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There's a certain elegance to the air of returning home when the city is asleep. Dead quiet aside from the whir of the elevator, the ding announcing his arrival to the right floor, and each soft step he takes down the hall to their door; even the streets below barely make a sound, muffled by the thick walls of the apartment building. A thick, tattered and faded orange, paw-print shaped mat welcomes the soles of his feet with sweet familiarity while Chan takes his time twisting his key through the lock.
Some nights, he hums a greeting to the dark of their living room as it presents in front of him after pushing the door open, but tonight he feels like mirroring the gentleness around him. The moon is full and so is his heart stepping further towards the bedroom after stripping his shoes at the door. Part of him wants to turn on a light just to see his ring reflect and shine. The weight will be enough though, he decides, to remind him of what– who– makes “home” worth coming back to.
The bedroom door is closed, lights off the same as the rest of the apartment, and Chan knows he’d devote himself to a life in the dark if only it meant Minho could sleep soundly a little longer, unbothered by his late return. He hadn’t checked a clock recently, but his bets could be placed well after midnight. All Chan knows is that he texted Minho more than a few hours ago to reassure him not to wait up and promised to take him out to a nice dinner the next night to make up for turning another expertly home-cooked meal into congealed leftovers. In return, he’d been sent a sticker of a cartoon cat sleeping over a pillow with the words, “no worries,” floating above it, so he knew there weren’t hard feelings to be found.
Thanking every God he can remember the name of that the door doesn’t creak when he tentatively pushes it open, Chan makes his way slowly through their bedroom and towards their en suite bathroom to get himself ready to join his husband in bed. Once safely inside with the door tucked back into its closed position after he spent likely a minute or two twisting the knob as sloth-like as he could, Chan strips and goes through the motions his nightly routine. Brush his teeth, wash his face, shave the slight stubble that’s grown over the last couple days he’s neglected the razor, diligently follow a five-step skin care routine specially crafted for him by Hyunjin. It’s a nice steady way to wind down his night.
Chan takes extra care to make sure the light is off for at least five seconds before he opens the bathroom door again and makes his way to their bed in the far corner of the room. He plugs his phone in screen-down and refuses to turn it over even simply to “make sure” because he felt the vibration of connection and that should be enough to convince him. Or whatever Changbin reasons alongside his lectures of avoiding blue light at bedtime, despite a majority of their job being in front of computers and the fact that most of the nights Chan is there late, Changbin walks out right beside him.
He’s sure there’s something about that that he could spin and twist around to get Changbin off of his back about it, but the last time his screen-time was brought up as an issue was in front of Minho and he, regretfully, agreed with their friend. So for now, Chan will be uninformed about the time and plug his phone in upside down to satisfy them.
The room is too dark to get a proper look at his husband, sleeping soundly and beautifully, wrapped up in one of their extra-large and fluffy blankets they’ve been keeping at the foot of the bed for winter. He’s curled towards the wall in a way that Chan recognizes even underneath a blanket, knees surely tucked up to his waist and back bent lovely and near-poised if Chan didn’t know better, if he didn’t know that there wasn’t a posture possible for Lee Minho to not look lovely in. Minho’s face peeks out above the blanket and even in the dark, Chan knows his hair is soft and freshly washed simply by the way it crowds around his forehead like a halo, falling with an unstyled and air-dried ease.
As Chan gingerly lifts the opposite edge of the blanket and takes a knee to the bed to begin a slow crawl into the comfort, he finds himself as struck by Minho’s visage as he was the first day they met. Everything about him is art, even in unconsciousness. Age has smoothed his skin, matured the lilt of his lips, elongated the slope of his nose, softened the easily-wrinkled space between his eyebrows. What a beautiful thing aging was when Minho was its muse and how lucky Chan was to be allowed into his intimate presence for the rest of their lives.
Chan takes a few seconds to cup his hands in front of his mouth and breathe hotly to ensure they aren’t cold so he doesn’t jolt Minho awake with the sensation. Slipping under the blankets so slowly the dip of the mattress hesitates to make a sound is a normalcy to Chan, a part of his routine like any other, but the feeling of his arms following the journey underneath to slither over Minho’s waist and be met with bare skin will never cease morphing him a more religious man. Minho often sleeps without a shirt. More uncommon in the winter, but not rare, still. Either way, Chan feels blessed to be allowed the contact the same he is day after summer day.
Sleep feels far away from his grasp despite the high of the moon and the rhythmic rise and fall of Minho’s chest in front of him as Chan curls around him to mimic the position his husband fell asleep in. He lets their feet tangle slowly, unwilling to wake Minho with that gradual touch either as his hand finds easy purchase roaming steadily over Minho’s waist and stomach, feeling out all the planes and dips and valleys that he knows by heart as if it’s the first time again.
Chan’s fingers slip to explore Minho’s hips, expecting the familiar silky fabric of his favored sleepwear, but instead he only feels more uncovered and vulnerable skin. A small gasp leaves him at the surprise that has Minho grumbling and shifting around in his sleep for a few moments while Chan stays, starstruck and hypnotized as his fingers trace the bare curve of Minho’s hips. As he worships the touch he’s allowed– not new, not a first, but rare enough that it makes him feel nothing short of giddy to find it waiting for him– Minho stills back into peaceful sleep.
Dragging his fingers down further, grazing the plush of Minho’s thighs and planting his hand flat on the surface, rounding it to paw greedily at the inner area, Chan tilts his head back and groans. There’s never been a luckier man than himself, he thinks. Ideally, Chan knows they’d both prefer if Minho doesn’t wake up at all, or if he only wakes up at the end, so Chan retracts his hand slowly and takes a deep breath to attempt and prepare himself for a bit of necessary patience.
Crawling out from under the blanket is easy, as is maneuvering the fluffy blankets to the floor settling on his knees at the foot of the bed in their place. Just as he reaches and leans over Minho to let his fingers grasp the edge of the blanket blocking his view of what should be the most treasured piece of art in the entire world, Chan pauses. It’s winter, still. There’s a chill in the room. His husband is sensitive to that, especially over his legs.
Resolutely and rather quickly, he decides the lesser visual of joining him underneath the blanket is worth protecting Minho’s temperatural comfort. His arms retract back to his sides before moving to the other end of the blanket, settled in front of him. Chan lifts it carefully, trying to assuage the difference in air flow with lack of speed, bunching up the excess coverage of it in his fists. In the same moment he ducks his head underneath the fabric, Chan tosses the end over his back.
It’s darker than the bedroom now, with no moonlight providing a gentle glow, but his eyes have been adjusting fine and the silhouette of Minho isn’t something he needs to see to know anyway. Now joined in the warm den of the blanket, the first skin he touches is the taut stretch around Minho’s ankle. Chan’s fingers circle it slowly, as he smiles something secret, just for himself and the love he feels for every inch of his husband’s body. The skin is smooth, like all of Minho seems to be. Soft, made to be worshipped.
Dipping down to press a fleeting kiss to the jutting bone of Minho’s ankle feels like second nature, a movement Chan was born to complete, as thoughtless as breathing. Another kiss follows to the connecting shin as Chan’s hands slide to steady himself, one reaching Minho’s knee as the other rests on the empty space outside of Minho’s other leg, his fingers curling into the comforter as if attempting to ease an itch for something grander, greater, more worthy of the touch. Unabashed in his thankful prayers for the opportunity, Chan trails more kisses up Minho’s leg– over his calf, his knee, a handful planted all over his thighs– as he keeps crawling forward to better position himself.
A sound somewhere between a hum and a sigh drags itself out of Minho’s pouted lips once Chan lands the first kiss to his inner thigh, right where his fingers rested before, and it’s the most beautiful thing Chan has ever heard. If it was possible to pick a favorite resonance of Minho’s voice, he was sure that one would be a top contender. He’s still sleeping, Chan is sure, though his dreams might be mutating to an amorphous reminder of the pleasure his physical body is getting close to feeling and the thought only stirs him on further.
Minho told him a few days after their third or so time using this arrangement that his dreams always shifted to something wetter and hotter once Chan came home and got started with him, no matter how far apart in idea they were beforehand. He said he liked it, that it was exciting to know that being unconscious couldn’t stop him from enjoying the physicality of the act. Chan was just happy Minho liked it, that he wasn’t scared off and he trusted Chan so much. The pretty blush staining Minho’s ears and cheeks as he admitted to liking this experiment made Chan feel near-mad with affection and a burning want. He wonders what kind of dream he’s manipulating tonight.
Gently, Chan uses one hand on Minho’s thigh to coax him into turning onto his back. He goes easily, fluidly, much more obediently than he would have if he was awake and it makes Chan want to test him further, see how well he responds when his body is the only part of him allowed to talk. The room’s silence should put him at unease, but Chan likes it, likes the thrill of trying to keep his own movements and sounds under wraps. He likes the challenge of trying to keep Minho asleep as there’s no other sounds around to buffer his actions, or how Minho responds to them.
With Minho on his back and the blanket still soundly on top of them, it’s a lot easier for Chan to tease Minho’s legs apart and fill the space between them with himself. One hand on the bed, the other occupied caressing Minho’s thigh that isn’t being coated in a thin sheet of saliva from how much he’s kissing it and Chan thinks there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Being underneath the blanket seems to create a bubble around them that enhances every touch, making them feel more electrified in the shadows, and Chan swears Minho’s musk reaches his nose stronger than usual. He can only hope Minho will gift this to him more during the winter, if only to feel caged in with his favorite smell so potent again.
Chan takes a deep breath as he drags more open-mouthed kisses over Minho’s thigh, nosing his way more urgently towards where he desperately wanted a taste. Once his nose gets tickled by hair, Chan groans as he takes in the sight as much as he can in the dark, wishing he could view it full daylight just to see how the wetness between Minho’s legs shines. Seeing has never satisfied him as much as feeling, though, so he happily leans in to run his tongue smoothly first through the surrounding hair, orbiting the more sensitive skin.
Muffled from his position, he hears Minho grunt in his sleep, but Chan is undeterred. If anything, the sweet noise fuels him further, coils a heat in his gut as he lets his tongue dip between the lips and swipe through them. Minho tastes just as good as he always does, earthy and a little tangy, the fluid sticking to Chan’s tongue just enough to savor it, but he’s sweeter than usual– sweet in a way that he only ever is when he plans for it– and the surprise has Chan grateful he doesn’t do the grocery shopping and never noticed an extra can or two of pineapple juice in their fridge.
He spends more than a few minutes licking through Minho’s pussy with as much range as he can manage from the angle without any purpose other than to taste him more, enjoy the meal prepared for him, as he listens to the heightened breathiness of Minho above him. If it was possible to get drunk off of bodily fluids, Chan is sure he’d be considered an alcoholic, but it wasn’t his fault when there was nothing distasteful about Minho. He appreciated the sweetness when he was surprised with it, but nothing could beat Minho’s natural, muskier, taste when he’s unprepared, laid bare and ripe for Chan to eat like his life depends on it. Not that Chan is picky, he likes any version of Minho’s taste.
Barely satisfied with his feast, but pointedly aware of the half-baked keen that left Minho when his nose brushed over his exposed clit, Chan decides to be a bit less selfish. His tongue moves more professionally, circling Minho’s clit, dipping beneath it to tease the gape, and then circling again. Working Minho up steadily, Chan lets out a pleased hum when the first moan falls out of his husband’s lips and one of his arms subconsciously lifts and knocks into his head, grabbing at his hair with a tenacity that would mean awareness on anyone else.
With a fervor, he moves from tongue to lips and brings his mouth to cover Minho’s clit and sucks lightly, as if it would break had he done it harder. But there’s nothing Chan knows as well as he does Minho’s body and he’s wealthily rewarded with the twitch of his thighs and a roll of his hips, chasing the feeling. Minho loved to be fucked fast and eaten out slow. Chan is always more than ready to abide by all his wants, it’s the least he could do after being bestowed the blessing of being Minho’s chosen life partner.
Minho only gets louder as Chan continues to suckle gently around his clit, his ability to stay asleep despite his own noise is impressive, but Chan doesn’t want to be done that fast, so he slows to simply kitten licking between his closed lips before he breaks off completely and presses a kiss to the used area. A whine that breaks off halfway through from above him makes Chan smile. He’s not done yet and he hopes the Minho occupied within his dreams can forgive him for taking his time.
Moving back to swiping his tongue through Minho’s folds, groaning as the taste of those fluids reach his throat again, Chan reiterates the promise within himself to never take this fortune for granted. Minho’s hips have a mind of their own, not nearly as coordinated as they would be if he was awake, but the eagerness as they attempt to ride his face spreads warmth all the way down to Chan’s feet. It does nothing to help the ache of his hard-on, but he barely notices it, too occupied with Minho’s pussy to care about anything else. The world could implode outside of their window and Chan would gladly spend his last moments savoring this.
Once the desperate swirls of Minho’s hips settle and his sounds quiet, Chan makes his way back to his clit, pushing his tongue against it in gentle rhythm as his lips close around it again. He lets his tongue do all the work until Minho keens something soft and gorgeous and arches into the feeling, then Chan’s lips join, sucking in tandem, the same rhythm, now a harmony. The knowledge hovers on the outskirts of his mind that his jaw will be sore in the morning after taking his time with this, but Chan doesn’t take even a moment to consider the experience anything other than a divine gift, something utterly sinful to regret.
Steadying the pressure of his tongue and the suckling is a task Chan could be considered a professional with, he knows the exact speed Minho likes it best and the right angle to go at it. Keeping up with it is no issue by now, but the time it took to “train” him for it is Minho’s favorite thing to pester him about. Another lovely positive of this arrangement: the only sounds coming out of Minho’s mouth are breathy derivatives of pleasure entirely subconscious. Pure bodily relief during the most vulnerable state, entrusted to Chan.
The heat throbbing from within Minho is more than addictive and Chan relishes each minute sign of his approaching climax, every twitch and gasp and squirm and the scent of sex permeating the room further. Once Minho’s thighs attempt to squeeze his head between them so strongly his hand slips from its hold, Chan knows it’s time for him to behave this time and let his husband finish. It’s harder to keep up the rhythm with Minho’s hips rolling faster and the distraction of his soft moans going shorter and high-pitched, but Chan works his jaw double time to keep pace and tries to zero in his focus to steadying the position.
As Minho’s hand grabs at his hair again and tugs his face deeper into his pussy, Chan makes sure to flatten and stretch his tongue to taste the fresh release while Minho rides out his orgasm. He stays there, unmoving, but tasting, and wholly unmotivated to move until Minho’s body stops convulsing and his breathing steadies back down to its regular sleepful pace. After giving him a moment to settle back into deep rest, Chan takes his time slowly tracing his tongue between Minho’s lips and over his entrance, dipping in just enough to deem it clean, while pointedly avoiding nudging his clit again.
He works slow enough that it doesn’t stir Minho back into action and he allows himself the time to appreciate the simple act, knowing they’ll shower together in the morning to clean properly. After considering his work done, more than satisfied with the way his night has gone, Chan rests his head onto the soft mound of skin above Minho’s pussy and sighs, feeling more content than he had all week. His own pants were a mess, but he decided that could well wait until tomorrow, when the sun is as high as the moon is.
Wrapping his arms around Minho the best he can from that angle, Chan lets himself nearly doze off and float away from the sweet lingering daze in his mind after eating Minho out, a lovely thing he feels so blessed to do. If only a world existed where he could experience it every day, spend his entire life bringing Minho to the peak of pleasure and being rewarded with his taste settling on his tongue, permeating his senses, and overtaking everything he thought to be worth dying for. Or living for, Chan corrects himself, remembering Minho’s own words asking that small change of him and there isn’t a single thing he wouldn’t do, if Minho asked.
For more than a moment, he thinks they’ve both settled off to sleep, until Minho’s voice calls out to him, soft and quiet as a mouse and slightly slurred from his rest, “Channie? You’re home?”
“Hey, love,” Chan whispers back, lifting his head slightly and smiling at the way Minho shivers when the breath of his words brushing through the coarse hair he’s rested on top of.
“Welcome,” Minho hums as he brings a hand to pet through Chan’s hair, slow and sweet and lazy and thoughtless, the kind of intimacy that feels grander than sex, “did you have fun?”
“Always do.”
“Good boy.”
“Do you feel it?” Chan asks, ever curious about his lover’s experience. Again, just as he does every day, he wishes to be able to see the world through the same lovely lenses that Minho does. It must be such a beautiful thing.
“Mhm,” Minho mumbles in the tone that Chan knows he’s halfway back asleep already, “feel so relaxed, thank you…”
“Anything for you.”
A minute or so passes and Chan thinks Minho is asleep again, but his attention is grabbed by his husband’s voice again, just a bit raspy and small, as if he’s shy, as he asks, “… Gonna sleep down there?”
“Can I?” Chan breathes, almost as in love with the idea as he is with his husband. He scrambles to grab at one of Minho’s hands and intertwine their fingers the best he can, the angle is slightly awkward, but the tiny clink of their rings meeting makes it feel like the perfect fit.
He grins in the same boyish way he knows Minho loves when all he gets in response is the same tired hum of approval that he’s heard hundreds of times before and nuzzles his head further into the soft plush of Minho’s mound, making a home out of it and giving his own happy sounds in return as his eyes gently close. Chan falls asleep to the primal scent lingering in the air and the ambrosial taste he hopes resides in his mouth until the morning as a blissful reminder, his mind occupied thinking of how lucky he is to be able to share his life with Minho.