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“Hyung,” Seungmin says softly, closing the door behind him. “This is kind of embarrassing for you.”
Chan regards him with moon-swollen pupils, the circles under his eyes like new moons of their own; he looks, Seungmin thinks very fondly, like absolute shit. Which is what he gets, of course, for fighting the shift. Chan is shirtless but, thankfully, wearing sweatpants — Seungmin isn’t looking — but his hair hangs limp and tangled around his face, and there’s a sheen of sweat high on his brow. Silly hyung, Seungmin thinks, perhaps too kindly. What an absolute idiot.
“You knew?” Chan rasps. Like it hadn’t even occurred to him.
“Hyung,” Seungmin says again, very disbelieving. He sniffs. “You had to know I knew. Don’t be ridiculous.” He has known Chan was a werewolf since they first crossed paths in a too-crowded JYP cafeteria and Seungmin had felt, humiliatingly, his nose actually twitch as he caught Chan’s scent — back then it had been unfamiliar, but there was that rigid groundedness to it already, a steady warning-light blip in the back of Seungmin’s mind. This guy, this wolf, would fuck you up if you fucked with him or his. Months later, when Chan had picked him out of a pool of trainees equally talented and better-looking — less lanky, less clumsy, generally better in control of their own bodies, less prone to stumbling over their own feet because of the wolf shifting inside their bones — Seungmin had assumed, perhaps illogically, that it was some odd variety of nepotism, wolf recognising wolf. Anyway Chan’s scent had already gotten deeply possessive. In whatever way, Seungmin knew he was kept now, that it was not easily undone; he hadn’t protested, no matter that he had felt underqualified for Stray Kids then. Chan had picked him, so he went.
They’ve never talked about it. But then Chan doesn’t talk to Seungmin about most things. “How did you find out,” Chan rasps now, moon-distraught, fighting the song of it; Seungmin’s own skeleton feels malleable, liquid, tempted. “I was so careful.”
Wolves never lie on the full moon; can’t, won’t. Artifice goes against everything the moonsong demands of them. This is literally the only reason that Seungmin doesn’t immediately assume Chan is lying to protect somebody’s feelings. “Hyung,” he says, “I’ve — I knew since before you even introduced yourself to me. What —?” The worrying kernel of an idea drops into Seungmin’s stomach too hard and fast to be anything other than instinct, and he bites the inside of his cheek. “Hyung, all this time have you not known about me?”
He had assumed, all these years, that he had done something wrong. Or that Chan didn’t want to talk about it. That two werewolves in a group was one too many. Seungmin, when he was younger, had not really known when he should or should not push things, and it had gotten him into trouble; he has gotten, he would like to think, more reserved with age, more cautious. So he never brought it up. But if Chan truly and honestly thought that Seungmin could be around him for more than ten seconds without inhaling leader, protector, moonsong, if he hadn’t known it was obvious —
“What do you mean, known about you,” Chan repeats hoarsely, and then shudders. The moon tugs, tidal, at the edges of their forms; Seungmin sees the way Chan’s boundaries ripple, then steady. Feels it in his own shape. “Seungminnie, you need to — I told everyone to leave me alone, yeah?” Chan says, and it’s so deliberately not a growl that it’s almost electric, the way Seungmin can feel how hard Chan is fighting not to snap at him.
“When have I ever done what you told me to do,” Seungmin says, and edges further into the room. He wonders, idly, what story Chan had come up with to get Jeongin out of the apartment for the night. What lie Chan comes up with every month; whether they’re fresh each time. As Seungmin takes another step closer, Chan actually growls at him; he snaps his jaws closed a moment later, mortified, but the thrill of it shivers through Seungmin’s entire body, the promise, the threat. He grins, delighted. “You’re not scary, hyung.”
“Seungmin,” Chan grits out, the same way he’d bite out a Behave through gritted teeth when Seungmin wound Changbin up a little too far in the corner of a practice room when they were meant to be working. A blinking orange light on a dashboard. Not a threat, exactly; the danger lives more in the statement of fact.
Seungmin shivers again. Smiles, but doesn’t show his teeth. “Huh?” he says, and takes another step closer. He can’t help it — he baits traps until they snap shut on his fingers, he pokes bears until they bite him back, he teases and prods and hovers just out of reach. It’s what he does. He can feel the moonsong battering at his insides already, thrums in tune with its demands, or maybe in harmony: be true, be real, be honest. Be Kim Seungmin. Be as earnestly himself as he possibly can, with or without fur. Seungmin takes one more step closer to Chan, then darts back out of reach when Chan twitches; he wants Chan to chase him, he thinks, to snap. It would probably be therapeutic for both of them. Seungmin has always liked being caught, anyway; he knows, in the same way he knows exactly who and what he is, that Chan-hyung would never really hurt him. Unless Seungmin wanted him to.
“Seungmin,” Chan says again, warning and plea both. Silly hyung. Still hasn’t worked it out. Seungmin feels moon-silly himself, but his head is clear enough; he smiles again at Chan, trying to be reassuring, although Jeongin has definitely told him in the past that that particular smile is more unnerving than anything else. To Jeongin, maybe. Too canine. The sharp edge to puppy. Chan would get it, though. Chan takes a step back, cornering himself in his own entryway, and makes a genuinely distraught sound like he’s really upset — like he doesn’t get that it’s okay, that Seungmin means it, that Seungmin trusts him. Idiot hyung. Like he doesn’t get that Seungmin isn’t going to break.
“Hyung is too moon-drunk to connect the dots,” Seungmin says, but he tries to make it gentle, even though he isn’t very good at soft. He can be kind, sure, but it’s rigid when it’s earnest. Fear flashes through Chan’s too-pale eyes at the word moon-drunk, like Seungmin has said something he isn’t supposed to — right, because Chan had somehow thought it was a secret. Chan had somehow convinced himself Seungmin did not know. Chan had somehow not realised Seungmin —
Seungmin rolls his eyes, slips his skin, and promptly trips head over paws as his centre of gravity drops too rapidly to keep his balance. Someday he’ll be able to do that gracefully. He trots closer to Chan, dizzy with the shift but steady in his stride — amongst the sudden and overwhelming miasma of scent and greyscale and moonsong, Chan is a beacon, an easy steady marker to find. Seungmin butts his head against Chan’s hip, giddy with the joy of being recognised. Chan is saying something; it’s a battle to remind himself how to process words, like this, but he’d fight it for Chan-hyung. Would fight most things for Chan-hyung. Including Chan himself.
“— are you,” Chan is saying, rambling, ungrammatical, and Seungmin makes a grumbly, displeased huff. Chan is still bipedal. The moon is ringing in Seungmin’s ears. “I never — you never said anything.”
Seungmin gives another baby, toothless growl which he hopes adequately communicates Neither did you, idiot, and drags his muzzle fondly again over Chan’s hip. Chan isn’t growling at him any more. Which is probably a good thing, except for where it had wriggled electric and hot under Seungmin’s skin, but that’s fine — he can taste the nuances of Chan’s scent so much easily now he’s wearing his fur, and the sourness of fear is fading. Still the acrid undertone of guilt, though. Seungmin wants to swallow it for him. Wants to knock Chan out of his own mind. If he can’t do that, he can at least knock Chan out of one body and into the next.
So Seungmin does what he does best: he ragebaits.
He nips shallowly at Chan’s thigh through the ugly soft cotton of his sweatpants, then dances away when Chan makes a disgruntled sound, just out of reach; he and Chan lock eyes. Chan’s irises have gone moon-yellow, but it’s hard to make out: the swollen dark of Chan’s pupils nearly eclipses the pale sliver around them. Seungmin makes a high, insouciant noise, looking disdainfully up and down Chan’s still-human shape — easier now to not be distracted by it, because his wolf has no interest in stupid things like pecs or dick print through sweats. But he’s still Seungmin, so his eyes still linger. For, like, just a second. Half a second. Okay, maybe two seconds. Chan’s form is so solid usually that it’s odd to see him waver, shaking like a tree bowing before high wind; the moon is bowling him over, Seungmin thinks, satisfied. Good. He doesn’t doubt that Chan locks himself in a room without windows every month and tells himself it’s better not to shift. It really sounds like the kind of thing Seungmin’s idiot hyung would do.
Seungmin moves quicker in this form, fast enough that he can dart in and snap his teeth at Chan’s calf too quickly for retaliation; he misses on purpose. Obviously. But, like, it’s a close thing. Chan makes an offended little Yah sound, still too human, but Seungmin is wearing him down. He can tell it. Can smell the way the moon is rising in Chan’s body. Chan says, half-defeated already like he knows he’s fighting a losing battle, “We — should talk about this, Seungminnie.”
Seungmin barks. It translates, approximately, to I am a dog and can’t talk.
Amazingly, Chan actually laughs; Seungmin basks in it, the high giggle that harmonises with the moon, the sense of having done well. Chan is — Well. Seungmin has known he belongs to Chan for eight years now. It’s kind of just a fact. Grass is green; the moon is full; Seungmin is a werewolf idol; Chan had laid claim to him so easily and uncomplicatedly that it had never been in question, just the way he might to anyone else too human to understand these things. So it always feels good, to make his pack leader laugh. To win his praise. The same sort of hot, electric flush through his entire body when he makes Chan happy, makes him proud, says something stupid that Chan thinks — for some reason — is actually funny.
Seungmin knocks his head gently, searching, against Chan’s thigh, then leans his head against it to gaze up at him. Like If not for yourself then for me. He likes to trick Chan into doing things that are good for him by framing them as selfless acts, just the same as how he insists Chan owes him dinner at eight pm on a random Tuesday. Seungmin makes a plaintive sound that issues from somewhere in his throat, mostly, but also feels a little like it’s come straight from his chest — or deeper, maybe. His belly. His gut. The most vulnerable parts of him. Chan is generally weak to puppydog eyes. Seungmin had always thought that was strange, for a werewolf.
Chan huffs, exactly the same way he does when Seungmin makes fun of his age; Seungmin thinks of it as his I can’t argue with that noise. It tends to mean Seungmin has won. Joy streams out from behind a cloud and fills Seungmin’s chest with moonlight, with electricity, and then Chan’s body swims before his eyes.
Seungmin presses close to him through the change; it seems clumsier, somehow, than even Seungmin’s. But then Seungmin is only clumsy after he shifts, as he’s finding his balance. The change itself comes naturally to him, like shrugging. For Chan, the change is slow, rippling, off-rhythm, and Seungmin tries not to think about what that must mean, how often Chan must do this. He had already guessed — it was very obvious, and a deeply Chan sort of complex to have — but the evidence stings. Chan makes a low grumbling sort of noise, not a growl exactly but like he’s shaking the cobwebs from his lungs, and Seungmin ducks under his legs just to trip him up and tease the sound into a growl proper — but the crescendo of it never comes.
Chan sidesteps him elegantly instead, regards him with those moon-pale eyes and a fierce warmth, stinking of joy, stinking of fondness. Ew. Seungmin doesn’t care. He refuses to need Chan’s attention or praise — he had spent so many years craving it, and healed a little wrong around that empty ache, so that it still sits hollow somewhere in his chest — but it still feels like what Seungmin imagines being high must do. Not that he ever really had a chance to find that out. (He’d been a straight-laced teenager, and then he’d been famous.) Now, shuddering with the weight of it, Seungmin snaps his teeth at Chan’s forepaw again just for something to do. Anything. He can’t just stand there and be looked at so fondly; it’ll break him.
Chan huffs, throaty, and knocks his shoulders against Seungmin’s — it’s probably meant to tease, to jostle him just the way that he bumps against Seungmin in airports, an I’m here sort of gesture, but Seungmin stumbles hard, feels his paws go out from under him. Chan — doesn’t know his own strength, maybe. Or Seungmin’s. He feels the harsh spike of Chan’s guilt-scent and scrambles his way upright, determined to remedy it somehow — like look at me, I’m fine, shove me again, I can take it — Chan’s stocky, graceful form is crouched, recoiling. The poise gone out of him. Seungmin rakes his eyes over his hyung — the moon-silvered outline of him, the faint trembling — and hates the timidness there.
He does not know how to say You won’t break me. He needs to say it anyway.
Seungmin paces closer to Chan and ducks his head into the join between Chan’s shoulder and his neck, rests his muzzle there, breathes it; it’s odd and intimate and stems from somewhere Seungmin can’t quite place within his own bones. Seungmin doesn’t — do this much. Shift around others. His eomma had been a wolf too, but by the time Seungmin had come into it he’d already been living away from home in the trainee dorms, spent his moons sneaking out and telling the other trainees he was getting forbidden ramen rather than, like. Forbidden roam-Seoul-at-night-as-a-wolf time. It had never been difficult. Seungmin was personable enough, but he didn’t make close friends the way some of the boys did; he had always been quite easily overlooked.
It’s different, here. Dragging that Chan-scent through his lungs full-bodied and graceless, unashamed because the moon won’t let him feel anything approaching embarrassment, feeling the wash of it spread across his skin and fur like ripples across a pond. Chan makes a soft, ugly little sound, and somehow Seungmin understands it: an apology.
When will he fucking get that he doesn’t have to, Seungmin thinks, too fondly. Idiot hyung. He nips at Chan’s shoulder in reproach, feels Chan’s full-body startle, lets the joy shake his own body just the same way it would if he were human and cackling with laughter. Chan is so graceful as a wolf, even as he looks ill at ease in his form; the poise wreathes him despite his best efforts. So it’s funny to see him jump like an overgrown dog startled by a cockroach.
Seungmin draws back, padding towards the closed doorway behind him; Chan gazes at him with something imploring and horrid in his eyes. Like please don’t let me, or maybe please do. Maybe it’s therapeutic for Chan to spend time as a dog where he isn’t allowed to verbalise his feelings into apologies. Where he’s just gotta feel them. Poor guy. Brought it on himself a bit, maybe. Seungmin shivers, blinking very slowly at Chan and then swinging his head to stare at the closed door — whoops.
He stretches languidly, then — regretting it — drags himself out of wolf form and onto two legs, even as the juddering call of the moon drags its nails down the chalkboard of his body. They don’t have to be wolves on the full moon. It’s just, like — Seungmin’s eomma had said Strongly suggested, like when your employer isn’t legally allowed to call something compulsory but will fire you for unrelated reasons if you don’t attend. (Seungmin, eight, hadn’t really understood the analogy.) He’s startled, when the world stops spinning, by just how tall Chan is in his wolf form — his shoulders aren’t that far from Seungmin’s human ones, vertically speaking — and then laughs when he spots Chan’s wide-eyed stare. Like How the fuck did you do that?, maybe.
“Don’t have hands,” Seungmin says, by way of explanation, and then turns the doorknob, cracking the door open. “You coming?”
Chan makes a low, hesitant sound. Like he wants to spiral about it.
“You’re not going to hurt anyone,” Seungmin says. “Don’t be stupid. The age really has dulled your brain, hyung.”
Chan huffs. Eyes Seungmin’s bipedal form like it’s some sort of medical miracle. Probably he doesn’t have that level of control over his own shifts; Seungmin has always kind of known that the more he fought it, the more it would win. He doubts Chan has worked out that going with the flow is, like, a valid option. If he really wanted to get psychoanalytical he could point out that it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, that Chan would refuse to shift because he couldn’t shift back and, by refusing, taunt the moon into singing to him harder; that it was obvious Chan hated the loss of control.
Seungmin doesn’t think Chan would really want him to get into any of that. He says, baldly, “In or out, hyung. You can stay here by yourself if you really want to.” The only thing that Chan hates more than letting himself feel things, Seungmin knows, is being left behind. It’s not really a question.
Seungmin drops to his paws again, clumsy but euphoric, and locks eyes with Chan again now that they’re almost on the same level — he could, perhaps, try to unpick exactly what is swimming behind Chan’s moon-dark pupils, but doesn’t care to. It almost isn’t his business. He makes, instead, a low almost-challenging sound in his throat, with just enough air in it that Chan will know it’s teasing, and sees the way Chan’s ears go up, the way his posture shifts. It reads, somehow, like the way that Chan sticks his human tongue into the corner of his mouth when Seungmin is getting on his nerves. Seungmin grins, wide and wolfish, and skitters from paw to paw; Chan’s eyes track him unerringly as he moves.
Then he wheels in place, slips out the cracked door, and runs.
Good. Good.
His paws find oddly easy purchase on the carpeted hallway; the indoors-ness settles oddly on his wolf senses, all the acrid metal and the damp quiet and the insulation, but then he catches the sound of running behind him and none of the rest of it matters. The excess boils off. There’s only the frozen, electric clarity of knowing that if he stops running, Chan is going to catch him.
He manages to barge his way through the fire door and into the emergency stairwell without setting off any alarms — it could be the blessing his eomma had mentioned once, the little ways the moon nudges things in the city so that her wolves are safe wherever they have been flung to, or it could just be that their building’s safety codes are immensely out of date. Probably the latter. And then they burst out the side door of the building, one after the other, Seungmin’s breath rattling through his whole body so much more easily in this form, and the night-scent hits him like a wall of city and smog and moonlight. No stars, but the night is clear: the moonlight settles tangibly on Seungmin’s fur. Burning, almost. But the best and brightest kind of burning, the kind that purifies, that burns off what he doesn’t need and leaves only the truest parts of him in its wake.
Then: Chan’s scent. Seungmin bolts, giddy, delighted. He loves this, loves the way any sort of chase trains the weight of Chan’s full attention squarely on Seungmin, however briefly: Seungmin wandering off on stage at a fansign, Chan scooping him up and slinging him over his shoulder to keep him in place. Seungmin in the bathroom at a restaurant, breathing too hard; Chan finding him by the sinks and placing a warm hand right on the back of his neck, where he’d scruff a pup, and Seungmin thinking He knows, he has to know, soothed by it. Seungmin always winds Chan up, then darts away; finally, Chan is giving Seungmin what he thinks he has always wanted.
His head is cottony and so, so clear. The moonsong makes him dizzy.
Ironically, Seungmin probably cares more about whether people see him on the streets after dark as a human than he does as a wolf — it’s late, and people will rationalise just about anything away, up to and including the shadow of a very oversized dog in the heart of a metropolis. He sticks to the smallest streets he can find anyway, ducking behind shuttered street stalls and into alleys. Seungmin wrinkles his nose at the acrid fryer-oil stench. His whole body aches, but in a soft and satisfied way, like how Jeonginnie waxes poetic about the gym soreness these days; Chan chases him through the venules and capillary beds of Seoul, canine, uninhibited. Seungmin hears him knock over a rubbish bin, the hollow clatter of it to the curb. It has to be good for him, Seungmin thinks. He hopes it’s good for him.
He makes for the scent of deep earth, hurtling through one park and then another — and Chan follows him, like he couldn’t do anything else. Like he has been two steps behind Seungmin all these years, hot on his heels, giving chase.
They lose time like that: moonsong rings in Seungmin’s ears until the consciousness of it fades, until he’s just sensation and harmony and the hunt, the smog-city smell and the grass beneath them and the distant river scent and, all around him, Chan, leader-protector-hyung, his, that you’re-mine smell. The evening goes fuzzy-edged. Seungmin tends not to remember his shifts, when he lets himself sink into them. Once his awareness starts crawling back in, he knows the moon is past its peak — not yet set, but its song softening — and Seungmin blinks his eyes blearily open, stretches his human limbs against something warm and solid and good, his head still spinning.
It’s maybe five in the morning. He’s in his own body, his own bed — somehow he’d crawled his way home — but Chan is with him, human again too, his shape pressed flush against Seungmin from shoulder to knee. Seungmin feels a little like he’s still dreaming. A lot like he’s never been more awake. And he’s still too moon-shivery to feel afraid, to feel ashamed of himself, really — he trembles from the closeness and feels more than sees Chan come awake, watches the way understanding swims into his eyes and pools there little by little, their moon-luminescence duller now. Seungmin blinks hard as Chan begins to curl into himself; there it is, that I-was-too-much face. Chan always apologises so profusely when he thinks people have had to deal with him.
(Chan does this thing where he’s — convinced that it’s an effort just to be with him, listen to him, have him. You’re not going to break me. Not that it had ever gotten through his thick skull in the past that Seungmin would never mind, didn’t think he was capable of minding. Only wanted to listen. Sometimes Chan needed to hurl himself at the brick wall of his own emotions and have someone bear witness to the inevitable crumble that followed — the body or the bricks or both — and Seungmin could do that if nothing else, could be that. Was very good at listening quietly, actually. But for years Chan had mostly looked over and through him. Even more recently, since Seungmin started needling him the way he must have wanted and Chan began to look back with that sort of offended, whole-hearted delight that turned Seungmin’s stomach upside-down inside his belly, Chan didn’t really — talk to him.
It’s different now. It has to be different this time. Seungmin’s body is languid and exhausted from the running all night; it’s more muted in this body, but Chan is still all he can smell.)
“Channie-hyung,” Seungmin says shakily, almost annoyed — at Chan? at himself? — and kisses him.
He feels Chan’s body stiffen against his, the aborted little gasp he breathes into Seungmin’s lips, close-lipped, can smell the way the guilt in Chan’s scent goes sharp with rust, weather-worn — but Seungmin is fucking stubborn, and he can feel, still, the way Chan’s spine melts against him despite the tension in his shoulders. He can’t un-know it: it’s not that Chan doesn’t want Seungmin but that Chan doesn’t want himself. It’s self-sabotage, the freezing up. Seungmin waits, gently as he can, until Chan pulls away and opens his mouth to speak — then kisses him again, insistent. Chan parts his lips like he can’t help himself. Pressed against Seungmin, his entire body seems to uncoil and then tense again, an undulating pattern like he keeps forgetting and then remembering who, what, where he is. Seungmin nips at Chan’s lip — sue him! He bites! If he was a dog they would put a little warning notice on his collar about it! — and Chan shudders, rolls their bodies over in a single glorious reflex, until he’s braced over Seungmin on his forearms, their chests flush, his biceps swollen with tension as he holds himself there.
Seungmin makes a horrible, desperate whiny noise; it’s the kind of sound he would deny ever having made if his head was any clearer. He feels so shivery — the moonsong is still unsteadying him. “Yeah?” he breathes, and reaches up for Chan, running a hand over his chest. Sue him! Then, delighted: “Yeah,” as Chan’s entire body shudders from the touch. The moon’s in him too. It’s always been in him too. “Yeah.”
“Seungmin-ah,” Chan says, too serious. His voice has a little wobble in it.
Seungmin can see the shutdown coming, the way Chan wants to curl in on himself; he forestalls it, breathes “Please,” would be humiliated by the reediness in his own voice if it didn’t accomplish exactly what he wanted it to: Chan chokes on air and drops his weight fully to press Seungmin into the mattress, his thigh braced stocky and perfect between Seungmin’s legs. Seungmin’s wearing pyjama pants, he notes — not the jeans he had gone over to visit Chan in. Odd, the kind of things his moon-drunk self must have prioritised. His skin feels shivery everywhere, too thin, like everything touching him is touching the nerves beneath without the rest of his body to mediate or translate the sensation. The moonlight had burned away everything that didn’t matter.
Chan says, wonderingly, “What time is it?”
“Moon’s still up,” Seungmin says. He squirms, then swallows back a gasp when it drags the fabric of his pyjama pants over the too-sensitive plane of his inner thighs. “Can’t you feel it?”
“Yeah,” Chan says, a little disbelieving. His voice is morning-hoarse. And probably howled-out hoarse, too — some things don’t drag themselves back over from body to body but other things always did seem to, the same way that Seungmin’s muscles feel melty, lax, exhausted. “But I’m —” His laugh is so self-deprecating. “Back. Me.”
“Yeah,” Seungmin agrees, distracted. He wriggles in place again, feeling out the edges of the being-pinned sensation and delighting in Chan’s weight on him, and only then realises his dick is too heavy in his pants, too warm — his squirming had dragged it against Chan’s leg, and Seungmin’s breath knocked itself free of his chest. “Ah,” he panted, still burning — self-consciousness? Yes. No. Schrodinger’s embarrassment.
“You’re,” Chan says, like he wants to talk werewolf logistics, and cuts himself off with a choked sound a second later — “Seungminnie?”, a pause, “You’re — fuck.” A muscle in his thigh jumps, flexing involuntarily, and Seungmin whines. Chan says — voice scraping in its throat, like the words are corrosive — “You want it that bad?”
“Want you that bad,” Seungmin says crossly. “Idiot hyung.”
It takes too long for it to sink in: Seungmin watches Chan’s face do something horrible and complicated, his mouth twisting, before it smooths itself away. Chan’s good at ushering the conflict under the rug. Sweeping the mess off his own face. He says, “Want — me, Seungminnie?”, his voice sort of suave even now, but disbelieving. He looks the way he does when he’s giving an acceptance speech or ending ment: like the conjunction of Bang Chan and the things under his surface is difficult to navigate, like he doesn’t know how to reconcile what he feels with who he’s trying to be. He still looks like he’s performing.
“You’re really stupid,” Seungmin says, and strains up on his elbows — it literally takes all of his strength, his muscles wobbly as they are — so that he can bite Chan’s shoulder, mostly to snap him out of it but admittedly also because he is constantly thinking about biting Chan’s shoulder. Chan swears — loudly, English — and pulls away, pins Seungmin’s wrists together against the mattress like it’s reflex, like it’s easy for him. Seungmin moans. He’ll own up to that one. Another fantastic day for Kim Seungmin; mission accomplished; hot coworker goaded into holding his wrists down with those stupid, veiny hands, his eyes very dark as he hovers above Seungmin in the pre-dawn dimness of his own bedroom. If only hot coworker was all he was. If only provoking Chan into fucking him was all Seungmin wanted.
Chan hovers there, holding still; Seungmin squirms again, his breath punching out of him when the grip on his wrists doesn’t falter, fuck, doesn’t even readjust a little. The yellowish gleam has dimmed in Chan’s eyes, or maybe it’s just that they’re all pupil again. But he doesn’t do anything.
“C’mon,” Seungmin says — waspishly, he’d been intending, but it comes out too needy to have any real sting. He twists under Chan’s body and feels warmth unfurl, electric, sparking, all through his body; his cock is still trapped against Chan’s thigh. “Hyung, please.”
Chan shivers, then — like he’s weak to being begged. That — makes sense, actually. Yeah. What a whore, Seungmin thinks approvingly. Chan’s fingers flex against Seungmin’s wrist — and maybe he’s just this strong on his own, or maybe his wolf shape is still too close to the surface, maybe he’s stronger still — and he says, choked but earnest, “You want hyung to look after you, Seungminnie?”
“Yeah,” Seungmin breathes. Even his voice sounds wrecked. Nothing’s been done to him yet. Chan has been chasing him around the city all night; he can barely remember it, but he still feels wound-up, unsated. Too sated. Too comfortable. He grinds up — messy, desperate — against Chan’s leg again and shudders at the sensation, like big bright fireworks through his body, a new one lit with each uncoordinated jerk of his hips and exploding a few seconds delayed. “Hyung,” he says, watches Chan’s eyes darken, swallows. He can’t think. “Hyung, I can — I can get off like this, please, just — just let me, hyung, please.” The lump in his throat is so thick. Chan cages him in, warm, close — Seungmin has never felt safer, he thinks, but the latent danger still squirms in his pinned wrists, and his hips buck again at the thought, the juxtaposition, the way Chan treats him so gently. The way he could choose not to. The way he could break Seungmin so easily.
Chan groans, low and dark and so close, and Seungmin shivers; he can feel the outline of Chan’s own cock pressed against Seungmin’s hip, fattening slowly, the heat of it tangible even through Seungmin’s pyjamas and Chan’s — those — those evil grey sweatpants, which Seungmin has thought for many years should be banned, except for the fact that Chan considers the other option to be just briefs which are eminently worse. Seungmin has spent years carefully not looking at Chan’s dick. He’s never not-looked at it hard — but he can feel it now, pressed against Seungmin’s body, filling fast with blood because Chan wants this, wants Seungmin, likes it when — fuck — Seungmin begs him. Seungmin is vaguely conscious that he is making noise; he doesn’t entirely know whether it’s words or not.
All he can smell is Chan. It’s so much more primal with the moon still so close, the way that Chan’s scent thickens, possessive, for Seungmin, the way that it demands for Seungmin to yield; he whines, yields, lets it happen. He’s found a clumsy rhythm now, grinding his cock against Chan’s thigh. His skin is sparking. Probably, in hindsight, he’ll laugh at how foggy his mind is right now; here, though, all he wants is — to be good. Make Chan look at him. Make Chan proud of him. “Please,” he says mindlessly, and feels Chan’s dick actually twitch against him, gasps, says it again — “Please,” finds a rhythm in time with his hips, please please please please, each drag of friction against his cock going straight to his head like a sugar high. It’s dizzying. “Please, hyung,” and Seungmin actually is close now, just from squirming in place as Chan holds him down, his brain melty, “daddy, please, please let me —”
He hears Chan swear above him, something in his voice cracked-open, egg-yolk runny. Seungmin’s body has gone syrupy with pleasure. He feels more liquid than solid, except for where his hips twitch rabbit-quick and needy against the breadth of Chan’s thigh; the grip on his wrists tightens, and Seungmin moans, hopes it bruises, hopes it stains him moon-silver. His arms jerk as he spills into his pants; Chan holds him steady. His wrists stay pinned. His blood is molten silver, starbursty with aftershocks, as Chan leans down to swallow his gasps.
Seungmin comes back into his body in pieces, like he’d just competed in the Olympics instead of come in his pants. He feels, finally, properly rooted in his human shape. His skin has settled back onto his bones. His head is spinning, but it’s blood-rush-y, an embodied sort of dizzy. He pants into Chan’s clothed chest as he catches his breath, and then, as self-awareness slinks its way back into his cranium like a runaway dog come home, whines again.
“Daddy, huh?” Chan murmurs, his voice roughened with something that must be arousal — Seungmin can still feel his erection pressing against his thigh — but somehow ginger, like he’s worried Seungmin will bolt. He doesn’t need to be. Seungmin feels the edges of humiliation trickling in, but somehow only the hot molten edges of it; even now, having just come, the embarrassment kindles something in his stomach, the flutter deep in his gut like the edges of a page curling up when the paper begins to burn. He’s not really ashamed. Just — flustered. Embarrassment if it were wearing kid gloves.
“You liked it,” Seungmin says snappishly.
He watches Chan’s entire face flush with colour and can actively see the moment Chan decides to ignore the comment; then Chan’s hand is trailing down Seungmin’s body to cup his soft cock through his pyjama pants, finding the damp patch, and he laughs disbelievingly. “You. You really —? Seungminnie.” He sounds breathless, fond. His hips roll down against Seungmin’s, almost absently. The grind of fabric against Seungmin’s spent dick is overstimulating, nearly too much — he’s always liked it best that way, tries to swallow back his own gasp — but more pressing is that Seungmin feels, again, the outline of Chan’s cock, is lucid enough to process that it’s big. Like, I thought you must’ve rounded up when you told me that measurement but no, you actually meant it big, and the physical heat of his arousal is still bleeding through their pants to Seungmin’s skin. Seungmin makes an embarrassing, needy little sound. Chan snatches his hand away from where he’s gently stroking Seungmin’s thigh, makes to lift his weight away from Seungmin’s body, says “What — what do you need? I can —”
“I need that in me ten minutes ago,” Seungmin demands, dragging his clumsy hands down the length of Chan’s torso and dipping the tips of his fingers beneath the elastic waistband of Chan’s sweats. Then — maybe a little remorseful, but mostly because he’s realised he can weaponise it now — “Please, daddy.”
Chan, gratifyingly, shivers — the aim was really for him to choke on air again, but Seungmin’s general policy is that any reaction is a good reaction, when it’s Chan. Especially when it’s Chan. (He doesn’t really just mean when he’s teasing, either. If he fucks up on stage, at least Chan is looking at him; if he’s tearing up on camera, completely unprofessional and out of control, at least he’s got Chan’s attention. That’s really humiliating. The daddy kink is nothing in comparison.) Chan laughs bashfully, the weight of his gaze so heavy even as he can’t make eye contact — instead, he trails his eyes up and down Seungmin’s throat, and Seungmin entertains briefly and wistfully the thought of being in a different career, one where bite marks were an option. “You want —?” Chan says, and cuts himself off, swallowing, like he can’t say it. He’s visibly flustered, but his eyes are still so dark. “Have you got. Uh. You know?”
“You know?” Seungmin says archly.
Chan colours further. “Um. Lube.”
“Who the fuck do you think I am, hyung.” Seungmin blinks up at him. The come in his pyjama pants is starting to feel tacky and gross, but he doesn’t want to break the spell; instead, he just says, “Of course I have lube. I also have eight different dildos, so.”
“When do you have the time,” Chan says, almost impressed.
“When something’s important to you,” Seungmin intones, “you make the time for it.” He’s quoting something Chan had told all seven — well, all — all of them, back when they were still trainees. Chan’s laugh is pitchy and deeply endearing, and Seungmin swallows hard against the fondness that rears horribly up in his chest.
Chan is so good to him, so gentle with him. He fetches the lube, and then winces sympathetically when he comes back to the bed and spots Seungmin’s gross pyjama pants — he and Seungmin are cut from the same sort of cloth when it comes to Bad Sensation — and tugs them gently off Seungmin’s legs, so carefully it sort of feels like Seungmin is still dreaming, one of those ones that starts as a wet dream but ends up something even more humiliating wherein your hyung is actually in love with you. He slides his first finger into Seungmin easily — practiced, Seungmin thinks dizzily, and wonders who else he’s done this with. Chan’s fingers are knobbly, his swollen knuckles catching at first on Seungmin’s rim when he works his single finger in and out meticulously, carefully, so gently; Seungmin slings his arm over his face so he can bite into his sleeve. It’s not a stretch for him. Even though Chan’s fingers are long, and precise, and he knows how to use them, Seungmin can take one finger without moaning. It’s the gentleness that’s difficult to bear.
“Hyung,” he says, a lump in his throat.
“Seungminnie,” Chan says. He just sounds fond. Like he’s not even fighting himself any more; it’s enough that he wants this, wants Seungmin, in whatever way.
Seungmin swallows. “I like it when you look at me,” he says.
“Yeah?” Chan is sprawled beside him, not caging Seungmin in any more, but he looks up to watch Seungmin’s face again; he must see something awful there, because his lips twist. “Ah, Seungminnie, Seungmin — hey, hey. What’s wrong?”
The moon hasn’t set yet. But it’s so far away now; Seungmin could probably lie, if he really tried. He’s just tired of it. The worst that could happen is that he’s embarrassed for a while and he doesn’t get to sit on Chan’s massive dick and then, eventually, he gets over both of those things, in an order he will refuse to disclose to anyone who asks; it doesn’t seem so terrible, the idea of just saying it. Even if there are maybe more romantic times than when they’ve both been running around the city in lupine form all night. “Hyung,” Seungmin says, and he can’t look at Chan but he can, at least, say it. He wants to say it. “You know I’ve been in love with you all this time, right? I — I thought you must know.” But then he’d also thought Chan must have known that he was a werewolf, and, well. Look where that had gotten him. “I thought that was why you always — left me alone. So I could get over it. And I —” The lump in his throat is moon-sized. But Seungmin has never let himself be ruled by fear. He refuses to. “I tried to grow out of it, I really did, hyung. I promise I tried as hard as I could.”
“Seungmin,” Chan says, his voice hoarse. His free hand, the one not buried inside Seungmin’s ass still — what a time to start tearing up, wow — rests soothingly on his hip, the heat of it brand-like. He’s so close. He’s still touching Seungmin, at least. “I — wow.”
“Wow?” Seungmin snaps, a little meaner than he wants to be. Hot tears prickle behind his eyes. That would be embarrassing, too, and not even in a way he could sexualise.
“No, I — I — It’s not that I don’t —” Chan is floundering. Seungmin swallows as he watches Chan hesitate, visibly sorting through his words. Ordering them, the way he does his shoes by the door and his toiletries in hotel bathrooms and every jar in the spice rack that neither he or Jeongin ever even use. “I’m — I think — Ah, fuck. Seungminnie. This stuff is — hard for me. But I really. Of course I. Too. You know?”
Seungmin feels the weight of it settle into his body slowly: first it’s featherlight on his skin, then a firmer touch, something that drags pressure through muscle and tissue, and then the words — or the meaning, because the shape it wears matters less than what it is underneath — sink deeper still inside him, deeper than where Chan’s finger is still buried inside him, deeper than the place in his chest that his voice comes from, deeper than the little house inside his ribcage where he keeps his wolf. And then it just settles in and fits: Of course I. Too. Of course Chan couldn’t actually get the words out. Idiot hyung. Seungmin doesn’t need him to be anything other than what he is. He shivers, says, “You’re not really good at noticing things I think are obvious, are you, hyung? First that you had another werewolf in your group —”
“Okay, listen, the probability of —”
“— then that I’ve needed your dick in me for, like, more than eight years —”
“That’s —” Chan splutters. “That seems excessive.”
“Mmm,” Seungmin says, skeptical. Maybe he’s moved on from the love confession too fast, but as far as he’s concerned they’ve each said their piece and can now return to their regularly scheduled programming — or maybe not regularly scheduled, but at least resume the episode that was previously playing. He clenches very deliberately down on Chan’s finger.
Chan crooks it inside him almost absently, still with that unerring precision that sends fireworks through Seungmin’s quicksilver body, but then he says, “I don’t — I dunno. For a long time I thought — I thought about in love with as, like, that’s something I’ll have with a woman back home one day, when all this is done, whatever, and it means I get a mortgage and maybe have kids and. And get married, you know? First, probably. Before the mortgage at least. So I think I’m — I think I’ve been bad at recognising it. For a very long time.”
“It doesn’t help that you’re autistic,” Seungmin says.
Chan blinks. “I’m what?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Seungmin squirms, trying to get Chan’s finger deeper. “You have your hand up my ass, worry about that, hyung. Please.”
“Hand,” Chan says, rolling his eyes. “One finger, Seungminnie.”
“And that’s great, you’re really considerate, thank you for being careful, have you considered that I fuck myself a lot and can definitely take —” The pad of another of Chan’s fingers presses against Seungmin’s ass, very gentle, and it’s nothing, really, but the promise of it drains the fight from Seungmin embarrassingly fast. Good embarrassing, this time. Toe-curling. “Yeah,” he says, pressing back into the touch, “c’mon, please —”
Chan pulls out and then slides two fingers into Seungmin with excruciating gentleness, so slow it almost makes him want to stamp his foot, throw a frustrated tantrum. “Hyung,” he says, frustrated. There’s so much lube the stretch is effortless. He knows how to relax when he needs to. “I can take it. You’re not going to break me.”
“But you feel so tight,” Chan says, low and completely earnest, and then immediately flushes bright red again.
“I want you to make me take it,” Seungmin says thoughtlessly, and then shudders when he thinks about it. Chan rolls towards him until he’s on top of Seungmin again, braced a little way down his body so he has a good angle, and Seungmin whines when the movement makes him realise he’s hard again; he doesn’t know when that had happened. Probably since the crying. But, like, he isn’t certain. Chan’s other hand is still braced on Seungmin’s hip, where the skin is thinnest, and Seungmin’s head is spinning again; “I want bruises,” he says, and maybe it’s a little because he wants proof later that this was real, but mostly it’s just because it’s hot. Seungmin knows what he is, okay. He’s at peace with 99 per cent of his kinks. Chan’s eyes sweep up and down Seungmin’s body — he’s still wearing his loose pyjama shirt, Chan hadn’t even undressed him, hadn’t even taken off his own clothes, but somehow Chan’s stare is piercing enough that Seungmin feels naked beneath it. Moon-heavy. His cock jumps against his stomach at the attention.
“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Chan says.
Seungmin swallows. “Even if I ask for it, daddy?”
He watches Chan’s pupils swell like a fast-motion eclipse; it would be laughable if it didn’t have Seungmin’s breath catching in his chest, pulled taut there as he waits for the reaction. Like poking the bear again. Chan’s throat bobs as he swallows; then he reaches up — slowly, choreographing his movements, but with a measured deliberation — to grasp Seungmin’s right wrist again, pick it up and lay it gently on top of his left. Then Chan’s hand closes around them both again. His eyes flick down as Seungmin’s cock abruptly drools precome over itself, and he laughs; it’s meaner than Chan normally lets himself be, edged with condescension. Still sweet, though. Like someone laughs at a misbehaving puppy, says, Aw, he doesn’t know any better.
Then — like trying to prove a point — Chan presses three fingers inside Seungmin all at once. The stretch hits him in earnest this time, and he whines; Chan’s grip tightens on his wrists, more like a nervous reflex than a warning, then relaxes as Chan must realise that it’s a good sound, that Seungmin wants it. Needs it. Needs it harder, deeper, now, all the time, for years, forever. “Hyung,” Seungmin breathes, and the sound finds its full body halfway through when Chan’s fingers find his prostate, then drops off into a voiceless gasp as Chan’s knuckles fuck inside him. He really can feel the difference, the ridged swell of them. Like that one stupid dildo that he has. “Ah, hyung, I’m — please, fuck, that’s — good, that’s good, thank you —” He strains against Chan’s grip on his wrists, then whimpers when he can’t break it. “Need you to fuck me, c’mon. I can — I can take it, I’ll show you I — I’ll take it, it’ll be good for you, I’ll make it good —”
“I want to give you four first, baby,” Chan says, gentle. He lets Seungmin’s wrists go; his hand rubs over Seungmin’s hip, then trails up to splay across his abdomen, hiking up Seungmin’s shirt so the cool air spills across his bare stomach and gives him goosebumps. Seungmin leaves his hands where Chan had put them. He heaves another gasp as Chan’s fingers press deeper inside him, their touch echoed, referred, everywhere. The rush of pleasure through his system is like a thousand phantom touches, like Chan’s hands are all over him at once. “You gonna be patient?”
“Don’t need to be,” Seungmin insists, then chokes as Chan’s hand presses down over his stomach, like he’s testing the give of it. He can’t feel his own fingers — they’re not that long — but abruptly Seungmin’s head is spinning with the idea of Chan’s cock inside him so deep his tummy shows it, the thought of Chan tracing the outline of his own cockhead through Seungmin’s skin. He needs it. He needs it yesterday and last week and years ago; today will do as a suitable consolation prize. “Hyung, you can — you can fuck me now, I’m ready, I swear.” And he has a cheat code: “Please, hyung. Come on.”
Chan leans down to press his lips briefly to Seungmin’s stomach, then glances back up at him, licking his lips as though on reflex. “I think you wanted to call me something else, though,” he says, then grins, broad and wolfish and satisfied. Seungmin’s heart swells to see Chan so uncomplicatedly happy, the way he’s letting himself enjoy it as he teases. Seungmin’s dick has other priorities. “Right, baby?”
Seungmin’s head spins. He lets himself fall into the whirling mess of it, the implacable force of his desire. “Daddy,” he says, swallowing around the curl of his tongue and his toes, the word still clumsy, “please, I need it.”
“You want it,” Chan corrects gently. He draws a shape on Seungmin’s abdomen with his thumb, something too complex for Seungmin to parse with his brain as sparky-frazzled at it is; there’s a devastating care in how carefully he runs his finger over Seungmin’s tummy. Sometimes being coddled would make Seungmin’s skin feel too tight. Right now, it just makes his body cling glove-tight and perfect to his bones, each sensation overwhelming; Chan pets soothingly over his abdomen again and, with his other hand, pulls his fingers out of Seungmin’s hole just to bully them back in again. It doesn’t feel careless. It feels like the roughness is earnest, deliberate, like Chan is letting it hurt a little on purpose.
“I want it,” Seungmin agrees, dizzy. Chan’s scent will linger in his room for days. It’s such an implacable fucking smell: everything falls into place beneath it. Or maybe that’s just what happens when Chan is around. Somehow, things always work themselves out. Seungmin spreads his legs as wide as they’ll go, demonstrative, and says, “C’mon, please, fuck me.”
Chan winces. “It’s,” he says, and looks genuinely abashed to be even saying it, a pinch between his eyebrows like he knows it sounds like ego, “not going to — fit yet, Seungminnie. Just let me —”
“I’ll make it fit,” Seungmin says petulantly. He raises his chin, locks eyes with Chan; it’s more of a challenge than he’s put up all night, the eye contact, the lifted head, the wolf-stare. “I’m very good at it.”
“Yeah?” Chan’s eyes are very yellow still, even as the moon has mostly let Seungmin slip from its grasp, and they flicker up and down the length of Seungmin’s body like Chan is taking the measure of him anew. He likes being talked back to. Sometimes. There’s a line somewhere that Seungmin is still in the process of feeling out. “You get a lot of practice?”
“What, you think I can’t?” Seungmin goads. “Your dick’s not that big, hyung.”
When Chan rolls his eyes, Seungmin knows he’s won; it’s such a common, bitchy little habit of Chan’s that it shouldn’t even register to him, but for some reason the visible annoyance, the momentary reaction, always sends a little frisson of heat running up and down Seungmin’s spine. Then Chan reaches for the drawstring of his sweatpants. He’s tied them, Seungmin notices, into a neat little bow, because of course he has; it comes free with one tug and the sweats fall down past his stupid, pretty ass that Seungmin will never admit to envying. (“What does a top even need all that for,” Seungmin had bemoaned to Felix once, more drinks in than he should have been. “How do you know he tops,” Felix had cackled, waggling his eyebrows, and Seungmin had been so offended by the suggestion that he might’ve fucked Chan and not talked to Felix about it that he had downed the rest of his beer in one swallow.) Seungmin is still smiling to himself as his eyes trail over the new-exposed skin of Chan’s hip. Then he swallows. His mouth is, abruptly and genuinely, watering.
Of course Chan’s cock is big; Seungmin had known this, rationally. To see it hard and flushed and leaking is another thing entirely. His cock is somehow pretty, well-proportioned, long enough to make Seungmin swallow hard but with enough breadth to back it up. Seungmin wants it in his mouth; more than that, though, he wants it inside him. And Chan seems to have the same idea, like he’s fed up with waiting. He leans forwards again, bracing himself over Seungmin’s body — so much broader through the chest than Seungmin ever has been or wanted to be, and the size difference is exhilarating — and traces the hot head of his cock up the line of Seungmin’s ass, stroking gently over his hole and along the too-sensitive skin of his perineum to bump gently against his sac. The touch is featherlight. It makes Seungmin shake; he wants to break open. “Please,” he says insistently, startled by the depth and fervour of his own sudden wanting, or the sudden return of it; he sounds so fucking needy. It’s embarrassing. It’s perfect. “Please, hyung, come on.”
He actually sobs in earnest when — finally, finally — the tip of Chan’s cock notches into place inside him. He’s always loved getting fucked, but this is — better, impossibly better. Because it’s Chan. Because he smells like werewolf and sweat and safety. Because he’s so gentle with Seungmin until — finally — he decides he doesn’t need to be, trusts that Seungmin wants to take it as he cants his hips forwards and sheathes himself in one demanding, insistent movement.
Seungmin chokes. He thinks his lips are moving, but there’s no real sound coming out, only a breathless sort of gasping; it’s the kind of big that knocks the air from his lungs, makes him feel, impossibly, like the head of Chan’s cock has punched up into his ribcage and lodged there too. Like Chan is in his throat. Chan’s eyes are still fixed, burning, on Seungmin’s, gauging his reaction, his attention heavy and intoxicating and unbearable; Seungmin wants to squirm away from it but doesn’t think he could coordinate a full-body movement if he tried. His limbs are perfectly melty, liquid. He’s so full it doesn’t even really register as pleasure, just satisfaction, a wholeness in the deepest parts of him.
“Yeah?” Chan asks, hoarse, somehow managing to sound smug. Seungmin wheezes. Chan laughs, lets him adjust for the space of one breath, too, and then — too soon — begins dragging his cock back out of Seungmin’s hole, the slow pull infuriating, brilliant, excruciating. Seungmin whines again. He loves this, the way Chan is pushing him now, the way his head is so syrupy he isn’t even trying to string words together, just lets himself whimper. He’s a little teary. He knows he looks good like this, at least to anyone who’s into dumb mutts.
Chan doesn’t wait for him to adjust before fucking into him again, and Seungmin feels his back arch like he’s a passenger in the movement, the shock of pleasure electric. It’s almost too much. It is too much, only he likes it that way. And — and Chan must be able to smell it, that it’s good, that Seungmin wants it, just the same way that Seungmin can only inhale pleased and belong to and want, fuck, need with each shallow gasp.
He clutches breathlessly and blindly at the air until one of his hands finds Chan’s torso, and he slides it under Chan’s shirt, squeezes at his waist, then the swell of his pec. Insane that he hasn’t even taken his shirt off. Insane that he’s here, like this, splitting Seungmin open. Seungmin spreads his legs further and then, when Chan’s hands slide up to grip his thighs, lets Chan coax his body gently further until his knees are almost braced against his chest. God. God. He has wanted Chan to fold him in half for, like — embarrassingly long.
“Good,” Chan says, rough and pleased and sweet. It’s not a question; he knows.
“Yeah, yes, daddy,” Seungmin breathes. The room seems to lap against him in little waves, like the surf around his ankles when he had gone to Jeju as a child. Sensation climbs up the columns of his arteries, fizzy, sweet. Chan ducks his head to press a clumsy, open-mouthed kiss to Seungmin’s throat, only he’s smiling so wide that the kiss itself is mostly shaped like his grin. Then he’s moving again.
Chan fucks him well — not just hard, but precise, confident. Seungmin wonders where he’d found the time and discretion to fuck guys, but it doesn’t matter; it matters, instead, that Chan’s rhythm is careful, measured, and Seungmin wants him to lose it. Wants him to chase his own peak. Wants him to be selfish with Seungmin here, too; he wants Chan to be careless with him, to use him, to need him. He squeezes as tight as he can around Chan’s cock — wants to be a good hole to fuck, wants to make it good — but then gasps when it reminds him how fucking full he is, how breathlessly so, all the way up to the tops of his lungs.
Chan’s sound is more growl than anything else, though, and Seungmin’s heart jumps with it — yes, yeah, that stomach-flip of a sound, that warning again, and Seungmin realises he’s begging. Doesn’t know how long he’s been saying please for. It feels like muscle memory, anyway. Chan is fucking Seungmin harder now, but with shorter strokes, less targeted, as time goes liquid again and pours itself into tidal pools, little pockets of sensation: the constant drag. Chan’s grip on his thigh so tight it might bruise; Seungmin had asked for it to bruise. The constant, overlapping ripples of pleasure up and down his spine, leaving his gut shivery, his joints weak, malleable. Seungmin knows he’s being loud now; it’s not his fault he is also main vocal in bed.
Fuck, it really does feel like Chan is using Seungmin now — Seungmin whines at the thought, scrabbles at Chan’s chest ineffectually under the onslaught of sensation. The faster pace is harder to process. Overwhelming in the best way. It knocks him straight out of his brain. Each time Chan fucks back into him it shimmies Seungmin a little further up the bed — and the bed, he realises, is actually rocking too, the rhythmic squeak of it pornographic and humiliating. He’s so glad he finessed Felix into not being home. Chan’s breath billows hot and heavy between them in rhythm with his thrusts, but his thighs are shaking. Something cracks loudly underneath Seungmin’s hips. Chan swears under his breath, but the odd change in tension of the mattress has the angle of Seungmin’s body shifting just slightly, and the drive of Chan’s cock back into him has him moaning. Louder than he’d like to be. He can’t be embarrassed; it’s Chan.
(It’s a testament, maybe, to the power of his desire that instead of being annoyed Chan might’ve broken something in his bed, it’s just hot. It wasn’t expensive, anyway. Seungmin can get another.)
“Seungminnie,” Chan groans, and his voice still has that cracked-open geode quality, like all the too-spiky glittering parts of him have finally been turned towards the light. “Fuck, I’m gonna — I’m close. Sorry. Hyung’s — You just — Fuck.” He presses harder against Seungmin’s thighs, bends him further in half; a bolt of desire strikes and shatters somewhere in Seungmin’s gut.
“Feels good,” Seungmin insists, because somehow he knows it’s what Chan needs to hear; a sound tears itself from Chan’s chest in reply, wanting. “God. When you —” His tongue feels so thick, but pleasure is winding itself tighter within his body again and abruptly the words begin to pour from him in earnest. “Fuck, it — you — feels so good. I — ah — need you to come in me, please, please.” It occurs to him literally only at this second that condoms were an option, and perhaps one he should have considered. Whatever. Future Seungmin’s problem. “Daddy, I — fuck,” as Chan exhales long and shuddery and his cock drags just right inside Seungmin, “want you to — Feel so full, fuck — come in me, use me, please.”
Chan shudders and lets Seungmin’s thighs go, only to reach up and pin his wrists down again; Seungmin moans, startled and turned on beyond belief, caught, trapped, held. Abruptly he’s much closer than he’d realised. Without even touching himself! He tries to reach down to jerk himself off, pleasure spooling heavier and heavier in the cradle of his gut, but Chan holds his wrists firmly in place. “Fuck, please let me —” Seungmin’s voice sounds ruined. Chan holds him anyway. Like his voice isn’t all he is. “I wanna come, daddy, please.”
“Don’t need to touch yourself for that,” Chan says between breaths, sounding so certain that Seungmin wonders for a second whether Felix has been spilling his secrets. “Right, Seungminnie? Gonna come on just my cock?”
“Please,” Seungmin begs, incoherent. He can. He thinks he can. He wants to. He tries to grind his hips to meet Chan’s thrusts, but only manages to buck them weakly once, twice, before his thighs give out; he slumps back into the bed and lets Chan fuck him, and that’s better, really, letting Chan take care of him. Letting Chan use him. Seungmin’s own dick jerks against his belly. He tugs against Chan’s grip just to feel the prohibitive weight of it, whines at the spurt of laughter that rolls up from Chan’s chest; then he’s begging again. He doesn’t know what for. All he knows is that Chan will give it to him.
Chan’s sounds are ragged now, overcome; he slams his hips against Seungmin’s with a pornographic skin-on-skin slap and then comes, the liquid heat of it addictive in Seungmin’s hole, his cock twitching. Seungmin clenches down, wants to milk him, to make it good for him, but the sensation of — fuck — of — he’d forgotten how big Chan is, it had been easy to forget once Chan had fucked him a little looser, but the tighter squeeze knocks the air from his own lungs as Chan’s cock drags — it seems like — everywhere inside him, all at once. His spine feels like it’s melting. His body is entirely in tune with itself, hums one note, as pleasure uncoils itself and goes rushing down the valleys of his bones; his own come spills between the two of them as Chan slumps forwards over him, and Seungmin makes a wretched, delighted little noise at the change in position. They’re both panting. Seungmin’s breath is an animal battering against the cage of his ribs from the inside. Chan settles his whole body weight onto Seungmin’s again, the insistent press of it grounding, perfect, and Seungmin lies there silent for a long moment as the world trickles slowly back in.
“Hyung,” he says, distraught. “I think you broke a slat in my fucking bed.”
Chan mumbles something incoherent and, impossibly, tugs himself even closer to Seungmin; his spent dick slips free from Seungmin as they reposition, wet with come, and Seungmin shudders at the sensation. He doesn’t hate it. He likes the reminder, at least. He wants to be annoyed about the bed, but — of course Chan is a fuck-and-pass-out kind of guy, and it’s endearing enough that Seungmin has to let it slide. He’s used to cataloguing small happinesses. This one feels too big to number or file or even name. He doesn’t know what to do with it; he can only let it hum brilliant in his chest, moon-round and luminous, and bear it.
Chan dozes and Seungmin blinks down at him, liquid and luxuriating, for maybe half an hour as the moon sets; he can feel the moment it settles below the horizon for good, shuttering part of Seungmin away for another month. Still, the sensation of being whole remains. He doesn’t feel diminished. Eventually, he extracts himself gingerly from beneath Chan’s body and putters to the bathroom to clean himself up. When he returns, bearing a damp cloth he pretends he doesn’t keep solely for this purpose, Chan cracks a brown eye open at him and winces. “Ah,” he says, “I could’ve — I should’ve done that. Sorry, Seungminnie.”
“I’ve got it,” Seungmin says placidly. He likes Chan’s eyes when they’re their own colour. He likes it, too, when Chan looks at him — especially like that, bleary, soft-edged. Tousled. Sleepy Chan is so rare, is something to be treasured. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, hyung,” he says, and settles onto his bed, wincing at the off-balance squeak the mattress makes, to lave the cloth gently over Chan’s belly, then his thighs.
Chan seems a little blindsided by that. Seungmin lets him sit with it for a moment: he goes to toss the gross cloth straight into their washing machine, prays that Felix does not ask questions, and then comes back and tucks himself under Chan’s arm again, delighted by the weight of it. It’s very soothing. Perhaps Chan has a backup career in the weighted blanket industry. Chan makes a pleased sound, the worry somehow leached out of him — however briefly — and presses his chest flush against Seungmin’s back, spooning him. He’s shorter, obviously, but — it still feels nice. To be sort of cradled like that.
Seungmin reaches for his phone on the bedside table; six in the morning. He winces. “Right. I have a vocal lesson in … three hours.”
Chan laughs. “I’ll wake you up,” he says. “I’m not gonna be able to sleep.”
Seungmin processes that: the implicit admission that Chan will stay, will be with him for as long as possible — today, and hopefully beyond it. His smile is too broad for his face. “I think you need less sleep once you’re past a certain age anyway,” he says, just because he can, then tucks himself back into Chan’s body; it really is incredibly easy to doze off again, partly because he hasn’t slept all night but mostly because he’s being held. Chan smells like sated werewolf: moon-touched, pleased, sweaty. And beneath it, still, that you’re-mine scent. Seungmin doesn’t dream; he doesn’t need to.
It’s his phone alarm that wakes him, vibrating on his beside table, not Chan; Seungmin reaches over to silence it and then squirms out from beneath the dead weight of Chan’s arm, still smiling. Maybe he’d been smiling in his sleep. Maybe it had just crept up on him as he woke up slowly. Chan is snoring pretty loudly, but it hadn’t bothered Seungmin — probably it had just registered in his brain the same place as all the other sounds Chan made, where Seungmin took them for granted because they belonged close to him. He goes to tuck Chan in, mostly because he feels very tender, and then considers the heat streaming off of Chan’s skin and untucks the blanket again. It’s the thought that counts. He doesn’t want Chan to overheat, stupid hyung.
He creeps out of the room and off to his lesson; despite the tiredness, he feels impossibly light, like all the hollow places in him have become buoyant, moonlit. The morning is chilly. Seungmin had barely noticed the cold in the middle of the night, but 9 am has him shivering; go figure. He feels the same way he does when Minho has menaced him into getting one of those strange chiropractor people to fix his back: every little joint moves together, and Seungmin is startled by the absence of a discomfort he had not even realised was gnawing at him. His body sits properly on his soul. When he gets to practice, his voice comes easily, quicksilver; the lump in his throat is gone.
[10.44 am] 🌰 felix: why
[10.44 am] 🌰 felix: is chan hyung
[10.45 am] 🌰 felix: in your bed?
[11.01 am] me: Oh. Don’t worry about it.
[11.02 am] 🌰 felix: ?????????????????????????