Archive of Our Own

The Wolf Gang has prowled for nearly a century, carving scars across Korea and beyond. Decades of leaders push for expansion, marking territories from back-alley dens to international ports. But their heads of state always play it safe, pulling back before the world can burn.

To Eunho and Hamin, safety tastes like rot. They are the right and left hands of the gang, the fangs and claws hidden behind the throne. And they are tired of watching from the shadows. They have the power, the vision, the ruthlessness to turn the Wolves into something greater—an empire untouchable and unchallenged.

So they stop waiting.

The coup began long before the first bullet was shot. Hamin whispers poison into the right ears, charts maps of loyalty and betrayal with the cold precision of a chess master. Eunho strikes deals in alleyways, their promises inked in blood and sealed with broken bones. They promise their loyalists more territory, more profit and freedom to spill as much blood as they please. And to the ambitious, they whisper of a future where the Wolves no longer crawl at the feet of politicians, but devour them whole.

When the night comes, it is no quiet revolt. It is slaughter dressed as celebration. The old boss gathers his men for what he believes is a show of unity. Glasses clink, smoke fills the hall, laughter coats the air. Then Eunho and Hamin move.

The first shot shatters the toast. The second takes the head of the consigliere.

Chaos erupts, wolves tearing into wolves, but Hamin has already arranged the field. Doors are locked, allies placed, knives hidden under coats. Eunho is a storm of violence, moving through the chaos with blood on his fists and fire in his eyes. Men who once sneered at him crumble under his feral rage.

Those who resist die. Those who hesitate kneel.

By the time the sun rises, the old king is gone. Their bodies are ash, their names erased from the books. The Wolves have new rulers. Two leaders. Two emperors.

Eunho and Hamin.

Not everyone welcomes the change. Opposition mutters in the corners, old loyalists cling to ghosts of the past. But even they know—that the Wolves follow strength, and the new emperors are nothing if not strong.

That is how the gang is reborn. The Wolves are no longer a group of petty criminals scurrying in the alleys; they are an empire with new rules and sharper teeth, new leaders who refuse to play it safe.

Under Eunho and Hamin, the Wolves become an unstoppable force. Their claws stretch beyond Seoul, reaching across borders, latching onto ports and routes once untouchable. They invest in German and Russian projects, a marriage of blood money and foreign steel, digging deeper into the black market than any syndicate before them. Their new ventures aren’t just narcotics or smuggling—they deal in armories that make governments nervous, weapons that shift the balance of power. 

And at the center of it all stands Nam Yejun.

Unveiled to the gang not only as their newest and only executive, but as their lover. Their bunny in wolf’s skin. Some men don’t know whether to laugh, sneer, or fear. But the message is sharp as a blade: Yejun is untouchable. Respect him as you respect them. Cross him, and you bleed.

Once an NIS agent, Yejun is now their legal shield. His psychometry makes him invaluable, but his greatest weapon is the badge he still wears. By day, he remains inside the NIS, reporting, analyzing, gathering secrets the government thinks it hides well. By night, he returns to his lovers, laying out information and schematics across their table, turning classified reports into blueprints for conquest. Every periodic update he files for the Wolves isn’t treason in his mind, it’s devotion. He has traded loyalty to the state for loyalty to love.

They are not three fractured pieces—they are one entity, indivisible. They kill together. They laugh together. They share a bed together. The world sees monsters, but between them? It is the only place where there is no lies, between them their powers are quiet and comforting.

Even now, when they’re tying up the last thread of resistance, it feels almost anticlimactic. Just a small splinter group, holed up in the far province of Korea, clinging stubbornly to the memory of their dead leader.

The hunt had been handed to Eunho and Yejun. They were always the ones sent ahead; Hamin had been stuck in Busan, bartering new trades, greasing palms, and turning smugglers into allies. His work was quieter, but just as bloody in its way. Tonight though, when he finally arrives at the derelict building, the storm has already passed.

The first thing that hits him is the smell. Metal, acrid and heavy in his lungs. Blood drying in thick layers. Gunpowder still clings to the air like an aftertaste. The second thing is silence—no shouts, no last desperate bursts of gunfire. Just a building that’s already decided it belongs to someone else.

He steps inside, polished shoes clicking softly against the cracked tiles, and the halls tell the story of the massacre. Bodies splayed where they’d fallen, twisted into grotesque shapes. Hamin doesn’t need to ask who killed who. Eunho leaves chaos behind him—faces beaten into unrecognizable pulp, ribs split open by fists that don’t know restraint. Yejun, on the other hand, is neat and merciless—gunshots that land between the eyes, clean and decisive. Efficiency against frenzy. Two styles, but the same loyalty.

Hamin finds himself smiling, faintly, as though he’s walking through a memory instead of a battlefield. He’s seen this a dozen times before, but tonight feels different. Final. He sidesteps a pool of blood, careful not to stain his slacks, weaving between corpses until the hallway widens into the executive office.

The door hangs ajar, and there, inside, he lingers for a moment. In front of the wide desk, once the throne of the last loyalist to the old boss, are Yejun and Eunho, flushed and reckless, like two wolves who’ve just torn the throat out of their prey. For Hamin, it’s a sight both familiar and inevitable. They turned the ashes of the old order into a playground for their own brand of love and crime.

He doesn’t move from the doorway. His hand lingers on the knob, knuckles pale, while the muffled thud of the door closing behind him shuts out the rest of the world. The room smells faintly of smoke, antiseptic, and sweat—like a den that’s only theirs.

Every breath from Yejun is a ragged rasp, breaking in the back of his throat. Every sound from Eunho is a low, guttural growl that vibrates through the room like something feral. Eunho is perched on the desk, body wound tight, shoulders slick under the lamplight. Yejun is folded into him, crushed so close to his chest they look welded together—obscene, shameless. Staged. Like they knew he’d walk in. Like they wanted him to see.

And Hamin sees everything.

Eunho’s already carved his claim into their bunny: bruises in the shape of fingers on his waist, blotches spreading down his thighs, his skin flushed raw. Between his legs he’s wrecked, slick dripping over the edge of the desk, beading on the red carpet below in dark stains that could be mistaken for blood. Yejun is kept aloft only by Eunho’s arms, his body trembling, his cunt stretched and clutching around Eunho’s cock.

Hamin stays rooted against the frame, jaw tight, eyes devouring the scene while the ache in his pants hardens into something unbearable.

“W–welcome back from Busan, h-how—” Yejun tries, voice shattered, words broken apart as his back arches. His lips quiver open, spilling a whine instead of a sentence. He presses a weak hand against Eunho’s chest like he could slow him, like there’s any stopping that force. “How was it?”

Eunho tries to avert his attention back to him by driving harder, burying the question, burying everything. His gaze snaps up and locks on Hamin. The look is pure provocation: defiance, dominance, and invitation all in one.

Hamin notices the bandage then, wrapped tight around Eunho’s shoulder, darkening with fresh bleed. Too neat, too quick. Knife? Bullet? Doesn’t matter. He’s still bleeding, and still fucking like nothing can touch him.

“Sorry, Hamin,” Yejun gasps out, his chuckle shuddering through the strain of his body, “Eunho got a bit too excited.” The man in mullet leans down, lips brushing his ear. His voice is low and smug, “don’t apologize for me, baby. He likes watching.” His teeth scrape the older's jaw, pulling another trembling sound out of him as he drops his body back down on his cock, forcing him to take every inch to the hilt. Both their slick and cum gushes out from the sides like he’s been stuffed too much.

Hamin doesn’t move closer, doesn’t even flinch at Eunho’s taunt. He just loosens his tie, pulls his glasses and neatly sets it aside on a nearby table. “Busan’s done. I cleaned up the remainder of their sloppy work.” His eyes flick to the bandage again. “Looks like someone left its teeth on you.”

Eunho’s smirk only deepens, his hips rolling with a steady cruelty that wrenches a broken whimper from Yejun’s throat. “Worth it,” he growls, grinding upward, savoring every shudder.

Yejun claws at his wrist, nails biting deep, his body is caught between shame and a hunger that devours him whole. His words tumble out in fractured gasps, “H-Hamin… H-he didn’t slow down—even when you told him—b-but it’s fine, I was clean with it—Eunho!”

His head tips back, mouth falling open as Eunho’s cock drives him apart, each thrust rearranging his insides with merciless heat. His voice cuts into strangled moans, his teeth sinking into his own lip to stifle the sounds. No matter how many times they’ve been here, his body still writhes as if it’s the first, struggling against the unbearable stretch, the molten ache that makes his vision blur and his pulse thunder.

The younger man leans in, hips moving deeper, and Yejun’s trembling frame can only take it—his every nerve burning with raw, unrelenting pleasure.

Hamin hums, finally stepping close enough to feel their shared fever spill into his skin. One hand comes up to cup Yejun’s jaw, thumb sweeping the spit trailing from the corner of his mouth. “I signed a contract in the meantime,” he murmurs, unbothered by the mess or the frantic rhythm shaking Yejun against Eunho’s lap. “Han Noah and Chae Bonggu. Their allegiance is secured. It means fewer eyes on us while we restructure.”

The words cut through the haze like a blade. Eunho falters for a heartbeat, then thrusts harder. His laugh is ragged, almost hoarse. “Hear that, Sweetheart? Less work for us. Which means next time, Hamin can fuck you as much as you want.”

Hamin only exhales slowly, gaze never leaving Yejun’s half-lidded eyes, glazed and wet. He strokes his cheek almost tenderly, then answers, “Of course, I miss my bunny and wolf.”

Eunho’s pace grows merciless, every roll of his hips designed to wring something more out of Yejun. The older’s legs tremble, twitching in the air, trying to fight the overwhelming pull that keeps him suspended on that fine edge. His nails drag shallow red lines down Eunho’s wrist but he never pushes him away, just clenches tighter, his cunt quivering around his length.

Yejun’s chest heaves, sweat dampening his collarbone. When Hamin looks at their bunny, his eyes are trembling, pleading for something he can’t voice out. His thumb strokes along his jaw, forcing his gaze upward. “You have to come for us, bunny.” He murmurs.

Hamin leans in, his lips brushing over Yejun’s tear-streaked skin, tracing a slow path from his wet lashes down to his damp cheeks. His tongue flattens, licking away the taste of salt. His rough fingers find their mark next, pressing against the small protruding clit in lazy circles that draw ragged, helpless reactions from the older. Yejun thrashes under the touch, overwhelmed by the surge of pleasure.

“W–Wait, Hamin, don’t—you’re—” Yejun’s head falls back, mouth parting in a breathless cry, while Eunho’s low chuckle curls through the haze.

Yejun finally unravels, his release spilling in desperate spurts, and Hamin doesn’t let up—his rough pads keep circling, coaxing him to ride out every wave of his high. Eunho grunts low in his throat, brows furrowing as he feels the tight clutch around him.

“Ah—Hamin, don’t stop. He’s squeezing me so good… Keep playing with him,” Eunho hums, hips snapping forward with relentless rhythm despite the older man trembling above him, overstimulated.

“N-No—st–ohp…” Yejun gasps, his thighs instinctively trying to slam shut, but Eunho’s grip keeps him wide open. His body is trapped between them, Hamin’s hand is unyielding and Eunho thrusts mercilessly until he can only curl his toes and surrender to the overwhelming sensation.

“Go on. You love it when we play with that pretty little pussy of yours, don’t you?” Hamin’s hand moves fast, slick gliding over his sensitive skin, dragging his fingers up and down, flicking his wrist in torturing strokes.

Yejun rocks against him absentmindedly, body tense, stomach coiling tight with need, every nerve screaming for more even as his mind starts to fray under the sensation.

His body bows, every muscle taut, before it breaks apart in violent tremors. His head tilts back, eyes rolling until only white shows, mouth slack as a guttural moan tears out of his throat. The sound drags on, raw and ragged, as his body convulses—his juices squirting out of him in frantic spurts, uncontrollable and messy.

The pressure finally snaps as Eunho buries himself to the hilt, a low, feral grunt escaping through his clenched teeth as his release floods hot inside Yejun. The sensation has him spiraling further. His body twitches, overstimulated and caged between them. Hamin’s hand keeps on rubbing his clit through it, dragging every last shudder and spasm out of his trembling frame while Eunho holds him down, still pulsing inside.

Without warning, Hamin drops to his knees in front of them, his face level with their joined heat. Yejun blinks, startled for a moment, but any confusion melts away under the pressure of Eunho’s grip, the way he’s shaping him, holding him tight against his length.

“You're both always fucking behind my back, if we had a tally we'd have more little Eunhos.” Hamin chuckles.

“Don't wish for it,” Yejun whines.

The younger man leans in slowly, letting his tongue trace a path as Eunho’s cock slips free. It’s still half-hard, slick and teasing, while Yejun’s spent heat leaks along the curve of their bodies. He tilts his head up, catching both of their gazes, and drags his tongue in a long, indulgent stripe, touching them both, tasting them.

Eunho, surprised, glances down from the side, a smirk playing on his lips. “Looks like Hamin wants to clean us up,” he murmurs.

Hamin drags his tongue slowly, savoring the mess of Yejun’s trembling cunt and the traces of Eunho still spilling from him. Yejun gasps, his body spasms at the sudden jolt of stimulation, thighs twitching, but he can’t close them—Eunho’s still holding him open, keeping him on display.

Hamin’s lips linger, his breath hot against them as he flicks his tongue, tasting everything—salty, raw and thick. His eyes half-lidded as he hums in satisfaction. Yejun’s chest heaves, mouth slack, a broken moan ripping out when Hamin’s tongue pushes in deeper into his gaping and leaking cunt, lapping greedily.

Eunho growls low, his hand gripping Yejun’s hip tighter, watching the way Hamin devours their mess like it’s his right. He smirks, rough edge in his voice, “Tch, fuck—you really are enjoying yourself down there, aren’t you?”

Hamin only answers with another languid lick, his hand pressing down on Yejun’s lower belly to feel the way his body still clenches, milking out the last drops of Eunho’s release inside of him. Yejun whimpers, teetering between pleasure and the overwhelming sensation, he throws his head against Eunho’s shoulder, every nerve lit up raw.

Without hesitation, the younger lowers his head again, tongue lapping up the mess before sliding along Eunho’s length, cleaning the mixture off his cock with messy strokes. Eunho stills, watching with a sharp intake of breath.

“Fuck—” Eunho mutters under his breath, his cock twitching under Hamin’s tongue. Despite having just spilled inside, the slick heat and the way Hamin’s mouth traces every vein sends blood rushing back. His shaft thickens, hardening again as the younger works him over like he’s savoring every taste.

Yejun, dazed and trembling, can only arch his back as he feels everything—the warmth of Eunho’s cock swelling again, the obscene wet sounds of Hamin’s mouth as he suckles the length clean, and the raw heat of being the center of their attention.

Eunho chuckles darkly above him, voice rough. “You’ve got no shame, do you?” But the way his hips twitch forward into Hamin’s mouth betrays how much he’s already giving in.

Yejun lies there, utterly undone, his body trembling from the overstimulation. His legs twitch faintly. Eunho looms above, watching with darkened eyes as Hamin shifts his focus.

Hamin’s mouth engulfs Eunho’s cock, sucking with steady, eager pulls, saliva dribbling down his chin as he takes him deeper. The man groans low in his throat, one hand instinctively gripping the back of his head, the other still brushing over Yejun’s damp cheek as if he can’t let go of him.

Even so, Hamin doesn’t neglect Yejun. Between deep sucks, his tongue flicks downward, dragging along Yejun’s raw, sensitive clit. The contact makes Yejun twitch, a strangled whine escaping his lips, even though he’s too spent to resist or even move much. He lies limp between them, head lolling back.

Eunho sighs in satisfaction, his cock swelling back to full hardness inside Hamin’s mouth. The sight—their perfect lover kneeling, lips stretched around him, tongue reaching down to tease Yejun at the same time—makes his breath hitch. His grip on Hamin’s hair tightens just a little, then his hips start to rock forward with growing need.

Hamin sinks lower, lips sealing tight around Eunho’s cock as he finally lets his head bob with steady rhythm. His throat works with practiced ease, tongue dragging firmly against every ridge. Eunho groans deep, hips jerking into that wet cavern, hand flying to Hamin’s hair to clutch.

Every wet suck and slide echoes in the room, the tension snapping tight as Eunho’s length throbs harder and hotter between Hamin’s lips. He’s losing the fight to hold back, the sight of Yejun limp and leaking beside them, Hamin’s mouth stretched around him, the heat pooling too quickly in his gut.

Eunho tips his head back with a strained groan, voice rough. “Shit—Hamin—fuck—” His body stiffens, muscles quaking as release rips through him. Hot ropes spill down Hamin’s throat. He doesn’t stop, swallowing around him as his throat contracts, drinking down every drop.

Even then, Hamin doesn’t forget—his other hand still caressing along Yejun’s inner thigh, pulls away from Eunho’s cock with a wet pop, lips shining, throat flexing with control. He doesn’t say a word as he pushes himself up, and captures Yejun’s lips in a kiss. The older man, weak and trembling, accepts him instantly—though his brows furrow when Hamin’s tongue parts his lips and something thick, salty, unmistakably familiar spills onto his tongue.

Eunho's head tilts back and fights the haze of exhaustion clouding his senses. His vision clears just enough to watch the exchange unfold. His body shudders at the sight. White dribbles down Yejun’s chin, streaking across the kiss, evidence that Hamin had been holding Eunho’s release in his mouth just to share it with Yejun.

The older coughs softly, his throat bobbing as he swallows, struggling to take it all down while Hamin doesn’t let up, coaxing him with his tongue and lips. Eunho’s chest tightens—half in disbelief, half in the raw heat stirring again inside him. He lets out a breathy laugh, still trying to catch his breath as his eyes stay fixed on the slick trail shining at the corner of Yejun’s lips, the faint tremor in his throat as he swallows what Hamin fed him.

“Wow, that’s hot,” Eunho murmurs.

Hamin smirks, pulling back just enough for the thin thread of saliva to snap between them. His thumb drags across Yejun’s jaw, smearing what dripped down before pressing it back into his mouth. “Yeah? Our bunny seems to like it as well.” His chuckle rumbles low, but his eyes never leave Yejun’s fluttering ones, watching every reaction.

Hamin’s hand moves steadily, the metallic clink of his belt unbuckling cutting through the heavy air. He doesn’t bother with finesse, his arousal is already straining, aching for release so he presses himself against Yejun’s tender heat, grinding instead of pushing in. Each roll of his hips is deliberate, dragging friction against his swollen clit, making the older huff a breath, though his body is already threatening to give out.

Hamin leans forward, catching Eunho’s mouth in a bruising kiss. Their tongues meet, slick and rough, breaths tangling as the desk beneath them creaks with the rhythm of his thrusts. He doesn’t look away, Hamin’s gaze stays locked on Eunho’s, daring, almost predatory, as if the kiss alone could drag him under.

Eunho flushes deeper, the grin never leaving his lips, though his body trembles as if he’s the one being taken apart. Every sway of Hamin’s hips sends shockwaves through him too, their bodies rocking in sync over the desk. With Yejun pinned between them, overstimulated and undone, Eunho feels it down to his marrow, like he’s the one being fucked through every drag, every grind, every shuddering breath.

“Hamin—” Yejun looks up at him, clearly spent and tired but he can feel his clit twitch profusely, “you’re too fast…” He whines

Hamin’s hips stutter at Yejun’s words, a broken groan ripping from his chest. The friction grows slicker, wetter, as Yejun’s trembling hands press him tighter, making him rut harder against that messy, slippery heat.

Eunho lets out a sharp laugh, breathless and flushed as Hamin drags him into another kiss—hungry, wet, teeth bumping—while his cock throbs untouched between their bodies. “Fuck—” he gasps when Hamin grinds rougher, every snap of his hips dragging Eunho along with it. “You’re seriously making me feel like I’m the one getting railed.”

“That’d be nice,” Hamin pants against his mouth, eyes dark and his lips swollen. His forehead stays pressed against Eunho’s as his rhythm turns urgent and desperate. “Our bunny… And you, Hyung—I'd fuck you both at once if I could.”

Yejun’s legs twitch, his body wracked with overstimulated moans. His voice comes out sweet and hoarse, urging, coaxing: “Come for us, Haminnie. I want to feel it—want to hear you lose it.”

Hamin chokes out a strained laugh, his knuckles whitening against the desk. The way Yejun squeezes him tighter, the way Eunho kisses back with a reckless grin—it’s all too much. His body starts to shake as he drives himself harder against the heat beneath him, chasing the inevitable high.

Hamin suddenly sheathes himself inside he older's heat, his cock buried to the hilt as the tip kisses his deepest parts. Yejun gasps at the abrupt intrusion, body clenching down hard, milking him, and the younger's groan tears through the air as he finally unravels. Hot release floods deep before he drags himself out, the rest spilling in messy streaks across Yejun’s trembling abdomen.

For a moment, the room is filled only with the sharp cadence of their breathing. Hamin leans back, dragging his damp hair away from his face, gaze hooded as he takes in the sight of the two wrecked beneath him.

“I think we need to continue this back home,” he mutters, his voice now a little rough.

Eunho lets out a sharp laugh, though his chest is still heaving, cheeks flushed scarlet, lips parted in a grin that’s a little too smug. “Back home? You mean you’re planning on keeping us overnight, Boss?”

Yejun stirs faintly, fingers curling weakly at the mess coating his skin. He doesn’t open his eyes, only lets out a broken sigh, spent and pliant between them.

Hamin presses a kiss against Yejun’s temple, then turns his face to Eunho, catching his lips in a slower, grounding kiss that lingers.

“Both of you have way too much energy.” Yejun scowls, flicking both of their wrists.

There are days when the penthouse is soft and quiet, mornings that stretch into afternoons with nothing but tangled sheets and the warmth of bodies pressed close. There are days when they simply curl up on the bed, sharing silence like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And there are days when one of them is busy, so the others wait, reshaping their rhythm around that absence.

But today is rarer still. Today, all of them are busy.

Yejun has been tied to the NIS headquarters for days now, smoothing things over ever since the wolf gang operation grew too large to ignore. What was once a shadow conflict had flared bright enough to draw official eyes, and he’s been forced into morning after morning of carefully forging reports and  doing damage control.

Meanwhile, Hamin and Eunho are scattered across provinces, their efforts pulled outward as they restructure the remnants of the gang. Different towns, different fights, different nights spent away.

The distance is unusual, and it settles like a weight in Yejun’s chest. He can handle paperwork, negotiations, politics—he’s done it all before. But it’s the quiet, without the sound of them bickering, of Eunho opening a cooking video to learn or Hamin watching his stocks in the living room or the warmth of them leaning too close; Without any of those, it makes the day feel strangely empty.

Yejun sighs, glancing up at the clock. Still a few more hours before he can finally go home. He begins stacking the documents on his desk when a sudden blur of brunette hair blocks his view.

“Hyung! You’re coming to that BBQ party, right?”

Before Yejun can react, Jaemin—a co-worker hooks his arm around his neck in a mock wrestle. Yejun’s eyes widen, the sweet punch of his cologne filling his nose. He grimaces and bats him away.

“No, I’m not. I have to feed my dog,” Yejun says flatly, squinting and fanning the invisible perfume cloud from his face.

Jaemin clicks his tongue. “You always say that. Just get an automatic feeder. Pretty sure you make enough for one.”

Yejun exhales through his nose, tone flat but with an edge of truth only he understands. “They don’t want a machine. They want to be fed by hand.”

Jaemin laughs, assuming he means his dog, but Yejun’s gaze lingers for a moment too long, as though his mind is already elsewhere.

It’s finally the end of his shift when his phone buzzes with a text from Hamin.

From Hamin

> at the office now, come here let’s have dinner here

A small smile tugs at his lips as he slips into his car. The drive isn’t long, but it feels like forever. He hasn’t seen them in three days, and the thought of finally meeting—even just one of them—makes his chest stir with something almost giddy.

When he arrives, one of the men at the entrance greets him with a curt nod.

“Where’s Hamin right now?” Yejun asks.

The guard bows slightly before answering. “Top floor. Executive hall.”

He returns the nod, making a beeline down the halls, walking faster than he means to. Excitement simmers under his calm facade. But when he finally pushes open the door, the air inside is heavy.

Several men are seated on opposite sides of the long table. At the rear sits Hamin, elbows propped against the polished surface, eyes sharp and glinting with disappointment as he glares down the line.

Oh no.

Yejun knows this look too well. Hamin always has a way of using him when he’s wound too tight, and the sight of him like this; jaw set and his shoulders tense, makes Yejun’s spine tingle with the memory of it. He clears his throat, just loud enough to catch Hamin’s attention.

The shift in the room is instant. The men almost look relieved, as if the spouse has arrived to keep their lord from doing something reckless or to soothe him before he snaps.

“Hamin,” Yejun says with an easy smile, stepping closer. “You said you wanted to eat. Looks like you’re still a little busy.”

He rests a hand lightly on Hamin’s back, feeling the taut muscles beneath.

Hamin doesn’t immediately turn his head, though the tension in his jaw shifts slightly, tightening instead of easing. The room feels thick, silent, as if everyone is holding their breath. His men glance nervously at each other, sensing the storm brewing behind their leader’s eyes.

“You… Your smell,” Hamin mutters, voice low and sharp, his gaze locking on Yejun. “You don’t wear cologne, right?”

Yejun’s smile falters for a second. “Oh… This is… My coworker wears a really strong cologne,” he says, carefully, his tone placating.

“Really? You were that close… His cologne rubbed off on you?” Hamin arches a brow, voice dangerously low, the edges of amusement barely peeking through the sharpness.

Yejun freezes for a moment, trying to keep his composure. “No, it really was just too strong,” he says carefully, stepping closer as his hand brush lightly against Hamin’s side. “Seems like you’re in a bad mood. How about we eat?”

Hamin’s jaw tightens, eyes narrowing, and the men at the table shift uneasily, sensing the sharp spike of his jealousy. None dare speak; even breathing feels loud.

Finally, Hamin exhales, the smolder in his gaze softening just a touch. “Maybe if you wear the clothes in here,” he drawls, lips twitching faintly, “I’ll let you and them off the hook.” He says as he hands him a stapled bag.

Yejun arches a brow, unimpressed. “What did they do this time?”

One of the men nearly shoots up from his chair, knuckles turning white as his fists clench against the table. “T-there was a problem with the factory in Daegu… The police found a bag of narcotics. They weren’t able to connect it to us, but…”

The words falter.

Yejun exhales slowly through his nose. This isn’t a small problem. Depending on who stumbled across it and who they talk to, it could turn into something much larger.

Yejun’s lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t protest. He takes the bag from Hamin with little defiance and disappears for a moment. When he returns, the click of his shoes makes every head in the room snap up. The crisp black-and-white folds of the dress cling to his frame with disarming neatness, stockings hugging his thighs. He doesn’t spare the men a glance, only walks straight to Hamin.

The room is so quiet that the sound of the chair creaking as Yejun lowers himself onto Hamin’s lap is deafening. The younger one doesn't hide the smirk tugging at his mouth. His arm curls around his waist, palm settling just under the frills of the lace, fingers radiating warmth.

“Better,” Hamin murmurs low enough for only Yejun to hear.

Yejun’s brow arches, his tone clipped as if he isn’t sitting there in a dress, perched like an ornament for Hamin’s amusement. “Focus, how far has this spread?”

The man who spoke earlier swallows hard, his eyes darting to Yejun, then quickly back to the table. “Not far, sir. Only the precinct in Daegu has wind of it. But, if the wrong division takes interest…”

Yejun tilts his head slightly, exhaling through his nose as though weighing the possibilities. All the while, Hamin’s thumb traces idle circles against his hip, anchoring him in place. The whole room feels split between the absurdity of the image and the razor-edged seriousness of the problem.

He slams his hand on the table, the sharp sound making a few of them jump. “Focus, alright? I’m putting my sanity and shame on the table for you screwed-up fucks.” His voice bites.

It should’ve been enough to scare them into line. But the problem is—Yejun looks devastatingly pretty like that. The crisp dress hugs his bulk frame too well. The frills brushing against his thighs when he moves, his long lashes casting faint shadows under his eyes, and the way his flushed frustration paints across his pale face only softens him more. He looks less like their boss tearing into them and more like something delicate they shouldn’t be allowed to look at.

Several pairs of eyes waver, unable to stop themselves from gawking, his narrow waist wrapped in tight fabric and the curve of his neck exposed by the collar. Yejun, of course, notices. His jaw tenses as he slaps down another file on the table with force, ignoring the heat blooming where Hamin’s hand trails up his skin.

The wolves around the table hastily looks away, though the faint flush coloring on their faces betrays them.

Yejun sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Take care of it immediately. Bribe who you can bribe—better yet, find some small gang to take the blame.”

They snap their heads down, ashamed of being caught staring. Only Hamin doesn’t look away, a faint curl of amusement tugging at his mouth as he shifts Yejun more securely on his lap.

Hamin’s hand snakes beneath the frills of Yejun’s dress, knuckles brushing scandalously high as he murmurs, “Alright, next business… How's the candy sale in Gangseo?” His voice is smooth, teasing, but every word drips with command, as if his hand slipping where it shouldn’t is the most natural thing in the world.

The men at the table try—and fail—not to watch, their eyes flickering down to the subtle swell of Yejun’s thighs, smooth and pink.

“I-It’s… We sold it through Tiger gang establishments, and the Snake gang took a batch for testing,” one man stammers, eyes lingering on the sight before him.

Hamin doesn’t even glance at him. Slowly, deliberately, he peels Yejun’s panties away, tossing them over his shoulder like a warning. Then he presses Yejun forward against the edge of the table, forcing his body into the open. The older's glistening cunt is now fully exposed for the younger, slick and trembling. Hamin’s fingers immediately find the curve of his ass. He massages slowly, languidly, before landing a sharp, stinging slap that echoes in the hushed room.

Yejun almost yelps, thighs jolting up instinctively, the men catching a clear view of the plump swell of his ass, reddened from Hamin’s touch. His breath comes in ragged, desperate gasps as the obscene display hangs in the air, and the younger just smirks, hand still kneading, every motion teasing and hungry.

Their leader doesn’t even look. He just tilts his head and smiles. “Eyes up,” he drawls, voice low and cutting. “Unless you want me to gouge them out one by one.”

The men instantly look away, stiff as statues.

“H-Hamin,” Yejun hisses under his breath, fingers curling around the younger’s wrist beneath the table, trying to stop him. “Enough.” His voice is strained, part warning and a plea.

But Hamin only flexes his hand, just to remind Yejun he could go further. His eyes stay locked on the others, daring them to look again.

The metallic clink of Hamin’s belt loosening cuts through the smoky room, sharp enough to make some of the men at the table shift in their seats. They keep their eyes on their papers, knuckles tight around their pens as they try to pretend they aren’t witnessing their boss about to take his executive apart in front of them.

“Go on, we don’t have all day,” Hamin drawls, voice deceptively calm as he pulls Yejun back flush against him, the heavy drag of his cock pressing hot between his folds makes the older squirm. His arm cinches tight around Yejun’s waist, keeping him locked in place. “What else? How about the progress for the structure down in Incheon, huh?”

Yejun swallows, throat going dry as the tip of his ears flush red. He knew it would be like this, Hamin could never keep his hands off him. Not in private, not in public, especially when he’s pissed. Eunho was the same, but he’s surprisingly more tame than Hamin. Both men carved their desire into him shamelessly, and though he had agreed, though they had talked about it, the shame still curled hot and restless under his skin.

His hands tremble when Hamin shifts his hips beneath him, and his breath stutters. He loves them. Loves both of them so much it hurts. Even if that love comes with moments like this, with humiliation curling in his gut, with his body betraying him every time.

Hamin’s gaze locks on Yejun, dark and teasing. “What’s your color, baby?” he asks, fingers brushing lightly along Yejun’s spine.

“Green…” Yejun hums softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

In an instant, Hamin pulls him closer, lifting the skirt fully, exposing him completely. The room feels charged as Yejun’s glistening heat is fully on display, every inch of him catching the dim light. Hamin presses a hand to his folds, rubbing slowly, making Yejun shiver and arch against him.

“They’re so aroused just seeing you like this, baby.” Hamin murmurs, voice rough and low, “Do you like it?”

Yejun bites his lip, trying to hide the heat spreading across his cheeks, but he can’t help the small nod that escapes him. His body betrays him, responding openly to Hamin’s touch, to the heated attention.

Hamin guides the older back down, positioning him over his length so he’s flush against him, every curve exposed to the men around the table. The heat between them is immediate, tight and intimate despite the room watching.

He leans in, brushing a soft kiss along the older's neck, letting the warmth of his mouth linger, sending a shiver down his spine. Yejun tilts his head back slightly, eyes fluttering close, caught between the thrill of exposure and the intimacy of his touch.

The men at the table continue, flipping through their notes, talking about progress in Incheon, but Yejun’s focus fractures. Every subtle shift of Hamin’s hips presses his heat against his, and the shame pools thick in his stomach. He can’t even bring himself to look up—afraid of seeing who’s pretending not to notice.

Hamin grips his cock, giving it a few tugs before pushing into Yejun’s heat. The intrusion rips a startled sound out of him, his body jerking as one leg instinctively lifts to take him in deeper. Yejun whimpers, knuckles white against the desk edge, arms crossed tight as he buries his face to stifle the noise. He’s stretched, filled, every inch of him clenched around Hamin, yet the bastard doesn’t move. He just stays there, buried to the hilt, holding Yejun open and trembling.

“Keep it warm for me.” Hamin leans down. “Alright, do I have to guide the meeting myself? You’re supposed to be reporting, are you not?” His voice cuts like a blade.

The younger doesn’t move right away, only leans back in his chair, tugging Yejun with him until the older’s back is pressed tight against his chest. His hand grips Yejun’s thigh, forcing his legs open just enough for the room to notice the hint of skin beneath the skirt. His other hand slides low, pressing firmly against the heat hidden there, possessive and unyielding.

The men across the table try not to look, their gazes flicking between their notes and the sight before them, throats tight with nerves.

Yejun’s breath stutters, cheeks burning as he realizes he can’t even hide behind the desk anymore. His voice comes out broken, almost pleading, “S-Stop, Hamin… F-finish the meeting first…”

But Hamin lowers his head, lips brushing against the older’s ear, his tone merciless and taunting, “We are finishing it. Eyes forward. Let them see how you hold yourself together.”

The men shuffle nervously, papers rustling, but their eyes can’t help flicking to the scandalous sight before them. Hamin’s hips press firmly against Yejun’s, holding him in place as his skirt rides impossibly high, legs splayed wide. Every movement of Hamin’s fingers against Yejun’s swollen, slick clit draws sharp, involuntary gasps. The pink, glistening folds peek shamelessly past the frills, each flash of wetness sets Yejun’s pulse racing.

“Report.” Yejun hisses through clenched teeth, thighs quivering as he tries to close them, only for Hamin’s knee to press him open again. The friction of his fingers in slow, deliberate circles makes him shiver uncontrollably, hips bucking instinctively. Every drag of his hand teases him raw, sending heat curling through his stomach and spine.

One of the men clears his throat, eyes darting between his notes and the sight of their leaders. “T-The new batch is stable. But distribution—”

Yejun jerks sharply, a loud, ragged moan tearing from his throat. Hamin doesn’t pause, grinding his fingers side to side over the swollen nub with merciless vigor. Heat coils in Yejun’s stomach, spreading through his body in tremors as his thighs quake, his skirt riding higher now. Wetness gleams along his folds, slick smearing onto Hamin’s palm and the chair beneath him.

The man’s voice falters, choking mid-sentence, disbelief and horror warring in his eyes as Yejun’s cries cut through the room. The other gang members shift uncomfortably, knuckles white against their knees, but none dare look away—or intervene.

“Keep going,” Hamin murmurs, voice low and cold, as if the erotic noises leaking from Yejun weren’t filling the room. He pushes two digits inside despite being filled by his cock already, his fingers curl, adjusting the angle, teasing new spots that make Yejun convulse. Each spasm presses him deeper against Hamin’s body, and his moans grow wetter, sharper, dripping audibly through the silence.

Another man hastily follows, voice cracking. “East side, cops are sniffing around. Paid off the usual rats, but they’re nosing deeper this time. We might need to send a message.”

Yejun gasps, whines, and half-sobs, voice ragged, “H-Hamin… Please… So good… Ah—can’t… Stop—” His words tumble over each other, punctuated by desperate whimpers as his shoulders shake.

Hamin hums and decides to stop fingering him but his fingers find his clit again. He stays buried deep, hips still, cock heavy and unmoving inside him. The torment isn’t in the thrusts—there are none—but in the way his thumb grinds mercilessly against Yejun’s swollen clit, rolling it in tight circles that make him jolt. His other hand toys with his chest, fingers pinching and tugging until his nipples are flushed and aching against the fabric of the dress. His hole clenches desperately around him, slick and obscene, every spasm on full display for the men watching. 

The man swallows hard, forcing himself to continue. “D-Distribution’s steady, but the side effects are stronger than expected—”

Another sharp cry cuts him off, Yejun arches, his thighs tremble uncontrollably. The sound is so raw it ricochets through the meeting, drowning out the report. His hand flies to his mouth to muffle it, but it’s too late—the lewd wet noise and the choked scream already hang heavy in the silence.

Hamin doesn’t even glance down. His lips curl into a smirk as he finally looks at the man. “The dosage was too much, you’re saying?”

The man stutters, nodding. “Y-Yes, boss. Overkill. We might… Need to cut it down.”

While he speaks, Hamin’s hand is already moving faster, fingers circling and rubbing with unrelenting precision. Yejun’s body jerks, hips twisting, desperate to escape the onslaught of pleasure, but Hamin pins him back firmly against his own chest. His calm voice doesn’t waver, even as his hand mercilessly drives Yejun into raw overstimulation.

A strangled sob breaks free as Yejun finally tips over—his heels slam against the table with a sharp thud, and his body convulses as he squirts, his release spilling so forcefully it splatters across the table itself. The men freeze mid-report, wide-eyed, the sound of dripping liquid filling the tense silence.

Only then does Hamin exhale, a lazy, almost bored sound, and lift his slick fingers to his lips, tasting the mess like he’s savoring the older’s taste. He tilts Yejun’s chin gently, pressing a small kiss against his cheek.

“Bet everyone in this room wants to fuck your tight little cunt now, baby,” he murmurs, eyes glinting with amusement. “What do you think?”

“No, ugh, stop.” Yejun sighs, hiding his flushed face against the sleeve of his maid dress, though his legs remain spread, vulnerable and exposed.

Hamin smirks, dragging his tongue over the last streaks of fluid clinging to his fingers. His voice cuts through the silence, “Leave.”

The men practically bolt, chairs scraping and shoes echoing, their reports forgotten, no one daring to linger. Within seconds the hall is empty, heavy air dissipating into something far more intimate.

Hamin smirks the moment the door clicks shut behind them. He lifts Yejun effortlessly, laying him down across the table so their eyes meet. Yejun’s body is still trembling, acutely aware of the lingering heat from Hamin’s cock buried inside him.

“You’re really shameless, you know that?” Hamin murmurs, fingers brushing along his thigh. “Sooner or later, one of your men’s gonna lose their head over this. You should stop flashing them like that.” He jests.

Yejun jabs lightly at Hamin’s chest, a mixture of frustration and mischief in his eyes. “Stop making me dress up in front of them. Seriously… It’s absurd, even for a leader, who’s gonna take me seriously now? At least Eunho knows how to control himself in public.”

Hamin chuckles, tilting his head. “Oh? And here I thought you liked seeing me a little reckless.”

“Seriously… Even Eunho’s gonna faint from this sight,” Yejun mutters, glancing down at himself with mock horror.

Hamin grins, leaning closer, voice coaxing and warm. “He’ll side with me on this one.”

“No, he won’t!” Yejun snaps, cheeks burning as he swats Hamin’s arm.

The first light of morning drifts lazily into the penthouse, golden rays filtering through the tall windows. Dust motes float in slow, lazy spirals, catching the sun like tiny suspended stars. The air hums quietly with warmth and stillness, untouched by the chaos of the city below.

Through the glass, the city stretches endlessly, skyscrapers gleaming faintly in the morning glow, traffic moving like veins of light, the distant river reflecting the pale pink of dawn. Inside, the penthouse is calm, almost sacred; a rare moment where time slows for the three of them.

Eunho’s figure leans against the kitchen counter, stretching, the sunlight outlining the sharp angles of his frame. Hamin sits on the sofa, one leg tucked beneath him, eyes scanning the tablet but uncharacteristically soft in the morning glow. 

Yejun lies sprawled across the bed, hair tousled, one arm flung over his eyes as he drifts between sleep and wakefulness. He kicks his feet lazily against the headboard, letting out a long sigh. He’s finally done with work, having managed to snag at least a week day-off from the NIS after last week’s mountain of unpaid overtime. Not that he’s thrilled about begging for time off, but it’s a start.

In the kitchen, Eunho fiddles with some experimental dish, muttering about lemon chicken and cranberries or something along those lines. Hamin lounges on the sofa as usual, eyes flicking between stock graphs and news updates, the ever-dedicated workaholic.

Yejun groans, resting back against the pillows. “How come you guys are always going in and out of my body but never asked me out on a proper date?”

Eunho freezes mid-motion, phone clattering onto the counter, while Hamin’s mouth hangs open. Both of them suddenly realize they’ve completely mixed the steps up. Eunho rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well… You did approach us as a prostitute a year ago.”

“Undercover,” Yejun snaps, crossing his arms. “For NIS. And now look who’s cleaning up your mess when you get too rowdy.”

Hamin chuckles, setting his tablet down after a few final taps. “Yes, thank you, our wonderful Hyung. So… Where do you want to go?”

“Hm, how about we beat up some small gang in a downtown port?” Eunho perks up, eyes lighting with that familiar spark, already thinking about fighting.

“We could go to Russia and review some of the best nuclear weapons there,” Hamin hums casually, as if his suggestion is perfectly reasonable.

Yejun grimaces, dragging both hands down his face. “No!” His voice cracks with equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “I mean… Like a normal, proper date. Amusement parks, fine dining, movies—something normal!”

Eunho frowns, tilting his head. “Normal? We’ve been on normal dates before… Didn’t end well.”

Hamin smirks from the sofa, eyebrow arched. “I think ‘normal’ is a relative term here, baby.”

Yejun groans, throwing his head back into the pillows. “I give up. You two are impossible.” Then, with a spark of excitement, he adds, “Wait—I saw a poster on Instagram.”

That’s how they end up here, in the dead of night under the colorful lights.

The neon lights of Busan’s late-night street food festival flicker across the wet pavement, reflecting in shallow puddles from an earlier drizzle. The smell of sizzling meat, fried dumplings, and sweet taffy drifts lazily through the air, mixing with the faint tang of the nearby harbor. Tiny motes of smoke from the grills curl upward, catching the glow of the lanterns, painting the night with warmth and motion.

Yejun threads his way confidently between the stalls, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll love this,” he says, pointing toward a vendor selling skewers glazed in a spicy-sweet sauce. “Best in Busan, trust me.”

Eunho and Hamin exchange a glance, each of their brows rising. Their tailored jackets and crisp shoes make them look out of place among the throngs of students, tourists, and local families. Eunho mutters under his breath, “A street food festival? I don’t mind this Sweetheart, but you know how we are with crowded places.”

Hamin’s lips press into a thin line, eyes scanning the crowd as though expecting a trap. “Hyung, this isn’t exactly our usual… Environment,” he says carefully, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly in unease.

Yejun tilts his head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Exactly. It’s normal. Ordinary. And I’m picking it. So you’re coming with me. No excuses.”

They hesitate, but something in the way Yejun smiles—the gentle confidence, the easy warmth—softens them. Eunho sighs, a reluctant grin spreading across his face. “Fine. But if someone tries anything, I’m taking them apart.”

Hamin smirks, finally relenting, though his gaze keeps flicking to the edges of the festival, staying vigilant. “Alright, but only because it’s you,” he says quietly, letting Yejun take the lead.

The festival crowd presses in on all sides, the scent of fried food, sweet sauces, and smoke mixing together. Yejun tugs Hamin’s hand just enough to keep him close, while Eunho snakes an arm around Yejun’s waist, anchoring them together.

They can’t let go—if they separate, the crowd could get inside their heads. Their grip on each other keeps their minds static, their powers dormant, and the chaos of the festival at bay. Each step is synchronized, bodies brushing lightly, hands gripping at the right moment.

Even navigating through packed alleyways of food stalls, the noise and clamor fade slightly, replaced by the steady rhythm of their breathing and the unspoken trust binding them. The three of them create a bubble in which nothing from the outside can pierce.

As Yejun grabs two skewers and hands one to Eunho, his eyes soften, momentarily forgetting the need for control and violence. Hamin takes a cautious bite, allowing himself a rare moment of indulgence. The three of them—unshakable in the world outside—walk shoulder to shoulder, letting the festival’s chaotic charm draw them in, the night alive with ordinary pleasures, at least for now.

Yejun threads his way deeper into the festival, tugging Hamin and Eunho along like a mischievous guide. “Over here!” he calls, pointing to a row of carnival-style strength games, one of those old-school machines where you swing a mallet to ring a bell.

Eunho’s eyes light up immediately, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Finally, something fun,” he laughs, rubbing his hands together. He turns to Yejun, “You’re gonna regret picking me for this one, Sweetheart.”

Hamin groans but allows himself to be led, the corner of his mouth twitching. “This is ridiculous, how competitive can a ‘normal’ date get?”

Yejun smirks, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’d be surprised.”

The first game is a classic high-striker. Eunho steps up, grabbing the mallet with exaggerated drama, and swings with all his strength. The bell rings sharply, the metal clang echoing across the festival, and he turns to Yejun, arms raised triumphantly. “Beat that!”

Yejun chuckles, letting his playful side shine. He steps up, feigning overconfidence, then swings with precision—enough to barely touch the bell but still ring it. Eunho huffs in mock outrage, his fighter instincts flaring in amusement rather than anger.

Hamin watches, amused despite himself, leaning against a nearby stall. “I swear, you two are insane,” he mutters, shaking his head as Eunho drags him to the next game.

They move through the festival like this: Yejun challenging Eunho to win small prizes, Eunho flexing his strength with pride each time, and Hamin grumbling but secretly enjoying the chaos. Yejun grabs a tiny stuffed toy from a crane game, holding it up for Hamin to see. “See? I won too.”

Eunho snatches a larger, ridiculous plush right from the same machine, holding it high above his head. “Ha! This is too easy,” he boasts, making Hamin laugh, a rare, low chuckle that makes Yejun’s heart flutter.

The three of them weave between food stalls, game booths, and glowing lanterns, the energy of the festival amplifying their laughter. Even in the crowd, with strangers brushing past, Yejun’s hand finds Hamin’s briefly, and Eunho bumps shoulders with him playfully, as if marking his territory with teasing ease.

Yejun keeps his grip on them, but a sudden brush against someone behind him makes him stumble slightly. For the briefest moment, his fingers slip from their hands.

Buzz.

The man is gone in an instant, swallowed by the crowd, but Yejun’s senses pick up the flash of thought left behind. A gang member—someone he doesn’t recognize knows about the name of their candy—schemes in real time: stealing a batch and distributing it at a nearby club.

Yejun tightens his grip on Eunho again, catching up to the rhythm of their steps. The thought leaves him cold, but the control of the trio’s bond snaps back into place, their minds sealed off from the prying eyes of the crowd. Hamin and Eunho feel nothing, unaware of the potential threat, but Yejun’s pulse quickens just enough to keep them on alert.

He finally sighs and drags them both, tugging them toward a quieter alley away from the festival crowd. The sudden shift draws a few curious glances, but the bustle swallows them quickly. He hisses under his breath, eyes scanning the street. He tells them of what he’s read from a random guy. “If it goes out of our route, the NIS could catch wind, and eventually—It’ll lead straight back to us.”

Hamin’s brows furrow, lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re saying there could be a mole?”

Yejun nods, jaw tight. “Exactly. It’s reckless. Someone’s playing too fast. If we don’t intercept, it could blow everything we’ve been restructuring.”

Eunho shifts, his hand curling around Yejun’s tighter. “Then we stop them,” he says simply, eyes alight with that feral edge.

Hamin smirks faintly, though tension flickers across his features. “Looks like our ‘normal date’ just turned into work,” he mutters, sliding a hand along Yejun’s back.

Yejun looks up at them, his grip firm on both their hands. “We need to stop it,” he says. “The club’s called Midnight Mirage. That’s where he’s planning to move the batch.”

Hamin hums, tilting his head. “Not too far from this street…” His gaze flicks between Yejun and Eunho, measuring the distance, the risks, and the advantage of their current positions.

Eunho’s jaw tightens, eyes glinting with that dangerous mix of amusement and anticipation. “Then we go there,” he hums softly.

Yejun exhales, nodding.

Hamin rubs his temple, frustration coiling tight in his jaw. This slip—this little rebellion—was exactly the kind of oversight that ruined their rare attempt at a normal evening. Someone in their organization still wasn’t playing ball, still testing boundaries, and it galled him to think it had happened right under their noses. He purses his lips, letting the irritation simmer, before fishing his phone out of his pocket with a precise flick of his fingers.

Eunho tilts his head, eyes sharp, silently asking the question Hamin already knows is coming. Hamin meets the gaze, calm but cutting, and replies, “I’m gonna call a cleaner.”

The man in mullet smirks, he knows the type of “cleaner” Hamin means, and the look in his eyes says he’s more than ready for whatever comes next. Meanwhile, Yejun clutches their hands tighter

Finding the club is easier than Yejun expected. The night air is sharp, biting at their cheeks, and the neon signs spill garish reds and blues across the rough pavement. Eunho tilts his head, lips pursed in a frown, taking in the narrow alleyway and the muted, pulsating glow that leaks from behind the door.

“It’s not just a club,” Eunho mutters, eyes scanning the facade. His instincts hum with warning, every muscle coiled tight. The building looks harmless enough—small, tucked away, half-swallowed by shadows, but the faint laughter and sultry music leaking through the cracks betray its true nature.

Yejun follows his gaze, lips pressed in a thin line. “Careful. We don’t know how big it stretches underground. A place like this doesn’t survive on the surface alone.”

Inside, velvet curtains hush the noise, and a discreet doorman guards the entrance with a smirk that knows too much. It doesn’t take long before Yejun realizes exactly what they’ve stepped into. “...A prostitute house,” he breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Perfect.”

Minutes later, their “disguises” arrive. Yejun stares at the frilly black-and-white fabric in his hands, his face draining of all color. “You’re joking.”

Eunho looks even worse off, already halfway into the skimpy maid dress, his broad frame straining the fabric, the short hem leaving far too little to the imagination. His jaw ticks as he fumbles with the apron ties, fighting to keep his length from tenting the skirt and his ass from catching every spotlight.

Yejun groans, tugging at his own maid outfit that clings obscenely to his hips. “Of all the infiltration plans we could’ve used—This is the one?”

Hamin steps into view in his tailored butler’s uniform, crisp and perfectly fitted, exuding dignity with every line. He takes one look at them and smirks, not even trying to hide the laugh rumbling in his chest. “You two clean up nicely.”

“Shut up,” Yejun hisses, tugging the skirt lower.

Eunho, cheeks red, growls under his breath. “I swear, the first bastard who stares too long is losing an eye.”

Hamin leans in close, his frame towering over Eunho as his hand ghosts dangerously low, skimming over the curve of the skirt that barely covers him. His lips brush against his neck, voice low and taunting. “You look good like this too, Hyung.”

Eunho stiffens, trying not to react. The heat rising under his collar is obvious and the way his hands grip the tray he’s holding betrays him even more.

Before it can go further, Yejun wedges himself between them, face red, swatting Hamin’s arm away like he’s disciplining a child. “Hey! Stop flirting, we’re undercover here.”

The ridiculous maid frills bounce with the motion, and the sight of Yejun scolding him while dressed in lace almost ruins the sternness of his words. Eunho coughs into his fist, fighting not to laugh, while Hamin just smirks, leaning back with the ease of someone who knows he’s already gotten under both their skins.

“Relax,” Hamin drawls, fixing the stiff bow tie at his throat. “I’m just staying in character.”

“Character my ass,” Yejun grumbles, tugging at the too-short hem of his skirt. “We’re supposed to blend in, not cause a scandal.”

Eunho shifts again, the tray in his hands dipping dangerously as the frills of his skirt ride higher with the movement. His face is set in stone, but his ears are red. He clearly wants to bolt out of the club as soon as possible.

Yejun notices, and his eyes widen. “Eunho—don’t you dare—” He hisses, tugging the skirt down uselessly, which only makes Eunho’s length strain more obviously against the thin fabric.

Hamin’s chuckle is low, dark, and far too entertained. “You’re about to blow our cover before we even step inside.” He leans in again, brushing close enough that Eunho feels his breath at the shell of his ear. “But I can fix that for you.”

Yejun glares and shoves at his chest again, though his cheeks are burning. “Stop it, both of you! We’re here to do our job, not—”

The doorman suddenly clears his throat, cutting through the bickering. “...You three planning to stand out here all night, or are you coming in?”

Yejun straightens immediately, trying to regain some dignity despite the humiliating lace hugging his thighs. “Of course. Coming.”

Hamin smirks at his fluster, guiding them forward with a hand at their lower backs—his palm slipping lower than necessary, just to feel them jump under his touch. Eunho grits his teeth, trying not to react, though the way Hamin’s fingers had brushed over him earlier lingers hot against his skin.

As they pass through the velvet curtains, Yejun mutters under his breath, mortified, “This is the worst infiltration plan we’ve ever had.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hamin replies smoothly, eyes sliding between Eunho’s stiff posture and Yejun’s twitching skirt. “I think it’s perfect.”

The air inside is heavy with perfume and smoke, every corner dimly lit by red lamps that cast everything in a sultry glow. Music hums low from somewhere deeper in the establishment, and laughter bubbles up like champagne, too rehearsed, too practiced.

Yejun’s eyes sweep the room—velvet booths, lingering hands, clients whispering behind silk screens. His throat works as he pulls them both aside, skirts swishing around his thighs. “Alright. We split up,” he hisses, trying to sound authoritative despite the lace bow hanging off his chest. “Gather intel separately. Less attention that way.”

Eunho stiffens, brows furrowed. “Separate? Here?” His voice dips into a growl. “This place reeks of trouble.”

“Which is exactly why we’re here,” Yejun retorts, tugging at his ridiculous frilly hem as if that could restore some dignity. “We don’t know how deep this club goes or how many people are involved. If we stick together, we’ll stand out.”

Hamin only smirks, clearly entertained by the entire spectacle. “So you’re sending us off to play while you sneak around in lace, is that it?” His eyes rake down Yejun’s legs, stopping at the hem where stockings meet skin. “I’m not sure anyone in here will take their eyes off you, bunny.”

Yejun flushes, jaw tightening. “I’ll be fine, this is my job remember?” He jabs a finger into Hamin’s chest before turning to Eunho. “You—go find out who’s bankrolling this place. Look for the private rooms. And don’t—” his eyes flick down, horrified at the obvious strain in Eunho’s skirt, “—don’t let that show.”

Eunho’s jaw flexes, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He mutters something low, but eventually nods, though the tips of his ears burn crimson.

Yejun doesn’t give either of them a chance to argue further. He straightens, squares his shoulders like a man walking to his execution, and disappears into the smoky crowd—frills swaying, back stiff with mortification.

Hamin watches him go, lips curling around a slow smirk before leaning toward Eunho. “Guess it’s just you and me now, Hyung. Think you can keep it together?”

Yejun slips deeper into the haze of perfume and smoke, tray balanced easily in his hands. He looks like any of the maids weaving between tables, head bowed, smile demure—yet his eyes never stop moving.

Everywhere he glances, something feels off. The guards stationed at the velvet-draped doors have too rigid a stance for a mere club. Their eyes aren’t glazed with indulgence like the patrons, they’re sharp, scanning. Even the bartenders, whose hands pour drinks with grace, brush too intently against his when he slips behind the counter. Trained. Watching.

Suspicious, every single one of them.

Yejun’s fingers brush the lace at his thigh, where the slim stiletto knife is hidden. Always there. Always ready. These infiltration missions aren’t new to him—he’s learned the rhythm of keeping a smile while cataloguing every potential threat in the room.

Still, unease coils tight in his chest. Not for himself—never for himself. But for the two wolves he left prowling the floor. As dangerous as they are, they’re clumsy in their own way. Too visible, too quick to snap when patience is required. If either of them slips, the whole place will ignite.

And then it’ll fall to him—again—to smother the flames before the National Intelligence sniff out the mess.

Yejun exhales softly, the faintest smile tugging his lips as he pivots, pretending to serve. Whether it ends in whispers or blood, he’ll be ready.

The velvet rope parts for him when he bows low, tray balanced against his palm. VIP lounge. He slips inside like smoke, posture shrinking just enough to pass as invisible.

The air is thicker here, cigars, expensive perfume, hushed laughter. He glides past them, steady, until he sets down a glass at the table of two men in the corner. One looks Korean, lean in a suit too stiff to be casual. The other—Filipino, perhaps—sits with an ease that only power breeds, his gold watch catching the dim light.

Yejun lowers the tray. Their hands brush. Just the lightest graze of skin, but it’s enough.

And in that flicker of contact, it floods him—like pages rifling open in his head.

The location. A warehouse near the docks, layered with false fronts. The stash of candy hidden behind crates of cheap liquor. And sharper still—the name of the rat. The bastard who’d been selling their candy to other gangs outside of their territory, leaking the supply chain for scraps of profit.

Bingo.

Yejun’s lashes lower as though nothing happened, his lips curving in a polite smile. He turns smoothly on his heel, ready to ghost back out.

But the Filipino man’s eyes snap to him. A word cuts through the haze, sharp and unfamiliar. His voice carries weight, tone sharp with suspicion. Yejun doesn’t understand it, but his body does, the instinct pricking up his spine, the shift of the guards’ gazes like knives.

The man leans forward, repeating himself, this time louder. The Korean at his side narrows his eyes, attention finally dropping to the tray boy in the frilled skirt.

Yejun’s heart doesn’t skip a beat. His fingers curl discreetly at his thigh, brushing the stiletto. If this goes south, he’ll carve a way out.

The Filipino man doesn’t sit. He snarls, motioning sharply to the others. Three more rise from their velvet chairs, all armed, all circling.

Yejun exhales through his nose, almost disappointed. Messy. Predictable.

The first lurches with a knife; Yejun pivots smoothly, skirts flaring just enough to distract before he plunges his stiletto between the ribs then twisting up into the lung. He pulls free in one clean stroke, the man collapsing without a sound.

Another tries to grab him by the hair. He ducks and slides in close, driving the heel of his stiletto upward beneath the jaw, shoving it until the man’s bone cracks. The body slumps, dragging the blade down with it. He wipes the slick against the man’s coat before withdrawing. Not a drop on him.

The third is faster, reaching for a gun, but Yejun is already moving—tray in hand like a blade itself. The edge slams across the man’s throat, crushing his cartilage with a sickening crunch. He claws at his neck, gurgling, before Yejun finishes him with a single stab to the heart.

The Filipino curses, panicked now, backing toward the door. Yejun stalks forward, eyes cold. “You should’ve stayed quiet,” he murmurs.

The man fumbles for the knob, but Yejun’s blade arcs once, a flash of steel catching the low neon glow, before sliding cleanly across his throat. The blood is hot, sudden—but Yejun angles him downward, hand guiding his body so the spray paints the carpet, not his dress. The man convulses once and stills.

Silence.

Yejun exhales, brushing a strand of hair back behind his ear. He surveys the room—five bodies crumpled in ruin—and shakes his head. Sloppy, but quick.

He kneels, tugs the curtain cord free, and ties it around the inside of the door. A makeshift barricade. Anyone trying to open it will struggle, delaying discovery. The music outside swells, covering any muffled noise that might leak.

Finally, he wipes the blade clean with a napkin, tucks it back into his lace, and straightens his frills. He looks as though he’d just left a tea service, not a massacre.

He unlocks his expression into a soft, demure smile and turns toward the exit at the back, ready to find his wolves.

He hums softly, heels clicking with an almost lazy rhythm, tray balanced perfectly on one hand. He looks the part of a maid, frilled dress unruffled, expression serene—though the faint copper tang still clings to him, hidden beneath the perfume of the club.

The bartender’s order sends him upstairs, to Room Twelve. A flicker of suspicion crosses his features, but he takes the tray anyway, slipping through the door with his smile intact.

Inside, the scene makes him pause.

Hamin and Eunho are tangled together, half-dressed and shameless. Eunho’s skirt is pushed high, the stockings stretched taut as he kneels on the sofa, while Hamin looms behind him, belt hanging loose, thrusting slow and deep.

Eunho’s flushed face, half-buried in his arm, turns crimson when he steps in.

“Ah,” Hamin greets casually, not even breaking the rhythm. His eyes flick up, sharp as always. “Done with the job, baby?”

“Fucking bastard…” Eunho groans, teeth clenched, back arching as the undeniable sensation rips at him.

Then the smell hits. Metallic and sharp.

Hamin halts mid-thrust, hand firm on Eunho’s hip. His gaze sharpens, scanning Yejun from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”

Eunho whips his head around, panting, a rare softness cracking through his expression. “Sweetheart, are you okay?” The pet name tumbles out, absurdly tender considering his current position.

Yejun just stares at them for a long moment. Then his shoulders shake, and laughter bursts out of him—loud, unrestrained, the kind that bends him double until he’s clutching his stomach.

“You two—” he wheezes between laughs, “couldn’t even keep it in your pants for one night, huh?” His voice is laced with amusement, eyes glinting.

Eunho mutters something under his breath, cheeks burning, while Hamin only smirks faintly, completely unbothered.

Yejun steadies the tray against the table, still catching his breath from laughing too hard. The smell of iron lingers faintly in the room, but it only sharpens the clarity of the moment.

For a flicker of a second, it feels like deja vu—like the night he first walked into their lives. He can still remember the fabric of the bunny suit clinging to his body, the suggestive cut of his costume, and the way Hamin and Eunho had looked at him then. Predators. Sharp and ravenous, ready to devour him whole.

Now?

Now they look like idiots. Eunho flushed and pouting, Hamin’s belt hanging loose as if dignity was optional.

“Why are you laughing?” Eunho grumbles, a little breathless, lips curling into the smallest pout as he shifts under Hamin’s hold.

Yejun shakes his head, chuckling, the sound lighter this time. He takes a step closer, his eyes softening as his mirth fades into something quieter, deeper. “Just… Love you guys.”

The words land heavier than he expects.

Hamin stills, brows twitching as though the statement knocked him off-balance. His usual calm fractures for just a beat, and Eunho, who wears his heart far too openly, nearly lets out a loud, unrestrained, “aw,” before catching himself, lips pressing together.

The air shifts, less predator and prey, more like home—messy, stupid, and theirs.

Yejun sets the tray down carefully and crosses the space between them. He leans down first, brushing a gentle kiss against Hamin’s cheek. It earns him a faint narrowing of eyes, that subtle flicker of restraint only Hamin ever shows.

Before he can move away, Eunho catches him by the jaw, pulling him into a kiss that’s far from soft. “Don’t be sappy now,” Eunho murmurs against his lips, his grin sharp. “We just killed people.”

Hamin exhales through his nose, unimpressed but unrelenting, hips driving forward again as if he’ll ground them all back into reality by sheer force. The room fills with the rhythm of his movements.

Eunho spills a soft whine into Yejun’s mouth, muffled but sweet, and Yejun hums against him. He pulls back just enough to murmur, lips brushing the corner of Eunho’s mouth, “I know. I cleaned up pretty nicely… And I got intel too.” His hands rise, cupping the younger’s cheeks, thumbs brushing over his sharp cheekbones.

Eunho’s eyes glitter, his voice dropping into a purr. “We got some too.” His teeth graze Yejun’s bottom lip, just shy of drawing blood.

Hamin leans in closer, his chin heavy on Eunho’s shoulder, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. His body is a wall—broad, solid, and inescapable. Eunho looks smaller beneath him, his frame caught in the sheer press of Hamin’s presence. Yejun can’t help but notice it again: the way Hamin’s aura fills the space, overwhelming, like he could devour everything with just that weight alone.

Yejun tilts his head up, eyes catching the sharp cut of Hamin’s jaw.

“We can talk about it later, you know that, baby.” His voice carries a lazy sweetness, but there’s a glint of knowing in it, the same kind that makes Yejun pause just for a beat.

“Y-Yeah.” Eunho’s smile is faint, caught between the heat of Hamin behind him and Yejun’s voice in front of him. His body betrays him—rocking forward, chest brushing into Yejun’s space as if pulled there. The fine frills of his undone skirt sway with each motion, grazing his flushed skin.

Yejun’s gaze drops. The sight makes him smirk. Already, there’s a damp spot spreading, proof of Eunho’s unraveling spilling onto the couch cushions. Yejun clicks his tongue softly, “What’s wrong, Eunho?” His words are a velvet tease, laced with a cruel tenderness as he leans just close enough to let their breaths mingle. “I thought it’s not bad to mix business with pleasure?”

His smirk deepens as he watches Eunho bite back another sound, cheeks flushed, body trembling under Hamin’s thrusts. Slowly, Yejun lets his hand trail down, gathering the hem of his skirt between his slender fingers. The fabric rises inch by inch, silken and teasing, until his pale thighs come into view.

Both men falter. Hamin’s thrusts stutter—and Eunho, caught between them, lets out a shaky exhale as his eyes dart downward.

By the time Yejun’s skirt is lifted high enough, the lace of his panties is on full display—darkened in the center, already damp with arousal. The soft sheen of it catches the low light of the lounge, undeniable, and both of them suck in a sharp breath.

Yejun tilts his head, feigning innocence, though his voice drips with wickedness. “What’s wrong? You two look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The air shifts—Eunho’s knuckles clutch the cushions, Hamin’s grip hardens on his hips. Their instincts are laid bare, like wolves cornered by a prey that dares to tease them.

“What about it, Eunho-Hyung? Do you wanna fuck our bunny?” Hamin hums low against his ear, fingers tugging the hem of Eunho’s skirt until the fabric is bunched around his waist. Their connection is laid bare with his rim stretched open around him, cock flushed and dripping against the cushions.

Eunho’s breath stutters, a sharp gasp escaping when Hamin’s hips snap forward suddenly, the wet slap echoing in the room. His thighs tremble, muscles flexing as if he can’t decide whether to brace himself or collapse entirely.

“Yes…” he exhales shakily, teeth dragging over his lower lip before his eyes flick toward Yejun. His voice softens, breaking into a sigh that’s both desperate and affectionate. “Yes, Sweetheart, come here.”

Hamin chuckles darkly, chest pressed flush to Eunho’s back as he thrusts shallowly, intent on keeping Eunho on edge. “Knew you’d say that,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on Yejun. “He wants it just as bad as I do. Don’t keep him waiting, bunny.”

Yejun doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he lifts his skirt higher, panties damp and clinging as his thighs part. The sight alone makes Eunho’s throat tighten, his hips twitching back against Hamin.

“Move,” Yejun breathes, voice low but commanding. He eases himself onto the couch, body stretching languidly before sliding under Eunho. The space is cramped, their skirts tangle slightly.

Eunho gasps when he feels Yejun beneath him, the warmth of his body, the daring way the older presses his panties right up against his cock. “S-Sweetheart…” Eunho’s voice falters, his hands gripping the cushions tight as his body trembles between them.

Hamin grins, one large palm flattening on Eunho’s back to hold him steady while the other reaches to tug Yejun’s panties aside. “Our bunny always knows where to be.” His tone is smooth, almost proud. “Look at you—already wet, already ready for him.”

Pinned between the two, Eunho can only whimper, every thrust from Hamin pushing him down harder against Yejun’s heat.

Yejun licks his lips, fingers curling as he pushes his panties aside, fully baring himself. His cunt glistens, strings of slick clinging between his folds and the thin fabric as if begging to be filled.

“You look so fucking pretty, Sweetheart,” Eunho murmurs with a grin before capturing his lips in a deep kiss. He lines himself up without hesitation, and the moment he pushes in, the stretch steals both their breaths. Their sighs melt into each other, muffled by the wet press of their mouths.

Hamin doesn’t miss a beat, watching the scene unravel from behind. His hips keep thrusting forward with steady force, fucking Eunho into Yejun, eyes burning at the sight of their bunny spread wide, trembling, already dripping around another cock.

Yejun’s back arches off the couch the moment Eunho sinks into him, the heady stretch making his breath falter. His thighs tremble, instinctively wrapping around Eunho’s hips as their kiss deepens, wet and needy. Slick squelches between them with every slow roll forward, his cunt clinging desperately around Eunho’s cock like it’s been waiting for him all along.

Eunho swallows Yejun’s soft gasp, groaning as he bottoms out, his chest flush against his. His hand cradles the older’s jaw, thumb stroking the damp skin there as though to soothe the sharpness of the pleasure even while he presses in harder.

Behind them, Hamin doesn’t falter. His hips snap with force, driving Eunho forward into Yejun again and again, until the rhythm turns them into a single chain of movement. The sight alone has his composure fraying—Yejun spread out, panties tugged aside, cunt stretched and dripping as it swallows Eunho whole.

“Fuck,” Eunho breathes against Yejun’s lips, kissing him deeper as his pace quickens. “You’re perfect like this—so fucking tight.”

Hamin smirks above them, voice low and steady. “Don’t rush. Let him feel every inch of you, Hyung. Our bunny deserves that much.”

Eunho slows for a moment, letting the stretch settle between him and Yejun—until he feels it. Hamin’s pace shifts, no longer measured but relentless, each smack of his hips drilling harder into him. The sudden force rips a gasp from Eunho’s throat, his body jolting forward, cock ramming deeper into the older.

“Good boys… Both of you,” Hamin’s low voice spills against Eunho’s ear, equal parts praise and a grunt. His words roll like velvet, timed with each bruising thrust.

The chain reaction leaves Yejun gasping, nails clawing desperately at the hem of his skirt as his legs are wrenched wider, forced to take every sharp snap of Eunho’s hips. “W–Wait—slow down!” he cries, voice trembling, but the plea dissolves into broken moans as Eunho pounds harder under Hamin’s merciless rhythm.

Eunho looks undone caught between them, his face twisted in a raw expression neither of them has seen before. His ears burn crimson, the flush spilling down his neck as if heat has completely overtaken him. The frills of the maid dress flutter with each rough drive, and under the low wash of red light, he looks almost otherworldly—sinister and sinful all at once, the perfect picture of a wolf drowning in desire.

Eunho’s breath stutters, hips snapping forward with an erratic urgency that betrays his usual composure. His fingers dig into Yejun’s waist as though he’ll lose himself if he lets go, his forehead slick with sweat as it presses briefly against Yejun’s shoulder.

“F–Fuck, I… I can’t—” His voice cracks, guttural and raw, before being swallowed by another sharp thrust from Hamin that pitches him forward. The double assault has him trembling, every nerve in his body singing as if it’s too much to contain—his cock being hugged by something tight at the same time he feels full from behind.

Yejun whimpers beneath him, thighs trembling as Eunho’s sudden force drives him harder into the cushions. “Eunho—Ah, you’re… Nghmm—” His words shatter into moans, head tipping back as his eyes flutter, unable to hold his composure when Eunho ruts into him with such desperate, thoughtless hunger.

Hamin smirks darkly, his own pace never faltering. He leans close, voice curling against Eunho’s neck. “That’s it. Show him how badly you need it. Show me how good my Hyungs can be.”

Eunho’s rhythm stutters, caught in the weight of the command, until Hamin’s hand grips his chin, forcing his gaze down. “Lick his nipples,” Hamin orders.

The command drags a ragged sound from Eunho’s chest. With trembling urgency, he tugs down the top of Yejun’s dress, the fabric slipping past his shoulders and baring his flushed skin. Eunho dips his head low, pressing soft, reverent kisses across Yejun’s chest, trailing from one side to the other as if he’s savoring every inch. His lips hover before finally closing around a peaked bud, sucking gently at first—then with a needy insistence that has Yejun gasping, hands fisting tight onto Eunho’s damp hair.

The sight draws a low, approving hum from Hamin. “Good boy. Just like that.”

Eunho’s tongue flicks over Yejun’s nipple, tracing slow circles before closing his lips around it again, sucking harder this time. The wet heat of his mouth makes Yejun jolt, a sharp cry tumbling past his lips as his back arches high off the cushions.

“Hah—Eunho—” Yejun gasps, his voice breaking into a needy whimper. His legs twitch, thighs spreading wider as if his body can’t help but beg for more. His fingers tighten in Eunho’s hair, tugging helplessly as the sensation floods through him, each swipe of tongue and drag of his teeth makes his cunt clench around the relentless stretch inside him.

Eunho groans against his chest, the sound vibrating through Yejun’s skin, drunk on both Hamin’s command and the way Yejun writhes beneath him. Slick strings spill down Yejun’s thighs, dampening the cushions further, his breaths coming in short, desperate pants.

Eunho’s body jerks forward, every muscle tightening as his rhythm collapses. He gasps against Yejun’s chest, voice breaking into a strangled cry. “I—I can’t, I’m gonna—” His words dissolve into desperate moans, cock pulsing deep inside Yejun as he teeters right on the edge of release.

But before he can tumble over, Hamin’s hand clamps hard around his hip, his other pressing firmly against Eunho’s lower belly to still him. His thrusts from behind grow punishing, relentless. “Don’t you dare finish yet,” Hamin growls, his voice steady even as sweat slicks his brow. “Hold it for me, Hyung.”

Eunho whimpers, the command clawing through his haze, forcing him to tremble and bite down on Yejun’s shoulder just to keep himself from breaking apart. His body shakes with the unbearable need to spill, every nerve set on fire by the merciless pace.

Yejun cups his face gently, dragging him up into a kiss that’s all warmth and coaxing. Their tongues tangle as the older slips in to caress his soft cavern, his soft voice threads through the chaos. “Shh, you can do it, Eunho. Just a little longer, hm? You’re so good for us”

The praise melts into him like a drug. Eunho groans into his mouth, body caught between Hamin’s brutal rhythm and Yejun’s tender affection, his tears threatening to spill as he trembles with the effort of restraint.

Hamin’s thrusts snap harder, deeper, until his breath breaks in a sharp groan. His hips slam flush against Eunho, cock buried to the hilt as he spills hot inside him, holding him there until every drop seeps deep. The sound he makes—low, guttural, satisfied—fills the room as his hand tightens bruisingly around Eunho’s waist.

When he finally pulls out, the stretch leaves Eunho clenching around nothing, trembling with need. Hamin’s release drips down the inside of his thighs, glistening trails that catch the dim light, staining the cushions beneath them. The frills of his skirt sway with each shiver, obscene proof of his ruin.

But Eunho doesn’t stop—he can’t. The moment Hamin’s weight retreats, Eunho lurches forward with a desperate sound, snapping his hips into Yejun with reckless abandon. His cock drives deep, chasing the high he’s been denied, slick mess squelching between their bodies.

“E-Eunho—!” Yejun gasps, legs forced wider as Eunho pistons into him, the wet drag loud and frantic. His arms wrap around Eunho’s back instinctively, trying to anchor him even as the force rocks the sofa beneath them.

Behind them, Hamin leans back with a lazy smirk, watching the mess he’s made. His sharp eyes trail down to the flood between Eunho’s thighs, leaking in steady streams, staining his stockings and pooling beneath. “Filthy,” he murmurs, voice edged with satisfaction. “Look at you, Hyung. Look at the mess you’re making.”

And Eunho—flushed, panting, eyes blown wide—only fucks into Yejun harder, chasing that final snap of release as though nothing else in the world exists.

Yejun can feel every shove of Eunho’s hips, the way his cock drags deep and shapes him from the inside, rearranging his stomach until his toes curl against the table’s edge. The obscene stretch leaves him gasping, his arms winding tight around Eunho’s trembling frame.

“F-Fuck, you feel so good, you—you’re reaching up my stomach,” Yejun breathes against his ear, voice breaking on a whimper. His nails dig into Eunho’s back, dragging down the fabric of his frills.

Eunho’s answering sound is a raw, needy whine, muffled where his face buries against Yejun’s shoulder. His body trembles, caught between overstimulation and the desperate hunger clawing at him. Each thrust grows sharper, deeper, as though he’s chasing Yejun’s words, lost in the praise.

Hamin leans in close from behind, his voice a low hum. “That’s it, Hyung… Give it to him. Look how our bunny’s clinging to you. He wants every drop.”

Eunho shudders violently, teeth sinking into the curve of Yejun’s neck as his hips snap forward with a broken rhythm. Yejun’s legs quiver where they’re hooked around Eunho’s waist, his body arching with every desperate slam inside him. His voice fractures into sweet, needy cries, “E-Eunho—ah, I’m so close, please—”

Eunho’s whole frame trembles, his thrusts turning erratic as it unravels into something feral. His flushed face twists, sweat dripping down his temple as he pants against Yejun’s lips. The sight of Yejun clinging so tightly, cunt gripping him with greedy spasms, finally tips him over the edge.

A guttural groan rips from Eunho’s chest as he slams deep one last time, cock throbbing as he spills inside Yejun. The heat floods him, pushes Yejun into his own peak—his back bows off the cushions, sharp cries spilling out as his cunt convulses around Eunho, milking him for everything. Their moans tangle together, the room filled with the raw, sticky sound of their release.

Hamin leans down in the middle of it, hand firm against the back of Eunho’s neck as he pulls him into a searing kiss. The older man gasps, caught between orgasm and Hamin’s tongue pressing deep into his mouth. Yejun watches through heavy-lidded eyes, shivering as the sight only makes his high burn hotter.

When they finally part, Hamin’s smirk is lazy, his thumb stroking Eunho’s cheek while his cock still leaks against his thigh. “Perfect. Both of you, falling apart so prettily.”

Yejun, still trembling, leans up with a shaky hand cupping Eunho’s flushed cheek. His lips brush his first, soft but hungry, tongues tangling in the humid air between their ragged breaths. Then he turns his face, pulling Hamin in next, kissing him with the same desperate need, tasting the faint salt of sweat.

Hamin hums low in his chest, one hand steadying Yejun’s jaw as he deepens it, slow and claiming. Eunho doesn’t pull away either—his lips ghost against Yejun’s until finally, awkward but eager, all three of them collide in a messy kiss. It’s clumsy, teeth clashing, breath shared too tight, but none of them stop. The heat of it feels like being devoured and rebuilt all at once.

Yejun pants into their mouths, a whimper escaping as the wetness finally trickles down his thighs in a sticky trail, cooling against his skin. He shifts, squirming beneath Eunho, but his arms refuse to let go. The taste of them both lingers on his lips, and he sighs brokenly against the fevered kiss.

Their foreheads press together after, trying to catch their breaths, the room heavy with the scent of sweat and sex.

Hamin finally pulls back, chest heaving, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. He glances around at the ruined cushions and the mess between them before exhaling a rough laugh. “Looks like this room is out of commission for a while,” he jests, voice hoarse.

Yejun huffs out a laugh, still breathless, and tips his head against Eunho’s shoulder. His hand trails up Eunho’s arm, a soft caress before he lifts his gaze, eyes warm despite his exhaustion. “Let’s go home?” he whispers, lips curving into something small, almost shy.

Eunho’s throat bobs as he swallows, staring at Yejun like he’s something fragile and untouchable, even with sweat dampening his mullet and his body still trembling from release. His fingers tighten around Yejun’s waist, grounding himself in the weight of him, and he nods without a word.

“Alright Sweetheart, let’s go home.”

A week after they finally blew up the rat who kept trying to smuggle their goods, Yejun decides it’s only fair to make a mess—especially since the bastard had ruined their perfectly normal date. The satisfaction, however, is painfully short-lived, because once again it’s Yejun who has to smooth everything over and feed the NIS another set of creative lies. Somewhere between wiping blood off his shoes and filing fake reports, he wonders if this is what romance is supposed to feel like.