Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jeongin is very aware that this is a violation of trust. And privacy.

That awareness does absolutely nothing to stop his hand from disappearing into Chan’s laundry hamper.

There’d been a plan at some point. A normal, respectable, non-criminal plan. Retrieve the hoodie Chan stole last night after the gym, complain to his face later, maybe watch him laugh and awkwardly apologize.

The plan did not include wrist-deep rummaging.

The hamper is one of those cheap, half-collapsed mesh ones, shoved into the corner of Chan’s room. It breathes just enough that Jeongin can smell it before he even starts digging. The faint sour warmth of sweat and detergent hits his nose, and his brain does something worrying and quiet.

He sifts through t-shirts and socks, gym shorts stiff with dried sweat, an old tank top that should’ve been retired three years ago. His fingers catch on elastic and something that feels softer, more worn-in. He knows what it is before he even pulls it out.

Boxer briefs. Black, stretched slightly at the waistband, legs twisted around themselves. They’re clearly worn, not fresh. The cotton is creased, the crotch a little darker in color, the way fabric gets when it’s seen a full day of a man with too much muscle and a naturally high body temperature.

Jeongin stares at them.

He could put them back. Nobody would know he took them out. He could shove them back under the tank top, grab his hoodie, and leave the room like a normal, respectful person who shouldn’t be digging through his roommate's laundry hamper to begin with.

Instead, he lifts the briefs higher.

Sunlight comes through the blinds in thin lines, cutting across his hands. Dust floats lazily in the air. Chan’s bed is made, sheets ironed, pillows placed neatly in the way that Jeongin is familiar with because he’s walked past this open door and looked at that bed far too many times.

The room hums with the low rattle of the old fan in the corner and the distant sound of traffic outside. There’s no dramatic music, no lightning from the heavens, nothing to physically stop him.

His heart starts beating too hard as he brings the underwear to his face.

The scent is immediate and concentrated, the sort of scent the washing machine never fully erases. Under the faint layer of detergent, there’s the warm, salty, very human musk that’s just Chan. It’s sweat that’s dried on fabric, the ghost of his soap, the heat of his body cooked into the cotton.

It should be gross.

Jeongin’s knees feel weird and loose.

He inhales before he can think better of it. The scent floods his nose and slides down into his chest. His eyes flutter shut on instinct. His fingers tighten around the waistband like someone might yank them away, although no one is there.

“Oh my god,” he whispers into the fabric. His voice comes out hoarse and quiet. The words dissolve into cotton. His mouth is dry and slick at the same time, tongue thick, like he’s been running. There’s a twitch low in his stomach that drops straight between his legs. His cock gives a very obvious opinion about the situation and starts pressing against his zipper.

This is bad. This is so fucking bad. There is no part of this scenario that would sound good out loud. There is no version of “hey Chan hyung, I’ve been huffing your used underwear while you’re at the gym” that ends with anything except a police report and an awkward lease termination.

He does it again anyway.

The second inhale is longer. He drags air through the fabric and feels it hit his lungs, then sink lower, all the way down, until his stomach curls tight and his thighs tense up. A sting of dizziness hits behind his eyes. His fingers tremble on the waistband, knuckles white. His face is hot, his ears are burning, his lower back is prickling with sweat. His dick gives another desperate throb, trapped and pulsing against denim, and his whole body feels like one big flashing sign that says: YOU ARE A CREEP.

The problem is that being a creep feels incredible right now.

Eight years. Eight years in the same group, which means eight years of Chan looking out for him like it’s his job—because it literally is. Leader. Hyung. The one who stayed late after training to run the chorus again with him, who bought him food when his hands were shaking too hard to hold chopsticks, who kept counting him at airports like he might vanish if Chan stopped paying attention for one second. Maknae. The one who got used to being pulled close, steered by the shoulder, told “good job” in that warm voice that always felt too personal.

Jeongin knows Chan is safe. Safe in the way that makes this worse. Chan is the oldest. Someone with steady hands who makes steady choices. A man who thinks three steps ahead because he has to. He wouldn’t even accidentally do something that could hurt one of his members or dent the group they bled for. If there’s a line, Chan sees it from a mile away and backs up before anyone has to feel it.

Which means Jeongin has been alone with this for years, building a secret out of glances and praise and touches that were never meant to be anything else.

Jeongin has watched Chan’s body change year by year. Shoulders filling out first, then chest, then arms. He watched him go from soft to defined, from “I go to the gym sometimes” to “this is my entire personality now.” Through it all, Chan stayed weirdly insecure, grabbing at his stomach and complaining about how he was “bloated” or “off-season” while Jeongin tried not to choke on his own tongue.

Of course, his brain went somewhere unholy. It’s gotten worse recently, since Chan bleached his hair and cut it short. Dear Lord, what that does to a man. To Jeongin. Boner City: Population 1.

He opens his eyes, forcing himself to look at the briefs instead of hiding in them. A tiny loose thread hangs off the waistband. The tag is fraying. These are clearly one of Chan’s favorites, the kind of underwear he wears when he wants to feel comfortable and doesn’t think anyone will see him. Jeongin has no business knowing that this makes them special.

He presses his nose to the fabric again.

This time, he hears his own breathing. Slow, shaky, embarrassingly loud. Imagination fills in the rest without asking for permission. The weight there. The heat. The way it must have sat against Chan’s skin all day, clinging when he bent over, riding up when he sprawled on the couch. He knows what Chan looks like in them; he has seen that exact outline when Chan wanders out of the bathroom in only his underwear, towel around his shoulders, hair damp and curls sticking up, water still sliding down his chest.

Jeongin’s throat works around a swallow that doesn’t really go anywhere. His cock throbs in his pants, insistent, pressing against his zipper. His thighs tense up, and his toes curl in his socks like he’s bracing for impact. Heat gathers low in his belly, heavy and dense, spreading out to his hips.

“Jesus,” Jeongin mutters, yanking the incriminating fabric away from his face for a second. His voice sounds strangled and thin, like someone squeezed a hand around his neck on the way out.

He glances at the door.

The apartment is quiet. No keys in the lock, no thud of gym bag against the wall, no cheerful “Jeongin-ah, I’m home.”

Chan texted fifteen minutes ago: Leg day. Pray for me, followed by a sweating emoji and a selfie of his red face and puffed cheeks.

He’s safe. For now.

Jeongin’s heart rate stays at “caught in the act” levels anyway.

He folds the brief over his hand, dragging his thumb across the seam. There is a darker patch in the cotton where sweat dried thicker. The knowledge that he’s touching that, specifically, makes his brain spark.

“You’re actually so fucked in the head,” he tells himself softly.

The fan rattles in agreement.

He should put them away. He should find his hoodie, then go back to his own room and pretend this never happened. He could start a new life in a new city and never look at a hamper again.

Instead, he thinks about how far his room is from here.

Not far. Down the hallway, past the bathroom. Ten, maybe twelve steps. Less, if he is desperate and walks fast.

He looks at the briefs in his hands.

If he brings them back to his room, that crosses some invisible line. This is already bad, but that would be a whole new level. That would be premeditated. That’s evidence of intent. His mouth goes dry.

He lifts them to his face again, unable to stop himself. The scent hits him like a memory of every time Chan has sat too close on the couch, every time an arm has slid around his shoulders, every time he has been pressed into a hug and felt the solid wall of Chan’s chest.

His brain supplies an image of Chan on leg day, thighs pumped and shaky, sweat running down the back of his neck, underwear sticking to his skin under his shorts.

Jeongin makes a pathetic sound and jerks his head back.

“Okay. Okay. Nope,” he says, which is a lie.

He tucks the briefs against his chest like contraband and finally reaches for his own kidnapped hoodie, which is hanging off the back of Chan’s desk chair. It smells like Chan, too, but in a lighter way. Safer. Less concentrated.

He hesitates one more time, standing in the middle of Chan’s room with his hands full of stolen fabric. There’s still a window to make a good decision. He could put them back on top of the hamper, grab only the hoodie, and leave. Chan would never know. The universe would forgive him.

Jeongin peeks into the hall. Empty.

His heart slams against his ribs like it is trying to escape his chest, but his body moves anyway. Hoodie clutched in one arm, briefs hidden against his stomach under it, he slips out of Chan’s room and pulls the door closed with exaggerated care.

The latch clicks.

He stands there for a second, pressed to the painted wood, listening. Nothing. No one yells. No divine voice booms down from the sky to tell him he’s disgusting. He walks to his room.

Each step feels too loud in his own ears. The hallway suddenly stretches longer, like a tunnel in a dream. The apartment smells like air freshener and old coffee, like their shared mornings and shared laziness. His palms are sweaty against the fabric.

He nudges his own door open with his foot, slips inside, and lets it shut behind him. The quiet is different here. Softer. His own mess greets him: unmade bed, desk a disaster of notes and snacks, computer screen still open to some half-finished video.

He drops the hoodie onto the bed.

The briefs, he holds onto.

For a moment, he just stands there in the middle of his room, staring down at the black cotton in his hands. The reality of what he has done lands a little heavier now that he is out of Chan’s space. This is no longer “I stuck my face in his hamper for a second.” This is theft.

This is bringing them home like a trophy.

His cheeks burn.

Still, his fingers smooth over the fabric. His thumb rubs that worn spot. The scent rises up faintly just from the motion, teasing him, promising more if he presses in.

Jeongin swallows.

“You’re cooked,” he tells himself quietly. “Absolutely cooked.”

He lifts the briefs to his face one more time, slower now, no need to rush. The room is empty. The door is shut. His bed is right there. His whole body buzzes.

Chan’s scent fills his nose once more, and Jeongin’s knees go weak for real this time.

He sinks onto the edge of the bed, still holding the briefs, mind racing with equal parts panic and hunger.

He knows this is a line he cannot uncross.

He also knows he’s not going to stop.

Jeongin stares at the briefs like they personally ruined his life.

His heart is still going way too fast. His cheeks feel hot enough to fry something on. His jeans are suddenly the tightest, most poorly thought-out garment he has ever owned.

He swallows and tries to think about anything else. Rent. Deadlines. The weird stain in the kitchen sink that refuses to go away. The time Chan nearly burned their pan making scrambled eggs, and apologized to it. None of it helps. His body is not taking other suggestions right now.

The scent rises up, even without him lifting them all the way. His stomach clenches. His dick gives another interested throb, and he actually has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from making a sound.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Okay, this is… this is a problem.”

He drops back onto his bed, lying on his back, eyes on the ceiling. The briefs rest on his chest, soft and incriminating. He drags a hand over his face. Every nerve feels tuned to this one stupid piece of clothing. He can still smell Chan, faint but steady, like it’s sunk into his skin now.

He could put them away. He could stuff them in his drawer and pretend he only brought them in here as a bit. A joke with an audience of one extremely messed-up loser.

His hips shift restlessly.

The problem is that his body has decided there is a very obvious next step. His jeans feel too tight. His belt might as well be a medieval torture device. There is a hard, insistent ache centered between his legs that isn’t going away just because he gives himself a lecture about boundaries.

Images keep hitting him in short, stupid flashes. Chan at the gym, shirt damp and clinging to his back. Chan bending to pick up a plate, shorts stretching over his ass. Chan sprawled on the couch in these exact briefs, legs open, hand resting low on his stomach as he laughs at something Jeongin said.

Jeongin squeezes his eyes shut.

He is not a monk. He is a full adult man who has access to the internet and his own right hand. He is allowed to be horny. That part is fine. Normal, even.

The underwear part is… less normal.

His hand drifts down without him really deciding. It rests on his stomach first, fingers splayed, feeling the rapid rise and fall as he breathes. He waits there for a second, like if he pauses long enough, he might regain some kind of moral high ground.

Nothing changes.

His palm slides lower.

The waistband of his jeans digs in when he tries to adjust himself, and the discomfort makes everything feel sharper. He hisses a little through his teeth. His hips jerk up, almost like they’re trying to chase his own hand.

“You’re actually pathetic,” he tells himself.

It doesn’t stop him.

He fumbles his belt open. The metal buckle clinks loudly in his quiet room. He freezes, ears straining for any sound in the apartment, but the place stays still. No door, no voice, just the distant muffled thump of someone’s TV next door and the old pipes ticking in the walls.

His zipper comes down with a soft scrape.

Relief hits first. Cool air, a little more space, the sharp ache easing a fraction. He exhales slowly, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. The briefs on his chest slip to the side with the movement, and he grabs them before they fall, clutching them for dear life.

This is the point of no return, and he knows it.

He brings the briefs back to his face.

The scent slams into him again, straight and uncut, like he never took a break. It’s so strong now that his thoughts fuzz at the edges. He feels floaty and heavy at the same time, pinned to the mattress by his own want. His free hand disappears into his open fly, fingers searching shakily.

His hand finds himself, hot and straining against the fabric of his own underwear. The contact makes his whole body flinch. His hips twitch up into his hand like they have been waiting for this since the second he opened the hamper.

“Fuck,” he breathes into the cotton over his face.

He palms himself through the fabric first, just a slow press of his knuckles, testing. The relief is immediate and cruel. It makes the ache sharper, turns it into something needy. His cock throbs against his fingers, and the stupid, soft sound that slips out of his mouth would haunt him forever if anyone heard it.

He keeps moving anyway.

He pushes his hand under the waistband of his own briefs. The heat there makes him grunt quietly. Everything is already slick and sensitive; his palm barely brushes the head, and his stomach jumps. He wraps a hand around himself, clumsy for a second, then settles into a grip that makes his eyes roll shut.

The first slow pull has his toes curling in his socks.

He tightens his hold on the briefs over his face, almost like he’s hiding. The scent is everywhere now. It fills his nose and mouth, sits heavy in his chest, wraps around his brain. His tongue brushes the inside of the cotton without meaning to. He can taste it a little, salt and fabric and something that is just deeply, humiliatingly Chan.

His cock throbs in his hand, eager and twitchy. He strokes slowly at first, testing the line between good and too much. The friction drags sparks through his nerves. His thighs tense. His abs try and fail to hold still.

Every time his fist moves, a tiny noise squeezes out of him. Little huffs, soft curses, a few embarrassing broken sounds when he hits just the right spot. He tries to keep them quiet, but he can feel his control thinning already.

Images pile up on top of each other. Chan standing at the sink, shirt off, muscles shifting under skin. Chan’s shorts riding up high on his thighs. Chan’s ass when he bends over to do literally anything.

Jeongin squeezes at the base on an upstroke, and his whole body jerks.

He knows exactly how these briefs fit on Chan. Knows how the fabric clings to the swell of his ass. Knows the way they hug around his package when he sits, spreading his knees and resting his hand casually between his legs like it is the most innocent thing in the world.

His hand starts moving faster.

His wrist works a quick, messy rhythm, each stroke a little harder than the last. The wet sound of skin on skin is swallowed by the briefs over his face, but he can feel it, can feel the slick slide of his palm, can feel the way the head drags against his fingers. The pressure builds so fast it makes him almost dizzy.

He’s not going to last. There’s no chance. Not with the briefs in his hand, pressed tight to his mouth, filling his head with Chan. Not with every nerve lit up and his poor, horny brain spinning fantasies at lightspeed.

He dares to grind up into his fist, lifting his hips off the mattress. The movement bumps his hand against that tender spot just beneath the head, and he almost comes right there. His breath punches out of him in a harsh, muffled sound. The briefs catch it, growing damp where his lips are.

“God, Chan hyung,” he pants, and the name slips out before he can catch it.

It tastes filthy on his tongue. It also makes everything worse. Better. Both.

His free hand curls tighter in the fabric. He pulls the briefs down just enough to uncover his mouth and chin, leaving his nose buried, and sucks in a fresh lungful of Chan’s scent. His cock twitches in his grip like it heard its name.

The coil in his gut tightens, then twists. His balls draw up, heavy and tight. His thighs shake. Sweat gathers at his hairline and under his shirt, clammy and distracting. He feels jittery and grounded at the same time, every sensation feeding into the next.

His strokes go sloppy as he gets close. He grinds his teeth, trying to hold back a little, but the friction is too good, and the air is too full of Chan and his brain is too far gone. The sounds he’s making aren’t words anymore, just breathy, broken noise.

The orgasm hits like he tripped over it.

Everything snaps tight, then floods. Heat rushes out from his spine and explodes through his limbs. His whole body curls forward, shoulders hunching, abs clenching. He clamps his teeth down on the briefs to choke the strangled moan that rips out of him, eyes squeezing shut so hard they sting.

White sparks pop behind his eyelids. His cock pulses in his fist, sticky warmth spilling over his fingers and the inside of his underwear in thick, hot waves. His hand keeps moving on instinct, milking every last aftershock until he has to flinch away from his own touch.

He goes limp all at once.

For a few long seconds, all he can do is lie there and breathe. His chest heaves. His hand slides out of his underwear, damp and shaking. The briefs are still in his mouth.

He realizes this when his jaw starts to ache from how hard he was biting down. He lets go and drags the fabric away from his lips, staring at it in dazed horror. The cotton is wrinkled and damp in a patch where his spit soaked through.

His cock gives one last tired twitch in his ruined underwear. The post-nut clarity slams into him a moment later, and it is not kind.

He just jerked off to his roommate’s used briefs. He has a sticky hand, a mess in his own underwear, and Chan’s briefs in a death grip. His brain replays the last few minutes in bright, humiliating HD. The tiny noises. The way he said Chan’s name. The fact that he is still half-hard where it’s cooling against wet cotton.

He covers his face with his forearm and lets out a noise that is equal parts laugh and groan.

After an appropriate amount of time, he peels his hand away from his face and sits up slowly. Everything feels a little heavy and boneless, like his muscles have turned to warm pudding. The briefs dangle from his fingers, sad and crumpled.

He shuffles to the edge of the bed and winces as his underwear sticks uncomfortably when he adjusts. The glamour of the moment has definitely worn off. He reaches down and carefully, gingerly, arranges himself so he doesn’t feel as sticky and gross.

The question of “what do I do with the evidence” returns.

Returning them is obviously off the table now. He imagines walking into Chan’s room, putting them back in the hamper, and spontaneously combusting on the spot. Throwing them away feels dangerous, too. What if Chan notices they’re gone? What if he digs through the kitchen trash for some reason, and there they are, on top of a pizza box?

He looks around his room for inspiration and finds none. Bed. Desk. Chair. Useless.

Nightstand.

The drawer groans when he pulls it open. Inside is chaos: a tangle of charging cables, old receipts, a couple of gum wrappers, a pen that definitely doesn’t work, and a chapstick that looks like it has been to war. There’s also a crumpled sock he hasn’t seen in months, and a bottle of half empty lube.

It is, unfortunately, the perfect place for evidence.

“Congratulations,” he mutters to himself. “You own a shrine now.”

He folds the briefs quickly, as neatly as his shaking hands will allow, and tucks them under the layer of junk. Out of sight but very much not out of mind. He hesitates for a second, then pushes them deeper, like that extra two centimeters of coverage will absolve him of anything.

The drawer slides shut with a soft click.

Chan’s scent lingers in his nose and on his fingers long after the briefs are hidden. He brings his hand to his face and sniffs automatically, then recoils at the combination of sweat, detergent, and his own contribution.

“Shower,” he decides. “You need a shower. And therapy. But start with a shower.”

He hauls himself off the bed, groaning quietly at the way his damp underwear pulls. Somewhere between the bedroom and the bathroom, he’s going to have to figure out how to look his best friend in the eye later, knowing his used briefs are in the nightstand.

Right now, though, his only coherent thought is that he’s tired, sticky, and hopelessly, stupidly in love with a man who buys multipacks of black underwear and leaves them in the hamper like bait.

—

It happens on a totally boring, normal Tuesday.

Chan’s in his room. Jeongin knows this because he watched him shuffle down the hallway with his towel and a change of clothes, humming quietly, still half-asleep. Morning gym, morning shower, morning protein. Same as always.

Jeongin’s in the kitchen, staring at a nearly empty tub of protein powder and doing sad math.

“Chan!” he calls. “We’re out of chocolate powder. Did you buy more?”

There’s running water, so he doesn’t expect an answer. The shower cuts off a minute later. Jeongin keeps poking through the cabinet, but all he finds are weird seasonal flavors Chan tried once, hated, and never touched again. Birthday cake. Cinnamon roll. Something that smells like feet.

He sighs heavily and grabs the empty tub.

There’s faint movement down the hall. Chan’s door clicks open for a second. Jeongin hears a soft thump, the sound of a drawer. The door doesn’t shut again. Probably propped open. Air it out, whatever.

Jeongin decides this is the perfect time to complain.

He walks down the hallway without thinking about it, tub under his arm, socks silent on the floor. The door to Chan’s room is half-closed, light spilling out in a narrow stripe.

“Chan, what is ‘salted caramel pancake batter’ and why does it smell like ass?” Jeongin says as he hooks his fingers on the edge of the door and pushes it open the rest of the way.

The universe pauses.

Chan is standing in the middle of the room with a towel in his hands.

The towel is not on his body.

He’s very naked. Not angled away, not half-covered. Just there. Clean skin, damp hair, water still tracking down his chest. Every line that Jeongin has been obsessing over is on full display, plus all the parts he has not seen before.

Jeongin’s brain blue-screens. Time compresses into individual frames.

Frame one: Chan’s shoulders. Wide, solid. Droplets clinging to his collarbones. His platinum blonde hair is pushed back from his forehead, a little wild from towel-drying, curls standing up.

Frame two: his chest. The shape of his pecs in actual full view, darker nipples peaked a little from the air. A sparse line of hair down the middle of his stomach, trailing under his navel.

Frame three: his hips. The defined dip of his waist into his pelvis, the V-shape leading down. Hip bones. That spot Jeongin has never let himself fully picture because it felt too much.

Frame four: his cock. Not hard, just there. Real and unblurred. Heavy, hanging between his thighs, slightly flushed from the shower.

Jeongin’s gaze hits that last part, and his vision goes white around the edges.

Chan startles. His eyes go wide, towel frozen halfway to his waist. “Oh shit—!”

Jeongin makes a noise that’s definitely not a word. It sounds like someone squeezed a dog toy. He jerks his head up so fast his neck twinges, but it’s too late. The image is seared into his brain. He slams his back against the doorframe like it might swallow him.

“I knocked!” he blurts. He did not knock. He’s a filthy liar.

“No, you didn’t!” Chan retorts, voice an octave higher than usual. He fumbles the towel around his hips, hands suddenly useless. “You didn’t knock at all!”

“I knocked in my heart,” Jeongin whines, because his mouth has completely divorced itself from his brain.

Chan’s face is bright red. His chest is still damp. There is a drop of water on his shoulder doing a slow, indecent slide toward his collarbone. The towel sits low on his hips, because of course it does, the fabric hugging right under the curve where Jeongin’s eyes absolutely want to go again.

Jeongin feels something warm and thick spill out of his nose. A drip hits his upper lip. He swipes at it automatically and looks at his fingers.

Blood.

Oh.

“Um.”

Chan stares. “Are you bleeding?”

Jeongin looks down and sees a thin red trail already starting to drip onto his hoodie. “Apparently?”

“Oh my god,” Chan whispers. He crosses the room in two quick strides, towel hitched in one hand, panic on his face. “Did you hit the door? You bounced off the frame. Are you okay?”

Jeongin opens his mouth to say, No, I saw your dick and my circulatory system gave up. What actually comes out is a series of consonants.

Chan grabs a tissue box from his desk, rips out a handful, and presses them up under Jeongin’s nose. He’s close. Too close. Freshly showered, warm, water beading at his hairline, fat tits right there in Jeongin’s peripheral vision.

“Tilt your head forward,” Chan commands. “Not back. You’ll swallow it, that’s gross.”

“You’re gross,” Jeongin mutters nasally, pinching the tissues.

“You’re the one bleeding,” Chan replies. “That’s on you.”

His hand hovers near Jeongin’s shoulder like he wants to steady him. The gesture is sweet. The proximity is not.

Jeongin can smell his soap. That clean, slightly herbal scent that clings to him for an hour after a shower. Combined with the damp heat rolling off his body and everything Jeongin just saw, it’s basically a chemical weapon.

He can feel his own cock, too. Because his body is the worst. It’s not a full, instant boner. It’s more of a “hey, what was that?” kind of interest. A slow, growing throb in his sweats, like it’s replaying the last ten seconds in HD and casting a vote.

“Why is this happening?” Jeongin moans dramatically, voice thick with tissue. “What kind of anime bullshit is this?”

Chan lets out a tense little breath that could almost be a laugh, then decides to ask questions instead of entertaining the theory. “Okay, so you’re not dizzy? You didn’t smack your face on the door?”

“I didn’t hit anything,” Jeongin says, mortified. “I just—” He gestures vaguely at Chan’s body, the towel, the entire situation. “You were naked.”

Chan freezes like that’s a new piece of information. His ears go redder. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” Jeongin mutters.

Chan scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it down like he’s trying to reset his brain. “I thought you were in the kitchen,” he says, voice strained. “You never come down the hall without yelling first.”

“I did yell,” Jeongin insists. “About protein powder.”

“Not loud enough.”

“Maybe you need to clean your ears.”

Chan makes a sound halfway between a groan and a chuckle. The panic in his shoulders loosens, replaced by pure, incandescent embarrassment. “Next time, knock for real.”

“Next time, close the door,” Jeongin shoots back.

Chan hesitates, eyes flicking to Jeongin’s nose again. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jeongin says, and then immediately ruins his life. “Your… situation just surprised me.”

Chan’s brow furrows. “My situation?”

Jeongin tightens his grip on the protein tub like it’s a flotation device. “The—you were—there was a lot of visual input,” he says, flailing. “You’re, like, big.”

Chan stares at him. For one horrible second, it seems like he’s going to follow the implication. Then something in his brain apparently taps out and decides to interpret it as normal words.

“I mean, I’m average,” Chan mumbles, glancing down toward the towel and then jerking his gaze back up like he caught himself. “I think. I don’t know.”

Jeongin wants to bash his own forehead gently into the doorframe.

“You’re naked,” He repeats, tissue still clamped to his nose.

Chan looks down at himself and huffs. “I was mid-change. Nakedness has to happen at some point in that process.”

Despite everything, Jeongin snickers. It comes out weird and nasal, but it’s real. The tension between them lessens just a tad.

Chan smiles a little at the sound, then gestures toward the hallway with his head. “Go tip your head over the sink before you get blood on the floor,” he instructs. “I’ll put pants on.”

“Good,” Jeongin says. “As God intended.”

“I think you need to re-read the bible.”

Jeongin glares on principle and shuffles toward the bathroom, pinching the tissues. He can feel Chan’s eyes on his back for a second, the weight of that attention sending a little thrill up his spine even through the humiliation.

In the bathroom mirror, his reflection is a mess. Hair sticking up, cheeks red, tissue plug under his nostrils, hoodie collar dotted with faint pink.

“This is what you get,” he tells his own face. “This is what you get, you fucking freak.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He fumbles it out with his free hand.

A text from Chan.

Chan: If you put your hoodie in the wash, I’ll try to get the stain out for you

Jeongin stares at the screen.

That’s what he’s worried about?

His nose drips again from the movement. He catches it, cursing, and leans over the sink.

He can still see Chan’s body when he closes his eyes. The thick line of his thighs. The weight of his cock, heavy and unbothered. The way his chest looked without the filter of fabric. His own cock responds with a fresh, rude throb.

“Absolutely not,” Jeongin grumbles. “You’re off duty.”

He cleans himself up, splashing water on his face, carefully dabbing away the last of the blood. When he steps back into the hall a few minutes later, Chan is in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair slightly less wild, embarrassment tucked away under forced normalcy.

“You alive?” Chan asks.

“Barely,” Jeongin responds.

Chan shifts his weight, scratching at his neck. “Sorry again,” he chuckles. “I really thought you were still in the kitchen.”

“It’s fine,” Jeongin assures, and, against all odds, finds that he almost means it. “It was like a jump scare. But with more penis.”

“Don’t talk about my penis like it’s a horror game enemy.”

“Don’t leave your door open and I won’t have to.”

Chan points at him accusingly. “Knock.”

“You first.”

They stand there in the hallway for a moment, swatting each other lightly on the arm in slow motion, like neither of them quite knows how to transition out of this.

Finally, Chan huffs out a laugh and starts toward the kitchen. “So,” he says. “Are we really out of normal protein powder?”

“Yes,” Jeongin confirms. “We only have salted caramel pancake foot-flavor now.”

“Tragic,” Chan sighs. “Guess we’ll have to go shopping.”

Jeongin follows him, nose sore, heart rattling in his chest, brain still replaying naked shoulders and damp thighs and the way Chan’s hand felt when he pressed that tissue to his face.

He’s in too deep. He’s been in too deep. Now his circulatory system is getting involved. He grabs the stupid tub of weird powder and plunks it on the counter, cursing to himself.

Chan doesn’t hear. He’s too busy pulling out the blender.

Jeongin watches his back, cheeks still hot, nose itchy, and thinks that if one accidental glimpse can do this to him, he has absolutely no business being in the same apartment as this man.

Too late now.

—

A couple of weeks later, Jeongin needs to reset the router.

That’s it. That’s the mission. The Wi-Fi has been moody all afternoon, videos buffering, messages sending with that little “…” lag circle. The router lives on Chan’s desk for some reason that predates Jeongin moving in, and Chan’s out running errands, so it’s Jeongin’s turn to poke the useless box.

He pushes Chan’s door open and steps inside.

The room smells like Chan instantly. Laundry, faint citrus body spray, something warm underneath that he has never found a name for. The blinds are half-tilted, stripes of late afternoon light slanting across the bed. There’s a hoodie draped over the chair, a pair of headphones on the nightstand, gym bag in the corner. Lived-in, messy, comforting.

He goes straight to the router, because he’s responsible, actually.

The little black brick sits behind a stack of notebooks, lights blinking in a passive-aggressive pattern. Jeongin presses the reset button, then unplugs and replugs the cable when that doesn’t immediately fix the problem.

His phone flickers from one bar to full signal.

“Ha,” he mutters. “Still got it.”

He could leave now. Mission accomplished.

Instead, his gaze drifts to the bed.

Chan’s bed is unmade, blankets kicked down, sheets rumpled where he slept last night. The blinds are tipped half-open, spilling a slice of sunlight across the mattress. It looks soft. It looks like trouble.

Jeongin tells himself he’s just going to sit for a second.

He drops onto the edge of the bed. The mattress sinks under his weight. The comforter is still faintly heat-soaked from the sun. His thighs relax more than they should. His shoulders loosen like they know this exact shape of Chan’s mattress from all the times he’s leaned in the doorway and watched Chan flop down after the gym.

He stares at the blank wall opposite for maybe ten seconds.

Then he scoots back and lies down.

The pillow catches the back of his head. It smells like Chan immediately. Laundry, clean skin, a hint of citrus from that body spray he uses. It hits Jeongin right in the chest. His lungs fill with it. The scent is cozy and sharp at the same time, familiar in a way that makes his stomach twist.

“This is so stupid,” he sighs, which does not stop him from snuggling in a little deeper.

His phone slides on his chest. The screen lights up. His gallery icon sits there like a dare.

He taps it.

The most recent photos are all chaos and sin: memes, a picture of the weird stain on their ceiling he sent to the landlord, and right in the middle of it all, the progress pics.

Two nights ago, Chan had stood in this exact room in nothing but briefs, shifting his weight and nervously rubbing the back of his neck while Jeongin tried to act like photographing his almost naked roommate was a casual Tuesday activity.

Now the results are here, in tidy little thumbnails because Jeongin airdropped the pics to himself while Chan was distracted. Y’know. Like a fucking pervert freak.

Jeongin hesitates for half a second before tapping the first one.

It fills the screen. Chan, front view, in black briefs. Arms at his sides, shoulders squared, chest high. His jaw is tense. His eyes are uncertain, like he’s bracing himself for someone to say, “Actually, you look like trash.”

Jeongin’s throat goes a little dry.

He flicks to the next one. Side view. Then back view. The three angles he spent way too long lining up, making sure they were “useful” for tracking progress and absolutely not just material for his own destruction.

Chan’s back takes over the screen: wide shoulders, narrow waist, briefs stretching across the curve of his ass. A faint shag of hair at the nape of his neck. The waistband digs into his hips just enough to make a little soft indent.

Jeongin’s cock stirs like it just woke up from a nap.

“Don’t,” he says under his breath. “Not today.”

His body ignores him.

What makes it worse is the bed. He’s not in his own room, where everything already feels contaminated by how much he thinks about Chan. He’s in Chan’s space, on Chan’s sheets, head on Chan’s pillow, breathing Chan in while looking at Chan basically naked.

The whole thing vibrates with wrong, which unfortunately only makes it hotter. Heat coils low in his stomach.

His free hand drifts down without permission, fingers resting on the edge of his waistband. He rubs the heel of his palm there once, experimentally. It sends a quick electric jolt up his spine. His cock perks up fully awake, pushing forward against the flannel, hungry.

He should go to his own room. If he’s going to be disgusting, he could at least do it somewhere that isn’t literally where Chan sleeps every night.

Instead, he lets his knees fall open a little and rolls his hips, just a tiny grind against his own hand.

The friction through his pants is blunt but real. His breath hitches.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Fuck.”

Chan stares back at him from the phone screen, shy eyes, big body. Jeongin remembers him standing right there in front of the mirror, fidgeting in those briefs, asking if his stomach looked weird. He remembers how warm the room felt, how loud his own heartbeat sounded.

Overwhelmed already, Jeongin rolls onto his stomach. His hips rock almost automatically.

The mattress gives easily under him. It springs gently against the motion, meeting him halfway. The sensation drags along his cock better than his hand did. Thin fabric presses against sensitive skin, rubbing exactly where he needs it when he pushes down.

His breath comes out in a quiet little puff. He draws his hand back up to clutch the phone, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth as his cheek presses to Chan’s pillow. Slowly, carefully, he rolls his hips again.

The pressure is intense. His cock slides against the inside of his briefs with each grind, trapped and excited. The seam hits the underside of the shaft in a way that makes his toes curl. He uses his feet to pull himself down into the mattress, then pushes up, humping into the dip his body has made.

A little whine climbs out of his throat before he can swallow it back. He clamps his lips shut and glances toward the door, even though he knows it’s closed, knows Chan is in a supermarket trying to decide between two brands of oats. The quiet apartment hums beyond the walls, indifferent.

He looks back at the phone.

Front view. Chan’s hand half lifted, as if he’d almost covered his stomach before Jeongin snapped the pic. The way his thighs fill the leg openings. The outline at the front. The stack of muscle from his chest down to his lower belly, soft in places and strong in all of them.

Jeongin’s hips pick up a rhythm.

He grinds down into the mattress in slow, shallow thrusts, using the give of the bed to push back against him. Heat spikes through his groin with every motion. The springs squeak very softly under him, the tiniest protest.

He chokes on a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a moan.

“You are actually humping his bed,” he tells himself, horrified and turned on in equal measure.

His body doesn’t care about the commentary. It just keeps going. His focus narrows to the drag of fabric, the rock of his hips.

His cock is hot and damp at the tip where he’s started leaking. The slick makes the friction smoother, more slippery. It sends sparks right into the base of his spine.

He switches to the back picture again.

It feels sleazier somehow, not having to make eye contact with the digital version of Chan while he does this. Just Chan’s shoulders, Chan’s back, Chan’s hips, Chan’s ass, all neatly framed in the mirror. The fabric creases where it cups that curve, the one Jeongin has stared at way too many times while pretending to watch TV.

He groans into the pillow, this time too caught up to stop it.

His thighs tremble a little as he moves faster. Short, urgent thrusts, grinding hard into the mattress, chasing the burn. The bed answers him with tiny creaks. If anyone walked past the door right now and listened closely, they’d know exactly what was happening.

The thought sends a strange thrill through him and makes his cock twitch.

He grabs the edge of Chan’s blanket with his free hand and clutches it, fingers digging in. His stomach arches off the mattress a little on every upward roll. Heat is blooming everywhere now: in his lower back, prickling under his arms, burning in his cheeks. He feels like he’s cooking in his own clothes and refuses to slow down.

Images flicker in his head. Chan bending over to put a pan in the oven, his briefs peeking above his waistband. Chan straddling the bench at the gym, shorts riding up to almost indecent heights. Chan standing in front of this mirror, tugging at his shirt and mumbling, “It’s not too much, right?” while Jeongin almost swallowed his tongue.

He presses his face into the pillow to muffle another sound, his nose full of Chan’s scent. The combination of smell, thought, and pressure makes everything snap tighter.

His rhythm gets messy.

He’s close. He knows himself well enough to recognize that wobbling edge. The friction is perfect now, no more adjusting, just grind after grind after grind. Every stroke stokes the flame in his stomach, coiling tighter, knotting hot and urgent.

A part of him panics at the idea of actually finishing in Chan’s bed. The rest is too far gone to do anything about it.

He gasps, low and helpless. “Fuck.”

The word comes out ragged, muffled into the pillow. He drags his hips down and holds the pressure for a second, then rocks up again, chasing that last little spark. His toes curl. His thighs clamp together. He can feel the tremor in his own muscles.

The orgasm hits hard.

His whole body seizes forward, hips stuttering against the mattress in three, four short, desperate thrusts. Heat floods his cock and spills out in thick pulses, soaking his underwear. A strangled noise tears out of him into the pillow, half moan, half wheeze.

His vision goes white at the edges for a heartbeat.

Then all the tension snaps, and he slumps, chest heaving, face buried in Chan’s pillow like he’s trying to fuse with it.

The bed creaks softly as his weight spreads out.

For a long moment, he just lies there and breathes. His cock throbs faintly in the wet mess he’s made for himself. His thighs buzz. Sweat cools on the back of his neck. The phone has slipped onto the mattress beside his shoulder, screen dimmed but still faintly showing Chan’s back in those briefs.

Post-nut clarity arrives like a slap.

“I’m going to hell,” he groans into the pillow.

He peels his face up and grimaces. There’s a damp spot where his mouth was, from spit, not anything worse, thank God. He forces himself to roll onto his back, wincing at the sticky drag inside his underwear.

The guilt hits in sharp little bursts.

He just humped Chan’s mattress. While looking at progress pics Chan asked him to take. While Chan is out buying groceries and ice cream like an angelic domestic idiot.

Panic flares.

He carefully lifts himself up and touches the comforter under him, patting around. It’s warm from his body but not wet. His poor flannel pajamas took the hit, thankfully. His underwear feels wrecked. He winces again.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Okay. Damage control.”

He grabs his phone and locks it, as if sealing away the evidence inside a glowing rectangle might help, then stands from the bed. His legs feel weird and weak. His cock gives a last tired twitch against the clingy mess in his briefs.

Standing up is a whole new sensory experience.

Everything sticks for a second, then peels away. He makes a face. If he goes straight to his room, he can change, and no one has to know that Chan’s bedding came this close to being a crime scene.

His phone buzzes in his hand.

He nearly drops it.

Chan: Do you want chocolate or strawberry? Or both if you’re feeling crazy

Jeongin stares at the message, heart pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. His briefs feel like a sticky prison. He’s never felt less qualified to answer an ice cream question in his life.

He forces his thumbs to move. Both? he types. You’re paying anyway.

Another bubble pops up almost immediately.

Chan: Rude. True, but rude. Be home in like 15ish

Fifteen.

Jeongin’s whole body goes cold and hot at the same time.

He smooths the comforter out where he was lying, patting it like that will erase everything. He fluffs the pillow he’d face-planted into, trying to make it look less like someone used it to get off. He checks again for stains, finds none, thanks every higher power across every religion.

Then he gets out of there.

He flicks the light off on his way out and closes the door behind him like he hasn’t just done the horniest, dumbest thing of his life twenty seconds ago.

Back in his own room, he shuts the door, leans against it, then yanks his pants off so fast he almost trips. His underwear is a disaster. He strips them too, balling the whole situation up and shoving it to the bottom of his laundry hamper. Clean briefs on, clean sweats on, hoodie down. Presentable, at least from the outside.

On the inside, he’s a warzone.

He flops onto his own bed and covers his face with both hands.

He has stolen Chan’s underwear, jerked off with them, humped Chan’s mattress while staring at photos of Chan in his underwear, and is now about to eat ice cream with him on the couch like an innocent roommate.

He laughs once, a short, disbelieving sound.

This is getting out of hand.

—

Twenty minutes later, the front door slams open.

“I’m home!” Chan calls, in the exact tone of a sitcom husband. Plastic rustles, keys jingle, something thuds against the wall.

Jeongin almost throws his phone across the room.

He sits up instead, heart already picking up speed, and checks himself. Clean sweats: on. Hoodie: on. No visible stains. No visible guilt. He takes a deep breath and walks out of his room, trying to make his face do “normal roommate” instead of “just violated your mattress.”

Chan is in the entryway, shoes half off, arms looped in grocery bags up to his elbows. He looks frazzled and triumphant.

“There were so many people,” Chan groans. “Everyone decided they needed chicken at the exact same time.” He kicks his shoes the rest of the way off and grins at Jeongin. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Jeongin says. His voice comes out mostly normal. Victory.

He takes a couple of bags from him. They’re heavy. “You raided the entire store.”

“There was a sale,” Chan shrugs, like that explains everything. “And you said both ice cream flavors.”

“You offered both ice cream flavors,” Jeongin points out, carrying the bags to the kitchen.

Chan trails behind him, bumping his shoulder against Jeongin’s back as they pass through the doorway. “Yeah, because I’m a generous provider,” he grins. “Obviously.”

The kitchen fills up fast. They spread the bags across the counter and start unloading in practiced silence. It’s domestic in a way that would make Jeongin soft if he weren’t already ninety percent pudding inside.

Chan shoves things into the fridge with enthusiastic chaos. Yogurt here, eggs there, protein shakes wherever they fit. Jeongin puts pantry stuff away before Chan can create one of his organizational “systems”.

A tub of chocolate ice cream appears on the counter. Then strawberry. Chan sets both down with a proud little flourish.

“Ta-da.”

“You really did get both,” Jeongin says.

“You bullied me into it.”

“You literally texted me first.”

Chan waves this off and grabs two spoons from the drawer. “Semantics. You wanna do movie and ice cream now, or after food?”

Jeongin’s brain does a quick, horrifying replay of thirty minutes ago: him on Chan’s bed, cock pressed hard into the mattress, phone glowing with progress pics. His body answers that with a full-body cringe and a tiny leftover aftershiver.

“Now’s fine.” His stomach is already too twisted for real food anyway.

Chan grins. “Love that. Dessert first. We’re adults.”

They migrate to the couch, the familiar sag in the cushions greeting Jeongin’s spine like an old friend. Chan drops down beside him with zero grace, sets the ice cream on the coffee table, and immediately takes up entirely too much space.

He flops sideways, arm along the back of the couch, thighs spread. His knee brushes Jeongin’s.

Jeongin’s entire nervous system lights up like someone hit a switch.

“We should watch something stupid,” Chan suggests, already grabbing the remote. “My brain is fried from comparing prices for an hour. Do you know how many brands of oats there are? Too many.”

“You decided to go grocery shopping on your own,” He flicks the lids off both tubs and passes Chan a spoon. “You did this to yourself.”

Chan ignores that comment and digs into the chocolate like he hasn’t eaten in days. He takes a huge bite, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Oh my god, that’s so good.”

Jeongin stares at his mouth for a beat too long.

He drags his gaze back to the TV and jabs at the strawberry instead. Cold, sweet, safe. He shoves a spoonful into his own mouth and focuses on the sugar rush instead of the warm line of Chan’s leg against his.

Chan clicks through menus. “Action? Comedy? That documentary about people who marry inanimate objects?”

“No to the marriage one,” Jeongin says. “I don’t need to be out-weirded in my own home.”

Chan laughs, soft and fond. “You’re not even in the top ten weird people I know.”

Jeongin knows that’s a lie and chooses to accept it anyway. He lets his shoulders relax, just a fraction, sinking deeper into the couch. The tub of ice cream sweats on the coffee table. The video library autoplay settles on some dumb action movie they’ve seen three times. Guns, explosions, unnecessary slow-mo. Perfect background noise.

Chan settles too, his body shifting closer as he gets comfortable. He tucks one foot up under his thigh, the other resting against Jeongin’s ankle. At some point, his arm along the back of the couch drops, landing heavy and solid across the top of Jeongin’s shoulders.

“Sorry,” Chan says absently. “You’re a good armrest.”

“It’s fine,” Jeongin says, staring very intently at the TV while his skin tingles under the weight of Chan’s forearm.

His brain quietly adds, You’re literally draped over the same guy whose bed you humped. Helpful.

“You okay?” Chan asks after a minute, eyes still on the screen. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m eating.” Jeongin shoves another spoonful into his mouth to prove it.

Chan hums like this makes sense and goes back to annihilating his chocolate. He’s making little happy noises every time he hits a chunk. It should be harmless; it is not harmless.

“I am so sore,” Chan groans around a mouthful, head tipping back against the couch. “Leg day always waits two days to hit me. I feel like my thighs are bruised from the inside.”

Jeongin absolutely does not think about those thighs bracketing his hips while he rubs his cock against Chan’s. At all. Not even a little bit.

“You’ll live,” he says.

“This is it,” Chan sighs dramatically. “Tell my family I died heroically under a barbell.”

Jeongin snorts.

Chan elbows him gently. “Wow. No respect.” He finishes his ice cream before Jeongin is halfway through his, then holds his spoon out. “Trade?”

“You already ate that one. There’s nothing to trade.”

“I just want a bite of yours,” Chan pleads, widening his eyes.

Jeongin rolls his own, mutters, “You’re so annoying,” and hands the tub over.

Chan takes the biggest bite possible, then makes a pleased hum that curls around Jeongin’s spine. “I like this one better.”

“Then why did you eat the other one first? I would’ve let you have mine if you’d tried it.” Jeongin asks.

“I needed to rank them in my heart.”

“Your heart is stupid.”

“Rude.”

He licks the spoon absently, eyes on the TV. Jeongin pretends that it isn’t the most distracting thing happening in the room and sticks his hand under his thigh, sitting on it so he doesn’t do something insane like reach out and wipe a smear of pink off Chan’s lip.

A loud explosion goes off on the TV. Chan jumps a little, then laughs at himself and slumps sideways, leaning more of his weight against Jeongin. He notices his hand on Jeongin’s arm and squeezes once before he removes it.

“You’re comfy,” he says, like it’s a fact, not a confession.

“I am all rock-hard muscle.”

Chan smiles, sleepy and honest. “You’re still comfy.”

The ache in Jeongin’s chest gets worse.

Chan groans and stretches, joints popping, then slumps forward to stand up. “Okay. I need a shower, and then I’m collapsing in my bed. Forever.”

Jeongin’s entire nervous system throws up a red flag at the mention of “my bed.”

He forces his face to stay still. “Don’t drown,” he says. “I’ll eat the rest of the ice cream if you die.”

“That’s so mean,” Chan whines, heading toward the bathroom. “You don’t even like chocolate that much.”

“Waste not.”

Chan sticks his tongue out at him over his shoulder and disappears down the hall.

When Jeongin hears the water turn on, he lets his head fall back against the couch and stares at the ceiling.

Chan is going to go lie down in that bed, in that exact dip in the mattress, completely unaware that earlier today his roommate got off humping that spot while staring at photos of him half-naked.

Jeongin’s stomach flips between guilt and a low, traitorous curl of something else.

“I have to stop,” he tells himself.

He knows he won’t.

—

Jeongin is doing the thing he swore he’d never do again.

He’s on his back in his own bed, sweatpants slung low on his hips, one hand shoved down the front. The other is clamped around a pair of black briefs pressed tight over his nose and mouth. His sweatpants are thin and soft and already damp at the front. His cock is hard and hot in his grip, slick with pre-come, sliding with each stroke.

The briefs still smell like Chan. Obviously.

Not freshly showered Chan. Not detergent. Worn-in, gym-day Chan. Warm and earthy and a little salty. It hits him in the center of the chest and spirals down, pooling low in his stomach. His eyes are squeezed shut, his chest heaving, thighs tensed.

He drags his fist up the length of his dick, thumb catching the head on the way. Heat spikes through him. His hips jerk, chasing it.

“Fuck,” he mumbles against the cotton. The word gets swallowed in the fabric, comes back as hot air against his nose.

He knows it’s unhinged. He knows he’s crossed every line, and then some. He’s done with pretending this is anything but what it is: he is in love with Chan, and he has absolutely weaponized the man’s underwear.

His hand moves faster.

The wet slide is noisy now, obscene. Each stroke drags pre-come along the underside of his cock, spreading it, making the friction slicker and sharper at the same time. His sweatpants pull tight over his knuckles. His palm bumps the seam in just the right way. He doesn’t know why he didn’t just take them off, get them out of the way. Impatience, maybe.

He’s close. Too close. The briefs are humid against his face. His breath is coming out in short, helpless little gasps, his voice catching on every exhale. He doesn’t hear the front door or the footsteps down the hall.

He only hears his own heart pounding and the wet sound of his hand working his cock in his sweats.

His hips lift off the mattress, chasing his fist. The mattress dips under him, springs creaking very softly. He rocks up into his own grip, grinding down into the bed between strokes, riding the edge with the desperation of someone who knows they’ll never have the real thing.

He’s just about to let go and ruin his sweatpants when—

“Innie?”

Chan’s voice.

It hits Jeongin like a gunshot. His whole body snaps tight and he chokes on his own breath. His hand seizes around his cock mid-stroke. Pain and pleasure spike together. He rips the briefs off his face on instinct.

Chan is in the doorway.

White T-shirt, gray joggers, hair mussed from either a hat or his own hand. He’s holding his phone, thumb still half lifted like he’d been about to tap the screen. His eyes are huge.

For one long, frozen second, neither of them moves.

Jeongin is sprawled on the bed in a sweat-damp hoodie and dark blue sweatpants. One hand buried in his crotch. His chest rising and falling too fast. Chan’s briefs hanging from his other hand, twisted between his fingers.

Jeongin’s cock throbs against his palm like it wants to introduce itself.

His voice comes out strange when he finally manages, “I thought you were at the gym.”

“I forgot my headphones,” Chan says automatically.

They stare at each other.

Chan’s gaze drops. It tracks the line of Jeongin’s body, takes in the way his sweatpants tent in his grip, the faint, darker patch where he’s clearly been leaking, and finally lands on the briefs in his hand.

His mouth opens. Closes. He swallows. “Those are mine,” he points out. His voice is quiet, a little raw.

Jeongin wants to die. Immediately. Fully. No transition.

“I can explain,” he blurts, which is objectively a lie because there is no version of this with a reasonable explanation.

Chan huffs out a breath that sounds like he forgot how to laugh halfway through. He steps inside and, very purposely, closes the door behind him. The soft click of the latch makes the room feel a lot smaller.

“Okay,” Chan nods. “Go on.”

Jeongin’s brain empties out like someone flipped a switch.

He’s still hard. Painfully. His cock is straining against his hand, pressed inside damp cotton. Every heartbeat sends a pulse through him. His fingers feel frozen in place.

He forces himself to pull his hand out of his sweatpants. It drags over the shape of his dick on the way, making him bite back a groan. His palm is shiny with pre-come when it comes free. He wipes it on his hoodie because there’s no dignity left anyway.

Chan watches that too.

Jeongin stares at the ceiling for a second, then drops his gaze back down. “I’m sorry,” he says. The words tumble out in a rush. “I’m so sorry, I know this is fucked up. I should’ve— I don’t even know what I should’ve done, but not this, obviously. You can kick me out, I’ll sleep in the street, I’ll buy you a whole new pack, ten packs, I’ll—”

“Jeongin.”

Chan’s voice cuts through the spiral. Calm. Firm.

Jeongin’s mouth snaps shut.

Chan takes a slow breath, like he’s counting to three in his head, then walks closer. He stops a couple of feet from the edge of the bed and looks down at him. His eyes are still wide, but there’s something else there now. Not disgust. Not anger.

Curiosity. Heat. A tight, nervous focus.

“How long?”

Jeongin blinks. “What?”

“How long have you been…” Chan gestures with his phone at the scene, at the briefs, at Jeongin’s crotch. “Doing this. With my stuff. With me.”

Jeongin swallows hard. His throat is dry. He wants to lie, knows he shouldn’t. “A month. Maybe more,” he admits. Then, because that feels like cheating, he adds, “But I’ve been crazy about you since before we moved in together. Two years? Longer, maybe. I don’t remember not wanting you.”

The words are out before he can pull them back. They hang in the air, heavy and embarrassing and true.

Chan’s mouth parts. His lashes flutter. “Two years?”

“At least.” Jeongin’s cheeks are burning. “I know. I know it’s fucked up. I tried to not be weird. I really did. It’s just, you’re you, and I’m in love with you, and then there were the briefs, and I’m a creep, and—”

“In love?” Chan cuts in.

Jeongin freezes.

He did not mean to say that bit out loud.

He wants to rewind the last ten seconds and punch himself in the throat. His heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might actually break through his ribs and flop onto the floor in front of them.

He could take it back. He could say “figures of speech” or “I meant your delts” or anything dumb.

He looks at Chan instead.

Chan’s face is a mess of things. Shock, for sure. Pink high on his cheekbones. His eyes are darker than usual, pupils blown wide, like he’s caught between fight, flight, and something that looks suspiciously like “fuck.”

Jeongin breathes out. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In love.”

Chan’s fingers tighten around his phone. His knuckles go white for a second, then relax. He leans forward, sets the phone and his keys on the nightstand without looking away.

“Sit up.”

It comes out too gentle to be a command, but Jeongin’s body obeys anyway. He pushes himself upright, back hitting the headboard. His heart is in his mouth. His sweatpants strain over his cock as he shifts. He is still very, very hard, and it is not going away.

The briefs are still tangled in his other hand.

Chan sits on the edge of the bed. Not far. The mattress dips under his weight, sliding them closer. His knee brushes Jeongin’s thigh. The contact is small and electric. He reaches out and curls his fingers around Jeongin’s wrist. The one holding the object of interest.

Jeongin’s breath stutters.

Chan’s voice is soft when he says, “Let me see.”

Jeongin loosens his grip. The fabric slides free. Chan takes them between thumb and forefinger and lifts them. He turns them over in his hands. There’s a crease in the waistband from where Jeongin had pressed it to his face so many times. Some wrinkles that weren’t there from the wash.

Chan brings them closer to his nose, pauses, then stops himself. His face goes even redder. He drops his hand to his lap instead.

“They’re really mine,” he mutters. It’s not a question. “You weren’t just buying the same brand and pretending?”

Jeongin lets out a hysterical little laugh. “That would be less weird, huh?”

“Maybe not.” Chan’s mouth quirks, like he doesn’t know if he wants to smile or not. “Did you actually steal them?” He glances up, eyes sharp. “Be honest.”

“Yes,” Jeongin says immediately. “Multiple times. I’m so sorry. I swear I washed them. After. I didn’t put them back dirty, I’m not that far gone.”

“That far gone,” Chan echoes, like he’s testing the phrase.

His gaze flicks down Jeongin’s body again. Sweats. Hoodie. The clear outline underneath. The way the fabric is still visibly damp at the tip. He swallows, throat bobbing. His voice drops lower.

“If you’re that desperate,” he starts, “you didn’t have to steal my laundry.”

Jeongin frowns, confused. “What was I supposed to do, Chan, ask? ‘Hey, can I borrow your dick for a bit, I’ll bring it back in an hour’?”

Chan lets out a weak puff of laughter. “You could’ve started with, ‘I like you,’ maybe.”

“You were dating other people,” Jeongin argues. “You always talk about girls. I thought I was just your weird pervert roommate.”

“You are my weird pervert roommate,” Chan’s fingers tighten on the briefs. “You’re also the person I think about when I jerk off. So.”

Silence.

Jeongin’s brain throws a 404.

He stares. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” Chan says. His ears are red now. “I noticed the missing underwear like a month ago. Then the nosebleed. And I kind of put it together, and then I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“You knew?” Jeongin squeaks.

“Not everything,” Chan shrugs. “But enough to get jealous of my own underwear.” He grimaces. “Which is not a sentence I ever thought I’d say.”

Jeongin’s cock pulses at the word jealous. Of this. He wonders if this is real or if he’s hallucinating. If Leader Bang Chan—responsible to a fault, king of boundaries—is genuinely sitting here telling him he’s stroked his shit thinking about Jeongin perving on him.

Chan watches his face, and something like resolve clicks into place behind his eyes.

He shifts closer. His knee is pressed solidly against Jeongin’s thigh now. There’s contact from hip to knee. Warmth sinks into Jeongin’s skin through his sweats. The proximity is dizzying.

Chan lifts his free hand, fingers hovering near Jeongin’s jaw. “If you don’t want this, tell me now,” he warns. His voice is steady. “Because I’ve been trying not to think about fucking you for months, and you just handed me a loud excuse.”

Jeongin’s heart stops, then slams back into motion. He hears himself say, “I want you,” before he fully decides.

He says it again, because he needs Chan to hear it. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long I don’t remember what it’s like to not want you.”

Chan’s breath leaves him in a slow rush.

“Okay,” he says, like that’s an answer to every question he’s ever had.

His hand closes on Jeongin’s jaw. Thumb sliding along his cheek, fingers curling just under his ear. The touch is firm, grounding. He leans in, giving Jeongin plenty of time to flinch away.

Jeongin doesn’t.

Their mouths meet, soft at first. Just pressure. Just warm lips and shared breath. Jeongin’s brain goes quiet for the first time in weeks. Chan tastes like mint gum and something Jeongin feels like he’s been chasing. His hand on Jeongin’s face is steady. He tilts his head, catching Jeongin’s bottom lip between his, sucking gently.

Jeongin makes a sound he didn’t know he could make. Half whine, half relieved groan. His fingers claw into the sheets to keep from grabbing too hard at Chan.

Chan pulls back an inch, panting a little. His eyes are blown dark. “There,” he hums, voice rough. “Proof I don’t hate you.”

Jeongin laughs, breathless. “You’re a little late for proof, you just caught me jerking off and sniffing your underwear.”

Chan snorts. “Yeah, you’re a freak.”

He says it like a compliment.

He kisses Jeongin again, deeper this time. His tongue pushes into Jeongin’s mouth, slow and unhurried. Jeongin opens for him without thinking. His hands finally move, sliding up, grabbing the hem of Chan’s T-shirt, and fisting in the fabric.

He’s wanted this for so long. Years of gym sessions, couch movies, stupid arguments, shared takeout. Years of pretending he wasn’t looking at Chan’s mouth. Now he has it. He’s not going to waste it.

He yanks.

Chan breaks the kiss with a surprised laugh as his own shirt rides up. “Eager,” he teases.

“Shut up,” Jeongin mutters, pushing the shirt higher. His fingertips brush bare skin, and he shivers. Chan’s stomach jumps under his touch.

Chan lifts his arms, letting Jeongin pull the T-shirt over his head. It catches on his hair for a second, then comes free. It gets dropped somewhere on the floor.

Jeongin stares.

He’s seen Chan in a tank. Shirtless at the gym, in the locker room, in progress pics. Somehow, this is different. Maybe it’s the context. Maybe it’s the way Chan is kneeling on his bed, half-turned toward him, skin flushed, eyes all for him. His hands find their way to Chan’s chest like magnets.

He presses his palms flat against warm skin. Chan is solid. Soft in some places, firm in others. His thumbs drag over Chan’s nipples without thinking. They tighten under his touch.

Chan inhales sharply. “Jesus.”

“You keep saying you look like shit,” Jeongin huffs. His thumbs circle again, feeling Chan’s breath stutter. “You’re hot as fuck. You’re perfect, do you know that?”

“Flattery,” Chan says, “will get you everywhere.” His gaze drops pointedly to Jeongin’s lap. “Oh, look at that.”

Jeongin flushes. His cock is still straining against his sweats, every throb loud in his awareness. He almost forgot about it in the chaos of confession and kissing. Now it demands attention again, hot and insistent.

Chan reaches down. His fingers close over the bulge through the sweatpants, pressing firm. “You really were about to come, huh?”

Jeongin chokes. His hips jerk up into the touch on instinct. “Chan.”

Chan squeezes, slow but deliberate. “You like my undies that much?” He lifts the pair in his other hand and brushes them against Jeongin’s cheek again, taunting. “Got this worked up just from smelling them? From thinking about me?”

Jeongin’s head tips back against the wall. “You’re mean.”

“You stole my underwear,” Chan’s tone is sweet. “I think I’m allowed to be a little mean.”

He lets go of Jeongin’s cock just when Jeongin is starting to grind up, making him whine. Then Chan stands, fingers curling in the waistband of his joggers.

“Take those off.” He nods at Jeongin’s sweats, “and scoot back.”

For a moment, Jeongin’s body doesn’t cooperate. Then everything jumps into fast-forward. He shoves his sweatpants down awkwardly, dragging his underwear with them. His cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. The air feels cold and delicious.

Chan’s eyes flick down and stay there. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. His gaze is heavy, appreciative. “Shit.”

Jeongin flushes harder. “Don’t look at me like that, I’ll come on your face.”

“I’m not hearing a downside,” Chan murmurs.

His joggers hit the floor. His briefs follow. He steps out of them and climbs onto the bed, kneeling between Jeongin’s spread legs.

Jeongin gets his first unobstructed look at Chan’s naked body from this close. It would knock him on his ass if he wasn’t already sitting.

Strong thighs. Soft hair at his groin. Cock hanging thick and flushed, twitching as Jeongin looks. His stomach has a slight curve, a softness that makes him look warm and real, above the hard lines of his chest and shoulders.

“You’re ridiculous,” Jeongin breathes, a little awed. “You’re like, everything I’ve been jerking off to, and then some.”

Chan smiles, crooked and a little wicked. “You’ve been jerking off to my dirty laundry. Something tells me you’re easy to impress.”

He reaches out and brushes the pad of his thumb over the head of Jeongin’s cock. It smears pre-come in a shiny line. Jeongin’s whole body flinches.

“Fuck,” he gasps. He grabs Chan’s wrist without meaning to. “You can’t just—”

“I can do whatever you want,” Chan grins. His eyes are dark and serious now, his teasing sharpened into something else. “But you need to tell me. Do you want me to help you? Do you want more than that?”

Jeongin swallows hard. His voice comes out rough. “I want to fuck you.”

Chan blinks rapidly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jeongin says. “I’ve wanted to for so long I could write a thesis about it. I’m gonna be thinking about today on my deathbed.”

Chan’s laugh is quick and shaky. “You’re such a weirdo.”

He shifts, bracing one hand on the headboard beside Jeongin’s shoulder. The other hand slides down his own chest, over his stomach, between his legs. He wraps his fingers around his cock and gives it a stroke, a slow drag that makes his mouth drop open.

“You’re not the only one,” he confesses. “You think I wasn’t losing my mind at the gym? Watching you spot me? Watching you watch me? You think I didn’t notice you staring at my ass on squats?”

“I was subtle,” Jeongin lies.

“You had to hold your bag in front of your crotch when we left the locker room,” Chan says. “You’re about as subtle as a fire alarm.”

Jeongin’s cock twitches at the memory. “And you liked that?”

Chan leans in, noses along his jaw, lips brushing his ear. “I went home and jerked off about it,” he whispers. “I thought about your hand on my hips. I thought about you bending me over the bench and—”

Jeongin grabs his waist and hauls him in, cutting him off with a kiss.

It’s messy, all teeth and tongue and desperate breathing. Their cocks brush, heat sliding against heat. Chan groans into his mouth. Jeongin swallows the sound and bites his bottom lip. He breaks the kiss only to pant, “Turn around. I need to be inside you. Now.”

Chan blinks. “Bossy.”

“You asked for this,” Jeongin says, voice low. “Get on your hands and knees for me.”

Chan stares at him for a heartbeat, then smiles slow and dangerous. “I hope you bite the way you bark.”

He turns.

The motion is smooth, practiced. He ends up on all fours, knees on either side of Jeongin’s thighs, hands braced on the wall above the headboard. His back arches. His ass pushes out. It’s the same curve Jeongin’s been obsessed with from behind during squats and progress pics, except now it’s bare and right here.

Jeongin has to take a second. Just to breathe. Just to look.

The briefs are still on the bed, crumpled near his hip. He picks them up, almost on autopilot, and tosses them so they land on Chan’s lower back.

Chan glances over his shoulder, eyebrows up. “Seriously?”

“You started it,” Jeongin mumbles. “Consider it a theme.”

Chan rolls his eyes, but his smile only widens. “You better back this confidence up, pervert.”

Jeongin’s mouth goes dry again. “Shut up.”

He reaches over, fumbles the nightstand open, and pulls out a half-used bottle. His hands shake a little as he pops the cap. They’re actually doing this. He’s actually going to—

“Condom?” he asks, the last shred of sanity kicking in.

Chan glances back, eyes half-lidded. “If you want.”

Jeongin doesn’t want. At all. But being safe is important or whatever. He finds one, tears the wrapper open with his teeth, and rolls it on with shaking fingers. Chan keeps watching him over his shoulder, pupils huge, lips parted.

“You’re really hard,” Chan observes.

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m just impressed my briefs did that much damage.”

“You’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?” Jeongin mutters.

He squirts a generous amount of lube over his fingers. It’s cold. The smell is faintly artificial, but it fades under the scent of sex and sweat. He touches Chan for real for the first time.

His hand slides between Chan’s cheeks, fingers slick. The skin there is hot, muscles tense, waiting. He circles the rim lightly, teasing, feeling the way it twitches under his touch.

Chan’s breath stutters. “Oh,” his voice catches. “Okay. Okay.”

“Relax for me,” Jeongin says softly. It’s weird, hearing himself sound like that. Steady. Calm. There’s a hot, possessive line running through his chest now, cutting past all the panic. Chan is literally on his hands and knees for him. Trusting him with this.

He presses his fingertip in.

The muscle resists for a moment, then yields. Chan hisses between his teeth, arms flexing as he grips the wall tighter.

“You okay?” Jeongin asks.

“I’m not made of glass,” Chan grunts. There’s a tremor in his voice. “Keep going.”

Jeongin moves slow anyway. He sinks the finger all the way in, feeling the heat, the tight clench around him. He has to grit his teeth as his cock throbs in sympathy. He pulls out a little, pushes back in, starts a shallow rhythm. Chan breathes through it. The muscles in his shoulders ease bit by bit.

Another squeeze of lube. Jeongin slides in a second finger alongside the first. Chan makes a sharp noise this time, a bitten-off groan.

“Fuck, you’re big,” he mutters.

Jeongin’s ego lights up. “It’s just my fingers.”

“Don’t make me come back there,” Chan hisses.

Jeongin snorts and scissors his fingers gently, stretching, loosening. Chan starts to rock back against him, tiny movements, testing the angle. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, leaking onto Jeongin’s sheets.

“You really want this,” Jeongin says, awed.

“No, I’m just doing this as a fun prank,” Chan deadpans, voice strained. “Yes, I want this, you little freak.”

Jeongin pulls his fingers out, and Chan swears under his breath at the loss.

“Okay,” Jeongin exhales, voice shaking now. “Okay, come here.”

He lines himself up, guiding the head of his cock to Chan’s entrance. The heat of him is startling. It feels like his whole body narrows down to that single point of contact.

“You sure?”

Chan looks back over his shoulder, eyes blown, hair falling into his face. “If you stop now, I’m getting new underwear and you’re never allowed to see them.”

Jeongin huffs. “I think I’d just kill myself.”

He pushes in.

The first inch is tight, almost too much. Chan groans deep in his chest, arms shaking. The stretch around the head is intense enough that Jeongin has to clamp his jaw shut to keep from swearing too loudly.

He pauses, panting. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing,” Chan grits out. “Keep going.”

He sinks deeper, inch by inch. The tight heat of Chan’s body wraps around him, pulling him in. He feels every flutter, every small adjustment. It’s like sliding into a fist that’s slowly deciding to open.

By the time his hips are snug against Chan’s ass, Jeongin is shaking.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. “Chan.”

Chan’s head drops between his shoulders. His arms tremble. “You’re very enthusiastic,” he says weakly.

“You feel amazing,” Jeongin whimpers. He means it so much it hurts.

He pulls out a little, feeling the drag, then pushes back in. The friction makes his vision blur for a second. Chan gasps, fingers scrabbling against the wall. He finds a slow, careful rhythm. Out, in. Out, in. Shallow thrusts at first, letting Chan get used to it. The sound of skin meeting skin is obscene. Slick, soft, wet. His balls slap lightly against Chan’s with each slide.

Chan starts to move with him, meeting his thrusts. Little pushes back, body figuring out the angle.

“There,” he gasps suddenly. “Fuck, there, right there—”

Jeongin adjusts, angling his hips to hit the same spot. The next thrust makes Chan swear loudly. His arms buckle slightly.

“Okay,” Chan’s voice breaks. “Keep—Keep going. Right there, baby.”

“You’re so needy,” Jeongin mutters, but he obeys like the pet name didn’t almost make his cock explode on the spot.

He speeds up. Not by much, but enough. The bed starts to creak in earnest now, headboard tapping the wall. The mattress shakes under them. Jeongin grips Chan’s waist, fingers digging into skin, pulling him back to meet each thrust. The slick heat around him squeezes down. Each stroke feels better than the last, like the whole world has collapsed into this one loop of motion. In, out. In, out. Chan’s ass smacking against his hips over and over.

Chan is not quiet.

Little curses fall out of him between breaths. “Fuck. Jeongin. Harder. You’ve been using my underwear like a dirty little freak and this is all you’ve got?”

Jeongin gasps, half offended, half turned on by the bite in his voice. “You want harder?”

“I didn’t stutter.”

Jeongin tightens his grip and gives him what he’s asking for. The thrusts get sharper. Deeper. His cock slams into Chan, hitting that spot, each time drawing another noise. The lube and heat and tightness are combining into something that makes his spine feel like it’s on fire.

He reaches around with one hand and grabs Chan’s cock.

Chan chokes on his own breath. “Fuck.”

He’s leaking, so wet it only takes a few strokes for Jeongin’s palm to get slick. He matches the rhythm of his hips with his hand, jerking Chan off while he fucks him from behind.

“Look at you,” Jeongin hears himself say. His voice sounds rough, unfamiliar. “Taking my cock so good. Getting fucked stupid while I jerk you off. You like this, huh?”

Chan shudders. “Shut up.”

“You do,” Jeongin presses. “You like me using you. You like me using your underwear. You like that I’ve been thinking about this every time I touched myself.”

Chan makes a broken sound. “You’re such a creep.”

“You let the creep fuck you,” Jeongin taunts. He squeezes at the base of Chan’s cock. “What does that make you?”

Chan’s answer is a strangled groan. His back arches, pushing his ass harder against Jeongin’s hips.

Jeongin feels something loosen in his chest. The fear, the guilt, all of it burns up in the heat of this. He leans forward, presses his mouth to the back of Chan’s neck, and bites lightly.

Chan gasps like he’s been shocked. “Innie.”

“Hyung,” Jeongin pants. “I’m not going to last much longer.”

“Good,” Chan says thickly. “I… fuck, I’m close, don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”

Jeongin doesn’t. He keeps his rhythm, sloppy now, desperate, fucking into Chan with everything he’s got. His hand flies over Chan’s cock. The little noises Chan makes get higher, closer together.

“I’ve wanted this forever,” Jeongin manages. The words fall out in time with his hips. “Wanted you. Wanted your stupid face. Your stupid ass. Your stupid briefs. Wanted to fuck you until you said my name like this.”

“Asking a lot,” Chan gasps, “for someone who— who stole my—”

His body tenses all at once, and he comes with a harsh, loud moan that he tries and fails to bite back. His cock pulses in Jeongin’s hand, hot and thick. Come splatters over Jeongin’s fingers, over Chan’s stomach, onto the mattress below. The way he clenches around Jeongin at the same time is lethal.

Jeongin swears, voice cracking. “Chan, fuck.”

The squeeze around his cock, the sight of Chan shaking and coming because of him, the sound of his name on Chan’s tongue—it all slams together. The pressure in his gut snaps.

He buries himself deep and falls over the edge.

Pleasure explodes up his spine, white-hot and blinding. His cock jerks, pulsing hard inside the condom. His whole body trembles. He grabs onto Chan’s hips like an anchor, forehead pressed between his shoulders, eyes squeezed shut.

He rides it out in ragged thrusts, little aftershocks making him shudder. The world narrows to heat and breath and the pounding of his own heart.

When it finally recedes, he slumps forward, almost collapsing onto Chan’s back. They hang there in a messy pile for a moment. Just breathing. The room smells like sex. Skin, sweat, lube. A thin, clean note of detergent from the briefs still lying crooked on Chan’s spine.

Jeongin realizes he’s still inside him and carefully pulls out. The condom slides free, hot and heavy. He strips it off, ties it, drops it in the trash bag by his bed with a shaky hand.

Chan groans and collapses full-length on the bed, rolling onto his side. His hair sticks to his forehead. There’s come on his stomach. His chest is heaving. He looks absolutely wrecked.

Jeongin’s heart does something embarrassing and soft. He flops down next to him, boneless. His legs feel like noodles. His cock is oversensitive and sticky. His brain is rebooting.

Silence stretches. Not awkward this time. Just full.

Then Chan turns his head and looks at him.

“You,” he says faintly, “are fucking insane.”

Jeongin snorts. His voice comes out hoarse. “You let me do it.”

Chan huffs out a laugh, then winces as his own laugh jostles sore muscles. “Yeah. I did.”

He reaches back, fingers fumbling for something, and comes up with the briefs. He holds them up between two fingers, looks at them, then at Jeongin.

“Still gonna use these?” he asks.

Jeongin’s face goes hot all over again. “I mean, maybe less now that I have you.”

Chan’s mouth quirks. “Bold of you to assume you’re getting this again.”

Jeongin forces himself up on one elbow, leaning over him. “You didn’t like it?”

Chan rolls his eyes and kisses him instead of answering. It’s slow this time. Lazy. Their teeth knock a little. Their lips are swollen and clumsy. Jeongin tastes himself on Chan’s tongue and makes a small, pleased sound.

When they part, Chan sighs, dropping the briefs on Jeongin’s chest.

“Maybe I’ll allow it,” he says. “You’re going to get horny in the middle of the day and think about my stupid progress pics and my stupid ass and my stupid briefs, and you’re going to get that look on your face.”

“I do not have a look,” Jeongin protests.

“You do,” Chan insists. “You look like you’re about to commit a victimless crime.”

He reaches out, taps the briefs. “Here’s the deal. You want these?” He shifts, nudging Jeongin’s knee with his. “Ask me. You want me?” His voice softens. “Ask me. Don’t sneak around and torture yourself. That’s my job now.”

Jeongin laughs, helpless and happy and a little shaky. “You’re going to tease me forever, aren’t you?”

“Till death do us part,” Chan says solemnly.