Archive of Our Own

June, July, August. Lacey periwinkle catches Chan’s eye. 

He’s desperate, nearly electrified at the sight. Chan isn’t the type to make his needs known to anyone, far more susceptive to letting them simmer under the surface indefinitely, but that doesn’t take away from the fact. He’s as desperate as any touch starved twenty-something year-old, confronted with the familiar sensation of want licking up his spine. 

“Dad,” he hears his friend whine, voice distorted by heavy synths, “why are you here?”

Their nightout was going fairly well up until this point; some people sat around the bar, others going wild on the dance floor. Chan almost wants to call it a night, wants to pick up some random chick and reward himself for surviving yet another taxing week, but his feet are rooted in place. Bound by an itch and a pull, reflecting off every corner. 

Fists closing around nothing.

“What, I’m not allowed to enter a club cause I’m old? I didn’t raise you to be ageist, Felix.” 

Chan knows the heat cooking up his insides has nothing to do with the season.

“That’s not what I meant and you fucking know it.”

“Language,” The stranger, Felix’s father apparently which is only slowly hitting Chan’s monkey brain, chides. 

Out of nowhere, it hits him. He’s never been to Felix’s house. Never saw his parents although he does know they’re divorced. They met as freshmen and had to say goodbye briefly when Chan decided to go abroad for his junior year of college, needing a change of scenery and pace. It’s only been a few weeks since he returned, but Chan has a feeling he might have missed out on more than he initially thought would be the case. 

Arms crossed in front of his chest, Felix huffs as his father slips into the stool next to him. Unbuttoned down the sternum, his satin shirt glows under the pink lights, as does the man wearing it. Chan finds himself unable to look away.

“Like what you see?” 

And then he blanks. 

“What. Uh. Sorry. I didn’t—” 

Mean to? Want to?  But he did.

Chan’s mouth runs dry at the thought.

“Cute,” The other fully turns away from Felix then, unfazed by the groan that earns him. Chan watches his elbow come into view, chin propped up by delicate hands. Voice a wisp, “you must be new. How about we christen this meeting against my dining table at home?”

Normal is subjective, but Chan can’t say he hears that every day. 

He is just starting to feel the corners of his mouth jerk in surprise, imagination running a hundred miles per hour. His body reacts to the man beside him, has been reacting ever since he first laid eyes on him — however, Chan is well aware he’s not some hormonal teenager anymore. He’s intrigued by the antics of Felix’s father (Felix’s father, something up top warns), the way his eyes keep boring into his, but Chan isn’t about to make things between himself and his best friend awkward forever. He won’t. He thinks he won’t. Will he? 

The thing is, Chan’s had a few too many. Been alone for a few too long. And, well.

He’s thinking about it. 

“No, stop,” Felix cuts in then, equally exasperated but for drastically different reasons, “you always do this!”

“You always, always hit on my friends,” he continues before Chan can even begin to figure out what that means, taking a swig of his drink. 

His father mirrors the action, “And whose fault is that?”

“Yours—”

“That’s right, no one’s,” The man says, then collapses against Chan with a dramatic sigh, “ah, what to do? My son is so mean to me. Hold me, what’s your name?”

“Chan?”

“Minho,” matter-of-factly, “hold me, Channie.” 

“Don’t hold him, Chan,” Felix intervenes, making his friend jump as his arms stick uncomfortably to his sides. He almost did it. He might have done it had Felix not said anything, stuck in a trance like state carrying him straight to Nirvana. Minho’s hair tickling his chin, a pair of devious eyes boring into his. That nickname. He wonders, how many have fallen at his hand?

“I know you want to,” Minho states, deadpan in that same impish way. Like he knows, just like he says he does. 

Chan knows too, but that’s beside the point.

The seconds trickle on undisturbed.

“Dude, don’t just sit there, say no,” Felix finally snaps, sending embarrassed tremors up the other’s spine. Way too late, he does as told, sorely aware of his mishap. Aware of the reddening of his ears, the victorious smirk splitting Minho’s face in half.

The way it’s so damn hard to stop staring at him. 

“Fucking hell. Not you too,” Felix all but gives up, dropping his forehead onto the tabletop, “can we just go home?” 

And so they do. A little too happily, hardly without ulterior motives, Minho finishes the rest of his drink and leads them outside the building. Down the sidewalk, past multiple drunk teens. Eventually arriving at his car. Arms hooked around each of the other two’s elbows, he only lets go to reach for his keys. 

“By home, I meant the dorm, dad. I know what you’re trying to do.”

At that, Chan straightens like an arrow. Shifting in the backseat next to Felix, he feels like an intruder suddenly. Like he’s listening in on something he’s not supposed to. It feels like Felix and his father have had this conversation a thousand times. 

“But honey, you said home,” Minho echoes, hand on his chest, “don’t tell me you think of that filthy shoebox as your home? Gasp.” 

Felix furrows his brows.

“Don’t ever say gasp out loud again.” 

“Anyway, do you guys think this shirt makes me look fat,” Minho ignores his son in favor of fixing his collar in the rearview mirror, “it takes away from my chin but also adds to, you know… my chin.” 

Offering his father the same common courtesy, Felix rolls his eyes and, instead of replying, addresses Chan who is currently fixated on Minho’s neck twisting in and out of the small reflection. He tears his gaze away when, for a split second, their eyes meet. 

“You mind sleeping over?” Felix questions, looking so royally pissed off Chan just wants to get swallowed by the ground, “sorry, there’s no getting rid of him when he gets like this.” 

The air separating them is thick. Heavy. And not because of the casual drunk driving that’s about to take place. 

“Yeah. Yeah, no problem.”

All Chan follows up with is a nod, a quiet tale of it’s okay. He wants to add more: say he’s very okay with this, that he’s lonely and badly wants the man behind the wheel to breathe in his direction, maybe more. Maybe fuck him against the nearest flat surface. Curl his fists around the purple silk falling loosely over pointy shoulders, down lean arms. Maybe Chan wants to do all of that and more, but that’s neither here nor there. 

He knows it’s wrong, but he just can’t help himself. They exit the car mere moments later, stepping into halls decked out in jewels. Paintings, rhinestones, and statues. The Lee household is one of wealth for sure, but Chan is too drunk to even care. Too drunk on alcohol, on carefully tinted lips, flawless skin, smooth, soft, delicious. Chan doesn’t think he’s ever been with a man like him — doesn’t think he wants to. 

But his body does. 

His body wants him. 

“How often does he succeed?” he at some point mumbles into the night, tucked away on Felix’s couch. He’s glad they’re not sharing a space, too conscious of the nervous jitter in his legs. Chan can’t get the look Minho gave him when they parted ways at the entrance out of his head. There was meaning to it. It didn’t just exist to be there.

Silence meets him and Chan resigns to the fact that Felix must have fallen asleep. Just when he’s about to slip away himself, his best friend’s voice sounds in the stale air, “Just don’t leave the room tonight, Chan.”

And it all feels too much like he’s being taunted.

“Good night, Lix.” 

Presented with an unspoken dare.

“Good night, Chan.”

He knows that’s not Felix’s intention, knows it can’t be, but there’s just something about being told not to do something you so desperately want to do. Something you know you shouldn’t do and then just going and doing it anyway. It’s freeing; awe-inspiring, exhilarating, always a challenge around self-awareness. Morals set ablaze, Chan pictures himself on his tip-toes no more than half an hour later before he makes it a reality, heart hammering against his ripcage with every step down the gilded stairway. Felix isn’t a light sleeper and Chan knows that, but he just needs to be sure. Needs to go that extra mile. 

Once downstairs, he takes a moment to compose himself. Right as something snakes around his legs, taking him by surprise — which quickly morphs into full blown glee.

“Why, who are you,” he coos, letting the feline rub its scent on his legs. He squats down to pat stubby fur, one to the back, a scratch to the chin. A few ruffles between the ears.

Swaying peacefully, a tipsy haze settles deep in Chan’s bones. Then suddenly, a presence.

“Good with cats,” says the presence, making him freeze, “that’s a green flag.” 

The airy mood dissipates in an instant. 

When Chan looks up, the breath is just about knocked out of his lungs. He doesn’t know where to look. How to react.

“Can’t say the same for you,” is what he settles for, “you’re like a red flag personified.” 

He remains on the floor, eyes crawling up the exposed leg peeking out of the robe Minho had changed into. The material resembles his blouse from before, the color only slightly different in that it is paler, pinker, a little more romantic. There’s another cat at Minho’s feet, a third purring in his arms.

“Red is my favorite colour,” his voice verges on innocent as he speaks, faux pout amplified by the way he extends his leg to plant the tips of his toes on the other’s chest. Minho looks down on Chan with purpose, the robe inching up to reveal more skin, skin, skin, “do you know what it represents?” 

Then he pushes. Eyes wide, Chan falls back, catching himself on his elbows. 

“I-I don’t.”

Lust, passion, desire, sex. It’s not like Chan doesn’t know where this is headed. Nor is he the timid type when it comes to being intimate, not really. This setting, though. This position. Minho’s foot traveling down the expanse of Chan’s torso to stall around the waistband of the sweatpants Felix lent him. The taboo of it all has him blushing like a bride.

“Is that so,” Ghosting his foot over Chan’s bulge, Minho smiles at the shaky breath that answers him, “ you seem awfully shy. Do we need wine?”

“No, I need wine,” he reasons, despite himself, “you need to put on some clothes.”

Minho’s skin is brushed with oil, smelling of vanilla and bergamot. Bearing stones around his neck and wrists, Chan thinks he looks more expensive than any artifact uncovered in the history of the universe.

“Is that really what you want?”

“Yeah,” Maybe. Possibly?

No. No, not at all.

“I don’t think your little friend here agrees,” Minho grinds the heel of his foot down without warning, releasing the cat in his arms at long last. The tabby hastily tip taps off to where the other two are climbing furniture, swinging tails, doing cat things. Not like Chan is paying any attention. A heady moan escapes him, wanting to reach out but feverishly excited to see what else Minho has in store for him. 

He’s unaffected, amused, and clearly used to this. It only serves to turn Chan on more.

“What year are you in?”

He momentarily looks away from his crotch, feeling the stairs digging into his back. 

“Fourth.” 

“So you’re a senior,” Undoing the ties of his robe, Minho glances at Chan’s lips, “you know, you’re gonna be a working adult soon. You might wanna brush up on your lying.” 

Chan swallows, tongue tied. Everywhere burns. Moreover, he didn’t expect there to be another set of ties inside the robe, unblinking as he waits for that one to be taken care of as well. But before Chan can even try to imagine what he might be looking at very soon, Minho drops to his knees, gracefully settling in his lap.

“You wear your emotions on your sleeve. So very cute,” Minho whispers, “really, you should see the way you look at me. You don’t even care that I’m Felix’s father, do you?” 

“Well, you kinda make it hard t—o,” his voice breaks when Minho makes quick work of dropping his hand down his pants. 

Tossing tousled, glossy hair, he doesn’t waste any time pulling Chan’s cock out, already leaking at the tip. Throbbing at the touch. He’s sitting on the younger’s thighs, skilled hands drifting to jerk him off deliberately, leisurely.

With a strong grip — slowly.

“I sure do make it hard, don’t I?”

He’s the worst with no sense of decency. Chan might be falling in love.

“You sure do,” Voice a ghost of what it used to be, he clenches his fists. Traps his moans somehow, still feeling the stairs at his cross, his lats.

Against his will, his lashes flutter, “Wait, we can’t. Not here—”

“We can,” Cutting his concerns off at the base, Minho reaches inside the pocket of his robe. Unhurried, he pulls out a condom, a small bottle of lube, and flings both onto the floor before leaning down to litter a trail of wet kisses up Chan’s waiting neck, “and we will.”

“But—” 

“It’s fine, relax.” Eyes dark and blown, Minho’s tone suggests no room for opposition. 

“What if he catches us?” 

The question feels inappropriate, almost a little alien. Minho seems to think differently, raising his free hand to cup Chan’s jaw, still working him with the other. An undeniably wicked smile on his lips when he says: “Don’t worry about Lixie. He knows the drill.” 

“That,” But his words catch in his throat, taken aback by Minho dropping down the length of his body, “that’s so rotten,” he manages, “you’re rotten.”

How many times, Chan still wants to know. How many guys?

The way Minho pushes his legs apart to settle between them, the way he’s staring, gives reason to assume he’s taking absolutely everything into consideration — whether Chan’s cut, uncut, big, small, calculating in his head which techniques to use to maximise his pleasure. It has him paralyzed on the marble floors, watching the bow of Minho’s lips as he smirks at Chan.

“Is that your attempt at being condescending?” he cocks a brow, licks a stripe up his frenulum.

With a hum, Minho glides his lips up and down the sides of his shaft. Feeling winded already, Chan sucks in a harsh breath. He swears he sees stars the moment Minho places a finger to his taint, putting pressure on it. 

“I’m just having fun. Nothing wrong with that,” Minho purrs, backing away with a string of saliva connecting his pout to the head of Chan’s dick. Like the tease he is, he begins to close the distance again only to stop at the last second. The groan Chan lets out is instantly replaced by a sharp cry, toes curling to compensate for Minho’s hand grabbing the base yet again, the only difference: his tongue, fixed to his tip — swivelling around the slit. 

“Fuck, shit,” and many more expletives escape him, hand automatically flying to the crown of Minho’s head. This seems to spur him on even further, taking all of Chan into his mouth in one fluid movement. 

“Use your words, Channie,” Minho huffs, speaking quickly because he doesn’t seem to wanna let him up at all. He puts extra force in his tongue, “do you wanna come?” 

There’s something special in the way he pants around him, Chan thinks, a little louder each time he pulls his hair. It’s revealing. Intoxicating. Minho is getting progressively into it, hollowing his cheeks like he’s imagining sucking a golfball through a garden hose, tears collecting at his eyes. Back arched and not a hint of a gag reflex when he lets Chan hit the back of his throat over and over, swallowing around him again and again. 

“Yes, but not,” Feeling his release creep up way too soon, Chan tries to recoup himself, “not yet, not like this.” 

He’s in a state of upheaval — nothing could stop him from dragging Minho up by the armpits, holding him flush. Chan makes sure to move away from the stairs in the process, connecting their lips like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do. 

“Oh,” Minho is staring at him for a brief moment before he kisses back, matching his energy. His eyes fall shut, allowing Chan to explore the insides of his mouth with a pliancy very much unexpected. 

It’s new, good, right. He can taste himself on Minho’s tongue.

“Off. Off,” he fiddles with the robe but ultimately fails, the material trapped between their bodies, “take this off, dammit,” Chan’s struggle draws a giggle out of the other, a sound so pleasant against his lips it nearly gives him whiplash. 

“Impatient, aren’t we,” There’s no spite in his voice, “that’s why I love fucking younger people.” 

Chan can’t help it; he has to do an actual double take.

“You—what? That’s the reason?” 

“Of course. Your desperation keeps me young.” 

“Wow,” he bites back an incredulous laugh, “okay, what’s next? You gonna suck the life force out of me?” 

Tilting his head, Minho reclines on Chan’s thighs for the second time that night. Hands fixed to his hem, traveling north to finally loosen the tie with his eyes trained to Chan’s the entire time, “I already did, didn’t I?” 

Chan gulps, momentarily distracted from the conversation. “Right. I forgot.” 

“Amnesia,” Minho quips, letting the garment fall off his shoulders to pool around slender hips, “that’s a sign it’s working.” 

Releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding, Chan grazes his fingers along Minho’s bare chest — sweeping across hard ridges, velvety skin. Licking his lips in preparation when Minho frees up his midsection next, the robe hanging onto just the lowest parts of his wrists. Noticing the way he’s completely bare under the cloth, because of course he is, the way he looks like an absolute god under the overhead lights, the way each line on his body blends to create a picture Chan can only define as — perfect, flawless, beautiful? He wishes he knew. He doesn’t. He zones out. Doesn’t know anything. 

The thoughts leave him en masse when Minho gives himself a few lazy tugs. 

“Earth to Channie? Somebody in there?” 

Ripping him out of his stupor, Minho looks at Chan like he knows exactly what he’s thinking. Like he’s just been observing him for a while. He must have actually robbed him of his energy, Chan is convinced. He can’t remember ever having felt this flustered seeing another man’s naked body. 

“Sorry,” Ever the polite lover, he lets the apology roll off his tongue before scanning his surroundings for the lube, condom, his sanity. He grabs the former, possessed by newfound urgency. 

Without further ado, Chan pushes Minho flat on his back. Feels his tongue writhe against his own when he finds him again.

“Woah there,” Minho gasps, a result of being manhandled, “what, puppy grew claws?” 

“You have no idea,” Chan marvels between kisses, “the things I wanna do to you.” 

There’s hands in his collar. 

“Show me then.” 

It’s not a question — but an order. Admittedly, the urge to cover Minho’s whole body in lovebites first is strong, but Chan is greedy for it. Has been greedy since he first got a glimpse of pale purples, pastels, of rose-apple faces. When Minho bats his lashes at him, tenting his fingers on Chan’s nape, he’s already got a lube covered finger prodding at his entrance. 

It slides in with barely any resistance. 

“That feel good?” Chan wonders aloud, sucking a patch onto Minho’s neckline.

“Yeah,” is what the other manages to say before his tone spikes, jaw flexing with each grind against Chan’s fingers. He takes that as his cue to add another one, sneaking the suspicion that he’s probably not Minho’s first of the day. The hickey on his hip, angry shades of red and fresh. The way he’s taking Chan a little too readily. 

It’s all just a little telling.

“How do you want it?” 

Minho grabs Chan’s face within an inch of a second, “Rough.” 

They don’t look away from each other, equally spellbound. Chan holds off for a minute, then scissors his fingers. A third follows shortly after, assisting Chan in his quest of finding Minho’s prostate, “Elaborate?” 

He finds it. A chain of unintelligible pleas — a few oh-my-gods, a couple do-that-agains — later, Minho begins rambling unrestrained, rocking against Chan’s fingers with feet digging into his back. He’s impossibly close, hot breath scalding against the shell of the younger’s ear. 

“I want you to call me a whore,” he whispers, mouthing at the side of Chan’s face, “pull my hair, fuck me raw. Gag me with your cock.” 

Minho stops talking only to keen at the feeling of long fingers moving in and out of him at a relentless pace, growing rapidly — essentially fingerfucking him. Teeth still dragging over that same sensitive spot on his neck until it’s beyond sore. Chan hopes it stays a long time, a daily reminder of where they were this very moment. 

“Anything else?” he attempts, loving the sound of Minho’s voice. 

“Hah,” Staccato moans explode in his larynx. He nods, surprisingly coherent, “if we e-ever get the chance to do this again—”

“Yeah?” 

“I wanna do it in a pa—ark.” 

Pause. Chan’s mind swims with possibilities. He’s so hard it hurts, withdrawing his fingers all at once whilst focusing his attention on the way Minho’s hole clenches around nothing. The way it aches for him. Waits for him.

“A park?” 

“Yes,” The grin on Minho’s face is brilliant, all teeth and giddy excitement. Branded with the effort it takes to catch his breath, sweat beading and sliding down his temples. Letting Chan drink in the sight of him with no shame whatsoever. 

“I don’t even care who watches,” he adds, the corners of his mouth twitching, “I wanna do it straddling you in the passenger seat on the side of a road. I want you to fuck me with the windows open. Make me call you daddy, come on my face — I want to comb it out of my eyelashes.”

Brows knitted, Chan is positively lost for words.

He can imagine it all so vividly. 

“That’s… Minho, you — wow.”

His eyes must look like the moon, how dilated they are. 

Seemingly able to sense the shift, Minho takes advantage of Chan’s hesitation to roll them over, back to their starting position. For a moment, a pair of horns appears behind his head when he sinks down in his lap, rips the condom open with his teeth before slipping it on, the way only an expert could. 

“What about you,” Minho croons, aligning himself, “tell me, I wanna know your fantasies too.”

He sounds far away, like he’s functioning on muscle memory alone.

“I—”

“Do you like ‘em shy? Submissive?” 

Minho slides down. Begins to move, slowly at first, “I can put on any act — just say the word.” 

A little too late for that; Chan’s lips won’t form the words. Hands splayed out on his clothed chest, Minho appears blissfully uninterested in Chan’s response, the tightness of his body wrapped around him like a vice. He picks up the pace all by himself, the other’s heart stirring in the backdrop. 

It stays racing against Minho’s palm. 

“No, just,” Chan doesn’t think twice when he blurts, “be yourself — please?”

In that moment, a pitched moan dies behind Minho’s teeth. He shakes his bangs out of his eyes, inner muscles clamping down around the girth of Chan’s cock, around the swollen base, earning himself a series of strangled groans. The smile has disappeared from his lips only to be reborn in his eyes.

“Alright.”

Reverently, appreciatively.

Falling into place nothing short of naturally.

Chan secures a bruising grip on Minho’s hips, bucks into him every time Minho comes down and meets him halfway. The obscene squelch, the manner in which Minho falls apart in Chan’s arms when he angles his hips just right, letting him sink his elbows into the space above his shoulders—it’s both too much and not enough. Minutes turn into seconds, seconds into eons. Consumed by the chase, Chan guides Minho along the length of his cock like time itself is a foreign concept, gunning for the finish line and yet wanting this race to last forever. 

Similarly disheveled, Minho fixes a hand under Chan’s chin to turn his head.

“So cl-close,” he mewls into his mouth, claiming his lips, “god, my knees are killing me.” 

Chan almost stills. Overcome by a sense of fondness, a laugh threatens to bubble past his reserves.

He smiles against Minho’s mouth, as much as his labored breathing allows him to, “Whose idea was it to do this on the floor again?”

“I don’t know, but they’re clearly full of shit.” 

At this, he does laugh. Only to feel Minho catch his tongue the next time it invades his mouth, sucking ever so slightly. Coaxing a surprised moan out of Chan, mouths still locked. He admits he’s close too, treading the edge of his impending orgasm with Minho still tugging on his lip, running his fingertips across the nape of his neck. 

“Oh god, oh fu—ck,” Untangling their lips, Minho suddenly pushes off him, “you feel fucking amazing!” 

He’s back to bouncing on Chan’s dick in no time, hand shooting down to fist himself with a death grip. Head thrown back and sweating all over. Like this, Chan can reach about as far inside as possible, can watch Minho fuck himself on his cock like the wet dream he is, roll his hips every few thrusts like he knows it too. 

Minho’s been irresistable all night, but right now, he’s deadly.

“Touch me,” he begs, blindly grabbing for Chan’s hand, “don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Not thinking straight, Chan drags that same hand up Minho’s chest, squeezing a nipple. Something between a scream and a cry greets him, held in place by his wrist, beckoning him to do it again and he does. 

“God, do you even know how,” Chan growls, completely beside himself, “how sinful you look?” 

“So I’ve been told,” Minho affirms breathlessly, lifting all the way off him and plunging down with the weight of a million stars. His thighs start to shake, the only sign he’s about to come — from there on, it’s all incoherent whimpers and whines. 

“Yeah,” In a frenzy, Chan hisses, “that’s it, good job.”

Minho’s body jerks, trembles, with the force of his climax, but he keeps moving like a visceral reaction to the praise. And just like that, Chan follows suit. Minho clasps around him, rides him like a nightmare and finally milks him dry off his soul as he spills into the condom with a long winded, spent sigh. 

Or at least that’s what it feels like. Chan can’t put into words how sated he is when they both cave into themselves; Chan on the ground, Minho on his chest. Trying to regain some semblance of feeling in their extremities. For a long time, that’s all they do. For a long time, that’s all there is to it.

To bask in the afterglow, fingers woven through messy hair. Hearts beating in unison.

This too, Chan wishes wouldn’t have to end.

“All that effort,” Eventually, Minho breaks the silence, “and we didn’t even touch the dining table.” 

His come is sticking to Chan’s shirt, making him wish he had the foresight to take it off. Then again, a general lack of foresight is what got him here in the first place, so he supposes he can’t complain too much. 

Hugging Minho’s waist to his, Chan feels inclined to caress his cheek with his thumb. He’s rewarded the most beautiful smile. 

“The night is still young,” he says, letting the implications hang midair. 

Minho looks confused for only a moment before recognition dawns on him. He presses his lips into a thin line. 

“The night might be,” he drones, looking absolutely wrecked, “but I’m not. Let’s sleep.” 

Next thing Chan knows, Minho changes into pajamas with grapes on them and he eats that shit up completely. He eats him up too. Twice.

Needless to say, they don’t end up sleeping for a long time.

(They never end up making it to the dining table either.)