his booze when Jisung wasn’t old enough to buy yet. And even when he was, he never let Jisung pay. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘I do,’ Minho says. His grip on Jisung’s other hip is tight. ‘No offence.’
Jisung feels airy. ‘None taken,’ he whispers. ‘I want you to.’
‘Look at him,’ Minho says, leaning past Jisung to kiss Chan on the mouth. ‘The little whore, asking so nicely.’
‘Please,’ he says. When Minho talks like that, he can’t think. ‘Please.’
Chan sighs. He has always been bad at saying no to Jisung. It’s one of the things that make him such a good brother. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Please,’ Jisung repeats. ‘You wanna. Don’t you wanna?’
‘Just imagine,’ Minho says, ‘how tight he’ll be. Bet he’ll cry for us.’
Chan makes a strangled noise; his hand curls tighter around Jisung. He’s so kind, his big brother, pure sunshine and charm, but there is something so nasty behind the glossy veneer, Jisung knows. It just takes so much to make him crack and have it spill out. You have to push so hard to make him snap. Not only because Jisung is his baby brother, so he’s understandably hung-up on that taboo, knee-deep in the guilt of his desire, but even then—even if they weren’t related, it would probably be so hard to make Chan let loose.
‘He can take it,’ Minho continues, dialling up the persuasion, ‘he was made for two.’
Jisung chokes. He was—he was, made for two, these two specifically. Both of them, he always wanted, and they’re finally his. He’s finally theirs. Both of them, he didn’t think he could have, but—life’s so funny, isn’t it, now sandwiched between them in their overlarge bed. He gets to steal their clothes, prance around in Chan’s t-shirt and suck Minho’s dick. Gets to crawl from his brother’s lap and into Minho’s, kiss them both with tongue till he’s dizzy. Both of them, he wants, inside him. Minho’s right, he’s going to cry. He wants that too.
He wriggles around to nudge his nose against Chan’s pulse point. ‘Please,’ he says again. He pushes his ass against Minho’s dick. ‘Hyung.’
‘Fine, fine, you fucking slut,’ Chan says. He’s blushing. It looks cute. ‘But tell us to stop and we’ll stop. Okay?’
Yeah sure. He’d sooner become a flat-earther. ‘Yes, hyung. Your consent is very sexy.’
Chan flicks him on the forehead. ‘Brat.’
Jisung forgets to reply when he feels Minho’s hands grope his ass. He closes his eyes; it’s nice to not look but only feel. Sometimes he wants to look—of course he does, they’re both so hot, he’s been stealing glances since he was a teenager, he’d be crazy not to look most of the time—but other times, like now, he only wants to float in the feeling. Warm, steady hands manhandling him. Chan’s mouth on his nape, kissing down his spine. Minho’s fingers, wet with lube, prodding at his ass.
He moans brazenly when Minho grinds two fingers into him. He rocks back against his hand, already needy for more, the way he always is. The way it’s so hard to satisfy him, because he has spent so long wanting.
Chan’s hand finds his back and holds him in place. Jisung’s mouth suddenly feels jarringly empty.
‘Prettiest thing,’ Minho says, easing in a third finger. He rubs at Jisung’s prostate, good at this, so good at this, Jisung’s dick is getting so wet. ‘You’re so tight, baby. How’re you going to take us both?’
‘Can,’ he says, ‘can, I can.’ He doesn’t know, really, that he can. He hasn’t tried before. But he wants. He wants to be stretched past his limits, wants to fade a bit. Slip into a static haze for a little while, be eclipsed by bliss in the sorest way. ‘Hyung, come on, gimme your cock.’
‘Demanding,’ Minho says. ‘Channie, why didn’t you teach this kid some manners?’
‘I have manners,’ Jisung says. He opens his eyes—a little bleary, blinking dazedly at the bright spots. ‘I said please.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, and pouts for all he’s worth. He turns his head to catch Chan’s scorching gaze. He knows he’s weak for his puppy eyes. ‘Please.’
Minho pulls out his fingers. He pinches Jisung’s ass before he squirts more lube into his palm to slick himself up. He’s unceremonious about this, doesn’t draw it out for ages—it’ll be drawn out later, Jisung thinks, when they need to fit Chan inside too. Chan holds him in place as Minho nudges his cock against Jisung’s rim and starts pressing inside.
He releases the breath he’s holding. Forces himself to relax. It’s always a lot, at first, even just taking one of them. Maybe it was a foolish idea to beg for them both. He whines uselessly as Minho drives further into him, clutching at Chan’s hand. ‘Hyunghyunghyung,’ he says, voice rollercoasting between octaves, ‘ah—ah.’
Minho puts his hand on the small of Jisung’s back.
He feels trapped. It’s so nice, this fog of helplessness settling over him. ‘Thank you,’ he gasps—he’ll show them fucking manners. He’ll be so well-mannered they won’t believe their own eyes. ‘Thank you, thank you.’
‘Fuck, how’s he always so tight,’ he says, with that stunned note that makes Jisung feel so special. ‘Not sure how we’re going to make you fit too.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Chan says. ‘But it’s what he wants. Greedy little thing.’
‘Just what he wants, yeah?’ Minho says. ‘You don’t want it at all, of course.’
Jisung is barely following their conversation, blanketed in pleasure as Minho fucks him slowly, but his brain feels deliciously electric that they’re talking not to him, but about him. He can have a little objectification, as a treat. Hasn’t he earned it? ‘Hyung,’ he mumbles. ‘More, please.’
‘Hear that?’ Chan says. ‘Greedy.’
‘I think it’s cute,’ Minho says. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t.’
Chan runs his hand through Jisung’s hair. Below his breath, he asks, ‘How’re you feeling, baby?’
‘Good,’ Jisung says, ‘good, but—want more. Can take it.’
‘See?’ Minho laughs. ‘Better come here and give the poor thing what he wants.’
Jisung keeps his eyes closed as Chan moves. He keeps them closed too when he spreads his ass and kisses his back. It feels so sweet, his mouth on him, as Minho splits him open. He gasps when cold lube is suddenly poured over his hole. ‘Hyung-ah,’ he complains, ‘that’s mean.’
‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ Chan says, but doesn’t really sound it. He probably likes hearing Jisung whine and grouse. He rubs his thumb next to Minho’s dick, and Jisung feels—electric, vibrating with anticipation. ‘Hold still,’ he says, to Jisung or Minho, Jisung’s not sure, but he doesn’t move. He barely breathes. He just lies there, sweetly limp, and exhales a trembling moan when Minho stills and Chan starts to coerce a finger in next to his dick. He’s slow, so slow, so tender and careful and sweet and Jisung wants to cry, wants him to hurry up already, but Chan would never. Chan’s too good for that. ‘How’s that?’ he asks, his voice dizzyingly strained, ‘How’re you feeling, baby?’
‘Good,’ he gasps, and uselessly tries to grind back against them. His hole clenches and everything feels so tight and hot and wet, he’s scared he might come. He doesn’t want to come because then they might stop. He doesn’t want them to stop. He wants them to watch him come and keep going, make it hurt, fill him up so completely he chokes on his own tears. ‘Goodgoodgood.’
‘Okay, sweetheart.’ He moves his finger a little; Minho stays still, cock buried deep inside Jisung. It’s just Chan’s finger shifting, moving, stretching him out a little more. He wonders how it feels against Minho’s cock. ‘Stay still for us, yeah?’
‘Okay.’ He lets his brain fuzz over. He hears himself whimper as they toy with him; Minho adds another finger next to Chan’s, he thinks, and tugs at his rim meanly. He gasps—spit spills out of his mouth, but he’s too dizzy to feel properly shamed. He just feels so dirty, degraded in the best way. He can’t wait to have his brother inside him too. He likes the thought of being shared between them. ‘Ah-ah-ah—’ His voice goes so high. He wants to ask how many fingers he’s taking right now, but words are so hard. His dick twitches with every move; he feels so sensitive, overstimulated. Overwhelmed.
‘Good boy,’ Chan praises, kissing his shoulder blade. ‘You’re doing so well, baby. You can take it, yeah? Just a little more.’
‘Can—can.’
‘Shit.’ Minho shifts slightly. ‘Fuck, what the fuck, this is so hot. Just look at that.’
They kiss—Jisung can hear them, the wet slide of their tongues. Minho’s spit in Chan’s mouth. He tries to open his eyes to watch, but they won’t obey his brain. They stay closed.
‘Okay,’ Chan says. ‘Shit, okay.’ He pulls out his fingers and wipes them across Jisung’s ass. There’s the sound of more lube, a lot of it, and a familiar moan when Chan fists himself. Minho’s hand is on his thigh. Chan’s is on his waist. A moment later, the blunt head of another cock touches where he’s already stretched-out and sticky-wet.
He whines so loudly his ears start to ring. It’s—
It hurts, it does, it’s so much, it’s too much, he’s panting like a feral dog as Chan tries to work the tip inside. Just the tip and it’s already so much.
‘Shh,’ one of them says, or maybe both, Jisung’s too drunk on it to be sure. He whines and whines. He can’t stop whining. ‘Just like that, baby, hold still for us.’
Jisung holds so still. They work him open, Minho pulling out a little and thrusting back inside with an inch of Chan’s cock next to him. Fuck, it’s so—much. Jisung thinks he’s coming. He isn’t even sure, but he feels wet everywhere. He feels so hot. He’s so glad he can give them this, so glad they’re giving it to him. All he’s ever wanted, to be this wanted. ‘Ah—ah—ah—’
‘Fuck, just listen to him,’ Minho says. ‘And look at him, look right here.’ His thumb brushes over Jisung’s rim, burning hot. ‘Feeling good, honey?’
‘Nnngnhgg—’ Saliva bubbles out of his mouth messily. He wants to say something, babble about how good he feels, but his mind is blanking. Everything is white and fuzzy. They’re inside him, both of them, one of them is slowly fucking him while the other holds still. He can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure starts. They occupy the same space, which is his body. His body, hurting and blissed-over and bravely taking it all. Isn’t he so good? He feels so good.
‘I told you,’ Minho says. He sounds a little delirious too. ‘He’s made for two.’
Jisung gurgles. At some point, he started crying. He doesn’t remember when, but it feels nice. It feels nice to be fucked out of his own body and into heaven, where everything is so beautiful. ‘Mmmm—’ he tries, fails. His tongue knots in his mouth. ‘M-made. Mademademade.’
‘Made for us,’ Chan finishes for him. ‘Sweet thing. You’re doing so well.’
He blisses out again. He withdraws into feeling, eyes closed, brain sludging against his skull. The praise passes over him distantly, the dull soundtrack of their voices, and he cries a little. Cries because it feels good and because it hurts and he can’t tell the difference and doesn’t really want to. He comes again, maybe. Maybe he never stopped. And Chan comes, he thinks, or it’s Minho—they’re both making these low animal sounds, the type of moans that he’s both familiar and unfamiliar with, and he feels it inside him—hot, wet, spilling out of him as they continue to move. How gross. How perfect. He’s being kissed, at the top of his spine and all over his back and the insides of his thighs, all over, everywhere. Soft and soft and softer. They’re whispering something. A hand closes around his dick and jerks him into a final, thrashing orgasm. Tender, it feels, when they move him around so gently. When one of them runs a fingertip around his flushed, fucked-out hole. He sighs out a whimper. He would like to say that he’s okay, but he can’t really wade through the murkiness of his own mind. Words are very far away from his mouth, hidden in the bottom of his belly. He still feels full. And so eerily, hurtfully empty. He’s being held. They kiss him and tell him he did so well. You too, he wants to say. He will say it later, when his throat works again, when his tongue unknots. They did well too. He holds Chan’s hand. Minho pets his head. It was so unfair when they got together and never looked at him. It’s better now. They can say he’s greedy all they want. It’s true, he is, but he waited so long. He was so good, he’ll be so good, he’ll put on Minho’s shirt later and demand to be hugged all night. ‘Don’t,’ he mumbles, raspy, ‘let go.’