Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Oh my fucking god.”

“What?”

Kibum just shakes his head.

“What?”

“You just— You have that look. Hate when you get that look.”

“What look? I don’t have a look.”

“The same look you get when you’re winning a game or you shoot a goal at golf or lift more at the gym or something stupid like that.”

“You can’t ‘shoot a goal’ at golf.” Minho’s actually a little offended.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“It’s an ace.”

“Please shut up.”

“That’s the best, when you sink the ball in just one stroke. And it’s not the goal, it’s a hole.”

And Kibum snorts, starts fake moaning. “Oh, yeah baby, keep using your stupid sex-golf words.”

“It’s the terminology! I’ve told you a thousand times, the Olympics were just last week. It’s not about sex, yah.”

Except, Minho’s laughing, too, incredulous, and he did just say ball and stroke and hole in one sentence, so it’s probably fair.

“Okay, whatever, you can sink whatever you want in those holes later, as long as you get on with it here, now.”

“With your hole, hm?”

“Ugh,” Kibum says, loud, because he can enunciate that like it’s an actual word, it’s pretty impressive, and he’s so close to murder, Minho’s absolutely ecstatic.

“Well,” he says, and can’t keep the smugness out of his voice. “Okay, maybe I do have a look.”

And maybe they just had a fully fleshed out argument about golf, but Minho also has two fingers pressed deep and hot inside of Kibum, inside his tight, wet hole, this hole right here, tighter now than Minho already got him, squeezing him with Kibum’s annoyance, which really does things for Minho.

He might have stopped moving to conduct this extremely important conversation, but, yeah, he gets on with it, curls his fingers, presses down, rubs and searches and finds, rubs harder and makes Kibum almost shout in surprise, makes him bow his back off the bed and pant up at the ceiling and Minho starts fucking him a little, puts force behind it, gets him to feel good and relax.

Kibum breathes deep, and does, lets Minho get more lube on his fingers and inside, make him sloppy.

“Whatever. Whatever about that look. I’m wet enough, come on, don’t— Fuck. Don’t want you to finger me, come on.”

“Yeah, just—"

“Come on.”

Minho groans. “My god, you’re impatient.”

“And you’re mouthy!”

He laughs at that, because, sure, he is and Kibum wants him to shut up and just give it to him and he will, he will, so Minho slicks himself up, Kibum likes it wet and gross, no matter what he says, and then he sits back, spreads Kibum’s perfect legs, pale and supermodel long and a little bruised up, from where Minho held him up and fucked him against the wall in the walk-in closet when he got back from Paris, two days ago, until he almost threw his back out and, god, Kibum’s so hot.

“You’re so hot.”

“Oh, what the hell,” Kibum groans. “I know. I’m hot, I’m sexy, now fuck me about it.”

“Will you shut up for a second?”

He pinches Kibum’s thigh, the inside, hard.

“Yah!”

And Minho pinches again, the same place, watches the skin turn red and it’s so hypnotizing he gets distracted, forgets he’s supposed to do something here, because how could he not, with those legs in front of him. He rearranges, leans in, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s grabbing Kibum’s thighs, pushes them up a bit, easy access, and he bites. A real bite, mouth open around the spot he just pinched, not fucking around, and Kibum moans, so loud he slaps his hand over his mouth and Minho hates that, wants to hear him, wants to get him all embarrassed about how much he wants it.

Because embarrassment looks so good on Kibum and isn’t Minho lucky that he feels it around him almost 24/7?

“That look,” he says. Into Kibum’s thigh. Flattens his tongue against the perfect imprint of his teeth.

He bit hard.

This will bruise and hurt like a bitch. Minho won’t hear the end of it. He loves it already.

“Why shouldn’t I look at you like that?”

He needs to make it worse, sucks, where the skin is so irritated now, blood so close to the surface and Kibum’s legs try to close, muscles straining and shaking, but he’s thrown wide open around Minho’s shoulders, no chance, so Minho can just go at it as long as he wants to. And, why not, except, he’s so turned on, gets off on Kibum moaning himself hoarse and he has to stop or he’ll come rutting into the sheets, and then he’ll sleep on the couch. For at least one night. Maybe two. It happened before.

He comes up for air.

The spot on Kibum’s thigh is large and round and angry looking, blood red that will turn dark purple and blue and green. 

He looks up. Stares at Kibum staring at him, panting like his heart’s racing. It probably is. Minho’s definitely is.

Kibum’s wet all over his stomach, his perfect, pretty cock drooling, like he came already, like he could go off any second. Minho wants to make him.

“I am winning something here, no?”

“What?”

“That look. The look I get. I am winning.”

“Oh yeah?” Kibum says, eyes unfocused. Like he’s losing track of what he’s saying. “What?”

“Y—"

“Don’t say it’s me!” He groans, so loud. “Fuck, don’t— Come on, don’t ruin this for me.”

Minho laughs, just as loud, leans his head against Kibum’s thigh for a moment and he’s so close to his cock, so close to his hole and Minho wants to taste.

He’s right there, perfect view of where Kibum’s soft with lube and pink and so pretty, even here, softest skin, because Kibum gets his asshole waxed, of course, because he’s ridiculous like that, and Minho wants to get his mouth on him. Badly.

Except.

“If you’re not inside me in the next five seconds, you’ll regret it.”

Kibum sounds strained.

“I’ll make you regret it so much, you—"

Minho leans in.

“So much, I?”

But he says it into Kibum’s thigh, the back of it, because Minho’s pushing his legs even higher. Kibum’s flexible, can fold himself like that, and Minho’s determined, so much he forgets about how hard he is. He just wants.

“So much you’ll wish you hadn’t been born, oh, god.”

Because Minho leans in close, presses his flat tongue against Kibum’s hole, licks a broad stripe up to his perineum, gets him wetter for no reason at all and Kibum’s making an insane amount of noise, forgets his embarrassment, little punched out moans and Minho points his tongue, tries to get into the tight softness, Kibum always so contradictory, in everything he does to Minho, even here, clenching up, then relaxing with wet, heavy breaths. Minho’s not crazy about the taste of lube, wishes he’d thought about this sooner, wishes he could taste more of Kibum, but he doesn’t care enough to stop, wants it any way he can get it.

“So, I’ll regret being born?”

It’s hard to talk, hard to give up contact for even a second, when all he wants is to get deeper, in in in, lick into Kibum as deep as he’ll let him, so he leans back in, sucks on Kibum’s rim, open mouthed kisses with wet, filthy sounds that must make Kibum blush so hard. It’s a tragedy he can’t keep his mouth on him and watch, both, because Kibum sounds choked up when he speaks and Minho’s sure he looks beautiful like that, struggling, losing control, like he hardly ever does.

“You’ll regret it if you stop now.”

And Minho knows a command when he hears one, loves it, submits, and Kibum’s so, so hard above him, messy with it.

“Can I make you come?”

Please please please, Minho thinks.

“Fucking finally,” Kibum yells. “Yeah, yes, I’ve been trying to get you to.”

“No, I mean—"

Kibum’s patience tangibly snaps.

“Don’t say no to me!”

Minho looks down, instinctively.

“Yeah, don’t look at me. What is this, talking back all day?”

And, oh, yeah. They can totally go here.

“I’m not saying no, just.” He looks up, for a second, sees Kibum’s eyebrow tick. Lowers his eyes again. A go ahead.

“Can I make you come like this? Just like this? Can I try?”

It’s been like this lately. Their dynamic shifting around so quickly he gets whiplash.

It’s new and he can’t quite place it, yet, only that it’s not exclusively Kibum giving sharp orders anymore, praise, when Minho’s doing well, and wicked little punishments, when he’s not.

It’s been interesting.

Because all their usual little bits extend into the bedroom, just that Kibum playing coy and sitting pretty hasn’t, really, so far, but now it does, so now he’s letting Minho fuck him to tears and make him pay for being bitchy, not in the same way Kibum does to Minho, but by giving it to him so good it’s too much, so good he needs Minho to put him back together, after. It’s a different kind of trust.

News-worthy. Kim Kibum gives up a little bit of control.

Well, sometimes anyway. Bi-weekly, maybe.

And clearly not today, so Minho keeps being good, keeps looking down, where Kibum’s so hard, so wet against his flat stomach and Minho wishes he could see his face, wonders, if Kibum’s staring at him, at his mouth, wet with spit and lube, or up at the ceiling, what Kibum’s eyes are showing, if he’s smiling, annoyed, affected. If he wants.

Because, whatever he wants, Minho will do. Anything for him, always.

“Fucking hell,” Kibum says.

Breathless. Annoyed.

“Yeah, yes. Make me come, do it, do me, want your mouth.”

“Yes,” Minho says. “Anything.”

Because he wants to be so good, can’t believe he gets to do this, that Kibum needs him, lets him, how sweet it is, how good Kibum tastes, how thoroughly Minho’s wrapped around his finger.

He gets Kibum dripping with his tongue, makes him moan, gets him loud, and he loves this, wants it like this every time, wants Kibum wet for him and then keep him like that, his cheeks with tears from how good it is, and his hole with Minho’s come and spit and his mouth, too. He wants him making a mess, for Minho, all over him, coming so much he’ll never get clean again, never get out of bed. Fuck the comeback.

Minho laughs at the blasphemous thought.

And, well. That’s a big mistake. Huge.

Because the universe makes him pay.

Because Kibum’s phone rings.

They both freeze. Minho’s mouth still against Kibum, his tongue out, pressing up to him, pressing in, and his spit is dripping on the sheets and his brain doesn’t even compute at first, can’t catch up.

“Oh my god,” Kibum whispers. So small Minho barely hears it.

“Oh my god.” Louder.

“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you, I swear, I will, I can‘t—"

“It’s your phone, Kibum-ah.”

Minho’s shaky, out of it and he pulls back, at least his mouth, his face, because he can’t really move his arms yet, can’t let go.

“I don’t care! I don’t care, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill someone.”

Kibum’s voice is high and wet, like he’s close to tears and Minho gets it, oh god does he get, because, now?

The phone stops ringing.

“Who even,” Minho starts.

“Work. Been waiting.”

“So, you have to go in?”

Silence.

“So, we can’t?”

“Absolutely not.”

Because Kibum will never, ever, compromise his work, not if he’s crying, not if he wants something so bad he could die, not for himself or Minho or anything else in the universe.

But it’s bad. So bad Kibum looks wild around the eyes, distressed, incredibly.

And then the phone starts ringing again and Kibum chokes on a sound and rubs his hands over his face, scratches.

“I can’t.” Desperate, in a way he never gets. “I need.”

And then he pushes Minho back, with so much force he flops flat on his back, stunned, can just watch Kibum struggling up, slipping in the sheets and grabbing for his phone on the nightstand and then he swings a leg over Minho’s hips and.

Sits on his cock.

Just. Like that.

It’s insane.

Kibum’s insane.

Minho’s sight whites out, it goes so fast, tight, burning heat around him, where he was cooling down, and he can’t breathe, shoots up against his will and grabs, helpless, blind, at Kibum’s hips who slaps his hand over Minho’s mouth and accepts the call.

“Yes?”

His voice barely shakes.

He didn’t get Minho all the way in, his own body in shock, like Minho’s is, but he does now, forces himself on his cock, hard, and his mouth is wide open, soundless, eyes squeezed shut, single, fat tears down his cheeks, all with his stupid phone pressed to his ear and his nails clawing deep and painful into Minho’s cheek and there’s this ringing in Minho’s ears, loud, and this is insane, this is crazy.

Something’s said at the other end of the line.

Kibum doesn’t answer.

His breathing’s off. Silent but hitched. Because it must hurt. Because it must be good. Because it must be what he wanted, needed, in the roughest way possible and he’s blush red down to his chest, over his nose and cheeks where he’s wet with tears and he’s so beautiful and so out of his mind. Minho would think he’s hallucinating, if not for his own hands, so tight on Kibum’s hips, then on his waist, almost reaching around, all the way, squeezing even more breath out of Kibum, because Minho has to hold on or he’ll pass out, or, worse, do something stupid, like moan or shout or talk.

“Kibum-ssi?”

Loud and clear, even for Minho.

“Yeah, yes. What— Can you repeat that?”

It’s visibly costing Kibum, so much Minho hurts with it and he’s getting his breath back, so he peels Kibum’s hand off his own mouth and meets his eyes, wide and shocked and desperate, because he bit off so much more than he can chew, probably thought he’d get through this real smooth, because he’s Kim Kibum, no sweat, but, no. Because he needs Minho, and it’s Minho’s calling to be there, so he pulls Kibum closer, impossibly, pulls Kibum’s arm around his own neck and hugs him to his chest. Tight and secure, Kibum’s face over his shoulder so he can talk.

And he does.

Shaky, then firmly. Because Minho’s holding him and has one arm around Kibum’s waist, the other square up his back, hand on his neck, stroking, soothing, and Minho has no idea what is said, but then the phone bounces off the mattress and Kibum presses his wet face into Minho’s shoulder, his neck, and sobs, once, twice.

“Shit.”

“Baby,” Minho says, whispers. “Baby.”

“Shit, I—"

Minho keeps stroking, over his back.

“What do you need, love? Baby?”

Kibum’s still so hard between them, against Minho, never got soft, even a little bit, and he shakes his head, slowly.

“Have to leave. Like, right now, I just needed, had to.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Needed you.”

“Yeah.”

“Inside.”

“You have me.”

And Kibum makes all the sound he had to keep in over the last five minutes, whines, and Minho moves a little, tries it out, pulls Kibum up, then drops his weight and trusts up and that makes Kibum shout so loud his voice breaks.

“Yes yes yes.”

“Fuck.”

Minho’s losing it, just as much.

“More,” Kibum sobs, demands. Begs really.

“More, god, I don’t have time, I need you.”

And Minho will never, ever, resist those three words.

So, he does it again, and again, uses all his strength for the greatest purpose he works out for, fucking Kibum, up and down his cock, and it’s not fucking, not really, grinding, more like, because he doesn’t get leverage, barely pulls out, but Kibum makes these hurt little sounds into his neck, so it must be good and that’s all Minho wants.

“I’ll come, I’ll come, I need—"

So broken up and Minho needs, too, so he gives Kibum everything, holds him tighter, pulls him further, drops him harder, thrusts up as rough as he can and pushes them together, traps Kibum's cock between their bodies so he's rubbing off against his abs.

“Come on, baby, come on. You’re so insane.”

Kibum laughs, shaky.

“So tight, I had no idea. Didn’t know you’d want this, who even was that? Costume, management? Who heard you getting fucked? Who heard me fucking you?”

Kibum’s not an exhibitionist, not to Minho’s knowledge, but that does it, Kibum seizes up, shakes apart in Minho’s arms and comes, and chokes, lets it all out, like they were going for hours and not ten minutes, like this is breaking him.

Maybe it is. Just a little bit.

But Kibum is Kibum.

He takes one single, wet, hysteric breath.

And then he’s off Minho’s hard cock, this pained sound when it slips out, but he doesn’t stop, gets his legs under him, somehow, stumbles out of bed so unsteady Minho almost panics, but Kibum doesn’t even look and then he’s out of the room and Minho.

Stares. After him.

He hasn’t moved when Kibum runs back in, to the bathroom, door wide open and Minho must have lost it, too, because he gets up, stands in the door, naked and hard and stares. He’s sweating, burning up and enchanted by Kibum rubbing himself down, his face and under his arms and then, twisted around, between his cheeks, where he flinches because he must be so sore.

“What will you do?” Minho asks. “Will you go like this? Stay open and wet and come back to me like that?”

Kibum’s dark eyes zero in on him. He wants, visibly. Allows himself.

For a second.

“Yah, you absolute maniac. Shut up, I can’t deal with this, I have, like, two minutes, shit.”

He shuts the door in Minho’s face, so he goes back to bed, numb, to calm the fuck down, and listens to the tap running in the bathroom, then Kibum rushing back to the walk-in, pulling stuff out and letting all the hanger clatter to the floor, where Minho will have to pick them up, and then he’s on the phone again and out the door without a goodbye.

Minho just lies there.

Stares into space.

He has whiplash. Or something. He’s still so, so hard.

It doesn’t take long for Kibum to send a text.

Take a picture.

Minho does, of his own cock, before it goes down, big and messy with come that should be inside of Kibum.

It’s hot, he thinks. Thirst trap worthy. Except, too pornographic for a thirst trap, the way he’s showing everything.

Minho congratulates himself on it. It’s a pretty artistic shot.

Kibum leaves him on read.

--

“What in the world are you doing?”

Kibum doesn’t look up from his phone.

“Descaling the coffee maker.”

“By looking at your phone?”

Kibum just raises one eyebrow, doesn’t even turn, like he’s sure Minho will notice anyway.

He does.

“I had to look up instructions.”

“On Instagram?”

“Yah, did you come home just to bother me? Doing that stuff isn’t easy, you know.”

“Yes, I know. It’s me doing all that stuff, all the time.”

Kibum actually whips his head around to grace him with a look that could kill. A look just for Minho, the one he carefully honed and perfected, over more than fifteen years. Well, Minho will take any attention he can get.

“And anyway, why are you doing it out here?”

Out here being at the dinner table, where Kibum must’ve lugged the thing to plug it back in, before apparently forgetting all about it. Strategically, Minho’s sure. He's already changed, too, in silk pyjamas, bare feet up on his chair and legs crammed between his chest and the dinner table. As if he’d even consider descaling anything like that.

Why he’d even start doing that, after a twelve-hour day during comeback prep, is beyond Minho. Some twisted form of stress relief. Which is usually torturing Minho for sport and getting a good, nasty little fight out of it.

It’s so infuriating.

“Don’t think I’ll do it for you just because you put it in my line of sight, I’m not that stupid.”

“For me,” Kibum snorts. Rolls his eyes up into his head.

“As if you don’t use this thing every other day.”

And he just turns around again, unlocks his phone, goes back to scrolling. Like this conversation is over. But Minho sees the corner of his mouth tick up, just the slightest bit.

Kibum’s loving this. He’s fucking with him.

Minho feels his face heat up. Because if he enjoys making Kibum squirm in embarrassment and yell with how much he wants to wring Minho’s annoying neck, Kibum plays his own little games and making Minho lose his temper is a particular favorite.

He’s pretty good at it, too.

“Yah. It’s you who bought it, I use it because there’s no other option.”

He’s in a fully developed hot flash by now. Probably red in the face. How are they even arguing about this, Minho had nothing to do with this whole descaling business to begin with.

“If you don’t want to descale our coffee maker, just say it.”

“That is literally what I just said! Yah, aren’t you listening?”

But Kibum’s playing dirty. Because now it’s their coffee maker. Not mine, not my coffee maker you’re just using.

Minho tries not to dissolve into it. He’s having a completely justified fit here. He needs to get back to that, not let the raging heat simmer down to a warm sensation in his chest, this rush he gets, still, every time Kibum talks about them, their stuff, their appartement, their kids, even, sometimes, calls them a couple in front of other people. Though Minho knows all that and has for a while, though it’s established pretty clearly — he thinks he’ll never be immune to it.

Our our our.

He’s sure Kibum knows his weakness by now and is using it against him shamelessly.

Jokes on him though, because it gets him to admit how much he enjoys their domesticity at least once a day. Kibum loves lying, but he’d never be able to casually say these things if he didn’t feel them at least a little bit.

Our coffee maker.

Minho knows it’s silly. Pathetic, even, getting excited about this. It’s not even a good coffee maker, it fucking sucks.

“Yah, if we actually had a good coffee maker, I would gladly descale it every time.”

The worst thing is, Kibum likes to get creative with it and ordered these vile, coconut flavored coffee capsules, that now Minho has to drink so they don’t take up space in the cupboard.

“I thought they’d be great for summer,” Kibum said.

It’s hell. Minho’s in coconut flavored hell. He has so much one-sided beef with Nespresso.

“Oh my god, this again?” Kibum says. “We had this argument when? Like, two days ago?”

“Well, the thing didn’t get any better over the past two days so we still need to talk about it.”

“No, we don’t. We get almost every single coffee outside, why would we need a fancy coffee machine for one day of the week, huh?”

“It just doesn’t make sense, that’s the thing. You have a room full of billion won designer clothes and this is where you get stingy? Even one day of bad coffee is enough to justify something better, yah.”

“The kitchen is too small.”

“Because you won’t let me rearrange the counter space!”

“Jagiya,” Kibum says. That uptick of his mouth. “Can we not?”

And what’s Minho supposed to say to that?

He just grinds his teeth and groans, while he can still sustain his anger, and then slinks over to Kibum to kiss his hair, top of his head.

“You’re the worst.”

“Mh,” Kibum says and doesn’t look up, doesn’t tip his head to give Minho what he clearly wants, a kiss, god damn it.

He’s completely engrossed in his phone, doesn’t give Minho the time of day, not even one second. His shoulders are sagging, though. Like this is what Kibum wanted. Like this is relaxing him.

Because he really is the worst.

Minho makes it about half an hour of ignoring it before he sits down next to Kibum, lets him put his bare feet and still pyjama-ed legs in his lap.

And descales the stupid coffee maker.

--

It’s extremely difficult, is the thing.

Detangling Kibum’s expressions, all his little tells. Assess his moods, predict his emotions and, most importantly, exactly what he wants.

It’s like surgery. A logic game. Olympic shooting.

Minho loves it. It’s a challenge, and he loves a challenge, it’s something he can get right, extremely right sometimes and, yeah, it feels like winning, he can admit that. And the prices are so, so good.

Kibum’s silent, content pleasure, the one he wears so obvious, even when he thinks he’s getting one over on Minho, when he thinks he’s being sneaky about how much he likes something. It’s so fucking sweet. Cute. Adorable. He can borrow the word from Taemin, sometimes.

Then, all of Kibum’s little sounds of pleasure, his mild discomfort when something makes him too happy, when Minho buys him something he wants so, so much, the way he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Minho loves buying him stuff.

It’s baffling, that he can just have this. That Kibum, after so many years, and no matter how put-upon annoyed he is, lets Minho pour his affection all over him, lets him play the Kibum bingo every single day and rewards him so good, every time he gets it right.

Sure, half the time he doesn’t, and Kibum absolutely tears him apart for it. But it’s toothless fury. And, in the end, this is something Minho can do for him, too. He knows Kibum needs to test the limits of what they have, and needs to be able to let himself go and bitch and moan about every single thing in the universe, like he’s dying to do every second of their work day. And, honestly, even that is cute sometimes.

It’s just that Minho likes to please. Loves it. He loves being good at things and getting told just that.

Yeah, he loves winning.

He loves being a Kim Kibum gold medalist.

So what if he spent a bit too much time thinking about the Olympics? It’s a good metaphor.

--

“Who are you texting?”

Naeun leans over, eagle eyes on him and his phone.

“No one.”

He crams himself into the corner of his chair.

“I’m sending bubbles.”

It’s the shittiest lie. Poor excuse. Barely qualifies as one.

Naeun doesn’t even deign that with a response, just lets him stew in embarrassment for a second.

“Huh, so it’s that private?”

And Minho’s lucky they’re on a set and Naeun’s sweet and won’t push too far, but his heart’s still racing so fast he’s sweating his make-up straight off.

“Can we get more air conditioning?” His make-up noona shouts into the hallway.

“Ooh, so it’s spicy texting?”

Never mind that about Naeun being sweet.

It only gets worse, because another stylist materializes, a dongsaeng, and Naeun twists in her chair, out of everyone else’s hands, who only mildly complain, because Minho’s suffering is way more interesting than flat ironing hair.

“Minho oppa is texting someone,” and she winks.

“Ooh, someone, huh?” The stylists echo. All of them.

“I’m sending bubbles,” he says, lamely.

“Sure,” Naeun says

“Is this punishment? Did I do something? Mess up a take?”

He’s desperate. Puts on his pleading eyes.

“I’m just curious is all,” Naeun sing-songs. “Who has Choi Minho sweating like that?”

He groans, so loud and pitiful the make-up noona pats his back.

“Settle down girls,” she says. Thank god.

“Let Minho-yah get back to his spicy texts.”

So, never mind that either. 

He knows he’s red in the face and it’s showing on the half that didn’t get make-up yet and he pockets his phone and closes his eyes and stews in his mortification.

The thing is. It’s not even spicy texts. Sure, he gets those, sometimes. If they were, at least all the bullying would be worth it.

But it’s nothing, really. Shouldn’t make him blush and sweat and scared he’ll get hard on a drama set.

It’s a mirror selfie. A shitty one.

Costume fitting. W u think?

Minho knows Kibum doesn’t want his input. Obviously. Especially not at this point. Or ever. As if he’d ever take notes on his stage fits from Minho, of all people, as if he’d ever do anything but clown on him, if he tried to say something.

He wouldn’t dare.

So that’s not the point here.

The point is a fluorescent green crop top, sleeveless, and green pants to match, low on Kibum’s hips.

And his impossibly small waist.

It’s a side profile, Kibum’s chest twisted to take the picture in the mirror and it makes his flat stomach look translucent and his waist.

God.

This will make headlines. Kim Kibum, twenty inches, Scarlett O’Hara, smallest waist in K-pop measurements.

Minho got a single, short look and that was too much already.

Kibum has the softest skin in the industry, everyone knows that. Not everyone gets to touch him there, though. Over his ribs, where he’s sensitive. His sharp hips. Abs, lean and barely visible, a suggestion. The soft, pale place under his belly button.

His waist.

Fuck.

Minho feels feverish. Crazy. He could wrap his hands around him, all the way. He knows he can’t, his hands are big and Kibum’s small, but not that small. It just looks like it, in the picture. Like Minho could grab and press a ring of bruises into his skin, all around Kibum’s waist, just with his fingers.

He’s going to die here. Right in this make up chair.

He can’t believe Kibum’s going to show this to the rest of the world. Because the outfit is a sure thing, otherwise he wouldn’t even let Minho see. He can’t believe Kibum will be on stage like that, hates it, because this is his, but loves it, because he knows no one else can have it, no matter how much they want. Not like Minho.

Because he can have Kibum.

Will have him.

In half a day. Eight hours. Or ten, or however many. Doesn’t matter. It’ll be today, Minho will make sure, will do something to Kibum, everything, something so bad and rough and rotten, Kibum will get a taste of his own medicine and lose his mind thinking about it tomorrow.

Minho wants to get his hands on him.

“Time to wake up, Minho-yah,” the stylist says, with her last spritz of hairspray.

As if he could sleep.

As if he will tonight.

He has bigger plans.

--

Kibum’s home when Minho unlocks the door and hangs his coat up and then completely dissociates, until he’s pressed to Kibum’s back, head to toe, and squeezes around his waist so tight Kibum almost doubles over.

“What the fuck,” Kibum says. Yells.

It barely registers.

“Your waist,” Minho says. “Do you know? What you look like?”

Kibum squirms, but Minho doesn’t move at all. His hands grab so hard it must hurt. But he just can’t. He can’t help it. His fingers don’t meet, obviously, but he’s so insane it almost feels like they do.

He feels Kibum laughing, too, feels every expanding breath that he squeezes right back out of him.

“Honey. You know I know.”

Kibum sounds so smug. So self-satisfied. Condescending and bratty and so like his worst self.

Minho’s hard against him, in seconds.

“Yeah, I got that much.”

Kibum’s in a long sleeve. Jeans. No seductive outer space bartender get-up.

It’s even worse for Minho, like this. Too real.

“Let me see,” he says. His mouth is so dry.

Kibum laughs his mocking little laugh.

Steps out of the circle of Minho’s arms and turns around to face him and then he stretches, because he is a brat, stretches his arms up over his head and twirls a little circle and runs his hands all over his body, through his pitch-black hair and down his chest.

His waist.

Where he grabs himself, bunches his baggy shirt up tight, so it hugs him, the shape of him and it’s obscene and foul play and so fucking sexy Minho’s brain goes offline.

He holds his breath and then Kibum takes a step back and some predator instinct clicks into place, and Minho chases him the two, three steps Kibum’s taking, lightning fast, and Kibum laughs, loud and genuine and high like a bell, because he loves this as much as Minho, just that Minho can’t even laugh anymore, just wants to dig his teeth in and hold on tight and touch every inch of Kibum he can get at.

“You—"

“Brat, I know.”

“You’re a rotten little tease. A demon. The worst.”

All said into Kibum’s neck, his throat, where he kisses and licks and doesn’t bite, because Kibum’s filming, always, and fuck that, and Minho gets his hands in there, up Kibum’s shirt, where he wants them most, back on Kibum’s waist. Just that it’s skin this time, velvet soft and hot to the touch, goosebumps all over because Kibum’s just as desperate, no matter how aloof he acts.

Minho all but rips the shirt off him, over his head.

“Yah!”

Because it messes with Kibum’s hair, but Minho couldn’t give less of a shit, he just stares.

“Yah,” Kibum says, again. “Seriously. Remember this morning?”

Minho doesn’t.

“I don’t.”

“What? Yes, you do.”

“Okay, I do.”

He’s completely engrossed in Kibum’s pretty, pink nipples, the symmetry of him, the tiny shivers, all through his body, when Minho runs his fingers over them.

“My eyes are up here, yah.”

“Mh.” Minho doesn’t look up. Can’t.

“Ugh. This morning. You know? When you fucked me?”

Oh. Right.

“Over there? In the bedroom? Our bedroom? Rings a bell?”

Minho just hums. Feels warm all over, because, right. It cuts through his insanity and he does look up, at Kibum’s face of perfect annoyance and pulls him in, even closer, against his body and presses a kiss to Kibum’s lips. Small, close-mouthed.

“Of course. Love. Of course I remember. I remember every single time.”

“Oh my god.”

Kibum’s shoving at his chest. Minho doesn’t let go.

“Why are you like this? Gross. We’ve fucked, like, a thousand times by now, you can’t possibly remember every single one.”

Minho wants to argue, because he can, he does, but Kibum slaps his chest, doesn’t let him.

“And anyway, that’s not the point. It was this morning, is what I mean. Twelve hours, max. I looked exactly the same. What’s gotten into you?”

“Just, you,” Minho says. Plain. Truthful.

“Ugh.”

“So, this isn’t what you wanted?”

That shuts Kibum up real good.

“What was it for, then? The picture.”

“I told you.” Kibum swallows.

“Wanted to show you my outfit. Your opinion. Which you never gave me, by the way.”

“Uhu. Would be the first time, Kibum-ah.”

There’s really nothing Kibum could say to that, it’s so true there’s no argument.

“You wanted this.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Kibum-ah.”

Minho’s hands are back on him, back to squeezing him. Crushing him. All over his body, his chest, his hips, his waist and around to get at his ass and that makes Kibum stumble, sway into Minho.  

“You’re being so rough, yah.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“No bruises,” Kibum snaps.

Because Kibum bruises like a peach and Minho’s eyes are wild on him, his skin and, yeah, if he keeps at it, it’ll show. 

Minho loves it. Goes insane with it.

“You don’t want everyone to see?”

“I want the outfit to look good, you monster.”

“And you don’t think it’ll look better? With my handprints on you? I know you want to tease the fans, you don’t think they’ll like seeing how hard you’re getting it?”

“Fuck,” Kibum breathes.

“Since when are you such an exhibitionist? Huh? On the phone last week and now this?”

“Shut up,” Kibum says. “Don’t piss me off. You loved that, none of that counts.”

“So, the picture doesn’t count either? The picture you sent while you knew I was on set and everyone could’ve seen?”

“It wasn’t even a dirty picture, oh my god. I was fully dressed, don’t be such an idiot.”

“What are you being such a brat for, huh?”

Because Kibum gets mean when he’s cornered and it just shows how much it affects him.

“Hate when you call me that.”

And Kibum’s hands are on Minho’s wrists. Like he could stop him. Laughable.

“Oh? You do?”

“You know I do. It’s so stupid.”

“I’ve seen you practice, you know? When you flip everyone off and you love it so much you giggle, every time. How’s that not being a brat?”

Kibum pulls back to look at him. And then, there it is.

Kibum squints.

Smirks.

This twinkle in his eye that seduces thousands of people. His eyes that he widens, mouth he pouts at Minho, pink and small, like he has no idea what’s going on. Like he’s innocence personified, except his eyes give it all away, except he wants everyone to see through him, see the little demon behind, that’ll drive Minho insane every minute of every day and Minho wants to fuck him up so badly he can’t keep his act up, wants to fuck the brattiness out of him, this strange impulse that’s so foreign to him.

Minho doesn’t get like this, ever, but.

Something about Kibum’s waist.

“Bedroom, come on.” He sounds so rough. “Want to fuck you in bed.”

Kibum’s stunned into silence and Minho doesn’t take his hands off him, not for a second, shoves and pulls and Kibum stumbles, as surprised as Minho is.

This is a lot.

More than usual. Way more.

“What the hell,” Kibum whispers, except he’s on the bed, already, and his eyes are so wide and dark on Minho, where he’s getting Kibum’s jeans off, his cute little boxer briefs, black and tight and then Kibum’s naked and Minho’s not and he just looks.

Because Kibum lets him.

Because Kibum’s run out of things to say, apparently. Because his head is empty, finally, just filled up with Minho, his hands and his cock and his love he wants to get all over Kibum.

And Minho laughs. Because, how did they even get here. It comes out half incredulous, half mean, exactly like Minho feels.

“Yeah,” he says. “This is what you wanted alright.”

Kibum doesn’t contradict him, just stares when Minho gets his own shirt off and licks his lips and swallows and gets harder, visibly.

Minho knows what he looks like. The rest of the world does, too. He’s in the shape of his life. And Kibum’s so fucked, already looks like it.

He gets his own pants off, too. Kibum closes his eyes, breathes, loud.

“Minho-yah.”

“Yeah.”

And he knees onto the bed, crawls up and over Kibum, where he opens for him, his legs and Minho’s not done looking, not even close.

It’s vulnerable. A vulnerable position, more so than Kibum likes, usually, but he’s still breathing hard, shifting, looks as crazy as Minho feels.

He put his hands on Kibum’s body.

His shoulders. Strokes down his arms, his wrists, the bone there, delicate, thin like a bird, then his chest, all over, keeps his touch so soft, and Kibum’s eyes are closed again, perfect brows furrowed and Minho pets over his nipples, more pressure than earlier, pinches, the tiniest bit, so gentle, gets them harder and blush pink and Kibum’s stomach jumps, so Minho has to touch there next.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he says. Because he has to say it.

“It’s unreal. It’s too much.”

Kibum frowns harder and Minho kisses right over his belly button, then to the side, wet, open-mouthed, to taste.

“Perfect,” he says. Into Kibum’s skin.

“Don’t be corny,” Kibum breathes.

“I feel like I made you up sometimes.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I want you so bad. You’re killing me. That’s what I thought when I saw the picture, how hard I want to bruise you, all over, how rough you want it. Your skin. How much I want to bite you, come on you, here.”

Own you, Minho thinks.

“Don’t be so crass, yah,” but Kibum’s sounding more strained, with every sentence, barely gets the words out.

“Then don’t look like this. So obscene. Every time I think it can’t get worse, you can’t get sexier, can’t get me hotter and then you do. How’s your waist so small? What for?”

“What do you want me to say? For you?”

“Isn’t it?”

Kibum doesn’t answer, Minho didn’t think he would, but that’s answer enough.

He isn’t done looking, isn’t done touching and probably wouldn’t be, for the rest of the night, except. Kibum snaps.

“Fuck, Minho-yah.”

Not anger, but full desperation

“What is this? Huh? I know what I did, whatever with the stupid picture, just.”

“What?”

“If I say ‘touch me’ you’ll just keep doing whatever the hell this is, ugh.”

And that gets a laugh out of Minho, breaks his tension, because, yeah. Clocked it.

“Got me there,” he smiles.

“Then fuck me. That’s what you want, no?”

“And what do you want?”

But it’s not asking for an order. Not this time. So Kibum clams up.

“Kibum-ah.”

And Minho lies down, fully, puts his chest to Kibum’s, his hips between Kibum’s thighs and it’s so comfortable, familiar, good, just like that, and Kibum tilts his head up to be kissed, so Minho does, sweet and soft and dirty, not even deep, just Kibum’s soft kitten-licks into his mouth, and his bites on Kibum’s lips and it’s so good they’re both moaning and that’s where Minho’s patience ends.

“Is that what you want? Kibum-ah? Baby? To get fucked?”

“I want to get off.”

Because he’s not done being a brat, even when he whispers, shaky.

Minho gets it, though. This day has been insane. Intense. They’re both so hard, wet against each other, between their bodies and they both need, and, okay.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, you tease. I’ll get you off.”

He pats around for the lube that’s still somewhere in the messy bed Kibum never makes, but Minho makes for him, except they did fuck his morning, messed it up again.

Like he messed up Kibum. He can he feel it, slick fingers to Kibum’s hole and he’s still a bit soft, there, and Kibum feels it, too.

“No fingers, took you this morning, just—"

“Yeah, yes.”

Minho’s rushed, burns with it, just slicks up his cock and presses up to where Kibum’s so hot and tight, a little red, irritated skin, because this isn’t the first time today, and he must be sore, but Kibum loves that, so Minho loves it, too.

Kibum’s making this impatient noise and, yeah, he’s on it. He rubs his cock over Kibum’s hole, the length of it, teases, because he can, gets him wet and then pushes, just a little, pushes in, then lets up again, watches Kibum opening, struggling, again and again and it’s mesmerizing and then Kibum is whining, high and desperate and unexpected.

Minho wasn’t even angling for that, but it’s the sweetest sound. One he only gets out of Kibum when they’ve been going for hours, usually, but tonight this was enough.

“Come on,” Kibum whispers. “God, come on.”

And then.

“Please.”

And, what?

Kibum looks a little shocked, himself.

“I just—"

But Minho does it again, already, presses up and in, until Kibum’s stretched around his cock, wide, just so, and he chokes and Minho can’t look away and then he can’t take it anymore, pushes and sinks inside and it’s insanely hot, so tight he can barely move, has to go inch by inch and pull back and get more lube, and he fucks Kibum open, so slowly, as slowly as he can take.

“Let me look at you."

Because Kibum’s hiding, arms thrown over his face.

“No.”

“Kibum-ah. Sweetheart. Please.”

“No.” Watery, small

“What’s this, hm?”

“Nothing, fuck off.”

But Kibum’s shaking.

And the thing is.

Minho has a big cock. He knows it, and he’s usually pretty humble about it.

It’s moments like this, though, that get him. Because he’s waiting for it, has been waiting, for it to get too much one day and for Kibum to let it slip. To fuck it out of him and have him say it, that he loves it, loves that Minho’s big enough to hurt, that he loves the way it feels, heavy and hard inside him, as good as it feels for Minho, the way Kibum’s tight like a vice every single time, so much he’d be worried, if Kibum wouldn’t bitch him out for being too careful.

This train of thought is so vain and stupid, Minho tries not to go there, at all.

But it’s heady, feeling it. Feeling Kibum struggle. Addictive.

He leans on one forearm and gets his hand on Kibum, on his waist first, of course, then his arms and pulls them down so he can kiss at Kibum’s wet cheeks and see his red rimmed eyes and let him stare daggers at Minho for making him feel so good.

“Come on, baby,” he says. “Relax, let me in.”

Kibum takes this wet, shuddering breath, and he does, and Minho can move, harder, pulls out rougher, thrusts deeper, as much as Kibum’s tight heat lets him and Kibum goes wild with it, loses whatever composure he had, moaning and panting and frowning so hard, in pleasure, or annoyance, both of it, probably, and he turns his face away again and.

“Fuck,” mashed into the pillows.

“Fuck, you’re so big, what the fuck.”

And, oh, shit.

There it is.

Minho’s shocked out of his rhythm, so close his stomach swoops, suddenly, but Kibum’s groaning, yelling at him.

“Oh god, don’t stop, don’t stop, why’d you stop?”

So Minho doubles down, shoves in so rough it startles himself and pushes Kibum up the bed and makes him moan and.

“That’s it? Baby? That’s it, you like feeling me?”

The vainest, dumbest question, Minho will never live this down, but he can’t stop, either.

“Like that you’ll feel it tomorrow? The day after, if I really try?”

And Kibum sobs, like maybe he feels it already.

“Like that you’re sore every time?”

“Yes, okay?”

Kibum shouts, like it’s punched out of him, like he’s been holding it back for too long.

“Yeah, yes, that’s what you want to hear? What you feel like? Your stupid big cock, that you feel fucking huge? Every single time? That there’s no getting used to it?”

It is. It’s what Minho wants to hear. More than that. Too much.

“That no one ever fucked me like this and no one ever will?”

Minho pulls out with a desperate shove and Kibum almost screams.

“What? Why? Why, oh my god, you bastard, what,” and he’s crying, sobbing.

“Shit, was about to come, sorry, I’m sorry.” Because he wants Kibum to come first, wants him to come on his cock.

“Minho-yah,” shaky and desperate and helpless.

And Minho squeezes himself, at the base, then flips Kibum on his front, quick and effortless, because he can’t look at his face or he’ll come anyway and then he pushes in again.

The view’s insane, Kibum’s waist, oh god, and Minho gets his hands on it again, around it, and, no, that’ll make him come, too, so he drops his weight, lets it flatten Kibum to the bed, lets the weight of his cock settle inside him and Kibum moans, this long, drawn-out thing until he’s just lying there, pinned down in every way, eyes glassy and mouth open and drooling a little.

“You asshole,” he whispers. “You asshole, Choi Minho.”

Minho ruts into him. Hard. Digs his knees into the mattress to do it again.

It seems to get through to Kibum gradually, the way he reacts, long moans, staccatoed by Minho’s thrusts and his eyes are still unfocused, rolled back, and Minho’s only seen him this fucked out a handful of times, maybe, and it’s a Thursday night during comeback season and what the hell.

“Sweetheart,” he says. Pants, because he’s losing his mind, too, because he’s breathless.

“Hey. Hey, baby.”

“What,” Kibum says, surprisingly lucid. “If you stop again, I’ll kill you.”

It shocks a laugh out of Minho, so unexpected and so incredibly Kibum, it squeezes around his heart and he has to tuck his face into Kibum’s hair, hide his smile and kiss there, kiss his neck, turn his head to press kisses to Kibum’s slack mouth.

“I love you.”

He can’t not say it. Despite Kibum telling him to shut up, that he doesn’t want to hear it in bed all the time, doesn’t want Minho to wear it out.

“I love you.” Again.

And then Kibum clenches so tight Minho chokes with it, and he’s coming, shaking apart in Minho’s arms and this is the best day of his life and Kibum’s sobbing again and then he’s clearly had enough, even though he whines when Minho pulls out and it takes all of ten second for him to come as well, all over Kibum’s ass and his back and his waist, just like he wanted, and Kibum’s hole where Minho holds him open.

It takes another ten seconds for Kibum to get his wits back enough to hiss.

“If you ever bring that up again, I’ll cut your dick off. I swear to god, I’ll do it, I’ll do it.”

And Minho’s hysterical, because that dick just made Kibum come so hard he’s still shaking like a leaf and he can’t believe it, can’t believe he’s so in love and Kibum is, too, evidently, and Minho can’t help it, pushes himself up and looks at his come drying on Kibum’s skin and gets this rush of possessive insanity.

He gets his hand in there, on the small of Kibum’s back and rubs a little, rubs it into Kibum’s skin and Kibum’s yelling, of course.

“Fuck, no!”

But it comes out weak and then Minho’s dragging his fingers down, down to Kibum’s hole, red and used and probably so sore, so sensitive from taking it a second time and that shouldn’t turn Minho on so much, but he can’t help it, he needs to, gets some of his own come on his fingers and pushes one in and Kibum starts crying for real and it’s so hot Minho’s head will explode and Kibum’s shaking his head a little.

“Stop. Stop, Minho-yah.”

But he pushes back into it, hard, like maybe Minho doesn’t need to stop at all.

“Yeah,” Minho says. Shushes. “I will, just. Let me.”

And he pulls his finger out, gets two handfuls of Kibum’s small, tight ass and gets his mouth on him. Because he’s gone completely crazy.

He licks inside, deep with how open Kibum is and tastes him, tastes himself, a little bit, and Kibum’s sniffling into his pillow, doesn’t even say anything, so Minho looks his fill, leans in to kiss, makes Kibum shiver.

“Is it too much?”

“What do you fucking think?”

Minho laughs, loud, with endorphins and orgasm haze and, okay, he pulls back, kisses Kibum’s cheeks, one, then the other, small nip of teeth and gets up, gets moving.

“Just a second.”

“Ugh,” Kibum says. Because he can bounce back quickly like that.

Minho cleans him up, as clinical as he can, because every touch makes Kibum shiver and complain and he’ll want to get up for his night routine anyway, in a bit.

Not yet, though. Minho’s got some time, to get back in bed, get his arms around Kibum and move him, gently, into Minho’s side, half on top of him, face tucked into Minho’s neck, just how Kibum likes it.

“I’m not moving,” Kibum slurs.

“Mh.”

“No, you don’t understand.”

“I do.”

“No."

“Okay, I don’t.”

“That’s right. Not even tomorrow. Never again, you’ll carry me everywhere.”

Minho fully believes that. Except.

“Might get difficult at the MV shoot.”

“Whatever, I’ll sit down. Jinki hyung did it for 1 of 1.”

“And all that choreo you learned? And your outfits? You’d hate it so much.”

“And whose fault is that?” Kibum snaps. “I’ll blame you, too. In front of the camera and the managers and everyone.”

“Yeah?”

Minho’s endlessly amused.

“What will you tell them?”

“Everything.” Kibum yawns.

“Oh? Everything?”

“Yes.”

“Tell them who gave it to you so good you cried yourself hoarse?”

“Will you stop? Are you haunted?”

Kibum actually pulls back to look at him.

“Are you fucking possessed? What happened to you? I show a little bit of skin and suddenly you’re—"

He struggles for words and Minho laughs at the outburst and, yeah, he doesn’t really know either.

“I don’t really know either,” he says, almost bashful.

“Lie back down, come on.”

Because, whatever it was, it’s real nice like this and Kibum actually does and shuts his mouth, too, huh, and Minho huffs, incredulous, who would’ve thought.

“Who would’ve thought you could be so sweet, hm?”

“Shut up, I’m sweet all the time.”

And he lets Minho run his hands all over his body, over his back, down his sides and over his waist, again and again, because Minho’s obsessed, out of his mind.

Kibum stays sweet, for now, and pliant against Minho and. Again. He swears up and down he doesn’t plan it. It’s just that he can’t help himself.

He soothes his hands over Kibum’s ass, does it again, and down the thigh that’s splayed out over Minho and.

“Oh my god! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Sorry,” Minho says, and he actually is, so sorry, but he still can’t stop.

Keeps his fingers there, on Kibum’s hole and he’s so, so soft there and burning hot against the pads of his fingers and fluttering, like Minho could sink right in, and he’s still wet, too, and Minho regrets not coming inside him now, because that would be even better.

“You’ve never been like this, what is going on?” Kibum groans into his chest and drags the last syllable out, whiny and theatrical.

It’s true, Minho hasn’t been, he guesses. Doesn’t know why, now. Doesn’t get how he could ever stop touching Kibum at a reasonable point.

Or, well. He does know. Because usually he’s ordered to, in no uncertain terms.

And Minho loves that. Probably better than what’s going on here.

This here feels dangerous.

Like he could do anything. Like he could push his fingers inside Kibum’s petal softness and hear him gasp and bitch about it and push back into it all the same. Like he could fuck him again. Like he could get Kibum to beg him, angry and slutty, maybe, soreness be damned.

But.

He doesn’t.

Just keeps his fingers there, rubs the soft, tender skin, feels Kibum squirm in what’s probably pain and pleasure and a healthy dose of embarrassment.

“Shh,” he says, soothes. Waits for Kibum to tell him not to do that.

It never comes.

So, he just does it again.

Gets his other hand up in Kibum’s hair and, that’s it, Kibum goes boneless again. Makes a tiny sound.

“That’s it, yeah. Bet that’s really good, huh?”

“Shut up,” Kibum says, because he’s still himself, but it comes out all slurred and drunk.

“Be sweet again, hm? Just let me play, let me play a little, sweetheart.”

Kibum doesn’t say a word, so Minho keeps at it, scratches Kibum’s scalp and pets over his wet hole, where he fucked him open, where he’s Minho’s, so clearly, no doubt about it, no doubt with everything Kibum let him do today.

They fall asleep for a while, maybe an hour, before Kibum startles awake and groans and starts cussing him out so severely the neighbors might hear it through the sound proofing.

Minho’s so happy he thinks it’ll burst out of his chest. He loves him so much.

“I love you so much.”

That gets the most frustrated groan out of Kibum and Minho starts laughing, so hard it hurts, but Kibum’s laughing too, a little, and then they just look at each other.

Because what the hell was that.

“Yah,” Kibum says. Impossibly annoyed.

“Since when are you so possessive, huh? Have you always been like that? If this is what you’ll be like I’ll ban you from the concert.”

“We’ll see about that,” he says. Grins.

If this isn’t winning, Minho doesn’t know what is.