Work Text:
On Tuesday they’re at this new bakery that opened and he’s eating a goat cheese sandwich and sees god.
It’s so good. It’s so good. He thinks he‘ll cry for a moment, just a little. It has these soft, smashed peaches and pickled walnuts and this dark arugula and the goat cheese is soft and spread all over and then the ciabatta is caramelized on the bottom and it’s so good it feels wrong. He hasn’t had bread in a while. Maybe it’s that. He eats as slowly as ever, this has to last.
He also completely forgets he’s here with someone. Didn’t hear a word Minho's said since he bit into the sandwich to end all sandwiches and he only notices when there’s a pause in his chatter, hanging so heavy in the air between them Kibum actually looks up from his plate.
Ah, he needs to answer.
“Congratulations,” he says. Seems to be as good a guess as any, except Minho‘s looking completely incredulous, so.
“I mean, sorry that happened,” he course-corrects.
Minho’s eyes almost bulge out of his head. It’s kind of hilarious.
“Listen,” Kibum says, reasonably. “If you wanted my attention you shouldn’t have brought me here and fed me the city’s best sandwich, right? Extreme tactical error.”
“Yah,” Minho says, incredulous still.
“I feel blameless.”
“Of course you do.”
And Kibum looks back down, except now he can’t concentrate anymore because he knows Minho is sulking and wants something. Ugh. He’s just now noticing the vinaigrette - maybe the peaches were soaked in it?
“Could you repeat that?”
It’s love. Right there. Kibum‘s big enough to admit that to himself. There is absolutely zero other reason he’d give anyone the time of day right now. It’s so, so annoying. He hopes Minho knows what this costs him, but if the smug expression is anything to go by the bastard totally does.
It’s not even anything important. Some story about work, Minho just wanted his attention. On principle, or something. It’s so typical.
Minho buys him an almond croissant on the way out that he doesn’t devour in the car because he’s not an animal, thank you very much. He has self-control.
He thinks about it though.
Minho still looks smug, like he’s won something. It’s honestly so annoying.
Whatever. The croissant’s still perfect, later. It’s too much, really. Heavenly. He has to convert. To something.
He’ll ask Taeminnie about it.
——
“So,” Minho says.
There’s this look on his face meaning whatever he’s about to say, Kibum won’t like it and the fucker knows it and is about to have the time of his life. It’s so obvious. He’s an idiot with zero poker face. And Kibum’s taste is so shit. He stopped trying to lie to himself about finding it attractive a good while ago, but he can still acknowledge how embarrassing that is. Ugh.
“So about that massage chair,” because this is Kibum’s life and he knew the second he said it it would come to bite him in the ass later.
Doesn’t matter, apparently, that they’re on the way back from the grocery store, that it’s been days since they filmed I Live Alone so Minho could’ve brought it up already and not let Kibum carefully settle into this false sense of security.
“So, marriage huh?”
There’s ice cream melting in the trunk, for fuck’s sake.
“Yah,” Kibum says. He has to get this right. Can’t show he’s flustered. “You want to go over everything we said while shooting now, or what?”
“Nope.”
Kibum gives him side-eye.
"Just this.” His smile is so big and smug and Kibum rolls his eyes so hard he gets dizzy.
“Yah, this is so annoying, oh my god. It was funny, alright? You know, the thing we get paid to be?”
“Uhu,” Minho says. “So you already have an outfit in mind for when I marry you?”
And that is just playing dirty. So, so dirty, because of course a billion possibilities pop up in Kibum’s head, completely against his will, because he can’t just not. He’s never styled a wedding. Let alone his own wedding. He’d look so gorgeous. Movie-worthy. Old Hollywood, bridesmaids and all that. Or groomsmen, he guesses. No, he’d definitely want bridesmaids and it would look better anyway, not only men standing up there, because the men will all be wearing dark suits, tailored, bespoke, of course. Minho looks great in a suit and Kibum would have to wear white then, obviously, to get this beautiful contrast, or eggshell, or whatever whores wear to their weddings and fuck, fucking fuck, how the fuck did he think that far without noticing.
He can’t breathe with annoyance for a second. He hates Minho so much. He also imagined all of this in a church for some unfathomable reason, which just sucks. His chest feels a little tight.
“This is pointless,” he snaps. “I’m not buying it so you don’t have to marry me. Enough said.”
Minho has the audacity, the absolute gall, to let the corners of his mouth turn down. Just a little. But of course Kibum catches it because they spend their entire time together like a. Well. Like a casually dating couple.
He knows he doesn’t have to react to all of Minho’s micro expressions but it’s just hard not to, when he knows it’ll make him sulk the rest of the afternoon if he doesn’t. Ugh.
“Well, if you want it so bad you know it’s you who’ll have to propose. I sure as shit won’t.” Offense is the best defense or whatever.
Except Minho gets that look in his eyes. Oh, hell no.
“Well," he says. “Well, I mean—”
“Oh, hell no,” Kibum says out loud. “No, no no no no, no can do honey,” and laughs, a bit hysterical. “We’re not doing this, absolutely not.”
Minho’s mouth turns down even more.
“Listen, honey,” he starts, but Minho waves him off.
“I know,” he says. Smiles, rueful, self-deprecating.
Oh my god, Kibum thinks.
“I know it’s not—and I know you don’t—”
“Yah!” Kibum says. “It’s not even about that. Okay?”
Minho glances over to him. Kibum sees how tight his grip is on that steering wheel and has to hit his head back against the seat, twice, thunk, thunk.
“Oh my god, you’re so annoying,” and Minho actually looks hurt now and he can’t fucking believe this.
“It’s not about what I want, okay? It’s a Wednesday, it’s not even noon, this was about a stupid massage chair on a show and we’re in the car, you’re an impulsive idiot who’ll do anything on a dare and,” he runs out of breath. "And there’s ice cream melting in the trunk. Okay? I’m not having it. Okay? I won’t have it.”
And, well. He got a little too into it there. A little too vulnerable. Maybe. Maybe Minho missed it. If he’s lucky.
Minho just blinks.
“Yah,” he says again. For emphasis.
“Okay,” Minho says.
“Okay what?”
“Just. Okay, yeah. I, that’s okay.”
I guess, Kibum thinks.
“And there was no dare.”
“What?”
"There was no dare, you were there, you said it. And I’m not that impulsive.” He sounds so sincere. So earnest, like only Minho can. Goddamnit. It’s not even like Kibum’s relieved to hear it or anything.
But at least Minho’s smile is genuine now.
“So, I’ll keep that in mind then,” he says, and the smile turns smug, and maybe Kibum will just brain himself on the dash and be done with this.
“You fucking won’t.”
“I will,” even more smug.
“Not if you know what’s good for you.”
“I know what’s good for me. It’s y—”
“Shut up!” Kibum yells.
Minho cackles all the way to his place.
——
This is how it all started, a while ago:
Later than it could have, but sooner than you’d probably think.
Because the best thing about dating is that it’s comfortable, Kibum thinks. Convenient. Right?
That’s why you agree to all the other shit, like having someone in your house. And against all odds it’s what he loves the most, this distinct lack of excitement. It gets a bad rep and, sure, he used to think so, too.
Well, he was an idiot. Because it’s the best.
It’s really quite simple. It’s what he needs. And he knows himself by now. It’s not just about wanting, he needs a silk pillowcase and he needs his vitamin-infused billion won golden sheet mask and he needs to get fingered and fucked and spoiled exactly how he wants in his silken bed on his silken pillowcase with his flawless skin, or he won’t be able to go to work tomorrow and be professional about his twenty hour day.
He’s a perfectionist. He does things perfectly, every time. So he wants them perfect as well.
So, yeah, he needs someone who understands this. He needs someone who already knows what his asshole looks like, how to fuck it. Fuck him. Someone who doesn’t need Introduction To His Body 101 anymore. It’s like he got to his late twenties and suddenly ran out of patience to brief new lovers every other week, try to guess when they’d disappoint him.
No, he needs someone who’ll give it to him just the way he wants it and when he wants it with minimal complaints, someone who takes directions well and won’t get offended when he gets up to wash his face right after. Who’ll pick up after them and get him water and see that the kids are alright. And, ideally, load the dishwasher.
Yeah. Someone reliable.
Anyway.
It just made sense to hold onto Minho then, seeing how he was halfway there already. And it took one offhanded, embarrassingly intense line to have him.
It was easy, is the thing. When nothing Kibum truly wanted ever was.
Years and years of thinly veiled mutual attraction and deniable handjobs turned too-desperate-to-deny blowjobs and silent emotional turmoil on his part and then. One Tuesday morning - a Tuesday! It should’ve at least been a Sunday or something - he whispered in Minho’s ear, into his neck where he’d been hiding after coming his brains out on his cock. Whispered a silent, stupid I love you.
It was the most anticlimactic moment of his life. The opposite of drama-worthy. Not that he had wanted that (he totally had). He just knows he was the reddest he’d ever been in his life, even though he never gets red in the face, has trained his body out of that, but back then he was, it was so incredibly embarrassing and then he chased it with a “Whatever!” like an idiot and that just made it worse and he was maybe three seconds away from bolting, honest to god getting up and leaving the room when Minho just pulled back a little, looked at him and smiled. Like the fucker knew something.
Took Kibum out of his state right then and there.
“Yah,” and being back to annoyance felt really good. "Yah! What the hell! Aren’t you going to say something?"
He was so about to get one over on Minho.
And then.
“I’ve loved you for about ten years, Kibum-ah.”
Kibum just stared at him.
“Are you crazy?”
“It’s true.”
“Are you—”
“What else do you want me to say?”
“I want you to be serious you bastard!”
He chuckled, like Kibum going through all stages of grief was cute or something.
“I am.”
“Yah.”
“I’m being serious.”
And he was. Serious, that is.
So that was that, then.
——
“What if I got a tattoo,” Minho says, thoughtful, apropos of nothing.
“Absolutely not,” Kibum says.
A beat of silence.
“Okay. I won’t then.”
And that’s that.
——
“Red or grey, honey?” He says, distracted, eyeing the placemats.
“I asked you a question,” he says after a minute or so, annoyed. Minho actually jogs over at that, from where he’s been pondering the air fryers or whatever.
“I uh, didn’t know you actually. You know. Wanted my input.”
"Why in the world would I ask then?” Kibum actually turns around for that. He loves a guy with brain damage.
“Thought you were just talking to yourself, you know.”
And, okay. Maybe there were instances, in the past. Where he was doing just that and got mad when Minho actually answered. Whatever.
“Of course I want your input. It’s not like I actually live alone, yah. And it’s you who’s been leaving all those water spots on the table.”
“Uh,” Minho says. His eyes are kind of glazed over. “Yeah, right. Uh, what are the options again?”
Kibum rolls his eyes. Holds up the two fabrics.
“Uh. Grey, I think.”
And that’s that.
——
They’re in the kitchen unpacking groceries again, because they’ve been disgustingly domestic and they filmed more I Live Alone for all the world to see it, too, and Minho has been pestering him. All day, the entire way to the store and back and he’s had it, he’s had it so severely.
“Please,” he says. “Please can you just stop saying embarrassing shit for five minutes?”
Minho cackles where he’s busy loading vitamin water into the fridge, like it’s not only his calling but also his biggest pleasure in life to be a pain in Kibum’s ass. Seriously.
“Seriously,” he says. “I’m serious. I‘ll pay you.”
Minho perks up at that, the fucker.
“You will?”
And, whatever, he’d honestly do it at this point so.
“Yeah, yes, what do you want you monster? 10 million won? I‘ll do it right now.” He digs out his phone like he‘ll make good on it, too.
Minho grins. He has this look on his face. Kibum squints.
“I don’t want money. Duh. I‘m as rich as you are.”
“Not even close,” Kibum snorts, then realizes he just gave Minho ammunition for all future who‘ll-pay-the-bill arguments. Shit.
“Yeah, okay, I’ll hold onto that one. But still.”
Kibum debates just not asking for a second. Minho would be so disappointed, because he‘s basically wagging his tail with excitement about springing whatever it is on Kibum. Ugh.
“What the hell do you want then?”
He turns around, starts busying himself with digging through his bag. Whatever Minho will say is going to be either cheesy and disgusting or rotten and unfair or just embarrassing, which would, like, completely betray the point of this, and he doesn’t need to see Kibum’s reaction to any of these on his face in real time.
Minho doesn’t say anything though. Long enough that Kibum gets suspicious, runs out of things to fuss with.
He’s about to complain again but then Minho is right there, right against his back, not really touching, just breathing deep and warm and damp onto Kibum’s neck and, oh. Oh. Oh shit.
For some reason he did not expect this. At all. Not really the obvious thing to assume on a Thursday afternoon. So he’s unprepared. Just freezes, like an idiot, staring straight ahead into space.
They just stand like that for a moment and Minho hums a little, steps even closer, front of his shirt brushing Kibum’s back and his fingers, feather light on his hips.
It hits him like an electric shock then, sudden, zaps through his body hot and sharp and he swallows, has to breathe, has to get this under control. Try for condescending.
“Are you saying I can buy your silence with sexual favors?”
“Mh. Maybe.”
Kibum actually turns around he’s so affronted.
“What do you mean maybe? What kind of transaction is that?”
“Yah, you were ready to wire me 10 million won just now but for this you want a contract?”
“Damn right I want a contract,” he snaps and turns around again, just to be difficult and it’s Minho’s own fault for bringing it up, he can’t not say it now.
The hands tighten on Kibum‘s hips. He feels little puffs of breath on his neck, like Minho’s silently laughing. Asshole.
"What, you want me to get my laptop and draw one up real quick? Want me to print out an NDA while I’m at it?”
He gets his hands on Minho‘s wrists, holds them tight and still before he can get busy down there. He lets him kiss his neck though.
“I at least want a promise, fucker.”
Because he knows from years of experience that Minho has a sort of messed up code of honor that would never let him break a promise, even one extracted under duress like now.
“You know what? Sure. Sure, I promise.”
Huh. That was too easy. Kibum’s so, so suspicious. But he feels Minho at his back, pressing hot and hard against his ass through their layers of sweats and fuck, fuck this, they better get through this stupid bit fast.
“So how much silence do I get if I put out, hm?”
“Well, that depends.”
“On?”
“What’s on the table.”
Me, hopefully, is what Kibum thinks, hysterically. What the hell is wrong with him today.
But that’s fair, he guesses. And contemplates it. It’s not as simple as the more happens here the better, he also has to calculate what Minho would like best, right here, right now. It’s late in the day and Kibum has a laser appointment in two hours. Whatever though, he only has to lie down for that and he’ll take a car there. Could make Minho drive him. He almost smiles at the thought and mentally slaps himself. Enough with the sappiness, he thinks, my god. Minho’s completely enraptured with what he can try and see from his face journey and he’s sure it’s been two minutes by now.
Well.
Blowjobs on the couch seem the most convenient. Minimal clean up, relatively quick but highly satisfactory and it just seems like the sensible thing to do on a Thursday afternoon. Appropriate.
“Fuck me,” he says.
And, what?
“Jesus,” Minho breathes, like he didn’t expect that.
Kibum didn’t either, really. But the second he says it, it burns hot through his body, settles low in his gut and he makes this little sound, embarrassing, and he wants.
“Fuck me,” he says again and doesn’t even care that he sounds desperate. “Yeah, come on.”
“Jesus,” Minho says again. “Right here?”
“Yeah,” he says louder. “Yeah, here.”
“Okay.”
“Come on.”
“I said okay!” And his fingers tighten on Kibum’s hips, almost on his ass, until it hurts and oh yeah, that’s it right there. “Condom?”
Shit. It would definitely make clean up easier. But they haven’t really used one in a while and the moment they went without the concept really lost all appeal to Kibum. It regularly gives him a healthy dose of cognitive dissonance. He hates mess. Why would this be any different? He’s not about to admit it, either.
“Too far away,” he pants. “Wanted you inside yesterday.”
Minho laughs, like he knows. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll give it to you.”
“I know you will,” Kibum snaps.
“Or else?”
“Or else.” And he starts on his clothes, almost frantic, which he plans on completely denying later and gets his pants down, socks off, bare ass out in his kitchen, bright afternoon light and all.
The whole condom thing is a completely moot point because Minho has to go get the lube anyway, leaves Kibum to hang out half naked and bent over the kitchen island like an idiot, long enough to get embarrassed. This was a stupid idea, this is stupid.
“Are you folding my laundry again or what the hell is taking so long?" He yells, annoyed and mortified and less turned on than he was, like the post-nut clarity is setting in already.
But then Minho’s back, in the doorway to the kitchen and looking him over, so hot and careful and intense like only he gets and he’s taken his shirt off and oh, this show is so back on the road. In seconds. Ugh.
“Come—” he pants. “Fucking come here, oh my god.”
“Your wish is my command,” Minho has the absolute gall to murmur, smiling, but he’s over there in a second, back to pressing his still clothed dick against Kibum’s ass, so he forgives him.
“Why are you still wearing something? Why is this taking so long?”
He turns halfway, sees Minho roll his eyes and then the bastard slaps him, square on the ass and barely hard enough to hurt, a loud smacking sound that stings more than his palm.
“Yah!” He yells, but knows he’s red in the face, knows he just got harder and god, oh god. He almost forgets to be embarrassed.
“Will you quit being a brat?”
All while slicking up his fingers, unfairly long and graceful and Kibum knows they’ll feel so good inside him and why aren’t they already.
“Don’t call me that.”
Choked off, because Minho’s getting with the program and smears lube all around his hole, just touching for now, rubbing him out and he’s so turned on he thinks he’ll pass out for a moment and then Minho leans over him, puts his weight on him, heavy and all muscle and breathes, loud and close to Kibum’s ear.
“Why not,” he says. Low and mean and not sweet at all. “When it’s true?”
And, shit. Kibum had the upper hand just a moment ago. He knows it. But he’s pressing his face into the cool surface of the counter and Minho’s fingers are in his ass, twisting and pressing down and fucking him and his other hand is on Kibum’s ass, too, and he pulls his cheeks apart, squeezes so hard it really hurts.
“You love it,” Kibum gets out.
"Yeah, I do.”
And why does that do it for him so much, oh god.
“I need—”
“Yeah.”
“Inside, come on.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Minho sounds appropriately rushed now, like this is getting to him just as much, thank god, and Kibum hears the rustle of his track pants, realizes he wasn’t wearing underwear, tries to care about how gross that is. All that big cock, just swinging around like that. All for him. Waiting to be inside him. Jesus.
And then it is, Minho is, just the head pressing in, just so, and he’s so big it’s stupid and Kibum hates that thought, would never say it, fuel Minho’s ego like that but he thinks it every single time and it’s so good he can’t help but moan, long and slutty into his shiny marble counter, so loud it echos around the room. And then Minho presses in, all of it, all the way, and then Kibum doesn’t have enough air to do even that, just lets his breath fog up the glassy surface, lets his tongue touch against it, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut.
“Is it good?” Minho asks, because he survives solely on positive reinforcement, has the biggest praise kink Kibum’s ever seen and it is good so.
“Yeah, yes, fuck.” And. “So good, oh god.” Because Minho’s fucking him now, builds up a rhythm, fast and mean, then stops to grind deep and dirty and.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, give it to me, so good, the best.”
“Shit,” Minho whispers at his back, because of course that does it for him, because he needs to be the winner, even at that and his cock is so big and hot and hard inside of him and Kibum feels indulgent, feels feverish.
“Better than anyone else, best I ever had.”
“That’s goddamn right,” Minho says and digs his fingers into Kibum’s waist and fucks him harder, bruises his hips against the counter, just bangs him out so rough it’ll hurt later and fuck, yeah, yes.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Kibum-ah.” And. “So close, I’m so close.”
“You’ll wait!” Kibum snaps and then, more desperate. “Don’t stop,” and he doesn’t want it to stop at all it’s so good, but he’s stupid close as well and he’ll. “I’ll come, fuck. Fuck, baby, touch me.”
And Minho does, reaches around and doesn’t even lose his rhythm, not a little bit, because Kibum trained him well and he’s so good and then he comes, all over himself and Minho’s hand and his beautiful kitchen counter, ugh, and it’s so good his body seizes up tight, it shudders all the way through him, he’s moaning like a whore, he knows it and he is, he can admit that and Minho’s moaning too, desperate, into his neck.
“That’s it,” Kibum pants, barely enough breath for it and. “Come on, baby, come on, inside, want it inside.”
“Fuck.”
“Mess me up, want it. Know you love it.”
“Yeah, fuck, fuck.”
It’s starting to hurt and Minho’s fucking him in these short, desperate trusts, so hard it pushes him up on his toes and it’s still good, really really good.
"Come on, gave it to me so good, just how I wanted.”
“Yeah.”
“Love it. Love you.”
And Minho comes so sudden, so hard Kibum feels his cock twitch and pulse inside and he presses in, presses up to Kibum so tight and comes and it’s almost like it doesn’t stop, feels warm and wet and so hot and gross inside him, he really loves it, he does.
For a second.
“Ugh,” he says.
Minho’s panting, sucking in these long, ragged breaths where he collapsed against his back.
“Ugh!” He says, louder. With emphasis. Because he’s sore now and gross and wet and fucked out and it’ll start dripping out of him soon and ugh, ugh, ugh.
Minho laughs, quiet and fond and darling at his back.
“Yeah,” he says, voice all rough now. It’s hot. Goddamnit. “Yeah, I know, I got you,” and kisses his neck, the back of it, once.
He pulls out, so careful, so slow, rubbing his back, his ass and making this sound, soothing, and somehow that’s one thing too much and suddenly Kibum’s eyes are wet and oh what the fuck, what the fuck now, what the fuck, what the fuck.
It’s hysterical. He knows he’s breathing too hard. Minho’s pulled out by now and it is dripping out of him and he feels empty and it’s disgusting and it’s wet, the air-con is too cold and this was a stupid idea and his appointment is soon and he probably has to leave in half an hour and how will he even sit through that, shit, and next thing he knows he’s hyperventilating a little and this doesn’t happen to him, this can’t be happening.
“Oh, hey, hey.”
Of course Minho will be sweet about this, it’s so humiliating.
“Hey, love, hey sweetheart,” and he’s getting his arm under Kibum and pulls him up, back against his chest where Kibum can feel his heart beating so quick and that already feels better and he presses his lips together to not make a sound and that really doesn’t help but what else is he supposed to do here.
And then Minho’s turning him around, doesn’t force eye contact on him, just presses Kibum’s face into his neck and holds him there, tight, and strokes over his back, long broad strokes and makes this shhhh sound like Kibum’s a child and oh, he’ll so tear him apart for that later. Totally. As soon as he’s stopped choking on what are probably tears. It’s just. It’s been kind of a lot this week.
“It’s okay.”
“I know it is,” he chokes.
“Come on love, let it out, mh?”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah,” Minho says, gentle. “Okay. I still got you, I have you.”
And maybe Kibum breaks at that even more. Because there’s really nothing he could say. No new level of being mean and bristly that would turn Minho away, that would make him forget it’s just who Kibum is, who they are, that it doesn’t mean he wants him any less. Because Kibum can just consistently chew at the hand that feeds him and still be absolutely sure it’ll be there to pet him.
He’s crying. It’s so, so embarrassing.
But it’s Minho. So he knows what to do, knows Kibum’s ready to be carried to bed and doted on and will probably allow it, so he gets his arms under Kibum’s knees, around his back and lifts him like he weighs nothing because he’s probably bench pressing his weight at the gym again like a sappy idiot.
“Up you go,” he says.
“Shut up," Kibum whispers into his neck. And then. “Thank you.” And kisses him there, soft, and again and again and Minho hums, low and lovely.
“Anytime,” he says and Kibum knows he means it. “Anytime, whatever you need. Whatever you want.”
He knows it’s not just about sex, about how well Minho will fuck him, anytime, wherever. It’s about everything.
He’s got it so bad. He almost laughs at that. Except he’s still crying a little.
It’s real sweet though, allowing this sometimes and he knows it makes Minho stupidly happy, so Kibum lets him deposit his all but limp body into bed, lets him tug on the shirt they never got off him (ruined now. It was Balenciaga. oh well). Lets him get a wet towel from the bathroom and wipe Kibum down, lets Minho turn him around and wipe between his cheeks, over his hole where he’s wet and open and sore, lets him kiss there and then up his back, on his shoulder blade and behind his ear and there’s a little drool and tears on his pillow and he’s so disgusting, he can’t believe this is actually doing it for someone else. It’s incredible.
“Enough,” he says into the pillow. “Come here, ugh.”
Minho laughs. Loud and happy. It’s a gorgeous sound.
“Alright, your highness.”
And if Kibum smiles into his pillow, Minho absolutely never has to know that. He probably does anyway.
It’s whatever, because then Minho’s spooning up behind him just how he likes, how he likes to be taken care of, soft dick against his ass and hand over his chest and he nestles down into the embrace and shuffles around until he has it just so.
“Yah,” Minho says. “Stop wiggling!”
“I’ll wiggle until I’m comfortable, thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome,” Minho says, smug, like an absolute idiot, and Kibum doesn’t know why he’s willing to put up with this at all.
“Hey. You okay though?” Minho mumbles into his hair then and Kibum’s done with crying and being vulnerable and doesn’t want to start again so he just hums, dismissive.
“Mh? You okay, love?”
“Yeah. Duh.”
“Okay."
“I am.”
“Yeah, okay.”
And Kibum feels like kissing him, realizes they haven’t, really, and it’s like he’s starving suddenly, gagging for it, so he turns around, startles Minho and presses up close and just goes in for it, desperate, and has Minho sighing into him immediately and he gets his hand all up in Kibum’s hair and tilts his head so it’s better and it’s. Really good. Really, really good. They could do this for a while. Yeah, they’re going to.
He stops when he thinks he’ll get hard again because, yeah, absolutely not, and Minho looks a little dazed and licks his lips and oh thank god, Kibum feels like he has the upper hand again. He lets Minho turn on his back and pull him close. Nestles in between his neck and shoulder. It’s pretty comfortable there. He’ll call into his skincare place to cancel. He’ll do it in a minute. It’s just real nice right now.
Of course Minho has to ruin it.
“You know something?”
Kibum rolls his eyes so hard it hurts.
“No, but I’m sure I’m about to.”
“I love you. So much.”
He’s so fucking annoying
“Yeah,” Kibum says. Amicable, like he’s just agreeing, because he doesn’t do lovesick and sappy, no matter what Taeminnie thinks he’s seeing. “I love you, too. Now shut your mouth. I paid for this silence, you know?”
And then, of fucking course, Minho doesn’t.
It’s his own fault, really. They’re signing the damn contract next time.