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“Hey hyung, we’re gonna take some selfies,” says Seungmin. “Wanna come with?”
Minho waves them away. “Nah, I just need to catch a breather. You guys go ahead.”
“K, K. We’ll see you in the car, hyung.”
“Yeah, go.”
They troop out, leaving Minho to finish packing up. He peels off his costume. Gets into his track pants. Pulls a fresh t-shirt over his head.
He spies Changbin’s earphones case left on the table. Minho shakes his head. Clearly a display of too much money and not enough brains. Forget his own head next, that one. Minho picks it up and drops it into his bag.
He’s a little winded. Wound up. His insides buzz with a restless energy. He’s still riding a high from the cheers of the crowd. The thrill of performing with his best friends in front of a sea of people.
That’s the thing about fanmeets. They’re so intimate. The stage is smaller, everyone’s faces are clearer. It’s funny how he always feels like they’re a lot more watched than in concerts with thousands of people.
He throws a couple more this-and-thats into his bag. Starts walking to the bathroom because where the hell are his brand new makeup wipes. Pulls out his phone to send a group chat message demanding that whoever stole them better confess. Gets distracted and taps on Twitter. Minho scrolls up. Snorts. Yeah, OK. That’s why. ‘Cause everything’s so much clearer in close contact, super high definition.
He stops. Holds his phone further away from his face. Squints at it critically.
Wow, the Troublemaker duet turned out better than he thought it would. Subtle. Very tame of course. It’s not like they can go full out and have the tabloids talking. Everyone wants to see boy on boy action until it gets too real. Heh. But not bad!
The door clicks open. Clips shut. Footsteps get louder behind him.
Minho rolls his eyes. “It’s in my bag,” he calls out. “You’re welcome.”
Arms wrap around his waist. Then he’s pulled into the front of someone’s rock hard body. A face pushes itself into the side of his neck. It mumbles, “But I didn’t thank you yet.”
Minho sniff-smirks, shoulders shrugging themselves up and down with the huff of breath. He slides his palm from mystery person’s elbow to wrist before threading their fingers together.
“What for, hyung?”
Chan pulls Minho in a little closer. Shifts forwards so his crotch is flush against Minho’s bum. He’s… rock hard all right.
“Hyung?!” Minho starts, turning himself around.
At least he tries to. Chan keeps him pinned in place. “For making me pop a boner in public. Did you think that was funny?”
Chan’s voice is low. Barely a whisper into his skin. It sends goosebumps across his arms. He can feel every hair on his body spike.
Like they’re standing to attention.
Like his body’s just detected something dangerous is about to happen.
“Hyung, don’t be silly.” Minho keeps his words neutral. The tone of his voice even neutral-er. Getting caught having a quickie backstage in the changing rooms is not on his calendar tonight.
“You know,” says Chan conversationally, arms around Minho like a vice. “You know what I know that you know, Lee Know-ya?” He nips the soft, squidgy bit of ear next to Minho’s earring. Slides one rough, warm palm past the waistband of Minho’s pants and right around the bulge of his clothed dick.
Minho jumps a mile. At least he would if he could. Since he can’t, he jolts a bit in Chan’s arms instead, and makes a mffphgx! sound.
“Hyung!” he hisses. “Someone is going to walk in! Have you lost your mind?”
“I think you know that Troublemaker really suits you,” Chan continues, oblivious to the fact they’re in two separate conversations. “I think you know, the word ‘Troublemaker’ defines you.” He licks a line up Minho’s neck, all the way to his ear, until Minho squirms. “I think you know… you’re a Troublemaker.”
Minho wriggles a bit. Tries to pull octopus-Chan off him. “What are you talking about?” He tsks. Knits his eyebrows into a frown. “Hyung, c’mon, move! Someone’s gonna see!”
“That doesn’t seem to have been high on your list of considerations when you sat that ass right on my dick in front of the whole world, Minho-ya. Do you know what kind of nasty shit they're saying we're going to do to each other on Twitter?"
Chan’s hand graduates from outside-underwear groppage to inside-underwear fun. He rolls Minho’s bits and pieces in the cup of his fingers. Makes Minho see stars and suck in a breath, as sharp as the spike of arousal that stabs itself into his belly.
“I don’t think,” Chan decides, “you cared about people seeing, when you were parading yourself in front of other men like that.”
“Other men?” Minho scoffs. “Hyung, you’re insane.” He tries one last valiant struggle before giving up, because Chan does too many bench presses even on leg day. “That’s Hyunjinnie and you knew we were performing this, and did you see how low-key that was?”
Chan rubs his lips into the nape of Minho’s neck. Noses up the back of his head. Breathes in his hair. Mmms when Minho shudders against him and exhales a ragged breath.
“But I’ve never seen you perform it and you looked so good, good enough to eat Minho-ya.” He pulls Minho’s tshirt down his shoulder with his teeth then sucks down hard. “Why do you have to drive me so crazy?”
“Oh my god! Stopitstopitstopit!” Minho complains. “Hyung! I think I have off-the-shoulder stuff happening tomorrow, oh my fucking god!”
“You promised me a massage, you brat. You promised me. Everyone saw," Chan accuses, all his brains in his cock, nothing left for his ears. “You shouldn’t have shot me if you didn’t want my attention. Twitter says it’s going to be a dick massage.”
Chan stops. His mouth stops talking and his fingers stop moving, because he’s only a better multitasker than Changbin. He looks up because big thoughts need big alpha waves. Minho clicks his tongue and bucks his hips a tad, because he never said he hates Chan’s hands down his pants.
“You could say,” Chan says slowly, “your moves, they were asking me for attention… and then I lost it.”
Minho can feel Chan beam into the back of his head, so bright it gives him sunburn. Super proud of himself for being the biggest dork in the world. Minho barks out a laugh, throwing his head back. Chan’s head moves out of the way, well practiced, so Minho’s skull hits Chan’s shoulder instead of giving him a bloody nose.
“God, you’re so lame!” He laughs, chest heaving. “I can’t believe we’re friends! Hyung, please!”
“I’m your lame,” Chan says indignant. Then he’s burrowing his face into the crook of Minho’s neck. Kissing up his jaw. Pushing at his ear with his head so Minho has to tilt and give Chan more access.
“Minho-yaaa,” he murmurs, lips making those plush, smacking sounds that Minho can’t help but want to reciprocate. “My Minho.” Chan sighs, swaying his hips a little. "I really do only have you."
If Minho melts at that, just a smidge, no one needs to know.
“Won’t you take care of hyung?” Chan whispers. “Just this once? I’ve missed you so, so much you know?”
Minho ughs. Rolls his eyes. “Look,” Minho says, “look, hyung, we can talk about this OK? Like grown-ups with self control.” He gives up on the escape-from-Chanland agenda and starts working on get-to-the-bathroom goals. Just in case people, and all that. He shuffles them forwards. One small step for them, one giant leap towards keeping their careers intact.
Chan makes happy, whiny noises behind him, agreeable enough to finally let go a little. Minho turns. Hoops his arms around Chan’s neck. Walks them backwards. Smiles against Chan’s lips when he leans into Minho’s space to kiss him again and again.
Chan sucks on his bottom lip. Chases after Minho’s mouth when he breaks away to pull Chan into himself – hands fisting either side of Chan’s track pants – Minho’s back against the bathroom wall.
“We gotta make it quick,” Minho says, hooking his thumb into the side of Chan’s waistband and pulling it down. “Cars are gonna be here any minute.” He strokes his palm up and down Chan’s hardness. His fingers ooh at the tenderness of his balls when they bump into them. They travel a little lower to massage themselves into his taint because he likes seeing Chan’s eyes roll to the back of his head and his Adam’s apple bob up and down.
“No blowies,” Chan pants, mouth back on Minho’s, one hand tugging Minho’s dick, the other pulling at an ass cheek, fingers digging into the toned flesh of Minho’s bum. Kneading. Sincere. Like if he pulls it open wide enough, his dick will magically pop in. “I want the butt stuff.”
“Real suave, hyung,” Minho says, muffled into Chan’s mouth. “How’d I land such a Casanova?”
Where was this last week when he was serving himself in front of Chan on a silver platter, practically begging to get dicked down. Just about stalking their idiot, can’t-take-a-hint leader from the dorms to Chan’s Room, to the dance studios, to every-fucking-where. And getting zero dickenings for his trouble.
“Butt stuff,” Chan repeats. “I want, I want, I want it!”
“Well we can’t,” Minho snaps, a bit testily, because it’s been a while, and now he really wants some. “No one’s ready for that kind of thing.”
“Thighs, thighs, thighs,” breathes Chan. He squishes Minho against the wall. Rubs their cocks together with the roll of his hips. Keeps Minho’s mouth open with a pinch of fingers on his chin while he tastes him, because Chan always maintains that a sloppy Minho is a very, very pretty Minho. “Keep your thighs closed for me, Minho-ya, c’mon baby, I’ll be super neat and tidy about it, I swear.”
It’s not like beggars can be choosers, Minho supposes. And they’re so goddamn busy all the time. “Fine, fine, fine! Hurryhurryhurry.”
Chan’s palms are warm, wrapped around Minho’s hips. When he twists them, Minho turns. Then leans himself onto his hands, elbows bent so he can jut his ass out.
Chan rucks Minho’s shirt halfway up his back. Runs the flat of his hand down his spine. Squeezes an ass cheek. Then Minho hears Chan spit, before the wet, clammy, cool of his dick slides between his cleft.
Mmm, this is nice. Minho relaxes his chest into the backs of his hands, shoulders pressed hard into the wall. Chan has a hand on Minho’s back and all his body weight behind it. Just how Minho likes.
He circles his hips. Then spreads his legs and uses his hand to trap Chan’s cock against the underside of his body. Nice and snug.
Twin moans fill the tiny, ceramic bathroom.
Chan shits and fucks. He yes, yes, yeses. Minho imagines his knuckles must turn white when he tries to pull Minho’s hips lower, so he can fuck up higher. The velvety slide of his dick is really, really nice. So, so, yummy.
“Hyung,” Minho groans, when Chan’s shaft rubs against the twist of his opening, and the bulge of his head digs into his taint. “This is so fucking good.”
It’s an admission that he maybe shouldn’t have made, because the next thing Minho knows, Chan has his cock in his hand, and he’s nudging the head of it against Minho’s entrance. His pelvis makes little rocking motions. His nose burrows into Minho’s ear.
“Please, Min,” Chan moans, “Please, please, please!”
He bucks his hips a little harder. His dickhead squidges against Minho’s rim. Minho pushes back because he has so much self-control, that pushing back is just a bit of friction. That’s all it is.
“We can’t, hyung.” He mewls, low and long, when Chan does it again and again. Rougher this time, so he feels the wrinkle of his hole part and wink over and over.
“Just the tip,” Chan promises. “Jagiyaaa,” he croons, all throatiness and hot breath by Minho’s nape. “Just a teensy, tiny bit for your hyung, I won’t put it in, I swear, baby please!”
“Just the tip,” Minho agrees, “but that’s it, OK?” He gasps, eyes closed, lower back arched so deep the top of his ass could balance a cup of tea. Channie hyung, after all, has just as much self control as he does, Minho reasons, so it should be OK. They’re amazing at this stuff. If there were awards for self control in their group, they should be named The Hyung & Hyung Awards by default.
“OK, OK, OK, baby I love you so much, so much, love you! God! You’re the best!” Chan babbles, dick at the ready. He reaches his hand over to Minho’s lips. Sticks two fingers into his mouth. Feels around. “Spit,” he instructs.
When Minho complies, Chan retrieves his hand. Adds to it. Then the lightest, sweetest, softest thrusts breach Minho’s ring. He breathes in the intrusion. Lets Chan deliver himself – taper and flare – just past the entrance to the warmth of his insides.
“Good, good, good, good, good!” Minho purrs, pelvis bucking. “Move, hyung, move!”
They say, hindsight is 20/20. Minho figures out what this means when he realizes that “move” can mean very different things to different people.
Take for example, his Channie-hyung’s definition of “move”.
In hindsight, Minho observes, it must mean, ‘shove your dick all the way up my ass to the hilt, and please forget all about that just-the-tip stuff. That stuff’s stupid and no longer applies.’
Minho yells bloody murder when Chan shoves his whole-ass cock into Minho’s ass, balls deep. Then grinds himself so hard against the split of Minho’s hole that he sees stars.
“Shhh!” Chan’s hand comes up to cover Minho’s mouth. He pulls his length all the way out, then slams himself back in. The smack of skin on skin seems deafening in the clandestine of their obscenity. “They'll hear us!”
“You psycho!” Minho throws his head back, the ah, ah, ah of his voice staccato and high, lead by the metronome of Chan’s hips. “Are you trying to kill me, hyung?!”
In response, Chan rams himself into Minho’s body, pumping the air out of his lungs in the process.
Minho leans further down. Pushes his ass out a bit more. “I hate you, hyung!” he wheezes. Spreads his legs a modest amount, for whatever reason. “I'm going to kill you!”
“I'm so sorry, baby! So, so sorry!” Chan grunts. “So, fucking sorry! I'll make it up to you, I swear, Minho-ya!”
Chan's cock is so stupidly good and Minho hasn’t been stretched out properly in so long. To make matters worse, Minho’s been brought up well so he wouldn't know how to waste good things if it bit him in the leg. So he’s forced to let Chan make it up to him, sex noises tumbling from their lips.
“More, hyung, more!” Minho cries. Because, well they're here, after all, and Chan’s technique – like everything he does – is a delicious kind of precision. So, he'll have to remember to deal with the betrayal later.
Chan closes a hand around Minho’s dick. Wraps the other one around his shoulder, yanking his upper body up for a steeper arch and deeper penetration.“You like it like this, jagi?” He lilts. “Do you like it when hyung loves you like this?”
Minho lets Chan’s movements bob his head up and down. He's going to regret this so bad tomorrow when the full schedules back to back and another fanmeet comes to haunt him.
“You're so beautiful, Min!” Chan says, stating the obvious. “I'm close, so fucking close, come for me baby, yeah? Can you come for hyung?”
Fucking finally. The combination of Chan’s dick in his ass and Chan’s hand around his dick is potent. The expanse of arousal curled around his belly, cock, and balls squeezes – tight, tighter, tightest! The pin pricks of pre-orgasm scuttle over his skin. It shrinks his skull. Tightens his muscles until he can feel and hear Chan thrashing behind him in ecstasy.
Minho is feeling it. He’s ascending. He’s nearly there. “Oh my god!” he moans, “Oh my fucking g–”
A bang bang bang that nearly takes the door of the dressing room down has them both jumping out of their skins. Minho yelps, aborting it halfway when he bites onto Chan’s hand that flies to his lips to shut him up.
“Chan hyunggggg,” Jeongin screeches, “Minho hyung?? Where are you guys?”
The pounding of the door continues.
“Are you in here?”
“Uh, no?” Chan manages to squeak.
Minho tries not to laugh. He bites Chan's hand harder.
Chan hisses. Pulls Minho towards himself to rest his forehead on his shoulder. Kisses the side of his neck.
“Guys! Manager hyung is pissed, c’mon!”
His footsteps hurry away.
Minho pulls himself off Chan. Hikes up his pants. Shoves Chan aside when he tries to cuddle him in apology. Elbows him out of the way when he tries to kiss him. Then limp-stalks out of the dressing room, and all the way to the front door of the building.
*****
“I'm sorry, Minho-ya,” Chan says, contrite.
“Tell me how I’m going to dance tomorrow, Christopher.”
Chan winces. He’s being Christophered. That’s never good news. “I really am sorry though?” Chan looks like a kicked puppy.
Chan tries to hold Minho’s hand. Minho sweeps it out of the way. Outside, the sound of screaming girls swells temporarily, like a Minchan moment has been detected and caught on 4K resolution. Chan tucks his hand away, lips as downturned as his eyebrows.
Bodyguards and manager hyungs get the thumbs up to usher them out. Doors are opened and Minho and Chan step outside to the sound of cat calls and fangirls.
“I love you, Minho,” Chan whispers as he walks past Minho to go to the second car in waiting.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Minho demands.
Chan pauses. “Uh… home?”
“Not in that car, you’re not.”
Minho drags Chan along by the elbow. Lugs him to his car hosting the rest of Savageracha and one-half of Meowracha and practically kicks him in, slamming the door behind them.
Outside, the crowd goes wild.
“Hey Chris” says Felix, looking up from his phone.
“Hey,” says Chan, sheepish.
Felix glances from Chan to Minho, then back at Chan. “Long night ahead?” he hazards.
Chan steals a side-eye at Minho next to him. He looks tight-lipped and pissed. Cross-armed and murderous. Dangerous and so, very, ridiculously sexy.
Chan swallows. Crosses his legs. Places his hands over his lap for good measure. Tries to breathe normally.
“I sure hope so!”