Stray Kids Fic: Anger (Mis)Management

[kat_lair]

***

Title: Anger (Mis)Management
Author: kat_lair & dreamersdare
Fandom: Stray Kids
Pairing: Bang Chan/Seo Changbin
Tags: Power Dynamics, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Orgasm Delay, Praise Kink, Service Kink, Chan's Overdeveloped Guilt Complex, Changbin's Pretty Mouth
Rating: E
Word count: 9,333

Summary:

“I’m not mad at you, Bin.”

Changbin tilts his head to one side and squints at Chan, taking in the sharp line of his shoulders, the tight curl of his fists, the promise of violence trapped behind iron resolve that makes his throat a little dry, and it clicks as he swallows, looking back up to meet Chan’s eyes.

“Do you want to be?” he asks, and Chan’s mouth falls open in surprise. “Would that help, hyung?

Author Notes: This began as a response to this clip of SKZ coping with a stage that was decidedly unsafe to dance on and the very visible way Chan gets increasingly stressed and angry over it. And then, for reasons neither of us is willing to take responsibility for, it took a filthy swerve right into some d/s flavoured porn. Consider this our contribution to this criminally underfed pairing tag.

Anger (Mis)Management on AO3



"What," Minho spits, the second they're off the stage and out of sight of the cameras, barely out of earshot of the crew, and Changbin can't help but throw a wary glance over his shoulder, just in case, "The hell. Was that?"

"A mess," Jeongin says, rubbing at his shoulder and it's almost normal, except that there's just an edge of something colouring the words, that anyone who wasn't one of their members wouldn't spot, but Changbin's heard Jeongin cry before and... He wants to reach out, snag him into a hug he knows Jeongin will protest even if he doesn't mean it, and drag him in close, but Felix is two steps ahead of him and already there, one arm flung over Jeongin's shoulder like a shield.

"Felix-hyung…" Jeongin starts.

"Don't even say it," Felix says. "It was my fault, and you didn't even touch me anyway. I was in the wrong place. The stage..."

He trails off, and Minho snorts, loud and obnoxious. "Yeah," he says pointedly, too loud for what follows next. "That fucking stage."

"Hyung," Changbin hisses, and the look Minho turns on him is sharp enough to cut deep, more than enough to have him raising his hands placatingly before he even thinks about it. "I'm not disagreeing. Just... not so loud."

"Wait," Jisung says, eyes comically wide, "Hold up, what, is that Changbin-hyung I hear telling someone else to be quiet?"

"The end days are coming," Seungmin says dryly, and Changbin draws in a breath, ready to protest even if the tiny smile he can see curving the corner of Jeongin's mouth is enough to guarantee that, for once, he really doesn't care about being the butt of the joke. It's expected though, and the shout is already bubbling up in his throat when Minho holds up one hand imperiously.

"Shut up, all of you," he says, and, oh, yes, okay, Minho is pissed and it's not that Changbin forgot that exactly, but it's always so easy to fall into their usual back and forth as a group that maybe, perhaps, he kind of did. "This isn't funny. Someone could have gotten seriously hurt, because some fucker didn't do their job."

And that thought on its own is enough to wipe any hint of a smile from Changbin's face. In his peripheral vision, he watches Jeongin's smile fall away as well.

It's Jisung who reaches out, because of course it is, letting his hand rest lightly against the rigid line of Minho's shoulder, contact without constraint, reassurance without restraint.

"We didn't though, hyung," he says easily, and, honestly, Changbin has no idea how he does it, how Jisung deals all the time with the squirming mess of what ifs and maybes that's currently churning at the bottom of Changbin's belly. "No-one's hurt, everyone's fine, we live to fight another day." He raises one hand in a loose victory fist that Minho ignores, shrugging his shoulder free so that Jisung's arm falls away.

"Not good enough, Jisung-ah," he says, enough acid in his tone to strip Changbin's ears, although it's clear it's not for him or Jisung. "I didn't choreograph us to dance on an ice rink. The fact we were lucky enough to pull it off does not cut it. Heads need to roll for this; I'm not kidding."

"We were good," Jisung corrects, and Changbin really does wince this time, as Minho's shoulders lift up somewhere around his ears. "We were smart, and we were careful, and we're okay."

Minho opens his mouth on a retort Changbin is pretty sure none of them need to hear, but he doesn't have time to interject before Hyunjin does.

"Where's Chan-hyung?" Hyunjin asks.

Minho pauses, mid-inhale, his head tilting a little to the side with a slow blink as he considers the question, and Changbin simultaneously sends a silent thank you to whatever higher power it is that gave them Hyunjin and his impeccable timing and takes the chance to look around the tent they're tucked into the corner of. It takes him a moment, the interior of the tent is crowded enough away from the space that the crew are clearly giving them for their post-performance decompress, but a flicker of movement outside catches his eye and parses itself into Chan moving away from them across the field. And it's Changbin's turn to blink, because that movement... he's watched Chan move around in a variety of situations but that particular purposeful walk, he's seen before enough times to know he never wants to be waiting on the other end of it. At least, not when Chan's mad.

"I think," he says slowly, lifting one hand to point at Chan's retreating back, "hyung is on a mission. In a ‘heads will roll’ kind of way."

Minho's gaze is hard as he stares out across the field after Chan, hands on his hips, but the tense line of his shoulders relaxes just a fraction, and the twist of his lips turns into something that vaguely resembles the cousin of a smile that's more reassuring than concerning when Changbin isn't the target of it.

"Good," Minho says, with an edge of savage satisfaction that's enough to make Hyunjin take an exaggerated, precautionary step backward and, honestly, Changbin can empathise.

His hyungs are terrifying.

The seven of them watch Chan's progress like some kind of nature documentary, the scene reminding Changbin of a lion prowling after its prey. He feels acutely embarrassed as soon as he thinks it, crossing his arms over his chest and casting a surreptitious glance at the others in case any of them have developed mind-reading abilities in the last hour. Jisung may have, judging by the way he's looking at Changbin, one eyebrow raised and a smirk playing on his lips. Changbin refuses to acknowledge it, just blinking at Jisung slowly before turning his attention back to their leader.

Across the field, Chan ducks into the catering tent and emerges thirty seconds later with one of their senior managers in tow.

"He's not messing about," Minho comments with tones of deep approval while both Hyunjin and Felix draw in a sharp breath, comically synchronised if not for the context.

Chan and Kyeong-nim start heading toward a low structure Changbin guesses houses those in charge of the event, their strides almost in synch. The building is kind of behind the staging area and so the route takes them back past the tent where Changbin and the others are.

As Chan gets closer again, it's Changbin's turn to inhale sharply, air hissing between his teeth all 3RACHA breathing except it's just him, just Changbin struggling not to visibly react. Chan's face looks like thunder, cold in a way that is so different from his usual open smile, all warmth and dimples, it almost makes him seem like a stranger, like someone dangerous and not Changbin's friend, writing partner, leader, hyung.

He glances at them in passing and Changbin sees Minho flash him a subtle thumbs up, the two of them exchanging a silent look that somehow sweeps Changbin along as well. He tries on a reassuring smile, even though he’s not sure that’s what Chan needs from him. It seems to be enough though because Chan turns back to their manager and the two of them enter the building, without so much as knocking, Changbin notices, half cringing, half… Something else. Impressed, certainly.

“Somebody’s gonna get fiiiiired,” Seungmin singsongs under his breath, just loud enough for the rest of them to hear.

“No!” Hyunjin gasps.

“Depends on the circumstances,” Felix says in far more measured tones. “Could’ve been an honest mistake. Could be there’s a valid reason for why the stage wasn’t properly checked.”

“Could be someone was lazy,” Minho says. “Hyung will find out.”

They all stare at the closed door, only startling when Minho suddenly claps his hands together loudly. “Right then,” he says. “Let’s head back home. Changbin-ah, can you go check if the cars are ready?”

Changbin opens his mouth to protest but then closes it with a snap in face of Minho’s meaningfully raised eyebrow. Okay. Okay, ‘take the kids home’ had been the message then. And with Chan elsewhere, Changbin is the second oldest here and therefore needs to step up and not question Minho like he usually might. Besides, Jisung and Jeongin are already doing that for him.

“What about Channie-hyung?” Jeongin asks, overlapped with Jisung’s outraged, “We can’t just leave him!”

Changbin leaves Minho to deal with that and goes to talk to their crew. Apparently, manager-nim had done some silent communication of her own – or possibly just used her phone like a normal person – as no one seems surprised to be arranging travel for seven of them sans the leader.

“I will wait for Kyeong-ssi and Chan-ssi,” one of the drivers says, possibly sensing Changbin’s unspoken worry.

He smiles gratefully, sketching a hasty bow in the woman’s direction before getting back to the others. Minho is organising the usual chaos of everyone picking up their belongings, calmly tossing Jisung’s jacket at him before he gets more than half-way into the familiar, “Hey, has anyone seen my...?"

Then they’re in the cars, everyone quieting down, the adrenaline crash of several almost-slips and ‘oh-shit-that-could’ve-actually-been-really-fucking-bads’ finally arriving. The ride is blessedly silent, Changbin doing his best to focus on the scenery rather than the memory of Chan stalking across the field like a man heading for a fight that’s replaying in his head on a constant loop. Outside the dorms, everyone files out, subdued. Changbin, however, only sticks his head out of the door to catch Minho’s attention.

“Hey,” he says when Minho jogs over. “So, I’m going to the studio for a bit.”

Minho eyebrow hitches up again – does he practice this look? Probably – but he does a decent job of keeping his knowing smirk to a minimum for which Changbin is grateful. He already knows he’s going to have at least five messages from Jisung as soon as he realises that Changbin isn’t coming home just yet either.

“Okay,” Minho says. “See if you can convince him to come home before midnight.”

Changbin nods, and determinedly pretends he isn’t blushing. There’s nothing to blush about, after all. They both know Chan is likely to hole himself up in the studio after something like this and that despite what he thinks, he should not, in fact, be allowed to sentence himself to solitary confinement for whatever imaginary crimes of Demonstrating a Negative Emotion in Front of the Members he thinks he’s guilty of.

Changbin’s studio is right next to Chan’s. It makes sense for him to be there.

It’s logical.

***

The studio’s dark when their driver drops him off, but that doesn’t stop Changbin from sticking his head around the door of Chan’s studio on the way to his own, just in case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s found Chan hunched over dimmed screens; but it’s empty; lights off and screen powered down, a blanket tossed haphazardly across the couch, but no hyung. Changbin doesn’t linger, even though he knows Chan wouldn’t mind, really. There’s something personal about their respective studios, and unlike certain people, Changbin tries to respect that. He ignores the hum of his phone in his pocket, vibrating often enough against his thigh to suggest a flurry of messages is blowing up their group chat, in favour of punching in the code to his own studio. Minho will have it in hand, or if he doesn’t, he will soon, and Changbin can mop up the fallout later. He has other priorities right now.

He leaves his door cracked, an explicit invitation he’s expecting Chan to ignore but it’s not like there’s anyone else here for him to annoy anyway. And honestly, he’s just planning to wait, but then his elbow knocks against his mouse and his screen lights up, half-written composition ready and waiting from where he clearly hadn’t shut it down properly, and his fingers twitch involuntarily.

Changbin flicks a glance at the doorway, but the corridor behind it is still quiet and dark, and he can’t help the way his eyes draw back to the screen. He holds out for exactly twenty-three seconds, before he’s reaching for his headphones, pulling them on over one ear, and leaving the other free.

Chan’s not here yet anyway. He might as well make use of the time while he’s waiting.

***

Some indeterminable length of time and one almost finished song later, Changbin surfaces from his creative zone when a hand lands on his shoulder. He startles enough to jerk back, the chair rolling against something solid behind him. Changbin pulls off his headphones and tilts his head back, only for it to collide with something solid too. Solid and warm and familiar.

It probably says something questionable about the time they all spend together but Changbin knows exactly who is standing behind him, just from the vague outline, backlit by the light from the corridor that’s now streaming through Changbin’s still open door. The shape and, well, the scent.

“Hyung,” Changbin says. It’s more of a statement than a question, laced with no little relief.

Wordlessly, Chan reaches over him to click the desk lamp on, and for a few seconds his whole body looms over Changbin’s, the weight of it pressing him down toward the keyboard just enough to make breath catch in his throat. Then Chan straightens up and the weight is gone.

Somehow, Changbin’s voice still comes out breathless. “Hyung,” he repeats. “Uh… What time is it?” It’s not the question he wants to ask but it’s probably a good strategy to start with something easy and work up to the trickier stuff like ‘how are you feeling?’ and ‘what can I do to make it better?’

“Late,” Chan says. He pushes the beanie off his head, his hair sticking up messily. He looks tired, and not the good, accomplished and satisfied tired he looks after time spent in rehearsals or studio. This is more ‘exhausted from hitting my head against a brick wall’ tired, and Changbin is less sure about how to deal with that than he is with the usual kind.

“What are you doing here?” Chan asks. There’s something flat about his tone, not true annoyance but not quite neutral either. “I told Minho to take everyone back to the dorms.”

“We did,” Changbin agrees. There’s something about Chan’s voice that makes his fingers itch to reach out, but the way Chan’s holding himself, rigid and brittle like he might snap (or break) if Changbin moves wrong keeps his hands in his lap. “I dropped Minho-hyung and the kids at the dorm, and then I came here.”

“Why?” Chan says, a question that’s not quite a question. Enough unlike him that Changbin squints up at him curiously, but the circle of light from his lamp has thrown Chan’s face into enough shadow that his expression is impossible to read.

“To wait for you,” Changbin offers and then, when Chan doesn’t answer, the silence spreading between them like stretched toffee, he adds, “We figured you’d come back here instead of the dorms.”

Chan hums, low and non-committal, “I told Minho to take everyone back to the dorms,” he says, emphasis with enough of an edge to feel like Chan’s scraping every syllable across his skin, and Changbin’s eyes widen a little, staring up at Chan who looks back at him with hooded eyes. “Why are you here, Changbin-ah?”

Changbin’s mouth opens, closes and opens again because… is that a trick question? It sounds almost like an accusation, a little bit impatient and a little bit mean in a way he’d expect more from Minho than from Chan, although it’s not… bad, the way it prickles anticipation across his skin. But Chan knows why he’s here, right? Chan must know why he’s here, it’s not like it’s something new for Changbin to have his back. They’re a team; he’s only got one answer to that question.

“For you, hyung.”

For several long seconds Chan says nothing, just stares at him. Then he takes a step back and looks away.

“I don’t need you here,” he says. “Go home, Bin-ah.” He’s gentled his voice but that and the diminutive of his name do nothing to lessen the way hearing the words hurts, the rejection burning like a hot coal in his stomach, all the more painful for its rarity. Changbin can count the occasions Chan hasn’t wanted him around with one hand and this… Wait.

He's already halfway out of his chair when the realisation strikes him. ‘Need’ is not ‘want’. Chan is extraordinarily good at ignoring both of them, of course, but right now the distinction matters more than usual. At least, it’s something for Changbin to cling to.

He changes tactics. Silently, he finishes getting up and walks to the door, feeling Chan’s gaze follow him all the way. It should be obvious that he’s not leaving though as he makes no move to pick up his jacket or shut down computers, but there’s still an audible hitch of surprise in Chan’s breath when Changbin only pushes the door shut. And then locks it.

The room is still dim, but the angle of the light is better from here and he can see Chan’s expression more clearly now. Although, for someone who is usually like an open book with the members, he’s doing a remarkably good job at keeping it blank. His eyes though… They’re wary. Watchful.

Seems Changbin is deviating from whatever script Chan had in his head, and he allows himself to feel smug about it just for a moment.

He walks over, half expecting Chan to sidestep around him and remove himself from the situation now that it’s clear Changbin is not about to do it. However, Chan allows him to get close enough to touch, allows Changbin to reach out and wrap his hands over Chan’s arms, not quite a hug but at least a third of a way there.

“Thank you,” he says. The height difference between them isn’t that great but this close Changbin still has to tilt his head back a bit to catch Chan’s startled gaze. “Thank you, hyung. For looking after us.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He isn’t really sure what response he was expecting – Chan’s not good at taking praise on his best days, but Changbin hasn’t seen a day like today before, not up close, and he wondered… But, no. The tension that shocks through Chan is like a wire snapping taut, brutal and bruising if Changbin put himself in its way, the way his expression shutters, with a closed off and blank look that sits entirely wrong on his face. Changbin’s already dropping his arms, with a half-step back that keeps him close but not too close, before Chan has a chance to push him away. He’s not sure of much today, but he’s certain he doesn’t want to know what that feels like.

“I didn’t,” Chan bites out, like the words are physically painful to come out, but not as though he’s upset. There’s something darker under his tone, something snarling with teeth, and there’s a strange thrill to the idea that it’s as likely to bite at Changbin right now as at anyone else. The look Chan cuts him is sharp enough to hurt, except that Changbin is starting to get a feel for this now, what he’s dealing with, what Chan’s trying to hide and maybe it’s not going to be so bad if he pushes, just a little.

“We’re not talking about this,” Chan says, his tone clipped and tight, less neutral now, something more bleeding through. “I want you to go home.”

Changbin shrugs, one shouldered and lop-sided, and ignores the way his heartrate has picked up a little.

“It’s my studio, hyung,” he points out, and the second look Chan shoots him is a definite and unmistakeable warning.

“Bin-ah.”

There it is.

“You’re angry,” Changbin says, testing the words out to see if they fit, and the flicker of Chan’s gaze, away and back, almost too fast to see if Changbin hadn’t been paying quite such close attention, is enough to confirm it. He doesn’t need Chan’s slow, wordless nod to know that he’s right and it settles something low in his belly that he hadn’t realised was unsettled but that spreads warm through him regardless. He doesn’t need to know how to fix this. He just needs to understand it, and he’s been working on understanding Chan for literal years. He’ll get there.

“You’re angry with me,” he tries, but it feels wrong as he says it. He’s seen Chan angry before, seen it targeted toward someone and there’s no ambiguity in the way he looks at someone he’s angry with. This, in the studio, it’s at the surface, it’s driving Chan, but it was clearly there before he arrived and he hadn’t expected Changbin to be here. He hadn’t expected anyone to be here…

…sometimes, Changbin thinks he might be an actual idiot.

“You’re angry with yourself,” he says instead, slow realisation colouring his tone, even as Chan answers, both of their words bleeding together into one unintelligible jumble.

“I’m not mad at you, Bin.”

Changbin tilts his head to one side and squints at Chan, taking in the sharp line of his shoulders, the tight curl of his fists, the promise of violence trapped behind iron resolve that makes his throat a little dry, and it clicks as he swallows, looking back up to meet Chan’s eyes.

“Do you want to be?” he asks, and Chan’s mouth falls open in surprise. “Would that help, hyung?

“What?!” The shock is profound enough to wipe out every other emotion from Chan’s face just for a moment, but then it recedes, and the anger is back, clear as day now. A day with one hell of a storm forecast. “What are you… Don’t be an idiot!” Oh yeah, now Chan is angry at him. Or at least he’s definitely getting there.

Changbin grins. It still feels like he’s fumbling his way around in the dark but at least now he’s found some solid handholds. He doesn’t know where this particular path leads, not exactly, but it feels like the right one regardless. Already, Chan’s posture is looser, the expression on his face something real and genuine, not some mask he’s putting on to save others from the inconvenience of his emotions.

Changbin’s never wanted to be safe. Or saved. He’s only ever wanted to help, to be there to… Anything, he realises with a hazy shock of his own, something like mortification, something like pride making him flush. He’d do, be, anything Chan wanted, just to…

“You’re the one who’s an idiot,” Changbin says. No, he snaps, his voice going sharp and precise, enunciating each word like he’s rapping them out. “You wouldn’t put up with this kind of self-sacrificing bullshit from anyone else, so it’s the height of hypocrisy to expect we’ll just bow out of sight all meek and accommodating just so that you can stew in your feelings all alone like some kind of a martyr!” It’s quite a speech and Changbin is kind of out of breath afterwards, and unsure which of them is more shocked by it.

Chan is outright gaping at him, mouth open and eyes blown wide and dark with something that is… perhaps not just surprise. Changbin feels like he’s just finished a long solo on stage, heart hammering in his chest, hands curled into empty half-fists, except it’s not a mic Changbin thinks he wants filling them right now. He’s exhilarated, but also kind of angry now himself as well because nothing he said was a lie and maybe it was also a thing that he’d needed to say for a while now.

Doesn’t mean Chan is happy to hear it.

“Changbin,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “You need to stop right now.”

Changbin laughs. Loud and insolent and rude, like he’s almost never been to any of his hyungs. There’s a sneer on his face he doesn’t even attempt to wipe off.

“Or what?” he asks, deliberately mocking now. “Am I annoying you, hyung? Is it making you angry, me being here, not letting you hide from your feelings like a coward?”

Chan actually flinches at the word as if struck and for a split second Changbin feels bad but it’s too late to back down now. He’s too far down this particular road and despite everything it still feels like the right direction, like he’s so close to… Something. Something that will help. He can’t give up now.

Chan looks like he’s going to say something, but Changbin doesn’t give him the chance. Instead, he shoulders himself right into Chan’s personal space and pushes at him, hard enough that Chan actually stumbles back half a step.

“Oh, I just bet it is,” Changbin hisses. “I bet you are furious at me right now. Not going home with the kids like a good little Binnie, not letting you be, not following orders from the leader…” And that’s a low blow, Changin knows it is and that’s why he uses it. Chan’s leadership is not based on rules or orders, Chan’s worked so hard to make sure it isn’t, and so it really shouldn’t be a surprise that it’s this that finally makes him snap. “Question is,” Changbin says, part of his mind absolutely horrified at his mouth but unable to stop, “What are you going to do about it? Nothing?” Then he raises his hands to Chan’s chest and shoves him again.

Or. Well. He tries. It’s not unlike shoving against a brick wall, and about as effective, and he isn’t entirely prepared for how it jolts back through him.

Chan doesn’t budge. “You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says, every word jagged and bitten off, sharp enough to cut except he’s still holding back, his anger telegraphing clear as day through the curl of his fingers into tight fists at his sides, the way his eyes have narrowed and the tight line of his mouth. It’s there but it’s not here, it’s not out and purged and Changbin’s committed now, whatever he might regret later. It’s too easy to rock forward, using the brace of his hands on Chan’s chest to lean up, back into his space, close enough that he can feel Chan’s breath, short and choppy against his cheek.

“I’m not an idiot or a child,” he spits out, exact and exacting, and Chan’s eyes go hard and flinty, and it’s a warning, and a caution, and Changbin pointedly and deliberately ignores it. “Just show me, and stop being such a—”

He has no idea how he planned to finish that sentence, his mouth running too fast for his brain to keep up, like on stage, but he never gets the chance to. He’s close enough to get a front row seat when Chan snaps.

Chan’s fingers wrap around his wrist like an iron band, wrenching Changbin’s hand from his chest before he shoves, hard and fast, and on any other day, Changbin’s confident he could have soaked the blow, but he’s off-balance, leaning up into Chan’s space. The push, full force, hits like a blow to the chest, and it’s Changbin’s turn to stumble backward, except that this time Chan follows, his fingers like a vice on Changbin’s wrist and giving him no quarter to get his feet back under him before he collides with something hard and unyielding. The door, his brain helpfully supplies, even as he arches his back instinctively, shoulder blades curving against the blow, and Chan takes the opening, stepping in hard and fast to slam Changbin’s wrist against the wall with a force that leaves him reeling – not because it hurts, but because it’s Chan – and slotting his forearm hard enough against Changbin’s throat to keep his head pinned back against the door and send multicoloured swirls dancing across his vision.

“Enough,” Chan snarls against his ear, even as Changbin brings his free hand up to claw at Chan’s arm across his throat. “Enough, Bin. You want me mad at you, fine. You’ve got it. But you need to shut your pretty mouth before you say something we’ll both regret.”

The word lands harder than any punch he could imagine and knocks all fight out of Changbin on its way. All at once, his body goes lax against the door, the hand that had been pulling at Chan’s forearm simply curling around it, holding on more than anything.

Pretty.

Chan said…

Changbin gasps for air, not because it’s physically difficult – Chan’s grip is forcing his head back, not restricting his airways in any significant way – but because of the implications.


Your pretty mouth.


Firstly, Chan’s one to talk, has he looked into a mirror? Secondly…

Slowly, deliberately, Changbin swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. Chan’s eyes follow the movement as if magnetised.

Oh, Changbin thinks, his stomach swooping, shock and apprehension and arousal washing over him in one devastating wave of oh fuck.

And then, right on its heels, another thought comes. It’s not a new one, not by any means, but it’s one Changbin never expected to become reality. One he definitely never expected to voice out loud. And yet…

“Is there something else you’d like me to do instead, hyung?” he asks, watching the way Chan’s snarl softens into surprise once more. That’s at least 2-1 for Changbin now. “With my pretty mouth?” he clarifies, not having to make any effort to make his voice low and filthy in a way that leaves no room for misinterpretation over what Changbin is offering here.

And oh yes, Chan gets it. His gaze has gone dark and hooded, the anger still there, simmering on low heat, but rapidly replaced by something else entirely. “Bin-ah, what…” he tries, but Changbin isn’t having any of that now.

“Yes or no, hyung?” he rasps.

Chan draws in a long, shuddering breath, the forearm over Changbin’s throat dropping away, his grip on Changbin’s wrist loosening until that too vanishes. For a heart-stopping moment Changbin thinks he’s going to just leave – fuck, fuck, there’s no way to walk this back – but then Chan lifts one of his hands and presses his thumb against Changbin’s bottom lip.

The whine that forces its way out from the back of Changbin’s throat is short but unmistakable. He wants to pant, wants to push his tongue out and lap at the tip of Chan’s finger, wants him to shove it inside Changbin’s mouth and make him…

Carefully, moving his lips as little as possible, he repeats the question: “Yes? Or no?”

Chan takes his finger away, his eyes roaming over Changbin’s face. Changbin doesn’t know what he’s looking for but, in the end, he seems to find it.

“Yes.” Another word that lances clean through him, through both of them if the way Chan too seems to shake with it, is any indication.

“Good,” Changbin breathes. Then he pushes up on tiptoe and kisses the underside of Chan’s jaw, the sharp corner of it, his mouth catching on stubble as it travels down his throat. When Chan moans, he can feel the vibrations of it against his lips, Chan’s Adam’s Apple right there. Changbin sucks on it and the noise Chan makes, choked off and desperate, makes Changbin wish for recording equipment just a for a second except no, he doesn’t want anyone else to hear this.

Chan’s hands fumble up his neck, cupping his face and then when that doesn’t do it, his fingers fist into Changbin’s hair and yank him off.

Changbin groans, lets himself be held at the awkward angle, his breaths coming fast and loud, He’s turned on, still part disbelieving this is happening at all and yet, above both, elated because this? This is something he can do, something he can give, something that Chan, against all odds, wants.

“Bin-ah,” Chan murmurs. “Fuck, look at you…” He traces a finger over Changbin’s mouth again and this time Changbin doesn’t hold back and instead sucks it in without hesitation.

Chan swears again, a mishmash of English and Korean, all the dirtier for it, and replaces the finger with his tongue, Changbin’s hand flying up to grip his hips in response. And, okay, okay, now he knows that Chan kisses like he fights; fast and dirty and giving no ground, one hand planted against the door, boxing Changbin in, while the other stays tangled in his hair, looser now, but still letting Chan tilt his head and direct the kiss as he wants.

And he does want, which is a thought that rushes to Changbin’s head, giddy and exhilarating, like champagne only better, because it’s Chan’s mouth against his, hard and demanding. Chan’s lips, warm and a little chapped against his, the flick of Chan’s tongue and the teasing scrape of his teeth, and it’s good anyway, but the knowledge that it’s Chan breaking off the kiss to bite out curses that tingle against Changbin’s mouth before Chan tugs him back in is better.

Although, the way Chan growls against his mouth when Changbin nips at his lips in return might be the best, if the way his toes curl is any indication.

Chan pulls away enough to break the kiss, although he stays tantalisingly close, enough for Changbin to feel the chill of his breath against his own spit-slick lips, and he chases Chan’s mouth without thinking, only to be brought up short as Chan’s fingers tighten in his hair. Chan huffs a laugh at his answering whine, and Changbin’s fingers flex pointedly against his hips.

“That pretty mouth is determined to get you into trouble tonight, Bin-ah,” Chan murmurs, his eyes flicking down to Changbin’s mouth even as his tongue slips out to slide over his own lip where Changbin had nipped him, and the answering rush of arousal is enough to leave Changbin light-headed.

“I think I’m doing okay out of it so far,” he says, steady enough, but with a rasp that makes him glad they’ve already performed today. “You didn’t answer my question though, hyung.”

Chan’s focus has already dropped back to his lips. “Which question?” he asks, distractedly, but there’s a half smirk playing across the edge of his mouth, for anyone who knows how to look for it. Changbin does.

“Hyung.” It comes out on the edge of a whine, Chan’s lips twitching in response, his hand still firm in Changbin’s hair, holding him back.

“Am I annoying you, Bin-ah?” he asks, low and knowing, and Changbin doesn’t grace him with a response, tightening his grip instead on Chan’s hips, which is the closest he gives to a warning before he pulls, hard. Chan’s eyes widen, startled, as he stumbles forward and Changbin’s never been so grateful for arm day as he jerks Chan against him, hip to hip, chest to chest, Chan’s weight pinning him back against the door and… oh. Oh.

The knowledge that Chan’s hard, that they’re both hard against each other is like the most gratifying punch in the stomach he’s ever taken, and Changbin can’t help the way his hips buck instinctively against Chan’s.

“Binnie,” Chan growls, warning clear in his tone even if he makes no effort to move away, and Changbin’s fingers flutter against the rough fabric of his jeans.

“Tell me,” he says in lieu of an apology, because he’s not sorry, but he wants, so badly he can taste it, his mouth watering. “Tell me what you want. Please.”

“I want your mouth,” Chan grits out, and Changbin is about to roll his eyes because really, that much seems obvious, but Chan’s not done. “On my dick.” Changbin can feel the way his eyes bug out, said mouth dropping open, eager. Shameless. “I want to fuck it. I want you to let me.” And it’s so crude, so unexpected to hear Chan of all people say that and therefore all the dirtier for it, that Changbin doesn’t know whether to laugh or come in his pants.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, stealing one last filthy kiss. “Let’s do that.” Then he pushes Chan back, just enough to give himself room to move and drops to his knees. They’ve done enough of this as part of dance choreography that Changbin can make it look graceful and controlled, sexy. He can, but he doesn’t bother even trying, too focused on doing what Chan wants, on getting his hands and mouth where they both want them. If the sound Chan makes is any indication, however, he finds Changbin’s performance more than acceptable.

Changbin grins, making short work of the buttons of Chan’s jeans, tugging them and underwear down just enough to free Chan’s dick, exactly as well-proportioned and nicely-shaped as Changbin, and probably not an insignificant proportion of their fanbase, imagined.

“Pretty,” Changbin observes, both because it’s true and because he is, at a heart, a troll. The effect is predictable, Chan’s face flushed pink, expression disbelieving as Changbin looks up from under his eyelashes just as he touches the tip of his tongue to the head.

“Fuck.” Chan’s voice is the same it gets toward the end of a concert or long recording session, still strong but scraped, raw, and yeah, that’s going to be a problem for future Changbin. He’s never not going to hear that now and not think of this, of being on his knees, all but begging for his hyung to…

“So you said.” Changbin’s going for cocky but he wants it too bad to pull it off, syllables slurring together. “Let’s see it then.” He noses up the side of Chan’s cock, letting it smear precome all over his cheek, his mouth open, eyes going half-lidded. Granted, Changbin hasn’t done this a lot, but he knows how to look good, how to work his angles and expressions, and turns out he loves putting on a show in this context as much as he loves it on stage.

The grip at the hinge of his jaw both is and is not a surprise. Changbin can feel his eyelids flutter. His hands, wrapped around Chan’s thighs, twitch, helpless.

“Open up, Bin-ah,” Chan murmurs, voice low. The press of his fingers is steady, grounding. The way he looks at Changbin is better than any glare of spotlights, any roar of audience he’s ever heard. “Be a good boy now and open your pretty mouth for hyung.”

Changbin does.

The noise Chan makes in response, guttural and low, rising desperately from the back of his throat is one Changbin’s never heard him make before, and one he immediately wants to hear again. He’s rocking forward before he even considers it, against Chan’s hold which shifts from grounding to constraining in the space of a breath, not enough to really stop him, but enough to hold him back and he punctuates his next breath with a frustrated grumble that sounds all the more obscene for how it falls from his open mouth. Chan’s cock is right there—

“Bin-ah.” His name cracks out like a whip, Chan’s voice frayed and raw and sharp for it, and Changbin freezes. “Look at me.”

It’s habit to follow Chan’s lead, but Changbin can’t be sad about it. Chan’s still looking down at him when he lifts his eyes, his gaze hooded and wondering and intent in direct contradiction to the pink still colouring his cheeks, his lips bitten red and his hair sweat-damp, a hint of its natural curl creeping back in. Not that Changbin’s assuming he looks any better, but they’ve barely done anything and Chan looks wrecked.

Because of him.

“Be good,” Chan says, low and insistent to match the intensity of his eyes that feels like it’s burning Changbin up from the inside out. “And let me.”

His thighs flex against Changbin’s hold and, oh, Changbin hadn’t actually realised how much he was pulling, urging Chan forward. He hesitates, just for a second, his tongue flicking out to moisten his own lips, before he loosens his grip, his hands brushing against rough denim as he lets them drop, before he twists them carefully behind his back, wrapping his fingers around his own wrists to keep them in place, and sits back on his heels. It’s not the most comfortable position he’s ever held, but it's far from the worse and he thinks, he thinks the payoff might make it more than worth his while.

Chan inhales sharply enough that it sounds painful. “Fucking hell, Bin,” he bites out, his voice cracking in an incredibly gratifying way that Changbin doesn’t have time to revel in because Chan nudges his hips forward, not enough but enough to rest the head of his cock against Changbin’s lower lip, and Changbin’s brain short-circuits slightly, his fingers twitching in his own hold. Chan swallows, a visible bob in his throat that Changbin tracks before flicking his gaze back up when Chan’s fingers tighten against his cheek. “Eyes on me,” Chan says. “Relax your jaw, breathe through your nose, and tap my ankle if you want to stop.”

You don’t become an idol without learning how to follow instructions, or indeed, orders, both in general and your leader’s in particular. And Chan’s never steered him wrong before. Changbin nods as he fixes his gaze on Chan’s face and lets his mouth drop open all the way, pliant and expectant. Ready to be used. The thought zings through him, sharp enough to hurt and so, so good, because that really is what he came here for, to be make things better for Chan, to help, to be of use, and now… Now he can.

Even so, he breaks Chan’s first rule almost immediately. With murmured praise, Chan finally pushes his cock past Changbin’s bottom lip and then all the way, a slow, unrelenting slide that stretches Changbin’s jaw to its limits. His eyes roll back, eyelids fluttering closed, a long, muffled groan mixing with Chan’s.

“Look at me,” Chan chokes out, his fingers tracing over Changbin’s face, the obscene swell of his own cock under the flesh of Changbin’s cheek. “Bin-ah, look at hyung.”

Changbin forces his eyes open, forces himself to draw in a steady breath through his nose, his wrist aching from where he’s squeezing it hard enough to bruise just to keep from reaching out. Chan’s expression is indecent, focused in a way that looks like anger, probably still is at least in part, but with an unmistakable edge of desire, of going after something he wants with the single-minded determination. It reminds Changbin of when they are in the studio, Chan’s precise guidance through the headphones, the curve of his shoulders over the mixing deck, of him calling out another take, telling Changbin to do it better, to do it right.

And just like in the recording studio, when Changbin finally gets it right, Chan is generous with his approval. He pulls back, breath hitching when Changbin drags his tongue over the underside of Chan’s cock, swirls it around the head, showing off when he can.

“That’s it,” Chan says, pushing back, faster this time, confident now that Changbin can take it, “good boy,” and all of Changbin’s thoughts fracture, leaving nothing but glittering static and the sensory overload of Chan’s hand cupping his face, Chan’s cock in his mouth, Chan’s scent, sweat and faded cologne, surrounding him, Chan’s voice telling him he’s good, good, good.

He’s barely aware of Chan’s hand smoothing over his cheek, his fingers sliding back through his hair to curl around the back of his head carefully, too focused on the slow slip-slide of Chan’s cock over his tongue, salty and intoxicating, his eyes dropping to half-lidded again as he chases that taste. Then Chan thrusts, harder than before, his cock hitting the back of Changbin’s throat with a sweet sting, and his eyes fly open.

Chan’s watching him, intent and focused, bracing his weight with his forearm against the door above Changbin’s head, drawn out of himself and into Changbin even as he rocks back in a way that fizzes satisfyingly under his skin. “Relax your throat, Bin-ah,” Chan murmurs, before the corner of his mouth ticks up in a ghost of a smirk. “Unless that pretty mouth can’t take it?”

It’s close enough to what he knows, drastically different but Chan’s still pushing him the way he always does in this room, but also giving him an out he doesn’t want and Changbin doesn’t see the need to dignify that with a reply. Not in words, anyway. He rocks forward on his knees without Chan’s hand on his jaw to hold him back this time, ignoring the shiver of arousal that wracks through him as his jeans press against his own cock in favour of sinking down onto Chan’s, fast and hard. It hits the back of his throat again, with that same sweet sting that threatens to make him gag, but Changbin has control this time, and he swallows against the intrusion, feeling Chan sink deeper until his nose brushes against Chan’s skin.

Chan’s laugh is gratifyingly breathless, his hips stuttering as Changbin hums happily. “Overachiever,” he says. “Don’t wreck your throat.”

Changbin hums again, just to feel the shiver that runs across Chan’s skin, before he pulls back, leaning into Chan’s hold on his head just long enough to rasp out a “Rapper,” before he sinks back down.

Chan’s fingers tangle in his hair before he’s taken him halfway back, halting his movement. “Asking for trouble, Bin-ah,” he warns, and even through the haze, Changbin wants to roll his eyes, because yes, yes, that’s exactly what he’s asking for. It’s what he’s been asking for, for Chan to just… stop holding back and take for once. He drags his gaze back up; he doesn’t remember when he dropped it, but he can't regret the view on the way as his gaze rakes over Chan's heaving chest and the flush on his neck, both enough to make Changbin's mouth water. He meets Chan’s eyes, hollows his cheeks and sucks, hard and deliberate. An unspoken plea, and he can’t miss the way Chan’s jaw tightens in response.

It's nowhere near as satisfying as the answering snap of his hips.

Chanbing wants to smirk, but his mouth is otherwise occupied. Even so, some of the sentiment seems to communicate just fine since Chan’s grip in his hair turns bruising for a few blinding seconds, tears welling at Changbin’s eyes.

“Fuuuuck.” It falls of Chan’s lips in one long descending note as he holds Changbin in place, his cock buried all the way. For a moment Changbin thinks Chan’s going to come, and then, when he does nothing but keep Changbin right where he is, mouth helplessly stretched, throat threatening to convulse, he thinks he’s going to come, just from this.

Chan pulls out, slowly, only the tip of his cock resting in Changbin’s mouth, their eyes locked while saliva pools on Changbin’s tongue, then spills over. He flushes, thinking of what he looks like, face wet and messy, quite literally drooling for it. The thought makes his cock throb anew. Chan is staring down at him, transfixed. He reaches out, gathers some of the spit from the corner of Changbin’s mouth and then pushes it back inside, feeding Changbin his index finger as well as his cock. It’s a tight fit and Chan doesn’t pause to ask if he can take it this time. Changbin’s hands fly out front, not to tap out but just to cling to Chan’s jeans, needing the contact, the support.

He doesn’t get chastised for it this time, quite the opposite. “Okay, Bin-ah,” Chan murmurs, the words lust clotted, no trace of his usual careful diction. “Okay, hyung’s got you.” And then he pulls his finger out, cups Changbin’s head between both of his hands, and starts fucking his mouth in earnest.

It’s hard, but not fast, not at first, and Changbin doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. He knows he loves it though, the long, relentless slide of Chan’s cock right to the back of his throat, the way he holds himself there while Changbin’s throat flutters just on the edge of too much, before pulling back again. Chan holds onto this control longer than Changbin, who is moaning, and clutching at Chan’s legs in desperation within minutes, his own hips stuttering forward helplessly, the position giving him only the barest of friction.

Seeing Chan’s control finally slip, being the reason for it, is the most gorgeous thing Changbin has ever experienced. His grip on Changbin’s hair turns stinging, his face grows slack with pleasure, the words falling from his mouth slipping into slurred English, too thick with accent for Changbin for understand. His rhythm falters, the long, measured glide changing into short, graceless thrusts, as Chan fucks into Changbin’s mouth, hard and selfish in a way he never lets himself be. Except here, now, with Changbin.

Chan comes with a groan that sounds like Changbin’s name, buried under bitten-off expletives. His fingers shake, skating over Changbin’s brow, his eyelids, nose, the shape of his mouth around Chan’s cock. Changbin swallows and swallows, the bitter salt coating his tongue tasting like victory, and when Chan finally pulls out, Changbin chases after him unselfconsciously, shameless and instinctive.

Chan’s fingers tangled in his hair bring him up short, another sweet sting tingling across his scalp to match the one in his throat, his next breath escaping on a whine that’s all that follows Chan back. The sight of Chan tucking himself away, putting himself back together after Changbin’s mouth had taken him apart is enough to twist the whine into a moan, and Changbin doesn’t stop to think, his hands flying to the waistband of his jeans, scrabbling at the button even as he tugs on the zipper, sweet relief pulsing between his legs as both come open and the pressure against his dick eases. He shudders as his knuckles brush against the front of his briefs and his cock jerks in response, arousal thick on his tongue like syrup, sweet and heady enough to have him scrabbling for the waistband of his briefs. He’s not going to last long.

“I thought you wanted to be good for me,” Chan says, not really a question however it’s phrased, and Changbin’s fingers stutter to a halt almost on instinct, because what, he’d been good, he thought he’d… His eyes flick up to where Chan’s still standing over him.

Chan’s watching him back, eyes dark but composed, no evidence that he’s barely just finished fucking Changbin’s face aside from the spot of colour high in his cheeks and the heavy huff of his breath. Changbin takes no responsibility for the way his eyes flicker down, to Chan’s chest, and Chan’s mouth curves into a sharp smile that’s far enough removed from his familiar grin that it’s enough to give Changbin whiplash.

“Hands off what’s mine, Bin-ah,” Chan says, and it’s a tease – Changbin can hear the amusement colouring the words – but it’s also not, especially when Chan drops easily to his knees, his fingers wrapping warm and tight around Changbin’s wrists to tug them down to his sides. Changbin whines, wordlessly demanding, but he doesn’t resist the insistent pull on his arms, and Chan’s smile widens just a fraction.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, punctuating the praise with a squeeze of his fingers around Changbin’s wrists before he lets go, and desire slices through Changbin’s belly with the targeted precision of a knife.

“Hyung,” he says, breathy and breathlessly insistent, his eyelids fluttering closed, and oh god, he wants to come. He wants Chan to make him come. “I was good.” He knows he was, Chan said. “Hyung, please.”

Chan’s laugh is quiet, gratifyingly breathless in turn, but nowhere near as gratifying as the brush of his fingers over the head of Changbin’s cock and Changbin can’t stop the hitch in his breath as it catches in his throat, the helpless stutter of his hips under Chan’s fingertips.

“No,” Chan says, the touch of his fingers shifting from barely there to efficiently brisk, zipping Changbin carefully back into his pants in less time than it takes him to blink, his eyelids heavy and sticky, for Chan’s answer to make it past the blur of arousal weighing down his thoughts.

“What?” he says, stupidly, his hands coming up too late to clumsily grasp at Chan’s, at the entirely wrong pressure against his cock. Chan knocks his fingers away with a low laugh. “Wait, no, nononononono, hyung, why?”

Whatever expression is on his face, it’s enough to make Chan’s eyes soften a fraction, and Changbin doesn’t startle of the soft sweep of Chan’s thumb across his bottom lip.

“Not yet,” Chan amends, “You’ll get to come Bin-ah. Just… later. When I decide. Stop pouting.” The words are easy, but the way Chan says them, clipped and to the point, isn’t, and Changbin… he’s missing something again. It’s an awareness that pushes past the arousal thrumming under his skin, the neediness that’s bleeding through and making him want to whine and pant and beg, that lets him rock back on his heels and look at Chan. At that strange sharp smile, the tight line of his jaw and the rigid set of his shoulders and…

“You’re still mad,” he breathes, realisation sinking like a stone to the base of his belly, and the corner of Chan’s mouth twitches.

Chan makes a soft noise of assent in the back of his throat, his gaze dropping down between Changbin’s legs. “Little bit,” he allows, and Changbin bites back a groan as Chan’s touch ghosts across the front of his jeans. “But I also want to take my time with you, so. You get to wait.” The sudden drag of his fingers along the line of Changbin’s zipper is too hard to be a tease, too insistent to ignore, but nowhere near enough, and Changbin chokes on his next breath, whatever answer he might have pulled together smothered under the heavy pulse of want that surges through him.

“Hyung,” he whines, and Chan’s eyes snap back to his with an intensity that makes him squirm but isn’t enough to shut him up. “Come on. Really?”

Chan’s eyes narrow, and he leans in, close enough for his nose to brush against Changbin’s and for Changbin to taste the hint of his lip balm again, and Changbin’s eyes cross as he tries to hold his gaze.

“I did warn you that pretty mouth would get you into trouble, Bin,” Chan murmurs against his mouth, his words buzzing sweetly against Changbin’s lips, and he doesn’t wait for an answer before he shifts just enough to capture them in another kiss with a scrape of his teeth against Changbin’s bottom lip, his mouth hot and demanding even as his hand comes up to tangle in Changbin’s hair again. Chan shifts, tilting Changbin’s head just enough to give him a better angle, even as his thigh slides between Changbin’s legs. It’s clearly a taunt; offering something Changbin knows Chan’s not going to let him have, and yet, he can’t stop himself from rocking up against it anyway, his eyes rolling back in his head as arousal tingles across his skin in prickles of icy heat that has him scrabbling for a grip on Chan’s shoulders like that might keep him from floating away.

It’s fine, it’s fine. He can do this, if it’s what Chan wants to have then it’s what Changbin wants to give, especially if the payoff at the end is worth it.

And if Chan’s kiss is anything to go by, it’s going to be amazing.



***