Chapter Text
Minho’s question is daring him to respond, daring him to act but Chan didn’t answer. Maybe he could touch, just once.
Minho tilted his head, voice dropping even softer.
“Or is it that you don't want to?”
Maybe it was foolish, dangerous. But when Chan touched him, Minho didn’t feel scared. For the first time in a long time, Minho felt wanted, not for the show, not for the fantasy, but for him.
Even if he didn’t quite understand the storm he was walking into.
Chan’s hands moved — slow, deliberate — and rested on Minho’s thighs.
Chan hadn’t just lost control, Minho had too.
He felt Minho jolt like a live wire but not pulling away, his thumb brushed over warm skin.
Finally.
“Careful” Chan said, voice low, the control cracking beneath it “You’ve been begging for this. I might give you more than you can handle”
Chan leaned forward, one hand rising to ghost along Minho’s waist. He didn’t pull, didn’t grab. He just touched. Like he needed proof the boy was real.
“You think I don’t want you?” he murmured “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you on that stage”
His palm flattened against Minho’s back now, guiding him forward, gentle but firm.
“You wanted me to break” Chan said “You should know… when I do? — His lips hovered near Minho’s neck, like a promise — I don’t stop”
He should’ve kept his distance. Should’ve taken the dance, the tension, the teasing and left it at that. It was supposed to be simple.
But then Minho looked at him like that. Danced for him like that and Bang Chan is not a weak man, he controls everything; his club, his men, his damn heartbeat, now he felt powerless.
Just a touch, just enough to make the ache in his chest bearable.
He gripped Minho’s thigh, firmer now. His other hand moving from his hip to the small of Minho’s back, pulling him closer with a slowness that felt cruel. Their chests brushed, Chris could feel his warmth.
Minho didn’t resist, he didn't look smug, either. He just stared — wide-eyed, lips parted, pupils blown — like he’d finally gotten what he wanted but didn’t know what to do with it now that it was happening.
Chan’s control, so carefully built, so meticulously preserved, fractured with each breath Minho took.
Just one taste.
He tilted his head, pressed his mouth to the corner of Minho’s jaw, not a kiss, not yet.
Minho gasped.
Chan moved again, mouth barely grazing the line of his throat. Still not kissing. Still… holding on.
Barely.
But his hands were hungry now. One slid up Minho’s spine, dragging heat in its path. The other crawled from his thigh to his hip, fingers pressing into skin like he was trying to memorize it.
This wasn’t the plan.
“Tell me to stop — he whispered, voice raw, breaking against Minho’s pulse — If you don’t…”
And Chan meant it.
“…I won’t”
Because it wasn’t power anymore. It wasn’t control it was need.
For the first time in years, Chan wasn’t the one deciding.
He was waiting.
Up until now, Minho’s been testing him, teasing him, in control of the game but when he gives in, it’s not a game anymore. It’s surrender. Not just of his body, but of the part of him that’s been resisting wanting Chan back.
Silence.
Minho didn’t speak.
Chan waited — heart pounding, blood loud in his ears, hands trembling from the weight of holding back too long — tell me to stop he had said. But now every second of silence felt like it might kill him.
Minho moved.
Not away.
Not to stop him.
He leaned forward, just slightly, just enough that their lips hovered close and then brushed against Chan’s like a secret.
A kiss, shy at first.
Minho’s fingers curled into Chan’s shirt, holding tight.
“Don’t stop — he whispered, voice barely there — Just… don’t stop”
Chan broke.
His hands were on Minho’s waist, pulling him fully onto his lap. Their mouths crashed together, no more hesitation, no more pretending this was just power or performance.
This need was real.
Minho kissed him like he’d been waiting for this and didn’t know how much he wanted it until now. Like he might lose control if Chan stopped touching him.
Chan’s fingers dug into his hips, he kissed Minho, getting his tongue to taste him deeply, slower, then rougher, learning the shape of his mouth like it was something to claim.
And Minho left him.
More than that, he kissed back like he wanted to be claimed.
And when they finally pulled apart, both of them wrecked and panting, Chan didn’t say anything. He just looked at Minho — lips kiss-bruised, pupils blown wide, flushed cheeks — and realized he’s gone, so far gone.
Minho’s hands were still gripping Chan’s shirt like he needed the fabric to hold himself together.
“If you want out… — Chan said, voice low, strained — say it now”
Minho didn’t.
Instead, he shifted, hips brushing against Chan, feeling how hard he was already, eyes never breaking away.
It was deliberate. Unapologetic.
Chan’s breath caught.
His lips brushed the corner of Minho’s jaw again, then trailed down his neck, Minho tilted his head back just slightly; an offering.
That was all the permission Chris needed. He kissed his neck, open-mouthed, tasting skin like he’d been starving for it. His fingers dug into Minho’s waist as he pressed him down into his lap, not rough, but hungry.
“You feel so good” he whispered against Minho’s collarbone.
His hands roamed, memorizing every dip, every curve, every subtle breath Minho gave him. And Minho responded like he’d been waiting for this too, like maybe he was just as ruined.
And Chan wanted to memorize it all.
Not rush. Not just take. He wanted to learn Minho’s body like a secret. To earn the sound of his moans. To give him something he didn’t even know he could ask for.
So when his hands move again — under Minho’s shirt this time — they were gentle. He traced along the spine, the ribs, the curve of his waist, like he was building a map.
Minho’s breath hitched.
Chan looked up, eyes locking and whispered “You okay?”
Minho nodded “Yeah” But his voice was soft. Almost surprised and his face was painted a pretty shade of pink, it was contradictory how he was asking for Chan to touch him and now he gets shy.
Chan smiled, barely there.
He kissed him again, slower now, letting it stretch and deepen. His hand slid lower, palming over Minho’s hip again, guiding him to rock forward; a slow, maddening grind that made both of them gasp.
Minho buried his face in Chan’s neck, hands gripping his shoulders like he was holding on for balance or sanity.
Chan exhaled hard “God, you feel good”
And it was more than just physical. It's personal. It was the way Minho gave in. The way he trusted him with this. He earned it.
His fingers dipped below the waistband of Minho’s pants — not rushing, just resting there — and he whispered “Come with me”
“Where?” came the soft reply.
“My apartment” he looked up at him.
“Why?”
“Not here” he didn't have to explain what he was talking about, Minho understood, if something else was bound to happen it wasn't gonna be here.
It would’ve been easy.
Minho, breathless and flushed in his arms, already pliant from the dance, practically daring him to break right there in the private room.
Chan could’ve had him.
He knew it. Minho knew it.
But he didn’t.
Because taking Minho there against the mirror, on the velvet couch, in that dark little room would’ve been just that. Taking.
And Chan wanted more than Minho’s body in a place like this. He didn’t want to be another man Minho danced for. He didn’t want to claim him in such an impersonal place.
He wanted all of him. Somewhere real.
Because no matter how much control he had — over the club, the city, the people who owed him — Minho makes him fall apart. Just one look, one roll of those hips, and Chan was gone.
And if he was going to break — really break — he wasn’t doing it under red lights, with half the club still buzzing outside.
No. If Minho was going to let him in, he was going to stay. Chan would take him home.
*****
Minho had expected to be taken, used, worshiped, maybe, but only until the hunger dulled. Until Chan had enough.
Instead, he found himself sinking into the black leather of Chan’s BMW, the engine purred low, restrained, like something powerful holding itself back — just like Chan — his hand warm on his thigh like it belonged there.
The drive was quiet.
Chan’s hand stayed on Minho’s thigh the entire time. He didn't ask. Just placed it there like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And Minho didn’t move it.
His leg was tense at first, like his body hadn’t caught up to the decision his mouth had made, but it didn’t take long before the muscle softened beneath Chan’s palm. His thumb moved once — slow, deliberate — tracing Minho’s thigh through the fabric of his pants.
A simple touch.
But it made Minho shift in his seat.
He felt it. Chan bit down on the inside of his cheek and forced himself to look at the road. Every second with his hand there made it harder to think, harder to breathe, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go.
He hadn’t planned on bringing Minho home that night. But there was no plan anymore, not with the way Minho looked at him in the car, legs spread just enough to make Chan's thoughts turn dark, lips kiss-swollen, eyes still burning. Not with the way silence stretched between them, thick with everything they weren’t saying.
Once they arrived at the building, Chris opened the passenger’s door and offered his hand, Minho took it, fingers sliding into his without hesitation, warm and steady.
Neither of them said a word in the elevator, till they arrived at Chan’s floor, Chan unlocked the door with one hand, the other still outstretched behind him.
Chan pushed the door open and stepped aside, letting Minho walk in first, but he didn’t let go of his hand. Not when they crossed the threshold. Not when the soft click of the door closing sealed them off from the world.
It was quiet inside; no guards, no staff, just them.
Personal.
A half-drunk glass of water on the table. A hoodie slung over the back of the sofa. But it wasn’t the surroundings Minho noticed the most it was the fact that Chan still hadn’t let go.
He hadn't meant to hold on for so long but he couldn't let go. He gripped him just a little bit tighter, making him look into his eyes. He pulled playfully, cause Minho wasn't letting go either.
He brought Minho’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles — slow, deliberate — then led him deeper into the apartment, fingers still laced.
Every step was a quiet promise.
Minho let go of Chan’s hand slowly when they reached the door to his room, his fingers lingering longer than necessary before he pulled away. He took a few steps inside his bedroom. The air was warm, scented faintly with cedar and something else… something clean and expensive, like Chan himself.
He didn’t say anything. Just wandered.
It wasn’t snooping. Not exactly. It was more like tracing the shape of someone through the things they chose to surround themselves with. Chan was finally sharing something personal with him. A stack of notebooks, each spine labeled with neat dates. Vinyl records stacked beside an elegant speaker system. And books, Minho hadn’t expected that. Real ones. Some worn, spines cracked from rereading. Titles in Korean and English. Biographies, music theory, philosophy.
Minho stood still, hands at his sides, the weight of Chan’s eyes on him like heat. He didn’t move when he heard footsteps behind him. Didn’t flinch when warm fingers found his waist, slow and certain. He didn't have his coat anymore, his sleeves were rolled up now.
Chan’s hands curved over his hips, fingers splaying possessively, pressing through the fabric of his jeans like he meant to leave an imprint.
Chris didn’t speak, he didn’t need to. The way his hands moved was answer enough; firm, slow pressure guiding Minho back against him. The sharp inhale Chan took as their bodies aligned. His breath hit Minho’s nape, warm and trembling. He bent slightly, letting his lips ghost over the side of Minho’s neck. Not a kiss. Not yet.
One hand slid under Minho’s shirt, rougher fingertips brushing bare skin. Minho swallowed hard, heat coiling tight in his belly.
He let his head fall back slightly, felt Chan’s lips finally press there, soft, reverent. A contrast to the grip tightening on his hips.
Minho’s breath stammered. He turned around in Chan’s grip and he leaned in again, kissed him hard this time, not sweet, not careful; hungry.
And Minho let himself be kissed the same way.
Chan was supposed to undress him carefully, one button at a time, his hands had other plans though, he ripped the buttons open startling Minho for a second.
“Felix won't be happy about that — he murmured — he spent hours on this one”
“I’ll make up for it — he dropped an open-mouthed kiss on his neck — tell him to send me the invoice after I tear off whatever you’re wearing next”
Minho couldn't say anything, just closed his eyes and felt Chan trailing kisses all over his neck, his chest and lower.
Minho didn’t expect it. He opened his eyes to talk, maybe to tease, maybe to challenge, but the words caught in his throat.
Chan was on his knees.
No command, no show of power. Just Chan, kneeling.
And Christopher Bang Chan; a man who commands, who kneels to no one, drops to his knees for Minho, not out of weakness, but because it means something. Something Minho doesn’t even realize.
Minho didn’t know what this meant. Didn’t know that Chan had never done this before, not for anyone. Not when begging would’ve saved deals, not when threats were made. Not in submission, not in respect not even in an apology.
Never.
Men like him didn't kneel they make people drop to their knees. But he knelt for Minho. His body understood something his pride hadn't caught up to yet. He will never know what it cost him to do it.
This wasn’t surrender, it was worship. This wasn't about power or control, this is about him.
Lee Minho.
Minho standing above him, shirt ruined, kiss bitten lips looking like art and danger all at once.
And he would kneel a thousand times more if it meant Minho will accept him.
Chan pressed his lips to Minho’s hipbone, slow and soft. Then another kiss, lower. His hands smoothed over Minho’s thighs with quiet purpose, but his gaze never left Minho’s face.
He stood tall above him, beautiful and still unsure, but Chan knew what he was doing. Knew what he was claiming. His hands moved up Minho’s thighs slowly, thumbs brushing the soft lines of muscle, till they reached the button in his pants. He watched Minho’s stomach flutter and Chan’s blood burned in response.
He wanted to ruin him.
Minho’s hands found his shoulders. Not to stop him, but to hold on.
He tilted his head up, resting his chin against Minho’s stomach, eyes dark and unreadable and Minho couldn't stop himself from thinking he looked like a puppy when it puts it's head on your lap.
Minho ran his fingers through Chan’s hair, he put his forehead against Minho’s tummy, took one deep breath as if he was calming himself.
You don’t even know what you’re doing to me — he thought — And it’s driving me fucking insane.
He finally lowered the waistband of his pants and boxers all at once, just enough to give him access to his member, hard and leaking, ready for him.
He couldn't hide the smirk that formed once his tongue tasted him for the first time and Minho’s breath hitched for the millionth time that night, a shiver went down his spine, his hand coming to grab Chan’s curls at the end of his nape not pushing just holding.
Minho let out a moan so fucking lewd when Chan swallowed him whole, it made Chan’s cock throb and he couldn't stop himself from offering some relief with his hand, ripping a moan from him aswell, lips still wrapped around Minho’s shaft.
He started moving his head, twisting his tongue all over it, sucking on the tip, drowning himself in Minho’s moans and hitches, knowing he is the owner of every reaction.
“Chris —” he knows what he’s gonna say, he is breathing hard, Chan knows it’s been a while since he’s been intimate with someone — yes, he had to know — so it won't take much for him to come.
Chan picks up the pace, in the back of his mind a possessive thought came to light, he wants to be the last one to touch him like this, to see him like this; vulnerable, open, so needy.
He continues sucking him off for a few minutes until Minho’s legs start trembling and his breathing runs faster, he pulls at Chan’s hair to take him out, he doesn't.
Bang Chan swallows everything Minho gives him, closing his eyes, cause looking at him while he comes would make him finish as well. The taste of him on his lips, warmer than expected, a little sharp, a little sweet something so unmistakably him, Chan felt dizzy, drunk, addicted.
Minho, who slipped into his system without warning. No injection, no smoke just a dance, a voice, a touch that left Chan breathless.
Minho’s leg trembled and tried to hold onto Chan’s shoulders, Chan stood up, holding his waist and walked him towards the bed.
He laid him down gently, as if afraid of breaking him, climbing over him, looking at him.
It struck him that Minho didn’t even seem to know how beautiful he was like this; unguarded, uncertain, trusting. No stage lights, no music to carry him, just his skin against Chan’s. And that, more than anything, made Chan’s chest ache. Because here Minho was real, fragile, breakable.
His.
And Chan found himself silently promising he’d burn the world before letting anyone else see Minho like this.
Minho’s pulse quickened. Both hands came to caress his chest and he tried to unbutton Chan’s shirt but his fingers were shaking.
“You’re nervous” Chan murmured.
“Yeah well” Minho replied “I don't do this very often” he looked everywhere but him, flushed all over.
Chan knows, he hasn't had a partner in over a year — it wasn't a good relationship, he knows about the fights, the missed work and even medical records from a minor injury, the abuse was never officially reported — Minho just left him and moved on quietly.
Chan grabbed his chin, forcing him to look.
“Guess that makes me special” he said with a smirk, Minho rolled his eyes and was about to bite back but Chan lifted himself enough to remove his vest and shirt, Minho was left in awe.
He had always felt the power in Chan, the restraint in his grip, the tension in his stare but now, stripped down and bare above him, it was undeniable.
Ripped. Solid muscle, carved lines, every inch of him sculpted by someone who clearly didn’t tolerate weakness, the man has abs, like the ones you see on tv, on athletes or actors and if you asked Minho he would have thought they were fake if he hadn't touched them himself, then he saw the scars.
One by his rib. Another, fainter, across his shoulder. Nothing decorative, these weren’t the kind you get from accidents, they looked like they were done with the purpose of hurting him.
Minho’s fingers reached out before he could stop himself, tracing the pale line just under Chan’s collarbone. Chan stilled, not pulling away, just watching him.
“You don’t talk much about yourself” Minho whispered, not sure if he was asking something or just saying it out loud.
“Neither do you”
It made Minho go quiet because it was true. He never let people close enough to ask questions. Never felt safe enough.
“But we can talk in the morning” he took off Minho’s shoes and then his pants without so much as a gasp from Minho at finding himself completely naked in his bed and when he parted his legs for Chan he almost stops breathing.
Here he was all shy and pretty but still asking for Chan to ruin him, to owe him, to claim him. He quickly grabbed the lube in his nightstand, covered both of his fingers with it and proceeded to circle the door to what he was sure was his paradise on earth, he pushed once just to see the way his body would react, saw Minho gripping the sheets, head turned towards the city lights.
“You ok?”
“God, just put it in” Chan smirked and circled his rim once more.
“Didn't take you for the bossy type” he whispered into Minho’s ear while letting his finger breach him, slowly getting it all in, letting it sit in the heat of his body for a few seconds.
Minho held his breath, he hadn't realize how thick and how long Chan’s fingers were, he moved it stealing a gasp and setting up a slow maddening pace inside him, Chan’s cock was leaking just knowing it’ll be him soon.
The second finger stung a bit, they were bigger than Minho’s and clearly more experienced, he started to scissor them after a couple of minutes.
“Look at you, swallowing my fingers right in” Chan was in awe, Minho’s body was welcoming him so well.
He’d never believed in gods. Not the merciful kind, at least.
But sometimes, when Minho looked at him — eyes catching the light just right — Chan thought if something divine ever walked the earth, it would look like this.
It terrified him, how easily devotion came.
How Minho could tilt his head, say his name, and Chan’s pulse would stutter like a prayer breaking on his tongue.
“Can't wait for my dick to feel it too” Chris kissed him open-mouthed and hungry. The kind of kiss that felt like a promise and a warning at once.
“More, I need more” Minho whimpered, he was ready for a third finger, so Chan obliged, a shiver left his body at the intrusion, it was too much and not enough, all at once.
And Chan was holding on for dear life, he felt so good on his fingers,his breathing was getting agitated at seeing him like this, taking his fingers so well, so desperate for more.
He found a steady rhythm and after a few minutes of searching he found Minho’s sweet spot, making him moan, his nails digging into Chan’s skin.
“So that’s how you sound” he said with a smirk.
He then started kissing his neck, leaving his mark and going lower, till his lips found his nipples, soft and delicate, caressing them with his tongue pulling out more of those sweet moans, he’s so sensitive there.
Minho’s hand came to scratch the curls at the back of his head again, arching into his mouth “Chris — I’m ready, please”
Chan would have liked to continue with the prep a little bit longer but restraint was no longer an option.
He needed it.
So Chan listens and takes out his fingers, gives himself two strokes and puts as much lube as he can to make it less painful.
Minho felt Chan’s lubed-up cock kissing his entrance, rubbing it slow and reverently, teasing.
And when Minho whispered his name — Bang Chan — barely audible, needy, he pushed inside, slow and careful, Minho’s whole body trembled.
Chan held him, kissed him through it “Breathe. Just feel me, let me in”
“I can’t, it's too big” he was holding on Chan’s shoulders for dear life, nails almost ripping his skin.
“Take it. I know you can” it was overwhelming but Chan was careful, little by little, inch by glorious inch till he was fully inside him, Minho let out a deep breath and took a few minutes to adjust. The stretch, the fullness, it was more than just physical. His body hadn't been touched like this in so long, and even then, never with this much care.
Minho had expected it to hurt a little; it had been a while, and Chan wasn’t small. But when it finally happened, when Chan pressed into him with a low, barely restrained groan, the pain was nothing compared to the wave that followed.
It wasn’t just the stretch or the heat or the way Chan’s hands trembled against his skin.
It was the way everything slowed down, like his body knew before his mind did that this moment wasn’t just sex. It was something else. Something that split him open from the inside out.
He gasped, not from the pressure, but from the way he felt; full in a way that had nothing to do with being touched.
Chan moved carefully and Minho felt it in every nerve, every slow drag, every pause like he couldn’t believe he was inside him. Like he didn’t want to ruin the moment by rushing.
Minho had been touched before. Fucked before but this was different. Because it shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this right.
“More” he whispered and Chan hated how one word from Minho could undo him more easily than a gun ever could.
Minho wasn’t just a man to him anymore; he was gravity, pulling Chan apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but want.
If there were gods, Chan thought, they should look away.
Because what he felt for Minho in that moment it was blasphemy and he’d still kneel for it.
Chan’s hips pushed deep, not fast. He wanted Minho to remember this, every inch of it. Every second he was inside him. Every sound he coaxed from his lips. Chan moved like he wanted to give, not take.
And it was terrifying, how good it feels.
Minho wrapped his legs around Chan’s waist instinctively, holding on tighter, grounding himself as Chan adjusted his leg a little higher and pressed in deeper. He could feel how hard Chan was trying to stay in control; his arms trembling slightly as he hovered above him, not rushing, not taking, just… being there.
Lino moved his hands to Chan’s back, gripping at muscle and skin, digging in as the burn gave way to heat, and the heat to pleasure. Every movement sent sparks down his spine. Every low breath from Chan felt like gasoline thrown into a flame.
And now… now Minho was laid out under him, flushed and open, eyes fluttering as Chan moved slowly, Minho was tight — hot, perfect — and it took everything in him not to just take. Not to bury himself to the hilt and fuck him like he’d imagined doing since the first time he saw him dance.
But Minho looked up at him like he wasn’t used to being touched gently, vulnerable, confused by how good he felt.
His left hand came down to wrap tight around Minho’s waist like he might disappear. This, he thought, watching the way Minho’s lips parted as he adjusted, this is mine now.
“You’re mine now” he whispered into Minho’s ear “Every sound, every look, mine”
Minho nodded, lips parted, Chan kissed him again, tongue and teeth.
He watched Minho fall apart beneath him, head thrown back, lips parted, utterly unguarded — no masks, no sharp remarks, no dancer’s composure — Just Minho raw and trembling in his hands.
This was proof. Proof that Minho trusted him enough to give him this, to let him see him like this, to take him in so completely.
Chan kissed every sound from his mouth, every tremble of his body. He moved with purpose, hips rolling harder now, faster. His body was on fire, his skin slick with sweat, but all he could see was Minho.
Minho, clinging to him.
Minho, giving himself to him.
And the only way Chan could survive the loss of control Minho brought with him was to anchor himself in the truth that Minho belonged to him now.
Minho’s mind was hazy, caught between fear, pleasure and surrender but even through that fog he noticed, the way Chan holds him, talks to him and kisses him.
He was so strong, the way his muscles flexed under his fingertips, the force of his thrusts, the way his abs tightened with every movement, a reminder of how much power held him pinned.
It scared him how much he liked it and on the back of his mind the word yours wanted to escape but it didn't.
Minho’s thighs trembled around his hips. His nails dug into Chan’s back, harder this time. He was flushed, drenched in sweat, and gorgeous.
But he was more than beautiful. He was Chan’s.
His hand came down between them to wrap around Minho’s shaft and started a pace, up and down, over and over, sweeping his thumb over the tip from time to time until he came, Chan’s name falling from his lips like a plea.
No one else would ever touch him like this. No one else would ever deserve to see him like this.
The thought twisted something sharp and dark in Chan’s stomach and he thrust harder, deeper, chasing that edge between need and something feral.
His forehead fell against Minho’s temple, ragged breaths hot against his ear.
“You feel that? So tight for me, fuck. Look at you, so perfect for me — he pulled back, leaving just the tip inside, just to slam back in — you’ll take everything I give you don’t you?”
He needed to mark him. Not with bruises, but from the inside. He wanted to fill him, to come inside him so deep that Minho would feel it for hours after he left, something no one could erase.
Something to remind him who had been there. Who had been inside him.
“I’m going to come inside you — Chris swears to himself he was trying to ask, but it sounded more like a statement — want my cum dripping out of you for days, want you walking around knowing I’m still there”
Minho let out a moan and Chan didn’t miss the way his legs tightened around him again, the way his body arched to meet him, begging for it.
“You’ll feel it” Chan growled “for hours after I’m gone, I know you can take it”
When he got close, his rhythm faltered, Minho felt the shift in him, hips stuttering as the pressure built low in his spine. His hand splayed across Minho’s belly, desperate to feel the evidence of himself there.
Then he came, cock throbbing, buried deep inside him, holding Minho in place, not letting an inch of space. His body tensed, hips jerking once, twice and then he stilled, jaw locked tight as he rode the last wave of it, filling him, the deep pulse of Chan’s body buried too deep, Chan’s breath came in harsh pants against Minho’s neck.
Mine, his mind whispered, over and over, the word as relentless as his pulse.
And that shouldn’t have felt like peace, but it did.
Knowing that Minho would walk through the day with Chan’s release inside him, filled and ruined for anyone else. Even if no one saw it, Chan would know.
There was a maddening pride in the fact that his come was inside him now and maybe he’d come a little too hard, because Minho had let him in. Let him touch, kiss, possess. Let him break that beautiful, cold wall of distance he carried like armor.
Minho took him in like he belonged inside him. And that ruined something in Chan.
He stayed right where he was, buried to the hilt, chest pressed tight to Minho’s as if he could fuse them together. His breathing was still rough, hot against Minho’s neck, and his grip on Minho’s waist grew tighter, holding him there.
If he pulled out, it would be over. The proof of him, the claim he left inside, would spill away. And he wasn’t ready to let that go. Not yet.
He told himself he just needed one more minute. Just one more.
Minho shifted faintly under him, his hand caressing his nape, he didn’t push him away. And that was all the permission Chan needed to keep holding on.
Now he’d never let anyone else have him.
Chan slowly pulled out, watching the way his release clung to Minho’s thighs; obscene and perfect.
He’d killed for less. He’d destroyed men for disrespecting his boundaries. But Minho? Minho had slipped past every line he’d ever drawn and Chan welcomed it.
Why the fuck had it been so hard to pull out? It wasn’t like him to lose control. Even in sex — especially in sex — Chan always held the reins. Measured. Precise. Power meant discipline, and he never let pleasure override that.
Minho drives him crazy.
It wasn’t just about the way he moved, the way he moaned when Chan pressed deeper, or how he clung to him like he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
It was everything.
The way Minho looked at him like he knew something Chan didn’t want to admit. The way he dared him; on stage, off stage, in every touch and glance. The way he danced like he had something to prove, like he’d die before letting anyone reduce him to just a pretty body. The way he never bowed his head, not even for Chan.
Chan had power. Influence. Fear. People bent over backwards to please him.
Minho didn’t bend.
He danced, he provoked, he tempted and still, he made Chan chase him. Made Chan want to chase.
And now he was in his bed, pressed against his chest, marked inside and out and Chan still wasn’t sure if it was enough.
He didn’t understand this obsession only that it was growing. That some part of him, darker and deeper than he wanted to admit, already saw Minho as his to protect, to keep.
For a heartbeat, Chan just looked at him, at the flushed skin, the way Minho’s lashes lowered, how his lips parted.
He didn’t bother covering himself when he stood.
He moved through the room like this was simply how bodies existed, bare and unbothered. He just was.
Minho watched without meaning to.
He grabbed a towel, ran it under warm water, wrung it out with steady hands, he brushed it gently across Minho’s skin,
Every deliberate movement, every careful touch, whispered the same truth: You’re mine, and I’ll take care of you.
When he was done, he leaned forward till his lips were close to Minho’s ear, a smirk tugging at his lips “There” he said lightly, brushing hair from Minho’s forehead “All cleaned up. Don’t make a mess like that again”
But even as he said it, Chan’s hands itched to return, to reclaim, to prove once more that nothing — no one — could have Minho like he did.
Minho scoffed, annoyed “Gosh, you’re impossible”
Chan smiled at him and Minho noticed he had dimples and how his eyes closed when his smile widened.
“You wanna shower?”
Minho grunted “give me a moment” his legs were still shaking.
“I’ll shower first” Minho’s eyes followed to the bathroom again till he heard the click of the door, only then he allowed himself to scan the room again.
The bed didn't feel intimidating anymore, it was soft, comfortable. It was big, Minho had never slept on a bed this size.
Then a thought invaded his mind without warning; how many bodies had been here before him? How many times this space had held someone else, someone easier, someone without questions?
Minho took a deep breath, that shouldn't matter, this is not a relationship, probably a one time thing, his eyes were starting to feel heavy, the running water playing like a lullaby. He hadn't planned to stay but his body made the choice for him.
By the time Chan shut off the shower, Minho was already asleep. Curled slightly on his side, face soft in a way it rarely was when he was awake.
Chan crossed the floor barefoot, a towel slung low on his hips. His gaze went to Minho immediately; instinct, muscle memory.
Asleep.
Sleep was trust, and Chan knew it. Seeing Minho like this — in his bed, in his apartment, surrounded by everything that was his — made something tighten in his chest.
He wanted to protect that. He stood there longer than necessary, just watching.
He remembers then how messy he was at undressing him and starts picking up the clothes and folding them away, putting them on a chair, carefully aligned.
He puts on a pair of sweatpants and sits on the sofa, laptop balanced on his knees.
Who could look at him like that and want to hurt him? There had been someone before him; someone Minho loved, trusted and opened himself to. Someone who took that for granted, someone who has hurt him with no consequences.
He needed to fix that.
But acting on violence or revenge while Minho sleeps nearby, vulnerable, unaware. It would feel wrong, like tainting the moment.
So he stayed where he was. Watching the screen without seeing it.
Later he promised to himself, closing the laptop, he went back to bed, laying down carefully to not wake him up, he slid an arm around Minho’s waist and pulled him back, firm and unmistakable. Possessive in a way that left no doubt about where Minho belonged right now. Minho made a soft sound in his sleep, fitting against Chan like it had already learned the shape of him.
Chan’s thumb began to move in small, absent circles, he told himself it was nothing, just a habit.
He wanted more. He didn't want this to be a one time thing, it’s not enough.
His hand tightened just slightly, enough to feel the curve of Minho’s body.
This wasn’t love. It couldn’t be. Love was reckless. Love demanded things. Love made you weak.
They barely knew each other; weeks, maybe a month or two at most. Stolen conversations, shared nights, moments that existed in isolation.
Love took time, this was chemistry.
They didn’t know each other’s histories, not really. He didn’t know Minho’s favorite memories, his worst habits, everything he knew about him came from a paper and Minho didn’t know what Chan was capable of, Minho didn't know Chan at all.
He’d let himself have a few more nights. That was all. Just enough to burn it out of his system. Just enough to satisfy whatever restless, inconvenient hunger Minho had awakened in him.
Chan has spent years surrounded by poison; pills, powders, needles that turned men into a joke, zombies, loyalty no longer exists. Chan has never tried any of them, he controls what his body consumes, he wonders if this is exactly what it feels like the high and the low.
He has never tried any of them, until Minho, he makes his hands shake, his pulse race. Minho was the only drug he'd ever let himself crave.
And like any good drug, the high was euphoric.
He traced another slow circle on his skin.
Minho shifted, pressing closer without waking, fitting against Chan like it was instinct, like his body already knew where it wanted to be.
Chan closed his eyes.
He knew the high.
What he didn’t know, what he refused to think about yet was how hard the low would hit when it came.