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When You Hold Me, I'm Alive

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The very first time they'd fucked, it'd been after some concert, concert-exhausted, concert-high, concert-desperate, tangled together in bleach-white hotel sheets, in some country Jongdae couldn't remember, their clandestine little bottle of lube stamped with instructions written in a language Jongdae couldn’t read, speak.

It’d been a long time coming, the fucking, the consummation, a final, desperate, damning resolution to all their thick, thick tension, built up after months and months and months of teasing around it, countless instances of starting and stopping, stumbling forward but always fucking skittering back whenever they got too close, kissed too deep, touched, wanted too much, always too fucking scared, hyung, always too fucking hesitant, hyung, never know how to seize what you want, hyung, before finally, fucking finally fucking crescendo, Joonmyun finally fucking snapping, relenting, fucking, treasuring him somehow all the while, too.

And that very first time, their first time together, concert-exhausted, concert-high, concert-desperate as it was, it was sweet. Sweet as all things with Joonmyun tend to be. Soft, too. Sentimental, too. Cheesy, too. Heart-stutteringly earnest, too. Joonmyun’s kisses and touches and words equal parts reverence and possession and reassurance and dark, devastating promise. Joonmyun meeting his eyes through every thrust, Jongdae grinding back on his cock, wringing his hands through his hairspray-tacky hair, goading him into making it less sweet, less soft, less sentimental, less cheesy, less earnest, less the aching, aching need pounding through his body. Trembling, moaning, writhing all the while at all the awful, beautiful things Joonmyun kept stamping into his throat, cheekbone, sternum, all rough and low with arousal and heart-aching affection. How beautiful Jongdae was. How amazing Jongdae felt. And he’d dreamed of this, and he’d had no fucking idea—Jongdae, fuck. He just had to had to had to tell him, keep telling him how good it felt, had to, Jongdae, how could anyone feel this good, it was impossible how perfect this was. He was so beautiful. He was a dream come true. He was a fucking gift.

Joonmyun, he still says it every time they fuck. Says even when they don’t. Even when it’s a rushed hand job in the dorm showers. When it’s Jongdae on his knees in the storage closet by the dance practice room. Even that one time when it was Jongdae’s fingers sneaking beneath Joonmyun’s loose, international travel pants, teasing, teasing, teasing him open around two knuckles before the others shuffled inside. Even, even, even when it’s just lazy, open-mouthed kisses in the early morning or late night, when it’s the weight of Joonmyun’s head on his shoulder, even even even when Jongdae feels especially fragile with affection.

A gift, a fucking gift Jongdae, everything he could ever want, everything anyone could ever want. So perfect, how was it even possible.

And he’s saying it now, too. Whispering it between achingly tender kisses to Jongdae’s temple and throat as he slides besides him on the already-rumpled bed. Sweet, still. Soft still. Sentimental and cheesy and heart-stutteringly earnest still. But he hides it better, channels it better now at least in front of the others. Knows to speak and soothe with succulent kisses and searing touches and lingering bites.

But Jongdae’'s a gift still—his gift still, every time Joonmyun touches him. And spread open on the mattress like this, naked, with all of them—every single one of them enraptured, fucking transfixed, huddling near his body like worshippers of yore, he feels like a gift. Their gift, too. For their eyes, mouths, fingers, cocks.

He feels loved and wanted and powerful—already, and they haven’t even begun.

“They're all watching you," Joonmyun tells him—unnecessarily— whispering the observation along his jaw, quiet and rough and darkly promising, as his fingers skim Jongdae’s throat, his sternum, skip down the valley of his stomach. Jongdae's insides twist in tight, painful, heady arousal, and Jongdae knows Joonmyun can probably feel the rapid flutter of his pulse like this, see the helpless goosebumps blooming across his arms, feel the quiet tension thrumming through his body.

He hasn’t—they haven’t even done anything.

But fuck, he wants it so badly.

“I know,” he says. And his fingers curl into tight fists, and he swallows heavily as Joonmyun presses even closer. His nose skims Jongdae's throat, the kiss absent but heated, a restrained sort of want and misplaced possession in it.

"They all want you,” he rasps.

"I know."

And he does, can fucking feel it, the palpable weight of want and need and affection. Heat prickles beneath his skin, and he feels so dizzyingly powerful with the realization.

A gift. A gift. A gift.

Theirs, at least for tonight.

And yes, this is exactly what he wanted. All eyes on him, eventually all hands on him, too, touches, kisses, orgasms all just for him.

“Start,” he demands. “Right now.”

And Jongin—the first, he'd been designated—stumbles forward to claim him. Fumbling, fidgeting there near Jongdae's spread, bare thighs, he stares for three, four beats, before Kyungsoo’s fingers at shoulder, Jongdae’s fingers around his trembling wrist coax him forward.

And oh, it’s so gratifyingly, painfully, endearingly obvious how much he wants this—wants him. His cheeks are flushed, ears red, pulse rapid and restless beneath Jongdae's thumb. His legs shake beneath the worn denim of his shorts.

"Can I—?" He swallows, bites his plush lower lip, and Jongdae drags him downwards for a kiss before Jongin has another chance to second guess himself.

It’s wet and warm and soft and sweet, and Jongdae can taste the nervousness in his mouth, can feel the hesitance in the glide of his full, fucking perfect lips. But Jongdae scrapes his teeth against Jongin’s bottom lip, moans shakily into his mouth at the plush give, and Jongin stops second-guessing himself in this, too, moaning shakily, too, bumbling forward to wind his trembling fingers through Jongdae’s hair, chafe Jongdae’s bare hip with the coarse denim of his tight, tight jeans. Bold, emboldened, he curls his tongue into Jongdae’s mouth with a heart-aching enthusiasm that leaves Jongdae panting, arching more and more into him.

And it’s hot, too. Deep, too. Dirty, too.

Jongdae moans again, shuddering heavily and in encouragement as Jongin’s fingers slide around to his shoulder, then his collarbone, his chest. Jongin's fingers tiptoe down his bare stomach, soft but heavy with intent, trembling with nerves or desire or both. Jongdae pushes up into the touch, and Jongin—bold, emboldened anew—wraps his soft, shaking fingers around Jongdae's half-hard cock. Aching, aching relief.

Jongdae grinds into the clumsy stroke once, twice, before humming shakily and pushing him away. Jongin staggers back, tense, tense, tense. "I don't remember giving you permission to use your fingers," Jongdae warns, and Jongin curls smaller at the soft derision. Tense tense tense and so, so beautiful, so, so achingly corruptible, so, so eager to please.

Jongdae soothes the barb with a honeyed touch to Jongin's face, a lingering brush of his thumb against Jongin’s parted lips. And Jesus, his mouth, those painfully soft, painfully plush, painfully ruddy lips. Jongin's breath is wet and labored and hot against the pad of his finger. Jongdae grazes his cheekbone, and Jongin watches him through his dark, heavy lashes. "You can use your mouth, though, Nini.” And Jongin shudders so monumental, so pretty. “Can use that pretty, pretty mouth.”

And oh, once more, he is quick to adjust, falling readily to his knees, curling forward into Jongdae’s touch. Lips still quivering with tension, he kisses up Jongdae’s thigh, makes a soft, surprised sound when Jongdae’s legs drop on his shoulders, but he keeps, keeps, keeps kissing, higher, higher, higher, wetter, wetter, wetter, hotter, hotter, hotter.

It’s a gift, too, his mouth. Was honestly made for this. Full and plush and wet and soft and hot and so, so eager. His lips drag and catch on the base of Jongdae’s cock, tiptoe along his shaft, and his breath is searing, tongue wet and sinful, clumsy, inelegant as it is, circling the flared head of Jongdae’s aching, pulsing, pulsing cock.

“Nini,” Jongdae praises, and Jongin’s lips part enough to suckle. His eyes are dark, lashes lush, mouth so, so, so perfect, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, in pliant supplication. Better, somehow than Jongdae had ever dreamed.

“Please,” Jongin says, the syllables skating along the flared tip of Jongdae’s cock, twisting through his body, and Jongdae winds his fingers through Jongin’s dark hair, urges him to take just a little bit more, more, more. Jongin moans. “Please, hyung. Jongdae hyung,” he repeats, after sliding forward once, swallowing heavily, pulling back, panting. And Jongdae is in love with the way his voice cracks and breaks over the syllables. “Let me—show me how to use my mouth.”

Biting back a groan, Jongdae tilts his hips up, out, drags his thumbs across the furrow of Jongin’s brows, breathes in quiet, quiet warning. He eases him into it with gentle thrusts, deliberately leisurely, deliberately slow, but somehow still just right. He appreciates the plush drag of his soft lips, the little gasps spilling from his pretty mouth—a dream, his mouth is a fucking dream, and he makes up for lack of finesse with eagerness, with natural talent. Wants to please, wants to learn, moans when Jongdae slides his fingers through his hair to cup his jawline, groaning in encouragement, praising him in soft, hitching pants. Jongin's right hand drops from its perch on Jongdae's thigh, slides down his stomach, tellingly disappearing. And fucking fuck.

Jongdae's lashes flutter heavily in an effort to stay open. Because  he really doesn't want to miss this. But as he tosses his head back, blinks through his painfully aroused haze, he sees Sehun—and yes, yes, he'd nearly forgotten.

Together, they'd both said, and Jongdae had agreed that—together.

Sehun, he is touching himself, too, absent and over his pants, too, and Jongdae beckons him forward with a pant, strains to twists fingers in his hair and tug him downwards as soon as Sehun is close enough. He stumbles forward, bends in half, and Jongdae kisses him hard, dirty, deep, too, continues to press forward into Jongin’s mouth.

Sehun’s hand stumbles down his ribs, around his waist.

And Jongdae likes the sloppy, clumsy eager way they both move, use their mouths, the sloppy, clumsy, eager way Sehun pets over his body.

"Both make hyung feel so good," Jongdae croons into Sehun’s chin, purposefully breathy and hot, loud enough for Jongin to hear, too, loud enough to have Jongin moaning softly around the cock in his mouth. “Knew you’d make me feel so good,” he continues.

And Sehun’s hands tighten, fingernails biting into the sensitive skin of Jongdae’s lower back. And Jongin bobs faster, without prompting, the sound wet and filthy and sloppy and so, so eager, swallows deeper, nearly, nearly, nearly to the constricting edge of Jongdae’s cock ring.

“Can make you feel just as good, Sehunnie,” he whispers, hooking his fingers into Sehun’s belt loops then fanning them in an appraising caress. He gets a feel for the heat and heft and weight of him, and Sehun chokes on a whimper, all the long, lithe lines of him curling forward into the touch.

Between his legs, Jongin grows even braver, more comfortable, moaning as he sucks more heavily, lets the head of Jongdae’s cock stretch against all the soft, wet, hot, hot parts of his mouth. And Jongdae wants to fuck his jaw aching, his mouth ruined, his eyes teary , wants and needs and aches—but not yet, he decides breathlessly, and not with him. Jongdae is tense, taut, taut, taut from holding back, tempering the desire with the teasing, light way he touches down Sehun’s body, dancing over the jutted denim over his cock, then along the strained cotton of his boxers, finally over the warm solidity of his cock.

Sehun’s all bird bones and impossibly sharp angles, and there’s something gorgeous about the way he curls forward gracelessly, falling into his touch with the breathiest hyung, asking for more and breaking when he's indulged. Long and lithe and beautiful even as he grinds his hips sharp and clumsy into Jongdae’s teasing touch.

He's no virgin. Jongdae has heard him, his high, hitched cries so when the late night makes him too bold, too desperate, but he even then he’s still so painfully responsive, moaning softly, shivering acutely even though Jongdae is barely fucking touching him. And fuck, Jongdae wants to make him cry, drag it out until he's a trembling pile of goo. But not tonight, or not with him.

“Hyung," Sehun gasps, when Jongdae twists enough to cup and curl lazy and loose. And Sehun he’s so heavy in his palm, long and thick, too, pulsing helplessly with every stroke.

And oh, Jongdae knows why Kyungsoo voice had sounded so rough and ruined the morning after their first trip abroad.

“Hyung," Jongin parrots, speaking against his cock.

"Ever had it before?" he whispers, loving the way Jongin’s soft, plush lips drag as he pulls off, slow and savoring. “Jongin?” he clarifies.

Sehun shakes his head, looks downward with the most desperate longing in his dark, dazed eyes. And Jongin, sensing it, or falling fully into his role as the good, good boy that Jongdae’s entire body aches for, sucks again, pauses to let the jut of Jongdae’s cock press obscenely against his cheek. And his enthusiasm more than makes up for his bumbling awkwardness.

He’s honestly a natural. Mouth really was made to be fucked, and Jongdae breathes the praise in the next breath.

He doesn’t miss the way that Jongin moans, soft but genuine, at his words. He twists into Jongdae’s fingers again, trembling so prettily at Jongdae’s encouraging tugs. And Sehun’s sharp, sharp hip bones bump against Jongdae’s arm.

“You think about me, too, right, Sehunnie?” As he tips forward, allows himself one lick, groaning at the graceless way Sehun’s stomach tenses through the caress, the graceless way his breath hitches and shuddery hips jump. Liking it to much to deny himself, he mouths again over the engorged head, twists to lick along the shaft, trembles as Jongin follows his lead, succulent and slow and still so achingly slow. “Lie to me if you have to, Sehunnie. It’s my birthday.”

But he swallows before he has a chance to respond, mouth pliant, tongue fluttering. He pulls back, swirls, cruel, and Sehun whimpers, his eyes flickering restlessly between Jongdae’s and Jongin’s mouths. Pretty and overwhelmed. Lip catching beneath his teeth, helpless, broken little whimpers still pushing somehow through.

Sehun wants him, wants them. And Jongdae relishes in the heady, intoxicating power of it. The gift of that, too.

Starve for me, he thinks. Pant for me, stumble forward and beg for me. Earn it from me.

But he honestly can’t ever deny the maknaes. Wants it too much to deny himself either.

"Gonna come?" But it's too breathless, too fond to be a taunt. "Gonna come while sucking me off?"

Jongin whimpers around his cock, eyebrows furrowed, eyes glassy, lips so painfully, painfully red and swollen.

"Gonna—fuck—gonna come, too? Watching? Imagining it's you?"

And Sehun nearly sobs. His hand claw at Jongdae's shoulders, strong, strong, clumsy, clumsy fingers kneading helplessly into the nape of his neck, scraping over his scalp. The sting makes him hiss, makes him burn. A gift. A fucking gift. All he’s ever wanted.

Jongdae strokes him faster, curses, tips his cheek against Sehun's trembling thigh as he skates his fingers faster, faster, tighter, tighter. He wrenches his free hand through Jongin's hair, urges him back down, jerks when he laves at his erection.

"Jongdae hyung—" one of them pants. “Hyung, please, I—"

"Fuck," someone says.

"Oh God," someone else interjects.

And oh yes, that's what makes it his gift. And yes, that's why it's perfect even though he's just barely started, Jongdae barely, barely started to appreciate it.

Jongdae molds his fingers into the nape of Jongin's neck as he whispers filthy things to him. How pretty he is. How good it feels. How he’s the best dongsaeng that Jongdae could ever imagine. Listens so, so well to his hyung. Learns so, so quickly how to please him just right. Sucks cock like a dream.

Jongin's shoulders roll forward, and the fingers wrapped around his own cock skate faster, sloppier, loud, wet. And he gags around Jongdae's cock, arches into the press of Jongdae's fingers, blinks up at him—at them—through tear-glistening eyelashes.

Jongdae gropes to pet Sehun, too. His hips, ass, thighs, stomach, and with his lips sealed tight around his cock, Jongdae tries to communicate how good he tastes and feels and sounds and is how much Jongdae loves him, just how pretty and perfect and pliant he is for his hyung.

And he’s even prettier when he comes. Shuddery and so, so loud and needy and responsive, like the ruined virgin that he isn't, whimpering how much he loves Jongdae hyung, how grateful he is for him, how perfect he is as Jongdae presses one last, lingering kiss to the head of his cock, as his knees tremble with the aftershocks of orgasm. He's prettiest yet for the sloppy way he stumbles to kiss him, for the broken whine he presses into Jongdae's parted lips.

"Hyung," he gasps. "Jongdae hyung."

"Jongin," he breathes back. And Sehun gasps again. "Help me with Jongin."

Sehun stumbles to his knees, kisses clumsily along Jongin's throat, pets more clumsily over Jongin's sides, slides down down down to replace Jongin's hand with his own. Jongin's lips tremble around Jongdae's cock, moan muffled but ringing, thrumming around his erection, echoing hot and deep and resounding through Jongdae's entire body.

Jongdae curses reverently, cards his fingers through Jongin's hair, meets his dark, glazed eyes. Doesn't even mind he pulls away to pant into Jongdae’s stomach as he comes, doesn’t even mind when his teeth cut on the sensitive skin of Jongdae’s inner thigh, mouth meaner than Jongdae would have ever imagined, would have ever dreamed . Jongdae doesn’t even mind even as his whole body throbs with the sharp, sharp need to come, too.

A need he can't indulge. At least not yet. Not with them.

But fuck, fuck, fuck, if it doesn't make his body throb with painful, painful arousal. Acute and so, so demanding now that he's without a distraction, without a warm, soft, eager, eager outlet.

His hands skate restlessly over the cotton sheets, the soft material catching and dragging over the callouses on his palms, and he breathes consciously past the cellular need to fucking burst .

"So good," he rasps. Then "Fuck." Then "Next."

Baekhyun, he's sliding to his knees besides them both, twisting his pretty, pretty fingers into Jongin's hair to tug him back, and Joonmyun eases Sehun away. Then Baekhyun is gliding forward, nipping at Jongdae's quaking thighs, inwards towards his knees, lips agonizingly light, tauntingly soft.

My mouth, Baekhyun had suggested when Jongdae had choreographed this. Know you want my mouth, right.

"Still?" he breathes, frayed already, shivery already, ruined by want already. And at least, they're on the same page. "My mouth, right?"

Jongdae nods shakily, and Baekhyun proceeds without further preamble, mouthing, humming as he tips forward to swirl his tongue along the saliva already there. Jongdae's cock jumps into the teasing, wet pressure. And Baekhyun moans, drags his lips slow, slow, slow, the slowest, dirtiest kiss.

Baekhyun’s lips aren't as soft, as devastatingly gorgeous, as decadently plush, and his first succulent suck is much too skilled, his eyes too dark and filthy and testing as they blink up at him from beneath his heavy lashes. And Baekhyun isn't trying to impress, isn't trying to please, knows already that he will. Knows already how to do this best.

And Baekhyun, he has a mouth that was made for this, too, maybe even made for it more . Moans around him like he wants Jongdae to remember that he wants Jongdae to be painfully, painfully, painfully aware of this fact.

And oh, Jongdae was kind, patient, indulgent with Jongin— a hyung, a good fucking hyung. His favorite, right. The one he thinks about most, right.

But he’s meaner with Baekhyun, allowed to and encouraged to be. Wrenching his fingers through his hair, digging his thumbs into the sharp hollows of his cheekbones, Jongdae thrusts into his slack, pliant mouth because he knows that Baekhyun can take it. Knows that he wants it, has it confirmed when Baekhyun’s hand stumbles down in an inelegant, over-the-pants grope of his own cock.

And oh, he looks pretty like that gagging and moaning around his cock, whining in between ruined, gasping, wet, wet hitches of his breath, pulling away to nuzzle obscenely into the coarse hair at his crotch, his white, perfect, perfect teeth hard and sharp and perfect on the thin, delicate skin there as he pants about how much he loves it. Fuck, he loves when Jongdae fucks his mouth like this.

Jongdae allows him three shuddery inhales before dragging him back, mouth first onto his cock, and Baekhyun swallows him so easily, so fucking willing and eager, moaning wet and desperate as he does.

And he really is too pretty to bear like this, so gorgeous, so decadent, eyelashes pearled with tears, lips red and swollen, throat heaving as he whines and chokes, his heavy, heady gaze burning all the while for more.

Jongdae, he readily provides. Rearing back, thrusting forward. Hard. Fast. Deep. Enough to have Baekhyun choking around every fuck forward, enough to have his long pretty fingers clawing at Jongdae's thighs to brace himself.

And it fucking hurts, how good it feels. It fucking burns.

He arches his spine, sags back, presses back into the heat, the solidity of a body at his back. He shivers helplessly at the graze of cotton, stiffen denim against his bare, goose-bumped skin. And the arms behind him, they snake around his waist, and lips—soft, small, familiar, warm—press against the nape of his neck.

“Duizhang,” Jongdae manages, tilting his head back, grazing his lips briefly against the severe cut of Yifan’s jawline. Baekhyun, at his front, sucks hard, gags briefly, demanding, jealous, entitled, hot, hot, hot in response.

And Jongdae lets his body melt back, lolls his head back against the solid breadth of Yifan’s shoulders. And oh, Yifan is so solid, so strong, so safe, so, so warm.

Jongdae stutter-grinds his ass back on the outline of his cock. Yifan hisses.

“Couldn’t wait your turn,” he teases, and Baekhyun hums in annoyance, swallows to the base again, intent, possessive, and fuck, fuck, fuck—his mouth. It makes it impossible to look away, impossible to focus on anything else.

And Yifan, he can wait his turn.

When Baekhyun pulls off to catch his breath, the sound is so filthy it skitters across Jongdae’s quivering skin, curls tight and painful in his cock.

“Want you to come,” Baekhyun confesses in a wet, wet rasp of a whimper, so filthy and ruined. And his gaze is burning, fucked out, teary, face flushed. Jongdae drags his fingers through his plush, ruined lips, down his heaving throat. Baekhyun hums again, and it’s so broken, so hot.

Yifan presses harder against his ass. Baekhyun nuzzles into his cock and whines like he’s never wanted anything more.

Baekhyun’s eyes are watering, and his lips are ruddy and fuck he’s still begging with his fucking eyes. Fuck—he still, still wants more, as much as Jongdae can manage.

Jongdae cradles his face, smooths his thumbs over the furrow of Baekhyun’s eyebrow, the flutter of his eyelashes, then thrusts again—hard, harsh, heaving.

And Baekhyun tugs his pants open, starts stroking himself faster, louder because he loves being fucked in the mouth, his breathy slick moans filtering through even the loud filthy, filthy squelch of tongue and lips and saliva on Jongdae’s cock.

“Wish you’d come down my throat or across my face,” Baekhyun moans. “Wish you’d let me, Jongdae.”

Taunting, he dips downwards again, lips teasing on the edge of Jongdae’s cock ring. And they honestly hadn’t discussed this part. How many orgasms Jongdae thought he had in him, how many others could claim.

But Baekhyun continues to nuzzle, lips parting enough for his tongue, his teeth. Sharp, molten heat jolts through Jongdae’s body. And his toes curl, fingers fist, cock jerks, skin aches, aches, aches.

“Yes,” Jongdae hisses. And Baekhyun peels it off without further preamble, sucks him down again, gags again, swallows, challenges with his eyes—again. Ruining even with how ruined he looks.

And fuck—

Jongdae tangles his fingers in his hair to tug him off.

Baekhyun trembles from the force of his hold, mouth open with trembling moans, eyes lidded and desperate with desire. His mouth is swollen, spit-slick, his hair wild, his dark, liquid eyes glazed over with desire.

Jongdae strokes himself with his other hand, shuddering, the pleasure hot and racing as Yifan’s fingers bite into his waist, breaths stutter into pants.

And fuck, fuck, fuck—fucking finally—he can finally—


Baekhyun’s still hard, cock standing straight up, red, angry, and he strokes himself even faster as Jongdae recovers, nipping occasionally as he pants into Jongdae’s thighs.

Jongdae tightens his fingers in his hair, tugs, taunts about how fucking hungry for cock he is, how fucking desperate, and Baekhyun gasps, shivers, bites down hard, comes, too.

He nuzzles into Jongdae’s stomach almost immediately after, lapping through the sticky mess there with a ruined, wanton sound.

And fuck, his eyes. His restless fingers sliding up Jongdae's thighs. His mouth —beautiful and awful and made to be fucked, and Jongdae had used for its intended purpose, is tingling still from how perfect it was.

Panting, groaning, he watches through heavy eyelashes as Baekhyun beckons Jongin forward with a soft, hitched Nini, watches how he pushes his tongue into Jongin’s mouth, sinful and slow and soft and theatrical, moaning when Jongin sucks on his tongue. On the come already congealing there.

“Tell him he tastes good,” Baekhyun whispers—still theatrical, but still sinful, still fucking perfect, and Jongin flushes, murmurs it in a shameful, quiet, quiet rush.

Jongdae isn’t the only one to moan in response, then. Isn’t the only one to curse. To shiver from arousal. But he’s the only one able to drag his fingers through the swollen, saliva-kissed mess of Jongin’s plush, ruined mouth, the only one able to whisper that his mouth is really a gift, and that he’s so, so grateful.

Desire is still singing through his veins, hot and thick and demanding, and they're all here, all for him, and oh, oh fuck—

He shudders more heavily in Yifan's hold.

“Ge,” Jongdae rasps. “Ge.”

“Here,” Yifan whispers, and his hand slither down to touch him. Jongdae chokes on a whimper, watches the skate of thin, elegant muscles beneath Yifan’s skin as he twists and strokes.

He jerks away after two beats. Too much. Too fast. Needs needs needs—

“Ge,” he repeats. Then “hyung, Joonm—” but Yifan’s fingers fall away to knead into his tense stomach instead, smoothing through the goosebumps, fine hair there.

And it’s still a lot, but something he can handle, hips curling forward into his touch even as Yifan tips him back against his chest.

He’s harder, Jongdae thinks. And he grinds pointedly against him as Jongdae struggles to stop squirming, to stop thrumming with overwhelming want.

"That was kind of you,” Yifan says. “With Jongin and Sehun. Very sweet. You're such a doting hyung." And Jongdae feels warm from the praise, shuddery when one of Yifan's hands climbs up the ripple of his ribs, whispers past his nipples.

“Learned from the best,” he drawls. Then “Touch me, hyung” when Yifan slides back down his body, lingers at his hip, doesn’t skim down further as he should. Jongdae wants it, and this is supposed to be about him, about indulging the birthday boy. “Hyung, please touch me,” he reminds him, tilting further back, coupling the demand with a ruined moan, liking the way that Yifan’s dark eyelashes flutter. Liking the way his lips tremble and throat heaves.

“Ge,” he corrects softly, pressing absently into the dip of his stomach. His blunt thumbnails drag, sting just the slightest.

“Touch me, ge.”

And Jongdae bites his lip, lets it pop free, moans but not entirely for show when Yifan strokes his cock again, slow and lazy.

“Yes, there, duizhang,” Jongdae breathes. And Yifan squeezes harder, strokes faster, the pad of his finger teasing at the engorged head.

It hurts, but in the best fucking way. And Jesus, Jongdae loves his hands. So big and warm and solid and strong and skilled and nimble.

Duizhang,” he moans now. “Yes, yes.”

He lets his neck twist back, lets his moans spill from his parted lips, fucking into Yifan’s fist.

He’s always loved them big, and Yifan is the biggest of them all. His ge. His leader. So big. So strong. So good.

"Fuck me," he urges, and Yifan noses at his temple, hums softly in response. A breathy sound, a dismissive, teasing, protesting sound.

"I wasn’t on the list," he whispers into his scalp. And his other hand joins, too, dragging in a cruel promise over the goosebumped skin of his ass. His blunt fingernails graze in the meanest taunt. "Didn’t want me, remember?” But he pouts as his fingers graze along the cleft of his ass. So large and strong and solid and skilled and promising. Circling, taunting, taunting, taunting.

He isn't on the list of people fucking Jongdae, he means. Hadn’t been asked to, he means.

Because Jongdae had asked for Minseok, Joonmyun, Kyungsoo inside of him, and Jongdae inside of Chanyeol. For Tao, Sehun, Jongin to play it by ear. For Baekhyun to suck him off. For Yixing to eat him out. And for Yifan to use his mouth—his distressingly small, small mouth, distressingly skilled tongue—too. Jongdae’s supposed to fuck his voice raw, fuck his eyes glassy and heavy with tears, but fuck he wants this instead. Fuck, he’s changed his mind.

“Today’s my special day,” he reasons, and Yifan laughs too loud and depreciating. “At least your fingers,” Jongdae bargains. “Just get something inside of me.”

Yifan smiles fondly, eyes incredibly soft for how hard his cock is, how sinful his fingers are as they dance up Jongdae's bare thigh. How sinful they tease between his cheeks. How fucking sinful they curl when they’re slickened with lube, intent on making him whimper and writhe.

“It’s amazing how good you are—how much you can take when you’re so small.” His voice is rough with rasped disbelief.

“Like that about me, leader?" he tries, or more appropriately pants.

“Yes,” Yifan whispers, and his other hand brushes whisper-soft through Jongdae’s too-coarse, bleached hair, the pads of his fingers kneading—harder when Jongdae arches into the touch.

“Am I—Am I your favorite dongsaeng?”

“Yes,” Yifan agrees easily, if not a little breathlessly, if not a little falsely indulgent. “My absolute favorite, Jongdae.”

“Better than Taozi?” Jongdae presses, shuddering through another toe-curlingly perfect twist of his fingers. “Hmm, than Chanyeol? Than Kyungsoo?”

Yifan manages a laugh, curls his fingers just so, and fuck, Jongdae sees stars, sees explosions, see the Divine.

“It’s your birthday,” he drawls, and his fingers stutter fuck right right right where it hurts. “Quit begging for compliments.” And oh, those wide, strong, nimble, long, long fingers twist again, curl, thrust, fill him in that aching sort of way that punches the air out of his lungs, has more precome dribbling from his aching, overworked cock.


Fumbling, desperate for an anchor, Jongdae gropes back, claws at Yifan’s forearms, groans in frustration when he comes into contact with the offensive material of Yifan’s shirt.

“Take this off,” he rasps, whining though hen Yifan follows through, takes too long, depriving him of that sweet, aching, aching stretch.

Yifan laughs, swiveling his fingers before pressing them inside again. And fuck, yes, yes, yes.

And his fingers, oh they’d be perfect even if he didn't know how to use them—so long and thick— but fuck fuck, fuck he does Of course he does and presses and thrusts and fucks them just right, and Jongdae is so helplessly in love with him.

“Fuck me,” Jongdae reasons again, and Yifan laughs, curls to press just once more.

Between his legs, Jongdae's cock jerks weakly, dribbling translucent precome still, aching, aching, aching with every heart beat.

Clumsy, overcome, Jongdae stumbles for Yifan’s cock, fingers trembling as they stroke, and he tries to focus on that instead, moaning desperately at how heavy and hot Yifan is in his hand, how the muscles beneath his skin bunch and release as he punches into the touch, forceful, hot. And fuck, that cock is perfect, too, long and thick, too, and fuck he knows how to use it, too. Should use it on Jongdae, too.

Jongdae’s heels skate uselessly over the mattress as he whimpers, fucks back on Yifan’s hand, rolls back against Yifan’s strong, strong chest, trying still—trying still to make Yifan feel as good.

But he can’t concentrate on anything but every perfect flicking fuck of Yifan’s fingers.

“Touch me,” he pants, scrambling to tangle his fingers in Yifan’s short, disconcertingly soft black hair. "More," he demands.

But it hurts when he does, fists his cock with a cursory, teasing stroke, the pleasure verging on excruciating. His hips jerk back from the searing caress.

“Too much," he whispers, nosing at his temple, clawing at his straining forearms. “Ge—"

Yifan nods, kisses to sooth him, but thrusts his fingers again in the next breath. He presses his fingers deep, deliberate for three aching, aching beats, smirking when Jongdae hisses and jerks. His voice is so, so rough, Mandarin, his syllables filthy, fond.

Someone—Lu Han by the sound of it—moans in agreement.

And he’s so, so hard. Jongdae can feel the heat of it against his hip, the way he throbs with Jongdae’s every moan. He paws down Yifan’s side once more, curls his fingers once more, deliberate and desperate, but Yifan twists away this time. And Jongdae claws at his hip instead, whimpering.

“Good?” he asks, but he fucks his fingers thick and heaving and so, so, so cruel—the fucking cruelest thing that Yifan has ever done—and it's so, so much.

He whimpers again—louder, needier—quivers, too, manages a nod and oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck—It isn't fair how ruined he is by this.

“Gonna—gonna touch yourself, then,” Jongdae taunts, tries. “Come and imagine it’s me.”

Yifan’s laughs is gratifyingly strained, achingly deep.

Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Not just your fingers. Your cock. Give me your cock. It’s my birthday.

And Jongdae, gone as he is, isn’t sure whether he’s spoken it aloud. Hopes, hopes, hopes he has. That Yifan does as he’s told.

“Yixing or Minseok,” Yifan whispers instead, and fuck, fuck, fuck. “Which one do you need, Jongdae?” right right right as he presses long and mean against his prostate.

Jongdae chokes, nearly, nearly breaks.

“Yixing—need need need Yixing.”

“Yixing gege,” Yifan corrects gently, stroking just once more, and Jongdae hates how his entire body rises into the touch, helpless to stop the tremor of his thighs, the weak waver of his whine.

“Ge,” Jongdae parrots, rasped, nearly, nearly, nearly—ruined. “Xing gege.”

“Do you want the ring again?”

And Jongdae nods, half-regrets when his whole body trembles as Yifan slides it to the base again, agonizingly tight. And Jongdae's muscles lock with aborted pleasure, sharp and exquisitely painful.

He bites at Yifan's shoulder.

"Okay?" Joonmyun asks, and Jongdae's nod is too shuddery for his own liking, but sincere.

He's—this is—yes, yes, yes—

Yixing stumbles forward then. His lips are plush, pink, parted, pale face flushed with desire, eyes heavy and hot. Yixing cradles his face, tips forward, kisses him heavy, hot, too.

Jongdae collapses into the mattress gracelessly, limbs knocking into each other.

And as requested, as expected, Yixing is shouldering his way between Jongdae’s legs, humming once in warning or contemplation before mouthing at his rim. His fingers scrape at Jongdae’s inner thighs as his tongue swirls in a cursory, heavy, heavy lick.

Jongdae scrapes down his back, feels the shift of sleek muscles beneath his skin as Jongdae slides around his shoulders, claws at the anchor of his back.

Yixing’s moan vibrates through his entire body, and Jongdae is drunk on the perfect, slick, slick, ruinous caress, the blunt pressure of his fingernails digging into the trembling skin of Jongdae’s ass, thighs. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

“Like this?” he murmurs all deep and slurred against his ass cheek, voice excruciatingly rough with arousal, and Jongdae’s entire body seizes with a sharp shudder of approval. Words aren’t necessary, but he pants out a yes and Yixing smiles before dipping to mouth again. This caress is heavier, more thorough.

“Just—just like that,” he gifts him. And Yixing redoubles his efforts. And oh, fuck, fuck, Gege—fuck—Xing ge—

Yixing moans again, shifts him back, and the pace he sets is languid, dirty, all breathy, wet hums, rhythmic clenches of his fingers on Jongdae's ass, thighs, slow, slow, slow, decadent swirls of his tongue.

So good, so fucking perfect.

Yixing’s singular in his intent but teasing nonetheless, tight, tight curls, teasing, teasing flicks that tingle through his entire body, wet, wet moans that Jongdae feels reverberate throughout his taut body.

Yixing, he’s trying to overwhelm him, trying to break him. And if Jongdae hasn’t broken for Joonmyun, for Minseok, for Kyungsoo, doesn't ever fucking break, he certainly won't for him.

It’s cute of him to try, though, and he says as much around a helplessly breathless moan, relishing in the sharp crack of Lu Han’s laughter, the sharper sting of Yixing’s blunt fingernails on his inner thighs. He’s such an indulgent ge. So fucking—good with his mouth, ge.

Jongdae isn’t breaking, won’t, he knows himself, but his muscles lock and thrum and tingle with pleasure and diverted need. And his lip aches from how hard he's biting to keep quiet.

And oh, he's desperate for more, drunk and dazed on the dirty, hot, hot sensations, the need rending at his control, his insides twisting, veins singing.

Xing ge, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck

Yixing hums, filthy, playful before sliding forward again with a deliberate and cruel and hot, hot curl of his tongue.

Yixing's hand whispers up his thighs, inwards, the touch maddeningly soft, slow, testing.

“No,” he says when Yixing curls a hand around him, loose and teasing. “Too much.”

Yixing settles back between his legs, licks at him again, laughing into him when Jongdae’s legs quake. Painfully annoyed, much more painfully aroused, he tugs at his hair, molds his finger into the nape of his neck, firm and mean, makes him trembling. His hand disappear between his own legs. Because he also, he also fucking loves having his mouth used like this. And it’s—he can’t—fuck—

“Tao,” he gasps. “My—honey peach. Come here,” he rasps, and Tao shudders before following. “Mouth,” he reminds him. “For hyung,” he reminds him.

Jongdae moans long and low at the warm wet friction—Yixing always does this best, fuck fuck fuck. And Tao slides forward to kiss the sound away, moaning just as loud, just as long, always painfully responsive even if its just Jongdae’s fingers tiptoeing over his cock. Even if it’s not Jongdae crawling between his legs to ruin him with his tongue, as Yixing is.

Tao still wants so—so much. Loves so fucking much

The angle is awkward, but Jongdae twists his hips enough to ride Yixing’s tongue, not broken, not as desperate and overcome as Yixing wants him, but earnest in his breathy moans and full-bodied tremors and arched spine and quivering limbs. Tugging meanwhile at Tao’s offensive clothing. Tearing at it to get at warm, responsive, perfect, pliant, beautiful skin.

And oh, Tao, his perfect, pretty, pretty honey peach, he at least has the decency to be hard, the decency to moan like he’s dying when Jongdae gives him a cursory stroke.

“Whose mouth is best?” he asks against his cock, letting the words drag over the skin, his syllables deliberately rough and slick and hot over the precome beading on the head of Tao’s flushed erection. “Whose is your favorite?” His lips catch, tongue swirls, voice only slightly slightly breaks as Yixing eases a finger beside his tongue, and Tao hiccups around a moan, a soft, broken protest. He jerks so pretty, gasps so heavy.

“I—I dont...dont—”

And Yixing is easing another finger inside, curling in a lazy, deliberate caress, and oh fuck fuck fuck.

"Better, then? Who’s better me or Minseok?" Jongdae suckles, then sucks hard, humming into it. Tao whimpers, and his stomach contracts sharply with the sound. Jongdae nuzzles, laves once more, harder, wetter, more indulgent as he blinks up at Tao through his eyelashes. He loves the golden silk of his gorgeous skin, the beautiful ruin in his knit eyebrows and slack jaw.


"Which one?"


“I need a name, Taozi.” Jongdae insists against the base of his cock. Me or Minseok hyung? Me or Joonmyun hyung?”

The lithe muscles beneath his long, lean thighs shiver with barely-contained pleasure.

“Hyung," he manages. “Hyung."

Pleasure is burning through him, and he chokes around Tao's cock as his body arches and twists, instinctive and desperate and without his permission. He digs his fingers into Tao’s thigh's to ground himself, to quell his full shudder, and Tao whimpers and pushes into it.

Tao's voice sounds prettiest wrecked with desire, frayed at the seams, when's quivering and unraveling and still so eager for more.

“Hyung,” he groans. “Hyung.”

"Which hyung?" he urges, mouthing sloppily, kneading his fingers into Tao’s firm, supple, golden skin to underscore his question. “Tell me which hyung, Taozi."

"Jongdae—Jongdae hyung. Really really—" Jongdae smirks then moans heavily, shuddering momentously as Yixing curls his fingers, licks between them with the dirtiest moan.


“Heart," he stutters. Something in Chinese. Sibilant and so darkly reverent.

“Kindness," Yifan rumbles. “Your skin. Beauty marks, they look like stars. He wants to trace them with his tongue. Wants to explore every single one.”

Jongdae's heart thuds with painful affection, and it reverberates through his entire body. He moans, tugs at Yixing’s hair.

"Not my ass?" he pants, sharp with feigned offense. “Not how hot I am? Not how my cheekbones look covered in come?"

“Ass,” Tao manages. “Eyelashes. Fingers. Throat. Chest. Mouth.”

He watches that the longest. His dark lashes heavy with desire.

Jongdae coaxes him forward with a jittery curl of his fingers, a much too shaky hum.

“Fuck it,” he urges. “For being so good. Fuck it, my little peach.”

And Tao, his favorite, favorite, he does, moans cresting into shivery hyungs, hyungs, hyungs as he pushes into his mouth. Clumsy and too-fast and too-hard and too-needy and all the more perfect for it.
a gift for it.

Jongdae gags, gasps, loves him for it, the clumsy reverence of his fingers down Jongdae’s sides, the helpless, restless way they bumble across his face—his eyelashes, Jongdae notes, his cheekbones, the corner of his mouth.

“My absolute favorite Taozi. Nothing compares to you,” he drawls and Tao shivers at the praise.

And the angle is awkward, his movements hindered, technique compromised, limbs too shaky, but Tao pulses heavily in his mouth, nonetheless, pretty and hot and perfect, moans like it’s all he’s ever wanted. And Jongdae relaxes his mouth, heedless of the saliva leaking out of the corners of his mouth, the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.

And Jongdae feels it like a bruise, the crushing, dull ache of it in his chest, echoing through his limbs. He loves him—fuck, fuck, fuck, he loves him. Loves them. Every single one.

And there are disembodied moans filtering through the slick, filthy sounds. In his teary periphery, the jerky silhouette of people touching themselves.

“Kiss,” Tao moans. “Please,” he adds.” Hyung. Wanna—”

He moans helplessly when Jongdae twists to kiss him.Moans almost as loud when he's having his cock sucked. Shivers in his arms and paws down Jongdae's trembling spine when Jongdae sucks on his tongue.

Tao gasps at his throat, kissing needier and messier, pinching at his nipples, scraping helplessly over the sharp dip of his heaving stomach. And all the while, Yixing’s mouth, holy fuck, Yixing’s mouth. He whimpers—fuck he can't, can't not when the pleasure is this thick and hot and wet and arresting, and Tao whimpers, too, hot and sweet into Jongdae’s mouth, pressing closer, cock grinding against his sides as Jongdae twists enough to flex his hips, fuck down as hard as he can onto Yixing’s fucking perfect fucking mouth.

And even though he can’t come, even though he needs to—or maybe because of that—it’s too fucking good to bear.

“Next,” he whimpers, as soon as Tao trembles in his arms, streaks across his stomach, as soon as Yixing works a third finger inside of him. “Next—I need—next.”

Minseok. Next is Minseok. Mathyung.

Joonmyun’s strong arms at his shoulders keep him grounded, and Minseok is spreading Jongdae’s thighs, making him room for himself. And Jongdae loves them both—so fucking much. Jesus, he loves all of them.

He’s a gift, but so are they.

Tipping his head back, he locks eyes with Chanyeol at the edge of the room, heavy and hot and glassy. He's flushed red, shivering, moaning. Behind him, Kyungsoo mouthing at his shoulder as a hand works between his legs.

Chanyeol and Kyungsoo are next.

There's still so much to come, fuck, fuck—

But oh, oh, oh, Minseok is running soothing fingers down the planes of his chest, over the valley of his stomach.

And Minseok is probably his favorite hyung, he decides as Minseok teases the head of his cock over Jongdae’s rim, and he tells him as much then, shivering at the sound of Joonmyun’s sharp inhale near his jawline.

And Minseok’s cock, easing slowly so he can relish in the aching stretch of every gorgeous centimeter, it’s his favorite, too, fuck, hyung just like that.

Jongdae twists his head back, bites into Joonmyun's forearm as he fucks back into the bruising, perfect, perfect pressure.

His favorite. His favorite. His favorite hyung. The only hyung that has ever mattered. Fucks him better than Jongdae even thought was possible.

White-knuckled, his fists twist into the sheets, and Joonmyun’s hands close over them, thumbs dragging over the knobs of his wrists as Jongdae pants. His bare stomach drags along Jongdae’s cheek, rippled muscle steadying, and Jongdae shudders. Minseok’s cock is snug and hot and heavy between his legs, and oh, he loves it, the delicious burn of it. Loves the stretch of being fucked after waiting so, so long for it.

Pleasure radiates from that point of contact all the way to his toes. He squirms helplessly, whines even more so, and Minseok smiles down at him, presses a wet, hot kiss to the hollow of his throat

“Chennie," he drawls. "Are you okay?" he asks, like Jongdae hadn't asked for this, isn't moaning for it with the most reckless abandon.

Jongdae nods sluggishly, nearly sobs when Minseok rears back, fucks forward, smooth, slow, a dancer’s grace. Ruinous. Hot.

“Minseok hyung.”

Minseok fucks into him sharper, meaner, and fuck, Jongdae can’t help the breathy whimpers spilling from his mouth, can’t help the way his fingers clutch at Minseok’s straining shoulders. Can’t help it. Won’t help it. Loses himself in the heady sensations, drowning in them, burning in them, so painfully, painfully alive in them.

"You should—should come on me," he whispers, voice too weak and fucked out. He shivers through another painfully potent caress, the scrape of fingernails on the dip of his tense stomach. “Should come in me, hyung.”

And Minseok, he fucking chuckles, shunts him up the bed with the force of his thrust, and it’s too much—too too—just just just exactly how Jongdae wants it.

He tosses his head back again. Catches movement at the edge of the bed. Lu Han, so, so pretty. The delicate lines of his face ruined with pleasure—round, dark eyes, pink, parted lips, dark eyebrows furrowed and cheeks flushed, as he strokes himself slow and steady. And fuck, even the dusty pink of his cock is gorgeous. Even the way he moans.

He isn’t supposed to touch himself, isn’t supposed to touch Minseok either, isn’t supposed to be mouthing sloppily at the hollow of Minseok’s throat; Jongdae hasn’t given him permission. But he looks so pretty like that, and Jongdae calls him forward as he claws at Minseok’s shoulders, breathes consciously through the perfect, heart-stuttering grind of Minseok’s hips.

Lu ge—me—birthday—"

Lu Han comes readily, touches Jongdae instead—as he’s supposed to, his hand skating over Jongdae’s nipples, resting on his collarbone as Jongdae touches him. Jongdae’s stroke is appraising, loose and lingering and languid. Lu Han moans, pushes further into his hold, and Jongdae twists enough to suckle at the tip, sucking, dragging his cheek against the engorged head, breathing heavy and wet against the pulsating shaft.

“Minseok hyung is watching you,” he says, not caring if he is, appreciating the responding, telltale pulse of Lu Han’s hot, heavy cock against the seam of his mouth. His own cock aches, jerks sympathetically.

And Minseok grinds into him that much harder, hands tightening around his hips, cock punching deeper, hotter inside of him.

Jongdae claws at his own thighs then hiccups, remember himself, coaxes Lu Han further forward, mouthing sloppily. Pointing to the corner of his mouth, letting his mouth fall open, pliant, in invitation.

“Hyung,” he moans. Then ge. Loving the way sharp inhale of breath ,the heavy pulse and power of both cocks—the one in his mouth, the one in his ass. Loving the way they punch the air out of his lungs, the way they makes him entire body quake, loving the hot, heavy, overwhelming stretch, the greedy, greedy heat and need. But it’s too fucking perfect. Too fucking much.

And fuck, he can’t. Can’t—

He can hear himself whine for more, instinctual and high and so fucking needy, too broken, too frayed, too fucking desperate, the kind of whines that he insists are only for special occasions, but it doesn't matter because Joonmyun is panting and Minseok is biting his lip nearly red, and Lu Han is jerking into his touch. And they’re all ruined with pleasure, too, too clumsy, too rough for their arousal.

And they want him. And they're his.

But he still—still can’t—

“Over,” he croaks out. “Hands, knees.” And he’s being manhandled onto his stomach, arching his spine weakly, balancing himself on trembling knees.

The graze of cotton sheets has sharp, painful aborted pleasure burning through him, storming violently through his body. He balances shakily on his elbows, gropes out for the steadying column of Lu Han’s tense thigh. Sucks sloppily at his cock now. Wanting it still. Needing it still. The both of them. The greed and possession and heat and ruin of both of them.

Minseok’s fingers squeeze bruisingly tight around his hips, hips collide bruisingly forceful against his ass.

And it’s still too perfect, still too much. Still, still, still—

If he could come. Fuck, if he could come—

Jongdae has to use his hand, blink up at Lu Han through tearing eyes, mouth open in invitation when he can’t bear it any longer.

“Ge,” he moans, theatrical, but so painfully effective. “Lu ge.” Lu Han’s muscles shiver beneath his pale, soft skin, and Jongdae can feel the thrumming, overwhelming strength in his thighs as he flexes to fuck upwards, hard and sharp. Anticipating, Jongdae opens his mouth, tongue hanging in invitation. Lu Han gasps, quakes, spills.

Prettiest like that. Flushed and glass-eyed, features pinched with pleasure.

And Jongdae loves the heady bitterness of it, the ruin of Lu Han’s orgasm-rich, orgasm-deep groan, the way that Minseok—who is watching after all—shudders. The way that Joonmyun does, too. And the sharp aching collision of Minseok’s hips against his ass—fast, hard, hard, mean, clumsy finally with the stuttering grinds of orgasm. And oh, the heat of that, too. Wet and hot and filthy. The way it burns him from the inside out.

Lu Han tips forward to kiss his release away, quivering fingers cradling him as he whispers endearments into his skin.

“Ge,” he says, then “hyung” when Joonmyun’s hand smooths over his throat. Jongdae gropes out for Joonmyun's hand as Minseok slides out of him, hot, wet, breathless, so achingly sated. Beautiful for it, but fuck, fuck, fuck—

“Jongdae,” Joonmyun says, soft and raised at the end like a question. And Jongdae’s back bows, and he scrambles for him.

He’s eased onto his back again, then urged onto the end of the bed.

His legs fall open graceless and desperate and shaking, and there’s heat—wet and cruel and dirty—teasing, taunting, warm lips, a fluttering tongue, a soft, soft hum of contentment.

His body quivering helplessly through the filthy exploration, he’s cleaned out, and it’s almost too much to bear. He squeezes Joonmyun’s hand, then harder, harder, harder.

“Yifan hyung,” Joonmyun says, and Jongdae laughs deliriously, moans louder. The suction has him shaking, stuttering on a broken, broken moan, and then fuck, fuck, fuck Yifan is shifting to mouth at his perineum, nuzzling into his balls. And it hurts how much he needs to come. His cock jerks, and he whimpers at how the sharp, sharp pleasure pain echoes through his entire body.

And he’s never broken for Yifan either. Yifan isn’t the type to break—not others. But he’s filthy and exposed, feels beautiful, a gift. And he fucking needs


And the awful, awful searing heat of Yifan’s mouth disappears, too.

Yifan crawls up beside him instead, cradles him to his side. He’s so big and broad and strong, and Jongdae quivers just the slightest as he melts into his side.

And both leaders are cradling him then.

“You’re back,” he manages, and Yifan’s lips curl agains this skin before he slides forward to kiss his eyelids, his cheekbone, his nose, his chin, his throat, achingly, achingly soft and wet and hot. Jongdae’s fingers twist into his hair. “Ge."

Yifan’s large, large hands span his entire waist, knead into his lower back.

"Jongdae," Joonmyun whispers, and his voice is so raspy, his cock is so hard. "Okay?" And he pets his fingers through Jongdae's hair. Jongdae grimaces even as he arches into the touch. Exhausted, much too pliant. But he still needs and wants. And this is still his gift.

He nods. Hopes that the tremor that accompanies it doesn’t belie his point.

“Kyungsoo and Chanyeol,” Joonmyun says.

“And you,” Jongdae rasps, and Joonmyun smiles into his temple.

“And me. If you’ll have me, me.”

But he scoots back, back, back, leaves Jongdae a mess of tiny, tiny tremors, as Kyungsoo, Chanyeol—next—join him on the bed then.

Jongdae, when he'd asked for this, he’d wanted Chanyeol on his hands and knees, wanted to tug his hair, slap his ass, bite his way across the pale, pretty tremor of his long, lithe spine, but Chanyeol whines when Jongdae makes to move him, shuddering before lifting his hips, tossing his head back into the pillows.

"Like this," he insists. “Want you to fuck me like this.”

And Jongdae, he’s willing to make the sacrifice, even on his birthday.

Chanyeol moans softly in gratitude, reaches out to touch him as Jongdae knee walks his way between Chanyeol’s spread thighs.

His hands are warm and big, nearly as big as Yifan’s, and with his fingers fanned apart, they span the width of his waist—just, just perfect. There’s a delicious grounding pressure to his hold, even though his fingers are featherlight and appraising with reverence. There’s dizzying size and strength there, even though Chanyeol is often still too soft and hesitant to use his strength on Jongdae, like he demands. Even now, even on Jongdae’s birthday, Chanyeol’s hands flutter nervous and useless on his hips but so achingly big. Jongdae arches, loves the dull throb of pain as Chanyeol’s thumbs knead into his hipbones.

"Ready for me?" Jongdae asks, rotating his hips to drag against Chanyeol’s cock, and Chanyeol whines out an affirmative, his breath hot and labored, eyes glassy and dark. He’s the most dizzyingily perfect portrait of desire like that, lips parted, limbs loose, wine red hair sticking to his forehead and fanning across the bleach-white sheets.

And Jongdae wants to make him cry, utterly ruin him, knows that Chanyeol would love it just as much. Honestly, maybe even more.

Kyungsoo is behind Jongdae, then beside him sliding forward to give Chanyeol a brief kiss—all tongue and showy heat, really only brief because Jongdae whines about this being about him; it’s his special day. And Kyungsoo laughs, all deep and dark, before sliding back, behind him. His hands are smaller but not less perfect on his back, hips, ass.

But it’s Chanyeol's turn to whine, also whimper, writhes as Jongdae slides his fingers and curls deep and testing into Chanyeol's hot, tight, tight body.

Chanyeol drags him closer, trembles with a quiet tremor that grows steadily sharper, harder, more full-bodied as Jongdae teases his cock on his rim.

He's so disconcertingly large, even more disconcertingly pliant, and there’s a gorgeous shiver of strength through his muscles, his prone body, the prettiest quiver to his plush, parted lips.

Jesus, Jongdae loves his mouth, wants it on him so fucking badly. He groans too heavy and too fucking loud when Kyungsoo mouths at his shoulder. He can feel the pucker of Kyungsoo’s smirk but ignores it, focusing instead on the wet, perfect heat of his mouth, the teasing brush of his fingers between Jongdae’s legs as he eases his way centimeter by centimeter into Chanyeol.

Chanyeol is so fucking big, so fucking responsive, his long legs crashing into his own chest, his eyes wide and watery with want as Jongdae thrusts and thrusts and thrusts.

Demanding, Chanyeol tilts his hips up, moans in encouragement when Jongdae slowly, slowly, slowly pushes his way inside, savoring the aching, aching, wet, wet heat.

Chanyeol clenches, heart-stutteringly, excruciatingly tight, tight, tight, the hottest, wettest, most painful, painful vice, and Jongdae chokes on a gasp, stutter fucking forward, trembling through it.

"Fuck me,” Chanyeol insists, clawing at his shoulders, down his spine. "Fuck me, Chennie.”

And Kyungsoo slides a finger into him then, and Jongdae trembles even harder.

“I’m already—You don’t—” He hisses as Kyungsoo eases a finger inside of him, then thrusts it hard, deliberate and cruel—Kyungsoo at his worst. And Jongdae burns at the filthy, filthy squelch, the sharp, dark edge to Kyungsoo’s voice as he murmurs about how fucking dirty this is, Jongdae is, but how he should've expected as much getting sloppy seconds.

“More like ninths,” Jongdae corrects around a hiss. Pushing back, then sharply forward. Back and forward, watching the way that pleasure contorts Chanyeol’s gorgeous, flushed face, the way it slackens his jaw and weighs down his eyelashes and quivers through his chest and throat. “Tenths, really,” he adds, an afterthought.

And Kyungsoo laughs, the sound rough, rumbling against Jongdae’s back. His teeth are sharp there as he bites in retaliation or warning or promise.

"You know you’re lucky you’re so hot it’s worth it."

And he drags his hard cock against Jongdae’s ass.

Kyungsoo’s teeth are sharp, but his mouth wet and achingly plush and hot against his skin, searing a trail along his throat, his cheekbone. "Ruin him," Kyungsoo whispers into Jongdae’s ear, nipping lightly, briefly at his earlobe. “Make him cry.”

But he’s already sobbing for it, dark, heavy eyelashes glittering with unshed tears, ruddy, ruined lips open on silent pleas for more, face flushed and utterly stained with desperate need.

Kyungsoo is still behind him, biting now, panting into his skin, affected as he watches. “Keep—keep going,” Jongdae hisses, needing that stretch, too, arching his spine and wiggling his hips on the next retreat so there’s no mistake about what exactly he wants. And Kyungsoo smiles, or smirks, lips curling against his skin, parting and blooming into an achingly tender kiss to his spine.

He spreads his fingers, presses just just just—

“Break him,” he says. “Ruin him.” Like Jongdae multiple, painfully, delayed, aborted orgasms haven’t left him weak with pleasure and nearly broken himself. Nearly ruined.

“I’m not—not interested in being the proxy in whatever sex game you’re playing,” Jongdae manages, then hisses, moans. Chanyeol is so, so tight and wet, squeezing deliberately in a way that makes Jongdae’s arms tremble at his shoulders.

Kyungsoo smiles or smirks again, soft lips skimming, then his fingers shift to apply painfully direct, heart-stuttering forceful pressure against his prostate. Jongdae’s limbs lock with the pleasure, and he jerks sharply, hips punching fast once, twice, and Chanyeol pants, clawing and biting his hot, hot approval into Jongdae’s skin as his legs fold impossibly tighter, drag him closer.

Jongdae groans, shifting his hips once more to push push push, and Chanyeol’s voice is so low and weak and hot and so dizzyingly desperate, his dark eyes wide and glassy. “Please,” he rasps, all ruined and rough. “Please, please just—”

Jongdae pants into his chin, shuddering so badly he has to rebalance on the sharp jut of Chanyeol’s shoulders. He fucks forward again sharper, harder, and Kyungsoo smiles against his trembling shoulder blades, presses again two, three beats too long.

Fuck fuck fuck. Caught between the painfully potent pressure at his ass, the painfully, potent pressure around his cock, he chokes on a moan, trembles, clamors, claws.

"I beg to differ,” Kyungsoo rasps, twisting again, pressing again—fuck, fuck fuck—how is it even—

“Just get inside me," Jongdae pants. "Kyungsoo, fuck.”

Kyungsoo thankfully does.

And it’s both better and worse. How Chanyeol spasms around him, how Kyungsoo's hands wind around his waist as he slides forward, thrusts into him sharp and sudden and staggeringly deep.

Kyungsoo, he always, always fucks like he hates you, like he’s trying to pound his aggression into your body, and it just makes Jongdae love him more, moaning helplessly as he pounds into Chanyeol in turn clumsy and deep and too, too fast. But Chanyeol keeps whimpering and clawing and quivering and writhing and squeezing, and Kyungsoo keeps driving into him, dragging deep and heaving. An it fucking hurts—fuck fuck fuck—he would come if he could, whimper if he could, pant about how much he loves this if he could.

And fuck, fuck, fuck he needs to—

Kyungsoo bites down on his shoulder, twists his hips in a way that has pleasure sparkling through his entire taut, trembling body, and Jongdae punches that much faster, meaner, deeper, harder, harder, harder, just how Chanyeol keeps gasping for and even more, more, more. Chanyeol inhales sharply, spilling across his belly, clawing and shaking with it, squeezing and spasming around him breathtakingly tight, tight, tight, limbs locking breathtakingly around him too, squeezing and spasming even tighter, tighter, tighter.

Kyungsoo grinds his hips, stutteringly, achingly slow as he watches, bites down once more, pants hot and wet into his skin.

Jongdae can't come, can't whimper, can't speak, can't fucking breathe.

Please please please—

“On me,” Chanyeol whimpers, urgent and so, so deliciously broken. "Please please please. On me. Jongdae."

And Jongdae chokes on a laugh even as he quivers with aborted, delayed climax—again.

“Chanyeollie, I can’t—” he rasps out.

“Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol insists instead, and Kyungsoo, he groans, fucks into Jongdae with a reverent hiss.

“On him,” Jongdae orders or begs or sobs.

Kyungsoo knee walks to the edge of the bed, squeezing Jongdae’s hand as he jerks off. He streaks across Chanyeol’s open, panting, swollen mouth.

“Ten,” he says. And he collapses forward to kiss him, deep, dirty, fond, fierce. Their lips collide, teeth crash, and Jongdae tugs at his hair, shivers when Kyungsoo bites down on his bottom lip and tugs.

Chanyeol whines in protest, but Jongdae curls around Kyungsoo tighter, hisses when his hard cock drags against Kyungsoo’s thigh.

Kyungsoo presses again, smiles maybe smirks into his mouth when Jongdae shudders at the contact. Harder, more lingering, hotter, hotter, hotter, and Jongdae pulls away to pant into his chin. The most tremendous tremor tingles through his body.

“Ten," Kyungsoo says, incredulous, fond.

A fucking gift, even if it hurts.

And Jongdae doesn’t know if he needs more or less, claws at Kyungsoo’s shoulders but grinds forward artlessly, too.

“Hyung," he gasps. “Joon—”

And Joonmyun is there.

"Please," he manages. "I need—”

Hands—small and soft and soothing and sentimental and awful and beautiful—smooth down his side, maddeningly light and assessing. Too much. Too little. Arousal prickles hot and demanding and debilitating as it throbs heavily through his spent body.

One more. Just just just one more. Just the best. Just his hyung.

And fuck, he feels like he's tearing at the seams, breaking apart piece by quivering piece. He can't—hyung, fuck—

“Jongdae.” And his hands tighten around his hipbones. “Talk to me. Tell me if you need more time. If you need to stop.”

“You,” Jongdae says. “Last."

“Just me,” Joonmyun says. “It’s just me.” But he doesn’t mean it. And the others are still there. He can hear them. Their exhausted pants. Their reverent hisses. Can feel the prickling heat of their gazes, too.

But it doesn't matter. No, it's okay. Because it's almost like they're alone like this. And Joonmyun is kissing down his body, reverent and so achingly tender, mouthing at his stomach, tongue fluttering over his speckled skin, then over his aching, aching cock. And fuck, Jongdae needs to come, needs Joonmyun to make him come. Understanding because he's perfect—for him, knows just exactly what Jongdae needs most, Joonmyun unclips the restrictive silicon at the base of his cock, and Jongdae’s legs part and hips rise in the weakest, most wanton supplication, uncaring, unashamed as Joonmyun takes him into his mouth.

Jongdae twists his fingers into Joonmyun’s hair and tugs as hard as he can, gasping out, maybe, maybe, maybe even sobbing for Joonmyun to fucking get on with it. Let him fucking come. Make him fucking come. It's his fucking birthday, hyung. He's the birthday boy, and he deserves this. Isn’t he his favorite dongsaeng. Doesn’t he deserve the world. Shouldn’t Joonmyun be the best since he was saved for last.

And it happens in a rush, a violent, violent rush when Jongdae does come, three slick, tight, hot, hot bobs later. It’s fierce and hot and all-consuming as it crashes through him, and Jongdae sobs and claws and trembles. Joonmyun’s soft, pink mouth works him through it, his fingers a warm, steady anchor as orgasms tears him to tiny, tingling, trembling pieces.

And it’s dulled just the slightest, the resonant roar racing still beneath his skin. And it’s just the slightest bit more manageable.

Overwhelmed, hot, hot tears sting in his eyes, and it's so fucking hard to breathe enough to gasp out that Joonmyun should fuck him already. Give him to him like Jongdae needs .

He sobs in relief when Joonmyun slides inside of him.

They’re the same height and their foreheads touch as Joonmyun shifts to fuck him hard, deep. Their teeth graze, lips stumble into each other. And Jongdae loves the shuddery taste of Joonmyun’s labored breathing, the quiet, desperate, earnest, cheesy praises he breathes into Jongdae’s mouth on every exhale. His cheekbone crashes against his throat, lips grazing, stamping mindless, breathless, needless praises into his skin.

“Okay?” he keeps whispering. And so good and fuck, Jongdae and you’re perfect and you’re a gift and I love you.

And Jongdae loves him, too, maybe just as much, maybe even more.

And oh, the love is staggering. Jongdae gasping at the crushing weight of it, even muted like this by the sharp, sharp pulses of desire. Tears—more fucking tears—prickle in his vision, and Joonmyun brushes them away with his lips, grinds forward even deeper, forcing Jongdae’s hitching sobs to crest into shuddery, broken, broken moans.

Jongdae claws at Joonmyun’s straining shoulders down the rippling muscles in his spine over the swell of his ass. Pressing harder. Give it harder. It’s my birthday. Please love me harder. Please love me more, more, more.

Jongdae moans every time his bare stomach brushes against Joonmyun’s taut stomach, every time Joonmyun’s trembling lips graze his throat. Loudest yet when he gropes downward to stroke him off.

A persistent, pitchy, hitching, helpless whine—his own—accompanying Joonmyun’s every thrust.

And as much as it, too much, too much, too much, it’s just the right fucking amount after all this time. Joonmyun, just, just, just the right fucking amount.

Of pleasure, of need, of love, love, love.

And Jongdae shatters.

He bites at Joonmyun’s bottom lip when he comes, and Joonmyun groans, cups his face, rocking into him through the white heat of it. His lips move silent but soothing as Jongdae shakes and shakes and shakes before melting completely into the sheets.

An I love you stutters on his tongue before dying there in a hitching whimper, but it’s obvious enough, he knows, evident in the way he clings to him through the comedown, in the instinctual way he presses close, close, close. Joonmyun’s hands are tight around his waist, warm and just vaguely possessive. And gift that he is, he keeps, keeps, keeps fucking him, rougher, just the slightest bit of meanness and desperation to it, just the right fucking amount.

“On me, too,” he urges, sticky and filthy and wrecked on the messy sheets.

And Joonmyun, he does that for him, too. Pulls out, strokes himself tight and fast, watching him the entire time with his large, dark, unnervingly tender eyes as he spills across Jongdae’s trembling skin.

Jongdae, covered in come, sweat, saliva, a mess on his own bed, is a fucking gift. A fucking blessing. And he feels it—singing weakly through his veins—as Joonmyun’s hands skim his body in soft, appraising touches. He’s checking if Jongdae is okay, even while his fingers tremble.

Jongdae’s heart folds tight in his chest even as desire sings through his veins. I’m your gift. I’m yours to claim. Claim. Claim. Claim.

You’ve saved the best for last, Joonmyun had whispered, when Jongdae had first outlined his wishes. Saved your love for last, right?

And he hadn’t—not intentionally, at least not really, but here they are. And Jongdae, his body aches with desire, with affection, with sentimentality. Most like this with their eyes locked, bodies pressed tight, ragged breaths mingling.

“I’m here,” Joonmyun says, dragging him forward into a lazy, reassuring, warm, wet kiss. And Jongdae loves the taste of him, the grounding solidity in his slim, strong body.

“I know,” he groans, nonetheless, and Joonmyun smiles into his mouth, then into his chin, his throat.

“You’re a gift, Jongdae,” he says, weaker, softer, fonder, so, so, so full of love and longing that Jongdae’s entire body aches.

“I know,” Jongdae repeats, but his words are weaker, too, soft with a fondness he cant quite help as Joonmyun’s thumb drags tenderly over his hip, along the ridges of his ribs. His touch is gentle, his eyes so exquisitely warm and brimming with affection.

And this is just Joonmyun, Jongdae knows. This isn’t him trying to sooth Jongdae through his first time, reassure him with all of his sentimentality.

He just—just loves him. Tries to prove it to him every single fucking time he touches Jongdae’s body. Even now, when Jongdae is quivering with desire and sticky with sweat and come and tears.

Cheesy and sentimental and achingly sincere, he loves him with his whole body, his whole heart, and Jongdae presses back into the all-consuming warmth of it—of him, glowing by proxy as he melts finally into their filthy, rumpled sheets.