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Wonwoo didn't sound like this when he was with Mingyu.
Not that it could ever sound the same as when Mingyu was pressed to his body given they were currently in their own seperate rooms, their doors ajar for the sole purpose of letting Mingyu hear how Chan rode Wonwoo. Chan made Wonwoo small. Not belittling— not quite. Just softer, contained, all of his focus honed in one direction.
Chan didn't suck cock like Mingyu, either. Mingyu warmed Wonwoo's cock when he was bored of watching Wonwoo game, long and slow, only licking and sucking when Wonwoo's erection flagged. He liked the sticky stretch of time, the dull ache in his jaw, the way Wonwoo occasionally petted his hair when he had a break in combat.
Chan made a show of it, teasing by playing the role of personal porn star perfectly, then laughing when Mingyu fell for it. Somehow always retaining some measure of control, even when Mingyu was fucking into his mouth and calling him a good boy. As much as he enjoyed being cherished and used, Chan's eyes were always sparkling, teasing with certain knowledge: you're lucky I'm indulging you.
Here, now, Wonwoo gasped. Chan murmured something at him, the warm, goading inflection clear even when the words were not.
(Wonwoo was probably wearing his glasses. He had to, if he wanted to see anything. It meant Mingyu felt like he'd never really had a morning quickie with him — something they did frequently at the dorms when going to the same schedule just to take care of the morning wood — because Wonwoo always seemed just that much more focused and put together compared to Mingyu's bedhead mumblings. Did it feel that way to Chan, or was he immune to that, having come in wearing street clothes? Had he even turned on the lights as he'd climbed into Wonwoo's bed?)
Chan made that— that noise again, the one that had woken Mingyu up. That high, swooping sigh that trailed into laughter. Wonwoo said something, just too low for Mingyu to decipher the sounds into recognizable words, and then they both laughed, bright and bursting.
Mingyu liked to pretend to be quiet, with Chan. He liked to muffle their noises with kisses, hushed and giggling like it was a secret. He liked to suck on Chan’s fingers, and leave hickies on his chest, and bite his own lip. Playing at consideration was far more fun than doing it for real, though, because by the time he was punching the breath out of Chan or Chan was teasing him to make him whine, they didn’t have to worry about being quiet at all.
Mingyu shifted his knee, pressing his hardening cock against the mattress.
He could tell Chan was riding Wonwoo because the noises were slow; he could tell Chan was riding Wonwoo because Chan had once loudly declared that Wonwoo clearly had no idea what to do with his dick and he needed someone to teach him how to fuck better. He’d probably ridden Wonwoo before that, but that was when Mingyu was certain; that was when Mingyu had been told.
A breath. Silence. The shade of a moan. Silence.
Chan could be a merciless bottom. He knew his body perfectly, knew exactly how to clench and roll and pose. Mingyu could see him perfectly in his mind: his long, wavy hair that he kept having to rake out of his face; his bright, perfect smile; the way his abs flexed and tightened with each motion. Wonwoo cursed. Mingyu wondered where his hands were— spread wide on Chan’s waist? Curled around Chan’s bouncing cock? Or perhaps Chan held him down by the wrists, taking everything he wanted.
It was maddening. A stronger man would close his door, turn on some white noise, and go back to sleep.
Mingyu kept his breaths shallow, straining to hear every protracted detail they were giving him.
Skin slapped together, lewd and wet.
Mingyu let out a long breath and worked his hand into his underwear. The angle was weird, lying on his stomach. The elastic waistband caught on his arm, stifling his movements as much as lying on his front did. He didn’t want to roll over, because that would ruin the game of pretending his hot roommate brought home a hot guy and neither of them could keep a handle on how loud they were being. Mingyu stroked himself slowly, as if they were sharing a room and he had to pretend to be asleep while Chan teased Wonwoo.
(Was it a tease, if you liked it? If it made you melt? Mingyu had never been sure if it was his place to ask that sort of thing— that would also ruin the game.)
His pillow smelled like his hair products, which meant it also kind of smelled like Wonwoo, depending on who had run out and borrowed some. Wonwoo’s bed probably smelled a lot like him, since he’d slept in it the night before to get some early morning cuddling in before their schedule. They probably cuddled more than they had sex, but the distinction felt immaterial to Mingyu: they liked touching each other, of course they liked touching each others’ dicks. Joshua had used an English euphemism once that Mingyu had taken a liking to simply because it reminded him of Wonwoo: a roll in the hay. It felt fun, and cheerful, and puppyish to Mingyu.
Wonwoo let out a long, ragged groan. He was getting close, holding himself back for Chan’s sake.
The noises sped up, and so did Mingyu’s stroking. He fucked into his fist, enjoying the sleek softness of his pillow, and the cool air playing over where the covers had slipped off one leg, and the almost-pain of his tip grinding against fabric. He wouldn’t be able to handle it for too long, but for now it was a bright knife’s edge of sensation, sending him spiraling up toward the peak.
Mingyu liked a little pain. He wondered if Chan ever slapped Wonwoo the way they slapped him, his cheek warm and prickling from the blow. It would be hard to tell the difference between that and the sound of Wonwoo fucking up into Chan, hips slapping his ass.
Wonwoo probably didn’t need it, was the thing. Not like Mingyu, who sometimes required a bright spike of sensation to anchor himself to. He rolled his hips, grinding hard into the wet patch on the front of his briefs.
Chan was getting breathy. Mingyu stroked himself harder and faster without thinking about it, totally Pavlovian. That was the best thing about having sex with Chan: right at the very end, right as he crested over, it stopped feeling like he was indulging you. The earnest lust that shone in his eyes in those moments was almost as gratifying as making him come.
Mingyu played his part of the game well. He listened, and jerked off alone, and thought about what it would be like if they were fucking him instead. He muffled his noises in his pillow, because then they would know he was awake, and stop.
(They probably wouldn’t, not at this stage, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. Not before they got loud, not before he heard them come, not before the sharp burn in his sensitive tip resolved into anything worthwhile.)
They sounded good together. They probably looked good together, too, but none of them were inclined to sit in on the action. This was something else, some kind of emotional masochism, a satisfaction that lived in pretending the others didn’t exist— or if they did, that they didn’t care. That would change if Mingyu watched, even if he wasn’t allowed to touch. They all knew better than most how much a single person could change the way you interacted, even without cameras.
If he hadn’t already modulated his breathing, Mingyu would’ve missed it when Chan hissed, Come for me, and Mingyu was few things if not agreeable. It didn’t hit him immediately like it did Wonwoo, his deep voice sliding higher as he moaned through it. Mingyu rolled onto his side, shoved his underwear down just far enough to take his cock out, and let his hand fly over his shaft.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Chan commanded breathlessly, like he was Wonwoo’s hyung and it would be rude to refuse.
Wonwoo made a strangled noise of oversensitivity. Mingyu’s cock throbbed with need and he held his breath to keep from making too much noise when Chan tipped over the edge, his sharp cry taking Mingyu with him. Fireworks burst in the dark behind Mingyu’s eyes, his jaws clamped shut against the sound of utter relief that wanted to rip from his throat. Cum spilled over his wrist, as hot as shame.
There was always a little shame, after. That was the whole point of the game, the thing that drove Mingyu to be better whenever Chan came late at night and ended up in his bed rather than Wonwoo’s.
There was more laughing, more muffled giggling, wet sounds that could have been Wonwoo’s cock slipping out of Chan’s ass or particularly enthusiastic kissing. Low voices.
Mingyu wondered if they ever talked about him.
Chan went to the bathroom. Mingyu could imagine, that, too: his ginger steps and fucked-out bliss, smile loose and easy. Mingyu cherished those moments.
And after he’d cleaned up, on his way back to Wonwoo's room, Chan slowed as he passed Mingyu's door.
“Goodnight, Mingyu-hyung.”
Hot humiliation squirmed in Mingyu’s chest, his spent dick twitching once more. Mingyu imagined getting up, pulling Chan into his bed and making him tell him all about fucking Wonwoo. He imagined doing it in the hallway, so Wonwoo could hear Chan whispering about how good he’d felt inside him, how obedient he could be once tamed.
But that wasn’t how they worked: Chan only ever slept with one of them at a time. Mingyu would have to wait, watching Chan be energetic and innocent onstage, until Chan snuck into their apartment and knocked on his open door. Mingyu liked the waiting, if he was honest with himself. He relished the electric crackle of potential building into a physical force of desire.
“Goodnight, Channie. Sleep well.”
Above all, the game was about denial.