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Minho knows he might be obsessed with Jisung.
Scratch that.
Obsession isn’t even a strong enough word for what Minho feels.
It’s not devotion. Not infatuation. Not even love, though that’s part of it, buried somewhere beneath the gnashing teeth of something far more primal.
No, what Minho feels is hunger.
A starving, ravenous thing that lives in the marrow of his bones, in the twitch of his fingers when Jisung walks into a room. It’s the way his lungs seize if Jisung’s scent fades even a fraction, like oxygen is secondary, like his body needs the sweetness of peaches and warm skin to function. It’s the way his teeth ache to sink into flesh, to mark, to claim, even though Jisung is already his in every way that matters.
It’s feral and it’s unhinged.
And Minho is fine, perfectly fine. Can control himself most days. But that’s until Jisung tilts his head and the sun, or moon, catches the curve of his throat, and then, it’s a ravenous thing, something that’s starving, because Jisung is pretty, so stupidly pretty.
And not in the way flowers are pretty, or art is pretty, no, Jisung’s beauty is fatal. It’s the kind of pretty that ruins men. That ends them. Big brown eyes that go glassy when he’s sleepy, soft pouty lips that always taste like peach balm, a mess of curls Minho likes to bury his face in when Jisung lets him get close, which is always, because Jisung adores him. And his cheeks, god, Minho could write sonnets about the way they puff up when he’s flustered, when he’s panting, when he’s whining, when he’s crying.
But it’s worse than that. So much worse.
Because Jisung is so fucking pretty, it hurts. It’s offensive. His big doe eyes widening when he’s surprised, lips swollen from chewing on them like a nervous habit, the delicate slope of his neck, the flutter of his lashes, that tiny mole on his collarbone—Minho has catalogued every inch of him, burned him into memory like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
And his scent.
Minho remembers the first time that he caught it. How something in him snapped into place. Like a switch flipping. How everything else fell away, how nothing mattered outside the scent of peaches and warmth.
All he could think was mine. Not in some abstract, romantic way. Rather in an instinct-deep, primal, bone-crushing way. Like his body recognized something his brain hadn’t caught up to yet.
He knew, without question: That’s my mate.
And now he is.
Bonded. Marked. Claimed.
And pregnant.
Pregnant.
And Minho still doesn’t understand how the world hasn’t stopped turning from the sheer fact of it; Jisung, his Jisung, is carrying his pups.
His scent has changed, sweeter, fuller, richer peaches, like something inside him is unfolding, and Minho can’t help but press in closer, again and again, drawn to it like gravity.
He gets possessive without meaning to, growls low when someone stands too close, paces when he’s apart from him too long, curls around him at night like it’s instinct.
He can’t stop scenting him, desperate and starved, his teeth worrying the mating mark that never quite heals. The skin stays sensitive, stretched tight, always raw beneath his mouth.
Sometimes, he just stares— hand low on the soft curve of Jisung’s belly, humming something quiet and aimless—and Minho has to fight the urge to bite the air, to bury his face against that warm swell and never move again. He fights the need to snarl at anyone who looks too long, to build a den and lock the world out, to mark Jisung again and again until the bond aches with permanence.
But sometimes, he gives in. He begs, whispers, whines, for what he craves until his omega gives it to him: soft, sweet, docile, so willing.
And when Jisung’s feeling generous, he lets Minho suck at his chest, tongue circling until his nipples are flushed and sensitive, swollen between Minho’s teeth. Jisung only sighs, indulgent. He lets him have it, slow and tender or rough and desperate. He never complains. Never denies.
Only pulls away when it borders on pain, when Minho’s teeth feel too sharp and Jisung’s nipples are too soft, too sensitve. He’s only four months along. Not ready, not yet.
But still, the urge simmers. The bond pulls taut. Minho’s mouth aches for something sweet, something his.
So he begs for touch, for scent, for attention. For anything. He takes and takes, consuming, whole, until Jisung feels like a part of him that was never separate to begin with.
And when Jisung gives him this: when he climbs into Minho’s lap with flushed cheeks and trembling thighs, when he sinks down like he was made to take him, Minho unravels, becomes nothing but want, hunger, need, and desperation. Whatever control he has snaps like a thread pulled too tight, like a leash torn at the seams.
But today, Jisung moves like time bends for him.
And maybe it does, because Minho swears the world spins only for Jisung.
His claws dig into the swell of Jisung’s hips, the blunt tips pressing just shy of breaking skin. But Jisung doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rush. He rolls his hips in slow circles, grinding down until Minho’s cock is buried to the hilt, then lifts—slow, aching—only to sink back halfway, teasing. The drag is torturous: wet, tight. Minho’s entire body shudders with the effort of staying still.
“Sungie,” he growls, voice fraying at the edges, thick with strain.
Jisung only smiles, cheeks pink, lips parted, lashes fluttering as he tips his head back, breath catching in that sweet little hitch. His belly, round and perfect, brushes against Minho’s stomach with every lazy grind.
“Mmmh? What is it, alpha?”
Brat.
Minho grits his teeth, fingers twitching where they grip Jisung’s waist. He could flip them over in a heartbeat, pin Jisung down and fuck him until that smug little smile disappears, but Jisung wants that. He’s waiting for it. His thighs tremble with effort, struggling to keep steady, and still he refuses to give in. Refuses to let either of them have what they want.
So Minho waits too.
His hands slide up along Jisung’s sides, slowly, thumbs brushing beneath the curve of his swollen chest. He watches, greedy, as Jisung’s breath stutters. The second Minho’s fingers graze his nipples, his rhythm stutters—just for a second—before he catches himself, biting his lip hard enough to leave a mark.
“Ah, don’t,” Jisung whines, hips jerking forward despite his words, chasing friction. “You know they’re sensitive.”
Minho only smiles: slow, smug, all teeth. All innocent. “Don’t what?” he murmurs, voice dark with delight. His fingers trace lazy circles over Jisung’s puffy nipples, then flick sharply, making Jisung jolt. “You started the teasing, baby. You don’t get to whine about it now.”
Jisung’s pout is already shaky, his thighs quivering as he tries to hold himself up, but his body betrays him. He’s flushed all over, sweat beading at his temple, cock flushed and bobbing untouched between them. He rocks faster, sloppier, movements falling apart as Minho rolls one nipple between his fingers, then pinches.
“Fuck,” Jisung gasps, voice cracking, and then he sinks down, all the way down, taking Minho’s cock to the hilt in one desperate move.
The heat, the squeeze, the slickness, the tightness, Minho sees stars.
Then he stops breathing.
Because Jisung is trembling around him, hole clenching, greedy and wet and stretched to the limit. His walls flutter with every tiny movement, like he’s trying to milk Minho already. And Minho, Minho goes deathly still, every muscle strung tight like wire, fighting not to slam up into him and take and take and take.
Every muscle locks tight, jaw clenched, breath caught in his throat as he fights the blinding urge to rut up into him, to take without thought or mercy. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not when Jisung looks like that: flushed and slick, soft round belly, thighs trembling, hair sticking to his forehead in damp strands, riding him in slow, shaky rolls like it’s instinct. Like it’s survival. Like if he stops, he’ll stop existing.
For Minho, this is existence.
Time collapses. Languages disintegrate. There’s only this, Jisung’s heat, the wet clutch of his hole squeezing around Minho’s cock, dragging moans out of both of them with every agonizing grind. Each drop makes Minho ache deeper, makes his restraint crack wider.
Jisung’s sounds are wrecked, wet, breathy, high and broken. Minho thinks, faintly, that he won’t survive this. He’ll die right here, buried inside his mate, trembling under him, split open and perfect.
And what a fucking way to go.
He watches like a man starved. Every bounce of Jisung’s swollen belly, every flutter of his lashes, every choked whimper tears something raw from him. His claws sink into the meat of Jisung’s hips, barely shy of breaking skin, and he doesn’t know what he’s holding onto harder, his sanity, or the instinct to mark, to claim, to ruin.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he rasps, voice hoarse and cracked. His eyes shine, wild and reverent, locked on Jisung like he’s something holy. “God, look at you.”
Jisung tries to speak, maybe Minho’s name, maybe just a sound, but it catches in his throat and melts into a gasp as he sinks down again, trembling. Every inch of Minho’s cock stretches him open, and he shudders.
Minho groans like it hurts, like it’s too much, too hot, too tight, like Jisung’s body is something no sane person could bear.
His grip tightens, bruising, desperate. Claws press into Jisung’s hips, leaving bloody crescents, restraint trembling at the edge of something feral. He watches, entranced, as Jisung rocks his hips back and forth, hole clenching down on his cock—slow, shaky, so fucking beautiful—and something deep in his chest snarls.
Mine. Only mine.
It’s primal. Possessive. Irrevocable.
But when Minho speaks, his voice is low and reverent, wrecked like a psalm whispered through grit and blood.
“You’re doing so well,” he breathes, thumb brushing over the tremble in Jisung’s thigh. His eyes never leave him, tracking every flutter of his lashes, every choked little breath, the glisten of spit on his chin.
“So full of my pups and cock,” he murmurs, almost in awe. “So fucking perfect like this.”
Every inch of him, his flushed skin, the slow roll of his hips, the taut, breathtaking swell of his belly, hits Minho like a blow to the chest. It knocks the breath out of him. The scent of him, sweet, ripe, thick with peaches; curls around Minho’s senses like smoke. As if it’s choking him, sitting heavy on his tongue. Like incense. Addictive. Sacred.
He sits up, drawn forward like gravity, wrapping one arm around the small of Jisung’s back, the other pressing to the warm curve of his belly, soft and swelling under his palm. His mouth drags over Jisung’s jaw, his cheek, the slick skin under his ear, panting, hungry, worshipful.
“You were made for this,” Minho whispers, voice cracked open and raw. “Made for me. Do you feel it, baby? My pups inside you. My cock stretching you open.” He presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, breath shaky. “Can’t live without you, jagi. Don’t want to.”
Jisung sobs out a sound, raw, choked, wrecked, and rocks down again, taking Minho’s cock deeper. The tight squeeze around his cock makes Minho’s vision spark white, stars bursting behind his eyes.
Minho growls, the sound tearing from his chest like something feral, vibrating in the thick, humid air between them. It’s not just a sound, it’s a claim. A warning. A promise. It sinks into Jisung’s skin like teeth, like heat, like ownership.
Then he thrusts up, once, deep, slow and possessive, burying himself to the hilt in the heat of Jisung’s hole. The drag is unbearable, too good, too tight, too perfect, and Minho trembles with the effort of holding back. Of savouring it. Of not giving in to the wild, snarling need that screams at him to take.
Jisung’s walls flutter around him, greedy and soaked, like he’s trying to pull Minho in, keep him there, and lock him inside.
This isn’t just fucking. It’s a declaration. A devotion. A feral, sacred claiming that lives deeper than instinct.
Minho wants to disappear inside him. Wants to sink into his skin and never leave. To press so deep into his scent, his taste, the heat of him, that the world falls away. That there’s nothing left but the echo of mine, mine, mine pounding through his blood like a second heartbeat.
He wants everyone to know. To smell it on Jisung’s skin. To see it in the way he walks, hips loose, thighs trembling, breath catching like he’s still full of Minho. He wants his scent carved so deep into Jisung’s body that it becomes permanent, immutable. So no one could ever dare look at him and wonder who he belongs to.
He knows it’s irrational, knows Jisung is already his. Already mated. Already carrying his pups.
But logic doesn’t matter, not when the need thrums through Minho’s veins so desperately.
And even now, as he fucks up into him, hips snapping hard and slow, as his claws press crescent moons into the soft flesh of Jisung’s hips, Minho can’t stop watching him.
Jisung is ruined.
Glazed eyes, lips parted around breathless moans, cheeks flushed like he’s burning from the inside out. Sweat clings to his skin in a shimmering sheen, glistening like dew, and his belly, taut, perfect, full, rises and falls with every shuddering breath.
Every little movement makes him whimper, cracked and wet and wanting.
Minho watches. Obsesses. Worships. And through it all, one thought crashes again and again through his skull, relentless and holy: Mine. Mine. Mine.
The word thrums in Minho’s skull, relentless—mine, mine, mine—a steady drum pounding in sync with every snap of his hips. He knows, with a bone-deep certainty, that there’s no going back. Not after this. Not after feeling Jisung like this, wrapped around him, trembling for him, made for him.
Jisung doesn’t speak, can’t. His voice is gone, drowned somewhere between a sob and a moan, swallowed by the slow drag of Minho’s cock inside him. He nods instead, a barely-there twitch of his chin, as if that’s all he can manage. His fingers clutch at Minho’s shoulders, nails raking down, and the sting only drives Minho wilder.
Because this isn’t just want.
It’s instinct. It’s biology. It’s inevitable.
It’s carved into his bones, curled in his gut, wired into every cell. He couldn’t fight it even if he tried. He doesn’t want to.
Minho tightens his grip, fingers digging into Jisung’s hips just shy of bruising, and thrusts up again, slower this time, watching the way Jisung’s body seizes, shuddering with pleasure too big for him to hold.
He leans in, mouth dragging along the sweat-slicked curve of Jisung’s throat, across his jaw, down to the delicate skin of his collarbone, kissing, scenting, claiming. He doesn’t need to ask permission. He never has. Jisung wants this. Craves this.
He’s his mate, after all.
And the proof is between them, the taut swell of Jisung’s belly, warm and full, pressing flush against Minho’s abdomen. He lowers his mouth, tongue flicking over one of Jisung’s flushed, swollen nipples. When he bites all gently, teasing, possessively, Jisung cries out, his whole body jolting with the shock of it.
Milk spills into Minho’s mouth, hot and sweet, and he groans, licking up the taste with slow, filthy strokes of his tongue. His eyes flutter shut.
Jisung’s nails sink into his shoulders, sharp enough to make him grunt. He growls, driving his cock deeper into Jisung’s slick, trembling hole, pushing until Jisung shakes, until his body tightens around him.
“There you go,” Minho rasps, breath hot against Jisung’s damp skin. “Love you… fuck, love you so much. My pretty baby.”
Jisung’s only answer is a choked whimper. His lashes flutter, jaw clenched tight, lip bitten raw to keep in the sounds, but they still slip out. Soft sobs. Shattered moans. Each one punches through Minho’s ribs like a heartbeat, a chant of mine, mine, mine, echoing through his bloodstream.
The scent in the air is dizzying, drenched in heat and want, thick with the unmistakable weight of pregnancy. It fills Minho’s lungs, and drowns his thoughts.
And then, the air fractures. Salt and peaches. A sharp hit of fertile musk.
Jisung’s cock jerks, spilling over his belly, cum slicking their skin. His cries tumble out in hiccuping gasps, as he shudders in Minho’s hold.
Minho’s head snaps back like it’s hit by a shockwave.
The scent punches through Minho’s skull like a fucking bullet, thick and syrupy-sweet, drenched in the musk of Jisung’s desperation. His nostrils flare, and his cock twitches inside Jisung’s hole, his lungs filling with it until his vision blurs, until every vein in his body burns with the need to own, to breed, to devour.
Jisung’s scent is a drug—fertile, dripping, desperate—and Minho’s cock throbs violently, knot swelling fast, aching as it stretches Jisung’s rim with every ragged thrust.
“Fuck, fuck,” Minho snarls, voice guttural, fingers digging into Jisung’s hips with bruising force. Dark bruises bloom beneath his grip, and the sight makes his cock twitch, leaking hot inside Jisung’s clenching hole.
“You feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am?” His breath is ragged, voice low and possessive. “Gonna lock you on my knot, baby. Gonna pump you so full of cum you won’t know what hit you.”
Jisung sobs, thighs trembling, his hole fluttering around Minho like it’s trying to milk him dry. His belly—round, heavy, swollen—presses warm against Minho’s stomach, a constant, pulsing reminder of what’s already growing inside him, what he put there. The thought makes Minho’s teeth itch with need.
He needs to taste.
With a growl, he leans up, sinking his teeth hard into the curve of Jisung’s pec. Jisung screams, arching back, his body convulsing violently around Minho’s cock.
“Mine,” Minho hisses against heated skin, licking the bite, savouring the salty sweat and slick. “This hole, this belly, all mine. You take me so fucking good, baby. Like you were made for it.”
His knot catches, pops, and Jisung wails, voice breaking as he’s stretched impossibly wide, stuffed so full it’s almost cruel. Minho’s vision whites at the edges, hips jerking erratically as he pulses deep inside, flooding Jisung’s hole with his cum.
The scent of them is suffocating, Minho’s musk, thick and feral, tangled with Jisung’s slick, his tears, the ripe sweetness of his scent. It clings to Minho’s tongue, his skin, and he buries his face in Jisung’s neck, inhaling like he’ll die without it.
Jisung trembles, his breath hitching in broken little gasps, fingers clawing at Minho’s chest. “Too much—ah, ah, ah—too full.”
“Shh,” Minho coos, tongue tracing a slow stripe up Jisung’s trembling throat. “You can take it. You’re made for this.” He rolls his hips just slightly, enough to make Jisung keen.
His hands roam eagerly, hungry and possessive, palming the swollen curve of Jisung’s belly, squeezing his tits, dragging blunt nails teasingly down the sensitive line of his spine.
When Minho’s palm settles over Jisung’s lower stomach once again, he feels it, hot and pulsing, his own cum still nestled deep inside, Jisung’s hole clenched tight, desperate to keep every last drop.
The way Jisung’s body aches to be knocked up again and again, even with a belly already swollen and full, well, Jisung had always been a greedy little thing.
Minho’s mouth pulls Jisung into a messy, biting kiss, tongue pushing past his lips like a claim branded anew. “Gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs against wet skin. “Knotted, full, pregnant. Over and over, until you can’t even walk without feeling me.”
Jisung whimpers, legs locking fiercely around Minho’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer, begging wordlessly for more.
The scent clings heavy and heady, wrapping them both as Minho’s knot holds them fast, his cum still warm and pulsing inside Jisung’s trembling body. Every twitch of Minho’s cock draws soft, broken sobs from Jisung’s lips, his thighs quivering, his hole fluttering as if trying to suck Minho even deeper.
Minho groans low, grinding slow circles of his hips, savouring the way Jisung’s breath catches, the way his belly presses insistently against him, already heavy with his cum and pups.
“Look at you,” Minho rasps, fingers trailing down Jisung’s sweat-slick chest, over the swell of his stomach. “So pretty, Sung-ah. My pretty boy. Full of my pups, my omega.”
Jisung whines, lashes fluttering, his cock twitching pathetically against the soft roundness of his belly, still glistening with his own cum. “Nghhh, hyung.”
Minho’s smile turns possessive as his thumb slides around, pressing gently yet insistently against Jisung’s swollen hole, still locked tight around his knot. He rubs just enough to make Jisung jerk, his body convulsing tightly around Minho’s knot.
“Wanna keep you on my knot all the time,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “But that’d be selfish, wouldn’t it?”
Jisung shakes his head, but his hips stutter, and his hole clenches hard.
“Ahh, sorry bug, hyung-ie can be selfish sometimes,” Minho purrs, biting down on Jisung’s collarbone, his voice low and teasing. “Especially when it comes to you.”
Jisung’s breath catches, fingers digging into Minho’s shoulders as another shuddering pulse of pleasure ripples through him.
“Nngghhh, hyung can be selfish.” His voice is broken, barely a whisper, but Minho hears it clearly, feels the confession run deep within his veins.
“Oh?”
“Hmm, love how you take care of me.” Jisung reveals, his hole fluttering around Minho’s cock, clinging and needy.
Minho hums satisfied, and presses a possessive kiss to Jisung’s throat. “Always going to take care of you… and my pups.”
His hand slides down, palming the swollen swell of Jisung’s belly, imagining how much fuller he’ll soon be; round, perfect, heavy with Minho’s pups, tits leaking, cheeks flushed.
Jisung whimpers, cock twitching weakly, dribbling softly against his belly. Too spent to come again, but his body still reacts, still wants, still belongs to Minho utterly.
“That’s it,” Minho murmurs, licking a slow stripe up Jisung’s throat. “Take what you need, baby.”
And Jisung does: shaking, whimpering, but taking it all, because Minho’s knot is still deep inside, because Minho’s teeth mark his skin, because Minho’s pups fill his belly, because he’s Minho’s omega, because he’s his.
So, Jisung rocks his hips, soft whines escaping his throat as he takes, and Minho submits to his will.
And he wouldn’t have it any other way.