HONEYMOON

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The morning sun with its red glow peeks slowly from behind the endless darkness of sea waves and you marvel over the feeling of the yacht lazily rocking your body back and forth.

It’s contently quiet, the water splashing softly its lullaby.

Nothing but silence, you and the sea.

And grunting Minho.

Resting o your elbows you watch him crawling from the cabin. He mumbles incoherently under his nose, his hand rubbing the side of his head and making his already tangled bed hair even more messy.
You can’t help but smile lazily at the view. Your eyes travel slowly from his adorable, still sleepy face with puffed eyes and pouting lips to his almost body, only black boxers hanging lowly on his prominent hip bones and the thought, that you like that view much better than a sun rising over the sea, crosses your mind.

He yawns and you greet him with a soft “hi there, handsome,” to which the tips of his ears stain pink. Shuffling to your side he lays down on the deck, slipping his head on your thigh.

"I got a bump," he points the reddening on his forehead, sticking out his bottom lip. You’re much tempered to about his childishness but his vulnerable, soft eyes, that caught your heart the first time you meet make you plant small kisses around the bruise.

"Clumsy," you mutter with your hands slipping through his dark locks, your final kiss tingling on his lips.

He smiles and closes his eyes and when you think he might be asleep once again, his deep tone reaches your ears.

"What do you want to do today?" he asks and then grunts disapprovingly wiggling in your lap, when your hand stopped brushing his hair.

You chuckle at that, “maybe stopping for a dinner? Always wanted to try this Greek goodies.”

"That’s a nice idea, we should be pretty near the shore," he turns to his side, facing you and lets his lips brush the skin of your thigh, "but we still have a whole day to waste till then," he rises one eyebrow with fingers playing a melody along your side to which you jump, gasping.

"Stop it Minho," you inch further from him, letting his head slip from your legs, "you know I ‘m ticklish."

He smirks and before you even realize he’s already towering above you, pinning your wrists above your head with his one hand.

"Sure I know" is the last thing you hear before his free hand begins to torture your body.

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