mori tales

Chan’s day is quieter, but no less intense. By noon, he’s in someone else’s kitchen with marble counters, gold fixtures, and a view that costs more than their entire apartment. He works with his sleeves rolled up, his movements efficient, controlled, and careful. The clients float around him, sipping wine, murmuring praise, barely noticing the way he grounds the entire evening.

He plates with intention. Every dish feels personal, even when it isn’t. By the time he’s home again, groceries in one arm and exhaustion settling into his bones, the apartment smells like soy, garlic, and something sweet he hasn’t named yet.

Minho comes in not long after, hair damp from a shower at the studio, cheeks flushed, shoulders loose with spent energy. “You smell good,” Minho says, toeing off his shoes.

“That’s the food,” Chan replies automatically, stirring. “You too,” he adds much quieter.

Minho pauses to look at him. Something warm flickers in his eyes as he does. They move around each other without thinking; Minho’s washing his hands at the sink while Chan reaches past him for oil, Chan’s leaning back just enough for Minho to open a drawer. It’s a choreography they never rehearsed.

Dinner is simple and shared on the couch with their knees touching. Minho steals bites off Chan’s plate like he always does. Later, Minho stretches on the floor, legs up against the wall, while Chan cleans.  When Chan joins him, Minho wordlessly tugs him down too, draping one arm over his chest. “Long day?” Chan murmurs.

“Mhm.”

“Good classes?”

Minho nods. “They worked hard.”

Chan smiles at the ceiling. “You’re good with them.”

Minho hums, fingers idly tracing the seam of Chan’s shirt. “You’re good at feeding people,” he says, which makes Chan giggle so stupidly his dimples show.

A few weeks later 

Chan knows something is off the moment he unlocks the door. The apartment is dimmer than usual, the lights warm rather than bright. There’s music playing softly from the speaker in the living room; instrumental, something Minho always claims helps him focus. The air smells like garlic, butter, and something richer beneath it. “Min?” Chan calls out, toeing off his shoes.

“In the kitchen,” Minho answers calmly.

Chan rounds the corner and stops short. Minho stands at the stove in an apron Chan has literally never seen him wear. His sleeves are rolled up, and his hair is pushed out of his face. He’s stirring something with careful attention, tasting, adjusting, moving with the same precise confidence he brings to the studio. Chan just stares. “Why…Why are you cooking?” he asks, dumbly.

Minho glances over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “It’s your birthday?”

Chan blinks. “I cook on my birthday.”

“That’s depressing,” Minho replies flatly. He turns the heat down. “Sit.”

Chan obeys without argument, dropping into a chair at the counter like he’s been told what to do his entire life. He watches Minho plate the food with care. “You didn’t have to,” Chan says quietly.

Minho sets the plate down in front of him. “I wanted to.” That shuts him up.

Dinner is really good. Chan hates how unsurprised he is. Of course, Minho is decent in the kitchen. Of course, he’s quietly competent at things no one expects him to be. “This is unfair,” Chan mutters after a bite. “You’re not allowed to be good at everything.”

Minho smirks, finally sitting across from him. “I’m not. I can’t bake.”

Chan brightens. “You can’t?”

“Nope,” Minho says firmly. “And don’t try to fix that. That'll be your area of expertise.”

They eat slowly and talk about nothing important. About Minho’s students, about a client Chan cooked for last week, who complained about salt and then asked for seconds. Afterward, Minho clears the plates before Chan can protest. When he comes back, he’s holding a small stack of neatly wrapped gifts. “Okay,” Minho says, setting them down. “Your turn.”

Chan frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t get to dodge this,” Minho says lightly. “Open them.”

The first is a new, comfortable black hoodie, heavenly soft on the inside. A silver bracelet follows right after; Chan has plenty of both of these already, but he lights up like it's the first he's ever gotten. And Minho can't help but smile, as he knew he would. Chan unwraps the next one and blinks at the large glass in his hand, carefully taking off the lid. “What’s that for?”

Minho smiles knowingly. “Remember how we made a deal to go see some of the world together? We can save some money for it here. I will drop my last bit of the month into it, and you'll just casually stuff it with your fancy money.”

Chan snorts softly. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

Minho grins and shoves the next gift into his lap. Chan unwraps it and blinks in surprise. “You got me a heating blanket?”

Minho nods gently. “You mentioned your back and neck hurt after some of these long days, and I thought some warmth would be good then.”

Chan doesn’t look up right away. “You truly remember everything,” he says finally.

Minho shrugs, but his ears grow pink just a little. “You think too loud, Chan.”

“That’s not what I-” Chan exhales, then laughs softly. “Thank you.”

Minho nods. “Yeah.” They sit there for a while after, the apartment quiet around them. Chan is testing his new blanket and seems happy, glancing at Minho every now and then. Eventually, Minho shifts closer, just enough that their knees touch. “Hey Channie,” he says. Chan looks at him questioningly, and Minho hesitates for a short moment. Then he leans in. It’s slow and careful, like he’s checking whether Chan will pull away. But Chan doesn't. The kiss is soft and warm. A press of lips that feels less like a beginning and more like an acknowledgment of everything they’ve already been doing for years. When Minho pulls back, he stays close, their foreheads touching. “Happy birthday,” he murmurs.

Chan exhales a shaky laugh, his heart pounding. “You’re never cooking on my birthday again.”

Minho smiles. “We’ll see.” Chan can't help but lean in again, finding Minho's lips for another sweet, slow kiss.

-

Sunlight filters between buildings, warming the pavement, bouncing off shop windows and street signs. Chan’s hand is warm around Minho’s, fingers laced like they’ve done this forever instead of only recently allowing themselves to. Minho swings their joined hands slightly as they walk, gaze drifting from storefront to storefront. Vintage clothes, plants spilling out of a florist’s doorway, and a bookstore with a display that makes him slow just enough for Chan to bump into him.

“You’re gonna make me trip,” Chan murmurs.

Minho smiles without looking at him. “You’re holding my hand. You’re responsible now.”

Chan doesn’t argue against that. They stop at a small stand selling pastries; something fried, sugar-dusted, absolutely unnecessary. Minho eyes them openly. “You’re thinking about it, right?” Chan says.

“I’m thinking about how many calories I'll have to dance off and-”

Chan already has his wallet out. “Two of those. And whatever that one is.”

Minho opens his mouth and closes it just as fast, accepting the paper bag when Chan presses it into his free hand. “You keep doing that,” Minho says, breaking one open and handing half back automatically.

“Doing what?” Chan asks, taking the bag.

Minho gives him a glance. “Paying.”

Chan shrugs, chewing happily on the pastry. “You picked the place.”

“That’s not-,” Minho sighs, but there’s no heat in it. “You didn't have to.”

“I know,” Chan replies easily. “I wanted to.”

They eat as they walk, sugar on their fingers, their shoulders brushing every now and then. At one point, Minho wipes powdered sugar from Chan’s lip with his thumb without thinking. Chan freezes for half a second, then relaxes again.

Later, they wander into a shoe store. Minho hadn’t planned on it, but his feet carried him there anyway. He tries them on quietly, pacing the little mirror space, bouncing once on his heels twice. His eyes light up in a way he clearly doesn’t intend to show. Chan sees it immediately, and he can't let that opportunity go to waste. “They’re good,” Chan says.

“They’re really good,” Minho admits, then checks the price tag again. His expression dims. “They’re also kind of stupidly expensive.”

Chan steps closer, crouching slightly to press the sole down with his thumb. “They support your arch better.”

Minho looks at him. “You don’t know that.”

“I cook for rich people,” Chan says solemnly. “I know things.”

Minho huffs a laugh, then straightens back up again. “I don’t need them right now, it's fine.”

Chan stands, already reaching for the box. “You dance every day.”

Minho’s brows knit together. “Chan.”

“You wear through shoes faster than anyone I know,” Chan continues gently. “And these feel right. I can tell.” He turns toward the counter.

Minho follows him, panic creeping in. “Hey, hey, you don’t have to do that.” Chan pays without hesitation, not even sparing him a glance.

Outside, Minho finally stops him, hands still in the bag with the box. “You didn’t have to,” he says again, much quieter now.

Chan meets his gaze, thumb brushing over Minho’s knuckles. “I know.”

“Then why did you do it? I told you it was fine,” Minho sighed softly.

“Because I want you to be comfortable,” Chan says simply. He doesn't mention the money, who earns more, or why it wouldn’t hurt him to do this.

Minho swallows thickly. “Thank you, love.”

Chan squeezes his hand. “Anytime, baby.”

-

Chan’s car is already parked in front of the building when Minho pushes through the studio doors, his dance bag heavy on his shoulder and exhaustion clinging to him in that deep, bone-worn way. He spots the familiar silhouette immediately and relaxes before he even reaches the passenger side. “Hi, baby,” Chan says gently as Minho climbs in, leaning over to press a quick kiss to his temple. “Is everything okay? You're a bit late today.”

“Yeah, everything’s alright,” Minho replies, toeing off his shoes and folding one leg under himself. “Thank you for waiting.”

Chan hums, starting the car. “Always.”

It only takes a few minutes for Minho to notice. Chan grips the steering wheel a little too tightly, and a faint crease has settled between his brows. The silence seems heavier than usual. “Tired?” Minho asks softly.

Chan exhales. “Yeah. It was a lot today, and my designated sous chef cancelled at the last minute. I think my body has given up on me entirely.”

Minho reaches over without looking, threading their fingers together. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to complain.”

Minho scoffs quietly. “You cook for rich strangers all day and still worry about bothering me?” Chan smiles faintly but doesn’t argue.

At home, Chan insists on unloading the groceries despite Minho’s protests. He’s halfway through stacking vegetables when Minho disappears down the hall without a word. By the time Chan finishes and turns around, he hears water running. “Min?” he calls.

“In here,” comes the reply, calm and steady. Chan finds him in the bathroom, sleeves rolled up, testing the water temperature with his wrist. Steam curls into the air, scented faintly with lavender oil, which Minho only ever uses when Chan’s had a rough day. Minho glances at him. “You’re taking a bath now.”

Chan blinks. “You’re bossy tonight.”

“You’re exhausted tonight,” Minho corrects, stepping closer and tugging at Chan’s sleeves. “Come on now.”

Chan doesn’t resist. He lets Minho guide him, hands careful and sure as he helps him settle into the tub. The moment Chan sinks into the warm water, his shoulders drop like he’s been carrying the world there all day. “Oh,” he breathes. “That’s…wow.”

Minho smiles softly. “I’ll order some food. Don’t drown.”

“Yes, sir,” Chan murmurs, already closing his eyes.

Dinner arrives not long after, and they eat it slowly on the couch with Chan leaning heavily into Minho’s side, fingers curled into his hoodie like an anchor. Afterward, Minho nudges him toward the bedroom. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Chan barely has the energy to tease this time. He does as he’s told, collapsing onto the mattress with a groan the moment he’s settled. Minho gets seated beside him, hands warm as they settle on Chan’s shoulders. He doesn’t say anything, just starts to work slowly, thumbs pressing into tight muscle, fingers tracing down his neck and across his upper back. Chan melts on the spot.“Oh, Min,” he groans, voice already wrecked. “You have no idea how bad that hurts.”

“I can imagine,” Minho murmurs, leaning in. “You carry it all here.”

He presses a little firmer, and Chan lets out a sound that’s halfway between a whine and a laugh, head dropping onto the pillow. “That’s unfair,” he breathes. “You’re…that spot-” Minho smirks to himself, continuing without mercy. Chan’s reactions come freely now: soft gasps, murmured complaints that sound suspiciously grateful, the occasional broken, “Minho, please,” that doesn’t mean stop at all.

“You’re loud,” Minho says fondly.

“You’re evil,” Chan replies, voice hoarse and utterly content.

Minho eases up eventually, hands smoothing over warm skin, grounding him again. He leans down, pressing a kiss to Chan’s shoulder. “Sleep,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, love.”

Chan exhales, boneless and safe. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.” And for once, he falls asleep before Minho does.

-

Chan doesn’t warn him. That’s the first thing Minho notices. He’s barely finished toweling off his hair when Chan appears in the doorway, dressed in dark slacks and a pressed shirt that fits him a little too well, sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrist, tie sitting perfectly at his throat. “Get dressed,” Chan says calmly. “We’re going out.”

Minho blinks. “Out where?”

Chan smiles knowingly. “It’s your birthday. Trust me.”

The restaurant is everything Minho would never pick for just himself. Low lighting, soft music, and too many forks. The kind of place where Chan belongs effortlessly, greeting staff by name, pulling Minho’s chair out for him like it’s second nature. “You’re ridiculous,” Minho mutters, cheeks warm as Chan orders wine without even looking at the menu.

“And you’re indulging me,” Chan replies. “Enjoy it, baby.”

The food is unreal. So is the way Chan watches him across the table; fond, attentive, eyes soft every time Minho laughs or talks with his hands. By the time they get home, the air between them feels charged, humming like a wire pulled too tight.

Chan barely gets the door shut before Minho turns on him. He grabs Chan by the tie, fingers curling into the fabric and tugging him forward without hesitation. Chan makes a soft, surprised sound, not a protest, though, and Minho kisses him hard.

It’s nothing like their usual kisses. This one is messy. All teeth and breath and need, with Minho rising up onto his toes just to stay close. Chan responds instantly, hands coming up to Minho’s waist, then higher, then everywhere, pulling him in until there’s nowhere to go.

Minho backs up without realizing it, the solid wood of the front door pressing cold against his spine. Chan follows and pins him there without meaning to. Their mouths don’t slow. If anything, they get worse; deeper, more desperate, breaths breaking between kisses. Minho arches into him instinctively, his fingers still tight in Chan’s tie, tugging like he’s afraid Chan might disappear if he lets go. “Chan,” he breathes into the kiss, voice wrecked. 

Chan groans softly at the sound of his name, forehead dropping to Minho’s for half a second, their noses brushing against each other. “Minho,” he murmurs back, as if it costs him something. Minho’s chest is heaving. His hands roam now, to Chan’s shoulders, his chest, the line of his jaw. He tilts his head, chasing Chan’s mouth again, kissing him like he’s been waiting all night. When Chan finally pulls back, it’s only just enough to breathe. His hands stay firm at Minho’s hips, thumbs pressing into familiar places. “Happy birthday,” he says quietly, voice low and full.

Minho laughs softly, still breathless. “You spoil me.”

Chan doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tightens his grip. “I’m not done spoiling you tonight,” he murmurs, voice low and steady.

Before Minho can tease him for it, Chan lifts him clean off the floor. Minho gasps, hands instinctively sliding up to clutch at Chan’s shoulders, laughter dissolving into breathless surprise as Chan carries him down the hallway. “You’re ridiculous,” Minho manages between kisses.

“And you love it,” Chan replies, mouth already finding his again. Chan’s bedroom door barely slows them down. Chan nudges the door shut with his foot and lowers Minho onto the mattress with careful strength, like he’s placing something precious down rather than pinning him there.

Chan follows him immediately, bracing himself over Minho, hands warm and solid against his sides. Minho’s legs wrap around Chan’s hips without thinking, pulling him closer, anchoring him there. His breath catches when Chan exhales against his mouth, the kiss deepening again.

Chan breaks the kiss just long enough to trail his mouth down Minho’s jaw, then to his neck. Minho arches instinctively, a soft, needy sound slipping out of him the moment Chan’s lips press there. Chan smiles against his skin, clearly pleased, and does it again, slower this time. “Chan,” Minho breathes, fingers threading into his hair.

Chan hums quietly in response, mouth still at his neck, hands steady at Minho’s waist like he’s grounding them both. “Yeah,” he murmurs roughly. “I’ve got you.”

Minho’s chest rises and falls quickly now, every nerve lit up, every touch feeling like it matters. He tilts his head just enough to give Chan better access. Chan doesn’t slow down. If anything, he presses closer, his body fitting against Minho’s like it always has, like it was made to. His mouth keeps moving, unhurried and intent, kissing along Minho’s neck and back up again, learning him anew with every soft press of his lips.

Minho’s breath fractures. A quiet sound slips from him before he can stop it, then another. His fingers tighten reflexively, one hand buried in Chan’s hair, the other gripping the fabric of his suit jacket like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “Channie,” Minho exhales, voice already wrecked.

Chan hums against his skin, the vibration sending a shiver straight through him. His hands settle more firmly at Minho’s sides, holding him there, close enough that Minho can feel every breath he takes.

When Minho shifts, just a small, instinctive movement, his hips brush against Chan without intent, a reflex more than a choice. The reaction is immediate. Chan stills just a fraction, breath stuttering, forehead dropping to Minho’s shoulder as if he needs the second to steady himself. Minho realizes what he’s done a heartbeat later, cheeks warm, body buzzing. “I-sorry,” he murmurs, even though he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

Chan lifts his head slowly, eyes dark, focused entirely on him. His grip tightens just enough to make Minho’s breath catch again. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He leans in, resting his forehead against Minho’s, noses brushing as their breaths mingle. Minho swallows, hips twitching again despite himself. Chan exhales a low, shaky breath and presses a gentle kiss to Minho’s mouth this time. “Easy,” Chan murmurs, thumb brushing comfortingly along Minho’s side. “I’ve got you.” 

Minho doesn’t mean to move like that. It’s instinct more than intent. His body is chasing the closeness, the pressure, the heat where Chan is already everywhere. His hips roll up again, subtle but unmistakable, breath hitching sharply as he does. “Chan,” he whispers, his voice rough, desperate in a way he doesn’t bother hiding. His fingers tighten in Chan’s hair, tugging just enough to get his attention. “Please.”

Chan freezes for a second. Then he exhales, forehead dropping to Minho’s collarbone like he’s grounding himself there. His hands stay firm at Minho’s waist, thumbs pressing in warning and reassurance all at once. “Minho,” he says quietly, but strained. “Hey.”

Minho swallows, his eyes glassy and his chest rising fast. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he pulls Chan closer again, legs tightening around his hips, lips brushing his ear as he murmurs, almost pleading, “Do something.”

Chan’s breath breaks. He lifts his head, eyes locking onto Minho’s with an intensity that makes Minho’s stomach flip. There’s hunger there, unmistakably so, but there’s also care, restraint, and something protective beneath it all. Chan leans in, kissing him again. One hand slides up Minho’s spine, holding him flush, anchoring him there. The kiss steals Minho’s breath completely, pulls another soft sound from his throat before he can stop it.

When Chan finally pulls back, it’s only an inch. “I am,” Chan murmurs against his lips. Minho nods shakily, still clinging, still aching, but trusting him completely. Chan presses a soft kiss to his forehead, then his cheek, then his mouth again, full of unspoken promises. “I’ve got you,” Chan whispers. “All night.”

Minho’s hands come up shakily as they kiss again, fingers fumbling open Chan’s tie first, the buttons of his shirt following. His hands hesitantly roam the newly exposed skin, fingers tracing down Chan’s stomach as he searches his eyes. Chan nods with a soft smile, encouraging him that it’s okay, before reaching down and carefully unbuttoning Minho’s shirt as well. Their pants follow, and clothes hit the floor until they’re dressed in nothing but their boxers. Minho tugs Chan into another kiss, soft gasps leaving him as Chan’s hand travels down his side, squeezing his thigh and groaning at the feeling. “Fuck, Chan, use your fingers, please, before I do it myself.”

Chan giggles in delight before carefully tugging off Minho’s boxers and fumbling for the lube in his bedside table after. He coats his fingers, warming them before gently fondling against Minho’s rim. The moan that leaves his love when he finally, gently, pushes the first finger inside sends butterflies right down to his core. Minho’s legs fall open, his grip on Chan’s hair tightening as Chan stretches him out patiently. Minho can’t help but moan when Chan’s three fingers in deep. Chan watches him carefully when he curls his fingers against Minho’s prostate.

Minho arches off the bed with a surprised little moan, his hand twisting the sheets below him. His eyes flutter shut as Chan does it again, his eyes rolling back deliciously, his lips parting with a weak whine. Chan can only marvel at the sight, pressing down against the mattress in an attempt to soothe the growing pressure between his legs. “Fuck, baby, you’re gorgeous.”

Minho smiles lazily. “Yeah? Bet I’ll look even better on your dick, pretty,” he groans, and Chan swallows thickly. “Don’t make me beg.”

Chan giggles fondly, rolling his eyes, before pulling down his stained boxers and throwing them towards the rest of their clothes. “Not tonight, baby, I’m too impatient for it.”

Minho snorts and pulls him into a heated kiss, groaning as he pulls out his fingers. He tenses softly when Chan’s dick finally pushes past his rim, a satisfied moan leaving him right after. “Oh-oh fuck, Channie,” he moans out deliciously. “Get moving.”

“Always so bossy,” Chan smirks against his lips, but he can’t deny him that wish. He truly can’t. He starts rolling his hips, thrusting into him at a steady pace that has Minho gasping and writhing against the sheets. 

Minho arches into Chan’s thrusts, hips eagerly meeting his every move. His hands are everywhere, gripping onto Chan’s hair, the sheets, his shoulders as if he doesn’t know how to stay sane otherwise. Chan’s lips travel down his neck, his hot breath ghosting over his skin and sending shivers down Minho’s spine. “I’m gonna say something controversial,” Minho broke off with a gasp.

Chan snorts, pushing in deep and marvelling at the soft flutter of Minho’s eyes it gets him. “That’s a new one.”

“F-Fuck you,” he moans softly, tugging at Chan’s hair roughly. 

“I’m kind of busy fucking you right now, baby,” Chan laughs, a soft moan leaving him as Minho only tugs on his hair harder in response. 

“Can we skip the romance part?” he asks, heavylidded eyes meeting Chan’s. “We can do that another time, right now - fuck - I need you to ruin me.”

Chan stares at him, amazed. “If I knew what a simple dinner could do to you, I would’ve done so much earlier.”

“Can you stop being such a dumb-ahh, yeah, just like that,” Minho moans out loudly as Chan slams his hips against him. His head falls back against the pillow, back arching as Chan starts pounding into him. He can barely keep his eyes open, too overwhelmed by the feeling. Chan’s hands guide his legs up, settling them onto his shoulders, and Minho grips his arm at the new angle. 

Chan keeps the fast pace and harsh thrusts up, his lips travelling over whatever bit of skin he can reach. Minho’s hand presses up against the headboard, thrusting back and keeping himself from bumping his head. Chan gently grazes Minho’s nipple with his teeth, and the unholy whine it pulls out of Minho makes his hips jerk. “You like that, baby?” he teases him, and Minho’s too far gone to scold him for it.

“Y-Yes, fuck, Chan, don’t stop,” he moans out loudly, his voice breaking when Chan gently sucks on his nipple. 

Chan can’t stop staring at him in wonder. He knew Minho was beautiful; he always has. But this, all fucked out for him, lips parting, lashes fluttering, sweat coating his forehead, this is even better. The sound of their skin clapping mixes with Minho’s beautiful moans and the sound of the headboard hitting the wall. A loud knocking from above makes him freeze, his eyes widening.

“Don’t you dare stop,” Minho groans softly. “Fuck them, Chan, seriously,” he tells him, not caring about any annoyed neighbours right now. 

Chan laughs before continuing to move, drawing another set of filthy moans and curses from Minho’s lips. “Don’t worry, baby, I couldn’t leave you hanging like that.”

“Y-Yeah, you better,” Minho groans, pulling him into an open-mouthed kiss. His thighs are shaking by now, and he can feel his stomach flipping. “I think I’m close,” he muttered against his lips.

“That’s okay, baby, let go,” Chan encourages him softly, changing the angle slightly to hit Minho’s prostate. Minho moans so loudly in response Chan’s sure their neighbours have heard, but truly, he doesn’t care. Not with the sight he has right now. Not with those sweet, punched-out sounds leaving his love. Not when he’s clinging to him so firmly he’s sure he’ll bruise. 

“M’fuck, Channie,” Minho whines, squeezing his eyes shut adorably with a groan. His stomach flips again, violently, and his nails bury themselves in Chan’s back as the older hits his prostate again. Before he can fully comprehend it, a broken moan of Chan’s name leaves him as he’s spilling all over himself and Chan. His body spasms as pleasure courses through his veins, toes curling at the release.

Chan buries his face in Minho’s neck with a loud groan, the sight of him and the feeling of him clenching around him wrecking him. Chan gasps Minho’s name as his hips jerk forward and he coats his walls. He pulls out of him with a soft grunt, and Minho tugs him into a hug, kissing his hair. “God, I love you, Min.”

Minho giggles happily. “Mhm, I love you too,” he grins before glancing down at himself. “The first thing we save for with that jar I gifted you is a house. I won’t be getting scolded by some uptight neighbours for enjoying my time with my boyfriend.”

Chan can’t help but laugh at that. “Deal,” he smiles, kissing him happily. “Actually, why don’t I go clean up the mess I made, hm?” he grins, scooting down further and getting comfortable between Minho’s legs. He shoves a pillow beneath Minho’s hips and gently grabs his thighs, parting them to get access. 

Minho’s hand buries in his hair the moment his tongue meets his skin, caressing his rim ever so softly. This time, he’s loud on purpose.

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