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“Kiss me?” Chan requests, voice small. He doesn't ask for things very often, but he's feeling a little needy this morning.
Minho hesitates for a moment, long enough that Chan almost thinks he's going to be denied. Then, Minho hums. “Sure,” he says, and in a heartbeat, there's a pair of lips pressed to Chan's own. He sighs in content and kisses back lazily, languidly.
Not until they part does it register in Chan's brain that it wasn't Minho kissing him. Minho didn't even move, and he doesn't kiss like that. Chan's stomach somersaults. He wets his lips. “Who… who else is here?”
“Perceptive, aren't you?” Minho teases. “Clever boy.” Chan's cheeks heat up. He doesn't get a reply, only gets Minho's slick finger sliding inside of him so easily, so perfectly. With the absence of sight, Chan feels everything so much more vividly, and just the single finger alone is enough to have his belly sizzling with heat. Minho works his way up to a second digit before saying: “Why don't you try and guess, hm?”
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