Chapter Text
Jongdae corners him in the shower.
Sometimes, it’s hard to tell who the bigger man is when Jongdae exudes such commanding presence, compact and heavy in his smaller build. Chanyeol stands obediently in place when Jongdae joins under the spray of water, abandoning the task of rinsing off soap suds.
Wordlessly, Jongdae leans in and Chanyeol lets himself be wrapped up in his arms, body deflating in the hold. The arms curl around his waist, hands meeting just above his tailbone. Chanyeol feels secure in the embrace, warmth settling deep in his nerves and making him tremble, breaths quickening and hands shaking as he seeks support from Jongdae's strong shoulders.
Chanyeol is backed into the wall, gently, a hand clutching at his hair to steer it away from the showerhead. Like this, it is now only Jongdae getting sprayed, mostly from behind, where rivers of hot water pool in the crevices of Chanyeol’s hands and then fall down the slope of Jongdae’s spine.
Chanyeol doesn’t fight the heaviness of his lids when Jongdae starts pressing light kisses around his collarbone. Above his chest, where a certain tattoo is, Jongdae nips and sucks a mark into the skin. Chanyeol groans. He squeezes his grip on Jongdae’s shoulders, fingers digging where he knows a mirroring tattoo is embossed permanently into the skin.
They were small tattoos. Almost cute, like minimalist snowflakes, six prongs ending at conspicuous bold dots. The smallness belies their importance to both of them. As marks. As members of one gang. As men to a man they served under and beside, who confides in them and who takes care of them.
They care for him, and they care for each other in turns, so that when one needed attention, any one of them could give it.
And this required the intimacy of being known and seen. This is why they all know when Xiumin wants to be simply Minseok. It's why they know when Yixing needs to be left alone, and why they know what to do when Baekhyun wants to go nonverbal, when Kyungsoo comes home bloody instead of pristine, when Sehun seeks to take control.
When Chanyeol craves to be pliant.
He swallows the whimpers in his throat, letting Jongdae kiss anywhere, mark anywhere, touch anywhere. He allows himself to get swept in the sensations, putting the reigns in Jongdae’s hands. Those same hands peel away from Chanyeol’s lower back, reaching for his wrists to take them off his shoulders, then climbing up his forearms, trailing featherlight on his biceps.
Jongdae’s mouth eventually follows one such hand, cradling a bicep to kiss up the figure of a phoenix tattooed on his left arm, whose inky flames lick at the joint of his shoulder across the tattoo on his chest. Chanyeol’s head lolls onto the smooth, wet tile, eyes fluttering close. His right hand is engulfed in a reassuring hold, a thumb brushing against the tattoo of a Cross resting below the bone of his pinky.
It was Jongdae’s silent communication of understanding, of which he was the only one who could express in that way. It was only the two of them who shared the same beliefs, after all.
The steam in the room is anything but suffocating, even with the presence of another body. In fact, he urges them even closer, moving his hips when he found that Jongdae wouldn’t let him move his arms. It presses their groins together, their bare cocks each half-hard.
The way Chanyeol is backed into the wall, only allowed to move in the space Jongdae cornered him into, does wonders to Chanyeol’s mind. He squirms in place like a butterfly restlessly fluttering inside a tight-lidded jar, the clear walls limiting his movements. Like he was a specimen, lovingly observed by Jongdae’s eyes, environment controlled so that nothing ever goes wrong. In the enclosed space, he feels wild, like he could just let go, because there’s no one for him to hurt. No one’s life for him to steal away.
Jongdae steps forward, thigh going between Chanyeol’s and trapping their cocks between their bodies. There’s a grumble inside Chanyeol’s chest whilst Jongdae releases his hands to grip his waist. He uses it to rut themselves against each other, and with nowhere to go, Chanyeol lets his hands find their natural destination on Jongdae’s head, slicking back the wet hair and pulling the head to his chest.
It’s a slow rut between them. Jongdae starts nipping around his chest tattoo again, Chanyeol letting out broken whimpers as he grips tighter on Jongdae’s hair. The hands on his waist start creeping around, sliding along the flesh of his back, lower and lower. Whilst feeling like his heart could climb out of his throat, Jongdae spews the first words of this encounter.
“Are you hurt anywhere? Baby?”
Jongdae enunciates each word slowly, softly, though nothing beats the tenderness of the petname. Chanyeol swallows hard, absolutely swept by the feel of their cocks touching and Jongdae’s hands squeezing his ass. But he answers, dutifully.
“No… no. I only had to wash off the other person’s– blood.”
Blood which had long disappeared down the drain, fast enough that Jongdae hadn’t even caught any sight of it but bringing it up again has Chanyeol upset, brows contorting and hands burning at the memory. As his hands are buried in Jongdae’s hair, Chanyeol remembers to untense them, an apology ready to fall from his lips.
It turns out unnecessary as Jongdae burrows even deeper into him, face slotting firmly in his shoulder and hands smoothly prying his ass cheeks apart. The easy interaction, the deftness of Jongdae’s hands as he touches Chanyeol’s skin as if it were malleable; they create a lava crawl of synergy that helps put his mind under. He releases long, drawn-out groans as all other senses close off except for the blissful touches wrought upon him.
By the time Jongdae slips a finger in his hole, he’s forgotten all about his hardness. Jongdae makes him feel so good, is so good at making him feel good, at letting him crumble and picking up his pieces, at making him listen.
“The blood of the man you killed… it’s long gone. Baby.” Jongdae muffles the words on his skin, the lazy scissoring of the fingers in his ass a dizzying contrast to the industrious way he murmurs in that silky but sure tone, like glue, words sticking in his mind. “There’s no taking it back, no resets. You killed him. You probably did it so well that his body would never even be found. That man’s blood is on your hands, that man is not coming back from the dead." The words should be upsetting; the words should make him sad. But.
“But.” Jongdae says, opening him up so well, despite the insufficient slickness of hot shower water. But Jongdae is so careful, so meticulous, so slow, that it feels so good, and the words continue to come unhindered, flitting and staying in Chanyeol’s mind comfortably. “But that doesn’t mean you wanted it to happen. That doesn’t mean you like killing. That doesn’t mean you are a Devil.”
Chanyeol whimpers at the kisses bearing down on his neck, at the fingers steadily burrowing and pulling at his hole, legs going weak.
When Jongdae speaks, it’s right by his ear. “If it’s you who had to kill, then it needed to happen. And you didn’t run away from it. Because you’re good. Because you know leaving him alive would hurt the rest of us. You’re unbelievably good. So good, for us.”
Chanyeol has been sliding slowly down the wall since the first finger, and now, it’s all he can do to keep himself up and ease some of the weight off Jongdae. But Jongdae uses the lessened height to his advantage, easily trailing his lips along Chanyeol’s ear then down the slope of his cheek. He kisses the corner of Chanyeol’s lips, and Chanyeol swallows at the feeling of breath so close to him.
“Chanyeol, open your eyes,” Jongdae commands gently. Chanyeol listens easily, eyes blurred with the beginnings of tears. He meets Jongdae’s eyes. Jongdae tiptoes to push their foreheads together.
“You did well.” There isn’t a single tremble in Jongdae’s eyes; Chanyeol feels hot everywhere but especially in his own eyes. “Baby. I’m so happy that you’re here, that you’re strong enough to let yourself collapse before me. That you don’t isolate yourself and hide anymore like before.”
A cry, unbidden, forms in Chanyeol’s throat. He clings tighter onto Jongdae, a leg coming up to tangle around Jongdae’s firm thigh and torso melting into the hold. The fingers in his ass continue their gentle ministrations, pleasantly stretching the hole, and Chanyeol is so thankful for the intimacy so readily given.
Jongdae prods with his eyes and kisses him on the lips and it tips Chanyeol over, the tears coming down hot and uncontrollable. He hiccups into the kiss, and he feels Jongdae’s fingers retreat back to the first knuckle, fingertips massaging the puckered hole, until they fall away completely. The lack of contact leaves Chanyeol’s skin tingling, but the panic doesn’t last for long when the hands eventually come up to cup his face, wet and warm, angling his head to deepen the kiss and brushing away the hot streams of tears. His leg falls away, foot splashing on the wet floor as he regains his footing. A tongue licks at his lips. He doesn’t have to think about letting it in and warming up his mouth.
Jongdae pulls away just before it gets hard for Chanyeol to breathe, the congestion of snot blocking his nostrils making it increasingly difficult to keep up with the kiss. His arms fall lax around Jongdae’s shoulders, silent hiccups disrupting his attempt to bury his face in Jongdae’s neck, and Jongdae simply lets him, arms coming around to hold him up by the small of his back.
Sweet nothings are whispered into his ears, Jongdae’s lips hovering just beside it with his chin hooked over his shoulder. Chanyeol can feel every part of his body sagging lower and lower, feeling tired, spent, welcomed, loved. Jongdae’s dying erection pokes at his lower body. Chanyeol’s had died even before his tears started falling.
Mind going steadily under, he hears Jongdae say, “Chanyeol, lift your legs up.”
Jongdae’s hands latch below his ass to help wrap Chanyeol’s legs around his waist. It takes the last of Chanyeol’s strength just to cling tightly around Jongdae.
He’s carried out of the shower, into the cool air of his bedroom, and he strains to open his eyes one last time to see the bed in his vision, and then Jongdae’s shoulder, the snowflake tattoo in unwavering, bold ink. His eyelids grow too heavy to keep open and he lets them fall shut on their own.
The bedsheets are heavenly soft against his skin. He feels immensely content with the warm weight beside him.
“Thank you for coming back to us, love.”
It’s the last thing he hears before weariness drags him under.