Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hyunjin didn’t believe in any mystical shit. He didn’t believe that certain crystals held certain powers, he didn’t believe that the spirits of the dead roamed the land of the living as ghosts, flinging cupboard doors open and knocking stuff off shelves like petulant cats. He didn’t believe in magic, or urban legends, or vampires, and werewolves, and mermaids, oh my. His world was firmly rooted in reality. Dirty, messy, sweat-soaked skin, aching muscles, calloused fingers and bruises and blown-out voices.

The only thing that made him question what he thought was a firm grip on reality, was the idea of possession. Not remembering how his legs had moved him, not remembering quite how hard his neck muscles had been put to work. Having no recollection of what he did whenever he was on a stage, under flashing lights, with the harsh mesh of a microphone tearing at his lips and a guitar strap cutting into the slick skin of his shoulder, with a monitor wedged into his ears and his eyes glazed with a cocktail of drugs and alcohol. Whenever the lights went down, and the surge of the crowd could be heard from behind the curtain, and his heart hammered in his chest, his mind emptied in a haze of white noise. It was like another version of himself would claw to the surface, tearing through his guts and his flesh and his skin until he was shackled somewhere inside his head, so the version of Hyunjin that ended up on a million social media profiles the next day could take the spotlight.

He didn’t mind it. As disappointing as it might’ve seemed, to walk off stage and have close to no memory of the show he’d just put on, Hyunjin always fluttered back into his body with an eager laugh when he staggered into the wings, relishing in the pain and the aches and the adrenaline as he handed his guitar off to their roadie and made a beeline for the closest beer fridge. He never once walked off stage feeling bad. Not when he’d sliced his head open on the tuning pegs of Minho’s bass, not when a snapped guitar string had nearly torn through his fingers and he’d left a trail of blood across the stage. Not when he broke his collarbone after he launched himself into Jeongin’s drumkit at the end of the encore. Sticks and stones, and all, but he was a rockstar. Mortal wounds couldn’t touch him.

But he hated the shows where he was forced to be present. He hated the rare times the animal inside him remained caged, where he felt every rumble of sound in his bones, where he could see the faces of everyone in the front row, where he could see the mosh pits forming within the crowd like the pulse of an insect hive. It didn’t matter how much he drank. It didn’t matter if he smoked with Jeongin before they walked on stage. It didn’t matter if he snorted a line, dropped a pill, fucked one of the bartenders. His eyes would remain sharp, his breathing would remain calm, and he had to play pretend.

Had to writhe around on stage, grind up against Felix for the fan service, throw his guitar around his neck, and play up to the journalists with flashing cameras at the front of the stage. It became work. It was never his choice, though. There was only ever one reason that Hyunjin couldn’t lose himself completely, and it was when his band were on the same bill as the For The Weak.

“Hey.” Jeongin’s drawl was particularly long and languid, and when Hyunjin looked up, he had a slow, easy smile spreading across his face and a joint wedged between his lips. “Earth to Hyunjin.”

“What?” Hyunjin trained his eyes back to his guitar, trying to focus on tuning the E string.

“Woah, the hostility, hyung.” Jeongin flopped down on the grossly uncomfortable couch beside him and exhaled an almost perfect ring of pale grey smoke. “It’s not good for your energy. You okay?”

“Peachy,” Hyunjin muttered, twisting the dial by a millimetre and strumming a chord. It was still off.

“We’re not even on the same stage,” Jeongin said with an airy chuckle, and even above the mess of voices and soundchecks and crackling walkie-talkies, Hyunjin could hear the paper of his joint crackle as he took a healthy drag and then spoke around it, his voice strained as he held the smoke before exhaling. “We won’t even see them.”

“See who?” Felix bounded over and plucked the joint from between Jeongin’s teeth with a chuckle. “For The Weak?”

“Don’t say it,” Jeongin hissed, loud enough for anyone in a five-mile radius to hear, but it petered off into a giggle. “Invoking their name, it’s ba -”

“Bad energy for Hyunjin’s world-shattering grudge, right, right,” Felix nodded and mussed his hands through Jeongin’s hair as he took a pull on the joint and turned his attention back to Hyunjin.

Hyunjin just ran his fingers along the E string again and ignored them.

“Innie’s right, though.” Their frontman crouched in front of Hyunjin and offered the butt of the smoke to him with a toothy grin. “We’re not even going to see them.”

“Because they’re on the bigger stage,” Hyunjin said. “Playing a better slot.”

He leaned back, took the joint, and wound it into the corner of his lips as he pulled the guitar back up and strummed again. He huffed, squinting against the curls of smoke that wafted into his eyes, and moved his fingers across the fret to lick the first few bars of his favourite solo.

He plucked the joint from his mouth and tapped the ash onto the floor of the makeshift green room, which was nothing more than a temporary trailer with two stained Ikea couches, a naked strip bulb on the ceiling, and a piece of paper taped to the door with ‘Sirens’ scrawled in hasty marker. It had a well-stocked fridge, though. Their runners always got an easy gig. All they wanted was booze. Well, Minho always wanted water, too, but that was easy enough to come by.

Hyunjin had heard that For The Weak requested fresh pineapple juice when they’d played at Supersonic. Like the fucking snobs they were.

“We were higher up on the bill at Pentaport, man.” Jeongin took an age to push himself up enough to grab the rest of his joint back before Hyunjin’s teeth could crush it completely.

“And when we played Ultra.” Felix’s smirk was knowing, and Hyunjin wanted to smash his guitar over his pretty blonde head.

A beer bottle slid onto his shoulder, and Hyunjin hissed at the cold glass and condensation as it pressed into his skin, but he took it regardless and looked up at Minho with a grin. Minho understood. Where Hyunjin hated one, their bassist hated another, and so they had a collective understanding.

Hyunjin hated the bass player, and Minho hated the frontman. Jeongin and Felix didn’t particularly care, too focused on who they were going to fuck or what they were going to smoke to worry about petty rivalries.

It went deeper than that for Hyunjin, though. For The Weak had started almost the exact same time Sirens had. They’d both battled each other in the underground scene in Seoul, for years when they were younger, both bands had entered the same competitions, played the same venues, and ended up under each other’s feet and in each other’s space more than anyone cared to admit, especially in the early days. Their first albums debuted within the space of the same week. They’d gone gold in the same month. They were nominated for the same awards, attended the same events and drained the free bar in a joint effort every time. They were put on the same tours, as support acts for bigger bands, the same press junkets, photoshoots, were signed to the same label, and had almost identical trajectories for their entire career.

Hyunjin held disdain for all of them and had to live with a heat that simmered under his skin whenever they were forcibly reunited. But he kept the real hatred for the bassist. Bang Chan. Chan, the hyung, the cool older brother, the producer, the leader. Chan, who thought the sun shone out of his fucking ass. Chan, who did everything in his power to remind Hyunjin that he was bigger, and better, and would always be destined to be more successful.

Hyunjin remembered the first gig they ever played at Rolling Hall when they were all still so young they could barely grow facial hair and their voices still cracked. For The Weak was one slot above them on the bill, and Jisung, the main vocalist, rhythm guitarist, and cockiest little shit that side of the Han river, had slapped Hyunjin on the shoulder with a wide, gummy grin, and energetically claimed that whoever didn’t have Bang Chan in their band, was already doomed to fail. So no hard feelings.

Hyunjin had nearly knocked him out. And, of course, it’d been Chan who’d smoothed things over with the security and persuaded the promoter to still let both bands perform.

They were almost ten years into their careers, and the feud still burnt brighter than any of the stage bulbs and pyrotechnics and camera flashes. Felix and Jeongin were friendly with the whole band, and Minho was mostly apathetic to them all aside from Jisung, who seemed to know exactly how to push his buttons and took great delight in doing so.

Hyunjin hated all four of them. But he’d reserve a particularly special spot in hell for Chan if he could.

“We need to be up there in thirty minutes,” Minho said, and Hyunjin blinked as he let the guitar slide against his knees until he could prop it on the floor between his feet. His hyung just shot him a wicked smile, dark eyes flashing beneath heavy lids, and he threw a bottle of soju across the couches.

Hyunjin caught it, slammed it against his elbow, and twisted the seal on autopilot. Jeongin already had his open, and Felix had his bottle cap clenched between his teeth. He spat it out with a flourish and raised the rim, so he could clink it against the other three.

“Sirens call them to their what?” He shouted, all sharp teeth and sparkling eyes.

“To their death,” Hyunjin muttered, letting the other voices drown him out, and he upended the bottle down his throat, taking more than half in one draw. It was icy cold, and sharp, and when he swallowed he let out a long breath and pulled his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. “Alright, let’s do this.”

He could feel the familiar buzz of electricity coursing just below his skin as he followed his bandmates out of the green room and across the festival grounds, the anticipation that curled in his stomach like a charmed snake, ready to rear its ugly head, slide up his throat, and spit soju and cigarette flavoured venom past bared teeth. The lead-up to a gig always made him inexplicably angry. It was a visceral reaction, like his skin and bones could sense there was catharsis just a few steps away.

Every show was like a baptism of sweat and alcohol, and Hyunjin was one of four preachers, with a gathered congregation ready to hang on their every word, every distorted guitar note, every chugging, thunderous riff. Felix was bouncing, both feet leaving the earth until he was practically levitating. Where Hyunjin was grounded with fury, Felix was always lifted with excitement.

Jeongin was spinning his drumsticks between his fingers with glassy red eyes, staring into nothing, solely focused on the beat that played in his head like a mantra. The man was a walking metronome, and no matter what Hyunjin did to him on stage, even when he crashed into the kit, kicked one of the toms off its stand, pushed the neck of his guitar into Jeongin’s face so he could run his tongue along the strings after the breakdown in their oldest song, Jeongin kept the time.

He had another joint wedged between plump lips, smoke unfurling around the silver ring and easy smile. His eyes had slipped closed, like always, and he kept them that way as he walked in front of them all, following a path only he could see. How he never walked into anything, Hyunjin didn’t know. He’d tried to explain the concept of third eyes and chakras to Hyunjin once when they’d taken mushrooms in Japan, but Hyunjin had just fallen into hysterics and told him to shut the fuck up.

Hyunjin took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt between his fingers to leave it smouldering in the patchy grass in the backstage area, grinning as their maknae came to a stop and pushed his face towards the sky. Jeongin just raised his sticks like they were magic wands, like he was commanding the weather and banishing the thick layer of cloud that’d settled over Seoul all day.

Minho turned to Hyunjin with a smirk and just handed him the rest of his soju. Where the rest of them were chaos, Minho was calm. Their hyung would never be considered chill, he was as much an animal on stage as Hyunjin, but compared to Hyunjin’s innate anger, Felix’s energy, and Jeongin’s impressively high narcotics threshold, Minho was practically a saint. He clapped Hyunjin on the shoulder and threw his arm around Felix as the rumble of the crowd grew louder.

The last band had been a pretty tame indie outfit from Busan. They all nodded and bowed awkwardly as they passed each other, and then Sirens were grouped at the back of the stage, just behind the sound equipment, listening to a familiar chant as their roadies set up.

“Can you hear them?” Felix shouted, bouncing from one foot to the other.

“They go back past the sound stage,” Minho said with a dry laugh as he peered around a stack of amplifiers and surveyed the crowd with hard, glittering eyes.

“We should’ve been on the main stage,” Hyunjin said as he pulled another cigarette out of the packet. He wedged it between his teeth and glanced over Minho’s shoulder, where a sea of people were already beginning to chant their name over and over.

“I agree.”

Hyunjin whipped around at the voice, his lighter frozen in front of his face. Chan just leaned against one of the metal scaffolds with a smirk and folded his arms across his chest. He was broader than when they’d crossed paths at the SMAs in February, hard muscle accentuated by the obnoxiously tight cream vest and designer chains looped around the thickness of his neck, and he’d dyed his hair black again. Other than that, the cocky attitude, thick boots, and silver hoops in his ears all remained the same.

“Wanna swap?” Hyunjin asked sarcastically as he finally lit his cigarette. He pulled the rush of nicotine past his lips, exhaling slowly as he brought his eyes back down.

“Nah,” Chan said easily. “Too many people wearing our merch in the main arena. Don’t want to let them down.”

“Can’t wait to watch your set later, man.” Felix grabbed his hand and pulled him in for a bro hug, speaking in heavily accented English and around a massive smile, and Chan pulled his eyes away from Hyunjin’s glare to grin at the blonde.

“Back at you,” he said with a smile that pulled at the dimples in his cheeks. “It’s a shame the label wanted to spread us over two stages. Sounds like you’ve packed this one out.”

Felix had barely started to babble before a tech was ushering them forward, fitting their in-ear monitors and mic packs and shouting into a walkie-talkie. Chan just watched the organised chaos with a carefree smile, and he walked with them to the side of the stage as Sirens’ entrance music started to play over the speakers to a steadily building roar.

“Break a leg,” he said, and he clapped Hyunjin on the shoulder, with a little more force than necessary.

Hyunjin could feel it stinging through the leather of his jacket by the time he’d got to his spot at stage right and adjusted the guitar strap. He cleared his throat, flicked the switch on the instrument that commanded the playback in his earpiece, tapped his foot against the pedals at the base of his mic stand, and rolled his neck. He closed his eyes, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and when he opened them again, he looked.

Really looked. Thousands of faceless people, maybe even tens of thousands, a horde become one, all screaming with the same voice, the same purpose, the same desire. Hyunjin was one quarter of that desire, and when he ran his fingers against the polished neck of his guitar, when he pulled a pick out of the rows on his mic and flicked it between his fingers, when the intro music died and he punched his hand down against the strings, he finally let the familiar grin slide across his face like an oil slick.

He pushed harder on the distortion pedal, let the shriek of his instrument shudder from the stage and out to the masses, and then Jeongin smacked his drumsticks together on a four-count as Hyunjin bared his teeth and let the song take him. It was a new opener, from their latest album, and Hyunjin loved it. It focused more on the bass groove, the steady, pounding rhythm of the drum beat, and so the guitar riff was fairly simple. Drop D tuning, all power chords, distortion turned up to eleven.

Hyunjin was already moving before the first riff was over. He slammed his head down with every four-count, his hair already soaked with sweat and stinging his eyes by the time he staggered back to his mic and helped Felix ring in the chorus. It was like a war cry. They’d had to fight for the heavier sound, but their producer had been obsessed with it and threatened to walk if it didn’t make it on the album. Hyunjin had bought him a bottle of Japanese whiskey and they’d finished it in one sitting the night they sent the finished record off.

Minho’s hands came away from his bass guitar with a shout, and Jeongin was hunkered low against the kit, feet thrumming to keep the double kick in time, arms smacking at the cymbals to echo the death rattle of Hyunjin’s guitar, and it built, and built, and Felix’s stream of shouts got louder and louder, until for a suspended half count, his voice was the only sound coming through the monitors.

Hyunjin brought his foot up and stamped it back into the stage as the buildup continued, and he let his head fall back and his fingers do the work until he finished the run of his riff and let the reverb shudder through the speakers. The song broke with Jeongin’s punishing double-kick as the sole Siren call. He stood up behind his kit, drilling his foot into the peddle and spreading his arms as the crowd screamed. Felix climbed onto one of the playbacks at the front of the stage, growling a command into the microphone, and when they finally got to the breakdown, Hyunjin felt like every bone in his body was about to snap.

His ears were ringing, not with the music, but with the rush of blood as the song ended. The crowd was the loudest they’d ever had, Hyunjin was sure of it. He couldn’t resist yanking a monitor out of his ear to listen to them, and he let his head fall back with a low chuckle when their screams became easier to hear. He glanced to the side of the stage, saw the cream-coloured vest and mess of dark hair, and shoved the monitor back into his ears.

Let Bang Chan try and perform something like that.

The next song was just as fast, just as brutal, but it showcased how deep and sultry Felix’s voice could really go, and they gave the fans no respite because the song after was slightly more upbeat, influenced by British punk and a crowd favourite thanks to the chorus. Hearing thousands of people screaming for fangs to sink into their necks would always make Hyunjin grin like a maniac, and he had Minho to thank for that particular vocal hook.

Hyunjin was drenched with sweat, skin slick and shining under the heat of the sun and the stage lights, his veins running with a cocktail of nicotine and soju and weed and adrenaline and anticipation, gratitude, fury, all shaken together with an inherent sense of pride.

There was no one like them. No one could do what they do. No one could write the songs Hyunjin wrote. No one could play the guitar like Hyunjin could. Not their direct competitors, or colleagues, not For The Weak. Especially not Bang fucking Chan. This was Hyunjin’s domain, Hyunjin’s stage, Hyunjin’s crowd. He was a siren, he called them all to their deaths, and every single one of them came willingly. Chan included.

They only had six songs to make their mark, and so they launched themselves through the fastest, most demanding setlist they could come up with. By the time the last note shuddered through the arena, the sun was hanging a little lower in the sky, Hyunjin could hardly breathe, and the smile on his face was wild. He’d only thrown his mic stand during the last song, he hadn’t broken a bone, and he hadn’t accidentally sliced himself open on something. He’d left Jeongin’s drumkit standing, too. It wasn’t tame, but it was as professional as they got.

He let himself have half a minute. He flicked his remaining guitar picks out into the crowd, waved, pushed his damp hair away from his face and looked out at the sea of people, trying to take a mental picture. He gave up with a chuckle and hopped to the centre of the stage, where Felix was already commandeering the rest of the band into a selfie with the festival’s frenzied crowd serving as the backdrop.

When Hyunjin stood again, and he’d scooped up the jacket he’d thrown off after the first song, when he handed his guitar over to their tech and popped the monitors out of his ears, he looked to the side of the stage. Chan was leaning against the black equipment boxes, an easy, knowing smirk on his face when he met Hyunjin’s eyes.

His three bandmates left without him. It was a ritual, after almost a decade. Felix immediately went live, sharing a beer with their online viewers and talking about how much fun the show had been. Jeongin went to go and find food, and Minho went with him to make sure he found something to eat before he found more drugs. And Hyunjin… Hyunjin just pulled his cigarettes out and pushed one between his teeth, jutting his chin up as he walked away from the now empty stage, a wordless command to follow. Chan huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound swept away by the chaos of the music techs and roadies and runners, and pushed away from where he’d been watching Sirens to walk after Hyunjin.

In the early days, he’d been careful. Made sure no one was around. Made sure no prying eyes could work out what he was doing. After Felix and Minho had caught him once, at their first festival, he’d stopped caring.

He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the ground and pulled the door to their shitty dressing room open, turning slightly so he could grab the collar of Chan’s vest and yank him through it. The entire wall wobbled when the door slammed, and Hyunjin just shoved Chan against it in a vicious kiss.

He tasted like mint and white rum, like he always did, and Hyunjin could taste the smirk that burned beneath it, melting like sugar until it turned from crystal and clear to thick and amber and bitter. Hyunjin pushed against it, devouring the sweetness, cooling it until the hard shell of it cracked against his lips and Chan shoved back against him just as hard.

Hyunjin grunted and planted a hand against the swell of Chan’s shoulder, keeping him in place, pressing him against the wall and caging him in. His shirt was still drenched with sweat, his skin was slick, and he could taste the salt of it on the caramel of Chan’s tongue as it pushed into his mouth.

“We should’ve been main stage,” Hyunjin muttered, sucking Chan’s bottom lip between his teeth and biting down on it. It made Chan hiss, and Hyunjin smirked.

“Nah,” Chan grunted as his hands pushed into the wet hair at the back of Hyunjin’s neck and pulled. “You were right where you belong.”

Hyunjin just growled and wrapped a hand around Chan’s throat, shoving his face away so he could leave a trail of biting kisses down the tight, flushed skin popped with veins. He hovered over Chan’s pulse and squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing the bile at the back of his throat and licking his lips to taste the honey instead.

He pressed his fingers into the smooth skin of Chan’s shoulders and shoved down as hard as he could. Chan went willingly, sinking to his knees and leaning back with a soft snort of laughter. He looked up at Hyunjin, head tilted to the side and a flash of something dark and cold behind eyes he normally kept so warm and friendly, media trained and camera ready, for everyone else.

Hyunjin dragged his thumb across his own bottom lip and grinned. “Now you’re right where you belong.”

Chan’s jaw clenched and he exhaled through his nose, but he didn’t say anything, just held Hyunjin’s gaze as he pushed his tongue against his cheek and waited. It’d become an unwritten rule fairly quickly, and Hyunjin was always torn between being the better band, getting the better slot and playing the better show, or playing first.

Because whoever walked off stage, drenched in sweat and running on nothing but evaporated booze and adrenaline, they got to call the shots. Where everything else between them was a power struggle, every interview, every booking, every riff and vocal melody, this had come surprisingly easily. It was the only thing keeping them from tearing each other to shreds out in the real world. It was a release, a column of steam spilling from a volcano roiling with rivalry, and neither of them would ever admit it, but they needed and wanted it just as much as the other.

It was the only tangible thing Hyunjin could hold over him, and when he had him on his knees, when the famous Bang Chan who was always so in command and full of arrogant confidence was waiting for something he only ever took from Hyunjin, it meant that Hyunjin got to remind him just how equal they really were.

Hyunjin unbuckled his belt and slid it from the loops, listening to the way the leather slipped against the coated denim, and threw it to the side as he unpopped the buttons on his jeans. He was rock solid already, and aching, because they hadn’t had the severe misfortune of crossing each other’s paths for months now. The summer was normally busy, full of festivals and outdoor shows, and waking up in a new city every morning with bleary eyes and a hangover that could only be fixed by a line, half a pack of cigarettes, and a large iced americano.

But both bands were gearing up for an album drop, and so they hadn’t seen each other since they’d fucked in the bathroom of a label party in Gangnam, and that was back in March.

He heard Chan suck a breath in, and Hyunjin wrapped a hand around himself with a tight smirk as he let a low chuckle choke its way out of his chest. It always made him laugh, how much Chan enjoyed it. He knew Chan enjoyed a lot of things, and it almost pissed him off that even on his knees he was getting what he wanted. Hyunjin just pushed the tip of his already leaking cock against the flushed plumpness of Chan’s mouth and hummed when his bottom lip started to shine.

Chan just waited and held his gaze.

“Open,” Hyunjin muttered, and he watched with a tunnel-visioned stare as his biggest rival, his nemesis, his equal, slowly let his lips fall apart. “Good boy.”

Chan glared, and all the air in Hyunjin’s chest was punched out of him when the flat of a tongue pressed against the underside of his dick. It was soft, and wet, and warmed with years of contempt, and he could never hold it there for long. Instinct took over, the hatred burned hotter, setting the blood under his skin on fire and the only way to douse the flames was the wet tightness of Chan’s throat.

“Oh, shit…” Hyunjin let his head fall back, felt the tension in his shoulders loosen, and he hurriedly yanked the still-damp material of his shirt over his stomach so he had a better view of his cock disappearing between plump, pink lips. The slide was torturously slow, and Chan kept his eyes on Hyunjin, watching every single movement as he let Hyunjin push into him.

He didn’t even blink when Hyunjin hit the back of his throat, and Hyunjin would’ve smirked, safe in the knowledge he’d be doing much more than blinking when Hyunjin was through with him, except Chan swallowed and it felt like his soul was about to leave his body. Hyunjin’s hand immediately came up to wind into Chan’s hair and he tightened his hold, exhaling a shaky breath as he kept Chan’s nose pressed against his stomach. Their eyes met properly, for a brief second, and Hyunjin just glared as his hand gripped the freshly dyed waves of black hair.

“Right where you belong…” he echoed, and Chan’s eyes turned up slightly, the closest he could get to his usual smug smile, as he swallowed again.

Hyunjin snarled and jutted his hips forward, pushing further, seeking a tighter, wetter heat, and Chan inhaled sharply through his nose. He blinked, the breath stuck in his neck where the head of Hyunjin’s dick refused to let it free, and Chan’s hands pushed up against Hyunjin’s bare thighs, ring-covered fingers pressing into his skin. Hyunjin just pulled away and immediately drove into the vice of Chan’s lips again, and he couldn’t stop the soft groan that fluttered out of his mouth.

Chan slid his hand against Hyunjin’s leg, up past his groin, until he could hold onto the soft ridge of muscle at his hip. A wordless command, always so desperate to be in control even when he was kneeling, and Hyunjin laughed breathlessly as he released Chan’s hair.

“You wanna show me how good your mouth is, hmm?” Hyunjin muttered as he finally let Chan pull away from the length of his dick with a sickeningly wet pop. “Show me, then.”

“You know how good it is,” Chan said breathlessly as his other hand wrapped around Hyunjin and broke the string of spit hanging from his mouth to drag it down. His thumb rolled against the head of his cock on the upstroke, and Hyunjin’s hips instinctively bucked as a shot of pleasure rocketed through him. Chan hummed around a low chuckle.

“I know it’s all it’s good for,” Hyunjin gasped, eyes fluttering as Chan continued to move his fist. “I know you’re better at sucking dick than you are at si-i-inging, oh, fuck…”

He didn’t give Hyunjin a chance to finish the train of thought, because Chan just descended on him again, mouth stretched and tongue curling as if to prove his point, and Hyunjin had to close his eyes, had to squeeze them until stars popped in the black, because if he looked down he’d come down Chan’s throat in less than a minute. He was good at sucking dick, something Hyunjin had found out seven years ago during the AAAs when he’d walked out of one of the bathrooms with his nose stinging and his body practically vibrating with adrenaline after Sirens had just put on the performance of their fucking lives. Chan had pushed him back through the door and got his mouth on him before Hyunjin had a chance to tease Chan about the fact his band weren’t booked to play that year.

Hyunjin was safe in the knowledge that he was promised the best blow job of his life whenever they were on the same bill. Not that he’d ever tell Chan that, but in fairness, Chan was equally promised the best fuck, too.

Chan sped up, filling the empty green room with gross, wet moans as his fingers pressed into Hyunjin’s legs, and Hyunjin just took it, as was his right, just let the heat rise and pull somewhere behind the silver ring that flashed in his navel as Chan’s tongue swirled around the head of his dick.

Hyunjin’s hand shot out to slam against the plastic table beside the door to steady himself when Chan gagged for the first time, and he blinked furiously as he kept his shirt hiked up his chest, as he watched the tears start to form beneath a fan of black eyelashes and spit start to slide down Chan’s chin. Hyunjin’s fingers brushed against the plastic ashtray on the table when Chan swallowed again, and he snorted through a breathless laugh when he saw the half-smoked joint sitting in one of the ash-stained ridges.

God bless Yang Jeongin.

Hyunjin wedged it between his teeth and scrambled for the disposable lighter, pulling the weed deep into his chest when he finally got the flame to hold, just as he rutted his hips forward. Chan choked properly, a thick, wet moan that made Hyunjin’s stomach curl, and the grey cloud of smoke fluttered past the smile that split his face in half.

“Oh, you can do better than that,” he muttered around the butt of the joint, making the embers crackle again as he took another pull without taking it out of his mouth. “Can’t you? You can take it, can’t you, Chan?”

The goading always worked. It was like a cheat code, because Bang fucking Chan could never be told that he wasn’t good enough. It was like his entire body rejected it, like every fibre of his being refuted the claim that he wasn’t the best at what he did. Blow jobs included.

Chan just shifted, stretched his neck back so the tendons pressed against the flushed skin, and sat on his heels as he looked up. Hyunjin’s dick slid free of his mouth, but he let it rest against his lips as he caught his breath. He didn’t say anything, just held Hyunjin’s eyes in a challenge as he let the weight of it rest against his tongue.

Hyunjin took a long, slow drag of the joint, relishing in the burn of it in his throat, and stubbed it out so he could wrap both of his hands up in the mess of Chan’s hair. He towered over the bassist, letting his shadow fall over the flush in his face, and shoved his hips forward. His dick sank into the waiting heat of Chan’s mouth, but he went further, pushed as deep as he could go until he felt the sudden tightness right at the back.

Chan choked on it, and Hyunjin held him there, kept his nose against his lower stomach as his fingers tightened in his hair. He hummed, watching as the first tear dribbled past Chan’s eyes, where they were screwed shut against the sudden intrusion, and then Hyunjin finally started to move.

He never went slow. Never gave Chan a chance. He didn’t deserve it, anyway. He always talked so much shit, always smirked with an infuriating air of arrogance, always talked as though he knew more, knew better, knew he was superior to Hyunjin. But he wasn’t. Especially when he was on his knees, choking on Hyunjin’s dick trying to remember how to breathe. In those brief, fleeting moments, Chan was nothing but a means to an end.

An end that was approaching quicker than usual, after months of not seeing each other, one band stuck in recording booths while the other slept for a few snatched, broken hours in tour buses and on couches in cramped back rooms, months of playing separate shows, months of orbiting around each other.

Hyunjin had almost grown accustomed to it on the last tour. They’d been on the same bill for a festival that spanned over twenty cities, and it’d been a solid month of cocaine, booze, blood, sweat, and so much sex that Hyunjin clearly noticed the lack of it when they’d all ended up back in Seoul after the run finished. It’d been building ever since, every time he had to watch a video interview and listen to Chan’s stupid, breathy little laugh, every time he heard a For The Weak song on the radio - the radio, and they still tried to claim they were a legitimate rock band. Every time their manager discussed plans and the memory of Chan’s mouth around his cock came swimming in front of his vision, the heat of his hands gripping Hyunjin’s waist as he fucked him against a wall behind the back of a venue, his tongue pushing into Hyunjin’s mouth with a combined, needy, pathetic little groan whenever one of them walked off stage.

Hyunjin fucked his face harder, faster, chasing the pleasure swirling in his abdomen as Chan moaned, and gagged, and took every punishing thrust to his throat willingly.

“So good…” Hyunjin muttered, and he tightened his hands in Chan’s hair, yanked his neck back so he had a better view of how his dick disappeared into his mouth over and over again. “So fucking good.”

Chan groaned around him, the sound coming out deep and wet and pathetic, and Hyunjin rocked his hips, pulled at his hair, and staggered forward enough for the back of Chan’s head to slam against the wall, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t slow down. Chan’s hands gripped the flesh of his thighs, hard enough to leave bruises, and Hyunjin pushed harder, wanting the mark, wanting the reminder that he had Bang Chan choking on his fucking knees.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin gasped, and he rolled his hips, as high up as he could get them without his dick leaving Chan’s mouth, and he teetered on the edge, trying to hold onto it. “Oh, s-shit, I’m…”

Chan swallowed, a half second too early, and Hyunjin lost his grip. He came so hard his vision whited out, and he let out a strangled moan as he slammed a hand against the wall to steady himself. It felt like his heart was about to hammer out of his chest, beat its way to freedom until it was a leaking, bloody mess in Chan’s lap, and Hyunjin sucked in a sharp breath through his nose as he let the orgasm take him.

When Chan swallowed again, and took every drop of the high that Hyunjin was still chasing, it felt like time stood still. Or like the earth had been nudged off its axis, just slightly, but enough to feel the shift. A strangled gasp fell from Hyunjin’s mouth and he pulled on Chan’s hair so hard he was surprised he didn’t tear it out, but then he went slack, felt every muscle unknit itself until even his bones could hardly keep him upright.

Everything became soft around the edges and he blinked as he released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The moment he did, though, Chan was already in motion. He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed Hyunjin’s face, fingers still slick with spit as he crashed them together with a growl. Hyunjin could taste himself on Chan’s tongue and he moaned into it, the salt and the sugar coating the roof of his mouth and choking him.

“Pathetic,” Chan muttered as his hand tightened on Hyunjin’s jaw.

“Funny.” Hyunjin’s voice was shot and he sucked on Chan’s swollen lip with a breathless laugh. “You were the one on your knees.”

Chan just matched his laugh, the sound coming out cold and sharp, and he grabbed Hyunjin by the waist so he could spin him around and push his face into the drywall of the trailer. The wet slide of his dick on the plaster made him hiss, but the annoyance drained into nothing when Chan unceremoniously shoved Hyunjin’s jeans even further down his legs until they were bunched somewhere just below his knees.

He’d already arched his back on instinct, and Chan’s chuckle sounded like tar in his ear, black and heavy and slow. “Pathetic and impatient. Some things never change.”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes. “Are you gonna fuck me or not?”

“No.”

Hyunjin felt the last tendrils of pleasure leave his stomach, to be replaced by something that felt dangerously close to disappointment, and he scoffed and tried to push himself away from the wall so he could finally hike his jeans back up and go and find Jeongin to smoke a little more. Chan had other ideas though, and he pressed into him, rolling the bulge in his crotch against the bare skin of Hyunjin’s ass as his breath fanned out across the back of his neck.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Chan muttered slowly, and he kicked at Hyunjin’s feet to make him spread his legs as much as he could between the restraint of his jeans. Hyunjin’s breath caught in his throat when his fingers pressed into the flesh of his ass. “Yet.”

Chan pressed his tongue against the back of Hyunjin’s neck and then sank his teeth, and Hyunjin shuddered. After so many years, they knew each other too well. Chan knew every single weak point, every spot on Hyunjin’s body that made him buckle. He knew that when he bit into the skin of his neck, he knew that when he’d pressed a thumb into Hyunjin’s hip bone, he knew that when he’d swirled his tongue against the vein on the underside of Hyunjin’s dick.

But Hyunjin knew Chan well enough, too. He knew that Chan liked his lips being bitten, knew his knees crumbled whenever someone sucked his earlobes and the silver jewellery that always dangled from them, knew he liked having his hair pulled, knew he liked to be scratched and marked, knew he liked being ridden so he could look up and watch. Hyunjin had taken notes just as much as Chan had.

Hyunjin just hissed against Chan’s bite, jutting his shoulder to dislodge him and Chan laughed again as he pressed his lips back to the side of Hyunjin’s throat.

“I got you a gift,” he mumbled. “But I’m guessing you don’t have lube on your runner sheet.”

Hyunjin cackled, the grin making his face scratch against the sandpaper paint on the green room’s wall. “Like you don’t still have that little bottle attached to your belt chain. Or did Changbin mistake it for hand sanitiser again?”

Hyunjin felt the short huff of air on his neck, and he smirked when Chan couldn’t stop the laugh. He jerked his shoulder again and then arched his back even more, pressing the bare skin of his ass against the denim of Chan’s groin and letting a pitiful whine flutter past his lips when he felt how hard he was. Chan couldn’t resist a breathy sigh, either.

He knew what Chan was waiting for, and he ran his tongue along the seam of his lips, screwing his eyes shut when the word formed in his throat before he’d even had a chance to consider it.

“Please…”

Chan hummed and nosed his way along Hyunjin’s shoulder. “You can do better than that.”

“So can you,” Hyunjin muttered.

Chan just slapped his ass and his skin sang, the burn blooming down his leg and up his back until it fizzled out somewhere beneath his shoulder blades like the sparks of a firework. Hyunjin ground his teeth and closed his eyes.

“Please.”

He didn’t hear the familiar jingle of Chan’s belt chain, nor did he hear the pop of a cap before he felt a strong hand spreading him open, and Hyunjin’s breath hitched in his throat as Chan pressed a dry finger against him, slow, almost gentle. Chan just rumbled somewhere behind him like a growing thunder cloud, crackling with something hotter and far more unstoppable. Hyunjin’s teeth buried themselves into his bottom lip, and he resisted the urge to move. Chan would only move with him.

“Hurry up,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m getting bored.”

Chan pushed his index finger forward, and Hyunjin felt every molecule of oxygen leave his chest at the slight but decidedly harsh burn. It sparked the match and the heat bloomed inside of him again, different than before, stronger and with so much more behind it, and he pressed his forehead against the wall with a breathy moan that he had absolutely no control over. He tried to keep still, but he couldn’t resist rolling down on it, couldn’t deny the fact that he only ever wanted more.

“So pretty…” Chan said in a low, dangerous voice. “So pretty when that obnoxious mouth of yours says one thing, and your body says something completely different.”

Hyunjin just worked on keeping his lungs moving, far too focused on the half a finger inside his ass than whatever bullshit Chan was saying. He felt like he was suspended, like one of the huge stage lights strung up in a web of rigging and steel wires, like a marionette doll with strings very securely wrapped around Chan’s commanding hands. Hyunjin let go of the breath he’d been holding when Chan pulled his finger away, and he pressed his lips together when he finally heard a plastic click and the squeeze of something wet.

“Gonna make you wait for it,” Chan said softly, wasting no time in threading his finger back into Hyunjin all the way to the third knuckle, not stopping to stretch him out gently. “Gonna make you wait, and watch me, gonna make you walk all the way to the main stage still feeling it…”

Hyunjin’s hands slammed into the wall, and he could feel how unstable his legs were already, could feel how every cell in his body sang, both in protest and gratitude, and the mixture of it tasted foul on the back of his tongue. The sweet, heady rush of suddenly being full of something, and the bitter disgust at the way Chan’s knowing chuckle filled his ears.

“Fuck…” Hyunjin couldn’t hold the hiss that whistled past his teeth, and despite his better judgement, he couldn’t help but roll back on the hand at his ass. He wanted to spin around and punch stupid, popular, talented Bang Chan in the face, enough to split his plump lips and make a nice, ugly bruise bloom across his eye, one that he couldn’t hide with makeup. He wanted to yank his hair out of his head, Hyunjin wanted to grab one of his guitars and swing it into his ribs enough to break them, he wanted to kill him… But god, more than anything, he wanted Chan to fuck him, mercilessly, against the cracked, paintless wall of his makeshift dressing room.

Chan pulled his finger back out and smeared the lube around the puckered skin, making Hyunjin gasp at how cold and hot it was all at the same time, and he was just about to drag a snarky comment from somewhere in the soupy depths of his brain, but he couldn’t find the words. Chan may take his time, but he never wasted it. He started to stretch Hyunjin out before he’d even managed to acclimatise to the second finger, and the pull was brutal, and fast, and Hyunjin’s nails scrabbled against the plaster, his jaw clenched so tight it was a miracle he hadn’t ground his back teeth to dust, and he could almost feel the way his veins were popping against his neck, strained with such a sudden, southern rush of blood.

“Ha - what, you couldn’t wa- oh, fuck -” The cold steel of the plug made his mind short-circuit, and Chan just held him up, fisting his free hand into the sweaty fabric of Hyunjin’s shirt and keeping him in place, face shoved into the wall, nails scratching helplessly, sweat beading against the back of his neck, dick twitching and searching for friction all over again as Chan filled him up.

“I told you,” Chan muttered as the toy bottomed out, and he used his thumb to angle it upwards slightly, enough for it to pull at the threads of Hyunjin’s sanity, and Chan just laughed as Hyunjin whimpered at the intrusion. “I’m going to make you wait for it. We don’t play for another two hours.”

“Asshole,” Hyunjin breathed, and Chan just gave him another sharp slap, the sound echoing around the trailer as he pushed Hyunjin around. Chan yanked his jeans up over quivering legs and shoved him back against the wall so he could drag a loose fist down against Hyunjin’s dick, which never even really went soft in the first place.

“Don’t touch this,” Chan warned, and when he looked up his eyes were like fire, dark, glittering embers buried in the brown that were just waiting to be stoked, a heat still strong enough to rage. “It’s mine.”

He was out of the door before Hyunjin could even process it.

He let his head fall against the wall and let out a long breath, blinking at the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. His blood was rushing past his ears, a numbed white noise that pulsed in time to the way his heart was battering against his rib cage, and he felt a slow, gentle trickle of sweat fall down the skin of his neck and over his collarbone. Hyunjin closed his eyes.

The fucker wasn’t even going to let him stew in his post-orgasm fury, because the plug was settled perfectly inside of him, nowhere near close enough to where Hyunjin wanted it to be, nowhere near thick or warm or real enough to be what he really needed. But it was a steely promise, a reminder of what Chan was making him wait for, and he’d known he wasn’t going to fuck him then and there, he’d always be made to wait until Chan was stalking off the stage covered in sweat with a hard, purposeful look in his eyes, but he hadn’t banked on Chan being so prepared.

Had he been walking around the backstage area, giving interviews, talking to industry people and other band members, with a fucking plug in his pocket all day?

A snort of laughter left Hyunjin, and he dragged his underwear and his jeans over his erection, wincing when the head of his dick pressed against the material. He buttoned his fly with shaking fingers and pulled his shirt off, throwing it into the plastic bin and pushing himself away from the wall to make a beeline for his bag. The movement made the plug shift inside him, and Hyunjin almost doubled over as a breath was punched out of his chest. The toy was big, but it needed to be, and he fought at the knowing grin that was trying to work its way onto his face. He steadied himself against the arm of the couch and licked his lips as he inhaled, held it, let it stream out through his mouth, and then again, until he could stand up properly.

It’d been so long, it was almost like his body had forgotten. Not entirely, though. He clenched, adjusted to the thick swell of metal buried inside of him, exhaled the last breath a little too quickly, and started to yank t-shirts out of his backpack.

“Jinnie!” Hyunjin blinked when he heard Felix’s excitable yell, and he used his finger to push his sunglasses a little further up his nose as he took a pull of his cigarette. “Where were you?”

Most of the cloud had been burned away by the afternoon sun, and the walk to the main stage press area had been agony. Sweet, burning, constant agony, pulsing through his body to settle in his stomach every time he put one foot in front of the other, and he’d almost finished his pack of cigarettes, and he was starving hungry, but he took the bottle of beer from his frontman with a wry smile.

“Busy,” he said and took a long swig without continuing with an explanation. Felix fixed him with a smirk.

“Oh, yeah?” Felix slung his arm around Hyunjin’s shoulders, making him bend down to accommodate the shorter man’s embrace, and even that movement had the plug in his ass shifting enough to make his breath hitch. “Doing what?”

“Hyunjin’s time is his own, man.” Jeongin appeared out of thin air and wound his arm around Hyunjin’s waist. “Let him have his secrets.”

Minho was spread across an outdoor couch, one thick leg slung over the arm, and he snickered loudly as he looked up at Hyunjin hunched over, with the two blondes hanging off of him like needy groupies.

“Hyunjin doesn’t have any secrets,” their bassist said with an evil grin. “Right, Hyunjin?”

“From you guys? ‘Course not,” he said easily and disentangled himself from his bandmates so he could finally straighten up. He exhaled and cleared his throat, blinking behind the cover of his sunglasses. “I was busy getting my dick sucked, sorry.”

Jeongin cackled loudly and shoved him in the shoulder. “Not the festival hook-up, dude, you’re gonna need a trip to the clinic.”

“Coming from the guy who ingests literally anything he’s given,” Hyunjin snickered.

“As much as I’d love to hear about Hyunjin’s sexual exploits, and I will hear about them later…” Felix grabbed Hyunjin by the head and planted a kiss somewhere close to his temple. “We need to go and film that video for the festival social pages.”

Hyunjin tried to stand in a way where it wasn’t obvious that he had a metal plug up his ass, and he’d almost caught up with how drunk Felix was, and he’d almost finished his pack of cigarettes by the time they got through the mini interview. It was just a bunch of quickfire questions, asked by a tiny, overly excited journalist intern with bright pink hair and too many piercings, and Hyunjin zoned out for most of it, letting Felix and Jeongin take the lead. Minho just kept his gaze locked on the camera and didn’t utter a single word, just occasionally smiled whenever Felix laughed, or nodded when the rest of them did.

“Are you going to be checking out any of the other bands?” The girl’s voice was grating, and Hyunjin took a drag on his smoke.

“Oh, for sure!” Felix nodded enthusiastically, and then he pointed to the camera with a giggle. “We’re stoked to even be on such an incredible line-up, we’re going to be hanging out by the main stage for the rest of the day watching as many shows as we can, so come and say hi if you see us!”

“Who are you most looking forward to seeing?” She pointed the obnoxiously small microphone back to them and angled a little closer to Hyunjin.

“Oh, definitely For The Weak!” Felix said with a dazzling smile. “They’re our good friends, and they’re awesome, so make sure you don’t miss them!”

Hyunjin cleared his throat and wedged his cigarette between his lips to stop the way his mouth wanted to curl into a snarl.

“Okay, guys, I think we got everything!” The journalist clapped her hands together and giggled like a schoolgirl, and then she glanced over her shoulder to usher the cameraman forward. “We just need an outro, so just y’know… ‘We’re Sirens, you’re at Summer Breeze, thanks for watching’, something like that.”

Jisung was the first to spot them as they made their way to the side stage area of the main arena. He came bounding over like his shoes had springs attached, and his eyes were wide and excited as he grinned up at them all.

“Hey, guys!” He wrapped Felix into a hug and punched Jeongin in the shoulder. Minho had already folded his arms across his chest, and Hyunjin instinctively pulled the crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “How was your set?”

“It was great!” Felix shouted and bounced on the spot with him as the rumble of the band playing shuddered around them. “We had such a huge crowd, it was crazy.”

“Yeah, Chan-hyung said it was a shame you weren’t on this side of the festival,” Jisung said with an easy chuckle. Hyunjin felt the heat pool in his lower stomach, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other as the plug moved slightly inside of him.

“Next time,” Jeongin grinned, and he pulled a joint from behind his ear and wedged it between his lips. “We’re just here because Hyunjin was so desperate to see you guys.”

Hyunjin snorted and shook his head as he lit his cigarette.

“You gonna try and tell me you didn’t want to see me, Hyunjinnie?” Changbin, For The Weak’s drummer and resident loudmouth, shouted from across the bar area, and they all turned as he walked over with a pint of beer in his hand and a huge grin on his face. “I’d pretend to be offended, but everyone knows I’m your favourite and you can’t resist me.”

“Sad but true,” Hyunjin said around a soft cloud of smoke, and he aimed a kick at the shorter man, but soon regretted it when his stomach clenched. “You’re irresistible, Binnie, what can I say?”

He’d never minded Changbin. He was easy-going, in a way that was at total odds with the fact they were direct competitors. He talked to Hyunjin like he talked to the rest of them, like he talked to his own bandmates. Changbin didn’t have space for rivalries, and so Hyunjin had never been given the chance to grow to dislike him.

Hyunjin’s ears started ringing within sixty seconds of being in the same vicinity as Changbin and Jisung, and he turned away from them to head to the bar, desperate for something cold and bitter to offset the sugary taste in the back of his throat. He still couldn’t saunter like he normally would, and when he leaned against the bar he had to stretch his neck as he crossed his legs and held a breath.

He ordered a gin cocktail and a shot, which he took before the cute barmaid had even managed to push the glasses towards him, and the alcohol seared his throat to melt through the sweetness.

“Dutch courage?”

Hyunjin glanced over his shoulder to find Seungmin, For The Weak’s lead guitarist, aiming a shit-eating grin his way. Hyunjin just turned back to his cocktail.

“For what?” He muttered around the rim of the glass.

“You tell me,” Seungmin said with a laugh, and he took the bottle of beer from the barmaid with a wink that made her blush. “Chan-hyung’s still in the trailer.”

“So?” Hyunjin wedged his cigarette between his teeth and glared at Seungmin.

“So,” Seungmin started, elongating the word and clapping a hand on Hyunjin’s shoulder. “You can let go of that breath you’re holding.”

Hyunjin just exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke in his face and Seungmin laughed, slinging his arm over Hyunjin’s shoulders and dragging him back to the stage area. Chan didn’t show up until the rest of his band were getting their mic packs fixed and yelling vocal warmups into each other’s faces. He didn’t even look at Hyunjin, just bumped fists with Felix, took a drag of Jeongin’s joint, and then took his bass guitar from their roadie as he nodded for his bandmates to gather, like he was a shepherd and they were his sheep.

He slung his bass over his shoulder so he could extend a hand into the middle of the four-piece. “Rest is for the what?”

“For the weak!” His band yelled back at him, and Jisung and Changbin whooped loudly and started jumping against each other, Seungmin just stretched his fingers against the palms of his hands and cracked the muscles in his neck as he took his guitar from a roadie, and then Chan glanced over their heads.

He fixed Hyunjin with a stare, a long one, and let it spread into a knowing, smug, possessive smile as he turned to follow his band towards the stage entrance.

Their first song was an old one, a throwback to when they could almost call themselves an actual rock band. Seungmin started the riff, Changbin drilled the drumbeat through, and then Chan took off, running to the front of the stage while holding down a steady, continuous bassline. Jisung was the frontman, but he was stuck behind a mic stand thanks to being their rhythm guitarist, too. So Chan, eager, show-off, arrogant Bang Chan was always the one commanding the crowd during a song. Shouting the lyrics just as loud as the fans with a wild grin on his face, throwing his head back as his fingers flew across the fret, constantly in motion. When the song reached the bridge, with just Changbin’s kick drum and soft notes from Seungmin’s guitar echoing above the sea of people, when Jisung was focused on lightning-fast vocals that kept up with the beat, Chan was the one at the front, arms in the air, forcing his crowd to clap along.

Hyunjin didn’t know how long their set was. He didn’t know how long he’d have to wait. Every time he moved, every time he breathed, he could feel Chan’s gift inside him, keeping him open, keeping him desperate. Hyunjin watched him with his teeth buried into his bottom lip, watched every shout that made the veins in Chan’s neck stand out, watched every movement of his hips, watched every drop of sweat fly from the ends of his hair, watched the way his lips moved around the words.

Hyunjin wondered if he could still taste him. Hyunjin wondered if every time Chan licked his lips, every time he shouted, every time he swallowed, he wondered if Chan could taste Hyunjin at the back of his throat, too.

Their set was surprisingly aggressive. Their main songs were still grossly radio-friendly, and Hyunjin knew that the penultimate track was their most recent single, played on every channel they could get themselves on, every talk show, he knew they’d sold it to a soju brand that used it in their commercials showcasing how much fun could be had in the middle of a club.

In the middle of a fucking nightclub, and Chan still liked to think he was a rockstar. He was a sell-out, a fucking fraud, constantly chasing the top spot and forgetting the thing that put him there in the first place, conveniently ignoring the hardcore underground scene they’d all been a part of in the early days. It was pathetic.

The fans went insane for it, though. Especially since Seungmin took the majority of the guitar duties, leaving Jisung free to bounce around and showcase his vocal chops. But it featured Chan so heavily, with a thundering bassline that played off Changbin’s stuttering, funky drum fills, and Hyunjin watched as his hands left his instrument during the vocal bridge, thick, muscled arms pointing to the sun that’d broken through the last few clouds just in time for their set and screaming the lyrics along with the crowd with a wild grin on his sweating face.

Felix might’ve said something, made Jeongin laugh with it, and even Minho shouted something in reply, but Hyunjin’s vision was tunnelled. On the lines of sweat that tracked down Chan’s neck, the way his hair curled at the back, the way his eyes were on fire, the way the tendons and veins in his arms strained against his skin with every riff. Hyunjin’s insides clenched around the metal inside, with a sick jealousy, rolls of desire that he’d refute if he thought about them for too long coupled with the steady pressure of buried steel, and he had to clench his fists against it, press his lips together and glare from the side of the stage.

It was always too much. A gross, congealed cocktail that made him want to stick his fingers down his throat and throw it up, like when he’d drunk too much and the night was still young. He wanted to exorcise it, he wanted to live in a world where Bang Chan didn’t fucking exist, he wanted to ignore and squash and tear every jolt in his stomach, every hitched breath, every memory of every hurried fuck and barbed insult and sloppy kiss.

He hated all of it. But he always wanted it, regardless.

Jisung traded his electric guitar for an acoustic for the last song, and the crowd knew exactly what was coming, their roars somehow becoming louder, the sea of people reaching across the entire arena despite For The Weak’s afternoon set. Chan threw his bass over his shoulder and joined Jisung at his mic stand, the two of them laughing in each other’s faces as they sang together. The crowd was almost louder than them.

Chan leaned back to swing his bass back into position as the second verse started, but he stayed with Jisung, leaning on his frontman’s shoulder as they led the crowd in a raucous, adoring singalong. Sirens’ set had been loud, but For The Weak’s was louder, even with an acoustic closer, and Hyunjin just turned away.

He pushed his hands through his hair and fumbled for his cigarettes, grimacing as he walked down the stairs to leave the stage and trying to ignore the small, constant shocks of pleasure that went rocketing through his stomach. He hadn’t even finished his smoke by the time For The Weak finished their set to screams that could be heard even by the trailers. Hyunjin just took a long, choking drag of his cigarette, letting the tar and the nicotine swirl in his lungs in an attempt to dampen the slick, wet excitement that boiled within him.

Hyunjin hated himself for it, but he hated Chan more, and that was worth everything.

He held his gaze when he rounded the corner. Just stared, sucking at the end of his cigarette until the filter crackled and burned, and when he exhaled, Chan already had a tight hand gripping into his shoulder and the door to his trailer halfway open.

Chan’s mouth was hungry, and Hyunjin could taste the salty sweetness of him with nothing of himself there anymore, he could taste the adrenaline between his teeth that surged like venom from a snake’s fangs, he could taste the vicious pride, the vindication, the sick, sugary, genuine belief that he was better than Hyunjin. It sat on the tip of Hyunjin’s tongue before it was licked away and replaced all over again by Chan’s, and Hyunjin consumed it, let it be the fuel that made the fire in the pit of his stomach rage, and he wound his arms around Chan’s neck to keep him there as they toppled into the trailer.

“How’d you like my gift?” Chan groaned into Hyunjin’s hungry mouth, and he just pushed a leg between Chan’s thighs in answer, rocking against the hardness that was already there, ready and waiting for him. Hyunjin just grinned.

“Oh, I think you liked it more.” Hyunjin gasped as Chan’s hands pushed past his shirt, hot, slick fingers digging into the flesh of his waist and pushing him backwards. “I think you spent your entire set thinking about my ass.”

“Could feel you watching me,” Chan muttered, licking into Hyunjin’s mouth and sighing around a low chuckle. “You want to hate me so bad, don’t you? But you can never keep your eyes off me.”

Hyunjin bit Chan’s lip. Chan kept pushing into it with another laugh.

“You want to hate me so badly, but you can’t, even when I’m playing a bigger stage, a better set, giving a better show, you can’t, because all you can think about is how I’m going to fuck you numb after.” Chan’s voice was hot, his breath choking Hyunjin as he kept their mouths moving, suffocating him with words that should’ve tasted bitter but dissolved like spun sugar. “Want me to fuck you now, Hyunjin, hmm? Want me to take that plug out and fill you up properly?”

Hyunjin couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, he couldn’t do anything but whine when Chan’s hands pushed themselves lower, to curve around his ass and squeeze, enough to make the metal shift inside of him. Chan hummed into his kiss and gave him a shove.

The couches were far nicer in For The Weak’s trailer. Because of course they were. They were plush leather, with thick cushions and wide seats, and even wider arms, and Chan just kept pushing, until he could grip Hyunjin by the waist and twist him around.

His top half fell into the couch cushions, and his hips stopped against the couch arm, enough to knock the breath out of him. Hyunjin buried his face into the fake leather, resisting the urge to bite down on it when Chan’s hands spread across his lower back. He wanted to sink further, he wanted to descend somewhere lower where the shame and the hatred could be left to fester properly. But whenever Chan got his hands on him, whenever Hyunjin got to fuck those pretty pink lips and make him gag, whenever they spat insults into each other’s gasping, moaning mouths, Hyunjin wanted it. Chan did, too.

There wasn’t any point denying it. They’d tried to, on their first tour, years ago. Tried to stop gravitating towards each other, tried to stop the magnetic pull, but throwing casual barbs across a packed green room, leaving the air to crackle between them, was never enough. They had to consume each other. They had to force each other into submission, had to exercise their disdain in a harsher way, had to destroy each other behind a closed door so they could function on the other side of it.

If they didn’t, they’d kill each other. There’d been one time, in Japan, when they’d actually gotten into a fight in a back alley behind a dive bar they’d just played. Hyunjin had split Chan’s eyebrow, and Chan had dislocated Hyunjin’s shoulder, and it’d taken Minho and Changbin pulling them apart, Felix practically drowning Hyunjin with whiskey, and Jeongin getting Chan so high he could barely walk, to stop them flying at each other all over again.

They’d fucked for the first time after the next show. And so it became an uneasy normality.

Hyunjin growled when he felt Chan’s hands snake around to his fly, felt quick fingers pop the buttons open, and before he had the time to catch his breath Chan had torn his jeans halfway down his legs. Hyunjin kicked his shoes off, thankful for the slip-on checkered Vans coming away so easily, and Chan kept yanking until Hyunjin had at least one leg free. He didn’t bother waiting for him to pull the jeans away from the other, and so they sat in a forgotten pile around Hyunjin’s ankle as Chan’s hands returned to his waist.

His fingers tightened against his skin, pinching enough to make Hyunjin hiss, but he couldn’t form a retort because Chan’s hands were already spreading across his now bare lower half. He pulled him apart and Hyunjin practically sobbed when the air hit the metal ring sticking out of his stretched asshole.

“Look at you,” Chan murmured, almost reverent, and he laughed again as his thumb brushed against the plug. He pushed it slightly, and Hyunjin buried his face against the cracked leather with a groan.

He pulled it out in one swift motion, and Hyunjin keened, trying his best to stifle the heady whine that escaped him as he stretched and then tightened around the now foreign feeling of emptiness. Chan pushed three fingers into him with no warning and Hyunjin choked, hands squeezing into the couch to try and steady himself. He instinctively tried to escape from it and Chan just moved with him, crowding against his back as his fingers worked him open even wider.

“Brat.” He whispered the word against Hyunjin’s shoulder blade, and when he crooked his fingers Hyunjin couldn’t stop the pathetic cry, even if he did try to swallow it first.

“Get on with it,” Hyunjin gasped, pushing back now, grounding down on Chan’s hand and trying to find the right angle.

“Say please,” Chan said, and Hyunjin could feel the smirk on his skin, could feel the mark it left, branded into his back like a fucking calling card.

“Fuck you,” was all he managed, and Chan scissored his fingers enough to make the insult drip into another whine.

He’d already shot a load down Chan’s throat hours ago, but it didn’t matter, because Hyunjin was rock-solid all over again and leaking into the couch, arching into the friction and pulling at the pressure of Chan’s fingers, and he could feel his head swimming already. He could feel the heat rising and falling like the ebb of a wave, never quite crashing, just rolling to an unobtainable height before it sank back into an ocean that flowed with rage and need and sheer desperation.

Chan couldn’t hide it in his voice. “Fuck, you look so good…”

“I know.” It earned him a slap, and Hyunjin choked out a laugh.

The sound came out strangled when Chan slid his fingers out of him, and he couldn’t stop himself from clenching around nothing, hating the emptiness, needing to be filled, and Hyunjin’s breath hitched in his throat when he felt the head of Chan’s dick press against him. He hadn’t even heard Chan prepping himself with lube, too focused on the white noise in his head that came with being stretched after hours of being plugged, and when he pushed past the rim Hyunjin let out a long, piercing whine that had his fingernails scratching into the couch cushions.

“Shut up,” Chan grunted, digging his fingers into Hyunjin’s ass to pull him open wider. “Or I’ll gag you again.”

“Y-you… You got a whole sex shop hidden in your jeans or something?” Hyunjin let out a breath, squirming beneath Chan and trying to get him to push in deeper, with absolutely no success. “Lube, plug, and now a ga-a-ag, oh, fuck…”

Chan pushed into him, slowly, inch by inch, and even with the prep, even with the metal plug, even with the lube that Chan kept well stocked on his person whenever he had the misfortune of being around Hyunjin, the stretch burned. It always did, because Chan was big, and Hyunjin was tight, and they didn’t fit, they didn’t work well together, they were two pieces of two entirely different puzzles. But they forced it, made it connect, with a rush of hot blood, and spit that tasted sweet, and the slick of sweaty skin and teasing and a constant, neverending battle to come out on top.

Chan bottomed out inside of him with a long groan, and he held Hyunjin in place, kept him as close as he could possibly get him, claimed him for the millionth time just the same way Hyunjin did when he got off stage and shoved Chan to his knees. Hyunjin screwed his eyes shut with a choked sigh, letting the heat of it sear him from the inside, waiting for the pendulum to swing.

When Chan pulled away Hyunjin held his breath, ground his teeth and arched his back, and the sudden rut of Chan’s hips, the slick slide of his dick burying itself so deep inside of him that he felt like he might split in half, forced a cry out of Hyunjin that even a gag wouldn’t have been able to silence. Chan found his pace almost immediately, fast, aggressive, completely unforgiving and brutally inescapable, and Hyunjin took it, hands scrambling for purchase as they dug into the couch, reaching back to find Chan’s wrist and gripping at the silver chain he never took off.

Hyunjin never really registered his own voice, but he could vaguely hear the constant babble of ‘fuck, Chan, yes, please, hyung, please, oh shit’ that tumbled past his lips of its own accord, and it was the only time Chan ever listened to him because he did exactly as requested with every vicious jerk of his hips. He fucked Hyunjin so hard that he knew he wouldn’t be able to walk properly after, not that it mattered because he’d be stuck in a tour bus for eleven hours after the festival wrapped up, and besides, Hyunjin needed it, he needed the release. They hadn’t crossed paths in so long and Hyunjin was sick of hearing his name, hearing his music, and hearing how great he was without getting this sick, twisted version of him in return.

When Chan pushed himself forward, forcing an angle that he hadn’t found yet, Hyunjin’s voice was cut off into a strangled gasp and he heard Chan grunt in satisfaction behind him, felt him double down on it and pound into his prostate with no remorse.

“Gonna give me another one, Jinnie?” Chan groaned, fucking him even faster when Hyunjin just mumbled something incoherent in reply. “Gonna come for me again?”

Hyunjin could do nothing but gasp, the air punched out of him with every rut making the wet slap of skin bounce around the emptiness of the room, but he could feel it, almost on command when Chan asked, he could feel the heat swirling in his abdomen, the tight pull of his insides as the pleasure became almost too much. Chan just kept hitting his prostate, over and over and over again, knowing he was getting what he asked for, and taking it anyway, and Hyunjin tried to hold onto it for as long as he could.

But his cock was leaking, tracking against the smooth leather of the couch he was bent over, and it took his mind a few seconds to catch up when it exploded out of him. Hyunjin lost the ability to form words, just bit down on the cushion his face was shoved into, sobbing into the probably disgusting material and shaking beneath Chan’s hands, which were still gripping onto his waist so tightly that his fingers were almost touching.

“Fuck,” Chan breathed, and he slammed into Hyunjin again, the sharp lines of hips pressed against the roundness of Hyunjin’s ass, and he held him there, buried as far as he could go, as he let Hyunjin ride out his second orgasm. “Oh, you feel so fucking good, so tight, so… So perfect, fuck…”

Hyunjin just gasped and blinked furiously, vision swimming with tears and something white at the edges. Chan’s hands slid up his waist, suddenly slow, and he peeled him away from the couch until he was almost standing, the sweat-slick skin of his back flush against Chan’s chest. Chan’s tongue dragged along his shoulder, humming at the taste, and then his hand pushed down past Hyunjin’s stomach, wrapping around his dick so he could drag a thumb across the slit.

Hyunjin’s knees almost gave out, but Chan kept him upright, smirking into his skin as he ran his fingers through the mess of cum and sweat. He slipped out of him and Hyunjin groaned, rolling his neck at the ache in his hips, and Chan twisted him around so they were facing each other. His eyes were dark, barely even brown anymore, and glinting with something only Hyunjin ever got to see, something he kept hidden from the press and the fans and the music videos and the photo shoots.

Hyunjin watched as Chan pushed his thumb into his mouth, his tongue winding around the digit to get another taste of him, and he lit it pop past his lips with a grin. Chan sidestepped Hyunjin before he could say anything, still with an arm around his waist until he could collapse onto the couch. He just pulled Hyunjin with him, knowing there’d be no protest, knowing that Hyunjin didn’t have it in him anymore to talk back or put up a fight as he slid into Chan’s lap with his legs pressed against either side of his waist.

Chan wasn’t the only one to call him a brat. Every member of his band had called him by that name on more than one occasion, several burly security guys at random venues and twinks in bars that were always mad when he got more attention liked to call him out on it, and there was even a time when their tour manager had told him to stop being so fucking whiny when he’d begged the bus driver to pull over at the next service station so he could buy more cigarettes. Being a brat came naturally to Hyunjin. Taming it came naturally to Chan.

“So fucked out already,” Chan said with a wry smile as he looked up at Hyunjin. He pushed a hand into Hyunjin’s hair, wet with sweat for the third time that day, and gripped him by the jaw so he could pull his face down. Hyunjin melted into the kiss, still sloppy and wet and needy, but slower, so they could both catch their breath.

When Hyunjin whined into it, Chan stopped, pressing his forehead to Hyunjin’s with a low laugh.

“More,” Hyunjin mumbled, nosing against Chan to push their mouths together again. “Need more…”

“Gotta work for it,” Chan said, and his breath hitched in his throat when Hyunjin rolled the curve of his ass against Chan’s dick, relishing in how slick it was, not just from the lube, but from the steady stream of pre-cum beading at the head. “Thought you loved being centre of attention, hmm? Thought you loved everyone’s eyes on you.”

Hyunjin huffed. He wasn’t wrong, technically, but this was different and Chan knew it.

“And I thought you loved fucking me, but…” Hyunjin rolled his hips again and licked the curl of Chan’s tongue when it made him gasp. “Guess I was wrong. Guess I can leave now, right?”

Chan’s hands tightened, one against his jaw and one on his hip, and he pressed his thumb down to wrap his fingers around Hyunjin’s neck. Hyunjin’s eyes shot open, and Chan grinned up at him.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said.

“Or what?” Hyunjin pushed into Chan’s hand, humming when it tightened around his throat. “I like the thought of you sitting here jerking off because you couldn’t just hurry up and fuck me properly. You’re your own worst enemy.”

“And you’re fucking lazy,” Chan said with a growl, and he pressed hard enough to cut off the air in Hyunjin’s neck. “You’re lazy with your solos, you’re lazy with your songwriting, you’re lazy in interviews… You’ve got a pretty face and you think that’s enough.”

Hyunjin let out a garbled, choked sound that might’ve started as a snarl. He rolled his hips again, watching the way Chan’s eyes flashed.

“All you do is hate me for being better, but I work harder,” Chan said, and he pulled Hyunjin’s face down by the neck, so his lips brushed against Hyunjin’s when he spoke. “Prove me wrong. Show me you’re not as lazy as everyone thinks you are.”

Hyunjin reached behind himself and grabbed the base of Chan’s dick, guiding it to the rim of his ass before Chan had even finished his sentence. He still couldn’t really breathe, and his muscles felt like they’d liquefied beneath his skin, but he arched his back and took Chan in one long, quick drive down that had them both whining.

Chan’s fingers released him and Hyunjin sucked in a breath, almost choking on it as he planted his knees and rolled himself up. Hyunjin wasn’t fucking lazy. He was the furthest thing from lazy. He’d spent his late teens and early twenties writing and recording music, learning how to use the production software after hours and hours of watching YouTube videos, he’d taught himself chords when all he knew was guitar tabs, he’d taught himself musical theory so that he could write songs that flowed better, he took vocal lessons, to make sure he could scream properly without damaging his throat. He barely slept, choosing to spend his time curled up in one of the bus’s bunks writing lyrics or sketching ideas for album artwork and photoshoots, he kept up with his own personal social media pages so that the fans had something real to connect to, he commented on fan art posts and always tried to hang out with them after shows, shivering in the cold outside music halls and gig venues to snap a few sweaty pictures and sign some albums.

Hyunjin was not fucking lazy, and he’d be damned if he ever let Bang Chan think he was.

He dug his nails into the broad swell of muscle on Chan’s shoulders, scratching harder with every rock of his hips, every slap of his bare thighs against Chan’s lap, and he glared down at him, refusing to break the look, refusing to let him think he could ever escape the hell they were both trapped in. Chan’s hands gripped his waist, helping to keep the angle right, but he didn’t move, content to just watch with glassy eyes as Hyunjin fucked himself in his lap.

But Hyunjin knew the signs. He knew the slow, lethargic blink when his eyelashes started to flutter, he knew the way his tongue would press into his cheek, he knew the way his chin would jut up as he tried to bite down on the stuttered breaths, he knew the way his tendons would strain, and how he’d always tilt his head to the right, exposing the long, veined column of his neck like glamoured prey offering itself to a hunting vampire. It didn’t take long for Hyunjin to get him there, and he let out a long moan as he stopped riding, and instead ground down on Chan so he could massage his prostate again.

“Shit…” Hyunjin breathed, and he pulled a hand away from the red lines he’d carved into Chan’s shoulder to grip his hair instead. “I can’t, I…”

“Yeah,” Chan said, voice tight and angry. “Yeah, you can.”

Hyunjin let his head hang, sweaty hair falling into his eyes, and he rolled his hips again with a low hiss. The tug in his stomach was deeper than before, an echo of the first orgasm and a distant fucking memory of the second, and he shook his head with a whimper as he rocked back slowly.

“Too much,” he breathed, unable to escape the feeling of Chan’s dick massaging the bundle of nerves inside of him, but unable to stop rolling down into it. He was buried so deep, and Hyunjin was locked so tightly around him, that every tiny movement was like torture.

“You can take it,” Chan said. “C’mon, Jinnie, you can take it, I know you can, you - fuck, oh shit, yeah, j-just like that…”

He wanted Chan to fucking move. He wanted Chan to lift him up, which he knew he could, and he wanted him to fuck the orgasm out of him without giving him the choice. But Hyunjin wasn’t fucking lazy, and so he planted his knees, tightened his hand in Chan’s hair so he could crash their lips together again as he pulled up and slammed back down, over and over again, as fast as he could.

“So good,” Chan groaned, leaning into Hyunjin’s fist and threading his own fingers into Hyunjin’s hair. “So fucking good, you ride me so… So good…”

Hyunjin felt his chest automatically swell at the praise and then deflate like a pierced balloon when he remembered, belatedly, where it was coming from, and it was a vicious pulse, the high of being told he was good, and the fury that it was coming from Chan. As if he’d ever needed his approval before. The only thing he needed from Chan was an orgasm.

The third was harder to get a grasp on, and Hyunjin whimpered into Chan’s slack kiss, licked his tongue into his mouth desperately until they were just mashing their lips together and breathing the same oxygen, until there was no longer any space left between them. It was only when Chan finally started to move that Hyunjin finally felt the heat bloom inside of him, and he whined, high and needy and breathless as Chan slid a little further down the couch to get a decent angle so he could start pounding into Hyunjin and match his movement.

It was almost immediate, and Hyunjin couldn’t have held onto it even if he’d wanted to. His dick was burning, rutting against the firm ridges of muscle on Chan’s stomach, and he had barely anything left to give other than a few pathetic spurts of mostly clear cum, but he felt like he was erupting from the inside. It shattered him, clawing its way through his stomach and bursting through every joint in his body like a chain reaction. Chan felt it, because as soon as Hyunjin’s breath stopped, as soon as the climax took him and his muscles locked like a vice, Chan refused to be left behind.

He slammed into him harder, sucked on his lip and whispered his name like a mantra back into Hyunjin’s waiting mouth, and when he suddenly jerked, and rutted up, and he lost the rhythm and could do nothing but ride it out, Hyunjin had never felt so full.

It took longer than usual for them both to come down from it. Hyunjin normally wanted to put as much distance between them as soon as his dick stopped leaking, and Chan was no better. But it’d been months, and so they sat in it, catching their breath with their foreheads pressed together with sweat and exhaustion and relief.

Chan moved first. He wrapped his arms around Hyunjin’s waist, locking his biceps above Hyunjin’s hips so he could stand. Hyunjin hummed and slipped his legs around Chan, biting down on the gasp when he felt him move. He hadn’t pulled out yet, and Hyunjin just blinked numbly.

“Wash up,” Chan mumbled somewhere against Hyunjin’s collarbone. Hyunjin just hummed again and let himself be carried.

Chan grunted as he opened a door in the back of the trailer, and Hyunjin blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights as they flickered on above them, brows pulling down in confusion as Chan carefully slid out of him. He felt the trickle down the back of his thighs almost immediately, and he huffed as Chan set him down on wobbling legs.

“You have a fucking shower room?” He muttered, anger already swirling in his chest.

“Main stage perks,” Chan said with a smirk. He just turned to the sink and nodded to the shower cubicle. “Towels are hanging up. Blue one’s mine.”

Hyunjin watched him wash his dick in the sink, and it was almost a shame that they didn’t talk openly about their little arrangement, because he’d have loved to see Seungmin’s reaction to his bassist being so fucking gross. It was almost attractive.

“Don’t hang around, Jisung and Changbin said they wanted to drop molly before New Order’s set.” He turned the water off and pulled his jeans back up, where he’d never taken them off in the first place, and then leaned against the counter with his usual shit-eating grin pulling at his dimples. “I’m guessing you’re watching The Smashing Pumpkins with Jeongin.”

“Obviously…” Hyunjin muttered, shrugging out of his shirt and finally kicking his jeans away from his ankle. He pushed a hand through his hair and started the water. “Oh my god, stop hovering, you can leave.”

“I’ll see you in Europe,” Chan said with a dry chuckle and pushed away from the sink to head for the door.

“Wait,” Hyunjin said, and Chan turned. “What do you mean, Europe?”

“The label didn’t tell you yet?” Chan laughed, a breathy sound dripping with feigned innocence. “We’re joint headliners for Give It A Name. Thirty cities, starting in September.”

Hyunjin should’ve been elated. Should’ve felt a burst of excitement in his chest at the prospect of touring around a continent they’d barely visited before, especially since they’d only briefly been to Germany a few times and the odd random gig in France and Italy. But all he felt was anger, a harsh, bitter, unbridled rage that Chan somehow knew about it before Hyunjin did.

“Joint headliners,” Hyunjin muttered slowly, as steam started to fill the cramped bathroom. “There’s no such thing as joint headliners. Who opens for who?”

Chan just pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek and lifted one shoulder in a listless shrug before he pulled the door open. “Guess we’ll find out in September.”

Hyunjin let out a breath and stepped into the stream of water. He closed his eyes and tried to let the heat mellow the already familiar, icy sting of a decade-long rivalry. The high of sex never lasted long, but Chan had whipped it away before Hyunjin had even washed the slick mess of his cum from his skin.

Hyunjin turned the water temperature higher and vowed to fuck him so hard before the first European gig that he had to play sitting down.