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4:42am. Chan’s phone screen was uncomfortably bright, far too blinding for the inky blackness of the bedroom. He barely had time to see the numbers before his eyes flew shut again, his head falling to the side with a quick and quiet groan. Uncomfortable, uncomfortable, uncomfortable. Everything about the room was so goddamn uncomfortable.
His hair was getting longer, plastered to the back of his neck, damp with sweat; the soft curls might as well have been barbed wire, with the way they tore at his skin. His clothes felt as though they were made of sandpaper, scratching and itching and constricting as they rubbed against him.
The room was freezing, and yet he was drenched in sweat. His skin was ice-cold to the touch, but even the thinnest blanket felt like a steam-iron, gliding across his skin, melting it, burning it, distorting it; everything was wrong, everything was just… fuck it.
He tossed his phone to the side with a quiet sigh, his eyes casting to the right, aimed at the most uncomfortable part of it all— Minho. One of his closest friends in the world, someone he loved and trusted like a brother. They were certainly no strangers to sharing a bed; this wasn’t even close to the first time the pair had had an impromptu sleepover at Minho’s house, staying up far too late, far too exhausted, tipsy, stoned, or all of the above for Chan to even dream of driving home. They had finally retired to bed around 2am, when Minho was yawning as much as he was speaking, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Chan had followed him up to bed, though he himself wasn’t even remotely tired. He had been trying desperately to sleep, but for whatever reason, he just… fucking… couldn’t.
Initially, he would have chalked it up to his sensory overload keeping him awake. But a new competitor had entered the ring— a challenger that Chan couldn’t even begin to take.
“Fuck… hyung…” the muffled little whine came from his right. Chan’s eyes readjusted to the darkness slowly, the green spots still floating in his vision from his phone screen’s bright assault. As the colors cleared, and Minho’s little frame began to take shape once again, Chan watched the blankets stir, listened intently to the muffled whines as Minho slowly began to rut his hips against the mattress. It was heaven and hell, pure delicious torture; it was his favorite song and a goddamn earworm all at once— and Chan was completely helpless. There was nothing he could do; Minho wasn’t his, after all.
Minho’s soft moans continued, amplified by the sterile silence of the bedroom and the ringing in Chan’s ears. Each little noise was so soft and sweet; if they had only remembered to turn the fan on when they came up to bed, Chan likely wouldn’t have even heard it. And yet every aspect of it was absolutely deafening, the cries pounding in his skull like the heart in his chest. If Chan had felt feverish before, by now he was burning alive, baking, boiling, ready to be served on a silver platter for Minho’s consumption.
Chan felt that all-too-familiar warmth pooling in his gut, felt his pants constricting even tighter, the fabric bunching and twisting, dragging and torturing, as he listened to the devilish serenade of Minho’s whiny little pleas. His eyes snapped shut, his hand flying between his legs, strong fingers pressing against his cock in a futile attempt to relieve some pressure. Just to take the edge off, he reasoned, teeth latching around his bottom lip to make sure he stayed quiet. To make sure Minho stayed asleep.
The mattress began to shake, just the slightest little bit, a desperate little bounce as Minho grinded pathetically against it. Pathetic. The word echoed in his mind, spit from his tongue with a snarling hatred. Soft and pliant, so sweet and vulnerable, whining and pleading and moaning in their shared bed, Minho was fucking pathetic.
“Please, Channie…” and Chan’s eyes flew open, his teeth sinking hard into his lip. On pure instinct, he pressed his hand harder between his legs, his mouth pooling with blood or saliva or some combination of the two at the mere mention of his name. His body acted long before his mind, and before he could think it through, he was towering over Minho, sleeping soundly, so soft and malleable underneath him; Chan’s eyes roamed over Minho’s sleeping form, one hand lightly resting atop Minho’s hip, feeling, touching, guiding, as he lightly pushed the boy’s hips just a little harder against the mattress. He couldn’t help but lean closer, lips ghosting over the soft, warm expanse of Minho’s neck, pressing a gentle kiss just below his ear.
“Shh… be good for me, Min. Go back to sleep.” He instructed, nevermind the fact that Minho hadn’t woken up to begin with. It didn’t matter, really; none of it did. Minho certainly didn’t matter. The power that Chan held was addictive, intoxicating, his imagination running like a rabbit at the thought of forcing himself on Minho, of taking him far beyond where either of them had ever dared to go, of giving Minho a reason to moan his name.
His lips crept along Minho’s neck, kissing, licking, daring to bite, as his fingers made their way underneath the younger boy’s waistband. He sat up slowly, careful not to disrupt his friend’s blissful slumber, and gently lifted Minho’s hips, guiding his clothes down to his knees. He let him back down gently, and Minho immediately began to whimper again, rutting at the mattress and crying out for his hyung. Fucking pathetic.
Two fingers in his mouth, nice and wet. Two fingers inside Minho, sweet and slow. Chan leaned down, lips once again finding their way to Minho’s neck as he laid down beside him. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately— if Minho were awake, he’d almost certainly be begging for more, crying that it wasn’t enough. Chan took the back of Minho’s shirt between his teeth, suppressing a groan at the thought. But he had an agenda, he knew he couldn’t wake Minho— what would he even say? What would either of them say?
No, this had to stay a secret. There were no backup plans, no alternate arrangements. Chan didn’t have a choice; he had to keep this secret to himself, locked away from the world, locked away from his best friend, from the person that it affected the most. He felt his fever burning hotter, the delirium growing in his mind as he spread his fingers further, gently slipping another one inside.
Chan felt like he was on fire; the fever in his brain, the thrill of knowing just how wrong he was, the danger of waking Minho up. He imagined the look on Minho's face, the soft confusion as he stirred, the way the sleepy bliss would transform into palpable fear, the way he’d start a fight he’d surely lose. Chan would easily overpower him, pin him to the bed, force him to take, and take, and take. Chan couldn’t fight off his grin, biting hard into Minho’s shirt, teeth grazing his skin as he did. Soft, sweet, warm, he thought. Just like Minho.
He tugged on the shirt with his teeth, just enough to briefly pull the collar taut around Minho’s neck, earning him another pathetic whine before letting it go altogether, the shirt dropping with a light snap as it ripped free of Chan’s teeth. He withdrew his fingers from Minho’s body, licking them clean with a maniacally happy groan. Thank God that Minho was a heavy sleeper.
His spit-soaked fingers wrapped his cock through the front of his pants— gripping, tugging, teasing— before shuffling his own pants down and off, tossing them somewhere over the side of the bed. Left leg over Minho’s hips, elbows on either side of his head, careful to keep his weight off of him, careful to avoid doing anything that might wake his sleeping beauty; well, almost anything.
It was all Minho’s fault, anyway, Chan reasoned, as he lined himself up against Minho’s warm, waiting body. He pushed inside slowly, with a sharp hiss, his head falling forward limply at the soft, tight heat that met him. The resistance was delicious, so tight it was almost uncomfortable, even after Chan’s oh-so-gracious prepping. Act like a fucking whore, get treated like one.
In that moment, he hated Minho, despised him with every fiber of his being. His best friend, who he loved more than anything in the world, who loved him more than anything in the world. He thought of Minho’s big brown eyes, so soft and trusting, always glimmering with playful mirth whenever he looked at Chan. Chan threw his head back, biting the inside of his cheeks hard to suppress the maniacal laugh that threatened to wrack his body. If he would only look at him now… Minho’s whole world would shatter. The softness would mold into serrated steel, the trust would shatter like glass. That ever-present sparkling joy would be wiped away, leaving only fear and hurt behind. And Chan fucking loved it.
He would never hurt Minho, of course not. No, Chan was doing this for Minho. It was for his own good, really. Sweet little Minho, so tortured by his wet dream, begging so sweetly for his hyung to take him. Really, Chan was only doing what he was asked.
“It’s just the tip, baby. I promise. You can take it, can’t you Minho?” Chan teased as he began to slowly thrust inside him, grinning wildly when Minho whined in his sleep. “Shh, baby. Behave. It’s barely anything, Min. You’re fine.”
As Minho began to stir, only slightly roused from his slumber, Chan slowed his thrusts, gently shushing him again, urging him back to sleep. His voice was far too soothing for the circumstance the pair found themselves in, though Minho was none the wiser, drifting off again under Chan’s gentle guidance.
“There you go, that’s a good boy, baby. I told you, you’re fine. You’re fine. Doing so good for me.”
With Minho asleep underneath him again, quiet and pliant and so damn helpless, Chan once again began to thrust inside him. Nice and slow, he kept his promise. Just the tip, baby.
Chan pulled out for just a moment, just long enough to lay himself behind Minho, his hand moving to Minho’s wrist, freeing his left hand from where it was wrapped around a plushie. Very gently, he guided Minho’s arm behind his back, his fingers moving to rest over top of Minho's as he guided his hand to his cock.
Minho’s hands were small, but warm. His little fingers wrapped around Chan as best they could in his oblivious state, and Chan couldn’t even be bothered to spit. The fever coursed through his body; every nerve ending was on fire as Chan’s hand guided Minho’s, stroking himself slowly with Minho’s hand as he lined himself back up against him.
Chan pushed inside again, selfishly, greedily, far too rough and far too fast to keep his promise, not that Minho had heard it anyway. Though he didn’t wake, Minho cried out, a pathetic little noise, his body stretching uncomfortably at the intrusion. Pathetic. Uncomfortable. Perfect.
“Hyung… hurts,” Minho mumbled in his sleep, his body shifting to try to get away. Chan wasn’t small by any means; he knew that, and he knew that it would hurt Minho, but he didn’t care a bit. In fact, he loved it. He loved hurting Minho, loved hearing him cry and whine, knowing that he was the cause of it all, knowing that he held so much power and that Minho was completely helpless.
“Oh, it hurts, huh?” Chan whispered back, fueled by his feverish delirium and pure mania. “Whose fault is that, baby? You were practically begging for it; I’m just giving you what you wanted.” Another graceless thrust inside. “You should have thought about that, before you started acting like a fucking whore.”
Minho cried out again, a pathetic little sob of a thing escaping his lips. He lay completely pliant, held entirely at Chan’s mercy. Unfortunately for Minho, Chan wasn’t feeling very merciful.
Just the tip turned into just a little more, into almost there, into there you go, baby, that’s it, as Chan buried himself inside Minho. His head spun painfully as he staked his claim, his heart pounding in his chest. Chan could only imagine how full Minho would feel underneath him, and yet he was sure that he himself felt even fuller. Uncomfortable, uncomfortable, uncomfortable. Everything about the room was so goddamn uncomfortable.
He buried his face into the crook of Minho’s neck, partially to ground himself, more to soak in the evidence of what he’d done, what he was actively doing. Minho’s hair was getting longer, plastered to the back of his neck, damp with sweat; the soft curls might as well have been barbed wire, with the way they tore at his skin. Minho’s clothes felt as though they were made of sandpaper, scratching and itching and constricting as Chan rubbed against them.
The room was freezing, and yet they were both drenched in sweat. Minho’s skin was soft and warm to the touch, but even the slightest contact felt like an ice bath, drenching him, jolting him, freezing him. Everything was wrong, everything was just… fuck it.
He was right on the edge, and he couldn’t deny himself the pleasure any longer. He hated Minho more than anything, loved him, too. He was beyond caring about waking him up, thrusts growing deeper, faster, harder, yet somehow Minho remained asleep. Chan didn’t know if Minho came or not; frankly, he didn’t care. The dazed whimpers and moans spilling from his lips only fueled Chan further; the desire, and the thrill, and the love masquerading as hate burned through his body hotter than any fever ever could. Teeth in Minho’s neck, hand gripping his wrist, arm around his waist, Chan’s vision was met with a blinding flash for the second time that night as he came inside Minho, those sweet little moans providing the soundtrack to his orgasm.
Maybe he should have pulled out, or maybe he should have worn protection, or maybe he just shouldn’t have done it to begin with. But it was all noise now, barely even an afterthought. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered; all that mattered was Minho, sleeping soundly, safe in his hyung’s arms, so soft and sweet and trusting.
Chan grinned as he pulled out, watching intently with a devilish smile as his cum began to flow from Minho’s body. Minho’s breathing had evened out once again, and his pretty little whines had quieted. Chan almost could have thought that Minho was glowing, looking so happy and content in his deep and dreamless slumber.
With a soft kiss to the back of his neck, Chan gently guided Minho’s pants back up, lightly squeezing his ass for good measure. He sat up slowly, leaning over the side of the bed to grab his own shorts from their spot on the floor, haphazardly strewn in his feverish fury. As he redressed himself, he stretched his aching muscles and laid back down on the bed, slowly, quietly, careful not to wake Minho. He almost laughed at the irony. He let out a contented sigh as he lay back on the bed, his half now refreshingly cool instead of stiflingly hot. The slight chilliness of the air was no longer uncomfortable, instead welcome and soothing, coaxing his fever down as his eyes fluttered shut. He flipped his hair up underneath him, the cold pillow meeting his warm neck, and he grinned, bright and genuine, unable to keep the smile from his face.
It’s okay, Minho, he thought to himself. Hyung just gave you what you wanted.