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It takes exactly seven minutes and thirty-two seconds after Minho and Felix enter the bank for the first gunshot to go off.
Chan can’t see much of what’s going on inside the bank from across the street where he’s parked, but he can spy just a sliver through the window as Minho strides across the room with a bank teller in his grasp. It looks like complete madness as the other employees cower and Felix yells for order over the panicking customers. Yet, judging by the lack of people scrambling for the exit, they’ve got everything under control: organized chaos at its finest.
Not that Chan was ever worried in the first place.
He’d seen that deadly look come over Minho as he pulled his mask up over his nose, a gleam in his eyes that Chan has seen time and time again but had never tired of. It screamed of pure, unadulterated confidence—confidence in Chan’s planning, in Minho’s abilities, and in his reckless but otherwise uncontested invulnerability. Upon seeing it, Chan had wanted to pull that mask down over Minho’s pretty mouth and kiss him until they were both breathless and flushed with arousal.
He hadn’t, of course. They’d have plenty of time for that later. Besides, Chan likes the anticipation.
Eight minutes and fifty-six seconds in is when the police radio—unencrypted and installed on Chan’s phone thanks to Seungmin’s clever workings—comes to life. The officers have been alerted to what’s going on inside the bank, and a good fleet of them are on their way, their voices crackling through their mics as they try to orient themselves. One of the bank tellers must’ve hit the panic alarm somewhere in the din, but honestly, that’s to be expected. Still, Chan’s heart rate picks up.
At eleven minutes and twenty-eight seconds, Minho and Felix burst out from the bank, sprinting towards the car holding onto duffels stuffed with cash and pistols tight in their grip. He can hear the confused shouting from inside the bank, can see people on phones pressed against the glass as they frantically try to catch where Minho and Felix are running off to.
On the radio, an officer calls in that they’re a minute away.
Chan starts the car. It rumbles to life underneath him, an animal stretching its limbs after a long sleep. His blood hums.
Twelve minutes and four seconds: Felix throws himself into the backseat while Minho slides into the passenger. He’s out of breath from their sprint, hair wild and untamed from the disorder they’d just caused inside, but his feline eyes are steady. There’s no frantic yelling for Chan to go, go, go, no panicked looking around to see if anyone’s followed them.
Instead, Chan just asks, “Seatbelts?”
Two clicks. Minho and Felix nod in unison, and that’s enough for Chan. He slams on the gas just as the first police car appears.
They’ve definitely been spotted: the officer they whip by shouts through the radio that there are three of them in a gray compact. Technically, it’s a Hyundai Elantra—small, gray, nothing special, but it’s still a solid little thing. More than enough power for Chan to work with.
The cop they just passed isn’t savvy enough to catch up to them as Chan careens around the block, tires screeching as he spins the steering wheel. The Elantra shoots down the street and whizzes past traffic lights with little regard for whether they’re red or green. It might look reckless to an outsider, but Chan’s got the city’s traffic pattern memorized, knows which streets are empty right now, and which ones he has to snake past other cars to get through.
Though they’ve passed that initial car, it isn’t long until he hears the wailing sirens of the others as they triangulate around them.
“Six of them,” Minho says, voice laced with amusement. “New record, Channie.”
Chan’s hands tighten around the steering wheel, and he cracks his neck. “Keep an eye on them, okay, Minho-yah?”
“I don’t have much else to do,” Minho huffs. “Besides, it doesn’t make a difference when you’re behind the wheel.” Chan doesn’t have to look over to know he’s smiling.
His words make Chan grin, excitement bubbling up as he steps on the accelerator. Minho’s absolutely correct: put Chan in a car with enough gas, and the city becomes his personal little playground. The cops are nothing but fuel in the fire burning through Chan’s veins.
They manage to lose two of the cars to red lights, barreling straight through the oncoming traffic as the police swerve unsuccessfully. Still, four manage to slip through before the crash happens.
They’re hot on their heels, but Chan’s got a few more tricks up his sleeve. He takes a turn down a narrow alleyway, uncaring as trash and debris rain down on the hood of the car. It’s a tight fit for the Elantra, nearly knocking out the side view mirror, and it’s certainly not big enough for the SUV right behind them.
Minho cackles when the cop car ends up wedged between the buildings, wheels spinning helplessly against the pavement, and he turns around to wave tauntingly. It’s childish and petty, but it doesn’t stop Chan from laughing alongside him, adrenaline pumping through his veins as they speed away.
Despite Chan’s obvious confidence, the three other cars are still after them, dogged and determined. They were smart enough to avoid driving down the alley, and have rerouted back onto their tail.
“Persistent, aren’t they?” Minho remarks as they barge through another traffic light and race down a one-way in the wrong direction. They have to swerve to the sidewalk the avoid oncoming cars, bulldozing through trashcans and signs as the police cars follow them.
Despite the gas pedal being pressed to the floor, the cops are slowly gaining on them. Chan narrows his eyes. “They are.”
A feline curl to his lip, Minho says, “Let's see what I can do about it.”
He rolls down the window, uncaring of the wind buffeting them as he simultaneously unbuckles his seat belt. Chan doesn’t say anything, just routes the next couple of blocks in his head—Minho knows what he’s doing.
A hand brushes Chan’s cheek, and Minho asks, in a voice so poisonously sweet, “A kiss for good luck, baby?”
Without hesitation, Chan presses his mouth to Minho’s hand, lips tracing the veins on the back of his hand. He can feel Minho’s pulse through them: it’s rabbit-quick, matching pace with Chan’s heartbeat. The muscles in his hand flex when he pulls away, and for a moment, Chan lets his eyes wander over.
Then, Minho picks up his gun and leans out the window.
The first shot goes wide, still adjusting to the speed of the chase and the wind direction. But the second gunshot is accompanied by tires screeching, and Chan flicks his eyes up to the rearview mirror just in time to see one of the cop cars veer off course, one of its front tires popped. A third shot goes off; another car down, this time swerving so hard it rams into the remaining one.
Heat courses through Chan’s body and his grip on the steering wheel tightens. This—flying down the streets, car engines roaring, police on their tail—makes Chan feel more alive than anything else, but having Minho by his side while doing it alchemizes it into an addiction, potent and aflame and obsessive.
He wants to look over to Minho, wants to see that glimmer in his eyes as he peers down the barrel, wants to see his victorious smirk as his aim rings true. He wants to bring his mouth to Minho's hand, wants to follow the lines of his body, wants to kneel between his legs and—
But they’re still on the road, the red and blue lights and screeching sirens fading behind them, and Chan thinks, Anticipation. Anticipation. Anticipation.
In the backseat, Felix whoops, “Good shot, hyung!”
“I know,” Minho says, unfazed as he sinks back into the seat and seals the window shut. “Take us away from here, Channie.”
Chan grins. “Anything you want, Minho-yah.”
The Elantra is abandoned in a parking garage in the suburbs. Its job is complete, and the last step of its journey is for one of Changbin’s contacts to wipe it clean and send it to the junkyard. Though it’s far from the best car Chan has ever driven, he still gives it an affectionate pat before heading over to the nearby Honda Civic to open the door for Minho.
He smiles at Chan slyly as he drops his duffel in and shuffles into the backseat. “Done saying goodbye to your girlfriend?”
Chan slides in next to him, shutting the door. “You know that no one else compares to you.”
Scoffing, Minho shoves at Chan’s chest. Chan catches his hand and brings it up to his mouth, dropping a slow kiss onto the back of it. His fingers on Minho’s wrist, he can feel how steady Minho’s heartbeat is now, reasonably calmed during their twenty-minute drive here. Chan’s much the same, but he thinks that the thrill coursing through his veins will stay for quite a bit.
As Felix drives them out of the parking garage, Chan takes his time looking over Minho, reluctantly letting go of Minho’s hand to do so. Minho makes a disgruntled noise as he’s inspected, but he doesn’t pull away, knowing that Chan needs this more than he does.
Everything about Minho seems safe and sound, but then a splatter of dark red splashed across Minho’s pants at the knee catches Chan’s attention. His mouth goes dry, and his hand hovers above it, unsure of where he should start.
Minho catches on just as quickly as Chan does, and he tilts Chan’s chin up to meet his eyes. “It’s not mine,” he says. “I’m fine. I promise, hyung.”
Unable to help himself, Chan leans up to meet Minho’s lips. It’s a quick kiss, but Chan can feel Minho’s breath shutter and his eyes flutter as Chan pulls away to complete his assessment of Minho’s condition.
“I said that I’m fine,” Minho whines, a pout obvious in his tone. “When have I ever lied to you?”
Chan takes Minho’s ankle in his hand, pushing down on it to make sure nothing’s been twisted. With his other hand, he rubs soothing circles on Minho’s calf with his thumb. “Lying by omission is still lying, Minho-yah.”
In the driver’s seat, Felix snorts. Because Minho plays favorites with his juniors, Minho ignores him and instead pulls his leg from Chan’s grasp. He shrugs off his jacket and shoves his sleeves up his arms, showing off the tanned skin and prominent veins underneath. “All good, see?”
Chan reaches for his leg again. “I just want to be thorough.”
“‘I just want to be thorough,’” Minho says mockingly as he knocks Chan’s hand away. Unbuckling his belt, he inches closer, enough so that Chan can see it’s not annoyance in his eyes, but teasing playfulness. Chan’s breath catches. “Do I have to take everything off for you to be sure?”
Color rises up Chan’s neck and he drops his hand. “Okay,” he manages out. “I trust you.”
“As you should.” Minho doesn’t move away.
Minho’s hand snakes up Chan’s body, settling on the nape of his neck. His grip is hot and firm, and Chan remembers the veins underneath his mouth, the flex of his fingers before he picked up his gun, the steadiness of his hands as he leaned out the window. He closes his eyes and lets Minho tug him closer.
“You did well today,” Chan murmurs, forehead almost pressed against Minho’s.
Minho hums. “Don’t you think I deserve a reward then?” His tone is airy and sweet, and it makes Chan’s chest feel light.
He chuckles and nudges closer. “What did you have in mind?”
“How about,” says Minho, voice low so only Chan can hear him, “you fuck me on top of all that money in the duffel bags?”
He knows that Minho’s joking around, flirting with his boundaries, but he actually considers it for a moment. He doesn’t know why, because really this idea is ridiculous and impractical, but he’s always liked to indulge in Minho’s ideas, no matter how silly they seem. It may also be the leftover desire from earlier still running through his mind because he conjures this: Minho, bare and golden, writhing on a bed of cash.
It’s audacious and opulent in a way that doesn’t seem like them, but a part of Chan actually likes it. The rebellious part of him that treasures the freedom to do whatever the hell he wants because he’s earned it through his blood, sweat, and tears.
He wants to laugh it off and flirt back shamelessly, continue their usual back and forth until they can get back home, but he’s definitely been silent for too long, brain looping endlessly on the same image over and over.
“Hyung?” He hears Minho say, a touch of concern in his voice.
Chan snaps out of it, throat suddenly hoarse. “Yeah?” Even just that single word feels weird coming out of his mouth.
Ever observant, Minho studies him. They’re still folded together, close enough that Chan can see his reflection in Minho’s eyes. “So,” Minho starts off slowly, “thoughts on what I just said?”
“I…” Unfortunately, Chan does have thoughts about it. A lot of them, and he’s not quite sure how to put it.
Minho tongue swipes across his lower lip, and Chan feels his face burst into flame. “You think that’s the right reward for me?” Minho’s are dark despite the late afternoon sunlight shining through the windows, and Chan feels like prey caught in the sights of a predator. It’s as if Minho’s eyes could drown him in their depths. So close, there’s no escape.
“Any…” Chan’s mouth has gone dry, and he struggles to swallow. He can see Minho’s eyes flicker down to his throat, then to his lips, lingering on them for a moment too long. “Anything you want.”
“That’s my baby.”
The kiss Minho tugs him into is slow and careful. It’s not exactly what Chan wants, doing nothing to satisfy the growing need inside of him, but he still sighs into it. Minho’s hand hasn’t moved from his nape, and his thumb rubs circles into his neck as he presses his lips against Chan’s. His other hand comes up to rest against Chan’s chest, warm and comforting, but also keeping them at a distance.
Even when Minho pulls away and returns to his seat, he’s got Chan under his metaphorical thumb. Chan’s blood roars in his ears as he watches Minho’s hand tracing nonsense shapes on his thigh, a dull pressure muffled by the fabric as his nails dig in. Every move of Minho’s is perfectly controlled.
The drive seems to both last forever and pass by in a blink of an eye. By the time Felix is pulled into the parking lot of Chan and Minho’s apartment complex, all Chan can think about is Minho.
It’s a good thing, then, that this is Felix’s cue to split off, leaving the duffels in their care while he takes the bus to his place. The look that Felix gives him in the rearview mirror is knowing, but he doesn’t say anything except a bright see ya, hyung before he’s out of the car.
Chan’s knees and back ache when he finally straightens up, sore from being cooped in a car all day. As annoying as it is, it does clear his mind a bit, enough that he can walk around without tripping over his feet from distraction.
“Ajusshi,” Minho mutters under his breath when Chan’s hips crack as he steps out of the car. Before Chan can do or say anything back, he’s got both duffels in hand, one by his side and the other slung over his shoulder. “Hyung, get the doors for me, okay?”
Chan attempts to take one of the bags from Minho several times as they make their way up to the apartment, but Minho dances out of the way every time. He’s got a teasing glimmer in his eyes as he does so, and Chan can’t help the fizzing fondness that spreads through his chest when Minho blows him a kiss after one of his attempts.
The two of them play that game all the way up, but Minho is victorious, still in possession of the bags by the time they’ve made their way into the apartment. He shoots Chan a smug grin, and though Chan rolls his eyes, he ducks over to give him a kiss on the cheek. Minho’s ears turn pink at this show of affection and he all but retreats into the bedroom with the duffels.
Chan has to take a moment to himself because, fuck, he likes Minho so much.
When he steps into the bedroom, Minho has dropped one of the bags near the door and is holding the other one by his side. His ears are still tipped in red, and Chan is hit with the urge to bite them. But Minho is eyeing the bed curiously, something bigger on his mind. “Got any ideas?” he asks.
“You’re the one that came up with this.” Chan sidles up behind Minho, tucking his chin into his shoulder. “I thought you’d have a plan for it.”
“Hush, you.” Despite his dismissive tone, Minho reaches a hand up to card through Chan’s hair—gentle, affectionate. “The point of this being a reward is so I don’t have to think so hard about it.”
Humming in thought, Chan closes his eyes and nudges closer. “We can just dump it on the bed. No point in stacking it or doing anything organized since it’s gonna get messy anyways.”
Minho makes a noise of agreement. Chan buries his face into Minho’s neck, breathing in the scent of his hair products mixed with the faint smell of his sweat. It’s not a lot, but it’s still intoxicating, and Chan can feel his arousal creeping up on him again. He brushes his lips against the soft skin there, and Minho’s pulse leaps. His hand tightens in Chan’s hair.
They stand there for a moment, Chan pressing kisses into Minho’s neck, his hands slowly wandering up and down the planes of his body. Before he can slip a hand underneath his clothes to finally grasp at skin, Minho pulls away. Chan lets him, albeit a bit reluctantly.
With a smooth motion, Minho upends the duffel he’s holding, the cash raining down into a pile on the bed. He takes a hand to disrupt the pile, letting some of them bounce off and hit the ground. Chan watches Minho inspect his handiwork, then shrug to himself and settle onto the bed. He cocks his head, eyes half-lidded and voice soft. “Come here.”
Chan wastes no time sliding between Minho’s legs and slotting his mouth against Minho’s. In his haste, a few more bands of cash fall to the ground, and Minho huffs a laugh between their kisses. Feeling another clever remark already forming on Minho’s lips, Chan slips a hand underneath Minho’s shirt and thumbs his nipple. Minho’s breath hitches at this, and Chan takes that opportunity to seal his lips over Minho’s and swallow his gasps.
These kisses are hurried, an untamed edge to them as they nip and bite and grind. Chan’s more than well aware that Minho is letting him do all of this, that Chan will stop whatever he’s doing at the drop of a hat if Minho so wants, but he still can’t help testing his limits, sucking bruises into Minho’s neck and down his chest.
Soon enough, they’ve stripped each other down to their underwear, and Chan is hooking a finger around Minho’s boxer-briefs when Minho stops him. “Channie,” he says, wrapping his hand around Chan’s jaw and forcing him to look up. The sight of him, hair mussed and skin marked up, backgrounded by the extravagant yellow of the fifty-thousand won notes, stuns Chan. There must be more than five hundred million won worth of notes on and around the bed, but he thinks Minho’s worth outweighs all of that.
Chan blinks. “Mm?”
“The money…” Minho trails off, wrinkling his face. The way his nose scrunches is almost too cute for Chan to handle. Still, he watches Minho reach behind himself and pull out a stack of cash. “It’s digging into my back. If we get any further, it’ll end up in my ass. The idea was fun and all, but I think it’s more fun as a fantasy than an actual thing.”
Chan snorts and sits up. As if trying to prove a point, the money slides underneath him and he nearly loses his balance, saved only by Minho’s steady hand. Despite snickering at his clumsiness, Minho pulls Chan in and lets him rest his forehead on his collarbone. Chan bites him lightly in revenge for laughing at him, and Minho bites back, just a bit harder, on his ear. He shivers.
“We at least tried,” Chan laughs helplessly against his skin.
“We did,” Minho giggles. He gives Chan’s ear a small lick by way of apology. “Guess I’ll have to think up another reward for myself.”
His hands aren’t shy as they feel around Chan’s body, slipping down his stomach and trailing the outline of his cock. Chan’s only flagged a bit since nearly falling off the bed, and a brush of Minho’s hand has his blood rushing again. He stifles his groan, and Minho palms at him harder. “Have you touched yourself?”
Chan shakes his head, already having trouble thinking again.
“Mm,” Minho muses. “I think I know what I want. Don’t move.” Without turning around, Minho reaches behind himself and sweeps the money off the bed until there’s enough space for him to lie down. Chan watches as he shimmies his underwear off, and his mouth waters when Minho’s cock springs out, red and hard against his belly. As much as he wants to, he doesn’t move an inch, and only barely suppresses his shiver when Minho presses his fingers against his mouth. “Open up.”
Without missing a beat, Chan opens his mouth and wraps his lips around three of Minho’s fingers. His tongue swirls around them, slow and purposeful, coating them with his spit until they’re dripping. He likes the feel of Minho’s callouses brushing against his cheek, the gentle way his knuckles rub his tongue. His brain turns into a buzz as he sucks and licks, flames of desire lapping up his spine as Minho’s eyes darken.
Chan nearly whines when Minho withdraws his fingers and leans back, but he’s then treated to the sight of Minho tracing the rim of his hole, slowly pushing a dripping finger inside. Though Minho isn’t noisy as he stretches himself out, Chan can still see his arousal building from how his throat bobs as he moves his finger in and out, how his cock twitches when he adds another finger. It’s pure torture for Chan, watching Minho’s dextrous fingers pump in and out of himself, and he has to dig his nails into his palms to keep from reaching out.
By the time Minho is adding in his third finger, his flush has spread down to his chest and his stomach is slick with precum. He eyes Chan, half-lidded yet observant, and tilts a smirk up at him. “How do I look, hyung?”
“Good,” Chan breathes.
“Just good?”
Chan shakes his head, letting the words spill out of his mouth unfiltered. “Like a fucking wet dream, Minho-yah. I want to touch you so bad. I’ve wanted to all day—I almost put a stop to today right before the job because I wanted you so bad. And in the car…” He takes in a shuddering breath. “Fuck, Minho-yah. I think I would’ve fucked you in front of the cops if I could.”
“That’s flattering.” Minho turns even rosier at Chan’s admission, but he manages to keep his voice calm and lilting. “But I don’t think you’re telling the truth.” He thrusts his fingers in at a different angle and sighs, “Fuck.”
Chan bites his lip so hard he thinks he tastes blood. “What do you mean?”
“You like all of it, Channie,” Minho says, slowly pumping his fingers in and out. “The danger. The waiting. The forbidden. The job, the police chase, the drive back: it’s all just foreplay. You don’t want anything handed to you. And that’s what I like about you.” He pulls out of himself and sits up to rifle through their side table. “Underwear off. Then, get on your back.”
“Minho-yah.” The begging seeps into Chan’s voice unbidden, his body so full of want, full of tension, so close yet so far from being able just to get a taste of what he so desires. “Let me take care of you. Please.”
Minho quirks a brow at him. “This is my reward, hyung. You said anything I wanted.” He turns Chan around and shoves him down onto the bed, positioning himself so he hovers over him. They’re not touching, but Chan still feels the phantom warmth of his hand from manhandling him as well as the heat of his body ghosting over Chan’s skin. Leaning in even closer, Minho says, slow and deliberate, “What I want is this: to fuck myself on your cock until I’m satisfied.” Chan shudders at the thought and Minho’s eyes glitter. “Sound good?”
“Yeah,” Chan rasps. “Really good.”
Sitting back to give Chan room to move, Minho picks up the lube. “Then, like I said earlier, underwear off.”
Though Minho’s words jolt through Chan’s body like lightning, he obeys this time. Finally naked, he sees Minho’s eyes wander appreciatively over his body, taking in how slick the tip of Chan’s cock has become after being denied for so long. Heat rushes up Chan’s neck at his appraising stare and his cock twitches.
“Impatient, aren’t we?” Minho smiles, all teeth. He uncaps the lube and pours it on his hand, warming it between his fingers. “Maybe I really should take my time.”
Chan shakes his head. He’s not above begging, especially not with Minho. “Please, I need you.”
“Needy baby,” Minho coos. Chan’s head spins from Minho’s patronizing tone. “Always such a flatterer.” He wraps his hand around Chan’s cock. “Is this what you wanted from me?”
Minho’s grip is loose, not enough to do a lot for him, but Chan’s hips still jerk up. “Fuck,” he swears. “Y-you know I don’t just say things. I do need you.” Minho gives him a light stroke, and Chan grits his teeth. “Please, Minho-yah. It’s not enough.” When Minho doesn’t move, Chan adds, with too much vulnerability in his voice, “I need you.”
His long eyelashes flutter momentarily as he takes in Chan’s words and desperation, and pink dusts Minho’s cheeks, suddenly and so adorably shy for someone so intent on torturing Chan. Chan watches as he bites his lip, seeming to wrestle with himself over what he wants to do next, but it disappears in the blink of an eye, replaced with self-assurance as he settles back onto Chan’s lap. Hand still on Chan’s cock, Minho circles it around his hole, giving him just a bit of friction, but it’s not enough.
Chan lets out another groan, weak and pathetic, his hands clenching tightly onto the sheets. Fuck his pride. “Please, please, please. I want you so much. You’re killing me, please. I said I’d do anything and I mean it, Minho-yah. Please, baby. I’ve been good.”
“You have,” Minho agrees with a soft chuckle. He lowers himself, ever so slightly, letting the tip of Chan’s cock slowly slide in. Just that little bit has Chan panting in desperation, and the dark look in Minho’s eyes becomes void-like. Torturously controlled, Minho sinks down on Chan’s cock. By the time he’s fully seated, Chan’s on the verge of becoming a shuddering mess again, so close to falling apart. But there’s a sadistic glint in how Minho takes in Chan’s reactions. He adds, “Since this is my reward, I’ve got just one more thing to ask of you, hyung.”
“W-what?” It’s so fucking difficult to force even a single word out.
Minho tongue flicks across his perfect, pink lip, and he smiles. “No coming until I tell you to.”
The keen Chan lets out at that is embarrassing, but Minho knows him well enough to understand it’s his tacit agreement, and finally, finally, Minho starts moving.
The tempo that Minho sets is mean, so fast and hard right off the bat that it sends Chan’s brain into a tailspin. He rides Chan’s cock like he does anything else—with purpose, single-minded and bruising. Chan whimpers with every thrust, but Minho remains steady, laser-focused on getting what he wants.
After being played around with for so long, Chan’s arousal builds at a frightening pace. Minho is so tight and slick around his cock, and every roll of his hips only serves to emphasize this. Even if he’s the one in control, Minho’s minute reactions are still as clear as day to Chan—he can see Minho’s chest huffing at the effort, can hear the small hitches of his breath, can feel how his hands on Chan’s thighs tighten with every lift of his body.
It takes everything in Chan not to touch him, not to run his hands down his back, not to lean up and mouth his nipples, not to pull him down into a needy kiss.
“Minho-yah.” All Chan can do is moan because he hasn’t been allowed to do anything else.
“What is it, Chan-ah?” Minho asks, keeping up his harsh pace. His voice is uneven as he fucks himself on Chan’s cock, but he doesn’t sound half as fucked out as Chan feels.
“M-Minho-yah, I–” Chan’s words break off into a groan when Minho clenches around him.
Minho giggles, breathy and wicked. “You’re gonna have to use your words.”
Chan’s head spins as he tries to remember how to move his tongue. “I-I want–”
“C’mon, baby, what do you want?”
“To touch you,” Chan finally manages to gasp out. “I wanna touch you so bad.”
Minho tilts his head, his sweaty skin catching in the light that takes Chan’s breath away. “You are touching me. You’re inside me, aren’t you?”
A whine escapes Chan’s throat. “M-more. I want more.”
Tutting his tongue, Minho shakes his head. “You’re so greedy, you know that? Greedy, greedy Channie. It’s my reward, yet you keep asking more from me.”
“I’m-I’m not–”
“Oh?” Just like that, Minho stops, stilling himself in Chan’s lap. Chan’s muscles scream at him to move, to chase his pleasure, but he can’t just ignore Minho’s orders. So, he can only watch as Minho peers down at him, hand teasingly circling his abs. “You’re arguing with me? You don’t think you’re greedy?”
Tears blurring his vision, Chan shakes his head. “I wasn’t trying to argue with you, Minho-yah, please. I just–” He chokes on his words when Minho reaches up to tweak a nipple. “I-I just wanna make you feel good. You know I can make you feel good.”
“You were asking for more,” Minho says. “That’s greed right there.”
“I–” Chan’s brain goes blank when Minho gives a leisurely grind of his hips.
“Just tell the truth, Channie,” Minho drawls, “and maybe I’ll give you what you want.”
The way that Minho circles his hips is excruciating, sending small sparks of arousal down Chan’s body, but it’s just not enough. He wants more—he needs more. “I’m greedy,” he pants. “I’m so fucking greedy: I can never get enough of you, Minho-yah. Because there’s nothing else like you; no one else like you. I can only have you, I only want you. And I always want more.”
“Aw, now that wasn’t so hard was it?” Minho’s smile is feline and lazy, but the way he pats Chan’s cheek betrays his fondness. “Good boy.” He takes Chan’s hand in his own and guides it to his thigh. “Go on, you can touch.”
With that, Minho manages to settle into an even more punishing pace than before, throwing back his head as he bounces in Chan’s lap. He really is something out of Chan’s fantasies, with sweat rolling down his bared neck, his thigh muscles flexing with effort, and his hard cock slapping against his stomach as he fully throws himself into his pleasure.
Now free to let his hands wander, Chan trails up Minho’s thighs, digging his fingers into Minho’s ass. He feels the smooth skin there give way to the hard muscle that strains as Minho fucks himself on Chan’s cock. He gives Minho’s nipples a flick, and the whimper he gets out of Minho sets his blood on fire. When he wraps a hand around Minho’s cock, flushed and wet with precum, Minho finally stutters, his hole tightening around Chan’s cock like a vice.
It nearly sets Chan off there, his vision going white, but he manages to hold off through pure will.
“God,” Minho groans, picking up his rhythm again. “You’re doing so well, Channie.”
Though the praise makes Chan’s cock twitch, he silently disagrees because this is all Minho’s work—teasing him in the car, getting him so worked up, and even now, riding him so sinfully while maintaining such control over Chan. But he’s not prepared to stop what they have going on now, not when Minho is enjoying himself so much, so he keeps pumping Minho’s cock, keeping in time with each roll of his hips.
It’s clear as day to Chan as Minho approaches his climax: it’s in the way that his breathes grow ragged, the way that his lips become red from biting down to stifle his moans, the way that his body clenches—not just around Chan, but all over. Though Chan feels stretched thin with arousal, one snap away from surrendering to his own pleasure, he maintains his tight grip on his control, wanting to please Minho, to show him how good he can be.
He tightens his grip on Minho’s cock and speeds up, watching how Minho’s eyes flutter, focused on hitting the right spot instead of putting on a show. His hole pulses around Chan’s cock, and he finally releases his teeth from his bottom lip to let out a series of growing moans and whimpers. It’s music to Chan’s ears: lovely, beautiful, and so utterly erotic.
With just a few more strokes of his cock, Minho comes, spilling all over Chan’s hands and his stomach. He tightens, so hot and wet around Chan’s cock that he nearly follows, but he can’t—not without Minho’s permission. Still, Chan’s brain goes foggy just watching Minho lose himself, unable to process anything else.
It’s an out-of-body experience, filled with so much want and need, yet unable to do anything about it, that Chan doesn’t register how much time exactly has passed before Minho blinks down at him. He looks fucked out, skin aglow with sweat and cheeks flushed with color, and when he speaks, his voice is throaty. “Did you come?” he asks.
Chan shakes his head, and Minho looks so pleased it makes Chan want to preen. “So good for me, Channie.”
“Anything for you, Minho-yah,” Chan says, only seeing Minho. He feels like he’s afloat, his body taut with arousal.
Minho smiles. “I know.” He gives his hips a test swivel and a whimper leaks out of Chan, high and reedy. Deciding that he’s recovered enough, Minho keeps grinding down on Chan’s cock. He’s much looser now than he was before, but he’s still warm and slick, his walls the perfect amount of friction dragging against Chan. His fingers press down on Chan’s lip, and he eagerly opens his mouth, moaning and sloppily swirling his tongue around them. Minho’s eyes glint, and he leans in to say, “Now, come for me.”
Just like that, Chan tips over the edge he’s been teetering over for so long. He completely loses all sense of self, and all he can feel is Minho, Minho, Minho as he fills him up with his cum, body shaking as his moans are muffled by Minho’s fingers in his mouth.
He comes to when Minho withdraws his fingers, wiping them on the sheets before cupping Chan’s cheek and dipping down for a kiss. This one is sweet and unhurried, and Chan lets himself sink into it. He relishes in the feel of Minho: his warmth, his softness, and his strength.
Eventually, Minho pushes himself back up, and though Chan is tempted to chase after him, to pull him down to cuddle, he feels too tired and boneless to move. He expects Minho to get off of him and go grab something to clean them both, but instead, he reaches behind Chan to pull out a band of cash.
He thumbs at it thoughtfully, eyes glittering.
“Disappointed?” Chan asks.
“A bit,” Minho says. He holds the cash against his cheek and blinks down at Chan coquettishly. “How’s this color on me?”
Chan can’t help but smile, adoration bursting from his chest. “It’s perfect for you, Minho-yah.”
Color blooms across Minho’s ears as he stifles his pleased giggle. He places the cash down next to Chan, and says, in a voice too sweet for Chan’s already full heart, “I think it looks even better on you.”