Chapter Text
The dorm was quieter than usual that afternoon, the kind of lazy post-practice hush that settled over the place when most of the members were out or napping. Jisung trudged into the room he shared with Minho, arms loaded with a basket of folded laundry he’d been guilt-tripped into picking up from the dryer. The air smelled faintly of Minho’s cologne—something sharp and woody that always lingered longer than it should.
Minho was already there, sprawled on his bed with one leg dangling off the edge, scrolling through his phone. He didn’t even look up at first, but the second Jisung dropped the basket on the floor with a soft thud, Minho’s eyes flicked over.
“Yah, Han Jisung,” Minho said, voice low and lazy, but with that edge that made Jisung’s stomach twist in the best-worst way. “Did you seriously just dump that on the floor? Folded clothes go in the drawers, not in a pile like some raccoon’s nest.”
Jisung froze mid-step, cheeks heating up instantly. “I—I was gonna put them away! I just… needed to set it down for a second.”
Minho finally sat up, tossing his phone aside and fixing Jisung with that stare—the one that felt like it could pin you in place without even trying. He was shirtless, because of course he was; the dorm was warm, and Minho never missed a chance to lounge around half-dressed like he owned the air itself. His hair was still a bit damp from his shower, falling messily over his forehead.
“Put them away now, then,” Minho said, not a question, just a quiet command. He leaned back on his elbows, watching like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all day. “And while you’re at it, pick up those socks you left under your bed yesterday. The room smells like feet because of you.”
Jisung’s mouth opened, then closed. He wanted to snap back—something sassy, something that would make Minho laugh or roll his eyes, anything to break the tension. But the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he just…did it. Dropped to his knees to fish the stray socks from under the bed frame, then started sorting the laundry into drawers. His heart was pounding too hard for something so stupid, a hot flush crawling up his neck.
Why did it feel good? That was the worst part. Minho’s voice, casual and bossy, telling him what to do like it was nothing—like Jisung was just there to listen and obey. It sent a thrill straight through him, electric and embarrassing, pooling low in his gut. He hated how much he liked it. Hated how he’d started noticing it more lately: the way Minho would direct him during choreography fixes, or casually order him to grab water for everyone, or tease him with that sharp tongue until Jisung was flustered and laughing to cover it up.
As he shoved a stack of Minho’s shirts into the drawer—perfectly folded, because god forbid he did it sloppily and got called out again—Jisung’s mind raced. This is fine. It’s just hyung being hyung. He’s always like this. But it wasn’t just that anymore, was it? Not when Jisung’s brain kept replaying these moments at night, twisting them into something hotter, something that left him breathless and guilty.
Minho hummed approvingly from the bed. “Good boy. See? Wasn’t that hard.”
Jisung nearly dropped the basket. The phrase was throwaway, teasing like always, but it hit like a spark to dry kindling. He turned away quickly, pretending to reorganize his own side of the room, anything to hide the way his face burned.
Shit. Shit shit shit. What if this ruined everything? Stray Kids was his family, his everything—the eight of them against the world. If Minho ever found out how Jisung’s thoughts had started wandering…if anyone did…it could break the balance they’d fought so hard to keep. The laughter, the trust, the late-night talks. All of it could crack if Jisung couldn’t get a grip on whatever this was blooming inside him.
He stole a glance back at Minho, who had gone back to his phone, completely oblivious. That sharp profile, the casual dominance in ever lazy movement—it was too much.
Jisung swallowed hard, forcing a grin as he grabbed his headphones from the desk. “I’m gonna go work on some lyrics in the living room. Room’s all clean now, your highness.”
Minho snorted without looking up. “About time. Don’t track dirt back it.”
Jisung slipped out the door, heart still racing, the thrill and the resentment twisting together like wires he couldn’t untangle. He needed to get this out somehow—before it ate him alive.
🐺🐰🐷🥟🐿️🐥🐶🦊
The dorm was finally, blessedly dark.
2:47 a.m., according to the glowing numbers on Jisung’s phone. Everyone else had crashed hours ago; even Chan’s light under the door had gone out. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator down the hall and the occasional creak of the building settling.
Jisung lay on his stomach, blanket kicked to the food of the bed, phone screen turned all the way down so the light wouldn’t spill toward Minho’s side of the room. The older boy was a lump under his covers, breathing slow and even, one arm flung over his face. Asleep. Safe.
Jisung’s thumb scroclled too fast, then too slow, then hovered.
He knew exactly where he was going. He always ended up in the same corners of Twitter and TikTok after nights like this; nights when Minho’s voice still echoed in his skull, lazy and commanding, good boy looping like a broken record.
He tapped into a familiar hashtag.
#MINSUNG
The feed flooded with clips: fancams zoomed in on their hands brushing, screenshots of Minho staring at Jisung while he laughed too hard at his own joke, slow-motion edits of Minho fixing Jisung’s mic pack with careful fingers. And the comments. God, the comments.
“the way leeknow looks at han like he wants to ruin him”
“someone write the fic where lee know finally snaps and puts han in his place i’m
begging.”
“han’s little gasps when minho hyung gets close…yeah we all know what that
means.”
“dom lee know submissive han is canon idc idc”
Jisung’s breath hitched. Heat crawled up his chest, pooled behind his navel. He shifted his hips against the mattress without meaning to, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to hurt.
He hated how right they were. How they saw it too.
Another comment, timestamped ten minutes ago:
“need a fic where lee know ties han to the bed and makes
Him cry for it. that’s all.”
His vision blurred for a second. The idea sank into him like teeth.
Before he could talk himelf out of it, he opened a blank note in his private Google Docs; the one titled “random lyrics don’t open.” His thumbs flew.
Title: practice room, after hours (private, do not share)
Han Jisung had been bratty all day. Talking back during vocal lessons, “accidentally” stepping on Lee Know’s foot during choreo, laughing too loud when the older boy told him to be quiet.
He knew what he was doing. He always did.
Now the rest of the members were gone, and the mirrors reflected only the two of them under the dim practice room lights.
Lee Know circled him slowly, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“You’ve been begging for this all week,” he said, voice low. “On your knees baby.”
Jisung’s knees hit the hardwood before the sentence was finished. The shock of it jolted up his spine, delicious and humiliating.
“Good,” Lee Know murmured, fingers threading into Jisung’s hair—not gentle, just present. Controlling. “Now keep that mouth shut unless I ask you a question. Understand?”
Jisung nodded, throat dry. His pulse thundered in his “Words, Jisung-ah.”
“Y-yes, hyung.”
A slow smirk. “Yes, what?”
Jisung’s voice cracked. “Yes, sir.”
The first slap across his cheek was light—just enough to sting, to make his eyes water. The second was harder. By the third, he was half-hard in his sweatpants and whimpering.
Lee Know’s thumb brushed the tears on his cheek, almost tender. “Colour?”
“Green,” Jisung gasped. “Please, green—”
He wrote faster, words spilling out messy and desperate. He described the way Lee Know would crowd him against the mirror, hand around his throat, whispering filthy praise while Jisung begged to be good, begged to be used. He wrote about wrists tied with the spare mic cable, about Lee Know’s voice dropping into that dangerous register he used when he was really pissed—or really turned on.
His own hand had slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers somewhere around paragraph six. He didn’t even try to stop it. Every stroke felt like confession.
Across the room, Minho shifted in his sleep and mumbled something unintelligible. Jisung froze, heart slamming against his ribs, fingers slick and guilty. Thirty long seconds of silence. Minho settled again.
Jisung let out a shaky breath and kept typing, quieter now, one-handed.
He came with his face buried in his pillow to muffle the sound, whole body shaking as the fantasy crested—Lee Know growling “mine” against his throat, teeth sinking into skin.
After, he lay there panting, staring at the ceiling, the glow of his screen still illuminating the document.
1,847 words.
Dirty, desperate, and so painfully obvious that if anyone ever saw it they’d known in half a second who it was really about.
He highlighted the whole thing, fingers hovering over delete.
Then, instead, he created a new folder called “do not open ever” and locked it with a password only he would remember.
Tomorrow he’d be normal. Tomorrow he’d laugh it off, call Minho hyung in that bright voice, pretend his stomach didn’t flip every time their eyes met.
Tonight, though—this was his.
A secret valve to let the pressure out before he exploded and ruined everything.
He plugged his phone in, rolled onto his side facing the wall, and tried to ignore the way his skin still buzzed.
Just a private outlet.
That’s all it was.
…Right?
🐺🐰🐷🥟🐿️🐥🐶🦊
Jisung’s phone buzzed softly against his thigh under the practice room table. It was the next afternoon—another grueling day of blocking choreography for the upcoming comeback, but his mind was elsewhere. The fix from last night still burned in his brain, a guilty itch he couldn’t scratch in public. During their fifteen-minute water break, while Minho was off stretching with Hyunjin and Changbin snored against the mirror, Jisung slipped into the CapCut app he’d downloaded on a whim last week.
Just an experiment, he told himself, heart already picking up speed. Something to…process this.
He’d saved a fancam from their last concert weeks ago—Minho’s solo dance break in that black silk shirt, the one that clung just right when he sweat through it. The footage was gold: sharp hip thrust synced to the bass drop, Minho’s eyes locked on the camera like he knew exactly who was watching, hair slicked back and falling loose by the chorus. Jisung trimmed it down—slowed the thrust to half-speed, overlaid a sultry R&B remix of their own track, added glow effects that made Minho’s skin shimmer like it was oiled up. A close-up of those cat-like eyes narrowing, lips parting on a silent breath. Then the killshot: text fading in slow, “when he looks at you like this 😈 #LeeKnow #StrayKids #DanceBreak.”
His thumb hovered over the export button. This was stupid. Too obvious. What if someone recognized the angle from their own fancams? What if Minho saw it?
But the thrill from last night’s writing lingered, fizzy and addictive. He created a burner TikTok account on the spot—“LeebitBottomPrincess🍑”—no profile pic, just a black heart emoji bio. Bio read: “what if lee know wrecked me | 18+ | thirst traps only 🍑🔥”
Posted.
He shoved his phone in his pocket as Chan clapped for everyone to line up again, but his eyes kept darting to the screen between reps. Five minutes: three like, one view. Boring.
Ten minutes: 47 likes. A comment: “this edit got SO HARD omg his hips????”
Jisung’s face split into a grin he hid behind his water bottle. By the end of practice—forty minutes later—502 likes, 12k views. Notifications piling up like digital confetti.
“lee know could step on me and I’d thank him”—134 likes
“the slowmo???? chef’s kiss. Need this man to ruin my life”—89 likes
“hansung would fold so fast irl lmao”—201 likes
“is this ai? looks too good”—45 likes
“more plsss😩💦”—312 likes
Jisung bit his knuckle to stifle a laugh-gasp hybrid, heat flooding his cheeks and lower. 2k views now, climbing by the second. Strangers—fans—getting it, hyping the exact thing twisting him up inside. Minho’s power, distilled into 15 seconds of pure thirst. It felt…validating. Dangerous. Alive.
His phone vibrated again: 1.3k likes. A duet request already.
“Holy shit,” he whispered to the tiled wall, pulse racing. This was better than the fic—no words to delete, just vibes. Anonymous. Safe.
But as he pocketed it and headed back to the group, Minho slinging an arm around his shoulders with a casual “Good work today, Sungie,” the high twisted into something sharper. What if this kept going? What if it got too big?
He shoved the thought down, leaning into the touch just a second too long. One edit. Harmless fun.
The likes kept rolling in all night.
🐺🐰🐷🥟🐿️🐥🐶🦊
It was past three in the morning again, the dorm asleep except for the soft scratch of Jisung’s Apple Pencil against the iPad.
He had the brightness turned down so low the screen looked bruised, a private little galaxy glowing between his crossed legs. Procreate was open, layers already a mess. The TikTok edit had hit 300k overnight; three hundred thousand people had watched Minho move like sex on legs because of him, and the comments were feral. Someone had even stitched it with a voiceover moaning “yes, hyung” in the exact pitch Jisung hit when he was nervous . He’d watched it six times, then eleven, then stopped counting.
The validation tasted like adrenaline and sin.
So now he was drawing.
It started innocent enough: a quick study of Minho’s side profile from memory; sharp jaw, the tiny mole just on the side of his nose, the way his lips curled when he was amused and trying not to show it. Then Jisung added himself in the foreground, smaller, flushed, eyes wide and glassy. Kneeling. Hands behind his back. Collar snug around his throat with a little silver tag that read L.K.
He told himself it was just practice, anatomy studies, whatever. But the stylus kept moving.
Minho’s hand fisted in his hair.
Minho’s boot pressing lightly between his thighs.
Minho’s mouth at his ear, whispering something that made cartoon-Jisung’s toes curl.
He worked fast, messy, greedy. Colours bold and oversaturated: flushed pinks on his own cheeks, deep bruised purples on the hickeys blooming across his collarbones. He gave himself teary heart-eyes and a gag made of Minho’s black stage tie. The final layer was text in a shaky, needy font: “please, sir.”
When he zoomed out, his stomach flipped so hard he had to slap a hand over his mouth to keep from making a sound.
It was obscene. It was perfect. It was them, distilled into lines and shading and shameless want.
He saved it to a hidden folder titled “burn after death,” then immediately duplicated the canvas and started another: Minho pinning him face-down on the dorm mattress, one hand over his mouth, the other—well. He didn’t finish that one. He couldn’t. His hands were shaking too much.
At 4:12 a.m. he opened the Patreon app instead.
Username: leebitbottomprincess🍑
Display Name: Leebit’s Bottom Princess
Profile Pic: a chibi bunny in a collar, blushing so hard its cheeks were bleeding hearts.
About section:
Hi ♥
I draw filthy minsung (mostly bottom han, mostly very very nsfw)
If you like lee know wrecking Jisung until he cries pretty…you’re home
$5 – early access + sketches
$10 – full res + alts (toys, lingerie, etc.)
$20 – I take requests and call you good boy in the comments ♥
He stared at the create button for a full five minutes, thumb hovering, pulse in his throat.
This was insane.
This was career suicide if anyone ever connected the dots.
This was the only thing that made sense right now.
He hit create.
Then, before he could chicken out, he uploaded the kneeling piece as the welcome post. Public teaser cropped at the waist (safe enough), but the full uncensored version locked behind the $5 tier. Caption: first drop ♥ be gentle with me, it’s my first time posting my dirty little secrets
He turned the screen off, shoved the iPad under his pillow like it was radioactive, and curled into a ball.
His phone buzzed almost instantly.
Patreon notification: You have 4 new Patrons
Then 11.
Then 27.
Money. Real money. From strangers who wanted exactly what he’d been choking on for months.
Jisung pressed his face into his pillow and laughed; shaky, delirious, half-terrified. The sound came out closer to a whimper.
Across the room, Minho rolled over in his sleep and sighed, “Jisung-ah, go to bed.”
Jisung froze, heart jackhammering.
After a long beat, Minho’s breathing evened out again.
Jisung stared at the ceiling, cheeks burning, body thrumming with something bright and reckless.
Tomorrow he’d be normal. Tomorrow he’d smile and rap his verses and pretend he wasn’t selling pieces of his filthiest fantasies to the internet.
Tonight, though—tonight he was Leebit’s Bottom Princess, and the world apparently couldn’t get enough.
🐺🐰🐷🥟🐿️🐥🐶🦊
The numbers had stopped feeling real.
Jisung sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor at 1:13 a.m., door locked, black balaclava pulled down to his nose, cat-eared beanie tugged low over his brows. The only light came from his phone propped against the bottle of Chan’s fancy face serum. Masked up, voice changer set to a soft, breathy pitch; just enough distortion that no one could ever prove it was him.
TikTok Live title: late night with your fave minsung delulu ♥ ask me anything about my fics/edts (18+ only)
He hit Go Live.
The viewer count shot pass 500 in ten seconds. Then 2k. Then 8k.
Chat:
OMFG HI PRINCESS
SHOW US YOUR NECK WE KNOW YOU HAVE MARKS
what made you start writing bottom han religious experience
do you think minsung is real irl 👀
Jisung giggled; high, nervous, perfect fan-girl pitch. “Hi, babies~ I missed you.” He tilted the camera just enough to show the thin black choker he’d bought that afternoon. No face, just the suggestion of collarbones and the faint line where the elastic had pressed all day. “I’m shy tonight, be nice to me, okay?”
He scrolled through questions with a glittery pink nail—press-ons, another impulse buy.
“Favourite trope?” he read aloud, voice dropping into something syrupy. “When Lee Know finally snaps. Like…he’s been patient all day, watching Han be a little brat, and then in the practice room after everyone leave—” He paused, let the silence hang heavy. “He crowds him against the mirror, grabs his aw, and says, ‘You’ve been begging to be put in your place. Open.’”
The chat exploded.
10k viewers. 15k. Gift rockets raining.
Someone supermessaged $20: describe what lee know does next pls i’m begging
Jisung’s thighs pressed together under the oversized hoodie; Minho’s hoodie, stolen two day ago and still smelling like him. He licked his lips behind the mask.
“He doesn’t kiss him,” he whispered. “No yet. First he makes Jisungie say thank you for every spank. Counts them out loud. And if he loses count…” A soft laugh. “Starts over. With his belt.”
The live chat became pure chaos. Someone started a “STEP ON ME PRINCEESS” copypasta.
Another question floated up: do you ever roleplay your fics irl?
Jisung’s heart stuttered. He recovered with a coy head tilt. “A princess never tells~ But…sometimes when I’m alone, I put on the choker and kneel in front of the mirror and pretend he’s watching. Pretend he’s proud of me for being good.” His voice cracked just enough to sound desperate. “Is that weird?”
The comments assured him, in screaming caps lock, that it was the hottest thing they’d ever heard.
He stayed on for forty-three minutes. Read thirsts tweets about his own fic aloud in that same breathy voice. Dropped hints that the next Patreon update would have Han in cat ears and a tail plug. Promised a voiced reading of chapter two if they broke 100k total views on his edits.
When he finally ended the live, legs numb and lips bitten raw under the mask, the final count was 29.4k concurrent viewers and $1,200 in gifts.
He peeled the balaclava off in the dark, hair sticking up in sweaty clumps, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon.
His burner Twitter was already trending in the Minsung tag.
@leebitbottomprincess: thank you for tonight ♥ i’m still shaking~ see you on patreon, babies. new art drops at 3 am kst (hint. Leash)
He stared at the numbers until they blurred.
Then he opened the private folder, added a new note titled: “things I can never say out loud,” and typed a single line.
What if one day he finds out it’s me and does everything I wrote for real.
He locked the phone, pressedit to his forehead, and whispered into the silence:
“Please don’t. Please do.”
🐺🐰🐷🥟🐿️🐥🐶🦊
The Patreon counter ticked past 3,800 members while Jisung was in the middle of a vocal lesson.
He felt the buzz in his pocket and nearly dropped the lyric sheet.
3,800 people.
$18,000+ a month.
All because they wanted to watch him draw himself bent over for Lee Know in increasingly creative ways.
That night he uploaded three pieces at once; an apology for being “quiet” the past two days.
- Han on his knees in the recording booth, mouth open, tears shaking, Lee Know’s hand fisted in his hair while the soundproof glass reflected them both.
- Close-up of Han’s wrists bound with the red string of fate, Lee Know’s teeth sunk into his throat hard enough to bruise.
- Full spread: Han riding Lee Know on the dorm couch, back arched, cat-ear headbang askew, caption scrawled in shaky handwriting across the bottom: “quiet, baby, the others are asleep.”
He added a poll for the $20 tier:
Next drawing:
- Han in lingerie + collar + “Lee Know’s” tag
- Lee Know spanking Han over the practice room barre until he cries
- Both; double update if we hit 4k by tomorrow ♥
The poll broke 92% in favor of C within twenty minutes.
Jisung stared at the numbers until his vision swam, then opened his banking app just to make sure the deposits were real. They were. Four commas. He immediately transferred half to a new account titled “run away to Jeju if exposed fund.”
Because the panic was always there now, coiled under the thrill like a second heartbeat.
Every time the group schedule pinged on his phone; radio shows, year-end stages, Japan promo shoots, his stomach lurched.
What if someone recognized the mole on cartoon-Han’s hip? He’d started adding fake ones to throw people off, but still.
What if a staff member walked in while he was sketching on his iPad in the waiting room? What if Minho-hyung ever picked up his phone and saw the locked folder named “tax documents 2025”?
He triple-checked his face wasn’t in any reflection, scrubbed metadata from every file, used three different VPNs, and still slept with the iPad under his mattress like it was a loaded gun.
At 4:47 a.m., after posting the double update; Lee Know’s handprint blooming red across Han’s ass in one, Han in sheer white stockings and garters in the other, he got a private message from a $50 patron.
User_lixie143: princess…the way you draw lee know’s hands. It’s like you’ve felt them irl. I’m on my knees.
Jisung actually yelped.
Felix’s verified Patreon account stared back at him.
Felix, who was asleep three doors down.
Felix who called Minho “hyung” the same way Jisung did in real life.
He stared at the message for a solid five minutes, pulse roaring in his ears.
It could be a coincidence. Lors of people had “lixie” in their username. Lors of peopled were thirsty.
He blocked the account with shaking fingers, then unblocked, then changed his own tier names so nothing said “Lixie” anymore, then finally just turned the entire app off and shoved his face into his pillow.
Tomorrow, they had a 6 a.m. call time.
Tomorrow, he had to sit across from Minho at breakfast and pretend his bank account wasn’t swollen with money earned from drawing himself gagging on Minho’s cock.
He laughed into the fabric; high, frantic, terrified.
The Patreon counter rolled over the 4,012 while he cried quietly into Minho’s stolen hoodie.
He was so fucked.
And the worst part was how good it still felt.
🐺🐰🐷🥟🐿️🐥🐶🦊
The living room felt too small for eight people that evening, even though only seven of them were actually present. Minho stood by the kitchen island, passport and boarding pass already tucked into the back pocket of his black jeans, duffel bag zipped and waiting by the door like it was impatient to leave.
Chan was going over the schedule one last time, voice calm and leader-like, but the air underneath it crackled.
“Hyung’s gone for six weeks starting tomorrow,” Chan said, tapping the calendar on his phone. “Paris, Milan, then straight to Japan for the magazine shoot and the pop-up events. We’ll hold down the fort here.”
Minho hummed, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. His gaze drifted; slow, deliberate, until it landed on Jisung, who was curled into the corner of the couch pretending to scroll Twitter.
“Six weeks,” Minho repeated, soft enough that only the people close heard the edge in it. “Try not to burn the dorm down without me, kids.”
Jeongin snorted. Seungmin muttered something about finally getting the good shower. Felix was suspiciously busy on his phone.
Jisung felt the stare like a physical weight. He glanced up; just a flick of eyes, and Minho’s lips curved, small, sharp, private.
“Especially you, Sungie.”
The room kept talking, but the sound dulled to static in Jisung’s ears.
Minho pushed off the counter, crossed the space in three lazy strides, and stopped directly in front of him. Close enough that Jisung had to tilt his head back against the couch cushions.
“You gonna miss me?” Minho asked, voice pitched low, teasing, but with that undercurrent that always made Jisung’s stomach drop three floors.
The others were still half-listening, half-distracted. Hyunjin was stealing Changbin’s chips. Safe enough to play it off.
Jisung forced a laugh that came out too breathy. “I’ll survive, hyung. Someone has to eat your leftovers.”
Minho’s eyes narrowed, amused. He bent forward, elbows on the back of the couch, caging Jisung in without touching him at all. His voice dropped to barely a murmur.
“Be good while I’m gone.”
Four words. Simple. Innocent to anyone else.
To Jisung they sounded like a command and a threat and a promise all at once.
His mouth went dry. “I—I’m always good.”
Minho’s smile widened, slow and feline. “That’s a lie and we both know it.”
He straightened, ruffled Jisung’s hair like he was twelve instead of twenty-four, and turned away to grab his bag. Casual. Effortless.
But his fingers had lingered half a second too long at the nape of Jisung’s neck, thumb brushing the exact spot where, in a hundred of private sketches, a collar would sit.
Jisung stayed frozen on the couch long after the door clicked shut behind Minho and the van’s engine faded down the street.
Six weeks.
Six weeks of no one telling him to clean his side of the room.
Six weeks of no one looking at him like they already knew every filthy thought in his head.
He pressed his thighs together under the blanket no one had noticed he was clutching and swallowed the sound that wanted to crawl out of his throat.
Be good, Minho had said.
Jisung wasn’t sure he knew how anymore.
🐺🐰🐷🥟🐿️🐥🐶🦊