Chapter 1: Breakfast with a Side of Stroking
The sizzle of bacon fought a losing battle against the thudding bass still echoing in Joshua Hong’s skull. Early morning light, pale and unforgiving, slanted through the dorm kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing above the cluttered counter. He leaned heavily against the cool stainless steel, the fragrant scent of brewing coffee doing little to clear the fog of last night’s stage adrenaline and too-little sleep. Fingers fumbled with the carton, cracking eggs one-handed into the heated pan. The yolks wobbled, whites bubbling instantly.
A familiar ache bloomed low in his gut, sharpening with each breath. Not hunger. Different. Deeper. Irritating. He shifted his weight, the soft cotton of his sleep pants suddenly abrasive against the insistent swell beneath. His usual morning haze was rapidly consumed by a single, overwhelming sensation. The rhythmic sizzle of the eggs seemed to sync with the pulse pounding between his legs.
Fuck. Not now.
He tried to focus on the pan, the spatula hovering uselessly. But the need coiled tighter, a live wire sparking under his skin. Images flickered – the crush of the crowd last night, the heat of the stage lights, the primal energy of performance leaving him strung-out and restless. Forget breakfast. Forget everything. The primal urge surged, drowning out reason.
With a muttered curse – “Ssibal” – Joshua’s free hand dove past the waistband of his pants. No finesse. Just desperate necessity. His fingers wrapped around the thick, heavy heat of his cock, already straining hard against his palm. He gasped as the contact sent a jolt straight to his core. Ignoring the pan, the eggs slowly overcooking, he leaned his forehead against the upper cabinet, eyes squeezed shut. He started stroking, rough and fast right from the start.
The rhythm was frantic, hips jerking minutely. His cock felt huge in his own grip, hot velvet over steel. Precum welled at the slit, slicking his furious movements. God, yes. The relentless friction against his sensitive head, the tight drag along his shaft… it was the only thing that mattered. The world narrowed to the pulse in his cock, the ragged sound of his own breathing, the obscene, wet slide of his hand.
He was vaguely aware of the heat radiating from the stove beside him, the smell of bacon fat and now slightly burnt egg whites mingling with his own musky scent. Lost in the building pressure, he shifted his stance. His cockhead, glistening with precum, nudged against the edge of the hot pan. A bead of thick, viscous fluid gathered, trembled, and dropped.
Plip.
Onto the sizzling bacon.
He didn’t register it. Not then. The sensation was too consuming. His balls tightened, drawing up, that familiar coiling tension winding impossibly tight. Oh fuck, oh fuck… The kitchen faded. The dorm faded. There was only the blinding need for release.
“Joshuji? You burning breakfast again?” Mingyu’s sleep-roughened voice, tinged with amusement, sliced through the haze from the hallway.
Panic jolted through him, sharp and cold, warring with the cresting wave of pleasure. Shit! He yanked his hand out, stuffing his cock back into his pants with clumsy haste, wincing at the rough fabric against his hypersensitive flesh. He grabbed the spatula, flipping the bacon wildly, his face burning hotter than the stove. The burnt egg whites were a lost cause.
“N-no! Just… crispy!” he stammered, voice cracking. He shot a frantic glance towards the doorway. Empty. Mingyu must have been calling from his room. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His heart hammered against his ribs. How long had he been standing there? How loud had he been breathing? He looked down at the pan. His eyes widened. A few distinct, pearly droplets shimmered on the browned bacon strips, slowly melting into the fat. Oh god. Did I…?
Before he could fully process the horror, the overwhelming physical need slammed back into him, twice as strong for being interrupted. The interruption had only heightened the ache. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. The risk only made it more desperate. He glanced towards the hallway – still empty – then quickly freed himself again, turning slightly to shield the pan with his body. His hand flew back to his cock, resuming that punishing rhythm. Forget subtlety. Forget hiding. He needed to come. Now.
The strokes were brutal, jerky. He bit his lip hard, stifling a groan, teeth digging into soft flesh. The edge of the counter dug into his hip. The kitchen smelled of sex and scorched food. He felt another bead of precum form, drip. He didn’t care where it landed. His entire being was focused on the tightening knot in his groin, the unbearable pressure demanding release.
“Gonna… fuck…” he hissed, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back against the cabinet. His knuckles were white where he gripped the counter edge. The orgasm tore through him, violent and unstoppable. A choked gasp ripped from his throat as thick, viscous ropes of cum shot out. The first spurt hit the edge of the pan, the hot metal sizzling faintly. More followed, arcing hot and white onto the bacon and the blackened eggs. Thick. So thick. It pulsed out of him, coating the food in glistening streaks. He rode it out, trembling, hand still working slowly, milking the last drops onto the mess in the pan.
Panting, sweat beading on his temple, Joshua slumped. Blissful emptiness flooded him, mingling with a dawning, nauseating realization. He stared at the pan. Bacon glistened obscenely. The ruined eggs were plastered with his release. The smell was a nauseating cocktail of grease, burnt protein, and sex.
Shit. Shit! What did I do?
Panic seized him again, cold this time. Mingyu. Seungcheol. Chan. They’d be out any second expecting breakfast. His breakfast. He couldn’t serve them this. He couldn’t.
His eyes darted around the chaotic kitchen. The spatula. Acting purely on terrified instinct, he grabbed it and began frantically stirring the horrific mess together. He scraped at the congealing cum, mixing it violently into the eggs and bacon grease, trying to disguise the texture, the colour. Just blend it in, make it disappear. He scraped the sides, flipped the bacon strips, churning everything into a greasy, beige-and-brown slurry. The distinct smell lessened slightly, masked by the stronger aromas of burnt food. It looked… gross. Like overcooked slop. But hopefully not suspiciously gross.
He was just wiping the spatula clean with trembling hands when Mingyu padded into the kitchen, yawning, his tall frame filling the doorway. His nose wrinkled immediately.
“Whoa, smells… intense in here, Joshuji. Everything okay?” Mingyu squinted at the pan. “What is that?”
Joshua forced a shaky laugh, turning the burner off with a clatter. “Just… experimental morning scramble! Got a bit enthusiastic.” He scooped the revolting mixture aggressively into a large serving bowl, praying it looked like poorly cooked eggs and bacon pulp. “Hungry?”
Seungcheol appeared behind Mingyu, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his leader-sense already prickling. He took in Joshua’s flushed face, his slightly dishevelled hair, the frantic energy radiating off him, and then the dubious sludge in the bowl. His piercing gaze narrowed slightly.
“Experimental?” Seungcheol’s voice was low, measured. “Looks like it exploded.”
Lee Chan bounced in next, drawn by the commotion. “Hyung! Breakfast! Awesome, I’m starving!” He peered into the bowl with the boundless optimism of youth. “Is it spicy? It looks kinda… shiny.”
Joshua’s heart hammered against his ribs. He shoved the bowl towards the table. “Dig in. Fuel up.” He tried to sound casual, breezy, but his voice sounded tight, unnatural. “Protein punch.”
Mingyu grabbed plates, still eyeing the bowl skeptically. Seungcheol didn’t move, his gaze fixed on Joshua, searching. Joshua busied himself pouring coffee, his hands trembling so badly the hot liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim. He couldn’t meet Seungcheol’s eyes. The smell of the food he’d just defiled seemed to fill the room, suffocating him. Mingyu scooped a large portion onto his plate. Chan loaded his up eagerly. Seungcheol finally moved, slowly, deliberately, taking a plate but only serving himself a tiny, hesitant spoonful.
Joshua watched, frozen, coffee pot forgotten in his hand, as Mingyu scooped a forkful of the greasy, cum-laced slop towards his mouth. Chan was already chewing enthusiastically, oblivious. Seungcheol raised his fork, his eyes never leaving Joshua’s face. The first forkful hung suspended in the air between Mingyu’s plate and his lips. The silence in the kitchen was suddenly deafening, broken only by Chan’s happy chewing and the frantic drumming of Joshua’s own terrified heartbeat.