Work Text:
[enter-talk] THE MOST SHOCKING THING ABOUT SM’S NEW BOY GROUP WHOSE MEMBERS WERE ANNOUNCED TODAY
posted August 1, 2023
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They’re really debuting two alphas in one group? Has this ever happened before?
post response:
[+1355][-1047]
- [+840][-253] Wow SM finally lost their minds
- [+302][-69] I’ve been supporting Sungchan for a while so I was shocked ㅠㅠㅠㅠ Putting him in a group with another alpha is oba… what are they doing to the kids
- [+93][-29] The noise marketing is too severe~
- [+70][-14] Non-alpha members of RIIZE fighting ㅋㅋ There’s a reason why groups never have more than one. Anyone who went to an AA (T/N: All-Alpha) high school knows what I’m talking about ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ
- [+48][-53] Yoon-sang’s son is an alpha? How does that work? Aren't both of his parents betas?
- [+74][-116] Freaking hot
—
“Shall we take it back from the top?”
Eight hours of running through the RIIZING LOUD setlist over and over again had whittled down everyone’s resolve into nothingness. Even Shotaro, who viewed practice the same way medieval monks viewed self-flagellation (that is, with a certain religious fanaticism), was starting to look dead on his feet.
The window curtains were shut tight to maintain the illusion that it was still nighttime, but even they couldn’t drown out the sound of birds chirping outside. It must've been five in the morning or so.
Anton peeled himself away from the mirror, begrudgingly slipping back into Ember to Solar’s starting formation. His overworked muscles ached and the practice room reeked of Sungchan’s pre-rut. As unpleasant as it was, Anton hadn’t pointed it out. No one else in the room could tell, anyway.
The song ended after what felt like an eternity. He finally allowed himself to crumple to the ground in a panting heap, pressing his shoulder blades into the flooring like it could offer any reprieve from the fire in his lungs. Their choreographer paused the music.
“Alright! I think this is a good place to stop. Go home and get some rest.”
“Yes, ssaem,” they chorused.
Anton didn't move from his spot on the floor, not even when he felt someone’s full body weight splay out on top of him. A sweet, cloying smell flooded his senses.
“Wonbin-hyung,” he mumbled. “Get off.”
Wonbin rubbed himself on Anton like a cat against a scratching board. “Just let me have this. You smell really, really good right now.”
Anton melted further into the ground. He couldn't help it; his brain was hardwired to react to the exact kind of pheromones Wonbin was putting out. Wonbin accidentally jabbed a pointy elbow into his ribs.
“Ow,” Anton whined.
“Sorry. Five more seconds.”
“Onetwothreefourfive—”
“Tch.” Wonbin rolled off of him. He was already sulking. “You never let me scent you. Do I smell bad? Is that it?”
“No,” Anton croaked. Even without Wonbin on top of him, his limbs felt like they’d turned into lead. The pheromones lingered long enough that he’d still smell Wonbin on himself when they got back to their dorm. “You smell like… strawberries…”
Anton could practically hear Wonbin rolling his eyes. “Comparing an omega to food. Charming. I've never heard that one before.”
“Hey, go easy on him.”
Anton peeked an eye open. Sungchan had wandered over, his head blocking out the overhead practice room lighting. Anton could smell every single sweat droplet on both him and the towel he was using to wipe his neck. His pre-rut—musky, overbearing, a little burnt at the edges—had intensified to the point where Anton’s brain began to go a little haywire. Threat, it blared. Threat, threat, threat. Anton ignored it.
Wonbin wrinkled his nose. “Geez, hyung. You need a shower.”
“Chanyoung smells good but I need a shower? You’re playing favorites.”
“He smells comforting. You smell like sex,” Wonbin said. He got to his feet. “Are you in pre-rut?”
Sungchan at least had the decency to look sheepish. “I didn't think it was noticeable. Chanyoungie—you can’t tell, can you?”
“Mmmgh. Go away. You stink.”
Sungchan pouted. “That hurt my feelings. Take it back.”
Anton rolled over wordlessly.
Sungchan narrowed his eyes. Without any warning, he dove onto Anton, wrestling him down. Anton shrieked.
“I stink, huh?”
“Agh!” He tried to wrench himself out of Sungchan's grasp, but to no avail—his entire body was sore from practice and the tranquilizing effects of Wonbin’s pheromones still fogged up his brain. Sungchan, meanwhile, seemed to have unlocked a limitless source of energy. Every single card was stacked against Anton.
“Think you can win this one?” Sungchan said, eyes glimmering.
“Of course,” Anton gasped out. Sungchan was visibly pleased with his answer.
“Hmm, you have been working out more often—woah!”
Anton straddled him, panting, reveling in the look of surprise that flashed across Sungchan’s face. His triumph was short-lived when just as quickly, Sungchan managed to flip them over again using nothing but his strength. It would’ve been impressive if Anton weren't on the receiving end of it.
Pain seared through his shoulder the moment it slammed down into the floor. Anton wrapped his legs around Sungchan, struggling. The heavy fog of alpha pheromones between them set off every fight or flight instinct he had, his brain pumping all sorts of chemicals through his body that told him to fight back and fight hard. A low growl ripped through his chest. A warning.
There was a palpable shift in the air. Sungchan’s gaze darkened.
“Take it back,” Sungchan commanded again.
Anton bared his teeth. It was demeaning, being forced into this position by another alpha. The gravity of it seemed to be lost on Sungchan, who showed no intention of relenting. His pre-rut smelled unbearable this close up. It pierced its way into Anton’s lungs, encasing him like barbed wire and pulling tight until he couldn't breathe. Danger, his alpha screamed. You’re in danger. Get the fuck up and do something.
He lurched up and nearly slammed his forehead into Sungchan’s. Sungchan grabbed both of his wrists, pulling them up over his head, shoving him back down hard. Anton tried to growl again, but it came out strangled. He couldn't keep this up much longer.
A whimper tore past his lips before he could stop it. Under the weight of pheromones and exhaustion, Anton found himself doing the unthinkable—his head lolled to one side, an invisible hand tangling itself into his hair and pulling back further and further until his jugular was exposed to Sungchan’s prodding gaze. His arms went limp against Sungchan's as the overwhelming need to dominate seeped from his body.
Sungchan’s grip on Anton’s wrists loosened and he jolted back. The suffocating fog of pheromones immediately subsided, and in their place something else festered. Confusion. Worry. Shame. Anton threw his arm over his face, trembling, sucking in deep breaths of air. He couldn't even look Sungchan in the eye.
The others stood near the door wearing similar expressions of shock. They had to have seen everything. Wonbin must’ve left the room, something he hadn't had to do since they were all hormonal trainees.
Sungchan looked shaken. “Fuck. I didn't mean to… I didn't think…”
Didn’t think you’d submit. Anton could feel everyone’s gazes burning into him, though none made him feel as vulnerable as Sungchan’s did. Sungchan seemed to be looking right through him as if he were glass.
“C’mon, guys,” came Shotaro's gentle voice. He spoke in a mediating tone not unlike a teacher trying to discipline children. “I’m sure everyone's just tired. Let’s go. Deunchan-hyung is waiting downstairs.”
Anton’s fists balled up at his sides in an attempt to will away the jittery feeling in his bones. Humiliation swept over his skull and spine, anchoring itself in his gut. The most terrifying part of that, he realized, hadn’t been giving in. It’d been how easily he did it.
Just as Shotaro was about to say something else, Anton grabbed his bag from the floor and bolted out of the room.
—
2019, just before COVID lockdowns hit. He was fifteen. They were at the Rutgers University pool for a swim meet—the LC Gold championships, maybe. His mother had signed him up for swimming classes years ago after consulting with several reputable sources: their family doctor, her book club friends, and a parenting blog called Eommoni’s Pack that he only found out about many years later. A guide to raising alpha children for the inexperienced parent, the blog advertised itself.
In retrospect, swimming had probably been prescribed to counteract the more un-alphalike behaviors he’d inherited from his parents who, up until he was eleven, had assumed that he'd present as a beta just like everyone else in his family. Anton thought there might’ve been a great aunt on his dad’s side who was an alpha, but he wasn't sure. Genetics were a fickle thing.
It'd been a balmy summer day. The locker room smelled of chlorine and pheromones and his skin wouldn't dry no matter how much he toweled off. His teammate, a surly alpha who was one or two years older than him, had been stewing in silence ever since they came out of the pool. Anton could feel his stare searing into the back of his neck. It’d been a close race. Anton narrowly beat him out in their heat—not too shabby, but he could've done better. He tried not to beat himself up over it.
His locker shut with a clang. His teammate stood over him, sour with anger and pubescent pheromones. Anton grimaced to himself.
“Lee,” his teammate grunted. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
A prickle of unease ran through Anton. He had a bad habit of avoiding most of the alphas on his team; his shyness sometimes came across as standoffish and he didn't know how to deal with it. As a result, the few interactions he had with them felt tenuous at best. “What do you want?”
The guy’s nose flared. “Show some fucking respect. You think you’re better than me just because you won once?”
The other kids in the room watched their interaction with baited interest. At this age, fights were something cool to post on Snapchat and gossip about for the next few days. Anton tended to keep his head down for that very reason, but this time he felt different—like in the milliseconds before a race, standing on the starting block, heart pounding with adrenaline, waiting for that shrill whistle to sound. He tried to reel it in, but he couldn't stop the spike of irritation that the smell of another alpha brought with it.
“Maybe I am,” Anton said.
Fingers gripped around his bare arm and jerked him back roughly. That right there was the starting whistle. All pretenses fell as both of his hands flew to his teammate’s chest and pushed him up against the lockers with a resounding thud.
“Don’t—touch me ever again,” Anton snarled.
His teammate lunged for him, wild-eyed and livid, tackling him to the ground. Yells erupted in the locker room as bystanders scrambled out of their way. The opportunity to spectate was far too enticing for anyone to call for an adult. They both grappled with each other on the damp floor wordlessly, fiercely, throwing punches and clawing at each other. His teammate’s chin dug into Anton’s temple as Anton struggled to get out from under him.
The other guy was heavier than him, his limbs knocking around slow and labored like tree logs. Anton swung his fist up—pain exploded in his knuckles as soon as it cut straight across his teammate’s cheekbone. His teammate fell over with the momentum and Anton took the opportunity to yank him to the floor. Somehow he managed to wrestle him down until he had the guy’s arms pinned behind his back, his knee digging into his spine.
His teammate thrashed beneath him, expletives spilling from his mouth. Anton’s vision blurred with an unfamiliar rage and he pressed down harder.
“Agh, fuck!” His teammate wailed. “Fuck! Get him off of me!”
He felt someone tug him upright and away from the hysterical boy on the floor. His chest heaved with whatever morsels of adrenaline he had left. Anton could do nothing but stare as his opponent writhed on the floor, those acrid pheromones ebbing away in embarrassment.
Some part of him reveled in the feeling of winning, of beating another alpha down and asserting his rank. In those last few seconds, the hierarchy of the locker room had just been rearranged; Anton, albeit bruised up, had come out on top. His alpha roared to life with a sick satisfaction.
He flexed his fist, wincing at the residual sting of the punch he’d thrown. Disgust bubbled up in his gut like sticky tar. He hadn't even thought about what to do during that fight. All he’d felt was an overwhelming anger, detached and foreign—like it’d been borrowed from a stranger, and it shook him to his core. He never wanted to lose control like that ever again.
Years later, Anton sat frozen in the bathtub as the door creaked open to reveal the one person in the world who seemed to undo all of that.
Sungchan stepped into the steamy bathroom, lips tugging. A plastic takeout bag crinkled in his hands.
Anton had to make sure he had enough bubbles to cover himself below the water. He hastily gathered the foam to the center of the tub before glancing back up at Sungchan, who seemed all too eager to step closer. Typical of him—always so sure of himself and the space he took up.
“Hi,” Anton said, awkward and stilted. “Long time no see.”
Sungchan scratched the back of his head. “You know how rut can be.”
Anton did know, both from personal experience and the unfortunate fact that Sungchan’s room downstairs wasn't soundproof by any means.
“What’s that?” He asked, jutting his chin towards the bag clutched in Sungchan’s hand.
“Oh, this. I got you jjajangmyeon.”
Anton blinked. “Just me?”
“Just you,” Sungchan said. He smiled cheerily. “So don't let Sohee get his grubby little hands on this. Consider it a peace offering.”
The tub suddenly felt too hot. Anton didn't move out of fear that his shield of bubbles would give way. “Thanks, hyung.”
“Yeah. I wanted to say I’m sorry. I didn't mean to take it that far during practice. Pre-rut’s shitty, but it’s no excuse.”
Anton swallowed tightly. “I know. It's fine.”
There was a pause that probably only felt awkward to Anton, and then Sungchan reached out over him, casting shadows over the tub. For a split second Anton felt his heart drop to his stomach. The tension in his muscles lingered even as Sungchan pulled back, turning over the soap bottle in his hand curiously.
“Is this an American brand? Smells good.”
Anton huffed a nervous laugh. “My mom sent it to me. Did you come in here just to give me jjajangmyeon and steal my soap?”
“I would've waited for you to finish but I’m in a bit of a rush.” Sungchan set the bottle down on the edge of the tub. “The gym closes in an hour.”
Anton finally noticed the workout clothes he was in, his arm muscles glistening under the steam of the bathroom. “You’re crazy. It’s, what, 10 o’clock? Why are you working out now?”
Sungchan grinned. “I haven't been able to for the past four days. Gotta replenish my energy. Anyway, I’ll leave this on the kitchen table—I wrote your name on it, so tell hyung if anyone eats it before you.”
“Thanks,” Anton said.
“Bye, Chanyoungie.” The door shut with a gentle click.
Anton let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. He couldn’t tell if he was flushed from spending too much time in the bath or because of Sungchan, whose brief presence felt like the sun itself had come down to Seoul and temporarily taken up residence in Anton’s bathroom. He shut his eyes and sank deeper into the water until bubbles lapped at his nose. Sohee could stand to wait a few more minutes to use the bathroom.
—
The next morning began with costume fittings for the concert. A younger, more inexperienced Anton might’ve fidgeted under the clinical attention their stylists gave as he changed in and out of outfit combinations, but two years of promotions had rendered him immune. He stood in the middle of their practice room as mannequin-like as possible while two of their stylists hummed and hawed at him from behind their iPads.
“Try the collared shirt next, Anton,” one suggested. “With the sailor scarf.”
Anton nodded robotically. He retreated to the clothing rack where Eunseok was in the middle of pulling on a heavy pair of leather pants.
“That'll be fun to dance in,” Anton said.
“Ha ha. Did I hear something about a scarf?”
Anton combed through the rack until he reached the section taped off with his name. He warily eyed the sailor scarf and the aforementioned shirt, so form fitting that he would have to be zipped into it from the back. Jesus. “What’d you get?”
Eunseok grinned, zipping his pants up. “A normal shirt. Good luck, sailor.”
Anton watched as Eunseok waded out to the middle of the room for his turn to be scrutinized. He heaved a sigh before pulling his current shirt off over his head.
“‘Scuse me.”
A pair of hands found their way onto Anton’s bare waist and tugged him to the side. He jolted, stumbling slightly, mouth falling open in surprise. Though not nearly as unbearable as it’d been a week prior, Sungchan’s overbearing alpha scent still threw his brain into overdrive.
“Sorry,” Sungchan said, grabbing a hanger from directly where Anton had been standing. “Jieun-noona was getting annoyed with me. Figured I should pick up the pace.”
Anton stared after his retreating figure. His skin burned so much that he might’ve imagined the blistering outline of two hands on his waist if he were to look down. There was a sort of unspoken code of conduct that existed between two young, hormonal alphas, certain precautions that had to be taken to prevent conflict. It worked, for the most part—things like not maintaining eye contact for too long, not talking over each other, not doing… whatever Sungchan had just done to him. Anton exhaled shakily. It was insane how much of an effect such a simple gesture had on the way his body reacted, and worse, how much Sungchan seemed to not notice.
Maybe it’d been an honest mistake. He poured himself into the stupid sailor uniform, his hands jittery, his heart racing.
As much as Anton wanted to say that he’d forgotten that incident by the time it happened again, he hadn’t.
The M Countdown waiting rooms were designed by Satan himself to serve as his personal hell. It wasn’t so much the rooms themselves, but the lack thereof. RIIZE weren't senior artists by any stretch of the word, which meant that they were relegated to sharing a warehouse-like ‘room’ divided up by office cubicle walls. The sounds and smells of the other forty or so people milling about the waiting rooms were incessant.
Anton clung to Sohee in times like these. Being near him seemed to blunt the sharpness of some of the more offending scents. It might’ve been his beta-ness acting as a buffer between the stagnant pheromones in the air, like some sort of human air purifier. More importantly, Sohee was the only one willing to play games with him while they waited.
“Ah, hyung, let me win just once.”
“Stop pouting. That’ll never work on me.” Sohee mashed his fingers on his phone a bit more before letting out a cry of triumph. “Ha! Gotcha!”
Anton stared morosely at the ominous red screen between his hands. YOU DIED, it read.
“Did Anton lose again?” Eunseok called from the makeup chair.
“No,” Anton lied.
“Yes,” Sohee said. He flashed his phone screen to Eunseok, who nodded in approval.
“I’ve taught you well, Darkness.”
Anton prodded Sohee with his foot. “Let’s play again.”
Sohee snorted. “You’ve lost four times already. Did you wanna make it five?”
Anton clicked his phone off and dove for Sohee’s sides, tickling him viciously. Sohee shrieked, hands flying, legs kicking. None of the staff in the room paid them any mind.
“They’re doing it again,” Wonbin complained. “Someone make them stop. It’s gonna smell like a puppy pile in here.”
“I don’t—,” Sohee gasped, “even smell like anything—agh! He bit me!”
Anton rolled off of Sohee until his back hit someone’s shoes. He glanced up and met eyes with Sungchan. Based on the disgustingly healthy ginseng drink in his hands, he must’ve just come back from his vending machine run.
“Did you?” Sungchan said, peering down at him.
“Barely,” Anton said. He clambered to his feet awkwardly. Sungchan standing over him like that activated a strange, territorial part of him that he didn't want to delve into.
Sungchan looked amused. “Sohee, come here. Let me see the damage.”
Sohee shot an accusing look at Anton. “He’s like a piranha. Look what he did to my arm.”
Anton watched as Sungchan took Sohee’s wrist and examined it. There was no evidence of any bite on his forearm except for a dribble of spit. Anton rolled his eyes.
Sungchan wiped the spit away with his hand. “There, good as new.”
“I think I need a doctor.”
Sungchan laughed. “He licked you. You’ll live.”
“That might actually be worse,” Sohee grumbled, scrubbing at his arm.
Anton opened his mouth to defend himself but his voice promptly died in his throat. A hand had just slid over the junction between his neck and his shoulder, settling on his scent gland.
“Trust me. You’d know if he bit you,” Sungchan said. He kneaded Anton’s flesh mindlessly. In a split second, hot electricity shot down Anton’s spine all the way to his feet. He tried not to curse when he felt his knees wobble.
Sohee huffed. “You’re too easy on him, hyung.”
It was getting too much—Sungchan’s enveloping scent, his touch heavy on one of the most sensitive parts of Anton’s body, his complete and utter apathy towards the chemical fireworks going off in Anton's head. He jerked out of Sungchan’s reach as though scalded, the weight on his neck giving way to the waiting room’s stagnant air.
“I’m gonna—bathroom. Yeah,” Anton stammered. He avoided the curious look Wonbin gave him through the mirror and hurried out of the room.
Time moved strangely after that. Their schedule was so packed that entire month that Anton felt like he was drifting through a punishing loop of college festivals and Japanese music shows—and that was on top of concert preparations that had them practicing into the early hours of the morning.
Anton waved goodbye to a fan as she moved down the fansign line to Shotaro. A sweet smell suddenly smothered him; Wonbin had just leaned closer. He tried not to flush at the excited squeals and rapid camera clicks that followed.
“What’s up with you?” Wonbin whispered from behind his hand.
“Nothing,” Anton said. At the beckoning of several fans in the front row, he raised his arm to form half a heart between him and Wonbin. Wonbin, ever the professional, matched him without prompting. The screams intensified.
Seemingly taking advantage of their proximity, Wonbin sniffed him. Anton bristled.
“Sorry,” Wonbin said, not sounding very apologetic. He pulled away. “You’ve been acting weird. I figured you were in pre-rut, but you’re not.”
“You could've just asked me,” Anton said through a strained smile. A fan slid in front of him and he launched back into idol mode.
As soon as she moved onto Shotaro, he ducked back down to whisper hastily to Wonbin. “Also, I haven't been acting weird. In fact, I've never been more normal in my entire life.”
Wonbin had that look on his face that he got whenever Anton and Sohee bickered—something like an exasperated mother hen. “Okay. Then why have you been avoiding Sungchan-hyung?”
Anton stared at him. “I haven't.”
“Sure, Chanyoung.” Wonbin didn't give Anton the opportunity to defend himself, turning his attention onto a nervous-looking fan. “Oh, hi!”
At the other end of the table, Sungchan got up to his feet. Eunseok swatted at him with a bark of laughter. Sungchan took an album from their manager and made his way around the table to where the fans were standing. He stood over Eunseok, a mischievous grin on his face.
“Oppa,” he declared, “I’m a huge fan.”
The entire front row went ballistic. Eunseok played along and uncapped his pen between his teeth. “Is this your first time here? Who should I make this out to?”
“Jung Sungchan.”
“Huh.” Eunseok feigned ignorance. “How do you spell that?”
Sungchan turned to the enthralled crowd, incredulous. “Briize, doesn't he treat me horribly?”
Sometimes Sungchan was so good at the whole idol thing that it made Anton’s stomach churn. There'd been moments during their trainee period where he wondered if Sungchan had been created in a test tube somewhere in the SM basements—ingredients: height, charm, and the type of pheromones that people on seedy alphamaxxing forums could only dream of.
Anton tore his eyes away from the spectacle and greeted the fan sitting across from him. She looked like she was about to faint from Sungchan standing right next to her. After a sweet but nervous chat about their upcoming concert, he waved her goodbye and watched with baited breath as Sungchan came into view.
His body language was as relaxed as it could be for an alpha who was breaking several unspoken posturing rules just by standing over Anton so casually. Anton swallowed the lump in his throat, all too aware of the dozens of high definition cameras trained on every inch of his body. His adrenaline spiked at the first detection of Sungchan’s pheromones, his entire body tense like a rubber band pulled taut.
Sungchan cocked his head to the side. “Aren’t you going to sign my album?”
Anton realized he’d been pressing himself into the back of his chair in a subconscious attempt to get out from under Sungchan's shadow. He took Sungchan’s album into his hands and fumbled it open. A quick scrawl of his signature onto one of the pages and the album was promptly returned.
Sungchan seemed pleased—enough to prop his hands against the table and lean forward until he was practically looming over Anton. He was saying something that Anton couldn't hear; the white noise in Anton’s head was reaching a fever pitch at an alarming rate. As it came to a head, he stood up suddenly and almost grazed Sungchan’s chin, his chair screeching against the floor.
The camera flashes multiplied tenfold. Fuck. Anton could feel his face going hot with embarrassment. “Sorry,” he muttered under his breath. “Just, um. Could you not—stand over me like that.”
Sungchan stepped back, startled. His scent didn't have any of the territorial cues of an alpha trying to dominate and his eyes had gone wide in genuine surprise. He probably hadn't even noticed what he was doing—Anton wasn't sure if that made it worse. “Uh. Yeah,” he stammered. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
It wasn’t until Sungchan moved onto Wonbin that Anton’s nerves calmed enough for him to sit back down. He could feel the divots of his fingernails in his palms from how hard he’d been clenching his fists. Eventually Sungchan returned to his own seat, the suffocation that his scent brought with it finally subsiding.
Anton tried to ignore Wonbin’s massive eyes on him. It made him feel like he was being observed under a microscope. “What?” he finally croaked, his voice raw.
Wonbin leaned closer to him again. His scent, goopy and sugary, blissfully blunted the adrenaline cutting through Anton’s nervous system. “That was weird.”
“What was?” Anton asked.
Wonbin looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Come on. That stupid alpha posturing bullshit you and Sungchan-hyung always do? I mean, I've always thought it was weird, but this time was really, really weird.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that.”
Wonbin barreled on. He had way too much trust in the hand covering his mouth. “Look, I’m telling you this in good faith because I have a feeling it’s been bothering you for some time now and you should definitely talk to him about it. The pheromones he used on you just now were the exact same ones he uses when he’s talking to me. And Jieun-noona. And Nakyung-ssaem. And—”
Anton’s brows knitted in confusion. He couldn't tell what Wonbin was getting at. “Okay, and?”
“Omegas, Chanyoung. Sungchan-hyung talks to you like you're an omega.”
—
It shouldn't have bothered Anton so much. Sungchan was one singular alpha in the world. Who cared what he thought? This was the same guy who refused to drink alcohol because he believed it would lead to muscle loss, and god, he could barely even swim. For someone who set off Anton’s alpha instincts so much, Sungchan was a total loser.
Anton squinted at his phone screen through the pitch darkness of his room. 3:45 AM. He had to be up in three hours yet here he was, wide awake and at the mercy of his rambling thoughts. He shoved his phone back on his nightstand and rolled onto his back. His sweaty skin clung to his sheets uncomfortably even after kicking off most of his clothes an hour ago.
Steeping in his own body heat, Anton’s traitorous mind drifted back to Sungchan. Sungchan, strong and unwavering, the picture perfect image of an alpha. Sungchan, who of all people should've been well-aware of the physical effect he had on Anton but just didn't seem to care anymore. Sungchan, who at some point stopped seeing him as an equal and more as…
Anton threw an arm over his burning face. It wasn’t a matter of when Sungchan had begun to treat him differently. He’d tried his hardest to forget that day in the practice room, of being pinned beneath Sungchan’s solid body, whimpers spilling from his throat, the urge to submit so strong that it overrode every biological barrier that should’ve stopped him. No matter how much he willed the memory away, it surfaced in his head at the worst times. Even now, warmth coiled tight in his stomach the harder he tried to stop thinking about it. He cursed under his breath.
Anton’s fingers broached the waistband of his boxers up to his knuckles. He felt so hot that just the weight of his palm resting on his hip made the air feel stifling. Sungchan’s hand, he remembered distantly, had been about the same size as his. He slid his hand further and further down his boxers, wrapping around his half-hard dick. The only noises in the dorm were his own shallow breathing and the soft rustle of his sheets.
He could still feel Sungchan’s touch on him like a brand, on his waist, on his wrists, on his neck. Deliriously, he imagined Sungchan touching him again. Sungchan would be careless about it, he thought, but also confident, like his dominance over Anton was normal and not some terrible alpha faux pas. Anton ran a thumb over the head of his cock, smearing his pre-cum down his shaft, his breath shaky.
His feverish brain replayed something Sungchan had said a few days ago: you’d know if he bit you. He’d sounded as self-assured as he always did—enough for Sohee to believe him, anyway. But Anton, who had as much experience with alpha bites as he did with parachuting (read: none) felt his imagination spiral into madness in the days that followed. Had Sungchan ever bitten anyone before? Would Sungchan bite him, if given the chance again?
Staccato gasps cut through the silence as he stroked himself under his boxers. Sungchan’s hands, pinning him down to the practice room floor. His knee slotting between Anton’s legs, pressing into his crotch. Maybe he’d thread a hand through Anton’s hair and pull until it hurt, until Anton couldn’t help but expose the very same spot on his neck that Sungchan had tried sinking his fingers into only days ago. Maybe Sungchan would bend down to lick a stripe up his skin first, his pheromones heady and overpowering—but not challenging, because Anton’s submission was now a given, something being handed to him on a silver platter. And then Sungchan would open his mouth, bare his teeth, clamp down onto Anton’s neck hard enough to bruise or bleed or whatever was supposed to happen when an alpha bit another alpha.
Anton spurted into his hand with a shuddering sob, come dribbling between his fingers. After a moment of guilty silence he extricated his sticky hand, pulled his sopping boxers off and covered himself with his blanket. Feeling sleep overtake him, Anton prayed to god that Sohee didn't barge into his room in the morning to wake him up.
—
“Jesus Christ,” Sohee said.
He and Anton surveyed the stage set-up for Hug with matching looks of disbelief. It reminded Anton of an Ikea showroom—on one side a sofa, on the other a bookcase, and the crown jewel of all their concert props in the center: the ornate, princess-style bed. Pillows, sheets, duvet and all.
“I’m not on the bed, am I?” Sohee asked. “I can’t handle that level of intimacy.”
“We’ve all seen each other fully naked, like, dozens of times.”
Sohee’s voice went shrill. “Not in front of an audience!”
“Can I see the cue sheet again,” Anton said tiredly. He was running on about two hours of sleep and his body felt more hot and achy than usual. “Okay, Eunseok-hyung and I have the couch for Day 1.”
“What about me and Taro-hyung?”
“Bookcase,” Anton said. He snickered. “You have the bed for Day 2, though.”
Sohee made a noise of agony, his hands flying up to clutch his hat. “No!”
“Is that the old cue sheet?” came Eunseok’s voice from behind the pair.
“Old?”
Eunseok threw an arm across Sohee’s shoulders. “Yeah. Jaewon-hyungnim wanted to make some last minute changes to the Hug stage because Wonbin and Sungchan were being so awkward about it. You should've seen them this morning. Sungchan almost fell off the bed, it was hilarious.”
Anton frowned. “Changes? What kind of changes?”
“He’s switching the pairings,” Eunseok said. “We’re gonna try a few other combinations today. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you may be losing the honor of being my Hug partner.”
“Oh no,” Anton said flatly. “Whatever will I do.”
“Wow, Anton, what if you got paired with Sungchan-hyung?” Sohee proposed for no discernible reason. “Fans would go crazy.”
Anton smothered the imagery that his mind conjured up at Sohee’s words, desperately hoping that the heat crawling up his neck wasn't as noticeable as it felt. “What? Two alphas? But that’s—that’s weird, isn't it?”
Eunseok barked out a laugh. “Oh. Oh, no. Sweet, naive, innocent Chanyoungie. You’re so cute sometimes.”
“It’s definitely a thing,” Sohee chimed in. “Come on. Fighting for dominance? Making another alpha submit? You have to admit it’s kinda hot.”
Eunseok flicked Sohee's ear. “Yah, put your dick back in your pants.”
“I don't see the appeal,” Anton mumbled. His tongue suddenly felt too heavy in his mouth.
Later that day, Anton did the math in his head. There were 15 possible unique pairings amongst the six of them, 3 of which had already been tested. That left 12 possible new combinations, 3 possible stage sets, and a 3% percent chance that he and Sungchan would be paired up on the bed. It was, statistically, highly unlikely. No, it was close to impossible.
“You okay?” Sungchan asked.
Anton ignored the heat of Sungchan’s body pressing up against his leg. The two of them were obviously too big for the mattress; every little move they made sent the entire thing creaking. He pulled the blanket higher up his chest, his face burning. It’d only taken two pairing rotations for him and Sungchan to end up on the bed. Math had never been Anton's strong suit.
A fleeting look of irritation crossed Sungchan’s face before disappearing just as quickly. He leaned in and sniffed Anton, not bothering to be covert. “You smell nice. Did you use that soap your mom sent you again?”
Anton hadn't touched the bottle since the day Sungchan came into the bathroom to apologize to him mid-bath. It felt like a lifetime ago. “Not recently,” he said.
Sungchan looked genuinely surprised. “Really?”
“Alright, boys!” Their director called out into his mic. “We’re going to play the song from verse 2. Let’s play up the fanservice, yes? The key word for today is closeness. Don’t take yourselves too seriously!”
The light on the main stage camera flickered on and both his and Sungchan’s faces appeared on the massive LED screens behind them. Sungchan scooted closer to him until their sides were touching, lazily wrapping an arm around Anton’s shoulders.
Anton stiffened. All he could smell was Sungchan’s scent. Immediately his brain responded like it always did: pulse quickening, adrenaline spiking, the feeling of imminent danger flooding his senses. If Sungchan could smell the warning pheromones pumping from his body, he didn't show it.
The music started and despite everything, Anton shifted into idol mode—a Pavlovian response of sorts. He played his part all the while trying to hide how tense he’d become under the duress of Sungchan's scent. But there was something else prickling at the back of his mind, something ten times worse than any innate alpha physical reaction. Like some perverse form of deja vu, Anton was suddenly struck by the memory of the night before: lying in a bed not unlike this one, touching himself to the thought of Sungchan coaxing the submission out of his body.
The realization washed over him like ice water. He flushed with a mix of shame and arousal and inadvertently pulled further away from Sungchan.
Their director’s voice cut through the music. “Closer, please!”
Anton felt Sungchan's hand slide up his shoulder until it settled in the crook of his neck, fingers dipping into his shirt collar and grazing his overheating skin. Anton’s eyes snapped to Sungchan's. Sungchan said nothing, anchoring him firmly, drawing a low growl from Anton.
Sungchan’s grip turned implacable. If Anton were standing, he might've collapsed from the live wire electricity surging down his spine and straight into his crotch. He averted his gaze first despite the chemicals in his head screaming at him not to, fearful that Sungchan could somehow read his thoughts.
“Sit still,” Sungchan commanded. His fingers pressed hard into Anton’s scent gland and Anton nearly saw stars.
He wrenched himself out of Sungchan’s reach and felt his center of gravity careen upside-down. The mattress beneath him disappeared, giving way to the stage floor with an echoing thump. Dizzily, he kicked off the blanket tangled around his legs. Had he just fallen off the bed?
The music shut off abruptly. “Anton-ssi, are you alright?”
Sungchan’s panic-stricken face appeared over the edge of the bed. Anton couldn't believe that this was the same guy who’d just come close to making him submit again five seconds ago. “Chanyoung?!”
“I’m—I’m fine,” Anton called to the staff, voice strangled. “Lost my balance.” He pushed himself up off the ground, trying to hide how much his arms were shaking.
“Let’s take five. Can we bring out Wonbin and Shotaro?” Their director sounded stressed out. Anton heard the scritch-scratch of pencil on paper and imagined him crossing out their names on his cue sheet. Poor Sohee—Anton had probably just killed any hopes for an alpha alpha fanservice stage.
“Chanyoung,” Sungchan tried again. “You okay?”
Anton’s scent gland throbbed so much that it ached. He shakily clambered up to his feet. Each gulping breath he took set off more and more of his synapses, every scent in the air too sharp and too grating and too much. Sungchan was a good distance away and still everything smelled like a threat. He kept another growl from spilling through his clenched teeth. An all-too-familiar tightness unwinded itself in Anton’s ribs.
Fuck, he thought furiously. Not now. Not here.
Anton could hear Sungchan scrambling to climb out of the bed as he fled from the stage. His rut wasn't supposed to come for another two weeks, but this didn't matter now when all he felt was searing heat on every inch of his body. He stumbled down the backstage hallway until he found what vaguely looked like their dressing room and slammed the door shut behind him.
Anton braced himself on the wall, his vision swimming. It wasn't ideal, but at least here he didn't have any other smells to aggravate the rut. A low whine bubbled at the back of his throat. His rut had never gotten so intense so quickly. He clenched his fists hard enough that his knuckles turned white, his head pounding from the chemical overload.
The door clicked open and Anton froze. Sungchan's scent was unmistakable. He balked—Sungchan was the absolute last person in the building who should've been in that room with him at that very moment. The oppressive smell of someone else’s rut was enough to deter most other alphas. Even when Sungchan had his rut some weeks ago, Anton ended up spending most of his time outside.
Anton was filled with the inexplicable need to escape. His eyes locked onto the door behind Sungchan. Sungchan, somehow reading his mind, blocked it with his body. He stepped forward with his hands up cautiously as though placating a feral cornered animal.
“Stop. We’re going to have to talk sooner or later.”
The closer Sungchan got, the harder it became to breathe. When Anton didn't reply immediately, Sungchan continued: “You’ve been avoiding me, okay? For weeks. Tell me what I did wrong. Don’t just run away from me.”
Sungchan’s demanding tone made Anton's ears ring. He snapped his gaze up to meet Sungchan’s, close enough now that Anton could see his own reflection in Sungchan's eyes. He knew Sungchan wouldn't back down any time soon—he hadn't done so in a while. Not since…
“You’re doing it again,” Anton said.
Sungchan furrowed his brows. “I don’t understand—”
“You don’t treat me like an alpha anymore,” Anton continued, agitation punctuating every word. “Even right now, you’re—you’re fucking—,” he gestured wildly with his hands, “—standing over me like this, always forcing me to break eye contact first! For fuck’s sake, hyung, I’m in rut and you’re still talking to me like I'm beneath you just because I, what, bared my neck to you once—”
Sungchan’s eyes grew stormier the more he spoke. “You submitted to me. How am I supposed to just pretend everything's normal after that?”
Anton snarled, grabbing Sungchan by his shirt collar and slamming him against the door, effectively trapping them both in the room.
Sungchan regarded Anton with more concern than anger. “Calm down, Chanyoung.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Anton said childishly.
Sungchan grabbed both of Anton’s wrists and pushed them away. “I’ll let that one slide because I know you’re in rut.”
Anton struggled against his grip. “Let go of me!” He pulled back, kicked a leg out and sent the two of them toppling to the ground.
Sungchan landed directly on top of him, caging him between his arms. Anton tried to sit back up but Sungchan pushed him down by the shoulders.
“I’m sorry, okay?” He said, dodging one of Anton’s attempts at a punch. “You’re right. I stopped treating you like an alpha because you submitted and it was wrong of me.”
Anton’s breath came out in rapid puffs, almost hyperventilating. Sungchan was straddling him now, his entire body weight pressing down onto his hips and keeping him from moving. “I didn't submit to you,” Anton said thickly. “Stop saying that.”
Sungchan nodded. “Whatever you say, Chanyoungie.”
“Fuck you.”
“You don't mean that,” Sungchan said.
“I hate you!”
“Is that why you’re hard right now?”
Anton clamped his mouth shut.
Sungchan relaxed the hold he had on Anton’s upper body when he saw that Anton had stopped trying to throw him off. “Do you want me to help?”
Anton’s heart thudded in his chest. The alpha pheromones that were meant to put him on high alert now licked at his skin, beckoning him to relax. He felt his face flush all the way down to his chest. Averting his eyes, he nodded jerkily.
Sungchan shifted back until he was on Anton's thighs. His attention went to the waistband of Anton’s grey sweatpants, hooking under his briefs and pulling down. Anton’s cock, angry and leaking, bobbed up against his T-shirt. He hissed at the cold air.
Sungchan took Anton into one hand and kept the other anchored on his hip bone. He smeared the puddle of precum gathering at Anton’s slit, idly watching it string between his fingertips. “I never get this wet during my rut.”
A shudder ran through Anton’s body. “I always have to put a towel down.”
“Really?” Sungchan said, fascinated. “You come a lot or something?”
Anton whimpered at the feeling of Sungchan’s hand going tight around his base and squeezing upwards. “I guess,” he said, too pheromone-high to be shy about it.
Sungchan’s thumb pressed harder into his hip. He pumped his fist once, twice, almost clinical in his work. After a thoughtful pause, he began to jerk him off faster, the wet sounds of slick precum on skin filling the room. His pace had suddenly turned merciless without any warning. Anton squirmed, keening, his hands fumbling clumsily for Sungchan’s wrist.
“Ah—hyung,” he gasped. His back arched off the ground through the hot tightening feeling in his gut, the pressure building up too fast and spilling over uncontrollably. He writhed as ropes of come streaked across his shirt and Sungchan’s hand. Sungchan kept pumping his cock until copious amounts of fluid squelched out from between his fingers and dribbled down his wrist. He pulled off with a wet plopping noise.
“Jesus. That fast? I barely touched you.”
Anton’s chest rose and fell with each gulping breath. He shakily propped himself up on his elbows. Fuck. His dick was exactly the same as it’d been before he came, only now it was covered in his own fluids. Sungchan—who he’d tried to fight just minutes before—looked down at him so angelically that Anton wondered if all of this was some sort of rut-induced hallucination.
“I’m still hard,” Anton said dumbly.
“It's perfectly normal,” Sungchan said, holding his come-covered hand up like a surgeon. “The hormones you get from rut prolong the—”
Anton cut him off. “I know how it works!”
Sungchan regarded him with a disapproving expression and returned his hand back to where it was. The come on his hands had already cooled enough to make Anton jolt with oversensitivity. Seemingly learning his lesson from the two minutes it’d taken Anton to come earlier, Sungchan grip went still around the head of Anton's leaking cock.
“Go on,” Sungchan nudged him.
Anton's skin prickled with embarrassment. Even though he’d let Sungchan pin him down, an instinctual part of him still bristled at how easily he made him feel small—but he was also impatient and delirious with the need to come, and so he swallowed down the indignant growl bubbling in his throat and obediently bucked his hips up into Sungchan’s fist.
He almost cried at the reprieve it gave him from the painful rut pulling tight in his core—but it wasn't enough. Precum gathered at the tip of his cock and trickled down onto Sungchan's already wet knuckles. Dissatisfied, he pushed himself up onto his hands and fucked back into Sungchan’s hand. His thrusts got sloppier in an embarrassingly short amount of time, the noises he made grew more and more desperate. The release he was chasing wasn't coming as easily as it did earlier. Anton made a noise of frustration.
“C’mon, Chanyoungie,” Sungchan purred. “You can do it.”
Anton gripped Sungchan’s wrist with one hand and used the leverage to find a better angle, his entire body shaking with the effort. Soon his abs tensed as he spurted through Sungchan’s fingers again, a wrecked sob ripping from his chest. Sungchan stroked him through his orgasm until he couldn't take it anymore. He shrank away from his hand, whimpering, pushing him away. Sungchan finally withdrew.
“Still?” Sungchan said breathlessly, staring down at his still-throbbing cock.
Anton sniffled. “I think you’re making it worse. Your pheromones—”
“Should I leave?”
“No!” Anton cried. “Please don’t go.”
The alpha scent in the air turned oppressive. Anton felt like he was breathing through a straw. Sungchan brushed Anton’s damp hair out of his face, endearment swimming in his eyes.
“We can try something else,” he said.
Anton nodded tearily.
Sungchan unzipped his jeans with his clean hand. Breathing shallowly, Anton watched as he tugged down the waistband of his underwear and pulled out his cock. Anton could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, could feel every single molecule of Sungchan’s pheromones pressing down on his windpipe. Sungchan was about the same size as him, paler, veiny like the rest of his body. He examined his come-covered hand for a moment before smearing its contents onto his own length. Anton flushed violently at the display.
Sungchan leaned forward until the chain of his necklace dangled over Anton’s face. With the precision of a doctor, he carefully lined his cock up against Anton’s and wrapped a hand around the two of them at once. Desperate, Anton couldn’t help but twitch up into the pressure. Sungchan hissed at the sudden friction, pressing a thumb into Anton’s slit. A warning, Anton realized. He bit his lip and tried to stop his fidgeting.
The tendons in Sungchan’s forearms flexed each time he pumped their cocks together. Anton’s brain melted with overstimulation—Sungchan’s hand covered in his fluids, Sungchan’s dick pressed up against his, Sungchan’s scent throwing him into a near-constant state of restlessness. Sungchan moaned low in his throat, pressing himself down harder against Anton’s body, his fist squelching obscenely with every movement.
Anton’s arms gave out beneath him and his back hit the floor again. He squirmed under Sungchan’s weight, feverish with rut and the need to come. Chasing after his orgasm himself was fruitless—Sungchan had set a deliberately torturous tempo. Anton whined and tried to thrust up into his fist, but the low growl that Sungchan let out was enough to quash that line of thought. As the fight oozed from his body, he found himself laying there and taking it through choked out gasps, trembling hands gripping onto the carpet until he could feel his fingers going numb.
As a reward for his obedience, Sungchan quickened his pace. Anton scrabbled for Sungchan’s forearm but he didn’t let up. Sungchan took his other hand and gripped it hard around Anton’s jawline until it ached, prodding his thumb at Anton’s lips. Anton opened his mouth all too willingly until he felt the salt of Sungchan’s skin pressing down on his tongue. The hand on Anton’s jawline then tightened, turned his head until Anton’s startled eyes were fixed onto the wall. He whimpered at the feeling of his exposed neck to the air, some part of him still roaring to throw Sungchan off and beat the ever-loving shit out of him, another part of him deeply, carnally pleased at being put in this position yet another time.
Two orgasms, while not enough to cull his rut fever, still rendered him so oversensitive that it impeded his ability to come one last time. His dick twitched miserably in Sungchan’s hand as the release he wanted so much eluded him. He tried to sit up but the grip on his jaw was firm, and so he relegated himself back into the state of submission that Sungchan had so easily placed him in.
Sungchan groaned above him, his body tensing. He bent down and nosed at Anton’s sweaty neck. Every single instinct in Anton’s brain jolted with the sudden proximity. He sucked in gasping breaths in an attempt to anchor himself, but all vestiges of self-control vanished as soon as he felt Sungchan’s sharp teeth grazing just above his scent gland. Anton keened, adrenaline pulsing through his bloodstream, suddenly incoherent with want.
Dull pressure exploded into sharp pain as soon as teeth clamped straight down into his muscle. He sobbed hysterically, arched his back off the ground, and then came for a third and final time. A pathetic squirt of come bubbled up from the head of his cock and disappeared into the evidence of his past orgasms. He convulsed through the waves of pleasure ebbing through his nervous system, tears streaking down his face. Sungchan came with a guttural groan that echoed all the way into Anton’s skull. Anton felt hot fluid flow down onto his stomach and balls and then the rough release of teeth from his throbbing skin. He twitched through the aftershocks, electricity pulsating from both his spent cock and the broken capillaries in his neck muscle.
Sungchan collapsed over him, panting. He squeezed Anton’s cock one more time before pulling his hand out, a trail of come stretching and breaking in the air. The tightness of rut finally uncoiled itself in Anton's stomach. He breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Sungchan relaxed the hand he had on Anton’s chin and slid it down until Anton felt a spike of pressure directly where he’d been bitten. Sungchan was poking at the bruise, the fucker. Anton hissed in protest.
“Ha. Sorry,” Sungchan smiled, looking a little too pleased. He glanced around the room and reached up for a tissue box on the makeup table, pulled out several to wipe the profuse amounts of come from his hand and then a few more to half-assedly remove the come drying into Anton’s clothing.
“Thank you,” Anton said quietly. The post-orgasm exhaustion had finally started to hit him—if he were to close his eyes for too long, he might’ve fallen asleep right then and there. He had only an hour or two before the next wave of rut came and he had to go through this all over again.
Sungchan threw away the last of the tissues into the trash. “I’ll tell Deunchan-hyung you’re sick, hm?” He brushed the bangs out of Anton’s face. “I’ll tell him you need to go back to the dorms and rest.”
“Mmm,” Anton mumbled, feeling sleep tinge the corners of his vision. “Okay. Don’t leave me, hyung.”
Sungchan smiled fondly. “Whatever you say, Chanyoungie.”