#diverseinsertsknet

“What, that eager?” he scoffs, and it’s almost shocking how cocky he sounds so naturally, compared to the non-confrontational flounder he had when you first met and the desperate attempts to be at least relatively civil since, but evidently, he has had enough of holding back. The prospect would be a lot more exciting if you had any sort of game plan, or if you were still toying with him like that first night instead of being as genuinely bothered as you are now. 

Though as far as a last-minute game plan goes, pissing Felix off and using his best friend to do it is a pretty damn good one. As good as it’s gonna get, anyway. 

“Yeah, actually,” you admit, doing your damn best to make it sound less like an admittance and more of a sarcastic taunt as you buy time to think of a clever enough response, backing him up without much resistance to the nearest wall, shoving his back against it. The way he seems to have absolutely no complaint with being manhandled around and pliantly letting you do so, has something inside you burning up at the seams. “About as eager as you were in that chair at the Prism, blushing and hard for me. Tell me, Chris, do you like being watched?” 

Testing the waters, you grab his chin and roughly turn it in Felix’s direction, casting a glance over your shoulder to challenge him before turning back to Chan, who still makes no move against you. He doesn’t even lift a hand to push you off or step away. You lean in right next to his ear, his jaw still firmly in your grasp, “Do you like the thought of him watching you? Is that why you’re letting me touch you like this?” 

“No, I just think it’s funny,” he snickers, and you pointedly do not like how smug he sounds when he’s supposed to be easy to fluster. His ears still get tinged with red, but he does a spectacular job acting unbothered and its awfully convincing. “That once again, you’re trying to tease me for being eager when you’re the one who invited me to the show, then up on stage, now this… so, who exactly is the eager one, again?” 

If it wasn’t so infuriating, maybe the giggles that followed would be arguably cute, but you’re more focused on the fact that your metaphorical hold on him is very rapidly slipping. Musicality may be one thing, but you’ll be damned if his meek ass beats you in sheer dominant sex appeal, too. You know he’s at least somewhat into you, surely, as he admitted he liked what he saw from the start and willingly showed up at the Prism, so it can’t just be that. 

Good god, Bang Christopher Chan might have actually just gone and grown a backbone. 

“I don’t know, Chris, I sure haven’t had anyone less than eager be so pliant for me like this, so you tell me.” 

“Why do you want me to act up so badly, huh?” He deliberately swerves your obvious provocation of his English name to keep digging at you. “Did you enjoy getting smacked up by Changbin that much? It’s like you’re just dying to be put in your place.” 

“Oh, you really think you could do that?” 

He shrugs, cocking his head to the side. 

“I could fuck around and find out.” 

There is not a second of hesitation. The conviction in his voice is as clear as it is stupidly, effortlessly hot – he’s clearly ready to put his money where his mouth is, not just that he could but he would. 

You should have given yourself more credit. While it initially seemed like Bang Chan was a difficult man to truly get a rise out of – at least, one that he doesn’t hold back for the sake of being polite – you’re simply just too good at it. Either that, or he isn’t as much of a sweetheart as he appears, which, frankly, would only make things far more entertaining. After all, a provocative asshole repeatedly fighting a backless people pleaser is basically just bullying, but a provocative asshole fighting a provocative asshole? Now that’s a brawl. Meaning you could afford to get a whole lot messier, not limited to the physical kind, and that’s something you haven’t had the chance to do justifiably in a damn long time. 

How exciting. 

“You could. I think the ‘find out’ part will be a lot more fun for me than for you, though. See, why I’m doing this is obvious and simple – I like playing with my food.” You tilt his head this way and that, just to emphasise his place; your plaything. He can’t forget. Not him too. “I’ve always been the type. Getting under your skin, driving you mad, making things hard for you on purpose – in both meanings of the word, that’s my thing – but you? What does letting me have my way with you, gain you, hm?” 

He’s surprisingly quick on the uptake, and you’re starting to realise you may have underestimated him and his wit and will to step up to the challenge in terms of your silly little mind games. He doesn’t take the bait and deny that he is in fact, letting you toy with him – you have half the mind to think he enjoys it, being toyed with. It’s always the leader types who crave to submit – but nothing could have prepared you for the gall of his answer. 

“To see how bad you want me.” 

Felix and Chan have more in common than you initially thought, you notice. Both try so, so hard to avoid conflict, but when you push them far enough, they show a shocking boldness where they don’t pull their punches. Or maybe – and your work might be cut out for you if it is – maybe they are pulling their punches still, and you’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg. It’s positively maddening, and you don’t even know if he knows just how much, only that you need to take him down a notch. 

Pettily, you surge forward like you’re about to kiss him, but right as your lips are about to meet and you feel him crane forward, you pull back, leaving him uselessly floundering in the air for a split second before opening his eyes in confusion. 

“To see how bad I want you, hm? Please, you should see how badly I wanted Felix just before. He sure seems thrilled about it, doesn’t he? What did I just tell you about how I like playing with my food, sweetheart?” 

“I do have a pretty sweet heart, don’t I?” he muses, his honey voice even sweeter, “Not you, though. You’re too good at bringing out the worst in people.” 

When he takes a glance past you back at Felix, though, and sees Felix’s steely gaze staring right back at him while both of your bandmates bicker endlessly around him, your initial suspicion becomes all the more obvious. That last part sounded far too genuine, far less teasing, and you get the feeling he isn’t entirely or even mostly talking about Felix. 

He just can’t keep up the nice guy act around you. 

“You want to make freckles jealous. Isn’t that right?” His face falters instantly, something that doesn’t slip past you when holding him so close, tells you all you need to know. Putting the pieces together, it makes even more sense in hindsight – what made the Prism so different to that first bumbling encounter he had with you? Felix. It always comes back down to the golden boy, apparently, because Chan would do anything to seem like he’s got his shit together in front of him, and you think that sneaking off with him earlier made Chan more jealous than he’d want to acknowledge. “You’re letting me because he’s watching, and you’re still watching him to see if he gets just as jealous as you do whenever me or Eric pull him away from you, right?” 

“God, do you ever shut the fuck u–“ 

You first feel his hand grab the back of your neck, and then it’s his supple lips crashing into yours, capturing them, taking your breath away. You meet his fervour with just as much in turn, grabbing a fistful of his hair that’s almost crusty with hair spray to style it out of his face, yanking it in a way that’s just too hard to be more pleasurable than painful. It’s all just teeth and tongue and him growling just loud enough for you to hear as he pulls you strongly against him. 

The kiss tastes like victory and being right. 

Truthfully, you did not think he had it in him to go for it in such a public area like this, but maybe you really do bring out the worst in him. Would he regret this after? How amusingly humiliating it would be for him if he did, though if he didn’t, things would sure get a lot more interesting. You make sure to do what you do best and put on a show, hooking your leg around him and pushing up his poor excuse for a shirt to touch and grab and dig your nails into any flesh that was offered to you, hoping Felix was still watching and soaking in every single detail. 

In the end, you aren’t much better than Chan for wanting to make Felix jealous, as you are doing almost the exact same thing, albeit for different reasons. For you, it’s about winning. You want to gloat, add insult to the injury, and make him so hard in the process he’s left taking out his frustration on his own fist. If he comes crawling back, sure you’ll take him, but you definitely will not be gentle about it.  

For Chan, he was just a poor fool in love with his best friend, and is probably hoping he’ll want a turn after getting a taste from a distance. Hoping that he’ll realise what he’s missing right before his eyes, and decide he wants it for himself, and Chan will willingly give it to him – he’s probably a boring missionary with the lights off kinda guy and thinks it’s romantic, or something. Were you not with two hands in his hair trying to stick your tongue down his throat, you would’ve chuckled at the thought. 

“Are you serious right now?” 

While you did expect an interruption, you expected it more from one of them than your own drummer, visibly seething. You break the lip-lock to glare at him back in sheer confusion, but Chan doesn’t stop, glaring at Eric as well while his mouth moves down to your neck. The situation is all too familiar, and you wonder how much detail Felix shared about your last encounter with the others. 

“Why wouldn’t I be, Eric? I’m not touching your ex, so what’s the problem?” 

“You were just a hot minute ago,” Eric counters, though it’s not like you tried to hide it anyway. You shrug, tugging on Chan’s hair again as he cautiously slows down to encourage him to keep going despite the interference. 

“And? If you wanted me to follow the bro code, maybe you shouldn’t’ve suggested we tag team him at the Prism.” 

Your bandmate rolls his eyes so hard he probably got a glimpse of his brain. “It’s not about being my ex, they just insulted our band and everything we stand for! Are you seriously going to just stand there and take that cause they’re hot?!” 

“Take that? Oh, I’m not the one taking anything, just ask freckles over there,” you snicker, nodding toward him. “This boytoy is about to fuck around and find out.” 

The band’s opinions might as well be the only opinions that matter to you at this point, but in this moment you find yourself easily discarding them. Yes, you originally started antagonizing them for Eric’s sake – and it still is a large part that, but especially after the stunt at the Prism, he has no right to tell you who you can or can’t fuck as your friend. Evidently now your competitors have gone from competitors and a bitter ex to straight up enemies in his eyes, and perhaps at least with Felix, yours as well – but there’s no arrangement saying enemies are off-limits, either. In fact, you recall your band agreeing that no one cares who else you sleep with, so long as none of you catch and spread anything. 

“Maybe you can fuck around and find out yourself,” Chan pitches in boldly, surprising both of you. He looks forward at Eric through his eyebrows as he hovers over your shoulder still, but you can’t help get the feeling that he is hiding behind you like a shield. 

Eric’s eyes nearly pop out of his damn head. He has never liked Chan, not since he dated Felix and certainly not now. He was always very clingy with Felix, which isn’t really a problem on its own, but even you could tell from the way he looks at him that Eric was not exaggerating when he said he was whipped. You recall him ranting about a time where Chan had called Felix his soulmate, which activated just about every possessive bone in Eric’s body, and you couldn’t exactly blame him. 

To hear Chan come on to Eric for a change threw you both for a loop. 

“Is that an invitation?” 

“You wanna get the freckles treatment that bad, huh?” you poke, lightly smacking Chan’s thigh, “Fine by me. I wonder how long you’ll last.” 

“No, I’m not doing this,” Eric mutters bitterly, turning around and heading off with a childish wave. He must be thoroughly pissed off to not take him up on the chance to – whatever it is you call what you two did to Felix that made him feel in control again. To prove himself, you suppose. Or even just to tease Chan until he breaks. “Have fun sucking off our nemesis, just don’t expect to come home and have me finish you off when he can’t please you!” 

Cheap and immature – but Chan tightens his grip on you at that, bringing his lips next to your ear, asking slowly, cautiously, even – but undoubtedly brimming with anticipation.  

“Is that... a challenge?” 

“It sure is, hotshot, and you better not disappoint.” 

Despite how well Chan has been keeping his cool so far, he lets it slip on the drive home that he was his roommates’ ride back home, yet here he is, driving home without them. He insists they’ll be fine, public transport running all night with a stop right by their house. 

Not apartment. House. 

It’s a nice house too, and you would’ve thought it belonged to a young family of five at first glance if he hadn’t already revealed he lives there with only ‘the rachas’, who you have deduced from your stalking– or, research, are the two other band members who produce most of their music. You nearly trip over a dozen pairs of shoes in the doorway, the casual reminder that ah, yes, these are very much still men, but cliché as it is, Chan catches and steadies you. 

“Whoops. Sorry ‘bout the mess, wasn’t expecting guests- uh, you can take your shoes off if you want.” 

Ever the gentleman, you suppose. 

“Wow. Smooth,” you deadpan, blinking at him in awe before awkwardly removing your boots and stepping out just that much shorter without them, which Chan definitely notices, so you don’t give him time for a response. “You this charming to all of your hook-ups?” 

“Oh shut up,” he grumbles, chucking his shoes off and ushering you towards what’s presumably his bedroom, complete with coloured wall lights setting the room in a homey purple glow, and nerdy anime figurines on his shelves. Cute. “I was giving you a chance to back out in case you were getting second thoughts.” 

“Sure you were,” you drawl, unconvinced. Oldest trick in the book, and hardly impressive at that. “Now, are you really going to fuck around and find out, or admit you were all talk and get your ass out for me?” 

Now that makes him blush and grin at the same time, finally sauntering over to you and unbuckling his belt. “I don’t get my ass out for just anyone, tough guy, I’m typically more of a top, so I do hope you were ready to find out when you let me fuck around.” 

Now that’s a challenge if you ever heard one, and all of a sudden you aren’t sure who exactly is fucking around and finding out anymore. The thrill is exhilarating – little does he know or possibly realise, is that either way, you win. Because he can try put you in your place all he wants; even if he fucks the attitude out of you for a night, you’ll bite back harder as soon as you bounce back, and he can try again, but it’s not really punishment if you enjoy it so much. 

He was doomed to fail the moment he brought you home with him. 

“You think I need to top you to make you beg, pretty boy? Pff. You know what, I’ll even play nice. I won’t even try to take control for the first... five or so minutes. But I won’t give it to you either, so you’re going to have to take it yourself... or try.” 

“You and your games,” he hums, straightening his belt in his hands and turning it over almost in contemplation. You don’t think he’ll actually use it, but you entertain the thought. “You gonna put a timer on me too?” 

“Do you want me to? Cause it seems to me like you’re stalling again. Come on, big boy, give it your worst. I imagine you have a lot of anger to take out on me, no?” 

Your confident smile stays on your face when he lazily shoves you towards the bed, the back of your legs bumping the mattress, but you don’t even so much as sit on it, giving him a taunting look. Does he really think you are that easy? Does he really think you actually have any plans to cave for him? 

“Wow, that was pretty weak.” 

“If you want me to be rough with you, tough guy, we’re gonna need a safe word.” 

Ooh. Now you like the sound of that. 

“Red. Red light, if you prefer something more specific. I’ll say yellow if I’m reaching my limit. Likewise you can say the same, and I sure hope you do – because once I get started, I’m not stopping until you do.” 

He bites his lip at the warning; you can just feel the excitement emanating from him in waves. It’s almost more cute than it is threatening, and you already know you’re going to have fun with him. 

Ahh, nothing quite like the thrill of a charged rivalry. 

“Red light to stop, got it,” he confirms, nodding. “And... nothing else?” 

“Nothing else?” 

“Like...” he looks down at his belt again, running his hands across it, “just to be totally clear. When you say you’re not stopping until I do say it, does that mean we don’t stop if we say ‘stop,’ only when we say red light?” 

You’re sure your face must have just lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree, but you cannot help it. “CNC, huh? Didn’t think you had it in you, but yes, only red light. Though if you think I’m going to whine and plead for you to stop to get your dick hard, you’re going to be quite very disappointed.” 

“You really need to learn to shut the fuck up for once.” 

Music to your ears, as far as you are concerned. Not just is it a tantalizing promise, but it’s oddly satisfying to hear him say something so directly hostile – you have certainly succeeded in your mission to push his buttons, and now you’re just looking for even more to press. 

He pushes you back with more force this time, and when you hold firm, he simply picks you up like you don’t weigh anything and tosses you onto the bed like a ragdoll, climbing over you and pinning you there. You try to grab him to flip the two of you over, but he’s much stronger than Felix was – you can feel it in his grip, his weight, and how easily he manhandles your wrists to either side of your head and keeps them there despite your struggle, and boy, do you struggle. 

“Great job shutting me up,” you spit sarcastically, but he just keeps grinning down at you like he’s so thoroughly endeared by whatever he’s seeing. Not angry. Endeared. 

Something about that feels so much worse. 

“You’re trying so hard right now,” he giggles, fucking giggles at you, “but you can’t overpower me, can’t you?” 

That motherfucker is getting off to this. 

You relax your muscles then try to surge up with all your strength at once, just like how you overpowered Felix in a similar position, but unlike him, Chan doesn’t budge, arms flexing as they keep you firmly held down. Completely physically at his mercy.  

You seriously need to hit the gym. 

God, he likes it way too much, you can see the power trip written all over his face, and you can’t let him have it that easy. The show of strength is attractive, sure, but he’ll have to try harder than that to get anything else out of you, and he’s far too pacifistic to really tame you.  

“Maybe not physically,” you huff through gritted teeth and a half-smirk, “but that doesn’t mean you’ve won.” 

“That’s right, you want me to fuck the attitude out of you too, don’t you?” 

If you had been drinking something, you would’ve spat it out all over his face at that – it’s so damn jarring to hear something so crude coming out of his mouth, so confidently, even after all the tension tonight. He’s always stepped up to your challenge, but even when he shed his shyness, there was still a level of politeness to him – or was that restraint? 

“I want you to try, hotshot.” 

“I’ll give it my best shot, then.”  

He finally lets you push him off you, but when you’re both upright in a sitting position, he moves with startling quickness, grabbing both your arms again and pulling them behind your back and twisting you around to face away from him. You thrash about, but he simply shoves your face down into the mattress, grabs his belt again and loops it around one wrist to pull it to the other. You don’t make it easy for him, but eventually he manages to get both wrists tied in his belt, and when you try to slip free, you realise these are no improvised cuffs – he's definitely used his belt like this before. 

“You’re a real freak on the inside, aren’t you?” you chuckle, testing the belt cuffs again. They hold steady, chafing against your skin. “It’s always the sweet ones, isn’t it?” 

He scoffs, but he hardly seems offended. “That’d imply you’re anything of the sort. You may be a freak but you’re hardly sweet.” 

“Oh, but I can be. You simply haven’t earned the privilege, sweetheart.” 

And you really can be, the band would attest to that; your mean streak is coupled with the inclination to reward good behaviour when suitable, and you’re sure if you just dangle it in front of him like a carrot on a stick, he’ll walk on hot coals to earn his validation. The ones who pine so hopelessly are always the same like that. 

“I don’t think I need it.”  

He holds the cuffs in one hand so you can’t escape while the other starts divesting you of your pants, and you’re effectively lost for words. Just how long does he think he can keep this act up? He could barely contain himself back at the venue, all over you as soon as you started provoking him, letting you shove him around like a pathetic little thing. 

His grin doesn’t seem so polite anymore. 

“I usually feel a little bad when people want me to be rough with them. I don’t want to hurt anyone unless they're really into that, that’s not really how I get my kicks. I’m more of a giver. But you? You make it so easy to just take.” 

He doesn’t even fully pull your pants and underwear off, shoving them down only to your knees, then shoves two long fingers inside you, earning him a hiss. Chills go down your spine; he’s serious. You thought he would be too soft for you, but with him manhandling you now, the sinking feeling creeps up on you that your initial judgements of him may in fact be wrong. 

“Cause you just love it, don’t you? This is exactly what you wanted from me.” You do. It’s exactly what you wanted but the last thing you expected, and it has you positively reeling. “You’re so fucking wet... I knew you wanted to be put in your place.” 

You cast him a glance over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow at him and giving him the most neutral expression you can muster. “You think this is all you? You have no idea what I got up to with your precious little freckled boytoy in the back corridor, do you?” 

That hardens his features, pumping his fingers into you with more vigour, but with the angle, the method, and your sheer determination to not give him the satisfaction, it doesn’t do a whole lot. “Go on then, fuck the attitude out of me, if you think you can really do that.” 

Something seems to click. He pauses. 

“Hm... I don’t think I will.” 

You’re washed over with a wave of déjà vu to not that much earlier that night with Felix in that corridor. There’s no way he knew exactly what happened – you may have hinted at it, but there’s no way he knows specifically. There’s no way he’s about to do the exact same thing to you. There’s just no way. 

He pulls back, taking his hands off you completely and sitting back on his knees. Observing you. Amused. Endeared.  

Fuck. 

“You want it so badly. Why should I give it to you? You don’t deserve it.” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Backed into a corner, you’re left with two options – give him what he wants, or edge yourself a second time in one night just to keep your pride, which, doesn’t really feel like is still intact when he’s not just using your own trick against you, but also, he just seems far too smug. If you say no now and walk out just like you did with his bandmate, after going with him all the way home and into his bed, you know it’ll reflect more on you than on him, and he knows that. 

"You wouldn’t have brought me back here if you didn’t want it badly enough too, smartass, so try again.” It’s a last-ditch attempt at saving face, but it has truth to it – not that you think he will cave in so easily. 

As it turns out, you are right. 

“You’re a brat,” he deadpans, crossing his arms and giving you a smirk that only tells you that he thinks he’s won. The odds of him thinking correctly are not exactly skewed in your favour. “You want to be put in your place more than I want to do it for you.” 

“You know what? Your five minutes are over.” 

It’s the only trump card you have, so you turn around and kick your bottoms off completely, climbing into his lap and grinding down on him, feeling just how hard he’s gotten from all the night’s teasing. It’s harder to get the upper hand on him when your hands are tied behind your back, but while you try to slip free of them, he simply laughs at you, grabs your wrist and pulls you off him with such ease it’s humiliating. 

“You’re so cute.” 

Cute? You’ve never been more enraged at praise before, feeling a red hot rush of anger and god knows what else all at once. Any other day and you’d be teasing him right back, but anything you could possibly say back to that dies on your tongue. The dawning fear that you may have finally bitten off more than you can chew sinks in like a pit in your stomach, directly betrayed by the heat it sends down south at the thought of sweet, pathetic Chan, having his way with you. At the thought of what he’d do to you if you finally caved. 

But you don’t need to. You have six other bandmates at home who know your body inside and out, who can probably please you far better than him – if you wanted someone to overpower you and break you, you could always go to Mingi. If you wanted a power struggle and a brat to tame, you could go to Wooyoung. If you wanted a power struggle to lose, you could always go to San or Sunwoo. If you wanted someone who could match your every move and go all night, you could go to Er– 

Or... maybe not. Not tonight. 

“I’m not cute,” is all you manage to say back, albeit rather weakly, and Chan just coos and ruffles your hair. Perhaps messing with the nice ones wasn’t your smartest move, as each act of affection he shows you seems even more potently menacing and deliberate than the last. 

“Cutest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

You were so fucking wrong about him. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Say please?” 

You want to kick and scream. He’s positively fucking infuriating, and you want – no, you need him to shut up and get you off before you spontaneously catch fire, but that’s exactly where he wants you and you hate it. But the thought of release, here and now without waiting to get home and deal with Eric’s pissy mood or having to handle it with only the help of your trusty vibrator, is looking more and more appealing with each passing second you spend glaring at his sickeningly pointed smirk. 

“I’m going to kill you for this.” 

With only the cruellest of gentleness, he brushes stray strands of hair out of your face, gracing you with only that touch and nothing else, his smirk growing into a wide, saccharine smile. 

“You can try.” 

Your own words, effectively chewed up and spat right back in your face. Fuck. 

Humiliating is the only way you can describe it, deeply and thoroughly humiliating, searing at your skin and all your senses, and yet, you still want him. Wooyoung’s humiliation kink suddenly seems to click in that moment, the way that white-hot shame is only making you even more flustered and worked up, but it’s more how frustratingly in-control Chan looks, kneeling in front of you and observing you like this. It’s a good look on him – too good of a look, you think, wanting to wipe it right off his face, but you don’t know how, so you do the only thing you have left. 

“...please.” 

“What was that?” He leans in closer, smug as can be, cupping a hand around his ear as if he really couldn’t hear you in the complete silence of his room. Bastard. 

“I’m not saying it again,” you spit in one last act of defiance, legs wobbling like jelly with the sheer embarrassment of it all. You’ve been provoking him this whole time, and now he gets to tease you? You’re taking this shame with you to the goddamn grave. “Either fuck me like you’ve been wanting to do this whole time, or don’t. I don’t care.” 

It’s a lie and you both know it, because if he doesn’t you know you’ll be so pent up that not even your vibrator could save you, but it’s easier to say that than to let him get any smugger than he already is. If your big mouth just sealed your fate, so be it, because there is no going back now. 

“I think we both know,” he begins slowly, “that you do care. But it’s okay, I’m not as blatantly mean as you are.” 

Mercy? Is he really showing you an act of mercy after so determinedly trying to make you crack? It doesn’t make sense – well, not until you consider that he has been edging himself just as long as he’s been edging you, so you suppose he’s taking the most subtle way he can of caving in. That’s enough for you, you think. You’ll take it. 

He pushes you back onto your back, arms somewhat uncomfortably stuck beneath you, but you hardly have it in you to care when he finally touches you, running his hands along your thighs and spreading them open with the firm instruction for you to keep them there. For once, you don’t actually feel like disobeying. 

He gets up, taking his time to walk around to his bedside table, and rummage through the drawers. After his expertise in repurposing his belt, you don’t know what to expect him to pull out from there, and based on the way he strokes his chin and stares periodically as he shuffles around, you get the idea he’s not sure yet either. That, or he’s deliberately making you wait, which is probably just as likely. 

“Are you more of an external or internal stimulation kinda guy?” he asks thoughtfully, tilting his head at his drawer, and your eyes widen at the question. 

“Now why should I tell you that?” 

“Uh, to come,” he scoffs back bluntly, “But that’s fine if you want to be stubborn still. Can’t go wrong with both.” 

He pulls out a blue rabbit vibrator and some lube, which you’re not sure why he bothers with when you’re already soaking a wet spot onto his sheets, but when he pops the cap open and your nostrils are hit with the scent of vanilla, you have a decent guess. 

“You don’t want to fuck me yourself?” You aren’t trying to taunt him this time, genuinely just surprised he’s doing all this without touching himself even once this whole time or even so much as taking off his clothes – you're starting to really believe him when he said he was a giver earlier. 

He simply smiles at you, pushing the lubed-up dildo to your hole gently. “What did I say about you not deserving it?” 

You shrug the best you can with your bound arms trapped between you and the mattress, at last relaxing to just enjoy the ride. If he wants to deny himself further, you’re not going to work yourself up into a fit over it – at this point, you just want to get off, so as far as you’re concerned, it’s his loss.  

“Fine by me. Toys usually feel far better than anything your dick could do, anyway.” 

He doesn’t seem to take the bait this time either, and truthfully, you don’t mind – not when it wasn’t even a lie, not really. When he switches it on, immediately turning it up three settings, your body jolts at the vibrations on your clit and inside you, mouth falling open in a silent cry. 

“That’s better. Feel good?” 

You nod wordlessly as he pushes it in and out of you, the combined sensations rendering you breathless for a long moment while you get used to the onslaught of pleasure enough to form words again. You’d be more embarrassed if you were not so wound up already, but it also helps that it’s just a toy rather than anything he could really brag about. You could probably use that against him later. At least, you hope so. 

“Use your words when I talk to you, baby.” 

He sounds like a siren, the way he makes that sound like the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard, body shuddering and eyes rolling back as he turns the toy up one notch more. 

“F-Fuck- it feels good! So good,” you gasp, trying to catch your breath while it seems like it’s trying to sprint away from you. It’s so much all at once, and with all the teasing you already endured, you don’t think you will last very long. 

He leans over you, swiftly but not hastily kissing down your neck, unbuttoning your shirt to continue kissing down your chest, stopping at the gnarly scar across the underside of your pectorals. You brace yourself for one of the many comments you’ve heard, grabbing your wits about you and sharpening your tongue in preparation, then he breaths out– 

“Pretty.” 

Pretty? Your words get caught in your throat, his lips coming down to leave feather-light kisses on the scar from one end to the other, and each tiny point of contact feels like electricity crackling through you. Pretty. He just saw the dark, wide scar that speaks loudly of the battles you’ve won, your pride and your pain and your story all in one, and he kisses it and calls it pretty. Like it isn’t horrifying, or grizzly, or even badass or cool, but pretty, as if it’s something delicate, something to be revered. 

When he’s supposed to be mad at you. 

Each drive of the toy into you accompanied with the gentle worship of his lips has your back arching off the bed, tears springing to the corners of your eyes as he picks up the pace and the high you’ve been craving all night crawls up on you with overwhelming quickness, so close you can taste it on your tongue. 

“Oh fuck, I-I’m close–” 

Then he stops. 

Any cry of protest you were going to make dies on your lips, and instead, the tears of overwhelm that built up in your eyes finally spill over and down your cheeks, your hips instinctively twitching to try and get any sort of feeling once he pulls the toy away from you completely, still buzzing. 

“You- You said-” 

“I said I’m not as blatantly mean as you are,” he coos, stroking your hair again, his smile down at you with nothing but trouble written all over it. You swallow thickly. “I can be subtler about it, and much, much meaner.” 

“You haven’t even seen how mean I can get yet, hotshot,” you jeer, but you’re sure it doesn’t hold much weight with tears on your face and the edge of whininess to your voice. 

He doesn’t seem very intimidated, nor does he even grace that with a response, simply pressing the tip of the toy directly at your sensitive clit, but only for a moment before pulling back again, giggling cutely at how your hips keen up for more. 

“Fuck you!” 

He repeats the teasing motion again, his harmonic giggles filling your ears, and you don’t remember the last time you’ve been this riled up before, that with each touch of the buzzing toy you almost, almost tip over the edge, but you know you don’t want to. You know that if you do, it’ll stop, and you’ll be riding out your orgasm on nothing but air. 

Please. You know that’s what he wants to hear. You know that’s all you need to say. And yet, there’s a part of you that still doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, even though you’re sure he’s already had plenty just stringing you along this far and getting you to say it once, but your pride is too stubborn to say it like you mean it. 

“Maybe Eric was right, I might need to get him to make me come after all since you can’t seem to- ah!” 

He takes your bait this time, but not in the way you wanted to, pressing the toy hard against your over-sensitive nerve endings, just long enough to watch your body writhe and squirm and try to choke back a cry before he pulls back, but it’s too late. He brought you over the edge and let you fall, whining and shoving your hips up into nothing as your ruined orgasm pulses through you. 

“Can’t make you come, huh?” 

You haven’t caved in yet. Not fully. You don’t have to, you think, you can endure it and get him to go again and if you concentrate really hard, you can come without him realising, surely– 

“What’s your colour?” 

You blink quickly, still reeling, then process his question. You didn’t go this far just to call it quits now, not when you haven’t even touched him yet, not when you haven’t even got the chance to see his resolve crumble. You need it, you need to break him, whatever it takes. 

“Green.” 

“Good boy,” he chuckles darkly, petting your hair again, and now you register it as what it is – a warning. “Because I’m not done with you yet.” 

How many times has it been? 

You can’t count. You’re not sure if you can even tell up from down. The world is spinning, you’re just caught in its orbit, and just as you try to tense your body to not shake when your high creeps up on you again, it shakes anyway, and Chan pulls back once more. 

“You’re so fucking mean!” you scream, thrashing your legs about, but like every other time so far, he just laughs at you, then licks along the shaft of the toy, tasting your essence for himself. 

“I can do this all night, you know. The rachas might be back soon, though, and this rabbit only has so much charge, sooo... well, I can’t force you to do anything, no?” 

But he can, and you’re both aware of it, that’s precisely what you wanted to see him do, precisely the reason why you clarified the extents of your safe word system, but he’s doing it on purpose. He doesn’t want to take what he wants from you, because that’s exactly what you want him to do. He, just like Felix did, wants to see you beg, and unlike the former, he might just get it. 

Please. 

You’re at your wits end. More tears trail down your cheeks, to which he softly brushes off with the pad of his thumb, then sucks clean. He’s sick, licking your tears, but he looks fucking godly, the kind of powerful that mortals will clamber over each other tooth and nail just to feel for a day. It defies every preconceived notion you had of the man, but damn if you haven’t always had a thing for a defiant streak and his is giving you a taste of what madness truly feels like. 

Please. 

“So, what’s it gonna be, tough guy?” 

The condescending nickname only makes you want to act out even more, but you’re almost spent and he hasn’t even taken his pants off yet, and you cannot leave his bed without having made a dent in him whatsoever. You refuse. 

And so, you beg. 

“Please.” 

“I can’t hear you–” 

“Please!” You cry out, voice ragged from all the strain, “Please, Chan, just let me come already for fuck’s sake you’re such an asshole, just let me cum or I swear I’ll-” 

“Um? You were off to a good start baby, but that doesn’t sound like using your manners anymore...” 

That cruel, cruel, smile, will follow you into both your wet dreams and your nightmares. You’ve seen what lies behind that polite demeanour now, and were you any less headstrong, you’d decide not to test him again – but you can’t have suffered this for nothing. You can count your losses now, and come at him more prepared next time, because right now, you would do whatever he asks so long as he just. Lets. You. Come. 

“Please! Please, please, please let me come! I’m already begging I don’t know what else you want from me, please, Chan!” 

He sets the toy aside and you’re almost about to start whining and pleading again or even call yellow when he leans over to his bedside drawer again and this time, grabs a magic wand. Your eyes widen when he plugs it into the wall, realising that if this wand needs a three-prong outlet to power it, you might not feel your legs by the end of this. 

“Good boys get rewarded,” he reminds you, undoing his fly and shoving his briefs down just far enough to get it out of the way, finally revealing himself to you in all his glory, hard and leaking for you no doubt from how long he’s been holding himself off for this. He still takes his time fishing a condom out of his pocket, and you just wish he’d hurry up. 

“Forget that,” you huff, trying to nudge it away with your knee, “I get tested frequently and got the scoop already, just let me feel you, please.” 

“How do you know I don’t have anything?” he teases, stilling his movements, and you groan at how your attempt to hurry him along just dragged it out even longer. “I mean, I don’t, but that’s not really the safest of habits–” 

Were you not bound and begging him to fuck you, you’d have socked him in the face already. “Are you going to keep lecturing me or are you going to fuck me already?”  

He laughs, tossing the condom aside and moving closer between your legs, collecting your wetness on his tip and hissing at the feeling – you have no doubt he’s beyond sensitive with how worked up he must be, depriving himself all night, and you just cannot wait to see him break loose. 

“You’re cute when you’re desperate.” 

He sheathes himself fully inside you all at once, filling you up just that much more than the toy did, and the groan that he lets out at you clenching around him is the most euphoric thing you’ve heard all night, even more so than the screams of the crowd at the contest. Loud was not the first word that came to mind when you imagined what Chan would be like as a dominant in bed – not that you’d imagined it prior, or, at least, not for too long, anyway – but it turns out he is full of surprises. He doesn’t hold back the breathy grunts that spill from his lips as he starts to move, and neither do you. 

Your arms ache, wrists moist with the sweat trapped between the belt and your skin, but you don’t have it in you to speak up about it, as if he stops or slows down now you think you just might kill him for real. Just as you try to wriggle and slip your hands free to touch yourself, you are forcefully reminded of the toy he grabbed earlier – almost more fitting to call it a tool with the strength of the vibrations suddenly pulsing against you, so intensely it pulls out a moan so loud it borders on a scream. 

“Fuck– Chan– too much–!” you gasp, tears welling up in your eyes, but when you blink them away and see Chan just give you a questioning tilt of his head, you know what you have to say to make him slow down. 

The word never leaves your lips. 

“Too much, huh?” he taunts, snapping his hips even faster and making your toes curl. There’s a gravelly tone to his voice now, no doubt him finally losing his composure now that he is finally having you himself. “Weren’t you begging for this just a moment ago? Don’t you– hah– Don’t you want to come? Fuck, you’re clenching around me so tight like this, baby...” 

He’s gone already, you realise, though not like you’re one to talk – you wonder if this is part of why he waited so damn long, but by now you’re not that far behind him, barely hanging on. It’s only when you realise that you are still trying to hold on when he’s already given you permission to come do you finally let go, calling out his name as possibly the most intense orgasm you have ever experienced wracks your body in waves. 

“That’s it baby, just like that, fuck, come for me, come.” 

You don’t remember the last time you cried this much in bed, but it’s so overwhelming that the tears just keep on falling and your body keeps on writhing, almost trying to pull away, but your wrists are still tightly bound, and Chan does not let up, even for a moment. His groans grow louder, his face beautifully scrunched up in ecstasy, and his grip on your hip tightens with each thrust. 

The vibrations on your clit don’t let up either, Chan still holding the wand firmly in place, but you can’t string together a sentence to stop him. You don’t know if you want him to, all you know is that it hurts, but it’s hard to tell where pain ends and pleasure begins, just stars spinning behind your eyelids. 

“Ch-Chan,” you whine, physically reeling, “T-Too much...!” 

Yellow. It sits on your tongue, simmering, the same way you can almost feel heatwaves emanating from both you and Chan’s bodies, trembling like a leaf, but it doesn’t reach a boiling point, just an inch too shy. You can take it. You can take more. You want it. You need it. 

“If it were anyone else,” Chan rasps, leaning down and propping up his free arm next to your head so his face hovers closely over yours, “Anyone else and I’d feel really bad about this.” 

Chan proves to be one of the most confusing men you have ever met, because him saying that fills you with equal parts dread, excitement, and the most twisted sense of pride at being the only one to be able to draw out this side of him. To have that much of an effect over him. Either you tell yourself that to cope, or maybe you didn’t completely lose this test of will after all. 

All the sweat manages to be enough for you to finally slip your hands free from belt one at a time, grabbing at his broad shoulders to brace yourself– 

And then he sets the wand to max. 

Your nails meet toned muscle as you dig into his back hard enough to feel the skin breaking, clawing all the way down his back for dear life. Part of you is glad the tool itself is so blaringly loud, because while it doesn’t actually drown you out at all, it at least gives you something else to hear other than your own voice when you make a sound almost foreign to your own ears. You can barely focus on how enticing Chan sounds now, gasping and groaning and hissing at how you feel and releasing inside you, trying to concentrate on the image of him the closest you’ve seen to ruined through the tears that keep welling up in your eyes. 

When it finally stops, you feel like you’re falling back down through the atmosphere, picking up speed as you plummet back down to earth, but your landing is cushioned by Chan’s gentle hands and gentle voice, cooing at you softly and scooping you into his arms. He strokes your hair rhythmically, and this time, it’s not a warning – you haven’t processed a single word he has said to you, but you can feel it enough that it’s not a warning. 

You feel like you might just break. 

“Yellow,” you mumble out loud, at least, but Chan just tuts and cups your face. 

“It’s done now, you’re done, it’s okay,” he whispers, kissing your nose, then your forehead, then tucking your head under his chin and just holding you there. Why? “You don’t have to take anymore, okay? You did good, baby. You did good.” 

You did good.  

You don’t know why hearing that from him makes you dizzy, but you cling to him right back, trying to get a grip on your breathing by syncing it up with the soothing strokes of his palm down your back. It’s such a stark contrast to the man who was just admitting to not feeling bad about pushing you so close to your limit, so different to the Chan who told you that he doesn’t feel like he has to be a giver with you. The Chan that holds you takes nothing and doesn’t let go until you loosen your grip on him first, from damn near falling asleep. 

How long you spent there just stuck to him like glue is beyond you, but it feels like hours. He asks before pulling away, if you’re okay, then tells you he’s going to clean you up and returns with wet wipes and a towel to wipe you off. You drowsily let him wipe you down until you hear the front door opening in the distance and flinch, but Chan just hushes you and smooths his hands over your sides until you calm down. 

“Don’t worry about them,” he reassures you, “they’ll be going straight to bed, and they sleep like the dead. You’re fine with me.” 

You’re not present enough to process how that makes you feel, or to say anything back. Sleep calls, louder this time, and you answer in kind. 

The first round of the competition was exactly as you thought – none of the other bands came close to you nor them, but they managed to pull ahead over you and take first place for the introductory round by a shockingly large amount. People ate up the novelty of something new, wanting to root for the underdogs over the previous champions, and that sets a fire under your ass like no other. the renegades have to really show up in ways they haven’t before, and while you appreciate the challenge, you’ve already explored so many genres, styles and performances, switched up instruments and vocal techniques and Wooyoung brought dancing to the bands’ stages before Stray Kids did. You’re going to need to do something real controversial to take the spotlight back now.

Luckily, if there’s one thing the runaway renegades are damn good at, it’s controversy.

It gives you something to think about, and that much you’re grateful for. Lord knows your conversation with Sunwoo has been hawking over you for days, and every glance he gives you throughout the day seems noticeably more pointed, but he doesn’t address it. You don’t either at first, waiting for him to bring it up himself, but days pass and he doesn’t say a damn word.

The longer it lingers in the air, the more unbearable it gets, so when he’s staring at you particularly hard during a break in band practice, you almost throw your mic down to the ground.

“For the love of god, Sunwoo, if you need to discuss something with me you can just say so instead of boring holes into my head,” you hiss at him, making sure to keep your voice low so your other bandmates would refrain from paying attention in favour of the lazy riffs Mingi was plucking on his bass while everyone else snacked loudly and chatted among themselves.

Sunwoo, irritatingly enough, shrugs his shoulders. “There’s nothing left to discuss. I’m just looking.”

“There’s nothing left to discuss? What did you mean by you think that told you my answer or something like you very clearly have more to say that you’re not saying-“

“It was a yes or no question. You either have an answer for me, or you don’t.”

“What answer you want to hear so bad?” you press, his sudden change in behaviour since that conversation making you question everything. Questioning things like, did he put you on the spot like that because he thought you liked them, or because he likes you?

It’s impossible to tell, with him – you’ve seen him in relationships before, but he was never truly heart-eyed or smitten over any of those partners the same way Wooyoung and Mingi are, and none of them lasted very long, probably not helped by you and Eric, and for those who came later, the rest of the band as well.

Sunwoo snorts. “That you want to focus on band practice.”

“You can’t just dodge the question like that!” you whine, feeling every bit like a child stomping their foot, but Sunwoo is a very particular brand of frustrating when he wants to be. You figure that’s why you get along so well, but right now you want to throttle him.

“Oh, like you’ve given me a yes or no yet?”

He’s calm and challenging in his tone, casually knocking his head back to gulp down water from his bottle, unintentionally – or perhaps intentionally? – showing off his jawline while he does it, and lets out an over-exaggerated ahh once he’s done just to let you know exactly how unbothered he is by this topic. Asshole.

“You-“

“Pick up that microphone right now or so god help me.”

He’s not going to give you more than that, by the looks of it, and now is not the best time to press – as much as it frustrates you to admit, you do need to focus on band practice now; you were not the only ones who picked up on Stray Kids’ arguably-subtle clapback, and the online presence of the competition has been louder this year than ever before, expecting big things from the runaways after winning last year’s battle. Your audiences aren’t very big, but they are loud, and you know they’re all waiting for you to meet your rival’s challenge.

You have to beat them. You have to.

Picking your mic back up, you heave a sigh and crack your neck, doing a few lip trills to warm up while you gather your wits about you to pry more.

“You’re not as subtle as you think, Sunwoo.”

He only shrugs again, genuinely uncaring as can be, or at least visibly so; despite your attempts, it doesn’t tell you anything at all.

“Guess I’m not.”

And what the ever-loving fuck is that meant to mean, you think, but you don’t have time to voice it when Eric hits his drumsticks together to get your attention and call a practice session again.

You win this time, Kim Sunwoo, but once we wipe the floor with the stray cats, you’re not getting out of this one.

You did not, in fact, wipe the floor with Stray Kids.

Their next performance isn’t of their new song, but it’s even more batshit than the last, just as flashy outfits and makeup and props and stunts – and naturally, the song is stupid good as well. Not just addictive to listen to, but masterfully composed and written, and as a lyricist and sometimes-composer it actually makes you furious at how good their music is.

That being said, they still couldn’t play that music live, because it seems they’re useless without their sound production software.

“Uh-oh, here come the loophole patrol,” Eric scowls bitterly, spotting your rival band over his shoulder as they head towards where you had gathered. “I can’t believe they got away with that twice. If they’re really continuing with that, it’s gotta be favouritism.”

It’s the very feline face of the man in your messages that pauses on his walk past, swivelling around at Eric’s words. “You know, if you talk shit so loudly, people might just hear you.”

“Uh, yeah, I’d sure hope they do,” Eric flashes back, “Everyone else is probably thinking the same thing anyway.”

He opens his mouth to utter a retort, but Chris is quick to grab his wrist and yank him back, giving him a warning look as if to try and keep him in check. Cute.

“Lino…”

You snort.

“Lino? You actually call him that? Don’t tell me you call that one I.N guy that too…” There’s not enough time to think about whether you deliberately wanted to provoke them further, or if that was merely a knee-jerk reaction to hearing them use their stage names with each other so casually. The way they all exchange slightly guilty-looking glances, though, just gives you the ammunition to keep going. “Oh my god. You do, don’t you? Look at you wannabe superstars…”

The leader takes a deep breath, sticking his arm out in front of the others just as they take a step forward to meet your challenge. The way they all halt and close their mouths at the simple gesture speaks volumes of their respect for Chris’s leadership – that, or they’re all just well-trained dogs who will eat out of the palm of your hand if you so much as throw them a bone. Based on your interactions with them so far, you’re more inclined to think the latter – all barring Lino, of course, as they seem to call him, he definitely seemed far more like a cat who isn’t afraid to bite the hand that feeds.

“Can we just skip the song and dance this time? You’ve already accused us of being rigged to win, you got your kicks at the club, do we have to go through this again?”

You admire the visible restraint Minho is taking to keep his mouth shut, lips flattened into a tight line that almost resembles a smile. Either he’s just another dog after all, or he knows how to pick his battles.

“No of course not,” you begin, pausing for both dramatic effect but also for time to think of a clever enough response – it’s only then when you realise that you are, in fact, deliberately trying to provoke them again. They seem to expect this, feet still glued to the floor while they stare at you a few seconds longer, waiting for the ball to drop.

Well, you’ve always been more of a snake, yourself.

“We don’t have to do anything. I’m merely just making harmless observations here, like how names can often imply ego…”

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” he snaps back, blinking a second too long that you know he was definitely rolling his eyes at you on instinct. “Does your ever-changing band name have anything to deal with your ego that rivals this venue in size?”

The remaining members break out in obnoxious “oooh”s that you far prefer being on the giving end than receiving end of, making the hair on your skin stand on an end.

“Hm, maybe!” You shrug nonchalantly, thrilled at how easily they took the bait. “Having a big ego is good for the soul, I think. If you find that insulting, that’s not a me problem. Harmless observations, as I said.”

“Harmless observations my ass,” Lino scoffs, narrowing his eyes at you, but he’s smirking, and it’s a little too genuine to be one purely defensive in nature. “You’re a troublemaker on purpose, that much is obvious, I’m just trying to figure out why you feel the need to fight us so badly. Is it your little lovers quarrel, perhaps?”

He eyes Eric and Felix in turn, the two of them straightening up and face hardening at suddenly being thrust into the spotlight. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Minho, too, was instigating on purpose.

You look back at his smug little grin, and start to think maybe you don’t know better after all.

“We’re not lovers,” Felix spits, glaring directly at his ex, “At least, not anymore. I thought we were maybe friends, but that would imply not actively trying to make an enemy of me. You’re jealous, we know, just get over it. Redirect your energy into beating us next round.”

“Jealous?” Eric guffaws, but envy drips from each syllable, and you know he played right into Minho’s hands, if not Felix’s as well. (The latter doesn’t seem as deliberately sneaky.) “Jealous of what, your flashy dancing? Newsflash dumbass, we do that too! We were in a dance crew together for fuck’s sake, you can ditch Force for your buddies here but you can’t tell me you forgot that.”

He grimaces, visibly shrinking at the mention of Force. “I didn’t forget. Can we just... not? Or are you going to provoke me until I get pissed off again?”

“You look pretty pissed off right now,” Sunwoo pipes up unhelpfully, to which Eric smacks him in the arm. He’s seeing red now, and you wrack your brain for how you can run damage control without admitting defeat and bruising Eric – and the rest of the band’s, for that matter – ego even more.

Then it clicks, the exact thing Minho was doing a moment ago – deflection.

“And here I thought you’d grown a backbone, freckles,” you sigh over-dramatically before Eric could get a word in. “Suppose that depends, if we piss you off again do we get a round two?”

“You sleazy fuckboys!” Changbin roars, shouldering in front of Felix almost protectively. “Go stick your dicks somewhere else and leave us the fuck alone, we don’t want whatever STI’s you’re probably riddled with.”

“That's not what your man said in my DM’s,” you snort, cracking up into laughter when you see his face contort into a look of horror toward you then Minho. “Pack it up tough guy, freckles doesn’t need a knight in shining armour, he can speak for himself.”

“Is that not exactly what you’re doing for Eric, tough guy?” Chris challenges, and by now, Felix and Eric had broken off into their own argument while he narrows down onto you. Just like Changbin, it’s protective, from his challenge down to his body language, almost like they’re trying to block you off from Felix entirely. Like he’s their perfect little princess who can do no wrong, while you and Eric are the dragon trying to burn down his castle. Tch. Monarchists and their rose-tinted lenses they see their pretty royals through, letting them get away with anything. At least you’re letting Eric fight his own battles and stepping in only because he asked you to, but you suppose they don’t know that. Hm.

“Is it? I was merely teasing to see if I could get another chance at making freckles come so hard he can’t feel his legs, but I’d get it if you’re a little defensive, Chris. Catch more flies with honey than vinegar, right? Butter him up so you can have your chance with strings attached?”

“That’s Chan to you,” he snaps back, something about not knowing him back then being drowned out by Changbin’s loud protests. If anyone understands the importance of a chosen name, it’s you, but you consider continuing to call him Chris anyway, just to piss him off. Unless he comes out as transgender, it’s not like he can get you disqualified for a hate crime. Just for being a dick on purpose.

“We’re not all sex-crazy like you, asshole! Minho may tease, but he doesn’t sleep around with everything that moves just for the hell of it.”

Though, maybe they can be reported for slut-shaming?

“Aw. Why ever not?” San chimes in, leaning an arm on your shoulder, but you can feel the stiffness under the nonchalance he’s trying to portray. His soft heart gets hurt in fights a lot more easily than he’d like to admit. “That’s real rich, you know, considering your bandmate puts his cock and hole on the internet for a check.”

Hyunjin, who had been sassily piping into Eric and Felix’s argument, whips around without so much as a mention of his name – if it was meant to be some sort of secret, he certainly just revealed himself just now. “Are you slut-shaming me? Aren’t you literally strippers?”

“Ohoho no, we’re not slut-shaming you, your bandmate is!” you cackle, watching as Changbin continued to dig his hole even deeper with his members. He flashes a quick, apologetic glance at the sex worker in question. Hyunjin’s brow furrowed slightly, but you get the feeling that any other reaction he could’ve had was deliberately bit back to save you the satisfaction.

“That’s different—”

“Yeah? How so?” you pry further, “That he’s doing it for money and we’re doing it for fun? God forbid we enjoy sex in this good, purist household! Pfft. Shove it up your ass, Changbin, I’d be glad to do it for you. Real good at it, too.”

“You wish!” he huffs, but that only draws Wooyoung to your argument, curling himself around San’s side with one arm while his other hand stays very blatantly in Mingi’s back pocket.

“Sure do! Didn’t think you’d be such a prude after I gave you the best suck of your life, but suppose I might’ve sucked the sense out of you, too. It’s okay, I can put it back, and just wait till you see what Mingi can do—”

“Oh, are you mad just because I didn’t beat you up last time, too? I still remember how much you like pain—!”

Fists are flying in an instant, Mingi’s much longer arms and larger frame connecting with Changbin’s face before his punch could land on his boyfriend, and just as Chris – no, Chan pulls back to swing, you lunge forward to stop him; only to find yourself yanked back against a warm, flat chest. The arms around your waist keep yours bound to your side, but other than that, it’s a lot more akin to a desperate hug than a grapple.

“Please don’t fight.”

It’s a lot deeper of a voice than you were expecting to hear that accompanies the warm breath on your neck, and that’s when you realise the one holding you back is not your bandmate, but Felix. You wriggle and slip your arms free to elbow him in the ribs, but his grip doesn’t budge, instead trying to tug you backwards. “Don’t! All of you, stop fighting!”

His attempts are futile, none of the others listening to him and you resisting with all your might, too – you’ve overpowered him once before, surely you can again. You land a other well-aimed jab with your elbow that loosens his grip enough for you to break free, but within seconds he manages to hook his foot around your legs and sweep them from under you in a movement far too swift to not be practiced.

Right as you’ve accepted the fate of your skull’s second date with the ground, he catches your arm and prevents your full weight colliding with the floor, which is almost somehow even more humiliating than if he just let you eat shit.

“I don’t want to fight you, so don’t make me. I have a black belt in taekwondo and you do not want to see me use it.”

His threat sends chills down your spine. Hearing it come from someone as pathetically pacifistic as Felix – and you can tell from his tone that he’s dead serious about it too – after he just handed your own ass to you on a silver platter, is positively haunting. You almost want to test him on it, and maybe you and Wooyoung have more in common than you thought because the idea of Felix rocking your shit is rather alluring, but especially with the audience, your pride gets in the way. You can handle them thinking you’re a cheap whore, but getting routinely beat up in fights you started would just make you look weak.

“Fine then, loverboy,” you huff, quickly scrambling back to your feet and glaring at him. Before you continue drilling into him in the area more within your expertise – words – you look up and realise the fighting had finished as soon as it started, with Minho barring Changbin’s powerful arms back and Wooyoung with a decisive grip around Mingi’s wrist, Chan and Eric bickering at each other to the side about being the bigger man. (“I’m five foot seven and a twink, you be the bigger man!” “We’re the same height, genius, but I suppose since you’re so clearly lacking the inches, sure I can be the bigger man!” You’re honestly surprised Eric doesn’t try swinging again.)

“You and your nicknames, huh? What was the last one, halfer?”

You freeze, trying to examine his face for any sort of clue that reveals whether Minho opened his big mouth or not, but you wouldn’t put it past him to make it seem like he would just to grant you the humiliation of doing it yourself.

He notices your hesitation and smirks in disbelief. “What, cat got your tongue? I’ve never seen you short on words without your mouth literally stuffed, but... I like it.”

“Do you now? Will you do it yourself, then?” you tease, itching to see just how far his newfound confidence goes. Excitement bubbles up at an alarming speed given how just a moment ago you were seething, but you find yourself blurring the line between anger and arousal a little too frequently whenever pretty boys are involved. Got to get your kicks somehow, after all – does that make you a narcissist? Maybe you are, because you can’t bring yourself to care, not in cases like this where they so desperately need to be taken down a peg or two.

Get into their head, under their skin, and you’re sure to win. They may be talented and rigged to win, but this is your scene, and you know the ins and outs of it like they never will – namely, that good music is only half the battle, and stage presence is the other. They have both right now, but the latter (which you do better, anyway – definitely rigged.) relies on bravado and ego – if you can wound it enough, their performance will suffer. Stress does plenty to nuke a performance too.

You’re going to have your fun and give them hell while you’re at it.

“Gladly,” Felix retorts, tension rising as he steps back into your personal space again. “Though this time, Eric won’t be there to stop time for you, so how about we try for a record timing, huh two-minutes?”

A surge of humiliation rushes through you, but you grit your teeth and power through it to not so much as shrink under his heavy gaze. “Tch. For the record, he didn’t tell me till afterward, either – though I still don’t think you can compare a bit of bump-n-grind to straight-up giving head. Though, wait a second,” you laugh, and it at least feels like you’re saving face. “What happened to no fighting, huh? Want me so bad it’s clouding your judgement? My, freckles, I’m flattered.”

He rolls his eyes, and for a moment you think he sees right through your last-ditch attempt at deflection, but to your surprise, he instead grabs your wrist and starts pulling you away down a random corridor with startling haste.

“My judgement isn’t clouded, I much prefer this over fighting – it’s more fun, and no one gets hurt.”

His answer is characteristically pure, despite the many impure things you want to do to him that you’re sure he’s probably thinking about too; despite it all, he’s still at his core, so good. Maybe the real reason he left Eric is because Eric is a self-driven asshole who isn’t afraid to speak with his fists, doesn’t pay for half the things he brings home and never takes no for an answer once his mind is set on something.

To you though, those flaws are precisely the things you love about him as well. That same stubbornness that makes him unbearable is also his undying loyalty; you know for a fact he would go to the ends of the earth for you and the band, and previously Felix as well. The fact that he managed to break that trust? Only proves that no-one’s truly an angel after all.

You smirk. “Not unless they ask nicely.”

“Oh?” He tugs you around a corner you’re honestly not sure you’re even meant to be in, but something about that is just as thrilling as the delighted sparkle in his grin at your comment. “You gonna ask nicely then? Gonna say pretty please with a cherry on top?”

“In your dreams.”

“I could be dreaming right now.” He cages you against the wall, leaning over you and hovering his face just inches away from yours, dark eyes drinking in all of your features up close, not an ounce of shame or hesitation in them at all. Hell, with the way he smiles at you, without context it could even look romantic. “Guess we’ll have to find out?”

“Right here? How daring. Didn’t think you had it in you, freckles,” you hum, sliding your hands along his hips and digging your thumbs past the waistband of his pants. He runs a hand through your hair, slowly, gently – then closes it around your locks and pulls, just hard enough for a pleasant sting, but no more. The action is oddly intimate in its softness, and you can’t tell if he’s just that much of a gentle-hearted lover or if he really does want to hear you ask for it.

He takes his time, tilting your head this way and that, exposing your neck to him. It’s riddled with bruises of varying shades from the rest of your band, which seems to fascinate him – he trails a tiny finger along the marks, pressing down on the particularly dark ones and flicking his gaze back up to your face to catch the way your lips part slightly to sharply inhale.

“You like it rough, don’t you?” he says suddenly, deep baritone cutting through the tension the momentary silence was building. You huff at him.

“No, I’m more of a gentle and meaningful lovemaking under the moonlight kinda guy,” you drawl, sarcasm thick on your tongue, but he just smiles again, a small one.

“I thought so.”

For a moment you think he’s playing along with your sarcasm, but the way he kisses down your neck is so chaste it’s almost ticklish, contrasted only by the way he knee roughly wedges your ledges apart and lodges itself between them, pressing up against you. He’s slow with his mouth’s descent, making you pull him by your hold on his pants closer to you, but he pays your rush no mind.

“You know, freckles, I was being sarcastic,” you inform him, starting to think he genuinely got the wrong message somehow. “No shit I like it rough, our last tryst was a borderline wrestling match.”

“I know.” He doesn’t even so much as look up at you, but his kisses do turn open-mouthed as he finds some unmarked skin around your collarbone, deciding to fill in the blanks – and somehow, it’s the softest hickey anyone has ever given you. You’re certain it’s on purpose now, and his next words confirm it. “I like it when people ask nicely, though.”

Motherfucker. “I’m sure you do,” you grumble, blatantly shoving him off you, much to his alarm. He only stumbles back half a step before you’re tugging him back in by the back of his neck, lips clashing together in a fervent haste.

His body stiffens for a moment and you’re about to pull back before you physically feel his resolve crumble, surging back against your mouth with a poorly concealed hunger for more. He flits frantically between firmly grasping your face with both of his little hands as he licks into your mouth and sucks on your tongue, and grabbing at your hips, your ass, your thighs, wherever he could reach, closing that distance as much as possible. It’s like he’s in a frenzy, drunk off the taste of your tongue and the warmth of your body and you can only think that you could get damn used to this.

“I’ve been thinking about this ever since that night in the Prism,” Felix confesses, and the fluttering feeling the praise gives you only lasts a moment before your next train of thought stomps it out completely; Eric was there at the Prism too. His ex. His supposed first love, who he left so carelessly, but is supposedly still in love with and just not doing anything about it even though Eric practically threw himself at him using you as a meat shield. Yet here he is, blabbering about how much he was thinking about you.

He really meant nothing to him, didn’t he?

He’s brimming with excitement, unable to resist capturing your lips in more heated kisses between his words, “I should be more angry at you. You’re a bit– You’re a lot of an asshole.” He kisses you again. “And I know you try to get on our nerves on purpose.” He kisses you again, not giving you a chance to reply, and his lips are too addicting for you to want to stop him. “And frankly, you deserved to get punched.” He kisses you again, longer this time, teeth grazing your lower lip.

“But?” you breathe out, snorting at how Felix places both hands on your butt at that, beaming cheekily at the silent pun.

“Oh, there is no but. You’re a dick, that’s it. I just want you around mine anyway.”

He’s so genuine and honest, even now, and you’re caught between liking it and being bothered by it, likely since around him you are anything but. You bluff and you lie as easily as breathing air, as frequently as a coffee order, and if he knows this, he isn’t calling you out for it anymore. Given the way he seems to wear his heart on his sleeve, though, it’s more believable to think he naively buys what you’re selling, and you wonder if he really trusted your pinkie promise that night in good faith.

Like a fool.

He’s so fucking good. You’d even go as far as to say wholesome were it not for him practically trying to shove his tongue down your throat, but even the way he does that seems so inherently good somehow. Like he’s happy to be here, making out against a wall with his ex-boyfriend’s asshole best friend who effectively is trying to bully him for their own ego and enjoyment.

You really don’t understand Lee Felix at all.

“If you think I’m an asshole now, you do not wanna see me if you hurt Eric again,” you mutter, and the way he stills again makes you wonder if you’ve crossed the line this time before he’s laughing in your face.

It’s not a loud nor boisterous laugh, more dry and callous, though there’s an edge of humour to it. Perhaps a hint of something else, but you can’t place it.

“If I...” he caresses your face, pressing your foreheads together, almost drunkenly swaying to whatever song was being performed in the background, “...hurt Eric again...” he kisses you, again, and were you any less violently turned on you may have even found it disturbing, but instead of speaking more when he stops to breathe, he merely hesitates a second and goes back in for more.

You hate how stupidly good of a kisser he is, and how bloody pleased you are to just keep going; you want him so bad, you want him all over you in the way he wouldn’t do with Eric around, you want to ruin him until he breaks – but part of you is happy enough just to kiss him like this for hours. He kisses you like he cares. Not like a lover, it’s not romantic. His actions may seem so, but you know it’s not the weight behind it, it doesn’t make sense nor does it feel like it. He kisses you like he cares about something, and while you don’t know what, or maybe who, but you know he cares a lot. You’re merely an outlet – it reminds you vaguely of how Sunwoo kisses you when he’s frustrated at something else, or how Eric kisses you when he just wants to forget. How Mingi kisses you when he wants to pretend. How San kisses you like he doesn’t know how to stop.

It’s not like you mind being an outlet. Arguably, you’re doing the same to him. You just hope he isn’t imagining Eric when he closes his eyes and breathes you in – not like you are right now.

“If I hurt Eric again,” he tries once more, forehead pressed back against yours, and all you see are his pretty freckles. Is this is way of avoiding eye contact? You zero in on his presence, his presence, not the absence of your roommate nagging at the back of your mind. Him in all his overwhelming intensity yet deceptively soft when he touches you – gentleness that feels like a threat.

“Then you can do whatever you want with me.”

“What?”

You expected a threat – hell, you maybe even wanted a threat, god knows you’d find it hot especially with that voice of his, but that? You hook two fingers into his mouth before he can close the distance between you again, pressing down on his tongue and feeling shivers at how he doesn’t even flinch or hesitate, simply wrapping those perfect lips around them and sucking on them all while holding your stare with half-lidded eyes.

“No, you can’t just use those pretty lips as a get-out-of-jail-free card, what do you mean I can do whatever I want with you? What if you’ve already hurt him again? Does that mean I can make you ruin your band’s performance on purpose or drop out of the contest or–“

He spits your fingers out and grips your chin in one hand, the other diving down to unbutton his pants. “Actually, I think I definitely prefer you with your mouth stuffed.”

“Hey, you can’t just say that then take it back–“

“We only came down here because I already said I like your mouth stuffed. And I believe you were asking me to do it for you.” He’s already shoving you down by your shoulders, unzipping his fly, the change of mood giving you whiplash. You hold your ground, crossing your arms defiantly.

“And I believe you just told me I can do whatever I want with you. So what I want is for you to either elaborate on what you meant, or shut up, get your ass up, and bend over.”

He outright giggles at you. “Cute, I know you want to fuck me. Go on then, ask nicely and use your manners and I’ll even say yes. Which I think is more than you deserve with how you repeatedly try to drag my team to make yourself feel better about yourself and get involved in other people’s business, but I can be generous.”

“You dreaming while awake now, are you?” You scoff flicking his chest. “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Face to the wall, ass out, now.”

You have an advantage here, you think. Eric has always been quite the oversharer, especially about his bedroom escapades, and while you definitely forgot a lot of it, there is one thing that sticks out in your memory – his submissive lean. How the two of them would switch often, but it would only take a bit of bossiness to make Felix weak in the knees, and your night at the Prism only seemed to confirm that. He just loves confidence and assertiveness, he eats it up and comes back for seconds, and damn if you don’t want to see it for yourself.

“I don’t take orders from you, small fry. On your knees.”

Suppose you’re not Eric, after all.

“What makes you think I’d listen to you then, halfer? I don’t care if it was technically two minutes, I still made you come in your pants like a horny teenager and you were whining for more. The fuck you calling small fry? I’m like, eye-level with that aggro, loud-ass guard dog of yours. You should put a muzzle on him, by the way, and his boyfriend too for that matter–“

“Pfft, you mean Changbin? Sure, maybe in those boots you are, but he could snap you like a twig. Heard he almost did before Lino showed up.”

“You know, I like that Lino fucker. He’s got a flair for the dramatics, and being a hypocritical shit-stirrer, even to his team and his boyfriend. You know he was purposely trying to get a rise out of you and Eric back there, right?”

He was getting more worked up now, not that the bulge in his pants needed to be any more obvious than earlier, but now his giddy excitement fizzles into something far more potent, raw, and hot to touch, increasing your excitement tenfold. As soon as he loses his cool, you win, you realise, so you make sure he couldn’t cool down if he tried, finally going along with his hand on your shoulder and sinking down to the floor and pulling his length free from his boxers.

“Hmm, too bad you’re keener than he is, I would’ve loved to take him and his boyfriend for a spin – though to be fair, they were pretty keen still,” you go on as you stroke him slowly, but squeezing him tight enough to see his jaw clench. “That leader of yours though, now he’s a piece of work. Has the whole lot of you so well-trained like pets, huh? You guys like that? It’s so pathetic it’s almost adorable.”

“How about you keep my cock in your mouth and my band the fuck out of it?”

You laugh at him, sardonic and demeaning. “I don’t take orders from you either, halfer.”

He tongues the inside of his cheek, huffing indignantly before grabbing your chin again to force you to look him in the eyes, and something seems to click behind them. He huffs again, a smirk spreading across his face as he lets his grip on yours go, patting your cheek condescendingly. “Open your mouth.”

He doesn’t leave any room for argument – not that you couldn’t make room if you wanted to, but teasing him within an inch of his life is a lot easier with him in your mouth, so just this once, you obey.

What you don’t expect is for him to spit directly into your mouth, with surprising accuracy given the difference in elevation. His hand comes up beneath your chin before you can react, pushing your jaw shut.

“Swallow.”

You hate how you already did on instinct when he closed your mouth, and you hate even more how it makes you press your thighs together in arousal.

“Good boy.” He grins at you, wider this time, then combs his fingers through your hair and tugs again, pulling your head closer to him. “Now suck.”

You want to sass him back, tease him some more, leave him hanging just a little longer, but when he speaks to you like that, even lower than the usual bass of his speaking voice, all sultry and commanding – so unexpected from him, so fucking hot, you don’t have it in you to wait any longer. You need to hear that voice of his again, those pretty, pretty sounds he makes when you give him exactly what he wants; you bet it’ll sound even prettier when you take it away from him.

You take him into your mouth, not wasting any time relaxing your throat and taking him all the way in, to his surprise – he lets out a startled yelp that cuts off as he shuts his mouth at the same time as he screws his eyes shut, teeth digging into his lower lip. Were you not deep-throating him, you would’ve smiled. It’s not a pleasant feeling, in all honesty – you’re not like Wooyoung or San, who just love having their mouths full, but you do enjoy the effect it has enough for you to be well-practiced, and once you could fit most of Mingi down your throat, anyone else was a piece of cake.

“Fuck,” Felix hisses out, gripping your hair tighter, but he doesn’t try to make you move, nor does he try to move, but you don’t miss the way he keeps tensing up at how your throat contracts around him. “God— heh, I really do like you better with your mouth stuffed. So fucking good.”

With every noise you pull from those sinful lips at each movement of your mouth along him, the temptation to have him for real grows stronger. You work him closer and closer to the edge without wasting any time teasing him, ignoring the dull ache in your jaw and digging your nails into his quivering thighs. The quicker you can edge him, the less you have to fight against your self-control – after all, you can have your needs taken care of once you get home, anyway.

He stops you before you can get there though, his grip in your hair pulling you off him and prompting you back up on your feet so he can kiss you again roughly.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks breathlessly against your lips, “I’ll do it right here, right here in this hallway.”

Yes, god, please yes. Your resolve thins. “Not such a good boy after all, huh? What if we get caught, hmm?”

Every lick of logic and rationale you have in you is telling you to not, because there’s no point getting Felix disqualified from the competition if you bring the band down with him, but you haven’t heard anyone coming down this way yet, since you’re pretty sure it was staff-only and the staff should be busy with the other contestants right now, but that doesn’t mean you’re safe.

“Guess we better not get caught, then.”

Throwing all caution to wind in your lust-filled haze, you hook an arm around his neck and pull him to you, your other hand undoing your pants and shimmying them down, already dripping wet and throbbing for him. He chuckles darkly at your haste, teasing your clit with the tip of his dick, chuckling again at how your body twitches at the sensitivity from each slight touch.

“Eager, huh?”

“Just put it in already.”

He chuckles again, deep and husky and mind-numbingly attractive, but doesn’t make any move to give it to you.

“Then beg.”

Your eyes fly open, staring at him in disbelief as a surge of outrage pulses through you. “Excuse me?”

He stares right back with an unbridled intensity, those sharp eyes boring into you.

“Beg for it, and I’ll give it to you.”

You scoff.

“No.”

He teases at your entrance, watching your face for any sign of restraint, but you stay steady. If he thinks you’re going to sink so low as to beg for his dick in a ratty corridor, he’s dead wrong. You may be a degenerate, but for him? There’s no way you’re giving him the satisfaction.

“You want me bad enough to let me fuck you right here in public, you can beg for it just once,” he reasons, but he should know better than to think someone like you could be so easily reasoned with. The fact that he ever thought he could get away with it just proves you need to remind him of his place – beneath you. A boy toy to play with at your whims, because you hold the control, not him.

“I don’t think I can,” you coo with faux disappointment, giving him one last chance to quit while he’s ahead. “If you want to fuck me, Felix, you’re going to have to do it yourself.”

He senses your challenge, and knows that if he does give in, you win – and lord knows you’re still hanging your previous victory over his head. Deciding he’s not going to give you what you want so easily, he pushes himself off the wall, shrugging with feigned nonchalance. “Nice try. You’re going to beg, or you’re getting nothing.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Huh?”

He can’t hide the flash of surprise across his face as you slip away from him, swiftly pulling your pants back up and re-doing the button, walking off without a word.

“You’re bluffing. Get back here.”

He called your bluff last time, but this time you are dead serious. You don’t need him, or his dick, or even his pretty lips and sexy voice. You want him, sure, you make no secret of that – but in the end, he’s still Eric’s shitty ex trying to take your bands crown with a shoddy excuse of a band, and just because you’re a stripper doesn’t mean you’re easy.

You’ll have him on your terms, or you won’t have him at all.

“You sure like to call bluff. Too bad I’m not bluffing, halfer – I got better dicks to ride. You’re not special.”

You don’t even so much as spare him a glance over your shoulder as you strut off, and he takes a second to recover before tucking himself back into his pants and storming after you.

“That wasn’t what you were saying when you were all over me just then, or back at the Prism—”

“I basically did,” you snort, pivoting around on your heel to jeer at him. “Why do you think Eric won our little contest? Get over yourself, you’re hot but you’re nothing more than a plaything to me. And what happens to playthings when their owner gets bored?”

“I’m not yours to play with,” Felix growls, anger bubbling over where arousal once was – or maybe directly alongside it. “You don’t own me, or anyone – are you seriously that up yourself? Wow. I’m sure Eric is so lucky to have a friend like you.”

The glare you give him at that is fucking scalding – how dare he question your relationship to Eric? How dare he ecen bring him up now? He’s the one who abandoned him. Seems like he’s just like most other cis men you know – all sweet until you don’t put out. How typical.

“At least I’m not the one who left,” you spit in his face, whirling back around and pacing off without any intent of turning back.