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jisung blinks a couple times, just to be sure, but no—those are definitely tentacles poking at his knees, and they definitely originate from somewhere under chan’s shirt, and—
jisung coughs, cheeks flushed and burning and he’s so dizzy. “hyung.”
“what,” chan starts, half-turning in his chair, and then he sees the tentacles—because that’s what they are, as unreal as it feels, as impossible as it should be—and his face turns bright red. he grabs one—just grabs it, and jisung feels like he’s going to pass out or something—and pushes it back under his shirt, and then another one, and when jisung blinks again it’s as if they were never there at all. but the damage is done. chan opens his mouth and closes it again, looking as lost as jisung feels, which—fair. jisung has no idea what he’s meant to say upon finding out that his coworker, his best friend, his something-bordering-on-life-partner, has tentacles. honest-to-god tentacles, as if jisung’s life is some cheap hentai plot. jisung’s whole body feels overheated.
chan says, “um.”
“since when did you have, um,” jisung starts, and finishes with a gesture that’s too vague but also definitely too graphic, and it’s not at all what he means to say or do but none of his normal human scripts are functioning right now and he’s lost. chan coughs. “sorry.”
“i’m sorry,” chan says, emphatic. “they sort of have a… a mind of their own. yeah. yeah, that makes sense—i mean, um, that’s how—that’s the best way to phrase it. but—sorry.” another stretchy moment passes by before chan remembers jisung’s question. “i’ve always had them, i think.”
jisung can barely breathe. he’s embarrassed, mostly on chan’s behalf, and he’s confused, because this can’t possibly be real life. he’s dreaming. he pinches himself to be sure and, yeah, ouch, definitely not dreaming.
even more embarrassingly, jisung is turned on. alarm bells sound off in his brain, like jesus christ can’t you be normal for once, and also a siren is screaming chan has tentacles!!! at top volume. it’s actually quieter inside his brain than usual, and whatever isn’t occupied by this sick, sick revelation—that jisung wants chan to tear him apart, to devour him, to consume him whole and never let him go—the rest of his brain is very, very aware that this is not normal. none of it is.
jisung exhales very slowly. “um.”
“i’m sorry,” chan says again, frowning at the floor. “um. if you wanted to leave the group. or not work with me anymore. i’d get it.”
“why would i want to quit?” jisung asks. it’s such a baffling conclusion that the resulting confusion actually overrides jisung’s weird hentai-freak horniness.
chan blinks at him. “did you miss the tentacles?”
“that would have been somewhat difficult,” jisung says diplomatically. it gets a small laugh out of chan.
“you’re ridiculous,” he says. “then you weren’t paying attention to the part where they molested you, or where i said there’s nothing stopping them from doing it again, or…?”
“um,” jisung says again, mostly to fill the silence since he has no idea where to even begin unpacking all of that. “molest seems like a strong word.”
“jisung.”
“what?” jisung presses a palm to his cheek as if that will keep chan’s disbelieving stare off of him. “they didn’t—they barely touched me. just my knees, really. and, um, they weren’t—um. bothering me. they weren’t. it just… surprised me, is all. i didn’t know—i mean. um.”
“you,” chan starts, and then sighs, that particular sigh that is simultaneously exasperated and yet so fond that it makes jisung’s heart swell up and threaten to burst, a condition for which he’s tried to get chan to take him to a doctor, and chan laughs him out of the room every time, embarrassed by jisung’s dramatics and blatant confessions of affection and—
jisung hiccups. it catches chan’s attention, because of course it does.
“are you sure you’re okay?” chan asks, and damn him, the question makes tears well up in jisung’s eyes. alarmed, chan says, “hannie?”
“fuck you,” jisung mumbles, can’t even put any heat into it because he’s too busy tilting his head back to keep the tears from falling. “you’re so unbelievable, hyung, you’ve been keeping secrets from me this whole time?”
“jisungie,” chan says, small and ashamed and frustrated. “what was i supposed to tell you?”
“i just—i love you,” jisung says, hiccups again, and then chan’s arms are around him, bundling him up close. “hyung, i really, i love you so much—”
he interrupts himself with a terrible sob, burying his head in chan’s chest. if the emotional whiplash is confusing chan, he doesn’t show it, holding jisung so tightly that jisung could almost forget the rest of the world, his warmth soaking right through jisung’s skin, and—he hiccups again.
“you’re crazy,” chan murmurs. “my sweet jisungie.”
“yours,” jisung sniffles back.
***
the second time jisung sees the tentacles, they’re alone in the dorm. or something that approximates alone. changbin’s gone, because he and minho have a weird thing that neither of them will name aloud but which definitely involves dates and clubbing, for some reason, and hyunjin’s painting out on his balcony, so he’s essentially dead to the world.
chan squints into the fridge. “do you think i need to be concerned about the babies being alone upstairs?”
jisung snorts and drapes himself over chan’s back. he has to stretch onto his tiptoes to see over his shoulder into their devastatingly empty fridge. “they have minho to cook for them. they’re probably swimming in leftovers.”
he also very politely doesn’t mention the fact that two of the babies are, in fact, the exact same age as jisung, nearly down to the day. maybe he should just count himself lucky he’s not getting grouped in with them.
something slides up his back, under his shirt, slick over his skin, and jisung, startled, bites chan’s shoulder to muffle his yelp.
“ouch, hannie, did you just bite me?” jisung can’t think, vision blurring through chan’s panic to rectify the situation, but he’s aware—underneath the buzz of his brain working overtime to catch up—that the sensation on his skin must have been—
“you—i—they—” jisung slips one hand awkwardly up the back of his shirt, a little perturbed but not entirely surprised to find his fingers come away slick, wet. he leans against the counter, trying to catch his breath while chan’s tentacles slink back into hiding.
and—it’s not that jisung forgot about them. they’re the subject of a solid portion of his waking thoughts and most of his wet dreams, and they’re impossible to forget. it’s just—when they’re not visible, they’re a little bit—out of sight, out of mind.
jisung exhales, blinks, steadies himself against the wave of heat that floods out from his core to his fingertips.
“i’m so sorry,” chan says. “i don’t—they don’t usually come out.”
which—yeah, jisung had noticed that. because, for extremities that chan claims to have no control over, they seem awfully well-behaved, never once making themselves known when there’s even the risk of a camera seeing them, or even another human being.
except jisung.
“maybe they’re shy,” jisung says, once he feels stable enough to speak. chan stares at him, blatantly caught off-guard. “what?”
“shy,” chan repeats, and then his head tilts about 45 degrees to one side, in that insane adorable puppy-like thing he does when he’s confused or thinking. “have you lost your mind?”
“well, yeah,” jisung says. carefully, deliberately, he works his hand free from its white-knuckle grip on the edge of the countertop, one finger at a time. “but that’s why you love me.”
chan’s quiet for too long. jisung twists his ring around his finger and counts to twenty-seven before either of them even breathes.
“i do,” chan says, so softly that jisung almost thinks he’s misheard. “i do love you, hannie.”
everything is so tight, the whole world pressing in so close on jisung’s body that he can barely breathe. and chan, always chan, the beacon of light and the pinnacle of clarity while jisung’s ears ring and his head swims. “i know.”
***
“hyung?” jisung pauses in the doorway to chan’s bedroom, cracked open just a sliver because chan never sleeps right unless he feels like he can hear what’s happening in his home. the shape of chan squirms, facedown on the bed, and—jisung exhales. “hyung, please tell me you’re okay.”
“m’fine,” chan grumbles, muffled into a pillow.
“oh, thank god,” changbin mutters, giving up on trying to peer over jisung’s shoulder. “i’m going to the studio, then. jisungie?”
jisung shakes his head. he has no idea why, even after years of knowing him, everyone’s still so willing to take chan at his word. the guy could have a gaping, sucking wound in the middle of his chest and still tell everyone he’s fine. out in the hall, hyunjin’s quiet, muffled voice barely carries over the sound of him and changbin putting their shoes on: “still alive, then…?”
the front door snaps shut. only then, with the knowledge that they’re alone, does jisung step fully into chan’s room, closing the door for good measure. after a moment, he locks it as well.
chan groans again, barely lifting his head to look at jisung.
“what’s wrong?” jisung tries, kneeling on the floor to look chan in the face.
chan squints at him. “you’re gonna hurt yourself sitting there.”
insane. absurd. “you’re literally dying and you’re lecturing me?”
“i’m not dying,” chan huffs. “just—hurts. ah.”
“what hurts?” jisung presses. chan grimaces, holds out a hand, lacing their fingers together.
“you should—hh—go.”
“i’m not leaving you,” jisung says stubbornly, emboldened by the fact that chan obviously doesn’t have the physical strength to fight him right now. “at least tell me what’s wrong.”
“it’s—my—them,” chan says, emphatically enough for jisung to catch his meaning. “but it’s—ow—fine. just… every couple months. they need to—ah.”
“need to what?” jisung asks. every couple of months? how have none of them noticed this until now, if chan’s been in this much pain every time?
“you should go,” chan says again. jisung blinks at him. “they—hannie—they like you.”
jisung feels dizzy. “can you feel them?”
chan huffs out a stiff laugh. “um. i—yes. yeah.” then, ears a violent pink, he admits, “hurts less now. or maybe more.”
“because i’m here,” jisung guesses, and chan nods miserably into his pillow. “can i help?”
chan groans, turning his face away. speaking directly into his pillow, he says, “only if you let me…”
well. jisung’s seen enough hentai to fill in the blanks on that one. “you can’t control them.” chan grunts into his sheets. “why aren’t they already? if they want me that badly?”
chan sighs, flushed and sweaty and miserable when he tips his face back to jisung. “it’s—i can feel—just restraint. holding back. in my—here.” chan frees one arm to indicate his chest.
“but it hurts you,” jisung says. “and them. to hold back.”
chan’s nose scrunches up. “that doesn’t mean you have to. you shouldn’t have to. you don’t.”
“don’t be ridiculous,” jisung says, flippant, even as he can’t help brushing chan’s hair, sweat-damp, away from his eyes. chan smiles weakly up at him. “i want to see them.”
“once they’re out, they’ll…”
“good,” jisung says, and nearly laughs outright at the scandalized look on chan’s face. “this has nothing to do with feeling obligated to help you, hyung, and everything to do with my horny selfishness. are the tentacles the only appendages on offer? because—”
“you are unbelievable,” chan says, rolling onto his back. jisung scrambles up on the bed to straddle his hips, intending to keep annoying him, but chan puts his hands on jisung’s waist and nearly closes the gaps between his fingers and jisung’s brain short-circuits. “oh. this is good.”
“how do you mean?” jisung asks, tongue clumsy around the words. chan looks, suddenly, a lot more lucid, a lot less pained. it takes all of jisung’s focus to keep still.
“having you close,” chan starts. jisung’s whole face feels hot. “they—it hurts less.”
“that’s good,” jisung says, still mostly focused on the way chan’s thumbs overlap. “would you want to… let them?”
“let them have you?” chan asks. jisung swallows, trying very hard not to laugh at the way he says it.
“your possessive streak is showing,” he says, putting his hands over chan’s. “they’re still a part of you, aren’t they?”
chan makes an expression that jisung can only describe as glowering.
“i think it’s hot,” jisung adds, studying chan carefully. chan has a bad habit of giving himself away in his micro-expressions, and jisung’s always looking for those. “and, um, i’ve never—done anything like this before.”
chan’s face goes slack so instantly that it’s almost impossible to imagine what expression came before it. even beyond that, his fingers tighten so harshly that jisung is certain there will be bruises. bingo.
jisung isn’t afraid of putting all of those media training classes to use in other ways. he blinks, widens his eyes in the way that he knows makes him look innocent, demure, corruptible. chan swallows. “you’re a menace.”
“hyung,” jisung says, pouting. “i just want you to teach me how to… handle it. how to take them.”
chan groans, hands flexing. “jisung. you aren’t… i’m not…”
jisung wants to kiss him so badly, and it has nothing to do with the tentacles or the sex or anything. it has everything to do with the fact that chan is the only person in his life whose presence has never wavered, the only person who was there to save jisung from himself, the only person who’s ever looked at all the worst parts of jisung head-on and loved him anyway. chan has kept this secret for so long and now he trusts jisung with it, and jisung wants.
to say it aloud, i wouldn’t be alive without you, feels cliché. feels overplayed. feels dramatic, however true it might be. whatever’s coming, jisung wants—needs it to be with chan, or else none of it matters.
he would have to be insane to say any of that. what he says instead is, “whatever you want, hyung. i’m yours.”
“you are,” chan agrees, entirely too pleased. “all mine.”
“only yours,” jisung says, and tries to make it sound like some sort of great sacrifice he’s making. judging by chan’s grin, jisung fails miserably. “but next time you get your weird little mating cycle stuff—”
“don’t call it that.” without warning, chan surges up, his hands holding jisung steady, and he kisses jisung, and oh.
helpless, jisung presses his hands to chan’s cheeks, holding him close. under his palms he can feel the rough scrape of chan’s stubble, only barely there, and chan is so soft and warm and pliant, giving ground wherever jisung pushes, content to let his mouth fall open when jisung licks inside, tongue over teeth and a gentle hum.
chan pushes against his chest, soft but insistent. jisung complies, trying and failing to not pout about it. chan laughs, presses a thumb to jisung’s pursed lips. “cute.”
“mean,” jisung mumbles back. he can feel the way chan hesitates, so in his head about all the things jisung has said. “do you need to talk about it?”
“i just…” chan huffs. “you don’t think it’s weird, or creepy? that i’m… that it—that i like it? when you, um, pretend… to be…”
“pretend?” jisung asks, fluttering his eyelashes. chan blinks owlishly at him. “ugh, fine.”
“you’re the one who invited a serious conversation.”
“i hate when you’re right about things.” jisung squirms a little just for chan’s low hiss. “you don’t think me wanting to get fucked by your tentacles is weird?”
“i like you better when you’re pretending you don’t know anything about sex,” chan decides.
“you would,” jisung says. “pervert. does that—is that…?”
“it’s good, jisungie,” chan says. “you’re perfect. whatever you want, whatever you’re comfortable with. but we need to talk about everything first, for real, before—before anything. if you—it’s not informed consent if you don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“i want to give you something too.” jisung huffs. “but fine. for right now, if i stay, does that make it better or worse for you?”
“um,” chan says, cheeks stained pink. “both?”
jisung actually takes the time to digest that, turning it over and over. “what do you want me to do?”
“stay,” chan says immediately, face flushing darker, even the tips of his ears red.
jisung slides down into the space between chan’s body and the wall, leaving one leg hooked over chan’s hips so he can curl around him, into him, mostly on top of him. he tucks his face down against chan’s shoulder, nosing up against his neck, inhaling his smell. when it comes to chan, there’s always an influx of sensation: soft cotton t-shirt under his fingertips, musk and cologne and body wash in his nose, the sound of his heartbeat and his slow, steady breathing.
this time, jisung’s anticipating it; he doesn’t flinch from the cool, slick tentacle that squirms its way up under his shirt.
“sorry,” chan breathes. “sorry, i just—they… want you.”
“i don’t blame them,” jisung murmurs, already feels sleepy, enveloped so completely by chan. the tentacle slides across his skin, curling around his neck in a facsimile of the way chan sometimes holds him. now, though, chan holds him like something precious, one arm draped over jisung’s waist, his hand splayed over his skin.
at some point, he must fall asleep. he has no memory of it, only knows that he wakes to darkness, chan’s sleep-steady breathing and his occasional snores, and the vaguely tickling sensation of something crawling over his skin. he shivers, and one of the tentacles pokes at him.
“oh,” jisung breathes. doesn’t want to wake chan, because chan’s definitely sleeping, and jisung’s definitely still laying half on top of him and is definitely half-hard, and the tentacles seem to want even more out of him. they slide over his skin, under his clothes, leaving slick, sticky trails behind. jisung squirms as much as he can get away with, which is truthfully very little; chan oscillates wildly between light or heavy sleep, and if he wakes up, jisung just knows he’s going to feel so bad about this, even though he’s said that he can’t control them.
jisung won’t risk it. doesn’t want to inflict more guilt on chan than he already does just by existing. instead he tries to ignore the growing, trembling arousal, tries to focus on counting how many tentacles are touching him. has chan ever said how many he has? there’s one on his neck, just enough force to keep jisung still. at least one on his back, one snaking lower, under the waistband of his shorts.
jisung bites back a whimper. the tentacle drags cold and wet along his skin, right between his cheeks, leaving its sticky trail over his hole. jisung has to bite down on his fingers to keep himself quiet; the touch is light enough to be teasing, torturous. jisung doesn’t have the endurance for this, the gentle exploration of his body. he squeezes his eyes shut.
the tentacle slips further between his legs, sliding alongside his cock. jisung jolts, nearly choking himself on his fingers, can barely even breathe when the tentacle circles itself around his dick, squeezing in a strange little undulating motion. jisung whimpers for real, squirming again, and this time the motion drags his thigh right over chan where chan’s cock is slowly hardening. it feels surreal; chan’s definitely still sleeping, thank god, but—but. maybe the tentacles can influence his subconscious. chan had said, earlier, hadn’t he, that they could somehow share how each of them felt.
as if to distract him, the tentacle around his neck squeezes. jisung can’t help the shuddery moan that escapes, and he thinks he’s done for when chan’s hips roll up, as helpless as jisung feels. after a moment of stillness, though, chan snores again, and jisung exhales slowly.
“you can’t do that,” he hisses. he imagines that if the tentacles had faces, they’d roll their eyes, but that would be—insane and creepy. jisung squeezes his eyes shut, making a weak fist in chan’s t-shirt.
his orgasm hits him like a truck out of nowhere, unexpected, and he comes so hard that he feels actual tears leak out.
the tentacles retreat, but it’s still—too much. everything is so much. jisung sniffles, carefully freeing his fingers from chan’s t-shirt so he can wipe his eyes.
chan stirs under him. “jisungie?”
jisung hiccups. he can feel the way that chan wakes directly into his panic-state, tensing under him, hand coming up again to settle at its place at the small of jisung’s back. as if it’s chan's fault that jisung is such a disaster.
“are you crying?” chan asks, somehow sounding as distraught as jisung suddenly feels. “jisungie, what…?”
“i love you,” jisung mumbles, helpless to chan’s gravity. “m’sorry, i didn’t mean it, didn’t mean to, i’m sorry, hyung.”
“shh, it’s okay,” chan promises, which only makes jisung cry harder.
“you’re too nice,” he gets out between sobs. he chokes on an almost hysterical dry heave.
“sorry,” chan says sweetly. he’s got a certain tone that jisung has learned to recognize, a tone that he only uses to placate jisung when he gets like this. “baby, i only know what to say to you if you tell me what’s wrong.”
but how can jisung possibly confess? chan’s dick is still hard, pressed up under jisung’s thigh, and—“i can’t.”
“baby,” chan says again, soft. he kisses the top of jisung’s head, petting his hair. “my pretty baby. i promise everything’s okay. just talk to me, yeah? did you have a bad dream?”
his voice is scratchy with sleep still, which only makes jisung feel worse. he woke chan up for this when chan barely sleeps enough as it is, and he should’ve woken him up from the start instead of trying not to disturb him, knowing that he’d try to stop anything from getting as far as it did, and not even giving him the chance to make his own choice about it and—
“jisung,” chan says, more solid and more firm and more real than anything else jisung has. he clings to it, sucks in a ragged breath. “jisung, you’re having a panic attack. okay? i’m gonna—i’m just gonna sit up now, yeah?”
he does exactly that, taking jisung with him and cradling him in his lap.
“just breathe, baby,” chan murmurs. “can you breathe with me? in… and out. just like that. good boy.”
jisung whimpers. chan pulls back, just barely enough to stare at jisung. “m’sorry. didn’t mean to.”
“you’re okay,” chan promises. “i don’t mind. you’re fine, jisungie, baby, everything’s fine. just talk to me, please, you’re starting to scare me.”
jisung hiccups. the last thing he wants is to make chan any brand of miserable. “m’sorry, i—i’m sorry.” chan strokes up and down his back, comforting, but jisung can feel cum drying tacky in his shorts and the guilt washes over him all over again, wrenching out another pathetic sob. “i didn’t mean… they just—they—”
he sniffles, clenching at chan’s shirt again. it wrinkles under his fists and chan says nothing about it. instead: “they… the, um, tentacles?”
jisung nods shakily into chan’s shoulder.
“oh, jisungie,” chan says. “did they touch you?”
“i let them,” jisung cries. he can’t help the way he hiccups, the way his voice goes high and thin. “i wanted them, and i knew you’d stop them and i tried not to wake you up because i didn’t want you to, and… and…”
“oh, baby,” chan says sweetly. “my sweet baby, is that why you’re crying?”
jisung sniffles and nods.
“my love.” chan kisses his nose. “i promise, it’s okay. look at you, baby. i was so terrified that they’d done something to you that you didn’t want, and here you are, worrying the same about me.”
“m’sorry,” jisung says again. if he says nothing, he’ll unravel completely, but words feel so dangerous now.
“you’re alright,” chan says. “god, hannie, you gave me a fucking heart attack.”
yet another thing to fester in the dark parts of jisung’s heart, the guilt that lives there growing and thriving in the shadows. every time that jisung’s ever inadvertently hurt chan. “i’m sorry, hyung. i shouldn’t have—i should’ve—”
“hannie,” chan interrupts, and tips jisung’s head for a kiss, soft and slow. “i’m not mad at you.”
“you’re not?”
“i’m not.” chan kisses him again. “let’s make a deal, yeah? next time, you wake me up, so i can watch.”
jisung feels his whole face burn. he presses a palm to his cheek. “hyung, i—”
“you don’t want hyung to watch?” chan needles. “jisungie, i thought we had something special.”
jisung shoves at his shoulder. “you’re not funny.”
chan hums, running his hands up jisung’s sides and kissing under his jaw. “you’re into it.”
jisung hiccups and laughs, still sniffling, still trembling with the dregs of a panic attack and just exhausted all over. “i am.”
***
“jisung,” chan says, narrowing his eyes across the table. “i’m not scheduling hookups into my calendar.”
“i’m more than a casual hookup, hyung,” jisung argues. “plus, it’s a special occasion.”
“i see that,” chan says dryly, turning his phone around for jisung to see, as if jisung isn’t the one who scheduled take jisung’s virginity!!! into chan’s calendar in all caps.
“i mean, it’s already there,” jisung says, and shrugs. “you might as well keep it.”
chan rolls his eyes and sets his phone aside. seungmin leans over chan’s shoulder to observe. “last i checked, jisung isn’t a virgin.”
chan’s face goes pink. jisung says, “you’re into weirder things, seungmin-ah.”
“point taken,” seungmin says, pointing in a way that might be considered threatening, and leaves.
“you’re so absurd,” chan says.
“you like it,” jisung replies. “how soon am i supposed to start the blushing virgin act?”
“i already know i’m going to regret saying this,” chan says, “but you can do whatever you want, baby.”
“just once,” hyunjin says tiredly, “i would like to have a normal family breakfast. is that too much to ask?”
***
“this is ridiculous,” jisung huffs, rocking his hips down a little just to emphasize his point. chan hisses, fingers digging into the flesh of jisung’s hips. flesh he hates, except when chan is holding onto him. “it’s already scheduled in your calendar. no take-backs.”
“you put it there,” chan grunts, head tipping back to knock against the headboard. in theory, they shouldn’t be too loud, but there’s no one to hear them. only minho and changbin in the next room, privy to all of chan’s sighs and moans and pleas through the thin wall. slightly safer on the other side, not sharing a wall with the bed, are seungmin and felix. jisung does not want to think about what they might be doing. “and—ah—sue me for wanting to have a conversation about it.”
“we are having a conversation,” jisung points out. another roll of his hips, punching a gasped little moan out of himself while denying chan the stimulation he wants so badly. that’s the game, after all. “what’s your problem?”
“my problem,” chan repeats, incredulous. “you mean, aside from the obvious issues, which, might i add, we have been over already?”
“and i told you already,” jisung says. “oh, god. fuck. hyung, so, so good. i want you to let your tentacles fuck me. why is that so hard?”
chan slouches a little more, plants his feet on the mattress. it gives him the leverage to roll his hips up to meet jisung, make jisung tremble a little. he’s definitely forgotten his train of thought by now. “tell me,” chan says, and jisung hisses. “tell me how badly you want it.”
“i, hyung,” jisung gasps. “i—anything, whatever you want, i just—i don’t care. i want—i’ve always wanted—been a wet dream for as long as i’ve had wet dreams, i just didn’t think—”
“you never do,” chan interrupts, fucking up into him, knocking jisung off-balance. “tell me.”
“oh,” jisung whines. “just—you—i don’t care, i don’t, if you—i trust you, hyung, want you to—”
“and if i couldn’t stop it?” chan asks. “if you wanted to tap out and it didn’t stop, it just kept going? you’re crying and begging and overstimulated and you need it to stop, and it won’t?”
the most awful sob wrenches out of jisung’s throat, whole body seizing up, chan so big inside him, fills him up so entirely. jisung comes onto his own stomach, his cock still hard and weeping even after the tremors stop. “hyung,” he cries.
“oh, sweet baby,” chan says. “you want—no, you need it that badly?”
jisung hiccups and nods, tears so freely sliding down his cheeks, and jisung can barely breathe because he’s crying so hard, ugly sobs and noisy gulps of air, the spasming of his chest that’s almost painful for it—
chan sits up, wrapping his arms around his waist, peppering his face with kisses. “i didn’t mean to torture you, hannie. my darling, my love, i thought it was an experiment to you. i didn’t want to hurt you. i didn’t realize i was hurting you by denying you.”
jisung keens, sniffling, hiding his face in chan’s shoulder. he can feel it, as if chan has spoken it into existence, the aching, horrible emptiness even as chan’s still buried inside him. it hurts, claws him open, shatters him into pieces, and jisung can’t think around the agony of it. “hurts, hyung.”
“i know, darling,” chan says softly. “i know, but i see you. hyung will give you what you want.”
gentle, he flips them over, presses jisung into the mattress and fucks into him, slow and deep, almost deep enough to sate that awful, yawning, empty place inside him, and jisung can’t stop crying, knocked a little further up the mattress with every thrust. it aches so badly, jisung needs it so badly, only wants chan to take away that pain, wants chan to make it better.
“come on,” chan grunts, hand curling around jisung’s cock. tight-fisted, almost too dry to be pleasurable, but that’s—pleasure in its own way. chan too impatient to truly care whether jisung enjoys it or not, and just like that jisung is coming again, too soon, too rushed and dry and it hurts, the kind of sharp pain that curls into him, shreds him apart.
chan actually growls, pulling out and flipping jisung over so quickly that it makes jisung dizzy, clenching up at the way chan yanks his hips up and presses against him again, the head of his cock forcing him open, pushing and pushing until chan’s popping in again, not that jisung’s capable of offering him any real resistance. he sinks in with one push, leaning over jisung and holding his cum-covered hand to jisung’s mouth.
“hyung,” jisung whines. he should know better than to open his mouth, but maybe he just—wants it that badly. he knows what chan will do to an open mouth, and sure enough chan sticks his fingers in immediately. jisung sucks around them, tongues at the space between them. chan’s still wearing his ring, the thick band pressing to jisung’s lips, and jisung is so hungry.
“good boy,” chan murmurs. “so good for hyung, hm? cleaning up your mess.”
jisung whimpers. chan thrusts his fingers, in and out, slow and surprisingly gentle, pressing jisung’s tongue flat.
“your fucking mouth,” he says, pulling his fingers free again. “come on, clean me up.”
jisung strains to follow chan’s hand as it retreats, to get his mouth on it again. chan laughs, but finally lets him, allowing jisung to lick his own cum off of chan’s hand. at the same time, he puts his other hand firmly on jisung’s back and fucks into him, setting a pace so fast, relentless and brutal that jisung can barely breathe, much less focus on his task of licking chan clean.
“hyung,” he cries. “i-ah, ah, ah, can’t, oh—”
“you take it so well,” chan says, and jisung sobs.
his phone rings.
“you gonna answer that, baby?” chan asks, punctuating himself with a sharp snap of his hips that jolts jisung up the bed, leaving him scrabbling at the sheets.
“no-oh,” jisung cries, even though he already knows—chan is going to make him. he reaches for his phone, somehow managing to find the motor control to curl his fingers around it, draw it closer, answer the call and set it to speaker.”hah, hyung.”
every syllable punched out of him by the force of chan’s thrusts. minho snorts, crackly over the phone and muffled by the rush of blood in jisung’s ears, the hot flush of shame at having someone witness him this way. “is chan treating you well, hannie?”
jisung hisses, tugging helplessly at the sheets as chan drags him backwards, readjusting them. “i’m, ah,” he tries. grits his teeth against it, blinks tears out of his vision. “hyung, why—why’d you c-hng-call?”
“cute,” minho says dryly. “put your chan hyung on the phone, hannie. you’re too useless like this.”
jisung hiccups, whines, chokes on air when chan slows to a rhythmic grind, draping himself over jisung, chin digging into his shoulder. “you’re on speaker, minho-yah.”
it’s so unfair. how does chan get to sound so put-together? jisung can’t focus on anything long enough to get words out, everything gone hazy and blurry and soft.
“oh, good,” minho says. it’s followed up by a soft little sigh, definitely minho, and a distinctly wet noise that for once isn’t from jisung.
“i, hhh, hyung,” jisung tries. can’t make sense of anything except the way chan drags slow and constant against all the deepest parts of him. fills him so completely that jisung can’t do anything but take it.
chan must be able to make more sense of the noise than jisung can. “you sick pervert,” he laughs. “are you getting off on this?”
“you know i am,” minho says. “ah, fuck, that’s so…”
jisung keens, helpless, pressing his cheek to the mattress. chan fits his hand around the back of his neck and squeezes, so light.
“why did you call us?”
“sounds to me like you’re the—oh, god, just like that, baby—you’re the pervert,” minho says, instead of answering the question. “making our pretty jisungie answer the phone just to show off how well you ruin him. so greedy, hyung.”
“why did you call us,” chan repeats, voice strained and raspy with—with something, something that makes jisung shiver and cry.
“maybe i couldn’t come without hyung’s help,” minho says innocently. “maybe i’ve had binnie here—ah—teasing me for hours and he just wasn’t enough to get me over the edge.”
“liar,” chan says. jisung can’t help the wretched sob that escapes him when chan stops moving entirely, just rests there with the weight of him around and inside jisung, pure torture. “tell me the truth, minho-yah.”
“asshole,” minho snipes back.
“you want hyung’s permission?” chan says sweetly. “you have it, darling. you can come. come right down binnie’s throat, why don’t you? bet you marked it up so nicely.”
“i did,” minho groans. breath hitching on a gasp. “oh, fuck.”
“good boy,” chan says, using his grip on jisung’s neck to leverage himself upright, pulling almost all the way out, thumb pressed to jisung’s rim. jisung hiccups.
“please, hyung,” he tries. “please, oh, god, please, i need—”
“yeah, yeah,” chan says, putting his hands on jisung’s hips again, pulling him back to meet chan’s thrusts. “needy—fucking—baby.”
“yours, yours, please, hyung, i can’t—need you, need to—please,” jisung babbles. so wet, drool slicking his chin. he tries to wipe it off on his sleeve, but he thinks he mostly just succeeds in smearing it around. when he comes, it’s into the tight fist that chan forms around his cock, whole body seizing up around chan, clenching so hard and so entirely that jisung can feel it in his fucking throat.
“fuck, jisung,” chan hisses, curling over him, so hot and so deep inside him that jisung is—an active volcano. a wildfire. everything burns, feverish and bright. jisung can barely even process the pulsing heat of chan’s orgasm, his cum so, so far inside him that jisung doesn’t want to even consider trying to get it out. “so good, so perfect. all mine.”
“yours,” jisung whines. chan huffs, pulling out of him so achingly slowly.
“keep your ass up,” chan says, spanking him lightly. “i don’t want you making a mess. or, i suppose, even more of a mess.”
minho’s dry applause comes tinny through the phone speaker. “encore, encore,” he cheers, distinctly unenthusiastic.
“fuck off,” chan says. “where’s binnie?”
“keeping me warm,” minho says smugly. “by the way, that tentacle kink foreplay stuff you guys were doing earlier? that was weird. like, supremely weird. too weird even for me, i think, and i am an avid hentai enjoyer.”
jisung did not ever want to know that. he closes his eyes, sniffling, letting himself melt into the way chan pets his hair.
“like, these walls are thin,” minho continues. “and we heard every word. i’m scarred for life. weirdest pillow talk ever.”
as if minho and changbin weren’t just talking about various typefaces, which is, in jisung’s opinion, distinctly weirder pillow talk than wanting to get fucked by chan’s tentacles.
“it wasn’t even foreplay,” chan says, which would not have been the issue jisung decided to focus on. but jisung isn’t the one coherent enough to have this conversation, so he just focuses on the sheets, soft and plush under him, chan’s hand on his back. grounding, jisung knows. recognizes chan’s habits, his tiniest tells, well enough to know what he’s trying to do. he’s trying to soothe jisung, work him down from whatever headspace he’d knocked him into in the first place.
“that’s worse,” minho complains. “i mean, like, how do you even stay hard for that? it’s not sexy. maybe anything’s sexy for you, though. i bet jisung’s like a vice, probably so fucking tight—”
“i’m hanging up on you,” chan says, and then does exactly that. he sets jisung’s phone aside. “how are you feeling, baby?”
“hyung,” jisung whines. can’t think of anything else to say. there’s nothing else he wants to say.
“i see.” chan laughs, very light. “you’re cute, hannie. what do you want?”
“hyung,” jisung says again, makes grabby hands at him.
“we have to clean you up,” chan protests. jisung waits. he doesn’t need to say anything, doesn’t need to fight the sticky feeling in his throat to get the words out, because chan already knows what he wants, and chan will always give him what he wants. sure enough, barely seconds go by, and then chan huffs. “are you sure, baby?”
as if jisung has ever not been sure, of this if nothing else. chan sighs again, but pushes at jisung anyway. jisung rolls easily, letting chan put him wherever he likes, and chan feeds his cock back into jisung, plugging him up so perfectly.
“ah,” jisung gasps, as chan molds himself to jisung’s body, chest pressed up to jisung’s back.
“pretty,” chan says, mouthing along jisung’s neck, up behind his ear. “always take hyung so well.”
“only hyung,” jisung mumbles.
“yeah, baby,” chan says, a little laugh on his voice. “only hyung gets to fuck you.”
jisung smiles, tucking his face into chan’s arm slung hot and heavy over his head, contented. “all mine.”
“no,” chan corrects, gentle, sweet, soft. “you are all mine.”
***
jisung thinks maybe he’s supposed to be nervous. he’s always nervous when he does something new for the first time. and yet somehow, now, he can’t even dredge up any sludgy hint of anxiety.
he tucks his nose into the neckline of his hoodie. chan’s scent has collected in the folds of the hood and all the bunches of fabric: his shampoo and body wash and preferred cologne, all such familiar smells, all the vague outline of a shape that resembles home.
he makes a quick note of that on a bit of scrap paper for future lyric-writing reference, then promptly crumples it up and shoves it into his pocket. chan glances sidelong at him, and jisung keeps his gaze fixed just beyond the camera, keeps chan in his periphery, doesn’t even bother trying to look busy.
will the audience be able to tell, when they eventually see this, that jisung’s wearing a stolen sweatshirt? will the fans guess whose it is? will they be able to see all the giddy, fearless anticipation that jisung is trying so hard to keep inside? jisung can’t decide whether he wants them to see it or not. maybe it would be better if someone could uncover the truth, just enough that jisung could confirm it in some subtle, unprovable way.
maybe it would be career suicide. would jisung care, if it were?
later, chan locks the door to his bedroom, puts his hand under his stolen sweatshirt, bleeding warmth into jisung’s skin. “you are a menace,” he says, quiet, punctuated with a little nip to jisung’s ear. jisung exhales so slowly.
“hyung, i don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. it’s so easy to pretend. chan thinks he’s good at keeping secrets, and recreational lying is jisung’s favorite game. “ah, feels good.”
chan brushes a thumb over his nipple again, swallowing thickly when jisung shudders. jisung imagines he can hear the dry click of his throat. “jisungie…”
“please, hyung,” jisung says, tugging until chan puts his hands on jisung’s waist. “want you to make me feel good.”
“fuck,” chan says, already backing jisung into the bed. “fuck, okay, just—”
he crowds in closer, until jisung has no choice but to let himself fall back onto the sheets.
“you fucking stealing my clothes.” chan’s voice goes so low that it comes out as almost a growl. “do you have any idea what you do to me?”
jisung gasps, arching up into chan’s touch, chan’s hand yanking his pants and briefs down and curling tight around his cock. “ah, hyung, i—tell me.”
chan hisses in his ear. “fuck. fuck, jisungie. you’re mine.”
prove it, jisung wants to say, only he can’t seem to find the breath for it at the moment, with how tight chan is holding him, how quickly he jerks him off, and the possessive snarl of his voice winds into all the hollow pits of jisung’s body, making him gasp, making him go tight and silent and choked when he comes right into chan’s hand.
“please,” he gasps out, locking his legs around chan’s waist, and chan’s hips jerk, grinding his clothed cock right up against jisung’s taint, and jisung nearly screams, so wrung out and hungry for it and oversensitive, and chan just keeps going, working his hips as if he’s fucking jisung. it makes jisung feel empty, aching for it, wishing chan really were fucking him, not just grinding into him and still fisting jisung’s cock in his vice grip, as if he’s forgotten he was holding it. “hyung, fuck, please.”
“god,” chan groans. “yeah, baby, fuck, whatever you want.”
he curls over jisung and bites his shoulder, so hard that jisung can feel the dull throb of it even through the stolen sweatshirt. “hyung, ngh, on me, please…”
“shut up, oh my god,” chan mumbles, his whole body heaving with the effort of breathing. jisung—wants to cry. he thinks maybe he’s being a little dramatic, but he’s helpless to it. wants chan to mark him, bruise him, claim him as his own, and the fact that chan has denied him this—
jisung hiccups over a sob, real tears starting to form in his eyes. he just wants, so badly, aches for it, the idea of belonging to chan, some kind of symbol that chan could never take back.
“don’t cry,” chan says sweetly. “you’ll have plenty of time for that later.”
later. jisung barely even remembers what they’re supposed to be doing right now. he only sort of remembers the conversation about it, but the whole world has gone so hazy already that jisung is dizzy. his head stuffed full of cotton. “hyung…”
“sweetheart,” chan says, hands coming at last to rest on jisung’s hips. something slick and wet curls around jisung’s wrists.
“oh,” jisung says, squirming.
chan blinks innocently down at him, shifting forward. he plants his hands on either side of jisung’s head so he can hover over him. “do you not want it anymore, baby?”
jisung hiccups again. it’s—teasing, because when is chan not teasing? but jisung knows that it’s genuine, too. that as much as chan respects jisung’s limits, once they get started, there’s a significant chance that chan won’t be able to stop it. and jisung—has to be okay with that.
which is why chan’s still looming, waiting for a real, verbal response from a version of jisung that can’t even string two words together.
“please,” jisung tries. “i—hyung, want, i—”
another tentacle circles around jisung’s cock, and jisung makes a noise so helplessly pathetic that he doesn’t even want to acknowledge it. chan grins. “cute.”
the slick glide of the tentacles over his skin is so new, so much. jisung has had chan before, and it’s familiar, the slight smell of sweat, the patches of dry skin where chan doesn’t moisturize as thoroughly as he should, but he gets chan like this so rarely. usually, it’s dry, heated exchanges backstage, rough hands and rougher fucks. as much as chan tries to make time for the slower, sweeter things, they’re busy people. it can’t always be done.
it’s novel, to have chan like this. wholly focused on jisung, as if there’s nowhere chan would rather be. no work to attend to, no track to perfect, no friends to meet up with between packed schedules. jisung can barely breathe.
“so sensitive,” chan says, as one tentacle slides lower and jisung’s whole body trembles. “have you ever done this before?”
“ah,” jisung breathes out. feels the wet, gentle press at his hole. “no, no. hyung’s my—my first, oh.”
it’s the truth, in a sense. chan was jisung’s first, and this is a first in another way entirely. a first straight out of jisung’s horniest wet dreams.
“i, hyung,” jisung tries again. chan hovers so close to him, noses barely brushing, that jisung has no hope of trying to see what’s going on. he can only lie still and take it, fevered from the inside as the first tentacle pushes into him, slick, so much cooler that it’s like ice reaching up into him. “oh, god.”
“good?” chan asks, soft. kisses each of his cheeks in turn.
“cold,” jisung whimpers.
“you feel so—” chan groans, nipping at jisung’s neck, nosing behind his ear. later, jisung will have to ask chan to explain in detail how the exchange of sensation works, between him and his tentacles.
“hyung,” jisung says. chan rubs his thumb against jisung’s rim, not quite breaching, but certainly pushing. “what…?”
“hyung wants to fuck you, baby,” chan says. “can’t do that if they get there first.”
“i don’t understand,” jisung breathes, helpless to the way the tentacle worms deeper, the way chan’s thumb pushes into him, stretching him that much wider and pressing the writhing motions from the tentacle right to jisung’s walls. “i, hyung…”
“it’s okay,” chan murmurs. “it’s alright, just let hyung take care of you. hyung will make you feel good.”
“o-oh-okay,” jisung manages, trembling, feeling almost ill, with how deep the tentacles seem to have gotten. chan soothes him, kisses him quiet, pushes his fingers a little deeper, working jisung open. and then chan pulls back, thumbing at jisung’s lower lip, and another tentacle slips into his mouth, thin-tipped and damp, over-sweet. jisung swallows around it, lets his mouth fall open to give the wandering thing free reign, only gags a little when more appear to join in.
“you look so,” chan starts, staring down at jisung. he pulls his fingers free, and the tentacles are quick to replace them, plunging in and making jisung gasp. chan steps back, kicking himself free of his clothes before joining jisung again, curling over him, observing him. “god, jisung. want to ruin you.”
jisung can’t string a thought together. everything’s so wet, and when he sucks on the tentacles in his mouth, the sweetest sugar-water nectar flows free, addictive and overwhelming. chan’s hands on him, holding him together, pressing him back into shape, burning everywhere they touch.
and the thing about the tentacles that jisung hadn’t realized, had never even thought about, is that they’re much more flexible than fingers are. when chan works him open, usually, it’s all slow patience, chan working his fingers into him one at a time, half an inch at a time, waiting for jisung to relax, to loosen around him before he can push that next increment further, and they’re constrained by the bones and ligaments and muscles of chan’s hand, which can only be contorted into so many different shapes, his fingers arranged only in so many different ways.
the tentacles have no such restriction. already they’ve worked him up to three, finger-slender and achingly deep and not nearly enough to feel full. it should be too soon—it is too soon—but jisung feels the way the tentacles expand anyway, twined together and pushed apart by a fourth pressing in, tangling itself into the knot, stretching him further by sheer force. entirely different from anything jisung’s felt before, the inexorable force of it, unrelenting against his insides and rippling deeper and deeper, all the way up to his lungs—
jisung moans, tugging against the tentacles that restrain his wrists, hopeless. they’re as strong as chan is, which means they can pin him without even trying. his every sound is mutated by his mouthful of tentacles, coiling up, probing the insides of his cheeks and writhing along his teeth and under his tongue, curling at the back of his mouth and secreting that same sickly sweet fluid all the while. jisung’s whole mouth is sticky with it, nectar dripping from his lips around the bulbous mass of flesh, wet and gummy on his chin, his cheeks, up into his nose, and he can barely breathe.
“you,” chan pants. “fucking hell, hannie. you look—you look—like you’ve just—spent hours giving out free blowjobs at a glory hole. holy shit.”
jisung twitches, whines. chan swipes his fingers through a bit of the mess, scoops it and holds it up so jisung can see how it webs between his fingers, sticky and glossy and a little translucent. it looks like cum, he realizes, with a gasp so thick, clogged up with the stuff, that he chokes on it. his vision goes blurry.
“want—god,” chan gasps. another tentacle pushes into him, stretching him forcibly wider. jisung whines, hiccuping, choking on another wet sob. it hurts, he can’t possibly take any more, can’t possibly handle what chan thinks he’s capable of handling, and the constant motion inside of him, the writhing and twisting that makes him almost nauseous, nearly too much sensation to even process—jisung can’t breathe. “jisungie, you—take it so well. so good for hyung.”
jisung curls his nails into his palms, the only control he has over his own body. he can feel himself being opened up even wider, something even bigger that can’t possibly fit alongside the tentacles already churning inside him.
and yet and yet and yet—
jisung thinks that the noise he makes would be a scream, if it weren’t muffled, gagged behind a tangled knot of tentacles. it doesn’t hurt, exactly, at least no more than anything else thus far has hurt, but it’s so much. so far beyond what jisung had thought he could take. and yet it keeps pushing, keeps pressing, tearing jisung apart.
“that’s it, baby,” chan murmurs, one hand pressing over jisung’s stomach. “you’re almost done, it’s almost in. doing so well.”
and jisung—can’t fucking breathe. and it—he’s filled up so entirely, his insides rearranged so thoroughly, there’s no—jisung doesn’t exist, only an empty vessel for chan. chan’s pleasure, chan’s enjoyment, chan’s entertainment.
“there you go,” chan says, petting jisung’s skin. “good boy, you took all of it. look at you.”
jisung mewls, helpless. bound and gagged and taken, torn so completely apart that the only thing jisung can do is feel. the thickest tentacle edges just a little deeper into him, sensation sparking all the way up jisung’s body and directly into his brain. he tries to suck in air, keeps choking on the sticky, gummy fluid the tentacles are pumping down his throat. one of chan’s hands burns a palm print into jisung’s hips, the other one petting jisung’s belly.
“could you take more?” chan asks, soft, while jisung’s whole body convulses with something that transcends even pleasure; it’s not good, exactly, only—it’s chan, so it feels right. jisung would do whatever chan wanted him to do, but he can’t say that with his mouth full. he whimpers. all the thinner tentacles withdraw, leaving jisung aching, empty even as he clenches around the thickest of them still lodged inside him. he squirms, helpless, needy. wants to ask chan for more, and he can’t, and he wants so badly that it hurts. “oh, baby.”
jisung whines again, but there’s no need to worry. chan knows him, after all, and it’s only another moment before chan is pressing into him, hot and steady and so everywhere, so entire, so all-encompassing that jisung stops breathing. he’s only aware of chan, the way chan pushes into him, stretching him wide open on his cock alongside one of the tentacles, the way chan grunts when he bottoms out.
“you’re so fucking incredible,” he murmurs, petting jisung’s hair. “you—i didn’t know if you could.”
jisung, truthfully, still isn’t sure if he can. he wriggles a little under chan, mostly pinned in place and unable to move much, but what little he is capable of only pushes him further onto chan’s cock. he’s so dizzy.
“do you feel that?” chan asks, pressing his hand to jisung’s belly and groaning. “fuck, jisungie. i can feel myself. inside you. holy shit.”
jisung knows his own cock twitches at that. the knowledge of how thoroughly chan is claiming him, altering him to his preferences, it’s—heady. it’s so much. it’s humiliating and jisung burns all over, so heated, so owned. when chan fucks him, it’s hard and—almost frantic—and chan keeps one hand pressed firmly to jisung’s stomach the whole time, so that jisung can feel the way his skin stretches and distends with every thrust, and—
like that, with the unending pressure and the tentacle’s writhing inside him and chan so close to him, enveloping him and inside of him, it doesn’t take long for jisung to come, spilling over his stomach and chan’s hand and gasping, blinking back tears, struggling to swallow. chan doesn’t stop, either, chasing his own release, coming so deep inside jisung that jisung doesn’t think they’ll ever get it out. jisung wants to beg for—for something, for more, even as chan pulls out and the thickest tentacle writhes ever-deeper and all of jisung’s words are stuck in his chest, shoved even further down, the sticky knot of tentacles stretching his mouth wide, wider, another tentacle pushing into his throat. relentless.
“so good, jisungie,” chan groans. he’s bound by his own anatomy, stuck close to jisung as his tentacles curl tight around him, inside him, but jisung wants him close. would urge him closer if he had any way of communicating with him. instead he digs his fingernails into his palms, blunt little starbursts of pain that erupt behind his eyelids, dotting his vision when he squints his eyes open to see chan. blurred over, teary, but chan still looks—resplendent.
something—something—stretches him wider. jisung jerks, struggling inasmuch as he can struggle, pinned down by seemingly infinite tentacles and chan’s hands applying pressure on his hips.
“easy,” chan says. soft. soothing. jisung’s breath comes in short little gasps around the tentacle in his throat and the fluttering panic of a strange, bulbous little mass digging its way into him. “baby, jisungie, don’t—don’t struggle, you’ll hurt yourself…”
it hurts. even chan’s cock hadn’t stretched him enough to take this, and jisung—
he whimpers. chan pets his hip, gentle. “it’s okay. it’s alright, baby, just—don’t panic, it’s okay, it’ll be over soon. you—you take it so well, look at you, so pretty. breathe with me.”
a command, at least, jisung can follow. he focuses as much as he can on matching his breathing to chan’s slow, steady pace, trying to ignore the sensation of the stretch traveling up inside him, only—there, the press of a second mass to his rim, and jisung stops breathing.
“relax,” chan murmurs. “it’ll hurt more—just relax, please, just—” he cuts himself off, looking panicked even through the blur of jisung’s tears, his pain-spotted vision. “i’m sorry, baby. i didn’t know—it’s not… there aren’t usually, um. eggs. except during—you know. breeding season. i would’ve warned you. i would’ve… not done this. i’m sorry.”
eggs. jisung whimpers again, squirming, just a little, but chan still tenses and pins him down a little harder, as if to be safe. the thickest tentacle in his mouth—jisung goes cross-eyed trying to focus on it, but he can see it now, the way the flesh of it ripples around the egg traveling down its length, the hard press of it when it reaches his lips and his mouth doesn’t open quite far enough for it to enter. terror rips through jisung’s whole body in the form of one reactive, impulsive jerk, chan rubbing his stomach and murmuring, “you can do it, baby, you can—just open up a little more, it’s okay,” even as jisung has to watch a blurry second lump slide down to bump against the first, still pressed to his lips.
chan lifts one hand to jisung’s jaw, massaging gently, fingers prying lightly at his mouth, and then—just like that, the first egg pops in, unrelenting pressure everywhere inside his mouth before just as quickly it pushes on into his throat, the rippling contraction of muscle—it’s not even close to the point right now, but chan’s tentacles must be almost entirely muscle, to move the way that they do. and jisung can’t breathe, can’t even see—so overwhelmed by sensation that his vision goes entirely black.
he blinks back into awareness to chan, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck, his hand rubbing jisung’s stomach—
his stomach. jisung’s midsection is—distended, visibly, almost nauseatingly. the tentacles are nowhere to be seen.
“hyung,” he croaks. chan startles, propping himself up over jisung on one elbow.
“don’t hurt yourself,” he murmurs. “it’s okay. i—they really did a number on you, huh?”
jisung whimpers, scrunching his eyes shut. “h… how many?”
chan audibly swallows. “i, um… a few.” jisung slants his eyes open to observe chan’s sheepish expression. “okay, um. a dozen. or so.”
“you don’t know,” jisung guesses, every voice clawing its way painfully out of his throat.
“sorry, i’m sorry,” chan murmurs, kissing him quiet. “i—lost count.”
jisung whimpers again. “how long was i…?”
“a few minutes,” chan says with all the reassurance of a promise. “i had time to clean up a little, but i didn’t—want you to be alone. if you woke up.”
“hurts,” jisung breathes out, squirming. chan’s hand presses to his stomach.
“it’s okay,” chan says sweetly. “you’re okay. you’ll get used to it, won’t you?”
“i—” jisung starts.
“your voice,” chan reminds him. jisung exhales slowly. chan is—right, probably, that continuing to speak will only make it worse. and jisung’s asking too many questions anyway. “only nod or shake your head, please, baby. did you like it?”
jisung nods, sniffling. chan settles next to him, keeping his hand steady over jisung’s stomach. like this, it’s impossible to see the distention itself, only chan’s hand and jisung’s skin. jisung forces himself to breathe, and chan’s other hand pets through his hair.
“darling,” chan murmurs. “you’re so perfect for hyung. do you need anything?”
jisung shakes his head. chan kisses his cheek.
“get some sleep, baby.”
and what else can jisung do, except exactly that?
***
jisung squirms, uncomfortable, arm over his stomach.
“eat this,” chan says, pushing a bowl of rice porridge across the counter. jisung pokes it around the bowl with his spoon.
“how long did you say?”
chan sighs. “i don’t know, jisung. i’ve never done this before. my best guess is between a few days and a week, but i can’t be certain.”
jisung sighs.
chan pauses his cooking to lean on the counter, looking a little too steadily at jisung. “do you hate it so much?”
and it isn’t—that jisung hates it, exactly. it’s an uncomfortable extra weight and distressing to see in the mirror, the way his body no longer looks like his own—never mind the fact that, though it can be hidden well enough under jisung’s usual hoodies, he’s terrified of the conversation to be had if he has to go back to the stylists before the eggs come out of him, and they try to put him in the crop tops and cinched waists they love so much.
chan clicks his tongue. “eat, hannie.”
jisung forces his trembling fingers to curl around his spoon again. “hyung, i—”
“eat,” says chan again, a little more forcefully.
jisung gives up and shovels porridge into his mouth, and doesn’t stop until the bowl is scraped clean, so that chan can’t argue when he finally says, “tell me again why you did it.”
“i didn’t mean to,” chan says, overly defensive. “i didn’t know they would, or i would’ve warned you.”
“but you knew they could.”
“of course i knew,” chan says. “but i—they’ve never, not off-cycle.”
jisung huffs. only a beat later chan drapes himself over his back, leaning forward to kiss jisung’s jaw.
“are you mad at me, baby?”
“not at you,” jisung admits. “i just—i feel ugly.”
“you’re not ugly,” chan says. “how could you be ugly, pregnant with hyung’s babies?”
jisung has to drop his head to the counter to keep from making the absolutely wretched noise that tries to escape him.
“do you believe me?” chan needles. “my beautiful, beautiful baby.”
“yes,” jisung grits out through his teeth. “yes, god, hyung, i believe you.”
“good boy,” chan says, and jisung wishes he could regret everything.
***
“hyung,” jisung whimpers, digging his fingers into chan’s arm. it’s only chan’s strength that keeps him upright against the terrible, awful pain that sears through him.
“what—now?” chan stutters, sounding nervous. “jisungie, we’re in public.”
and not by jisung’s choice, either. if jisung could have moped in bed for the several days chan predicted it would take, it would’ve been perfectly fine by him, but he barely got in one full day of moping before chan dragged him outside for a damned walk, of all things, and now jisung is bracing himself against waves of pain while changbin makes convenience store ramen a few feet away.
“okay, okay,” chan says softly. he raises his voice for changbin, closest, and hyunjin, who’s staked out a claim over a picnic table. “guys, i’m gonna walk jisungie back home.”
hyunjin’s face pinches in concern. it wouldn’t be the first time jisung’s anxiety has gotten the better of him, so it’s not like this sudden change in plans is completely out of character.
“c’mon,” chan says. “come, jisungie, i’m with you. just—don’t collapse on me, okay?”
jisung grimaces, clinging to chan. he’s not a stranger to pain, really, but there’s something entirely new about the way his guts are suddenly trying to wring themselves dry inside him. “hurts, hyung,” he gasps out.
“i know,” chan says. “i know, baby, you’re doing so well, though. we’re almost there. one more step, there you go.”
and jisung—doesn’t know how, exactly, but chan gets them home. jisung collapses into his bed as soon as chan lets go of him, writhing around to get comfortable and nothing seems to work—
“i’m taking your clothes off now,” chan warns, and jisung wants to scream. he grabs chan’s wrist and squeezes, just to delay him while he struggles to find the words, but chan—chan understands anyway. “okay, sorry. just the pants—the pants have to come off, jisungie, but i can leave the sweatshirt, is that okay?”
jisung hisses against the deliberate effort it takes to remove his hand from chan’s wrist, but he manages it, and chan pulls his pants down, leaving a gentle trail of kisses on jisung’s thighs.
“can hyung stretch you open a bit?” chan asks, already reaching for lube. “i don’t want it to hurt.”
jisung whimpers, nodding, lets his legs fall where chan pushes them.
“good, baby,” chan praises. click of the lube bottle, chan’s fingers wet and cold and prodding at where jisung is still, truthfully stretched a little too open for comfort. and not stretched enough for—for—
jisung gasps as chan presses his fingers in, stretching jisung wider, working him open.
“you’re so…” chan starts, and cuts himself off with a shudder. “i could almost fit my whole hand in here.”
jisung makes an absolutely pathetic noise that he decides, retroactively, not to acknowledge. “hyung…”
“breathe,” chan says. “come on, baby, you took it so well. you can take this too.”
he can feel the way the first egg drops inside him. chan presses a little on his stomach, massaging it down farther, farther—
chan abruptly pulls his fingers free, not that jisung’s thinking about that when his entire skull is vibrating in his head, his body electrified, his heart stopped. he thinks maybe he screams, but it’s impossible to tell.
and then with a final burst of white and the heavy pressure of chan’s hand on him, the first egg pops out.
“good boy,” chan murmurs. “only a few more to go.”
***
jisung comes, hard, clenching down around the third egg.
***
by egg number six, jisung can’t help thrashing, overstimulated and sobbing.
“please, baby, you’re doing so well,” chan tries, “you’re almost done, just…”
“i can’t,” jisung cries. he can’t even see chan anymore, vision so blurry, and every time he moves the egg rubs up against him, inside him, so much sensation that it hurts. “i can’t hyung oh god please don’t make me please—”
“you have to,” chan says. “jisungie, they have to come out, you’re so close, just—”
“i won’t,” jisung whimpers, but chan’s already pressing down and the egg slides out of him.
***
chan adds more lube, between each egg. by the eighth, jisung is soaked, dripping, practically swimming in the stuff. the egg drags over his prostate and jisung’s dick gives a halfhearted little cough of an orgasm, mostly in protest. jisung scrunches his eyes shut, exhausted.
***
“you can’t make me,” jisung says, messy-hungry-needy.
“yes, i can,” chan says, and makes him.
***
the eleventh egg is a dream. look at you, says chan’s voice through the haze. so perfect, darling, giving birth to all of hyung’s babies.
if it isn’t real, jisung doesn’t want to wake up.
***
the final egg slides out into a puddle of lube, but jisung is brought back to awareness instead by chan’s sticky hand on his cheek, his lips on jisung’s.
“did so well for me, darling,” chan murmurs. “it’s okay, it’s over. you can rest now.”
***
jisung rests.
***
for how long, he couldn’t possibly say. he wakes a few times, into a hazy-blurry kind of world that he can never stay in for very long before he loses his grasp.
and then, all at once, his lungs swell up with air. his nerves spark. his eyes open.
chan is still here. petting jisung’s hair. they’re in chan’s room now. jisung is all too familiar with the sensation of the mattress swallowing him up. the funny little stain in the corner of the ceiling. the subtle glow and hum of all of chan’s electronics.
jisung doesn’t want to move. he’s safe here, and warm, wrapped up in chan’s body heat and chan’s clothes and chan’s blankets. he’s clean, too, and dry. all chan’s work, it has to be. chan isn’t the type to let anyone else lay hands on jisung, even for a purpose as innocuous as this.
“are you awake?” chan asks. jisung hums. his throat feels sore. scraped raw by the events of the last twenty-four hours. “you were in and out a bit, there. i got you to take some motrin at one point, but…”
here, chan trails off. jisung says, “doesn’t hurt,” and it isn’t a lie. every part of his body aches, bone deep, but he knows what pain feels like when it’s present in his body, and right now there is none to be found.
chan lets some of his tension go, at last. “you’re so incredible, hannie.”
“w’perfect, hyung,” jisung slurs out. something inside him is so deeply sated that jisung feels—entire. reinvented. whole in a way he hasn’t felt since, possibly, the moment he met chan and knew, deeply, fundamentally, that his life could never be the same. “‘gain?”
“absolutely not,” chan says, but jisung can hear his smile even as his eyes drift uncontrollably shut again. “i thought you were gonna kill me, baby.”
jisung hums. “maybe no eggs. but—”
“we will table this discussion,” says chan, too firm for argument, “for a day when i trust you to make decisions unhindered by your blind lust for disturbing anime tropes.”
“disturbing anime tropes,” jisung mumbles. “you’re the one walking around with them, what does that make you?”
“your dream come true,” chan says, entirely too joyful. jisung bites his fingers. “ouch. you stubborn little gremlin.”
“i forgot,” jisung says, squirming to sit up. chan pins him too neatly in place. “i did a terrible job of pretending to be a virgin, didn’t i?”
chan goes pink above him. “i—you didn’t have to—and anyway, you were gagged most of the time.”
“well, we’ll have to try again soon,” jisung says. chan sighs. “hyung, you can’t say no! this is important to me.”
“to you,” chan sputters.
“yeah,” jisung agrees. “i mean, who wouldn’t want their terribly strong, beefy boyfriend to absolutely ruin them for anyone else during their very first ever sexual ex—”
chan claps a hand over his mouth. “enough. you’re supposed to be resting. you can’t rest if you talk me into fucking you again.”
jisung plays at being well-behaved for the thirty seconds it takes to convince chan to move his hand away, then says, “i wouldn’t be opposed.”
“jisung,” says chan, exasperated.
“okay, okay,” jisung says. “but, hyung—”
“don’t…”chan starts.
“i love you,” jisung says. all in a rush and helpless to the way his heart clenches. it’s not at all what he means to say, but it is, probably, what he needs to say. chan softens.
“i love you too, baby,” he says. “there’s no universe imaginable where i don’t.”
“i know,” jisung says, managing smugness despite how his fondness swells up inside him, overwhelming and all-encompassing. jisung has never been so in love.
“brat,” chan says, and kisses him again.