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“You’re actually insane, you know that? Fucking—padded walls and a straightjacket psychotic.”
There’s a tightly packed circle of onlookers clogging the courtyard of the POD as Felix arrives, Jeongin in tow. Jisung’s text said things were turning into a spectacle, but Felix had jogged across campus, holding out hope it wasn’t this bad. He can’t spot Chan through the spectators, their rubbery necks craning, some rising on tiptoe for a better view of the ongoing car crash. Can hardly hear him either, the harsh edge of his voice dulled by curious, gleeful whispers.
“What’s going on?”
“They’re at it again.”
“Oh god, what is it this time?”
Felix sighs, shoving through the throng of students. He’ll have to set the novelty incident board Jisung bought for their fridge back to zero. He knocks into hefty backpacks, nearly spilling someone’s coffee, while Jeongin scurries along behind him, mumbling a nervous string of ‘excuse me’s and ‘pardon me’s since Felix can’t be bothered. They should all be on their way to class anyway, not standing here gawking.
“Typical alpha. I’m not bending to your will, so I’m just crazy, right?” Minho snaps, voice clear and biting, cutting through the crowd. “Well, I’m sorry to intrude on your delusions of grandeur, but the world isn’t going to fall at your feet just for existing, no matter how much you stomp them like a toddler.”
Breaking past the wall of bodies, Felix stumbles to a halt a few feet from Chan’s flank as Jeongin, still busy issuing apologies, crashes into his back with a muffled yelp. Felix steadies Jeongin, quickly straightening his thick black-rimmed glasses before turning back to scope out the damage.
“I’m not asking anyone to fall at my feet, Minho,” Chan says, voice tight with barely controlled anger. “I’m asking you not to drag my packmate out into the yard and publicly shame him for one little mistake. I’m asking you to be reasonable.”
“I have been beyond reasonable,” Minho says, his hands on his hips. “I could have gone straight to the dean, but no—I called you first. A courtesy that I can promise will not be extended again.”
Chan’s fists are balled, brow set in a rigid line of disdain. Judging by his gray sweats and loose white tee, he rolled out of bed and grabbed the first clean clothes off the top of the hamper when Minho called. He might look a bit silly, his curly black hair frizzing at the back, if not for his smoky scent spiking, thickening the air of the courtyard.
Minho must be soaked in it. Just a few feet ahead of Chan in a much more professional ensemble of navy slacks and a University polo, somehow, he looks completely unaffected.
“You called me at the crack of dawn, demanded I get here immediately, and now you’re treating me like some kind of negligent parent because two grown adults made one stupid decision?” Chan huffs out a short, incredulous laugh. “Wow, quite the courtesy.”
“Well, it’s about time someone had a word with you. I know you’ve gotten used to special treatment, but you still need to keep your pack in line.”
A step behind Chan, Jisung’s arm is slung protectively over Changbin’s shoulders. Changbin’s eyes are lowered, his dark hair mussed and shoes unlaced. The collar of his shirt is wrinkled—half up, half down—clearly thrown on in a rush. His gaze flickers past Chan, and Felix follows it to Hyunjin, barefoot and wringing his hands behind Minho.
He isn’t close enough to be certain, but Felix is pretty positive Hyunjin’s shirt is on inside out.
“Keep them in line?” Chan snorts. “They’re a couple of college kids hooking up, you’re being ridiculous.”
Felix leans toward Jeongin as the younger omega whispers, “What happened?” his eyes darting nervously between Chan and Minho. He’s new to their pack, not familiar with the history. Witnessing for the first time a decade-long rivalry that, at this point, has become more of an annoyance to the pack than a matter of real concern. But that’s all way too much to explain right now, so he decides to stick with the current predicament.
Felix lowers his voice, keeping his eyes trained on the pair going at it. “I guess Hyunjin snuck Changbin into his dorm. But Minho,” he nods his head toward the omega squaring off with Chan. “That’s Minho. Anyway, Minho runs the Packless Omega Dorms and I guess he caught Changbin trying to climb out the window this morning.”
“Ridiculous?” Minho asks, eyebrows lifting so high they’re at risk of merging with his hairline. “You expect me to tolerate an unmated alpha slinking around my dorms? I’m supposed to jeopardize the safety of my omegas just so one of your pawns can get his dick wet?”
Indignation ripples through their pack, the air souring, and Chan’s eyes darken. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Minho.”
“It’s not an implication; it's a safety issue.” Minho’s eyes glint, devilish, his arms crossing delicately across his chest. “It sets a dangerous precedent, and if I catch him in my dorms again, my first call will be to the cops instead.”
“Changbin would never—none of my packmates would harm anyone unprovoked, you know me better than that.” Chan looks almost hurt, his stiff shoulders rounding. “He wouldn’t be in my pack if I thought he was capable of something like that.”
“That’s easy enough to believe in the safety of your pack home, I’m sure.” Minho shrugs. “But here? Surrounded by unmated omegas? God only knows with your kind.”
“Your kind?” Chan grits, his softened demeanor calcifying in a flash.
“Have you heard of any omegas going around assaulting people during their heats? Any big headlines about beta’s pleading biology defenses to try and escape conviction? Because that would be news to me.”
“If you don’t stop talking about my packmates like they’re predators, Minho,” Chan warns, voice tremulous with the effort to stay composed, “I swear to god—”
“You’ll what?” Minho challenges, head tilting.
Felix can see the muscle in Chan’s jaw tensing, keeping his teeth clenched shut.
“No, go on,” Minho presses, stepping forward. “You’ll what? Teach me a lesson? Raise a hand against me? Surely you weren’t about to issue some sort of threat.” He brings a hand to his chest, clutching at his heart in mockery, and a few giggles rise from the crowd. “Not a kind and gentle alpha pack leader such as yourself—no, that can’t be right! I mean, weren’t you just trying to convince me two seconds ago that you and all your packmates are as harmless as puppies?”
Chan shifts his weight, silence stretching between them, crushed beneath the rising tide of whispers encircling them. The corner of Minho’s lip curls higher.
Jeongin loops his arm into Felix’s, his voice low as he adds to the sea of murmurs, “Should we do something, or…?”
“No,” Felix answers firmly, gaze fixed on the two men at the center of it all. “They’ll work it out, trust me. Chan always works it out in the end.”
“This is exactly why you don’t have a pack,” Chan finally spits, nostrils flaring. “You’re fucking unbearable to deal with.”
Minho crosses his arms again, tighter this time. “I choose not to have a pack, as you very well know.”
Jeongin makes a quiet noise of interest, but Felix gives a small shake of his head, he doesn’t want to miss anything. They’ll have plenty of time later to go over the details. Some of them, at least. Like how most of the local packs have an alpha who tried, at one point or another, to court Minho. And yet, as far as Felix knows, Minho has never given a single one of them the time of day.
The funny thing about it, though, is that he and Chan have that in common. Felix used to find it ironic, how two people so different could share such a glaring similarity. Both from well-respected lineages, both capable of having their pick, and yet, neither have taken a mate.
For a long time, it baffled them. And listening to Chan suffer through his ruts alone, well, it’s borderline unbearable. So much so that Changbin had even tricked him into a few blind dates, hoping to get Chan to at least consider finding an omega.
But Changbin doesn’t trick Chan into dates anymore.
“Tch—right,” Chan scoffs. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Minho narrows his eyes. “On second thought, perhaps I’ve been far too lenient. I think this calls for a write-up.”
Changbin’s head perks up, color draining, but Chan only rolls his eyes. “It’s enough, Minho. I get it.” His gaze flits briefly to Hyunjin. “He won’t be in the dorms again. You have my word.”
Minho sighs, like his hands are tied. “I’m not so sure your word is good enough, actually.”
“This isn’t funny Minho.” Chan’s bitter expression recedes into something more cautious. “You know a write-up will fuck up his scholarship. You can’t ruin a kid’s whole life over a hookup.”
“Sometimes children need to learn hard lessons.” Minho explains, unmoved. “Be made an example of—for the betterment of everyone who comes after them.”
The whispering kicks up again. Changbin slips out of Jisung’s arms, stepping forward, only to be yanked back as Jisung catches hold of his shirt. He starts to speak, but Chan turns, cutting him off with a look of warning.
Chan turns back to Minho, brow creasing. “You’re not serious right now, come on.” He searches Minho’s face, looking for a hint of humor.
“I’m not?”
Jeongin holds his breath, tugging at Felix’s arm, but Felix shakes his head again, more insistent. Watching closely as Chan exhales, raking a hand through his hair.
“Look,” Chan says, tone softening in a bid for diplomacy. “We can talk this through, can’t we? There’s got to be something I can offer to smooth this over.”
Minho gives him a slow once-over. “Are you suggesting I’m susceptible to bribery?”
“I don’t mean—no, of course not.” Chan shifts his weight like he’s resisting the urge to pace. “Can we please just talk this over for real? Somewhere it’s easier to be level-headed?” He gestures vaguely to the crowd. “Somewhere private?”
“My head is quite level as is.”
“Goddamn it, Minho, fine.” Chan sneers. “Somewhere I can be more level-headed. Can we please talk this over somewhere my stupid, pathetic alpha brain has an easier time being rational instead of defensive? How’s that? Can we go to your office now?”
Minho’s smiling again, and it pisses Felix off. He knew it would end like this, they all did. These fights only ever end one way: Chan taking it on the chin. Rolling over and showing his belly, something he’d never do for anyone else. Not like this.
A flicker of victory burns in Minho’s eyes, scorching hot. He drags his gaze over Chan one last time, and for a split second, it almost looks like Chan flinches.
“I suppose,” Minho sighs, and muttering erupts again. He spins on his heel, directing his attention to the crowd. “Show's over folks,” he calls, like he’s closing out a performance. Felix bites the inside of his cheek, swallowing back a curse. “I believe you are all late to class.”
“Come on,” Felix huffs, hauling Jeongin toward their packmates as the students begin to disperse, some lingering just long enough to whisper among themselves before peeling away.
Chan exhales, chewing at his lip, then turns to them. He props a hand on Jisung’s shoulder. “Take him home, would you?” He digs into his pocket, fishing out his keys. “You can use my car, I’ll get an uber or something when I’m done here.”
“But, Chan—” Changbin starts.
“It’s fine, I’ll take care of it,” Chan interrupts, pressing his keys into Jisung’s palm. “Make sure Seungmin doesn’t kill him when he finds out what happened.”
“Do you really think he’s going to get a write-up?” Jeongin asks.
“Course not,” Chan smiles warmly, ruffling Jeongin’s hair. “I said I’ll take care of it. Shouldn’t you two be in class as well?” He looks between Jeongin and Felix.
“Yeah, but—”
“No more buts. I need you all to finish school already, it’s boring being the only graduate.”
“Now or never, Chan,” Minho calls from an open doorway that Felix assumes must lead to the administration wing of the POD. “I’m not waiting all day.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming, hang on,” Chan yells back, then leans in close to them. “Don’t worry, alright? Get home, get to class, and for the love of god somebody text Hyunjin and tell him to keep his head down for a bit.” He squeezes Jisungs shoulder, gives Changbin an encouraging pat. He offers a final reassuring smile, wide and dimply, then heads after Minho.
Turning back one last time, he winks just before he disappears inside.
“He thinks we’re stupid,” Jisung says flatly.
“Leave it alone, he’ll tell us when he’s ready,” Changbin says, stern as his eyes flicker to Jeongin.
“Tell us what?” Jeongin asks.
“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” Felix answers, glaring pointedly at Jisung. “Come on, we’ve gotta get to class.”
⏾
The moment Minho’s office door closes, Chan crowds him against it. Mouth watering, he takes Minho by the jaw, the hip, pressing his weight over him. There’s a soft click as Minho turns the lock—a gentle tick, like a gun being cocked—and the sound makes his heart gallop with anticipation.
“You know you could just text me when you’re horny, like a normal person,” Chan teases, tonguing Minho’s scent gland, breathing him in. His usual sweet, almost floral aroma has condensed into something more akin to cloves. It always does when Minho’s heated. Turns spicy and distinct and, much like Minho himself, impossible to ignore. It leaves a pleasant tingle in Chan’s nose.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Minho asks, letting his head fall back against the door, pushing his hip into Chan’s eager palm.
“You don’t think it’s a little twisted that your idea of foreplay involves an audience?” Chan asks, kissing a path up Minho’s throat, grinding against him.
“You want me to believe you weren’t fighting off a hard-on that whole time?” Minho wriggles a hand between them to grope Chan through his sweats. “Getting reprimanded in front of a whole crowd,” he snickers, “I’m surprised you made it to my office without cumming in your pants.”
“Fuck off,” Chan says, biting back a smile, cock twitching in Minho’s grip. “I’ve got a little self-control.”
Twisting his fists into Chan’s collar, Minho walks him backward. “Not enough to tell me no.”
“Now why on earth would I go and do a thing like that?” Chan clutches Minho’s wrists as he stumbles backward in his grip. He can’t imagine denying Minho anything, ever. Can’t even imagine wanting to. Chan’s thighs knock between two chairs before bumping into the front of the wooden desk, rattling its contents and toppling a pen organizer.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Minho hums, leaning in, the heat of his breath warming Chan’s lips. “A sense of loyalty to your pack, maybe?” Their noses brush together, sparking like static. “Duty, honor, perhaps? Something silly like that.” He presses a quick kiss over Chan’s waiting lips, then pulls away, studying his face with a look of pity. “Self-preservation, one might think.” He nips Chan’s bottom lip, hard enough to sting.
“You worried about me?” Chan clicks his tongue, smiling. “Minho, I'm touched.” He grabs Minho by the collar, mirroring his hold, and spins them in one sure motion until Minho’s the one with his back to the desk. Chan lifts him, easily, sliding him back to sit on its edge, knocking aside a supply organizer and sending a picture frame clattering to the ground.
“You need to keep it down,” Minho hisses, his eyes darting from the locked door to the gold frame on the floor. A photo of himself as a child smiles up at them. In it, Minho is sandwiched between his parents beside a campfire, their pack gathered all around, roasting marshmallows.
Chan sees contemplation steal over Minho's face, the way his features slacken, eyes fogging with memory. So he grabs his jaw, fingers firm, and forces his attention back to the present. Back where it belongs.
“I need to keep it down?” Chan asks, one thumb pressing into Minho’s lip, the other searching the front of his polo, finding the soft bud of a nipple. “Pretty sure I’m not the one we need to worry about on that front.” He pinches lightly, just enough to draw a shudder from Minho’s lips, enough to make his own belly coil with yearning. Pulls open Minho’s mouth and drags him into a kiss.
It’s familiar, the adrenaline flooding Chan’s veins. His nervously racing heart, the urgent nag of desire in his chest. He licks hard into Minho’s mouth, exploring as far as he can reach. Over his slick gums and teeth, tickling the ridges at the roof of his mouth. He could lick every inch of Minho and the thrill would never subside.
It doesn’t matter if they’ve got five minutes or five hours. Whether it’s here in the office—when they should be sorting out the ramifications, the cost of youthful indiscretion—or in some grocery store bathroom between errands. No matter how many times they do this, it’s always a rush.
The surge started swelling the moment Chan got his call. His temperature began rising instinctively, he knew what it really meant. Minho had a craving kicking in. A simmering longing, brewing over warm coals, calling out for Chan’s flame. By the time he stepped foot on campus, his skin felt made of fire, ready to bring Minho to a boil.
He undoes the buttons of Minho’s polo with practiced ease, Minho doesn’t even notice until Chan’s tugging it up. Their bodies part only for the brief moment it takes to get the shirt past their lips, then Chan’s hands are back, roaming Minho’s chest, fingertips rolling his nipples, his groin throbbing as they pebble beneath his touch. He groans into Minho’s hungry mouth, hips rising off the desk to meet Chan’s, their cocks sliding together through torturously thin layers of fabric.
“When are you gonna give up this lone wolf bullshit, huh?” Chan rasps, impatient in every way imaginable as he fumbles blindly for Minho’s hand, guiding it to the edge of his sweatpants. “You can pretend all you want, but we both know you belong on my cock.”
“It’s a nice treat now and then, but you know what they say,” Minho replies, fingers dipping into Chan’s boxers. They’re freezing—another always. One Chan expects, relishing in the icy burn of Minho’s palm sliding up and down his shaft. “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?”
“Oh, I’ll give you some milk.” Chan shivers, rolling his hips into Minho’s recoiling grip.
“Is that supposed to be sexy?” Minho asks, nose wrinkling in disgust, but Chan can see the amusement tugging up the corners of his downturned lips.
Chan leans away. “I can stop if it’s not working for you.”
Elastic snaps against his belly, stinging as Minho pulls his hand free. “That’s got to be the emptiest threat I’ve ever heard.” He grabs Chan by the collar again, yanking him close. “Take this off already, would you? It’s rude to leave me topless all by myself.”
Chan tugs his shirt off, bunching it in his hands before tossing it at Minho, who dodges—indifferent, or trying to be—letting it land on the desk behind him. But he can’t hide the way his eyes linger over Chan’s torso. The way he squirms.
“See something you like?” Chan teases.
Minho’s answer comes without words. His legs wind around Chan’s waist, ankles locking to reel him close. A needy little whine spills from his lips as he buries his face in Chan’s neck, no longer able to resist scenting him. He rubs against Chan’s skin, heavy, hedonistic, coating himself in the woodsy aroma of vetiver and pine and sucking at Chan’s scent gland until his knees feel weak.
“Fuck, Minho,” Chan whispers, raking a hand up Minho’s nape to twist into his hair. He tugs him back, nosing his head aside to scent him in return. “You know…” He trails, tongue laving a slow path down the goosebumps prickling Minho’s neck until he reaches his scent gland. “One day, I’m gonna get my teeth into you.” He blows a warm breath over the damp skin, lets his teeth graze across it. “Leave a pretty little mark on your neck and make sure everyone knows who you belong to.”
“Keep dreaming,” Minho says through a shudder.
But Chan has been. It’s all he dreams about anymore, even wide awake.
He’d let Minho keep him as his dirty little secret forever, but he can’t shake the image of them mated, the itch in his teeth. It’s pervasive, wheedling into his mind until he can’t sleep, can’t see straight. Lying in his bed all alone, staring at the ceiling while he fists his cock raw, the orange-peel texture morphing into Minho’s fleeting lips, his sharp tongue. Squeezing his own knot until he cums dry—almost painfully—because it’s been too many times, he doesn’t have a drop left in him, but he can’t stop imagining he’s in their bed, not his, and the ache persists.
“Gonna make you my little wife,” Chan hums, pressing a smirk against Minho’s swollen flesh. “Let you boss the boys around like you do best.”
“I already get paid quite well to do that,” Minho counters, reaching behind himself to slide more clutter out of the way. “Why would I offer my services for free?”
“Because,” Chan explains, making quick work of removing Minho’s belt. “I’m gonna fuck you full of pups, too.”
“Disgusting,” Minho mutters, but the hitch in his breath betrays him. He tightens his legs around Chan’s waist, lifting his hips just enough for Chan to drag down his slacks and slick-soaked boxer-briefs, then lets his legs fall, fabric pooling at his feet.
“I am,” Chan says matter-of-factly, dropping to his knees and hoisting Minho’s thighs over his shoulders. “Gonna get you nice and round for me.”
The scent of Minho’s slick has mellowed, melting into something sweet again. Like the honeysuckles that grew along the fence of Chan’s childhood home. He and his sister used to pluck those pale yellow flowers every summer. Pinching them carefully at the base, making sure not to crush the fragile blooms. They’d turn them upside down to pull free the thread-like stamen, slow and steady, drawing out a single glistening bead of nectar.
He kisses Minho’s sticky thighs, licking his lips, working his way to the well of his heavenly nectar. Flattens his tongue over Minho’s rim, spoiling himself, pressing harder, burying his face as one of Minho’s hands flies to his head, pulling his hair by the roots, his other shooting up to cover his mouth and the rumbling moan that escapes.
Sometimes Chan would spend hours harvesting those small morsels of syrup, slow and meticulous, one flower at a time. He digs his tongue into Minho’s fluttering rim, lightheaded with indulgence. He could spend a lifetime between his shaking thighs, lapping up each and every drop.
Minho yanks at Chan’s hair again, and Chan nearly growls as he’s dragged away, chin shining with slick. He scowls up at Minho, who peers down at him through glassy eyes.
“Get up here and fuck me.”
Chan doesn’t make him wait.
Shrugging Minho’s legs from his shoulders, he springs to his feet. He kisses him again, desperate, giddy, while Minho’s greedy hands shove his pants down. His cool fingers are warm when they find his cock again, hauling Chan forward by it, resting his heels in the dimples at Chan’s back, and lining him up.
Chan kisses his cheek, the quiet slope of his jaw, the sweat at his temple. He leans in and sucks Minho’s earlobe between his teeth, his cock sliding over Minho’s dripping hole, then whispers,
“I know your heat’s coming up, Minho-yah.”
The hands on Chan’s cock still, hesitating.
“I’m on suppressants.” Minho says, tone too measured, too even. “I don’t go through heats.”
“You really think I can’t tell, don’t you?” Chan pulls back, gaze locking onto Minho’s. “Five years of this, and you think I don’t know the signs?”
Minho’s expression stays guarded, his hands retreating to grip the edge of the desk, but he doesn’t shy away from Chan’s stare. “I think you need to reassess which one of us is the crazy person here.”
Chan presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, arching a brow. “So those work conferences of yours, the family reunions, illnesses…” He lets the silence hang, then nudges his cock against Minho. “The ones where you mysteriously lose cell service.” He pushes harder, just past Minho’s entrance, eliciting a quiet, stuttered inhale. “They all just so happen to fall in perfect, quarterly intervals each year?” He stays shallow, rocking slightly, watching Minho closely. “And all while your car never leaves the parking lot. That right?”
Cogs are spinning behind Minho’s eyes, whirring, frantic but precise. “I guess I can give you some credit,” he says, voice taut, attempting to conceal both his pleasure and his trepidation. But Chan smells them both. “You’re not as stupid as you look.”
Triumph flutters in Chan’s stomach. He sinks heavily into Minho, slowly, drinking in the feeble whine he exhales like ice water. Lets his palm brush Minho’s leaking cock, and gulps down more.
“So I’m right, yeah?” he coaxes, groin pressing flush to Minho.
Minho tilts back, bracing his palms on the desk to study Chan under the harsh fluorescent light. "So what?” he murmurs. “Not like it’s any of your business.”
Chan grins, digging his teeth into his bottom lip, canines flashing. “I’m just saying…” His eyes flit to Minho’s neck, back up, and he shrugs, resting his hands on Minho’s waist. “Maybe the next unmated alpha creeping around the dorms will be someone actually worth your concern, hm?” He circles the divots of Minho’s hips with his thumbs, mind clouding with fantasy. “Maybe I’ll sneak up to your room once you’re all holed up and take what’s mine.”
“Yeah right,” Minho says in a thin breath, and Chan isn’t sure if it’s fear he hears or a dare, but after five fucking years of this game he hardly cares.
He bends, crawling over Minho until he sinks onto his elbows—then further, propping a knee up to rut into him. Minho sucks down a small gasp, and Chan forces him flat, knocking it right back out of his chest, pinning him against the desk. “Yeah,” he growls against Minho’s throat, caging him between his forearms. “That’s right.”
The brutal allure of possession is intoxicating. It blackens the edges of Chan’s vision, turns it grainy and dim, like some old film he’s watching, something out of his control. He thrusts deeper, carving out a space for himself within Minho—the only one he’s sure is his—as wood creaks beneath them.
Hips pistoning faster, Chan bites down on the salty flesh beside Minho’s scent gland, frustration ricocheting inside his skull, turning his thoughts reckless. It’s right there, he could have it. Have him. Why won’t Minho let him? His trembling lips glide over sweat, over lust, up Minho’s throat, his jaw, searching for his own devotion reflecting back at him. But Minho’s expression is unreadable.
A binder tumbles over the edge of the desk, hitting the ground with a thud, and Minho whispers sharply, “Too loud.” His hand shoots out, snatching at a stack of papers, but they slip through his fingers, diving over the ledge to scatter and spiral through the air.
“Too loud?” Chan lets out a dry, humorless laugh. He grabs Minho’s thighs, pulling him along as he slides back down to stand on two feet. “Maybe I should really speed things up. Get you fired for improper conduct.” He thrusts, hard enough to send the desk skidding a few inches over cheap linoleum as Minho tenses around him, choking down a moan. “No more Resident Director apartment. Where will you go then?” Minho curses, arching off the desk, and Chan catches his hips, slamming into him again, harder, his voice rising. “I don’t think they give severance for getting your brains fucked out by your archenemy on University property.”
Minho’s hands slap over Chan’s mouth, barely stifling the burst of laughter that thunders through him. Chan only firms his grip, holding Minho in place as he picks up the pace.
“All this talk of taking…” Minho breathes, hoarse and shaky, words slipping through the smallest gasp as he rakes his nails down Chan’s arms. “And yet you keep waiting for me to submit.”
Chan falters, his jaw falling slack with disbelief. His rhythm stutters, thrown.
“I don’t want you to submit.”
He says it like a fact. Plain, undeniable. How could it be anything else? Chan’s been at Minho’s heels like a dog without a bone for half a decade. He knows better than anyone, Minho can’t be made to bend.
He cocks his head, sweat glaring off Minho’s skin, refracting under the cool lighting, tinged blue. And suddenly, it’s like he’s seeing him in a whole new light.
Doesn’t he understand?
“I just want you,” Chan says.
But again, Minho’s stare is completely indecipherable, reticent. A never-ending source of annoyance, like a goddamn pebble in Chan’s shoe or a splinter lodged under his toenail, and just as irritation threatens to spill over, Minho asks:
“Do you?”
A bark of laughter rips from Chan’s throat, abrupt, jarring even to himself. “What the hell kind of question is that?” he demands.
Minho says nothing.
Chan clutches at Minho’s face, drives into him, dizzy with confusion. His eyes widen, imploring, but Minho just watches, expectant. Waiting for an answer. Chan feels absurd, and a little like he’s about fed up with trying to solve this riddle. Like he just might be true to his word.
“I think you were right,” he mutters, forehead slumping against Minho’s chest. “I should be the one in a straightjacket because you drive me fucking crazy.” He shakes his head, tilts up, eyes narrowing. “Crazy enough to do something stupid.” His nails press into Minho’s cheeks, just slightly. “Yes, I want you, you prick. I want to drag you back home by the scruff and lock you in my fucking basement.”
“You’d have to.” Minho tightens, and Chan doesn’t see it coming—groans as unexpected pleasure charges through him when Minho swirls his hips, headstrong as ever. “Why would I want domesticity when I can have this?” He traces a finger beneath the hollow of Chan’s throat, sending a chill skittering up his spine. “You. Obsessed with me. Addicted to me. Fantasizing about breaking several laws just to have me. How could mated life compare?”
Chan laughs, low and rough, understanding settling deep in his gut.
“If you think for a second that making you my mate would make me any less insane about you, you’ve got another thing coming.” He grinds in tandem with Minho, voice dropping to a rasp against his ear. “You really believe I’d be more normal about other alphas looking at you? Being near you? If anything, it’d be worse. I already have to bite my tongue ‘til it bleeds when someone touches you, it makes my fucking skin crawl.” His breath drags hot over Minho, fingers constricting greedily around his waist. “But let me tell you—mark or no mark, I’d still break several laws for you.” He kisses the underside of Minho’s jaw, nipping at the bone. “They’d just be less breaking and entering and more hiding a body.”
Minho sighs, tipping his head out of reach. “You talk a big game,” he mutters. “You always have.”
Chan pulls back, just enough to meet his gaze. To see Minho watching him with amusement and something else. Coaching him, subtly, towards some unknown goal.
“But you never do it,” Minho continues, low and thick, like he’s testing something. “You still play by the rules.” His fingers curl into Chan’s shoulders, digging in. It might feel like derision, but that something else is there, glittering in his eyes, steady and deliberate. Leading. “I bet you’d rather wait, wouldn’t you? Wait for me to beg. To ask nicely.”
Chan’s jaw tics, and then—
“Is that what you’ve been waiting for? For me to just take you?” He collapses over Minho, rutting deep, laughing at his own stupidity because, fuck, it’s so obvious. Why didn’t he see it sooner? “God, you’re sick,” he breathes, chuckling against Minho’s damp brow.
“That’s not what I said,” Minho huffs, clenching up around Chan as he rocks into Minho, kissing his burning ears, his laughter doubling. “I didn’t say that, I just—”
“Then say you don’t want it,” Chan cuts in, trailing kisses from Minho’s temple down to the flush staining his cheek, the furious pout of his lip. “Go on. Tell me you want me to keep my teeth to myself.” He dares, nibbling the plump flesh.
Minho juts his chin, knocking him away. “And what if I did? What if I told you no?”
Too late. Chan has caught hold of a thread, and no matter how frayed or tenuous, not even pliers could pry his fingers from it.
“But your honor,” Chan bats his lashes, all wide-eyed innocence, pressing his full weight over Minho. “He can’t help his biology. He’s just a poor, pathetic alpha—how could he possibly control himself?”
Minho writhes beneath him, pushing weakly at his chest, but Chan bears down harder, cheeks dimpling with menace. “No getting the cat back in the bag now, sweetheart.” He catches Minho’s wrists, pinning them over his head. “All that attitude, and yet the truth is you just want to be held down and fucked into your place, yeah?” He bucks hard, punishingly so, and fresh slick gushes from Minho, soaking Chan’s lap. Chan laughs, breathless. “Damn, that’s really working for you, isn’t it?”
Minho’s face contorts with arousal, scrunching and furrowing. His arms twitch weakly against Chan’s grip—reflexive, an echo of defiance. Lips parting, he mouths at empty air, choking down the traitorous sounds of his own suffocating pleasure.
“Want me to remind you what a helpless little omega you really are, baby? Is that it?” Chan’s gaze flickers to Minho’s throat, cock throbbing, knot threatening to swell at the mere sight of it. “’Cause I’ll rip you open right here on your own fucking desk. March you out onto the lawn and see what the students have to say this time.”
Minho lets out a strained whimper—so rare from his lips that Chan almost thinks he imagined it. Until he licks over Minho’s scent gland, and Minho whimpers again, his cock struggling weakly between them, desperate for friction.
Chan releases his wrists, arms winding around him instead, hauling him up, hooking his shoulders from behind to force him into his rough, driving thrusts. Minho clings to him—a jolt of electricity arcing within Chan’s arms, crackling and hissing, sending temptation surging through him, burning bone-deep, charred and black.
“Chan-ah, wait—” Minho murmurs, but Chan captures his lips, swallowing the words before they can take shape. Their tongues tangle, wanton and messy, taking, taking, taking—both of them, devouring the last of their restraint. Chan doesn’t know if Minho means it, if it’s some last-minute feint meant to test him. But he’s wasted too much time waiting for an invitation that was never coming.
He won’t waste any more.
Heartbeat hammering in his teeth, Chan rips his mouth away, plunging to Minho’s throat. His vision blurs with gluttonous desire, knot swelling, pounding furiously into perfect warmth—Minho fluttering, seizing up around him.
“Mine,” Chan snarls into the crook of Minho’s neck. “My omega.” And Minho’s cock pulsing, trapped between them, is all the permission he needs. He forces his knot past the tight clutch of Minho’s rim, locking them together. Stretches his jaw wide. Sinks his teeth deep into his omega.
It’s like biting into ice cream, the piercing shock of it. The taste of honeysuckle, saccharine-sharp, lancing through his teeth, burrowing down to the roots. Chan’s eyes squeeze shut, sound dulling as his orgasm crashes over him. His hips grind into Minho, chasing relief through splintering nerves.
Minho spasms, milking his knot as he cums, and the shared euphoria just barely blunts the pain radiating through Chan’s jaw. Aching, altering. Destroying the Chan who existed solely as an alpha. Rebuilding him into one half of a whole.
When Chan finally retracts his teeth, Minho is shivering violently in his arms, blood somehow everywhere. It isn’t until he shifts, turning to sit on the edge of the desk—Minho straddling his lap, still locked together—that he realizes his whole body is shaking too.
Woozy, he gropes blindly across the desk until his fingers find his shirt. He bundles it up, pressing it against the blood seeping from Minho’s neck. Against the mating mark.
“Minho-yah?” Chan whispers, tilting him back, ducking below his hanging head to catch his eyes. “You okay?”
Minho nods, pupils blown wide, slowly shrinking as he refocuses. “Yeah, I—” He blinks rapidly, searching for words. “I think I am.”
“You’re not…” Chan hesitates, already dreading the answer before the question fully forms. “You’re not mad, are you? I mean, it’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Minho is still for a beat, lips pressing together, the weight of the moment settling between them.
Then, he scoffs a sharp puff of air right over Chan’s mouth before straightening. He swats Chan’s hand away, snatching the shirt and dabbing it over his wound. “We’re going to have to work on this insecurity problem of yours.” He rolls his shoulders, shaking off the haze. “I can handle it in bursts, but I don’t have the patience for it full-time.”
“Oh whatever, that’s enough out of you.” Chan tightens his arms around Minho, ignoring his half-hearted resistance, nosing at him until their lips meet.
Minho sighs against him, a barely-there exhale, and the tension seeps from his limbs. His wound clotted, he discards the blood-soaked shirt, arms slipping around Chan’s neck, his body yielding, pliant.
Sweeping his tongue over Minho’s, Chan tastes his mate’s warm breath for the first time. Sweet, heady nectar, tinged with copper from the blood still slick on Chan’s lips. Minho melts into him, kissing slow, almost tender, and a flutter of heat unfurls low in Chan’s belly, molten and vast.
“You taste good,” Minho purrs.
Chan hums, licking into his mouth again. “I taste like you.”
“Exactly.” Minho pecks his nose. “But we probably ought to get cleaned up.”
Chan peers past Minho at the door, suddenly nervous. “Do you think anyone heard? I sort of went deaf when I did it, did you… I don’t know—yell or anything?”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Minho asks, like he very much thinks Chan is. “No one’s working in the office today but me.”
Chan scowls, exhaling through his nose and squirming as their connection starts to ease.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Minho tuts, trailing a lazy finger down the back of Chan’s neck, pressing into the smooth skin. “We have to figure out how I’m going to get us clean clothes without looking like we’ve committed a murder.”
“Or, you know,” Chan mutters, fighting off a grin. “A salacious sexual ritual in the heart of a college campus.”
“That too,” Minho says, adjusting his grip on Chan’s shoulders, carefully lifting himself until they part. He winces as he stands, rubbing his thighs where they’d been hooked around Chan’s waist too long. “If we time it right, we can take the stairwell.”
Chan reaches for Minho’s hips again, flexing his hands over them. “To where?” he asks, steering him back into his lap, settling him sideways.
“Up to my apartment, obviously.”
Chan’s eyes widen with interest. “Oh wow, I finally get to see it? First and last time, I guess.”
“Excuse me?”
Chan shrugs, brushing a damp strand of hair from Minho’s face. “It’s alright, we don’t have to pack it all at once. We can do it in trips.”
Minho glowers at him. “I’m not giving up my campus apartment.”
“I guess you don’t have to.” Chan leans in, lips grazing the hinge of Minho’s jaw. “It’d be nice to have a place to crash that’s our own now and then. But we should still get most of it over to the house.”
Minho wiggles away from him, glaring, but Chan can feel the heat of it fading, melting at the edges as his fingers trail up Minho’s spine.
“Do we really have to do this?” Chan sighs dramatically, nuzzling into Minho’s neck. “Because I can pick up a padlock for the basement on the way home, but I was really hoping to keep you in my bed.” He noses at Minho’s ear, catching the lobe between his teeth, tugging gently. “Easier access and whatnot.”
Minho shivers, just barely, but when he speaks, he’s fully composed. “Three nights a week.”
“Five.”
“Four,” Minho counters, narrowing his eyes. “But we tell anyone who asks that you had to beg and grovel on your knees to have me.”
“Deal.” Chan grins, eyes crinkling into crescents. He extends a pinky, and Minho squints at it, wary, but reaches out anyway. Just before their fingers meet, Chan pulls his hand back with a smirk.
Minho deadpans. “Are you serious?”
Chan looks Minho hard in the eye, fond to the point of reverence. So much so that the whole morning hardly feels real. Any second now he’s going to startle awake, alone again beneath the orange-peel ceiling over his bed.
“I fucking love you, you know that?”
Minho blinks. “Of course you do, who wouldn’t?” he answers quickly, but his ears flush red as he thrusts his pinky forward again, expectant.
Chan dodges it, raising an eyebrow.
“God, you’re so needy.” Minho groans, rolling his eyes. “I love you too, alright? Now, can we go get changed before I start rethinking my life choices?” He waves his pinky at Chan again, more insistent this time.
Chan takes it at last, pressing their fingers together, locking them in a firm shake. “Of course, whatever you want,” he says, mischief curling on his lips. “Happy wife, happy life, isn’t that what they say?”
Minho yanks his hand free, balling his fist to pound Chan’s chest, but it only makes Chan cackle harder, his whole body shaking with it. Still, when Chan reels him back in, his hold tight, steady, Minho lets him.
“You’re insufferable,” Minho mutters, winding his arms around Chan’s waist like it’s instinct. Like he belongs there.
“And yet, here you are.” Chan’s grin presses against Minho’s shoulder, sticky with sweat and drying blood.
“We seriously need to get upstairs, though. I need to get this wound cleaned, god knows where your mouth has been.”
Chan chuckles, finally easing his grip, then glances at the gruesome teeth marks ringing Minho’s scent gland. His smirk falters. “You’re okay, though? For real?”
Minho exhales, slower this time. He shifts in Chan’s lap, pressing his fingers lightly to the mark on his neck, like he’s just now realizing it’s there. His lips part slightly, but whatever thought crosses his mind, he swallows it back.
“I already told you,” he says instead, gaze meeting Chan’s, unwavering. “I think I am.”
That’s enough for Chan—for now.
He presses one last kiss to Minho’s throat, feeling his pulse jump beneath his lips. Then he pats Minho’s thigh. “Alright then, Mrs. Bang, let’s go get you something fresh to wear.”
Minho shoves at him, harder this time. “I am going to kill you before this mark even sets.”
Chan barks a laugh, catching Minho’s wrist before he can actually land a hit. “But then you’d be a widow, and we just started our honeymoon phase.”
Minho slides off Chan’s lap with a withering look, swiping the ruined shirt off the desk and tossing it straight at his face. “I don’t have the patience to argue with you while I’m covered in blood and cum.”
Chan wipes the shirt over his chin looking exceptionally smug. “Not the first time you’ve said that.”
Minho doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Get your pants on,” he orders, stooping to retrieve his own from the ground. “Worst case scenario, I can explain away your toplessness, but you need to at least put your dick away.”
Chan snorts, using his shirt to clean the remnants of blood on his chest, Minho’s cum drying on his belly. “I’m sorry—” He pauses, fabric bunched in his grip. “You can explain away my toplessness?”
“I’m very persuasive,” Minho replies, buttoning his slacks. He scoops up Chan’s sweats from the floor and chucks them at his chest. “Now come on, we’ve got a lot of explaining to do. Your pack has to be wondering where the hell you are.”
Chan groans, yanking on his sweatpants. “You know what? Maybe you should keep the apartment.”
“Pathetic,” Minho mutters, tugging his polo back into place.
“I am!” Chan throws up his hands. “When I’m not fucking you, I get to be the pathetic one—that’s our whole bit.”
Minho sighs, striding back to the desk, draping himself over Chan’s chest and smearing a thumb over the blood still lingering on his lips. His voice drops, softer now, satisfied. “You made your bed,” he murmurs, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss over Chan’s lips.“Now bring me home to it, Mrs. Bang.”
“Fine,” Chan grumbles. “But I get to do the talking.”
"Oh, absolutely the fuck not," Minho smirks, teeth closing around his alpha’s grinning bottom lip—his mate’s—and sinking in deep.