Work Text:
What am I doing with my life?
Minho drinks the rest of his drink and calls the waiter, all he needs is to get home after the disaster of a date he just went through. Jeongin is a dead man.
After mentioning how long he hasn’t been on a date, Jeongin jumped right in saying he had the perfect match and insisted he should give it a chance to go out with him, that maybe he could even get laid. Minho, defeated by weeks of insistence where Jeongin would come to his desk and talk, talk, talk about how cool the guy was, accepted. Right now, he knows his guts were telling him the truth, he should not have accepted that offer.
Barely fifteen minutes in, the guy simply didn’t shut his mouth, babbling about another man, how he went on a blind date the previous day and was still thinking about how good it was, that he was sure they were soulmates. He even mentioned the way his toes curled when the guy made him have the best orgasm of his life in the alley behind the restaurant.
Who fucking says that on a date with another person!?
Gladly, he got a call from someone and had to excuse himself to go solve a problem in his office — or something like that, Minho couldn’t give two fucks about his reason. For Minho’s sake, the entire date only lasted around forty minutes, because if he had to listen to anything else from that shit head, he was going to break the plate on his cranium. And he wouldn’t regret it, not even when he got old and wrinkled and remembered that.
Jeongin better be prepared for the lecture Minho was thinking about giving him. It’s not like he didn’t have expectations, the younger one talked about him for so long that Minho entered the pub waiting for a good time, good talk, maybe get tipsy and get a kiss to take the edge off. Instead, he got filthy gossip from a wild one night stand.
All the things he’s been working on recently has made him so busy he didn’t even realize a couple of weeks had passed since he last touched himself, the dating drama wasn’t a thing anymore, he got over it. Minho survived long enough without someone, it’s not now that he’ll cry and pout for not having a boyfriend or whatever.
On the other hand, there’s someone that never leaves his mind.
Not in a good way.
The stupid useless boss that keeps ordering him around each second of the day was getting on his nerves. Minho had to stop three different tasks just to start a new one, because according to his boss, updating the clients contact list was more important than anything. Everyone in his department would turn their heads side to side each time he had to cross the floor as Christopher called him. One too many times.
Minho was getting tired of looking at his bleached hair and fancy suits. Christopher was in his late thirties, how the fuck he thought bleaching his hair was a good idea? He had even stopped cutting it at some point, making it frame his face with long blonde strands of hair, the sides slick with gel showing the undercut. It was so bad that Minho was forced to put energy on not rolling his eyes to the back of his head and puke when he fixed a stray hair insisting on falling more times than he could bear.
The evening has been ruined so far because of the date but nothing compares to the morning this same day. The entirety of hours between sunrise and sunset was fated to kill Minho’s good mood — or whatever remained of his sanity on a Friday evening when the week had been so tiring.
Christopher asked him if he was done doing a handful of things, but guess what? Minho unsurprisingly managed to do only two of them, the smug cocky man with dark eyebrows and light hair was the one to blame — who apparently thought Minho was a genie and could do anything in the snap of a finger. He smiled and reassured he was going to work on all of those things as soon as possible because they required a thorough handling, holding back the spasms on his hand to not throw heavy files on his face and even behaved, calculating his words not to call him prick — not to vomit over his wooden desk by how hideous those parched locks were and how his earrings didn’t match his skin tone, way too shiny and silver to fit him.
Ever since day one Minho was sure enough that Bang Christopher Chan was worthy of all the despise and hate instantly evoked in the depths of his mind. It all was so insane that somewhere between the first day and the beginning of the second week, Minho found himself listing all the things he hated about him, adding endless reasons to never forget the correct way of smiling and pretending it was all right. That one day, when he’s in a better spot, it was all worthy, just another step on his journey. It happens for a reason, right?
One item on his hate list never failed to make him grind his teeth more times in a day than he deemed possible.
Reasons to hate Bang Christopher Chan:
- 6th: obnoxiously glaring at Minho with tired eyes every time he stepped in his office, even if he was the one that called him, to eventually interrupt anything to ask him to go get his lunch.
Ugh! Minho hates so much it hurts physically!
In any case, here lies Lee Minho: paying the bill of a shitty date and thinking about how much he hates his boss. What a weekend!
Planning on smoking a cigarette before heading home — Minho swears he won’t survive the ride home without nicotine easing him a little, — he stands up fixing his dress pants and the collar of his beige cotton shirt. Despite the lack of high hopes, he never attended a date wearing nothing less than perfect. Actually, never dressed himself down. He knew better.
Being an attorney was tiring, but being an attorney turned secretary hurt his ego and pride. He is trying to make way on the ladder of the company, because all the benefits and paycheck were alluring and fat enough to give up on his position to become Christopher’s personal secretary — after all, he had been hired for barely five months when it happened. Something about cutting expenses and Christopher requesting him under the reason of being on the same cases. Something like that.
Does he regret accepting it? Yes.
Does he regret the zero’s on his bank account? Hell, no!
At the moment he’s suited up and accessorized with nothing less than Gucci, no one is stupid enough to regret a pretty bank account living alone, knowing how to save money and invest on themselves to not only look good, but to live a good life. If anything, enduring Christopher’s shit is just part of the deal, what can he say? Nothing’s perfect!
Minho heads toward the exit door shaking his head to scatter any thoughts about work, so to speak. Stepping ahead only twice before blonde hair appeared in front of him, but it shouldn’t be a problem, a lot of people have blonde hair nowadays. Except, it was. A big, broad, wearing all black problem.
Temptation flickers in his mind, to turn around, to not face him, to avoid him at all cost, maybe hide in the bathroom for some minutes and slip out when he is sure not to be seen by his repulsive boss. But his legs ignore the commands his brain orders them, choosing not to obey, unwilling to step away as he walks in Minho’s direction, looking around absentmindedly without noticing his secretary — one that has frozen harder in place as he notices the full outfit he was wearing.
Never, ever, had Minho seen his boss wearing anything other than black or white suits. That’s why Minho is so shocked — wordless — by the view of milky skin peeking through the extremely transparent lace shirt he wears under a leather overcoat, his dress pants rather tight on his thighs as Minho eyed him up and down. Never, ever, had Minho seen his boss in the most slutty clothes a man could ever wear.
So that’s him when he’s not treating me like a dog for a living…
It is too late to run away, his eyes find Minho’s as soon as they get closer enough, a shallow smile curving the corners of his closed mouth upwards when he clasps a hand on his shoulder. A “long time no see” type of greeting pals exchange. Minho is nothing like that to him to receive that.
Suddenly, puke is burning the back of his tongue.
“Minho, what a surprise!” A big pearled smile now, his hair crudely brushed back, a nauseating hint of vanilla and cedar invading his nostrils with the proximity increasing, Christopher squeezing him in a quick hug — the type you give to people you’re acquainted with. The faint wood in his perfume blown to him against his will.
From the moment he saw his boss to when he was weirdly hugged, Minho was stiff, just observing everything happen in utter shock. The reason? Minho simply couldn’t avoid the thoughts in his mind screaming, shouting and barking. Repugnant.
The bumps of a well built abdomen, a sickening navel and the tight collar around his neck made Minho gulp hard, pure loath, the person right in front of him is visually different from the asshole who loves the power he possesses in his hands. The complete lack of seriousness he used to present at work, even his features look softer, not one crevice of stress between his brows, just the stubborn weak aging marks along his eyes getting more pronounced with his smile.
It doesn’t fool Minho. He knows better than to judge this jerk by appearances. Christopher’s soul and personality formed by the worst things one can imagine.
“—doing here?” his voice fishes Minho back to reality, back to blinking — forcing the red to retract from his sight.
“Sorry, what?” Boiling anger heats his cheeks and locks his jaw. He is infuriatingly surprised by the clothes he is wearing. He is also not blind to the fact that the fabric around his thighs are stretched in a weird way, like he bought the wrong size, way too small.
Perfect. Details about Christopher have been updated: he is a moron. Should this be also added to his hate list?
“Yah, you’ve drunk already?” he pretends to scold him, laughing at the half lidded eyes Minho displays. “I asked what you’re doing here. You’re the last person I expected to see this evening.”
“I, uh… I was with a friend earlier." The effort Minho puts on answering without allowing his feelings seep at his words is palpable.
Lie. Definitely a lie that Christopher wouldn’t catch between his words, he doesn't know him well enough for that. Minho would never talk about his private life with his boss.
“Oh, got it, got it.” he nods twice, touching the earring on his right ear. A bad irritating habit. “And you're heading out?”
“Ah, yes and no.” Minho could spare him a little bit of truth, right? Only a fair amount to get rid of him fast as a lightning bolt. “I was going for a cigarette then head back home, nothing much.”
Christopher studies him fore and aft, crossing his arms and inhaling deeply. Fucking God, he’s about to do that thing. His boss is about to boss him around in a mother fucking pub after work, and Minho panicks a little with presumption. But quickly thinking about it, since they aren’t in the office, he's able to pretty much not do whatever he was going to demand or ask for. Yes, that’s perfect! A small revenge for all the times Minho wanted to shout at his face and call him an old egocentric asshole.
“Why don’t you join me for a drink? Since you don't seem to be in a rush” his voice isn't harsh, nor demanding, it is… light? Christopher shrugs his shoulders tilting his head to the left, stares at his eyes and waits for an answer. Minho is so dumbfounded that for a split second he almost chokes. Almost.
“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t wanna bother you, Mr. Bang” of course Christopher’s posture triggered his office voice. He even bowed his head a little.
“Not at all! I’ll pay for it, c’mon” what is he thinking? That he can bribe Minho with alcohol and make him likeable all of a sudden? Fine, he is… different with these slut clothing, but Minho knows him beyond appearances. He is indeed an asshole that treats people badly because of his position. Minho will never fall for a good style when the person wearing those fancy clothes is abominable.
So much so, Minho remembers the tenth reason for hating his boss: the way he adjusts the lapels of his jacket at least nineteen times in an one hour meeting — a sample of how mad he wants to have everything under control that even objects suffered with his syndrome. And that was what Minho presumed he was about to do.
“Uh… I don’t know if it is appropriate, Mr. bang” he opts out the safest way. However, the laughter that leaves his lips startles Minho. What’s so funny?
“No one is going to know if we don’t say anything, mate. Besides, it’s a free drink for you and company for me. Let’s go” his hands grab Minho by the shoulders and start leading him toward the bar, not really leaving space for discussion.
As always, Minho presumed right.
Minho protests once more, trying not to be those opportunists that would empty their boss’s wallet whenever given the chance — he tries to convince himself that it isn’t because Minho could jump at his throat any second. Beyond that, Minho can’t stand the idea of sitting next to his boss not knowing what a normal person would say, having to control the red threatening to flood his sight just for being way too close to him. It's not that he wouldn’t have anything to say, Minho has plenty actually, none of which were lightweighted.
At least he has some alcohol in his system, the wine from the stupid date could do him a favor and turn it all into something minimally bearable.
They will probably sip their drinks in silence.
Or worse, Christopher is going to talk about work stuff.
Minho isn't ready to be updating his boss about the cases with hatred and alcohol pumping in his veins. Otherwise, he will call him a bitch, alcohol tragically makes Minho lose a bit of the restraints he has around everyone, totally unable to control his mouth and sometimes his actions. Lord help him or he’ll end up in jail for murder, ruining not just his weekend, but the rest of life the universe planned for him.
Again, Minho goes for the safest option since he didn’t manage to get himself out of such a situation, ordering an Aperol Spritz for being light, while his annoying boss gets whiskey. Not on the rocks. Straight. What sane person would drink it without wanting to shoot themselves on the foot as it burned its way down?
Oh, yes. Bang Christopher isn’t human. He’s the devil disguised.
I hope he chokes on it…
“So…” Christopher voices out, sitting beside Minho.
“So…” Minho replies to the strangeness in the air, side eyeing him. The image of him playing with the brown liquid, rolling his wrist and staring at it, provoking a brow to arch in Minho’s face.
I shouldn’t be here…
“It fits you” he says as if commenting about the weather, voice linear and calm.
Minho furrows to the glass on his lips, slowly setting it back to the bar after a sip to ask in a low voice “What fits me?”
“Gucci. It fits you” Wait, he knows Gucci by eye? Wait. He thinks Gucci fits Minho? And by his tone it nearly sounds like a good thing, not in a mocking or scoffed tone. Oh, wait… He’s giving small talking a chance, opposite of saying “Do this. Now do that. Need you to prioritize this.”
Lord… His annoying, egocentric, superficial boss just complemented him? Minho feels his stomach churning, the small amount of Aperol he drank threatening to climb his throat fast and burning, his eyes bugging out of his skull as he refuses to look at him. Whether it is a real compliment or not, Minho does not look at his face to read his features. He could live not knowing if he was making fun of him. He loves what he is wearing and not even the forced features his boss possibly wore would ruin them for him.
“Thank you, Mr. bang.” The words taste sour on his tongue.
Play it safe… Keep playing it safe and get home. Easy peasy.
“You can call me Chris, I don’t mind it off work” he dares to squeeze Minho’s nape, like scruffing a cat. At that his eyes shoot directly to him, the right one twitching in a beat, anger returning to boil under his skin immediately. How dare he?
From what planet did Christopher come from to think that he had the minimum of intimacy to touch Minho? It surely isn’t Earth.
Oh… Minho is going to lose it.
Wasn’t it enough for him to play with Minho like a game character at the office? Weren’t words and demanding enough? Now he thinks that he’s entitled to do as he pleases physically too.
Not in Minho’s watch.
“I don’t think I can do that, Mr. Bang.” The tone in his voice is low, serious and dangerous, wishing Christopher gets the message by just hearing. Careful not to hiss and punch his face for that, he wraps his fingers around his forearm and peels his hand away from him, setting it over the cold marble of the bar. “My mind knows how to separate work and personal life.”
Minho wants to scream his anger loud and clear. Gritted teeth as he spoke, not daring to tear his gaze away, staring at his irises to be sure he gets the message between the lines.
A beat too long passes as he waits for the information to sink in his boss’s mind, unmoving while he doesn't show signs of understanding. The parted bangs touching his eyelids trembles along Christopher’s hard gulp, making his body move with it, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, hand gripping the whiskey glass tighter and his brows scrunching for a split second. Perfect. Minho managed to deliver the message.
But… Why does he feel strange about it?
Probably his default mode is sending him signs, telling him to listen to the older, to respect formalities and not ruin his chance to keep on climbing the ladder on his dream company just because of an unfortunate encounter. He wished he wasn’t so caught up with this. People nowadays don’t even care about it so much, age literally being just a number as younger ones joke with the older, mocking and messing around with no consequences. Jeongin and Seungmin — Minho’s younger workmates — are the perfect example, calling him hyung but never knowing the limits.
Minho sighs at himself and tries to play it cool after the clear threat. Because that’s the plan: play it cool and go home.
That’s why he eases his own features the best he can manage and hits him with a light “I don’t—“
“We’re not in the office, are we Mr. Lee?” Minho chokes on his words. The obvious hint of sarcasm in his tone and face as his tongue pushes the inner side of his cheek, an annoyed smile on his face.
“No, sir. We’re not.” That makes Minho annoyed as well, all because he only calls him Mr. Lee when he doesn’t finish his tasks on time — Christopher’s time. By the way, it’s one of the items on his hate list, but he can’t recall where it sits. Probably between hating his neat-freak way of organising his office and hating on the ridiculous amount of rings he wears.
“I understand what you're saying. It’s a good thing, knowing to separate work and personal life” he grabs the overcoat sleeves and tugs until it slides off his shoulders, standing to fold it neatly and place it on the backrest. Minho feels a vein pulsing on his forehead. He sits back fully turned to Minho, crosses his legs propping his left elbow on the marble to take his drink back to mouth level, swirling the liquid. “But this is just a drink and I am being nice. No need to threaten me with those cougar eyes.”
Threaten him? Cougar eyes? No, no, no. He got it all wrong. Maybe.
“You fucking scruffed me?” He shoots right back, angrily confused by that situation and unable to control his mouth after some glasses of wine and an almost empty glass of Aperol, his life decisions taking a toll on him. Even dropped formalities, but remembered them fast enough to quickly add “Mr. Bang.”
The fucker's smile grows devilishly, the tongue thing happening again after downing the rest of his venom.
Mental note: add reason “the tongue thing” to the list.
“There it is! Now you are being real!” Christopher points an accusing finger at Minho’s face.
Minho scrunches his nose. “What?” What hell is he talking about now?
“You try too hard. It’s not as subtle as you think you are,” he mindlessly plays with the rings on his fingers, bouncing his leg as he sinks deeper in his seat with eyes never leaving Minho’s figure.
If only he knew how much Minho’s anger is boiling inside… He’s about to actually scream like a furious cougar.
“What are you talking about?” It was Minho’s turn to swallow the rest of his drink, having no idea what he was implying. The act is a mere attempt to stop himself from doing something he might regret.
“All this act of yours. This politeness you wear.” He points from head to toes and then cracks a finger. “I don’t buy your shit.”
For fuck's sake, he is making sure that Minho hates him until the day he dies.
“With all due respect, you don’t know me enough to say that, Mr. Bang” Minho is trying really hard not to shatter the glass on his head — or punch his face, he hasn’t figured which one would express his feelings better — and walk out, to sleep and pretend this day didn’t happen. Minho will pray to all and every god or force to make him completely forget this day, and to give him strength not to start a fight in the middle of a crowded pub.
“Oh, fuck you! I know you don’t like me, that’s for one.”
Pretty much anyone who paid enough attention would’ve figured this out. Just by the way some murderous flames dance in Minho’s eyes.
There’s nothing new under the sun.
“I know you hate being ordered around, that’s two.” Ding, ding, ding! One more reason added to the hate list: Christopher playing with Minho like a pawn on purpose. “And three, I must tell you Mr. Lee, it’s not professional of you to stare at your boss’s nipples”
Stare at his nipples?! Christopher must be going insane! He isn’t staring at— Oh, he was, kind of, staring at his nipples, only realizing it because he has to trail all the way up from the small buds under the lace to meet his boss’s eyes, finding an arched brow mocking him. The rage blinded Minho in such a way that it seemed he was staring at the little brown buttons on his pecks. It’s the only reasonable explanation.
Minho feels like vomiting.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bang.” He apologizes instantly, feeling his face get hot and most definitely turning red. After all, it’s the only reasonable and unharming way of dealing with it. He was supposed to play it cool… What derailed along the way?
Home.
Home.
Home.
He needs to go home. Like, now.
“That’s fine, you can take a look. I wore this shirt to show myself off, anyway” Minho furrows at his sentence, fidgeting with a napkin, unable to believe the person looking at him. Sick to his stomach.
Christopher is his cocky self-centered boss, but at the same time isn't? Because his tone is… Well, Minho much prefers not thinking about it. But did he actually have enough age for any thrilling activities beyond the excitement of not being diagnosed with diabetes before he hits his early forties?
Something must’ve slipped on his face, because he suddenly adds in an answering tone, as if he had heard Minho’s thoughts “I might be old, but not dead.”
“Good for you, I guess.” Minho tried to sound as casual and indifferent as possible, even shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head, glueing his eyes to the bottles behind the bartender.
“Good for me, I guess.” Christopher repeats, something different on the way emphasizes a word that Minho can't quite decipher. He couldn’t care less, as always.
Minho awfully needs to escape this, he’s had enough. First, some random guy talked about orgasming publicly, then he disgracefully encountered his boss right after, the worst part of it being the way Minho wasn’t able to deny his invitation more fiercely. Last and most embarrassing, his boss said exactly how he felt about him and caught him red handed, staring like a hungry dog looking at a bone.
If anything, Minho could stick to his plan, play it cool, have his cigarette — he desperately needs a puff of nicotine — and go home to sleep, pretending nothing happened. But it’s undeniable that for a couple of seconds he really thought his boss looked kind of good, despite age and bad personality. And yes, even his fucking nipples looked nice under the lace of his shirt. Minho would be in trouble Monday morning when he resumed the same old routine of being called over and over and forced to look at him knowing how he dressed off work. The thoughts of the promiscuous way he displayed himself intentionally.
“I appreciate the drink, Mr. Bang. And I apologize for… staring…” he hurries to his feet and bows, incapable of gazing at him for more than a second. “Have a nice weekend.”
Turning on his heels, Minho strides for the exit like running from a predator in the wild, feeling his head pulse to each heartbeat. Add alcohol to shame and anger and you’re going to have a headache for sure. Minho takes a mental note to have an aspirin before sleeping, to prevent it from ruining his Saturday too, one day was enough.
His lungs dilate deeply when he reaches the doorway leading to the stairs of salvation, steps separating him from that shitshow and the oh so tasteful freedom. Regrettably he glances back, just because.
No.
Minho looked back to have the certainty to add another reason on his list: the day Bang Christopher Chan almost made him lose his shit.
He hates himself for that as soon as he turns his head.
“Wait!” Christopher trotted across the place in his direction, overcoat in one hand and the other raised above his head.
Minho can’t believe this day.
At all.
“What are you doing?” Minho inquires before he fully reaches him.
“You don’t mind if I join, right?” Christopher wears a closed mouth smile with his head tilted to the right, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes more visible. Always so unabashed.
Join what?
The age must be rotting his neural connections. That’s the only reasonable explanation.
“Actually, Mr. Bang, I do mind,” he replies, scrunching his brows and controlling his words the best he can, lapping his tongue over his front teeth in palpable irritation.
“Not my problem” Christopher says unfazed, walking past him and starting the way out before Minho.
“You’ve got to be kidding me…” Minho murmurs, feeling his pulse quickening dangerously fast, surely popping out a vein on his neck.
Minho lights his cigarette with the silver lighter without a word, holding his gaze to a street light pretending to be alone and at peace. Counting backwards, starting from one hundred.
Unfortunately, he feels Christopher’s presence because the wind keeps whistling and blowing his perfume at him, mixing it to the smoke to create a rather unique combination. Minho hates to admit it but it is a good perfume, he isn't capable of lying about that, not to himself, but if anyone ever asked he would say it’s the worst in the world.
Eighty-nine, eighty-eight, eighty-seven…
Silence stretches between them until Minho is halfway through his cigarette, savoring it as he feels it in his body. Minho never intended on being a smoker in the first place, but after he had his first one he just never stopped, and he liked how it felt.
Seventy-six, seventy-five…
Especially when he had to pause everything at work to smoke at least two before going back to the madness. Something about watching the wavering smoke dancing between his fingers and the nicotine flooding his senses to the point of relaxation, the distraction it spared his mind for a moment.
Seventy. Sixty-nine, sixty—
“It’s kind of cold today, huh?” Of course he messes up his counting.
Minho doesn't reply as Christopher breaks the silence way too early for his liking, interrupting his attempt to chill the fuck out. He hums just for not leaving him completely unanswered, but it isn't in agreement because he isn't feeling cold, his suit and long sleeved shirt doing a great job on keeping him warm.
Christopher is feeling it because of that stupidly thin shirt.
“You’re right, but I wanted to wear it before I missed the chance” Christopher speaks as if Minho had opened his mouth and voiced his thoughts. For the second time. But he hadn’t, had he?
Minho spares him a quick glare just to realize he isn’t smoking. He is just staring at Minho puffing a faint cloud out and flicking the cigarette to get rid of the burnt part of it. He quickly remembers that the way Christopher loves to have things handed to him on a silver platter is also one of the reasons to completely hate him.
Withdrawing his pack under a grind of his teeth, Minho offers it and he takes one, setting it between his obnoxious, plush, rosy lips, the red light on the pub facade contouring his features as he waits for the lighter, to which Minho also offers after putting the pack back in his pocket.
He doesn't take it.
Christopher arches a brow and waits.
Minho doesn't move.
“Light my cigarette, Mr. Lee” he demands the same way he used to do when he assigned Minho task after task.
Minho is fast to obey, his body so used to reacting when Christopher talks like that that he regrets doing so as soon as he sees his boss smirking and puffing it in. Cocky bastard…
“That’s wicked.” Minho murmurs, putting his light back where it previously was with an angry shove.
“You don’t know the wicked part of me, Minho.” He speaks with curls of faint white leaving his mouth at each word, to then set the cigarette back on his lips, tongue touching it before it settles on the corner.
“What does that even mean?” That’s bad. The alcohol is taking the lead. Minho is starting to lose the little control he had so far, that is, feeling it in his veins and blurring his vision because of some glasses of wine and a light drink. Red returning to the borders of his sight in an aggressive shade.
“You said I don’t know you, but you forget that you don’t know me either. That’s what I mean” he feigns indifference, shrugging and bobbing the cigarette on his lips as he speaks. It seems that he is stating facts.
What Christopher doesn't know is that Minho knows enough. Unfortunately, so.
“That’s a horrible answer. Actually, it doesn't even count as an answer” Minho turns in his direction, leaning on the wall, blowing the smoke on his face, — that was too close for his liking — hoping it bothers him as much his existence contorts Minho’s guts and face in pure disgust.
“Don’t you realize how much you like obeying those older than you?” It is his turn to blow into Minho's face, making him roll his eyes automatically. Bothered. Extremely irritated.
Breathing in to control his nerves, Minho replies the simplest way he can think of, “I’m respectful, it’s totally a different thing, Mr. Bang. Besides, it’s part of the job, isn’t it?”
“If I told you to lick my shoes clean, would you do it just because of that?” Christopher asks in a challenging tone.
“What? No! That’s disgusting!” Minho screeches and puffs the rest of his cigarette in. Anger and hatred boiling at such temperature he doesn’t bother to speak respectfully.
“Oh, you totally would. It’s just a matter of the situation.” He feels Christopher’s gaze on him as he kills the butt of the cigarette under his shoe, and Minho looks back at him trying to understand what he was implying, blowing the smoke he held for a moment.
“Enlighten me, sir. I don’t think I understand.”
“Think of it. I call you to my office more times in a day than you probably drink water. Every time, you go and step inside my office ready to say ‘yes,sir’, and even when I see your eye twitching you always do as you’re told.” Christopher starts with arrogant certainty in his voice, mirroring Minho’s posture, stepping closer. “What if, hypothetically speaking, one day I called you and asked you to give me a massage on my shoulders?”
It all sounds so insane. Despite Christopher’s inability to be a normal human being, he seems professional enough not to do things that were way out of line.
As soon as he realizes that Minho won’t dare to answer the nonsense he brought up, he continues with a smug smile, analyzing the smoke waving between them. “I bet you would do it, even if in your mind you pictured stabbing me on the neck.”
Minho widens his eyes, breath hitching and heart racing. Truth be told, as much as he hates his boss, he probably would do so. Not because it would be an order, but because he had a goal: to get back to his previous position and then keep climbing until he got a better spot to buy a house and wear even fancier clothes — like the ones Christopher wears. Minho is a simple man with simple needs.
However, he has pride and a reputation to preserve, he won’t admit shit to this smug bastard.
“Hypothetically speaking, I would spit on your face and tell you to fuck off.” He squints his eyes at him, stepping closer to prove his point and stand his ground.
Christopher blows at his face again and bites his bottom lip before speaking lower “Promise? I mean, hypothetically.”
Definitely, Minho has had enough of his shit. It’s like he can even feel the restraints — what’s left of them — breaking one by one, the heartbeats thrumming so loud in his ears he swears he’s turned into a bomb ready to explode. The clock is ticking so fast it’s seconds apart from a disastrous explosion. Minho feels his palms sweating and shaking in anger as he shoves them inside the pockets in tight fists.
When Minho speaks the first thing on his mind, unconcerned of the consequences, he feels the bones of his face ache with the intensity of his teeth ground.
“Treat me like a puppet again, and that’s what I’ll do. I mean, hypothetically warning you.” Minho gazes him up and down, sparing a second to the tiny waist a broad man like that displayed shamelessly. Who would’ve imagined their boss dressed like this? Sickening.
Something flickered behind Christopher’s eyes, something Minho isn't able to decipher and he huffs a laugh at his face. Thankfully it was all hypothetical, Minho doesn't want to get fired by an old man that enjoyed power as much as he enjoyed hair gel and bleach.
“Fine, what if, still hypothetically speaking, I told you to kiss me?”
It tastes so bitter that Minho gulps. What is he talking about right now? He couldn’t possibly get the wrong idea, Minho was so objective, nothing between the lines, just straight truth. Why didn't he understand the clear threat? Christopher was supposed to just tsk his tongue and roll his eyes.
“You wouldn’t do that, old man” he scoffs, forcing himself to sound indifferent, crossing his arms and tilting his head forward to look deeper in his eyes.
“Old man, huh?” He giggles, tugging his earring with his right hand, stepping forward once more, their feet a hair thin apart. Their faces so close Minho could see the red lights reflecting on his big dilated irises.
“Twelve years is a hell of a difference,” Minho locks his jaw tightly, completely unsure of the ways his body is reacting. Completely shaken about the situation he’s got himself into.
Heartbeats thrumming faster in his ear as he finally realizes the view people might have of them. Two men way too close, suited up — except for the lace shirt his boss wore, staring at each other like they were about to punch each other on the face until blood breached through their skin. Minho wouldn’t mind punching him. At all. His body screamed for it, hands trembling like it ached to retaliate for all the things the fake blonde made him endure. For everything he had to deal with, especially this maddening day.
“Kiss me, Mr. Lee.” Christopher wraps a hand on his neck, just like before, as if scruffing him. He apparently is incapable of respecting limits. “That’s a direct order.”
It’s his boss, god damn it! How could he disobey? His body wasn’t equipped for that! That’s obviously the only reasonable explanation for what he does next.
Closing his right hand over his neck, Minho pushes his boss against the wall eliciting a grunt, alternating from one eye to the other before closing the distance and pressing their lips together in a rather hurting way. But it doesn't really hurt, it is just anger from hating him, from how much he wants to subdue him to a little bit of torture, sucking his plush bottom lip violently, tightening his grip on his neck to cut the blood flow.
Christopher makes sure to give Minho even more reasons to hate him deeply when he sucks back, burying his fingers on his scalp, groaning and wrapping his other hand around his waist to pull him impossibly closer.
The lace feels softer under Minho’s fingers, tracing the fabric over his stupidly thin waist, even more annoying over his abdomen, sculpted by a Greek madman. It all makes rage build deeper in his core when all he wants is to tear it apart and humiliate him in front of anyone walking along the sidewalk.
One more thing is being added to his infinite list of reasons to hate Bang Christopher Chan: the way his tongue is iron hot, how it brushes against his own when he explores Minho’s mouth between ragged breaths. Worst of all, the malty, smoky with a hint of caramel taste it has, making his taste buds react in disgust, drooling just like it happens before you throw up.
Minho can’t help it, his body reacts instantly. He hates him so much he even whines to the older’s mouth. It makes him feel such hatred he has to bite his lips over and over, and suck at it and violently push his tongue inside his mouth to make him pay for it.
He knows for sure it’s just his body expelling the hate he held back for so long. Maybe even the alcohol taking the wheel. Or even his default mode, unable to not follow orders.
Apparently his list is going to be endless by the end of this act of rebellion, the topic: Christopher moaning his name taking the first place faster than it made it to the hate list.
“Hng, Minho…” he infuriatingly moans, tucking his fingers on the waistband of Minho’s dress pants and pulling his hips to whack them together. “More, I need it more.”
Reason number two hundred sixty nine: Christopher begging for more.
Begging to keep being hated by Minho, to keep being mistreated by his hands squeezing his ribs and neck with such violence the entire department would be able to see his hate tattooed on his neck.
“If you don’t do something about it, you’re fired, Mr. Lee.” His tone is demanding, as always. Oh lord, Minho hates this tone so much he needs to show it by biting his jaw and pushing him harder against the wall. How dare he threaten to fire him?
“I. Hate. You.” He speaks through gritted teeth before taking two steps back, scoffing at the view of his boss not being able to breath properly. It serves him right.
“I wasn’t kidding.” Christopher speaks as he adjusts his slutty lace shirt, then fixes his hair and wears his overcoat while gazing at Minho like he wants to kick him over a cliff.
“Me neither, Mr. Bang.” He answers, using the back of his hand to clean his lips, the faint taste of whiskey and tobacco lingering on his tongue. Minho hates it so much.
Since he cares for his job, he fishes for his cellphone and calls an uber home. There he could show Christopher the weight of his words, how serious he was about hypothetically spitting on his face if he treated him like a muppet again — and all the previous threats Christopher refused to understand. And unfortunately, he just happened to do that, ordering him to kiss him. Who was he to do that when his work day had finished?
The ride is quiet, each of them looking out the window, staring as the street lights rolled before their eyes. However, Minho’s grudge is so intense he kept a hand on his thigh, clutching at the muscles to fish all the squirming possible. Gripping so tightly Minho wonders if it’ll leave marks behind so Christopher never forgets.
Managing to control his emotions, he walks silently beside Christopher, greets the doorman on the way in and crosses his arms inside the elevator, keeping it to himself. All the way to the fifteenth floor, his jaw remains locked, eyes shut to not falter and slam the blonde to the elevator mirror. The security cameras don’t need to see two grown men fighting out of the blue.
As he unlocks his door, stepping out of his shoes and hanging his suit jacket on the hanger beside the door, observing Christopher mirror his actions on the corner of his red clouded eyes. He goes to check on his cats, and breathes in relief when he sees them sleeping beautifully in their room, closing the door before going back to the living room where his self-centered boss stands looking around — his babies didn’t need to hear the war about to unfold.
“That’s quite a nice place, Mr. Lee.” He comments unaware of the way his subordinate walks toward him. Minho received an order, and he was respectful and obeyed his boss. He doesn’t want to get fired at the moment.
“Shut the fuck up, Bang.” he forgot the mister part of the sentence, but it wouldn’t hurt, would it?
“Why do I keep trying to be nice to you?” He spins on his heels and is quickly facing an angry Minho, a vein popping on his neck, hands in his pockets and gritted teeth. “Mr. Lee, I don’t want to repeat myself. You’ve been given an order.”
“You want more? I’ll give you more, sir.” Minho doesn't waste time, throwing him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing and walking to his bedroom. The sound of the air being punched out of his lungs as Minho drops him on the bed carelessly is like music to his ears. “I hate you so much, Christopher. I’m gonna make you shut your fucking mouth.”
“You’re just an obedient dog, Mr. Lee. All you can do is take orders.” He scoots upwards, Minho crawling right after him like a feline hunting.
The neural connections in his brains must have been burned throughout the years. He dares to call Minho a dog. An obedient dog. Maybe he is managing to make Minho really want to stab him. Just a little bit.
“Is that what you think?” Minho barks, reaching eye level, before continuing and sure to be understood and heard as he speaks lower, nearly rumbling. “You’re going to regret your words and apologize. Do you understand?”
“Make. Me.”
The last thread of sanity breaks as those words leave his lips, hand gripping his neck violently for the second time on the same day. Christopher gasps and rolls his eyes with a sly smile tilting the corners of his lips, in a way Minho recognizes as pure mockery, accompanied by a smug expression pushing his tongue to the inner side of his cheek that Minho knew too well.
“If you think I’m playing, you’re mistaken.” Minho lost his ability to control his mouth a long time ago. Red is all he sees.
“Who do you think you are, huh?” he slips his hand up to intensely grab Christopher’s face, forcing him to look him in the eyes. “Look at me when I’m talking.”
His boss hurries his hands to his belt, tugging at it fast to throw it anywhere on the floor with a loud thud, but he still wears that look, the one that steeped superiority, like he had the upper hand. Christopher even licks Minho’s necklace dangling over his face before grunting his words out with extreme formality, “Watch it, Mr. Lee. You’re talking to your boss, better control that tone of yours.”
One more reason: Christopher licking his necklace as fingers dug to his cheeks in a rather uncomfortable way.
Minho wants to hurt him beyond what’s physically possible. He needs to be sure his words are as bothersome as hot needles, sure to scratch the surface of his brain so he never forgets his place. Christopher might be his boss, he just isn’t this owner. Consequences exist, he’ll learn that one way or another.
“You’re just an attention seeking whore, that’s what you are. Wearing this slut ass shirt, wanting eyes on you.” Minho isn't caring about formalities now, all he cares about is showing his hate and teaching him a lesson. He needs to put him in his place, humiliate him, treat him like the dog he thinks Minho is. “Open up.”
Minho tightens his grip on Christopher’s jaw, forcing him to open his mouth. With that, he gathers the drool — the type you get when feeling sick — and spits it onto his tongue. “Swallow it.”
But Christopher doesn't budge.
“Right. Now.” Minho hisses, pressing his hand over his lips, waiting until he sees his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows. “Good job, slut.”
Thinking he won, Minho slipped his fingers off but that was a terrible mistake. The sound hit him first, then his own spit was sliding down his cheek. Once again, he was fooled.
“C’mon, Mr. Lee. That’s all you got? Calling me a slut and spitting in my mouth?”
Minho snaps.
One more reason to his list: the way his boss smirks after getting slapped hardly across his face.
“It’s just the beginning. Wait and see. You’re gonna cry and beg for forgiveness for that, old man.” He slaps again, grimacing at the groan. “Open up. If you don’t swallow it, you can say goodbye to your whore outfit.”
Minho gathers even more drool than before, sick to his stomach, watching it slowly fall to his mouth in a lewd way. Red darting in his vision as Christopher actually swallows this time. It makes Minho hum with his act of humiliating his boss.
He despises his boss so much that the blood within his body is pumping hard enough to rush south, his cock straining against the fabric of his brief, only because there was nowhere else to go. The realization of this is world shattering, it was so intense that even his body is starting to hate him, it wasn’t only in his mind anymore.
When he unbuttons his collar and drops to his neck he has only one goal: inflict pain.
With that in mind he bites where his neck meets his shoulder, strong enough to leave indents behind and a grunting complainer trying to get rid of it, fisting Minho’s shirt at such force the seam cracks. His dear Gucci shirt suffered the consequences that weren’t its to take. Despite the squirming and his now possibly ruined shirt, he doesn’t move, closing his jaw a bit more and sucking furiously.
He needs to have a visual reminder of when his own subordinate hurted him.
As soon as Minho feels his boss’s crotch rubbing his thigh, he burns even more with fury, he can’t possibly be enjoying that. The idea of Christopher remotely liking all the mistreatment Minho is giving him gives way to a burning sensation on the back of Minho’s tongue, puke threatening to come out. That’s what he thinks, at least.
He sinks his fingers on his hips and holds him in place to then leave his proof of wrath behind. Staring down at him, he sees how much his boss is drooling, paths of spit flowing at the corners of his mouth and his chin.
“Do it again.” Christopher demands, like he is used to when he isn’t pleased by Minho’s efforts, presenting the other side of his neck. “Now, Mr. Lee!”
Minho has a lot of motives not to disobey. Amongst them are the need not to get fired, his inability to go against an older’s will and his desire and determination to punish his boss for how he was feeling. It all just happened to fuel each one.
Sinking his teeth on the other side, Minho groans, unable to hide the satisfaction of inflicting pain at the most despicable person he’s ever met. He tongued the skin between his canines to savour the pain Christopher is feeling, the pulsing of his jugular hot on his taste buds, he even salivated more at the feeling.
All Minho manages to do for the following minutes is bite and suck at his neck and jaw — and even collarbone, when he unbuttoned more of his lace shirt until it showed so much skin he could not hold his attacks. Hands hurtfully gripping wherever they would land, pinching and sinking his nails, especially on his waist, Minho acts like a dog with the rabies. Each moan escaping Christopher’s mouth when he abuses his milky skin is like a bomb to the enemy’s field, Minho was advancing fast and gaining territory. The problem is: he counter attacked with heavy artillery and canon shooting.
Naughty fingers manage to open and unzip his dress pants without his noticing, pressing the heel of his palm over his length — one that is as equally disgusted as Minho, twitching away.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Minho abandons his skin and trails his eyes over Christopher catastrophic skin, all bitten and red, to himself where his needy fingers go all the way down and cup his balls, fiddling there for a second before grazing the wet slit staining the fabric, his other hand squeezing himself over his layers of clothes.
Unbelievable.
“I-it’s not enough…” he whispers in obvious desperation, eyes shut and mouth glistening. A pint of satisfaction crept over his skin, shivering down his spine. He stuttered.
“You really are just a whore, huh?” Christopher shakes his head side to side, opening his eyes to gaze at Minho, showing how serious he is.
“Fuck you, Mr. Lee.” Well, he did say he was going to make him cry right? Minho scoffs at his indulgence, more so because he apparently couldn’t drop the honorifics, even when Minho was talking down on him.
It made Minho yearn to be meaner. To treat him worse. Humiliate him as much more.
“You’ll take what I give. You’ll talk to me properly and obey, the same way you think I do.” Minho fists his hideous blonde hair and manhandles him out of the bed, forcing him to his knees. All Christopher is able to do is nod, eyes lost and body completely surrendered. “If, just if, you do as you’re told I’ll think about letting you cum since you apparently can’t stop touching yourself like the dirty slut you are.”
Minho notices the disheveled state of the man before him. Kneeling with his pretty shirt completely askew, the bleached locks pointing to various directions, the skin of his neck and collarbones as if he threw himself in a dog fight. Marks of teeth deep enough for him to see under the dim lightning.
“Don’t think I’m doing you a favor, I’m doing it because I hate you so fucking much all I can think is transforming you into a fucking toy.” Minho digs his fingers on his cheeks to keep his face steady when he finishes with a foul tone, face so close he hopes this time he’ll understand. “Just a fleshlight to be fucked, just for me to use and release all this hate you built inside of me. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes…” Christopher gulps, placing his hands on his back and straightening his back. It wasn’t enough.
“Yes, what?” Minho shakes his head brutally.
“Yes, sir.” he dares mockingly, tone nothing like Minho wants.
Minho slaps his face with the back of his hand, the other holding him steady tightly on his hideous hair. “I said to talk properly, bitch. Try again.”
“Y-yes, sir.” he repeats with a blissful whine. “Y-yes, Mr. Lee.”
“That’s better.” Minho gets rid of his annoying pants and underwear, sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg at each side of his kneeling boss. The droplets of sweat sliding on his neck make him remember his — possibly — ruined shirt, and he gets rid of it too, but takes his time to examine the seam on the shoulders, not finding anything because the lighting was too dim for his eyes. “If this is ripped, I’ll make you buy me a new one.”
He was being serious. And he wanted the exact same one.
As he turns his attention back toward Christopher, he sees a bead of spit threatening to spill on his opened mouth. From all the things on his list, he didn’t think that being ogled by a cock drunk boss getting humbled was worth adding, so he just let it float somewhere on his mind, he could think of it later.
Right now, he needs to proceed with his plan to make him apologize.
Fisting his stupid hair, he demands with a firm tone “Tongue out.”
And Christopher does as he is told.
Minho licks his own lips, completely drunk by whatever shit that’s happening, his mind fogged and only focusing on his task. Holding the base of his cock he taps the precum smeared head on his pink warm glistening muscle. Then does it to his cheek. He is humiliating his boss. Since he didn’t have the power to do it at work, he does it now.
However, Christopher has a smile on his face. He seems satisfied behind the half lidded eyes glued to Minho’s body.
“Who would’ve guessed that a big old man like you can smile at having a cock slapped on the face…” Minho tsks while using a bit more force to tap his rock hard girth to Christopher’s tongue and cheeks, precum lines stretching at each tap. “I’ll tell your superiors that you’re nothing but a cock addict slut…”
“N-no, Mr. Lee…” Christopher gasps, the smile truly making him look like a person high on drugs, brain turned to cotton. Minho strangely enjoys the view of his fucked out boss.
“Just a reminder, you’ll hold it until I say you can let go.” Christopher nods twice, so lost and thirsty he couldn’t answer for a second, but the tug on his scalp reminded him fast enough.
“Yes, sir.” He gulped with anticipation.
With that, Minho yanks him by the hair, burying himself as far as he can get, earning a gaging sound and a body wave, but he doesn't pull his head back. The clenching of his throat was so good he forgets it is supposed to be a punishment, that he shouldn’t be enjoying this, yet there he is, smiling at the vision before him, drooling at the sensation of his humiliated boss gaging on his cock. He never thought of it. Not even in his wildest dreams.
Time to time he would bob Christopher’s head on it, not even thrusting, only using his mouth as a fuck toy, to then go deep down his throat. He gagged on his length over and over again, everything was slippery and wet with so much spit and precum that on the fifth time he let out a gurgled sound, forming bubbles of spit where Minho buried himself to the base, his nose violently pressed on his trimmed pubes.
It all felt intense, so much so Minho didn’t pay attention to his boss. But, when he heard the gurgling, and for the first time felt a ghost brush of his fingertips on his thighs as if fighting himself on whether to push or not to push, Minho finally saw it. The mess he is. Face an incandescent shade of red, hair completely messed up, chin dripping a wet mixture of spit, precum and… tears.
“There it is… Good sluts cry on a cock. That’s it, you can cry more.” Minho holds longer than he had done so far, making Christopher start to thrash and rest his palms on his knees, trying to get rid of it. He can’t help it. His body is acting by its own will, wrapping a leg around his nape to hold him in place, his eyes shooting wide in despair, now fully thrashing and threatening to throw up. But he was locked in place. “Fuck, your throat feels good…”
That is the last thing he says before letting go, watching Christopher cough. Minho with a sick smile on his face.
Hooking him under his arms, Minho throws him back on the bed, not giving him time to recover from the deep throating he was subjected to — the rage gagging he was forced to.
Time is something precious, it mustn’t be wasted. Christopher’s words play in his head suddenly. It was from a time where he wasn’t able to finish a case strategy, stuck in a situation where he didn’t have a window for a good outcome to their client. All because three of the times he called Minho was to get him coffee, or book him a meeting that didn’t sound as important.
So waste time, he mustn’t.
Furious hands unbutton his shirt all the way and pull his pants and boxers in the speed of light. For the sole motivation of displaying his wrath, he goes straight to his right nipple, sucking the small brown stiff bud into his mouth angrily, almost like breast feeding, his pecs big enough to look like tits. He squeezed the other side under his fingers, enough force for it to fill the gaps between each, fingernails marking the malleable flesh.
The other hand snaked dangerously down, the goosebumps on his skin matching his own. He grips a trembling wide thigh, folding a leg up as far as it goes. Christopher is flexible enough to be almost folded in half, allowing Minho the perfect space to hump the slickness over his cock on the fluttering greedy hole.
Christopher sinks his nails on his back and nape. Apparently he has a thing for scruffing. To which Minho is way too busy on his attack to protect his field, whining at his nipple when a particular scratch burnt over a shoulder blade matches his tip getting trapped on his rim for a split second. It’s all too flooded with anger and disgust, Minho doesn’t even want to prepare him, if possible, he could sink right in and fuck him dumb until he starts apologizing.
“Oh god… nhng— Minho, I’m— fuck…”
It shouldn’t be possible to orgasm just from this, should it? Well, apparently yes. The ropes of translucent white hit Minho’s torso all the way up to his chin, where he keeps buried on his tit-like pecs, because it caught him by surprise.
“I didn’t say you could cum, slut,” Minho grunts out breathlessly, pushing himself up by his fists on the blanket. “You came by getting your tit sucked? Or by having a cock humping your hole?”
Christopher seems out of himself. Breathing hardly, hands falling to the bed and body slumping in his post climax state. Minho doesn’t care.
The sound of a hard slap on his bruising right pec startles him to open his eyes directly at Minho.
“Are you with me?” Minho inhales deeply, controlling himself after the impulsive revenge slap, checking on him in the auto pilot.
“I.. am… Yes, sir.” He stutters out, face flushed and stupid hair completely askew. He was still crying, the faint salt lines and drying spit adorned his face and Minho couldn’t help but lick one stray tear, humming as the taste clings to his tongue.
“Good, good. Now answer the question.” Minho says softly, completely different from how harsh he’s been treating him the last minutes, slicking his hand with his cum, getting it all on his palm as his boss answers weakly.
“I-I don’t know, sir.” He looks down on himself, following Minho’s movements. It looks like he is cleaning the mess he made.
“What should I do with you? Can’t even breathe correctly and didn’t even apologise yet.” Minho does the unthinkable and most disgusting thing ever. Smudging all his mess over his face, creating a soiled mixture of spit and tears and cum, ruining him carelessly.
Then, Minho proceeds to lick the remains off of his hand, cock throbbing at the vision underneath him. He only licks it clean because he needs to taste his victory, that’s all — definitely not because he wanted to know if his taste buds would react the same way they reacted to his tongue and skin. But it did. He has to swallow down the salty cum with the insistent drool pooling in his mouth, he only doesn’t understand why he hadn’t thrown up yet, if his body was so disgusted by it.
“I can… keep going…” Christopher adds, staring at him with wide pupils behind cum smeared eyelashes, emphasizing his statement by holding Minho’s hips and forcing down on him. “Please…”
“I don’t think you can, Mr. Bang.” He suddenly goes back to his honorifics, so suddenly he doesn’t believe himself as soon as the words get out.
But he is even more surprised when his boss grabs his face forcing him to look straight into his eyes, “Fuck me. I want it now. I need it now, Mr. Lee.”
Minho furrows at his tone, that type of tone. He was being dead serious, stealing Minho’s turn to speak as he wraps his legs around his hips and rolls against Minho with devilish intent. He continues in a needy but demanding voice, broken by the recent orgasm.
“Do whatever you want to me. I just need you inside. Slap me more, I can take it. Bite me, call me a slut, fuck me raw, I don’t care! I just need you to fuck me stupid!” He rages out despite his poor state. Minho can only stare at him in shock, even more so by the way his next requests are twisted.
“Please, please, please… I’m sorry for cumming without your permission, sir. I’m a bad slut. Please, fuck me… Fuck me. Fuck me, please… Fuck. Me. Now, Mr. Lee!”
Christopher alternates between begging and demanding, whining and barking, like he is going crazy for Minho to stuff him, like the devil inside him was confused on whether make Minho fuck the hell out of him or beg sweetly until he resorted to treat him as his personal fuck doll.
Fucking Christ, he’s whiny. Yet, his bossy side never vanishes.
It didn’t matter. Whether it is from begging or ordering, Minho can’t quite piece the feelings bubbling inside of him when he messily kisses his boss again, forcing himself on his rim. Screw preparation, Minho isn’t thinking properly after all that.
“Ah… a-ah… fuck, yes… just like that, sir… Thank you, thank you, thank you…” he moans loudly and gutturally between his words, pulling Minho down so he can wrap his arms around his shoulders, intertwining their bodies as Minho keeps pushing in slowly until the weeping head breaches in.
Moaning on the crook of Christopher’s neck, his hands embrace the pliant body beneath, hands desperately holding at his shoulders blades.
“Chris— fuck… You’re so tight.”
He doesn’t believe in himself. Moaning his boss’s name and pushing in his tight hole, today definitely wasn’t on his plans. Minho even startled at himself moaning again, feeling pleasure build up instead of more hate, the truth downing on him that maybe all this time he wasn’t drooling in disgust but because he was a starved man.
Minho waits just a moment before starting to thrust shallowly, thankful for how slippery it still is, listening to Chris’s waves of thank you’s and breathy ah’s each time he thrusts harder. The way he searches for Minho’s hand and places it over his neck made him groan louder, giving in and pressing just right to cut his blood flow, sparing him slaps on his pecs and face when his pace picked up.
Fine, he does hate his boss. That wasn’t much of a reason to kiss him, also not to take him home, nor make everything that lead to him fucking his boss violently, punching moans out of them both. But he’s only human. Minho shivers hard when he finally finds his sweet spot and Chris clenches hard around him, nearly blinding pleasure shooting along his body. So, he aims for that delicious button inside him over and over until he starts feeling his own orgasm peeking around the corner.
“Sir, I’m gonna cum— nhng…” Chris warns faster than expected when he had just orgasmed.
“Yeah? This dirty slut wants to come again?” Minho keeps pounding at his prostate as he watches him nod fiercely. Slaps his face. Twice. Spit on it. Pinches his nipple, and then speaks again. “Hold it.”
“No, sir! Please! I’ve been good! It’s too good to hold it back— fuck…” the pleasure so high he is crying harder, hiccuping between ragged words and getting whinier as Minho rolls his hips.
Minho is sure to bury himself to the base — to prevent himself from cumming too early — and licks a heavy tear rolling down his cheek.
No.
No, no, no…
This is bad.
Bad, bad.
Why does he feel good? Why does it feel like there’s something blooming in his chest?
The thoughts in Minho’s mind run so fast he doesn’t have time to start debating them. He is so confused. Minho questions himself in fractions of seconds about what has happened since he saw his despicable boss to make him feel this way.
It’s something beyond pleasure. But Minho doesn’t have the time right now. So he acts.
“You’re so pretty when you cry. A pretty slut,”
Slap.
“With a dick buried deep”
Slap. Slap.
“Begging to cum.”
A kiss.
Gentle and soft and soothing kiss.
Chris rolls his eyes to the very back of his skull when Minho eases the pressure on his neck to instead cup his face and kiss him the most precious kiss he had ever had in this thirty-eight years of life. Minho is incredulous at himself.
Reason number ???? to absolutely hate Bang Christopher Chan: the way he makes Minho soften and whimper at his beautiful hypnotizing lips. Especially if he manages to make Minho realize the things Minho had happening inside him were all twisted by his stubborn mind, blinding from truths he didn’t realize before, but seeing it now — in a rather strange and uncommon way. He knows he said he was going to make Chris apologize, he at least managed to make him cry — in a good way, now he hopes. However…
“I’m sorry, hyung…”
Minho is the one to say he was sorry.
Perhaps, this entire situation messed him up. He read on the news once that it was normal to cry just before, during, or after orgasming. Something about hormones. So, for it being normal, he doesn’t hide his face when he resumes his pounding, seeking his climax and pleasing the messy man looking at him with doe eyes.
Only managing to thrust irregularly, he gazes at Christopher with watery eyes, awkward tears streaming down his cheeks. He shouldn’t feel like this… Should feel like there are butterflies flapping their stupid little wings in his stomach.
“Fuck, Minho… Don’t do this to me” Chris pulls him back to his lips, kissing softly. He just pulls apart to add in a breathy whisper, eyes locked to Minho’s “Please, cum inside me, sir. Give it to me, I won’t spill a drop.”
That is teasing.
But it’s not like Minho doesn’t know. He even smiles at it.
“Nhng, shit, hyung… Don’t clench it too hard” then Minho sees his eyes fluttering shut, mouth slack and body twitches. He is cumming a second time, violently shaking his body as the translucent stripes of white splurts between them, and the blurry view does it for Minho.
The climax hits him at such a strong wave he bends down to rest his forehead on Christopher’s bruised and sore collarbone, panting with his eyes closed. It feels so good he needs to swallow more than once, clench his hands on the sheets to prevent him from slumping right away and concentrate not to make his situation even worse, stars shooting blindingly under his eyelids.
Minho fucking sobs. And he wants to punch himself for doing so.
“Yes, just like that… Shh, it’s okay…” Chris soothes him, stroking his fingers through his hair, completely opposite from the way he milks Minho dry with an insane body control. “You did great, my Minho.”
Chris’s fingers on his hair, his lips on his temple, nose, eyes, and his light words are the last things he is able to register before finally slumping over his warm comforting body and blacking out.
Minho would have to have a word with his boss.
After he wakes up.
⭑⭑⭑
The sound of his sheets being ruffled tears him away from his sweet dreams. Sunlight illuminates his bedroom so bright he has to blink one too many times.
Scenes of the previous night flash on his mind, and he curses at himself with the realization that it’s morning already. His vision is blurry as he whispers a scared: “Chris?”
He extends his arm on the bed only to find a cold empty spot beside him, and he doesn’t know why exactly his heart pangs. Minho can’t help but sigh as his eyes finally adjust to the light and all he can see is Soonie — his sweet cuddly ball of fur — pushing its head to his knee, asking politely for petting. And Minho has a soft heart for his babies, he couldn’t deny that.
Sitting up he feels his back hurting, muscles faltering with all the effort they were subjected to the day before. Looking around, he sinks his fingertips on Soonie’s fur, scrunching his brows deep, finding no mess. At all. Clothes folded at the very end of his bed, bedsheets are a different set he remembered having, the faint scent of bodywash, even his desk seems neatly organized, but what really catches his attention is the fact that Soonie is now on his bed. He did close their door, that he remembers.
Forcefully, he slips out of the bed, taking notes on the sweatpants he didn’t have memories of putting on and the need to have an aspirin.
“Mr. Bang?” He calls out at the doorway. No answer.
Even after searching his apartment, there were no signs of him, almost like he hallucinated everything. But his body didn’t lie, and it did hurt a little.
That only means one thing: his boss was gone.
Minho went back to his bedroom, defeated, even mad at him for leaving without a word. He was planning on lecturing him, explaining the reason why he apologized in such bad timing but he was nowhere to be found. And that definitely made its way to the first place on his personal list — one that had already been replaced the night before and was being replaced by an even worse reason: not saying goodbye.
It’s not that he wanted an explanation or anything, he himself didn’t know how to even talk to his boss after that. Imagine trying to explain something he hasn't processed fully yet — how would he look at him on Monday? Perhaps, he waited for a sign. A message even. His boss had his number and used it thoroughly to annoy the shit out of him.
So… why did Minho check his phone every nervous minute, startled at every notification, to only submerge into a panged tug in his chest. Contemplated hitting him first, maybe something absentminded and playful like “hey you left after that Mr. Bang, I’m sorry for ruining your life haha”, but it didn’t sound right.
On Saturday evening he added something more: getting blocked by Christopher after having sex with him.
It wasn’t because he kept checking his phone, it just happened! His thumb slipped and he just happened to see that his boss had blocked him. Just like that.
That wasn’t nice of him! And he even said something about trying to be nice to Minho. Fine, yeah, that was totally reasonable for a late thirties adult! Completely fine, Minho wasn’t punching his pillow full of rage because of that. It definitely was because he kept remembering how he hated him, how he had this rooted hatred feeling against him for doing as he pleased and never thinking about others.
What if I went too far?
By Sunday afternoon, one more reason was carved in his mind.
Reason three hundred and one: how even hating Bang Christopher Chan the same way he despised rude people, he couldn’t stop thinking about him, not in a hateful way — actually picturing what it could have happened if he stayed. Wandering about it as he stuffed himself with mint chocolate ice cream and bad romcoms.
Would it all be fine? If Minho told him that maybe, if Christopher ordered him to give him a shoulder massage he wouldn't picture himself stabbing his neck anymore, would he laugh it off? If Christopher had stayed, maybe Minho could’ve cooked them both breakfast, right? Like a silly — and rather late — aftercare.
God… All that happened and nothing was agreed, discussed… That is a hell of a good reason to run away and never want to look at Minho’s face. Do even worse if he wants.
But… He did say what he wanted during it all. Minho did just as he asked. It doesn’t matter how much he thinks of it — over and over and over, like a broken record, — because Minho really feels bad about it all.
When Minho considered sending him a message — for the seventh time in a roll — he had to throw his phone across the room, refusing to be the first. He did want to apologize, he just happens to be a stubborn idiot. Minho had a lot of things to sort with himself before doing so, before looking at him on Monday. For example: why does it hurt so much that he hasn’t called or texted? Minho isn't supposed to feel this way, he couldn’t stand his egocentric boss, right?
What changed?
By Monday morning he had the reason three hundred and seven: not going to work when — against all odds — everything Minho could expect was to see his fancy suit and faint wrinkles, hear his bossy voice talking to him, and even his bleached stupid hair. Perhaps the remains of Friday would still be on his skin.
Minho felt like throwing up when he, the secretary of said person, was the only one not aware of the reason he wasn’t in the office.
Not until Wednesday.
“You heard that some fancy high fashion brand called Mr. Bang?” Jeongin commented during lunch. Minho had been so caught up in his mind he even gave up scolding him, only dismissing him with a waving hand saying the disastrous set up date just didn’t work.
“How do you even know that?” Minho asked with an arched brow, finishing his cold noodles.
“How don’t you know such a thing?” It was Seungmin’s turn to get on his nerves.
“You know I hate him enough not to care,” he replied simply and shrugged. “But really, how?”
He couldn’t help it.
“And you say you don’t care…” Seungmin squinted his eyes at him, to which Minho flipped him and looked at Jeongin, waiting for him to be the reasonable one.
“You really don’t know, hyung?” Jeongin insisted.
“I really don’t know! What’s wrong with you two?” Minho complained, shoving his chopsticks on the table, the clattering startling his younger workmates. Nobody ever knew how he actually felt, all because he really got used to faking and slipped easily to the mask he built for his job. So, why did he react that way so easily? “Sorry…”
“That’s fine, hyung. We noticed that you’re different lately…” Jeongin squeezed his forearm reassuringly. He was being that obvious? “What is going on? You know we’re here if you need, right?”
Minho could spare some half truths, right? Unwind a bit without saying anything compromising. “It’s just that stupid date. He didn’t shut his mouth for a second. I’m still stressed.”
“Not enough reason for” Seungmin pointed to the entirety of his body, “all that.”
“Yah, hyung, not everyone is like you!” Jeongin complained. “Some people like talking.”
“Jeongin-ah, he vanished the next morning. Didn’t text, didn’t call and even blocked me. And I was the idiot checking my phone all weekend. It seems enough reason to get, at least, a little bit upset.” he bursted out, smacking his forehead to the table at the end, swallowing any further emotions.
“Minho, you shouldn’t hurt yourself over that”, Seungmin tapped the back of his head, to clarify his words.
“Wait… it doesn’t make sense, hyung… He told me he left early.” Minho could hear the questioning and confusion in his voice.
He shouldn’t have opened his mouth. That’s the problem with sharing, people have their way in and discover things that sometimes you don’t want them to know.
“Not him! I… met another person when he left”, he tried to sound as if he had his shit together, like he wasn’t caught lying.
“Oh… If he didn’t text you, why didn’t you text him?”
“Are you deaf? He blocked me,” Minho deadpanned Jeongin, counting the seconds to vanish back to his desk and pretend he had something to do. Since Christopher wasn’t around to assign him task after task, he managed to do everything by Tuesday afternoon, now he just helped whoever needed and updated the client’s list by the hour, checking the cases and folding paper planes.
“Missed that detail, my bad.” Jeongin smiled weakly.
“Ugh, I need a cigarette.” Minho declared standing up hastily, not able to continue with that and was glad that neither of them said anything.
Minho sighed as he observed the smoke dancing between his fingers, puffed clouds reminding him of Christopher blowing smoke on his face. He accepted the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about his irritatingly handsome boss because he would much rather be ordered around to not having him around, not able to hear his voice when he was concentrating and didn’t calculate his words as he spoke harshly to his subordinate. Chris wasn’t too hard to read, all he ever got was an act of trying to stand his ground and prove his position. To whom? Pretty much anyone. It was automatic by his age, used to doing it for so long he lost control over it.
Third cigarette.
That’s how bad it hurts.
Bleached hair kept flashing on his eyelids every time he blinked, not from anxiety or anger anymore. He missed it. Would it have grown black roots when he saw him again? How would it feel to his fingers? Minho didn’t spare a second to feel it when he grabbed it in a fist. It was probably stiff with the hair gel, and maybe soft without it.
Sharing a cigarette… Minho wondered. Would he do it? After all, they shared a bed. But that was something about puffing from the same cigarette that Minho wanted to discover, the intimacy of it.
Minho wouldn’t mind…
When is he coming back?
⭑⭑⭑
New reason to hate Bang Christopher Chan: being left on read.
Minho took a chance and sent him an unharming message.
me:
Good morning boss.
Mrs. Choi passed by the office earlier and
gave me the files she was supposed to
deliver to you.
Left them on your desk.
10:25 a.m
How are you?
8:55 p.m
It’s currently 9 a.m.
Friday.
One week had passed.
No call. No text. Nothing.
Minho felt relieved when realizing he wasn’t actually blocked, he just deleted his profile picture. But it all got worse when he did read his message and opted to not reply.
Thoughts of everything played over and over in his mind, to the point of giving him a headache and disturbing each cell of his body. The idea of ruining everything last Friday hunting him. Minho was professional, he knew better than to sleep with his boss, so it only bothered him more and more because he had acted on impulse.
Deciding to not let it interfere with his job, he kept doing what he could, one hundred percent convinced to pretend nothing happened when he came back.
If Christopher could do it, so could he.
That’s why he doesn’t flinch in the direction of his office when someone at a desk closer to his office greets him loud enough to make Minho’s ear twitch. Maybe he finally remembered he has a job he needs to show up to. Did he slick his hair with gel? Was his skin still marked? Or did he cover it all? Did he think about Minho? He doesn’t budge though.
But he grows impatient by the second, when the clock ticks, ticks, ticks… And not once he is requested. Each second is more agonizing than the previous.
At lunch he isn’t hungry and remains at his desk, staring at the screen of his computer but not seeing anything, the blur intense as he chews at a pen. One persistent question on his mind: why hasn’t he called him?
At 4:29 p.m he jumps on his chair when Jeongin sits on his desk, startling him off of his endless overthinking. He is halfway through considering quitting his job to spare him and Christopher of the embarrassment.
The younger one tucks a strand of hair behind his ear — an act of endearment that Minho got used to — and utters with a roll of his eyes “Old man is calling you, hyung.”
A lot of people dislike Christopher.
Jeongin, Seungmin, the interns. Even the cleaning lady…
Minho just happens to be in the middle.
Even though he made an inner pact not to flinch in a certain direction, he nearly stumbles on his own strides. Completely driven by the need to see him, pulsing on his skin and core, he punches himself internally at how desperate he might look. Deep inhaling as he reaches for the knob and steps inside.
“Mr. Lee, please take a seat,” his boss motions to the brown armchair in front of his desk.
A spark of infuriating annoyance glints inside him at the simplicity he speaks, a normal day to him meanwhile Minho isn’t far from choking at his perfume flooding his senses, cedar and vanilla, as he recalled. The view of black grown roots and bleached hair — apparently without a drop of hair gel — striking the air out of his lungs, he looks even better with the bangs down, hair brushing the collar of his black turtleneck.
The leather of the armchair cracks with his weight, eyes glued to his boss, unable to gaze away in view of the fact that his cheeks display a soft shade of pink, his eyelashes batting at Minho as he leans forward to support his face on his palm, elbow on the dark wood of his desk.
Minho’s heart skips a beat when Christopher stares back, analyzing his eyes, lips, the fingers pushing his cuticles on his lap.
It feels like an eternity.
As seconds mash with minutes, those becoming hours and freezing time as all he can do is chew his lip and pick on his nails, he stares at a beautiful person before his eyes. The person that had yet to make Minho decide, whether he was likable or if Minho just fooled himself and he was indeed a despicable human, the devil in disguise.
“Mr. Bang,” Minho bows, replying to him later than he was supposed to.
“I saw that you managed to do everything,” he starts, sniffing, tired eyes. He resembles indifference, superiority, and the fact makes Minho pang hard. That is the sixth reason on his list. “great job.”
For the first time since Minho became his secretary, months since he created his list, he was praised. Yet, he doesn’t feel good about it.
Brows scrunching deep, confusion pulling his features, he questions “That’s all you’ve got to say?” To then add a low “Sir.”
“No. I’ll be assigning you new tasks before the day ends, and I want them done by Monday.” Christopher grabs some files with his free hand, checking the names on the covers before sliding a small pile of eight in front of him.
Minho nods twice, throat threatening to close as he asks again, unable to control it. “Is that all, Mr. Bang?”
“Do you have something to say, Mr. Lee?” unwavering tone, face stilled.
I DO! Of course I do, you smug fucker! Why is it so easy for you? You think you have the world in your hands, you do as you wish and never get punished… I hate you SO MUCH! So much, I can’t feel it anymore… It’s just… Why?
The thoughts in Minho’s head are as chaotic as a thunderous storm, one can even compare it to a furious hurricane. But he doesn’t say any of the things that are tying heavy ropes around his neck. He swallows it all down, and answers the best and professional way he can manage.
“Hm… no, sir. I’ll get to it, excuse me” Minho stands up as shame and anger crack behind his eyes.
This can’t be happening.
He has to say something.
Maybe bark at him, call him a prick and shove the files at his face, he doesn’t deserve whatever spark of good feelings that bloomed small at his chest, not even the butterflies that could eventually be gifted a garden. Christopher liked the war. The hate. The sex.
And that was that.
Christopher is more superficial than he’d thought. His neural connections long burnt, turning him incapable of critical thinking, nothing should be expected from a man old enough to start thinking about retiring, a man that drinks straight whiskey and dresses promiscuously on purpose. He’s not one to be trusted.
“Actually, sir… I would like to have a word with you.” Minho announces in the middle of the room, turning on his heels and returning all the way to his desk, not sitting to look at him from above and have the higher ground. He managed to talk with a steady voice, that was a good start. But it didn’t stay that way.
“W-where were you?” He stuttered. Fucking stuttered in front of his boss. “Sir.”
“I had business to solve.” He grabs some papers and starts reading and organizing them, deeming Minho insignificant enough, unworthy of his time.
Minho constricts the files against his chest, silently expecting for a better explanation. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about…”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Lee.” He shrugs and crosses his arms over the desk, the bracelet and rings clattering on the wood as he spares a bothered glance towards Minho. “Time is not to be wasted, I’ve got work to do.”
Indifference. That’s all Minho can read there.
Christopher doesn’t give two fucks about what Minho thinks or hand to say.
But he insists. Only because he can’t help the pang in his chest.
“Chris…” fuck, he’s breaking. “Mr. Bang, please just tell me what—“
The phone on his desk rings, too loud for the tuned ear Minho has at the moment, trying to catch anything from him, was it seen or heard, he just wants a clearer confirmation. He could resort to hating him and continuing his list, he was used to it. Nothing new under the sun. However..
“Bang Christopher speaking,” he answers the phone, pointer finger stretched between them to shut Minho as he keeps on the line. “Mhm… Where is he? Mhm… Do I have to sign anything? Fine. Perfect.”
Incredulity lodges itself amongst his ribs as he follows Chris with his wide eyes as he stands up to walk toward him. No, not in his direction, past him, just his perfume kissing his skin. He opens the door and greets someone, signs some papers and makes Minho freeze completely astonished by what he brings inside to prop on his desk.
Christopher leans his hip on the desk and resumes his nonchalant demeanor.
“Please, continue, Mr. Lee.” He motions with an idle nod.
All the colors now arranged beside his monitor rob all words Minho might have to burst out. The pure opaque white of the tulips contrasted with the deep purple of carnations, the green leaves serving as a background to such a beautiful — and stupidly big — bouquet. Maybe Minho was playing with fire. Maybe all this time he had someone and he happened to sleep with a taken man.
His mouth goes dry at the thought. He needs to get out of there and start his resignation letter.
“Nothing. I’ll get going and start with these.” Minho manages to mumble. He doesn’t waste time to bow and walk for the door.
“Mr. Lee, I must say, I hate liars.” Christopher’s voice makes him stop on his tracks.
With his back turned to his boss, avoiding to look at him and let him see the hurtful effort he is making not to twitch an eye, he just listens as he continues after not getting any reply.
“Which means that I hate you as much as you hate me.” The sound of cardboard sliding over a surface is all he deciphers. His statement summons a lighting bolt to run down Minho’s spine. I hate you too, he wants to shout back. “I find it intolerable how you look at me. How easily you lie.”
So now I’m a liar?!
“Do you have any idea of how hard it was to get to you? My superiors thought I was picking on you. But I have this thing inside of me… I couldn’t stand all the fake smiles you paraded around.”
What is he talking about now?
His voice gets closer by the seconds, each word sounding more insane than the other, his steps dragging on the floor until he whispers in the crook of Minho’s ear, breath fanning over his neck. “You made me hate you so much I couldn’t stop thinking of you.”
Minho’s heart clenches at his words. He feels the same way for his own reasons. He actually has a list of them.
He risks a glance at his boss, only to be spun to face him by hands on his waist. Forced to look at his big cocky eyes that Minho swore he hated to the point of wanting to poke them. That seems a long time ago.
“I learned you. All the ways you hid behind politeness, especially when you stuffed your hands in your pockets not to jump at my throat. I just couldn’t understand why I enjoyed it. Getting on your nerves, I mean. I even started to call you over and over just to look at you, Minho. Like an insane man.”
Christopher has to be joking with him, toying with the situation as he pleases, saying things Minho finds hard to process.
“That day at the pub? It felt like the perfect opportunity.” His right hand rubs his waist in a way that pulls a furrow to Minho’s brow. “To make you drop this act you put on. But I wasn’t expecting for it to work like it did. You let it slip, all that hypothetical shit, intending to put me in my place… God, right there I knew I was doomed.”
His words are deafening, confusing, nonsensical. Minho locks his jaw as the words roll out of his lips, anger building up with his taunting. That blooming he felt before starting to fuss, and he wants for his words not to be fake. Minho wants to believe them. Lord, he wants to believe them so hard.
But actions speak louder than words. Why were his so conflicting? The contrast makes him bitter.
“You ran away.” Minho doesn’t hold back, and immediately bites his lips to a thin line.
“Maybe.” he shrugs, stepping closer to press the files on his arms between them.
Minho alternates between his eyes, trying to read the truth behind them, despite his want to not find a bad answer. “Why?”
“I was scared that you would wake up and regret it. I can deal with your lies, but not with you actually hating me.” Christopher strokes a thumb across his left cheek, inhaling deep.
“Stop lying…” Minho bites his bottom lip again, tasting copper with the strength he uses. He must be dreaming. There’s no other explanation.
When he doesn’t say anything else, Christopher breaks the momentary silence, tilting his head to the desk. “Those are yours, by the way.”
“I hate you.” Minho completely ignores his sentence, whispering in a rather different tone he's used to, not knowing what to say.
“I know.” He fondly kisses right under his eye.
Minho leans to the warm touch of his hands, but hisses with gritted teeth. “You didn’t call.”
“No, I didn’t…” he kisses his forehead, not answering the unspoken questions Minho shouts through his staring.
“You didn’t say goodbye.” Minho complains with his eyes scanning Chris’s features. The sharp nose, the rosy cheeks and lips, the way he gazes at him…
“I couldn’t.” A kiss to his temple.
He sighs. “You ignored me.”
Christopher places a gentle kiss on his chin instead of repeating. Minho hates himself for the inability to shout at him and get proper answers. It’s just that… It feels so warm…
“I missed you…” he kisses back, melting to the sensation of his soft, puffy and delicious lips, leaving his worries for future Minho to deal with. Right now? He is reading pretty things directly from the eyes of the man who refuses to leave his mind.
“I know.” He wears that smug face, making Minho roll his eyes and reply with a smile.
“I hate you, Chris”
“No, you don’t.”
⭑⭑⭑
Reason number two to not hate Bang Christopher Chan: the way he smiles to Minho’s lips when he kisses him thoroughly.
Third reason: the stupid dimples he has when Minho is the reason for his laughs and smiles. Especially when they swear to hate one another.
Eighth reason not to hate his conceited handsome boss: the way he makes Minho whimper on his lips when his tongue laps over Minho’s, scorching hot. Whispering praises to his ear, calling him precious and beautiful.
Reason number fifteen: how he always knows what to say and what to do to make Minho melt like ice cream on a summer day. Hugging him from behind when he’s cooking them both dinner, humming melodies and repeating over and over how much he missed him even though they work together. Saying he likes him so much it hurts.
Sixteenth reason: the playful way he pinches Minho every time he calls him ‘Chan-ah’. It only happens when Minho is teasing him, but his way of reacting does something to Minho that it just feels right. A reason worth adding.
Reason eighteen to not hate like Bang Christopher Chan: the bribery he pulls when he apologizes. Showering his dear cougar eyed Minho with opaque white tulips and deep purple carnations, kissing his face until he’s a giggling mess. Completely disarmed.
Twenty-fifth reason to like his fake blonde boss: the goosebumps he causes on his skin as he brushes his fingertips along Minho’s neck when they’re talking about the future, with Soonie, Doongie and Dori cuddling on their laps. Picturing themselves on a trip to Paris and Greece.
Reason number thirty-first: how he managed to make Minho like being scruffed. Hugged. Kissed. Touched. Even being called a liar when insisting on denying his own thoughts and desires, his default mode taking the lead to then be readjusted by Christopher’s lips.
Thirty-third: the moans Minho would never get tired of. The skin marked by his teeth and hands, screaming to the world that Christopher belonged to Minho as much as he belonged to him. A masterpiece of reds, purples and fading green adorning his smooth skin like a canvas worthy of the Louvre.
Above everything lies reason number one to not hate like love his smug cocky old man: the tears he made roll down his face in the middle of a crowded Italian restaurant when he asked:
“Will you hate me forever, my Minho?”