Archive of Our Own

Jet black leather against tingling skin. Minho’s pants are tight without any extra help, but right now they’re straining at the seams. His eyes are gulping down the curves of Chan’s ass, of his arms as he reaches forward against the kitchen bench and up towards the cupboard. He’s shirtless. He rarely ever isn’t, knowing it drives Minho up the wall and knowing even better than he can’t fuck him senseless on the spot in front of the others. Not without some pre-planning anyways.

One leg bent up on the couch, forearm resting on his knee, Minho lets his head fall back until it hits the wall with a thud, not nearly sobering enough for the strength of arousal coursing through his veins, dripping down right to where he wants it. He can’t stop the indulgent groan slipping past his lips even if he wanted to, but the snap of Chan’s head to face him as he rolls his hips provocatively in his direction makes him want to do it all over again.

“I would say that you don’t know what you do to me, but you do, don’t you?” Minho drawls, letting his hand drape over his face and his thumb catch on his lip as he raises his head to stare straight into Chan’s unknowing eyes.

They don’t remain that way for very long, however, Chan’s gaze quickly turning indulgent and dragging down Minho’s body as if it could tear every goddamned piece of clothing from his body, until it lands on his half-hard bulge. His mouth contorts into an involuntary smirk, the game Minho is playing instant recognition. This game requires strategy, stamina and patience, something in which he was very well trained. Chan sucks in a breath, bracing himself on the bench with two arms, ensuring his muscles bulge and are entirely on show, before pulling his gaze away to the white wall before him.

“Not answering me, huh? I’ll ruin you, Chan. You know I will. You know I can.”

Here comes the threats, the lack of title, lack of caution that Chan knows he’ll need rather soon. Chan holds back a bubbling chuckle, taking his lip between his teeth and settling for a contented sigh. That boy is predictable, always cockier than he could handle and Chan knows precisely how to break him down, confident word by confident word until he’s nothing but a sobbing mess below him, begging him to stop.

“You think you’re a flawless top. The only thing you’re missing, just a tiny detail, might be the ability to keep your partner in check. Where’s your control, hm?” Chan says lightly.

In truth, both Minho and Chan are the tops in their group, occasionally allowing Changbin to believe he could do it too when both of them knew they could make him drop to his knees, tongue out and whines dribbling from his quivering lips and tears welling in his eyes blown wide in mere seconds. It’s a rare occasion that they’re the only two in the house and what an occasion it is. No little wandering hands grabbing at their hands and chests, whining for attention, no mouths seeking theirs, no need for gentle ministrations as they unwind every string of sense and stability from the more submissive members of the group. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with any of that, of course, in fact it’s the equivalent of pure ecstasy, making them high on power and filling their hearts with pulsing adoration.

But when it’s simply Chan and Minho, pure, unbridled power, primal hunger that drives them to consume the other until there’s nothing left, desire converging in the middle like two steel shields crashing against one another… it’s unlike nothing else. The only way through the insatiable lust requires a battle of strength, self-control and persuasion to whittle the other’s resolve down until one of them cracks, shattering into tiny, whining, beautifully ruined pieces beneath the other’s touch. The scores are pretty even, even after all this time.

Minho is affected by Chan’s comment, that’s for sure, but he’s still calm enough to not let it show. That’s irrelevant, really, when he considers how well Chan could map out every inch of his skin, his mind, his soul with both eyes shut and his hands tied (that sounds like an idea for a rainy day). He’ll keep pretending he’s hiding it well anyways.

“I think my control is clear enough,” he says calmly, “I’m still sitting here on this couch, letting you run your little mouth without doing anything about it. That’ll change if you’re not careful.”

“Only problem I see with that is that you’re clearly horny out of your mind and staying on that couch won’t get your dick in my mouth. I won’t deny it, I’d like a piece of your ass if you’ll let me get my hands on it. I’ll be Switzerland for a moment. No dignity lost if you come over here right now and get what you want.”

Minho’s eyes lock on Chan’s, seeking his eyes for the small print in the deal. His jaw slacks just the slightest bit so that to anyone else it would be a mere twitch, but to Chan it was oh so telling. Minho is still, thinking, strategising. To Chan, this is the first sign that he’s considering giving in even just a little bit if it means some form of relief. After the first sign, it’s always downhill from there. If there’s anything Chan knows about Minho, it’s that he can’t play for nearly as long as himself without snapping in two like thin ice.

Slowly, as if not wanting to make any sudden movements in front of a deadly predator ready to pounce and maul, Chan leans forward into the bench once more, reaching both hands up to grasp the cupboard handles.

“You take your time deciding, my love. In the meanwhile, I think I might just make us a coffee. I understand if you can’t–“

His words are cut off by his own dark smile, fuelled by sweet success. As his rambling words leave his mouth, Minho is launching himself off of the couch with both hands, stalking towards Chan until Chan feels him sliding in behind him, pressing his crotch into the bench with his own hips.

“I’m only going to ask nicely once,” Minho says lowly against Chan’s ear, so close he can feel the burning heat of his breath that sends chills down his spine, “are you gonna let me play with you, or are you gonna make this pointlessly difficult for yourself?” He starts biting warning shots down Chan’s neck, already hard enough to leave imprints that slowly redden and swell as the indents fill back out again.

Chan is laughing through his nose before Minho can even finish his sentence, mocking him, deriding him.

“And what makes you think you’re even capable of making this difficult for me? You’re funny sometimes, jagi,” Chan drawls, staring straight ahead at the wall and determinedly ignoring the growing pressure against his ass, fighting the temptation to roll his head back into Minho’s touch and let out the groan threatening to push its way out of his chest.

Feeling the vibrations against his back, Minho is growling. Whether it’s in response to the cutesy nickname or the fact that Chan isn’t giving in so easily, Chan doesn’t know, but he’s winning at the irritation game and that’s all that really matters. Just when Chan thinks Minho might start drawing blood from his increasingly hostile bites, he releases his skin from between his teeth.

“Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Minho says darkly.

With a brutal hand on his waist, Minho is spinning Chan around to face him, but Chan is ready. As soon as his back hits the edge of the bench, resisting the whiplash that threatens to pull him into Minho’s chest just as he wants, Chan throws a firm hand against his crotch, chuckling at the sensation of straining fabric under his fingers as he clutches the collar of Minho’s shirt into his grasp with his free hand. The involuntary moan that leaves Minho’s lips is dizzying, going straight to Chan’s own member, but having the upper hand grants him a moment of indulgence, losing himself in Minho’s enlarged pupils, careful not to let them consume him entirely. Not yet, anyway.

“Fucking masochist…” Chan snarls.

“For every masochist, you’ll find a sadist,” Minho breathes back, feigning composure and panicking internally at his failing strength.

Yes, Chan’s voice is steadier, but he’s thanking his lucky stars that his pants are looser than Minho’s; at least he’ll have a little longer than him before he’ll have to tear them off, lest he’ll burst through the seams.

“You’ll have to force me to switch if you want this to go your way, sweetheart,” Chan speaks against Minho’s lips, narrowly avoiding his attempt to snap at his bottom lip.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Chan tutted, “that’s not very nice now, is it?”

“Aw, cute. You think I’m trying to be nice. Perhaps you’re the funny one, darling.”

“How about I suggest something hilarious like taking this to the bedroom? If you want me so badly, why don’t you finish what you’ve started?”

“Perfect,” Minho’s eyes are burning into Chan’s gaze, but Chan nearly laughs in his face.

“I don’t think you quite understand. That means you first,” Chan says, releasing his grip on Minho so he stands there alone, awkwardly untouched, unfulfilled. Chan leans back on the bench, arms folded and gesturing to the bedroom with a cocksure tip of his head.

If someone were to light a match between them, the air would explode into burning flame, bright and scorching against their skin. Neither of them are letting on, but there’s something akin to electricity teasing the ends of the hairs on their arms like it might suddenly make them snap together like magnets. There are seconds left, the band of tension around them being strained to its very limits, the rubber cracking, splitting… They barely blink, willing the other to be the one to pull the trigger and finally set alight the kindling that was piling uncontrollably. All it needs is a single spark. All it needs is to burn.

It’s quiet when it’s said, but Chan’s senses are on such high alert that Minho might as well have yelled it into his ear.

“Together then.”

Before Chan can get one step ahead of him, Minho’s lips are already crashing against his, lust stronger than resolve to the point that Chan is letting Minho’s arms crush him against his chest, letting his tongue dance with his own, letting his legs finally drag them to where they craved to be more than air itself.

Minho is high, dubious, but high. He knows Chan never lets him win this easily, especially given the way his fingers are digging viciously into the skin on his back, a reminder spelled out in inevitable bruises that he isn’t a loser and won’t let himself be treated like one. Between their kisses – better defined as ravenous attempts to dominate the other’s tongue, consume the other’s lips between their own – are spiraling thoughts from sore losers that refuse to give in until they’re left with no other choice. Their very dignity is at stake. Sudden grabs at sensitive skin, whining moans to throw the other off of their guard… it only takes one second of distraction for one of them to slip and have their advantage snatched away.

Minho makes a mistake. He craves Chan’s bare skin against his own too much for his own good. He fumbles with the elastic waistband of his shorts, Chan suddenly coming to a sharp halt in their path to the bedroom so that Minho stumbles forward into him and loses balance. It lets Chan get his arms around him and lift him up, Minho’s thighs now locked in place by his forearms.

“N– no,” Minho whines. His second mistake. It drives Chan insane to the point that Minho would have to think of something no short of genius to break him away.

One second Minho has command of Chan’s mouth, another second and he’s being slammed into the wall, several picture frames banging against it from the impact. Chan has Minho’s thighs wrapped tightly around his waist, one hand caressing the skin where his thigh ends and his ass begins, another holding his wrists  crossed above his head. Moving his hand from Minho’s thigh to the fabric of his shirt that he hadn’t bothered to do more than a few buttons up in the first place, he tears the rest open, exposing his hardened nipples that has a grin blooming across Chan’s mouth and shivers shooting down Minho’s spine.

“Not so strong now, are we? What are you gonna do if I do something like…”

Chan leans his head down, staring up into Minho’s eyes for as long as he can before his lips reach his chest and he closes over his right nipple with his teeth, biting down until Minho can’t help but let out a groan. He soothes it over with his tongue before switching sides and repeating, his cock hardening against the base of Minho’s hips as he squirms in strained silence.

“I’d stop that if I were you,” Minho chokes out.

“Or what? You’re all talk, honey. Don’t worry, you can stop talking now. Just give me your pretty little noises…”

And with that, Chan is releasing Minho from his grip so that he slides down the wall with a thump, barely catching himself, his hair tousled and his cheeks burning as Chan walks himself into the dark bedroom, humming innocently as he goes.

“Fucker…” Minho whispers.

He must stand there thinking for a little too long because soon, he hears an exaggerated, drawn-out moan from the other room.

“Minnie…” Chan calls, taunting him, teasing him, “you wouldn’t really let me do this all alone, would you? The floor will get my cum soon if you’re not careful.”

Minho is nearly growling, frustrated with himself. Why can’t he come up with something good enough to beat him? His brain isn’t working.

“What a waste that would be… You’d clean it all up with your tongue for me wouldn’t you, sweetheart? Like a good cumslut for daddy.”

Minho has to slap a hand across his spit-slicked mouth to stop a pathetic whine from escaping him. His one weakness is dirty, humiliating degradation, and then being told what a good boy he’s being to stop the tears before being ruined all over again. Being made so useless that all he’s good for is his two holes and his pretty noises. No one but Chan can get him to slip into that space, no one but Chan can call themselves daddy in front of him and not have their ego torn to shreds minutes later by Minho’s deriding laughter. 

He can’t lose just yet. Not when he was the one who proposed this whole thing in the first place.

“Ah,” Chan breathes, “getting harder for you, baby. You’ll miss it if you’re not quick.”

If Minho wasn’t so driven to gain the upper hand, flip the scores, he would’ve taken a good, long look up and down the fucking gorgeous painting standing in the shadows. Leaning against the wall with one hand steadying himself, the other wrapped firmly around his cock and stroking it steadily, is Chan, shorts discarded on the floor. His head is thrown back against the wall, strings of pre-cum stretching from the tip of his cock to his clenched fist, some threatening to drip down in thick dribbles onto the floorboards.

Minho practically drools, diving straight down onto his knees in front of Chan and tearing his fist away from himself before he even has the chance to properly open his eyes. He takes in a deep breath and pushes Chan deep into his mouth until he hits the back of his throat and he has to hold back a gag. Anything to win. Anything to see Chan whimper above him.

Chan can’t help himself. His lungs constrict in a spark of shocked pleasure, sucking in a sharp breath, his hips contracting forwards in an ecstatic thrust, not caring for Minho’s throat. He brought this upon himself, after all. Chan lets a cry rip from his throat, his cock filling out the rest of the way that was only possible with Minho at his feet, tears beginning to stream down each cheek. His throat constricts around gentle, lilting words of praise ready to rain down upon Minho, but he stops himself, pushing aside memories of sweet, precious Felix taking him so well the night before. This is Minho he’s dealing with. Praise him too early and he’ll be having Chan for dinner, a sly smile on his face as he turns the tables like it’s nothing.

“You’re just a pathetic, desperate little slut, aren’t you? Losing at your own game as soon as daddy gets his cock out. You poor thing…”

Finishing his words with a sharp thrust of his hips, smirking at the way Minho’s glistening eyes go momentarily round as spit gurgles in his throat, Chan knows exactly what’s coming next. Minho will retaliate, in all his predictable glory.

Minho pulls away from Chan and spits hot, angered saliva against his dick, eyes burning as he forces a cough back down his throat.

“Fuck y– ah, shit!”

This isn’t part of Minho’s plan. He was supposed to have caught Chan off guard, have entire command over his body before tugging him down to the ground and fucking the power out of him. But his anger drove him to make rash decisions once more and now, now Chan is pushing him roughly to the ground so that the wind is sucked from his lungs. Chan doesn’t give him any chance to recover. He’s raising his leg and placing his bare foot against his hard cock. He has the audacity to wink, to smile angelically down at Minho who is seething beneath him, before unleashing the dark side of him that he keeps tucked up inside for moments exactly like this, for moments with Minho alone. He can take him to limits that none of the others can handle and it sets alight a flame deep inside Chan’s core that scorches hotter than the fucking sun.

Minho knows he has to endure this before Chan will let up, before he even has a second chance at winning the battle. Slowly, achingly slowly, Chan adds pressure against his crotch until he has no choice but to give in, crumbling under Chan’s touch until he’s flat against the ground and whimpering in anticipatory pain. Minho’s voice was deep, controlling, before. But now, he’s reaching notes almost as high as precious Jisung would when Minho bites into his skin as he thrusts into his tight, warm hole, coaxing ribbons upon ribbons of ecstasy from his bouncing cock.

“Not enough for you?” Chan says with soured sweetness, “you don’t sound like you’re enjoying this enough. Make some proper noise for daddy, yeah?”

Minho breath stalls, bracing himself, before Chan is pressing all of his weight down into the ball of his foot, down into the centre of Minho’s cock. It feels like he could explode in one of two ways, one by Chan stepping too hard against his straining fulness until it feels like he might split in half, two by him enjoying that potential far too much and cumming on the spot like the pathetic lover of pain that he is. Maybe both.

Minho wills himself into silence, whines pressing against his lips but his resolve still too strong to let go.

“Still not enough? Greedy slut.”

This time, Minho doesn’t have the slightest chance. Chan flattens his foot across the entirety of Minho’s cock, placing extra pressure in the strength of his heel until Minho is powerless and yelping at the ache that grows and grows, the sensation of exploding and imploding all at once. He nearly screams.

“I could put my whole weight on you, sweetheart, but then I think my little baby would be all squished. You wouldn’t want that now, would you? What else would you have to make daddy feel good?”

“I could take it,” Minho chokes around his vowels, “you know I could.”

“Oh, is that right?” Chan questions, pushing deeper, harder until Minho couldn’t see the curve of his cock anymore for it was pushed into the skin of his stomach, “what if I brought out Hyunjinnie’s pretty little stilettos, huh? I could leave little blushing red marks all over your dick so that everyone would know it’s mine. Sure, the others belong to us. But maybe you wanna be owned too… wanna be marked as mine. Is that what you want? You wanna be all daddy’s?”

Minho’s eyes flutter shut at the first mention of the stilettos, his lingering resolve slipping away like quicksilver until he can’t really remember why he’s fighting Chan rather than losing himself in the heavenly pleasure he was presenting to him on a plate. Chan is so good to him, so good…

“Fuck, you look like such a pretty slut, Minnie. I wish you could see how pathetic you look. You’re so useless under me, it’s incredible.”

Chan is moaning, a little too much to make Minho think he’s just enjoying the way the filth is rolling off of his tongue like a load of Minho’s own cum. Minho’s eyes snap open, the room all black and blue and green for a second until he remembers to breathe. Chan has his hand back on his cock, jerking himself off at a fast but steady pace over Minho’s useless body still pinned to the ground by his foot, stuck there unless he wants excruciating pain to ricochet through his nerves as if they were live wire. With every thrust into his fist, Chan’s foot thrusts deeper into Minho’s cock, the head nearly purple with blood and pressure and the nearly unbearable need to explode and paint his own chest white.

A quiet, unimportant thought that all his chances of getting Chan under him are falling away flares in the back of his head, but all he can manage to do is throw an arm over his eyes and try his best not to sound like a whining, crying, spoiled child.

Chan’s breathing is becoming laboured, the pressured thrusts against Minho’s cock turning into sensual waves rather than pointed, purposeful stabs. It tears a panicked whine from Minho’s lips, unable to stop it because if Chan comes now, it’ll be even harder to make him cum again. If Chan comes now, he’ll have post-orgasm clarity that Minho won’t be able to dream of outwitting.

“You’d better not waste any of this, baby boy,” Chan pants, eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head.

“Don’t call me that!” Minho whines pathetically.

Just when he thinks that all is lost and he’ll soon have to face the sickly sweet taunts of his only hyung telling him how pathetically easy he is to undo, the pressure on his crotch lessens. Not by much, but just the slightest amount as Chan cries out in growing pleasure and his body contracts in a spasm, so that Minho has a blissful taste of lucidity. It’s like someone has dragged him up to the surface of the warm, intoxicating water for a split second. Chan is in a state of weakness, even if it won’t be for long. He can do this. He’ll be the perfect baby boy until it ruins Chan, until it destroys him.

“Chan…” he starts softly, muffling his words against his arm, “Chan, please. Please, it’s too much. It’s hurting me.”

The growling chuckle suddenly emanating from Chan sends embers flickering around Minho’s insides, vibrating and wavering like pure heat. He’s taking the bait. Who’s the good boy now?

“Chan, stop. Stop– please, I can’t– I can’t do it.”

Minho knows how to play this game. He lets his voice hitch like he’s about to burst into sobs, lets his voice reach pitches he’d never otherwise allow past his lips until he can hear Chan choking out groans from seventh heaven.

“D– d–“ he’s making it sound like he can’t bear to say it, like it’s humiliating him to the point of no return. If only Chan knew how stupidly pathetic he’ll look, dumb and unaware of his lover’s cunning mind, “daddy!” He cries out, bucking his hips up so that Chan can feel him.

That does it.

The first rope of cum splashes against Minho’s cheek, mere millimetres from his eye, and then Minho is forcing his arm from where it had slipped up to his sweat-sheened forehead, letting the room come into full focus. He has to act fast now, not let a single moment go to waste. While Chan’s world goes white, barely able to hold himself up against the thrums of pleasure licking up and down his body, his head thrown back from the force of his orgasm, Minho hooks an arm around Chan’s leg that’s barely on his crotch anymore. He pulls Chan down onto him, Chan sobbing out a no! as his orgasm is interrupted, ruined. A pathetic amount of cum dribbles across Minho’s chest and the floor as Minho wrangles himself on top of Chan.

They’re fuelled by well-kindled flames that have them moving without thought, pleasure and anger and frustration and competitive desire spurring them on like mindless fools on a high. Chan is furious, but unable to resist the red, swollen lips above him, pulling Minho hard against his chest and nearly devouring him rather than kissing him. Chan’s cock is rock-hard, so hard it hurts as Minho grinds his own member down against him, made even more sensitive from the memory of Chan’s foot pressing into it. The pain is oh so worth it as weakened protests spill from Chan’s lips, a mess of blabbered, incomprehensible words into Minho’s mouth, his cock fighting, pulsing, to try and finish his orgasm. It’s too late, the built up sensations rushing away, leaving him swollen and throbbing.

Tongues sparring, vicious and sharp, fighting for dominance, Minho can’t help the sobbing moans that thrust themselves from deep inside his chest, worsened by Chan willingly swallowing them down as if they were the sounds of life itself. Chan pushes Minho away from him for a second, feeling a drip on his cheek. It was the one spurt of his cum that had actually landed where he had wanted it to, dripping down from Minho’s face to his own. The look in Chan’s eyes nearly makes Minho whimper.

Chan wipes the drip from his own cheek with two fingers, then wipes the streak from Minho’s cheek before holding his fingers to Minho’s lips.

“Not only did you not listen to me, but now it’s all gone cold. No matter…”

Minho groans as Chan rubs his fingers against his lips, making them slick.

“Open. Ungrateful sluts like you should take what they’re given.”

Minho hasn’t forgotten his plan. He’s biding his time. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike and secure his prey in his patient claws. He opens his mouth and moans to make Chan think he’s having his way. It’s not too hard to moan at the taste of him on his tongue though, the cum sliding down his throat like it should’ve in the first place if he wasn’t trying so hard to piss Chan off. He lets his tongue slide up and down the length of Chan’s fingers, slipping between them and around as he bobs his head innocently, a pacified beast.

He barely gives Chan a second from having his fingers sucked clean before he’s biting down, hard, making Chan steal his fingers away with a cry as he secures him firmly between his thighs, sitting up to gaze down at his prize.

“Ah,” he breathes languorously, “finally. I’ll give it to you, Chan, you put up an honourable fight this time ‘round. Never good enough to win though…”

Minho leans down over Chan, a hand beside his head to steady himself as he drags a careless thumb over his hyung’s bruising lips.

“Oopsies, I think we got a little carried away…”

Minho sits down over Chan’s cock that is still giving little, painful pulses in complaint, taking his time to make a show of removing the rest of his torn shirt, rocking his hips back and forth. Chan can barely breathe, let alone think clearly enough to stop Minho in his tracks, find his sneaky route to victory and cut him off. He doesn’t know if he wants to keep trying, given the view he has above him; Minho’s gleaming tanned skin, his eyes staring darkly yet lovingly down into his own, his lips parted in breathy sighs. Don’t get him started on the rolling waves of Minho’s hips over his own, the never-ending flow of pleasure starting where he wants it most and ending beyond him, beyond the room, beyond consciousness.

“Now, here’s what we’re gonna do, sweet pea,” Minho says without stilling his hips, placing a hand on Chan’s chest for balance. He chuckles at the way Chan’s nose scrunches up in half-embarrassment, half-enrapture at the name, “I’m gonna take off these pants and you’re not going to move. Mmkay?”

Minho leans forward so far as to feel the short breaths escaping Chan’s lips, drinking in his scent and resisting enveloping himself in him once more. He has a job to do. With an indulgent hand running down the side of Chan’s cheek, Minho continues.

“I’m gonna need some words here, Channie…”

All he gets in return is a mouthful of spit that lands at the corner of his mouth. Anger blazes through his body until he feels like he could fuck the rest of his plan and ruin Chan right then and there for being a stupid little brat.

“Disgusting,” Minho opts for instead, swiping the spit from his face.

He stands, turning away to remove his pants, determined to limit the pleasure Chan gets in seeing his body be slowly unveiled before him. He takes the chance to breathe, remembering from experience that letting the burning flames of frustration consume him is only going to make matters worse. Chan is deliberately trying to test him, to make him snap. He has to remember that. The more he gives into his anger, the brattier, more disobedient, more uncontrollable Chan will become, until he finds a way to worm himself into Minho’s head and weaken him from the inside out. Minho is too good at what he does to let himself lose like that.

“Ah, but you still have so much to learn, don’t you?” Chan’s voice drawls.

Minho snaps around until his eyes lock on an empty spot on the floor, tracking until he sees Chan laid out casually on the bed, resting against the headboard. His hard cock stood proud, teasing, between his legs, leaking as if to tell Minho he could get off just as easily without him than with him. His smirk has returned, but so has Minho’s cunning. Admittedly, he was stupid to think Chan would just stay there on the floor unsupervised, but no matter, he can still win this.

“Talking to yourself, are we?” Minho starts.

Chan has less than a moment to be confused before Minho is swinging a silver pair of handcuffs around his finger, the metal glinting in what little light fills the room. When he had time to get those out, Chan has no idea.

“I was really hoping I wasn’t going to have to use these tonight, Chan, but I suppose I was naive in hoping you weren’t going to fuck it all up for me. Of course you were going to play up, disobey, be a little bitch about listening to me. You think disobeying makes you a big boy, don’t you? You think it’ll give you some power back. Pathetic. No, not pathetic. Downright stupid. Who the fuck do you think I am, huh? Some dumb bitch who hasn’t dealt with you before?”

All while Minho tries to break down Chan’s armour, wheedle his way in the tiny holes in his chainmail and suffocate his power with his own, he swaggers sensually towards the side of the bed closest to Chan’s outstretched body. Their eyes are locked together, bull’s horns at war.

“Turn around, hands up.”

Chan gives him nothing.

“Submit, Chan.”

Absolutely nothing.

“If you don’t, I’m simply going to have to believe you’re being a bratty bottom. You wouldn’t want that now, would you?”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Oh, but I’m afraid it is.”

There’s nothing Chan can do, no matter how much he can mentally resist. Minho has swung a leg over Chan’s knee, rendering the joint useless in leveraging himself up and away from Minho. If he were to really try, it would be an embarrassingly long struggle that had a higher chance of him ending face down in the mattress anyway than actually gaining him back some ground. It wasn’t worth it. He’d have more of a chance of saving some dignity this way.

Spinning reluctantly around so that he’s kneeling and facing the headboard, right thigh trapped between Minho’s, Chan raises his wrists up to the metal hoop screwed to the wall and sits silently, waiting for Minho’s words. The man in question leans in to whisper against Chan’s ear, making him jump as the quiet voice bursts out from the silence. He speaks the very same words he hears each and every time his hands near the metal hoop.

“Do you trust me, Hyung?”

Minho’s weakness may be degradation, but Chan’s is power-destroying restraint. They’d discovered this together after Chan had complained that nothing in bed was making him feel vulnerable, like he had to give up all control at the mercy of his partner and let himself be turned around and drilled down into the mattress. He wanted to let go, to be forced to release the responsibility that he insisted on believing was his burden and his alone for the longest time. 

Minho had taken him to his room one night, sat him down on the bed, and placed a smooth, blood-red rope in his hands, letting him feel its weight, its beauty, its potential.

“Do you trust me, hyung?”

“Of course.”

Minho had coaxed him backward towards the headboard, kissed him gently, and then asked for each arm, tying several intricate knots up each forearm before securing him to the edge of the bed. He felt like a work of art. Minho had told him he looked like a work of art.

“Try get me,” Minho had said, nearly at a whisper.

Chan had pulled at the ropes, felt the gentle burn against his skin as he did so, and looked up with wide eyes at Minho who knelt entranced before him.

“I– I can’t,” he admitted, feeling something new and unfamiliar pounding inside his chest, tearing at his arms, making him want to cover his eyes and cry. He’d come to know that feeling now as complete powerlessness, and it granted him the only fuck that he could recount in his mind’s eye minute by minute to this day.

And so here he is, arms held up to the metal hoop, the clinking of the handcuffs in Minho’s hands reverberating in his ears. Minho leans in close, Chan can sense it. Minho reaches up and takes one of his wrists, clicking it into the metal before doing the same for the other, slowly, sensually, heart pounding with every one of Chan’s deepened breaths. The metal is rounded so that it doesn’t dig into his skin, but it’s cold and unwelcoming enough that Chan doesn’t want to yank on them too hard in his pitiful show of trying to escape.

“All good, sweetheart?” Minho says, Chan knowing with a drop in his stomach that this will be his only display of kindness for a while.

“Mmhm,” Chan hums stiffly, not wanting to have ended up in such a position of vulnerability this early in the game.

“Words,” Minho sing-songs.

“Yes. I’m fine,” Chan says against the headboard, emotionlessly as he can while his cock pulses at the thought of how useless he is in that moment.

“Great!” Minho’s tone makes the centre of his stomach feel like a lead weight, “now I’m gonna fuck you.”

The air is sucked from Chan’s lungs, his head dropping to his chest.

“No lube,” Minho says. Chan groans in protest but he’s quickly cut off, “ah, ah, let me finish. No lube, only what you’ve managed to make yourself. Let’s see…”

Chan can’t see him, only the white sheets gathered up underneath his knees, too far away to rest his head on, too close for him to give up trying. Minho is silent, giving nothing away, not his movements, nor his intentions. Nothing. He can feel him, however. There’s a warm hand smoothing over the small of his back that slides down to grab at the flesh of his cheeks, taking its time to make Chan near dizzy with anticipation. A thumb teases down his crack, hovering over his hole before moving away again. He can’t. He can’t.

“Baby, please…” Chan breathes, dignity slipping away from him.

“Shush,” Minho snaps before can even finish his words, his voice like a blade. Chan cries out.

It takes minutes, minutes that feel like goddamn hours, but eventually, Chan feels the first proper touch where he wants it. Minho is pressing around his rim, teasing him, letting it barely breach his entrance before retreating once again.

By the time he’s done that, Chan is practically undone, back arching and contracting in a battle between wanting to drown in Minho’s touch and wanting to escape the torture of it not being enough. He can’t beg. He won’t beg.

“This’ll do, I suppose.”

“No… no!” Chan whines, the fairy light touch disappearing quicker than it came. The panic in his mind is like poison, filling his veins and making him forget where he is. He could be floating in a big, black void for all he cared. Minho is there, that’s what matters.

“No? I guess it wasn’t enough to make this entirely pleasant for you… but I have a sneaking suspicion you won’t seem to mind that, will you?” Minho drawls.

Chan growls to himself, a displeased monster inside his chest, pleading with himself to not give in, to give Minho nothing.

“Answer me, Chan.”

The slap that comes down hard over his left cheek ridicules Chan’s resolve, mocks his silence, forcing a whining cry out of him that has Minho’s cock jolting in response.

“No,” Chan says with conviction, gritting his teeth and hoping confidence will save him, “no, I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Wouldn’t mind that… what?”

Chan nearly scoffs.

“You don’t like being called daddy, you fucker.”

The language ticks Minho off, but even he knows it’s futile to curb Chan’s filthy mouth right now.

“No, you’re right. But I do love seeing you blush right down to your toes. Get all embarrassed. Feel small. That feels fucking great, actually. So if you wouldn’t mind…”

Chan tries to thrust backwards, to hit Minho in some way shape or form with the limited movement he has, but all he gets in return is a slap to the exact same spot, except this time done with much more force. It burns like white fire.

“Fine!” Chan yells through a cry, “I wouldn’t mind if you fucked me using what little I’ve managed to make with my own cock, daddy. Happy?”

“Oh, very, sweetheart. You’re such a good boy,” Minho laughs.

It’s sarcastic, meant only to humiliate, never to praise. His weakness may be degradation, but to Chan it’s just an extra jab at his pride. What really gets to Chan is the way that Minho strokes the same thumb he’d just used on Chan’s hole over his jawline, mocking him. He knows Chan wants to yank himself away, to grab Minho by the arm and slam him down beneath him, but he also knows that he can’t. Chan thrashes uselessly at the handcuffs in a burst of anger, growling lowly as Minho begins to laugh.

“Ahhh, baby,” he chuckles, “you’re so cute!”

“Don’t fucking call me– unngh.”

Distracted by simmering anger and boiling lust, Chan misses Minho reaching beneath him to curl a hand around his cock, giving it two languid strokes before sliding down to the tip and squeezing at the head, gathering the makeshift lube from his member onto his fingers.

It’s only when he vaguely registers Minho slicking up his hole with his own mess through the hazy veil of desperation that Chan realises what’s to come. What he doesn’t realise is just how quickly.

He barely has the time to focus in on Minho’s touch, much too light, too fleeting to feel much more than an aching desire pulsing deeper and harder within his groin, screaming for more, before Minho says the words.

“I. Always. Win.”

Chan can’t tell whether his scream or Minho’s groaning cry comes first, it all blends into one burst of sound as Minho presses into Chan, friction dragging across their cocks as he pushes to the hilt with a severe lack of lube. Chan is conflicted, pain coursing through his body as well as shivering, all-consuming pleasure, entirely aware of every movement of his lover, his hands roaming from the round of his ass to the curve of his waist, the flat of his spine and back up again. Minho doesn’t wait, he’s thrusting at whatever pace he desires and dragging Chan along for the ride, blind from pleasure and drunk on the stifled moans flowing from beneath him like a siren song calling him down, and down, and down…

“Minho,” Chan manages to choke out, the force of Minho’s thrusts banging his head into the headboard so that he’s forced to remain there, face squished against the hard wood as he tries not to cry.

Between the relentless pistoning of his hips and his own moaning cries, Minho speaks, breathless and well above his usual dominating pitch, “colour, Chan?”

All that comes out from Chan’s mouth is babbling cries that attempt and fail to latch onto words, tongue twisting the wrong way, throat contracting at the wrong time.

“Don’t you fucking make me repeat myself,” Minho growls this time, punctuating the end of his sentence with a vicious thrust that opens the floodgates and tears burst from Chan’s eyes, dripping down his cheeks and falling from the tip of his nose and chin.

“Green, green!” He cries, wishing Minho would never stop and hoping it would all be over soon at the same time. He feels like he’s being torn in half and stitched lovingly back together with every push of Minho hips, his cock lolling around uselessly, hitting his stomach as it bounces.

“Perfect…” Minho breathes, stamina beyond any of the other members that drives Chan crazy.

But then he slows right down. Slows until he can move his hips like the tantalising push and pull of rolling waves that feels like it hits every square inch of Chan’s insides. Chan’s noises slow too, until all that’s left in the room is his drawn-out groans and Minho’s fond eyes and mischievous smirk.

“You’ve already cum once, haven’t you?” Minho teases, knowing very well that he had and that the exhausting hint of a second would be creeping up on him any minute now.

Chan can do nothing else but nod slowly, like his whole body is encased in thick, warm honey, suspending him in ecstasy.

“How do we feel about a second, huh?”

“You– you first,” Chan manages, slurred and wet.

“How kind of you, but no, I’d much rather see you fall apart twice. The first was a little… disappointing, wasn’t it?”

Chan chokes back a cry, his head dropping between his suspended shoulder blades, feeling the cold metal really start to pull on his skin as he desperately tries to sink into the pillowy comfort of the bed beneath him.

“A conversation tends to include two people, darling. I’m starting to feel a little neglected,” Minho chastises.

Chan’s head raises as much as he can in his misty dream state and takes in a sobering breath.

“Do your worst.”

Chan barely has the time to brace himself for impact before his entire body is shoved several inches further toward the headboard, crushing an involuntary, guttural groan from the depths of his chest. It’s not that Minho is moving particularly fast, but he’s hitting so deep that he’s giving an all-new meaning to rearranging someone’s insides and dragging out each thrust just enough for it to feel like one infinite, unconquerable tide of pain and pleasure.

He could’ve held out longer, make Minho tire of his own game and fall victim to his own primal instincts, but when Minho takes hold of his throbbing, neglected cock in a firm, gliding grip that twists and pulls and squeezes beyond Chan’s wildest fantasies, all hope of victory crumbles at his feet.

“Cum,” Minho says calmly, masking his heavy breath.

“No,” Chan replies, unable to conceal his own.

“You’re a fucking brat. I said… fucking… cum.”

Working like a goddamn machine specifically crafted to fuck Chan to the best of its ability without a single falter, Chan doesn’t stand a chance against his lover. At Minho’s final word, his hips and hand dancing in perfect harmony, a deep, mind-altering orgasm hits him like a truck, sending shots of energy ricocheting about his body until his vision turns black for a moment and he can’t remember how to breathe. He’s gasping, choking on air and the drool pooling in his mouth as his cum spurts onto the sheets, thick and warm. He likes the look of it, the product of his pleasure, the proof of his lover’s skill.

It’s a feat that should be recorded in the history books, really. Every moment of Chan’s sex life leading up to this very moment deserved a fucking ‘thanks to the academy’ speech. Through the dizzying drop into the numb limbo of nothingness where you could float for days and forget the need to see the sun, through the stabbing pain of overstimulation that has Chan thinking he could tear himself free from the wall and run if he tried hard enough, he manages to cling to a moment of clarity. He knows what to do.

Minho can’t hold back his silence any longer. He’s in his own world now, chasing his own pleasure whether the thing beneath him likes it or not, until a voice breaks through the threshold, muffled and echoing around his head.

“Don’t cum. Don’t you dare cum.”

Minho only hums dismissively, ignoring the mosquito’s buzz without a single faltering of his hips.

“Minho… baby,” Chan starts gently, a bitter warning tainting his words. He knows how to break Minho down, how to flick the switch in his brain and turn everything off until he’s a compliant, obedient little fuck-toy for him to play with and praise with its own pretty noises to go along with it, “you’re gonna let me out of these handcuffs now and pull out. You’re gonna lie down like a good boy and let daddy take care of you now.”

The animalistic groans leaving Minho’s mouth turn sweet, like the songs of sirens disguised as angels that Chan would happily let drag him down to the ocean floor in their tight clutches.

“That’s right, honey. You’ve done so well for daddy, made him feel good. But now it’s your turn, don’t you think?” Chan can’t see Minho’s face, but he can feel his body sinking further down onto his, melting into his skin like Chan’s life force was enough for the both of them, “it’s your turn to act like a pathetic slut. You can let go with daddy, daddy’s not gonna let anyone else have you. You’re safe here with me, honey.”

Minho has forgotten that he was supposed to be moving his hips, perhaps even forgotten that he was inside Chan at all, because all he could think about was the call of submission. It was the only time he could reduce himself and all of his responsibilities to nothing. He could become a thing made solely to pleasure his hyung, his ultimate happiness the only thing in the world. What a nice thing to be…

“You wanna show daddy how much you like his cock?” Chan continues, tilting his head back to coax Minho into resting against him, dragging him down to where he belongs, "how much you want it inside you, how much you moan like a pretty little thing when he fucks you? You want that, yeah?”

Despite everything, despite the near victory Minho could’ve claimed and walked away with, head held high, he willingly pushes away all his winning chips to Chan’s half of the table. A small price to pay for the reward of the whole world.

“Yeah…” he whispers, an entirely different him.

Minho is lying flush against Chan’s back now, nuzzling his nose into the rippled, warm skin wherever he could reach, peppering kisses in his wake. His hands have wound their way around Chan’s waist, hands interlocked as if Chan could suddenly slip away at any moment and he needed to make sure he’d be slipping away with him.

“Alright. I’m gonna need you to pull out of me, my sweet. You’re not made for fucking daddy. Daddy does the fucking, you’re the pleasure slut remember?”

To his surprise, Minho is already far gone enough to be nodding and humming in eager agreement.

“You can’t do much more than that, can you? You can’t fuck me like I fuck you, isn’t that right?”

Chan does all he can to stifle a groan as Minho quite literally slides out of him and down onto the bed, his muscles turned to jelly. His hands reach out blindly above him, searching desperately for some part of Chan to hold against him.

“What have you forgotten? Dumb toys like you really are forgetful. Tell me why daddy can’t fuck you like this.”

Eyes wide, Minho tilts his head back and looks up to where Chan’s hands are still handcuffed to the metal hoop on the wall with an exhausted groan.

“Words, love. Or have you forgotten how to use those too?”

“Your hands… they’re in handcuffs.”

“Correct. Well done, baby. Now, can you get daddy out of them?”

“Tired…” Minho mumbles, staring at Chan’s hands as if they were exploding with all different colours and lights that he couldn’t quite focus on.

“Don’t be pathetic. If you want to play, you get up. Don’t make me ask again.”

Reluctantly, whining all the way, Minho sits up, never letting himself entirely part from Chan’s body, a hand attached to some part of him at all times. He gropes for the key on the bedside and with shaking fingers that take him a painstaking moment to control, the metal around Chan’s wrists pops free, a groan of relief leaving them both.

Chan rolls his wrists out, admiring the red rings around their circumference before pushing the sweaty, clumped hair from his eyes and rubbing at the drying tears beneath his eyes. He turns to the kneeling, wide-eyed beauty beside him and knows instantly that he’s right in the palm of his hand. Sure, Chan may’ve lost his grip on the game early on, but everyone loves an underdog. Minho sure will.

Chan is in his element now, feeling the addictive venom of power returning to his veins. Funnily enough, he can’t find the will to conceal the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. This’ll be fun.

“Lie down for me, baby,” he says, reveling in the innocent naivety taking over Minho’s gaze.  

“Why–“

“Lie. Down.”

As Minho’s body begins to give in, Chan’s body follows him, lowering them both down into the mattress, the softness of the tangled sheets, the memories of an unbreakable bond and sweet release.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, sweetheart. You’ve done so well.”

Minho whimpers beneath him, reaching his hands up to touch his cheeks which makes his heart pound and swell with love. Chan presses gentle kisses to each of his cheeks, a reassuring hand on the small of his waist, thumbing at the base of his ribs.

“Daddy’s gonna take care of you. Don’t you worry. Are you prepped?”

Ashamed, the poor thing blushes vivid red, his head falling to the side to avoid Chan’s gaze. Chan has none of that, forcing Minho’s gaze back to his own with a rough thumb and forefinger.

“Well, that was silly, now, wasn’t it? Remind me who started this game?”

Minho can’t speak, his tongue’s gone all thick and he isn’t quite sure if he wants to know what happens when he admits what he’s failed to do. Chan hits the outside of Minho’s thigh with a sharp crack, forcing himself not to smile fondly when he squeaks in response.

“Oh, you submit so easily, my love. It’s fucking beautiful. Doesn’t get you out of answering me though. You know the words.”

“I–“ Minho stutters, swallowing down his pride, “I started it.”

Chan only has to clear his throat for Minho’s eyes to blow wide in panicked realisation.

“Daddy! I started it, daddy.”

“Good boy,” now Chan is smiling, running his thumb over Minho’s bottom lip that he’s nervously bitten raw, “so… let me get this straight. You started all of this, and weren’t prepared for the inevitable? I could be fucking you senseless already if you hadn’t been so forgetful, sweet thing.”

Minho’s words are formed around humiliated tears. Chan was right. How could he have forgotten such a simple thing?

“Yes, daddy. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, I–“

“Well it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Chan says curtly, batting away Minho’s hands that are reaching out for Chan’s cheeks once more, seeking to smooth the angered lines away, “we’ve got to deal with the present.”

Seizing one of Minho’s wrists in an iron grip, Chan brings his hand to his own mouth.

“Two fingers. Suck.”

Not wanting to screw anything else up, Minho shoves two of his own fingers into his mouth, staring up into Chan’s eyes as he bobs his head, hoping he understands that he wants his fingers to be the thick swell of his cock instead. His.

“Good. Open,” Chan says clinically.

He gains control over Minho’s fingers and dips them into the pool of saliva gathering under his tongue, scooping the wetness up.

“Prep yourself.”

And with that, Chan is sitting himself up and moving out from Minho’s line of gaze faster than he could hope to protest. A sobbing whine leaves Minho’s throat as he raises himself up onto an elbow, sodden fingers hovering awkwardly in the air.

“Lie back down.”

“But–“

“Down, Minho. You should’ve already done this yourself. Hurry up, I’m getting impatient.”

Like his last breath of fresh air before diving back down into the depths of shame, Minho runs his eyes quickly, hungrily, over Chan’s body. He’s sitting at the end of the bed, one knee up for his arm to lean on, eyes dark as he stares at Minho through his eyelashes. His cock has started to re-harden, filling at the sinful sight beneath him and the promise of power and the sounds of blissed-out ecstasy spilling from Minho’s lips. Chan’s gazing down at Minho like he’s some sort of fallen angel – gorgeous, but tragic. Pitiful. Minho falls back into the softness of the bed, staring up at the ceiling and throwing caution to the wind. If he was gonna have to do this, he might as well doing it fucking brilliantly.

He runs a hand down his body, feeling the dips and rises of his muscles, smirking to himself.

“Don’t,” Chan scolds. Minho can feel his gaze burning into his skin and it only makes his cock jump harder against his stomach.

“Don’t what, daddy?” He says, raising his voice in pitch, playing the dumb slut.

“Don’t be fucking stupid, that’s what. What’re you doing putting on a fucking show like that?”
Minho’s hand hasn’t stopped travelling, coming up to play in his hair, to trace over his throat, slipping over his body like silk, before descending back down to his crotch. He takes a light grip on his cock, ghosting over it just enough to register that there’s something there. It’s intoxicating, the craving for hard touch being teased by near nothing, a tickle against his skin.

“Minho, I’m warning you.”

“I’m sorry, daddy, I have to,” Minho replies, innocent obstinacy like sticky tar in his voice, “it helps me get ready for you quicker. It makes me feel good. Don’t you like watching me?”

There’s a split second too long in Chan’s response. Even in this state, Minho can have him wrapped around his little finger. No wonder the group knows him as the dangerous one. He can have you with one hand around his throat and a cock thrusting deep into his very soul, and make you fall victim to his every fucking word at the same time if he wanted to. He was a risk wrapped in vanilla scented, fluffy blankets.

“I do, honey.”

And that was it. No consequence. Because what had Minho really done wrong?

Minho is finally reaching down to his entrance with the hand he’s kept by his side, the hand soaked in his spit. If he was alone, if he was in any other circumstances, he’d start with just one. But this was now, and this was Chan. Placing one foot flat on the bed, pushing his other knee out to the side, Minho presses two fingers into himself, tilting his head back and arching his back to conceal the wince flashing across his face in the guise of pleasure. He lets out a moan louder than it needed to be. If this whole thing was gonna end with him on the bottom, he sure as hell wasn’t gonna let himself play like one.

“More.”

Minho laughs, playing it off as a pleased giggle. Chan’s voice is demanding, but breathy, clinging to his consonants to hide the shakiness. Minho is getting to him. Of course he is.

“Alright then…” Minho says playfully.

He raises his hips up further, allowing for more depth as he slides in a third finger alongside the others. He’s feeling the stretch now, progressing a little quicker than he would’ve liked, but right now all he can think of is the sensation of Chan’s fingers bruising little circles of blues and purples into his skin as he thrusts into him, leaving him breathless without a single cohesive thought up there in his head.

He’s doing this perfectly, letting little whines escape his lips and rolling his hips just the right way, and he knows it. He knows it so confidently that when Chan explodes with a wolfish growl and lunges over his body, snatching his fingers from inside himself to lock his wrists firmly above his head, he knows Chan doesn’t really mean what he says next.

“Can’t even finger yourself properly, you little slut. You’re supposed to be a fuck toy and you can’t even make yourself ready for your daddy. What else are you good for?”

This is everything Minho wants. He’s gotten Chan where he wants him and he doesn’t even know it. Now he can just let Chan’s filthy words talk him into blabbering dumbness, let go of everything and just feel. He’s gotten Chan mad enough to go for much longer than he needs him to. Now he just needs to play the part of the sweet, stupid slut that Chan needs to complete him.

Without warning, not having the will to hold back any longer nor the care to give him time to brace himself, Chan guides himself into Minho and thrusts forward, the first of the many merciless, relentless snaps of his hips to come.

Minho cries out, wishing he could tear his nails down Chan’s back but finding himself entirely trapped under his grip, the power of one hand enough to hold back all of his willpower. Chan is rough yet thorough, tip to base, base to tip, over and over like a machine on its highest setting, making sure Minho feels every inch he’s got to give and that his own cock can worship everything that Minho has to give. Minho feels the stretch every, single, time. And he adores it.

“Channie… pillow…” he mumbles, already feeling drool beginning to escape the corners of his mouth that hangs open in an ‘o’, the floodgates of sinful moans and cries entirely wide open for Chan.

“What was that, sweetheart?” Chan says, not slowing a single bit, but coaxing Minho’s eyes to meet his own with a nudge of his nose, nearly laughing deliriously at the beauty of Minho staring back up at him with glistening doe eyes.

“Mmwant pillow,” Minho babbles.

He’s entirely gone and wants to be, the fuzzy, drunk feeling taking over his brain feeling like an orgasm in itself.

“Manners.”

“Daddy, pillow, please. Need you deeper, want you, daddy, want more.”

Minho groans, half in relief, half in desperation as Chan’s hips slow to a gentle roll. He reaches above Minho’s head to grab a pillow, lifting Minho’s hips with ease and not breaking his gaze as he slides it underneath him. Chan knows what he wants. What he craves.

He begins thrusting forcefully again, lowering himself down onto his forearms so he can kiss over Minho’s skin, over his neck, his collarbones, his chest, his nipples. He sucks and licks and pulls and some places are already blossoming with his mark. Chan whines into Minho’s chest.

“You’re mine, Minho, baby. All mine, yeah?”

“All yours,” Minho sighs, eyes threatening to roll back.

It was too much really. How could one person be the answer to everything? Chan holds one of the seven keys to his heart, another to his ultimate pleasure, one to the part of him that wanted to be small, another to the part that needed to be told that he was loved, and a final one to the cage that held a relentless beast satiated only by total control.

Chan gives a particularly powerful thrust, tearing Minho from his thoughts as he curves his hips into him, from low to high. Minho’s head throws back into the mattress, tears spilling down his cheeks as he cries out in euphoria.

“There we are, baby. Found your sweet spot, huh?”

“Mmmph…”

“You’re such a precious slut, look at you all whiny under me. Where was the big bad dom fucking me senseless a minute ago?”

“Wanna be dirty for you, daddy. Know you like it,” Minho moans, his words accentuated with Chan’s every thrust that he could feel reverberating up through to his ribs.

“Thank you, honey. So good for me, so good…”

Even Chan loses the ability to speak coherently, all communication between them reduced to heaving sighs, shuddering breaths, wet kisses across skin, tears thumbed away from cheeks. There’s a spark between them like no other, two stars colliding against all odds. As Chan’s grip on Minho’s waist and neck fastens tighter and tighter, as his resolve begins to fail as quickly as he can feel the blissful end incoming, he can’t help but thank god that it’s Minho who’s the one to destroy him every, single, damn time.

“You know what to do,” Chan whispers into the crook of Minho’s neck as his hand comes down to stroke feverishly over Minho’s cock, pressing his thumb against his frenulum and sliding it into his slit with every stroke and groaning at the moans it pulls from Minho’s chest.

Minho does know what to do. This is the order of things. This is how it goes when he’s the one that ends up stuck on Chan’s cock. He comes first, and then he has precisely ten thrusts of Chan’s hips to make Chan cum in return, otherwise he gets no more.

He lets himself get lost in the dizzying sensation of Chan bringing him closer and closer to the edge, surrendering to the sensation of someone having complete and utter control over his body, over his pleasure and release. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, focusing on the textured pad of Chan’s thumb spreading pre-cum over his cock-head, on the smooth glide of his hand over his shaft that tightens before it slides back down, making it feel like he’s breaching Chan’s entrance with every pathetic thrust of his weakening hips.

He’s nearly there, he’s so nearly there. Now all that’s left to do is play up his whiny, slutty, sighing moans until he can feel Chan’s arms begin to shake and his body drop further towards his own until he might as well be jerking him off against his stomach.

“Mm wanna cum, need you, need more, now, daddy, now,” Minho whimpers, losing himself in his own game.

“Sluts look at their daddies when they cum.”

Chan’s voice comes from above him, deep and stable. In some inhuman burst of strength, he’s managed to pull himself up from Minho’s chest and steady his thrusts into a bold, even rhythm, suddenly as composed as he’d been before this had all started nearly an hour ago now.

Minho can’t take it, being put back in his place, being reminded that he needs Chan to guide him because he can’t do it right all by himself. He doesn’t have it in him to question how Chan has managed to pull himself back from the cliff’s edge because now, he can see Chan staring down into his eyes and it’s anaesthetising. They’re looking at each other with a needy yearning so powerful it’s like steel being welded to steel. Unbreakable, burning hot, powerful…

“Sorry, daddy, I– ah, yes, yes!”

Minho’s hips are canting up uncontrollably, chasing the high as it peaks and has him seeing white, his head thrown back and his cock painting a line of cum from his bellybutton to just below his collarbones. He’s held out for so long, been denied for too long, until now. The pulses feel like they’ll never stop, drawing sobbing cries from his throat as he clings to Chan’s body for dear life, to tether him down to earth.

He can’t forget his half of the deal, because Chan certainly hasn’t. Despite his pulsing muscles that he’s forcing to squeeze harder around Chan’s bulging length as he always does, taking the overstimulation for as long as he can, which usually isn’t long at all thanks to Chan’s own release, Chan reaches thrust six, seven, eight, and still nothing. Chan’s eyes aren’t doing that gorgeous thing that they do, going from slanted and dark to open, vulnerable and glistening. His hips aren’t stuttering to an inevitable standstill. He isn’t lowering himself down to suck Minho’s bottom lip into his mouth and capture him in an arresting kiss as he always likes to do as he thrusts his cum deep into him. Minho is– Minho is losing.

“No, no, why aren’t you coming? Dadd– Chan, why– what are you doing?”

“Nine,” Chan growls, stopping his pace immediately, commanding his desire with terrifying control as Minho breaks beneath him with a single, powerful thrust, “ten,” Chan thrusts once more, making sure to pinpoint Minho’s prostate and revel in his overstimulated cries, chuckling at his pained whines.

Minho’s hands come up to cover his face, feeling stuck. Chan hasn’t cum and he’s somehow picking up his pace once more, quickening impossibly until he’s ruining Minho at an animalistic speed, insatiable, unstoppable. Minho hasn’t come down from his first high and his cock is already jumping at the prospect of a second despite the shooting pain spreading through his body like wildfire.

“You weren’t good enough for daddy this time, little one. It’s okay, he knows you can’t do it sometimes. Daddy understands, daddy knows…”

Minho is heaving in shaky breaths behind his hands, praying Chan would just fucking cum already before he shatters him like sugar glass and crying harder in shame when Chan’s fingers come to stroke across his forehead, pitying him. He’s failed.

“Please… please just cum… Hurts… please…” Minho whispers. It’s all he can manage.

“Oh, finally!” Chan says in mock relief, “all you had to do was ask, my love!”

It takes two thrusts – two – before Minho is feeling ropes of hot cum filling him up from the inside, barely hearing Chan’s grunts as he works himself through his orgasm, not caring that Minho is freely crying beneath him. He’s distraught.

Chan is mocking him. If Minho had been watching them as an outsider, he would’ve looked at Chan as if he had a golden halo around his head – a master, a god of disguise. He’d been holding himself back this entire time, feigning disinterest, feigning control, right until Minho had caved first. This was his plan all along and stupid, silly little thing Minho had been blind to it, driven by his own lust.

When Chan goes to pull out, signs of fatigue finally showing through after three orgasms had shaken him to his core, Minho all but screams as he pulls Chan back onto him with frantic arms and legs.

“No! Daddy, you can’t, you can’t go, look at me. Look at me, daddy, I’m so hard for you again, I need you one more time,” Minho is past coherency, forgoing the little sliver of dignity he had left in his desperation.

Chan looks down between them and yes, amongst the mess Minho has made on himself, there’s his cock, red and hard once more and even Chan admits to himself that it looks painful.

“You– you’ve had three, daddy. Baby’s given you three times, could he just have one more, just one? I’ll be so good, it won’t take long I promise, you can do whatever you like to me. How’s that? Anything, anything. Do it for me, please,” Minho shamelessly begs, his hands running over Chan’s body like it might disappear at any moment, leaving him empty and cold.

“What, you’re not grateful for the one I gave you already? Where was my thanks for that one?”

“No, that’s not what I meant! I’m so grateful, thank–“

“Too late, honey, you can’t do it after I’ve reminded you. It defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah it does. I’m so sorry,” Minho is staring into Chan’s eyes like he could somehow stare into his soul and all the sweetness in his heart would convince him to give in just this once, “maybe you could punish me for being bad. I’ve let you down, I know, so you could–“

“Deciding your own punishments now? Hah!” Chan barks out a laugh, “that’s a new one. You’re so funny, sweet one. No, we’re all done now. I’m tired.”

It’s as if Chan can’t hear Minho’s babbling cries, his begs, his apologies, his desperation as he claws at his body when he does finally pull out of Minho with a stifled groan and turns onto his side. He’s facing away from Minho, lying there as if he might just go to sleep.

Minho attaches himself against Chan’s back as tightly, as closely as he can, peppering sweet kisses over any part of his body that he can reach. He runs his sweet hands over the curve of Chan’s ass and the limp bulge of his spent cock that shows no sign of response.

“Daddy? Channie? Hey, no, please, I loved it. Loved cumming so much, loved what you did to me. Love you so much, I want more of you. I need more of you. That’s how good you are. Can’t get enough of you, of daddy’s cock. Please, just one more, one more quick one!” Minho is panicking, his voice small and whiny, tumbling over his words. Chan’s voice cuts through his like butter.

“You sound like a whining fool, you know that?” Minho falls silent with a pained whimper, his heart clenching in his chest, “you knew the deal, didn’t you? Ten thrusts.”

Minho’s hope topples from the tip of his tongue to the depths of his chest and shatters there into thousands of pieces. It pierces his insides and makes him curl up more against Chan’s ungiving body, fighting the pain inside his heart.

“Yes,” he says quietly, “I knew, daddy.”

He’s not getting anywhere further with this tonight. He knows that too.

“And who said that they always win?”

“…me, daddy.”

“Good boy. I think I can speak for the both of us then when I say that you were incapable of finishing what you started.”

Minho could do nothing more than whimper out a sob that screamed of frustration and yet utter satisfaction all at once. It was deliciously pathetic of him, being so humiliated and having made a fool of himself, and yet feeling butterflies stirring in his stomach at the very thought. No matter how this all ended, he’d be happy. It’s Chan, taking care of him, loving on him, how could he not be?

Chan’s body is so warm. It’s addictive and there’s not a single cell within him willing to give him up. He smells like woody freshness mixed with musty scent of sex, his skin soft but his muscles strong. He likes nuzzling his nose against them, feeling them push back against his ministrations. He’s nearly forgotten that he was trying to convince Chan to continue, to coax another electrifying explosion from his cock, when Chan’s voice comes once more. It’s gentle now, so soft that Minho feels compelled to hook his leg over Chan’s body and inch impossibly closer to him. He’d climb inside his skin if he could.

“Go to sleep, I’m tired. I’ll clean us up later.”

In one last attempt to drag some sort of physical response from Chan, Minho gives a subtle push of his groin into Chan’s back. He knows it’s bratty, but he can’t help himself, especially when it manages to elicit a sleepy giggle from Chan that he can feel vibrating against his own body. It illuminates his soul like divine light.

“Can’t help but have the last word, can you?” Chan says fondly.

Suddenly, the stilled body beside Minho is shifting, twisting, until he finds his face buried in Chan’s warm chest, Chan’s chin slotted over his head and his arms encasing him in his embrace, holding him close, holding him tight. The sheets are left unused, tangled beneath their bodies that are warmed by one another, not a part of them left untouched.

“I love you, Minho, you know that, yeah?”

Minho places a kiss to the soft skin of Chan’s neck, lingering there until he can feel his pulse pressing against his lips, nodding as much as he can with Chan’s arm wrapped around his head.

“I love you too, hyung.”

As their breaths synchronise and deepen, two bodies melting into one, thrumming being, the game that started all of this suddenly doesn’t mean much. They’ve played it so many times, fought valiantly over the scores more times than they could hope to remember, that it’s become less of a game and more of a trigger. It gets them going, reminds them of the challenge they pose each other and how special their bond is, the whole ordeal rather turning into a chance to prove how much love they hold for the other, over and over again.