Synopsis: It starts as joke and have been running between you and Minho for a while — until it isn’t anymore. (2,4k words)
It starts as a joke.
The first time you say it is when he cooks dinner.
You’re sitting at the kitchen counter, chin in your hands, watching him move around and looking annoyingly good doing something as mundane as stirring a pan. His focused, dark brown eyes. The strands of hair falling over his forehead. The sharpness of his jaws. The slope of his nose.
He wipes his hands on a cloth when he’s done. Then slides a plate toward you.
“Eat before it gets cold,” he says without the slightest of zest.
“Thank you, my beautiful, private chef,” you teasingly say.
You pick up the fork, taking a piece of the pan seared salmon and shove it into your mouth. It tastes exactly as it looks. As you expected.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes widen dramatically.
He rolls his eyes immediately. “What.”
“This is amazing,” you gasp, clutching your chest like you’ve just been emotionally wounded by good food.
The compliment doesn’t seem to faze him much as he continues eating his own dinner. Yet he looks just as attractive when he’s eating.
You put your hands under your chin, tilting your head slightly to the side as you dreamily sigh, “You’re hot and good at cooking…”
He only looks at you, unimpressed. And yet, his indifference is the biggest part of his charm.
You lean forward and sweetly say, “Please, marry me.”
He doesn’t even look up from his own plate of dinner. “No.”
Your lips curl into a pout. “No?”
“I already cooked for you. That’s more than enough commitment,” he simply answers and ever so casually, taking a sip of water.
The answer comes out so smoothly, so unexpectedly but at the same time, it’s so Minho. You burst out laughing, completely amused. And ever since, you can’t help but teasing him with the same joke, anticipating what his answer will be.
-
A week later he comes home with a fresh haircut.
You’re on the couch scrolling through your phone when he walks in, casually kicking off his shoes like he didn’t just drastically increase the apartment’s attractiveness level.
It amazes you how Minho losing a few inches of hair makes you stare and feel warm all over.
He notices as he walks to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. “What?”
“You look hot,” you say, biting your lower lip like it would help supress the dirty thoughts forming in your head. “Like… illegally hot.”
“It’s just a haircut,” he says, matter-of-factly.
You wait until he’s sitting on the sofa with you, scooting closer until you’re right there next to him and stare at him all over again with heart in your eyes.
“Gosh, I have the hottest man in the world as my boyfriend,” you sigh, a finger playfully tracing the prominent vein on his arm.
As usual, Minho is unfazed. He’s on his phone, typing on the screen with so much focus. You lean in closer, close enough to place light, little kisses along the side of his jaw and then a final one on the skin behind his ear, catching the hint of his perfume there.
“I’d destroy the world if you married someone else,” you feign seriousness as you whisper into his ear. “So please… marry me.”
That gets him turning his head toward you and stares at you for a long second. Then he shrugs and says, “Sounds like a you problem.”
With that, he turns his focus back on his phone, ignoring the way you pout and glare at him from the side.
But after a while, you smile as you soften around him again. You wrap your arms and legs around him, clinging to him despite him rejecting your playful proposal for the second time.
-
One evening you’re both sprawled on the couch. Minho is lying on his back with a cushion propped under his head and you — you lay on top of him with his muscular chest as your pillow, your legs are tangled with his. His arm wrapped around your back, fingers absentmindedly playing with the end of your hair.
Even doing something mundane like this — just watching a movie, cuddling on the sofa in a contented silence — feels special with him. It really is not about what you’re doing but who you’re doing it with.
You glance up at him and find him so focused on the TV, looking comfortable and warm and frustratingly boyfriend-shaped.
You sigh contentedly and softly call his name, “Minho.”
“Hm.”
“Please marry me.”
He doesn’t even look away from the screen. His tone flat and uninterested as he asks, “Why should I?”
You subtly shrug and say, “So we can do what married people do.”
One hand glides down to the base of your spine, threading his fingers there. He turns his head slightly. “Like what?”
You think about it seriously for a moment, humming in solemn. “We can open joint bank accounts.”
“Terrible idea.”
“Getting a mortgage.”
“Even worse.”
“Buying matching coffins.”
He finally turns fully toward you. “What?”
“So when we die we can be buried next to each other,” you explain matter-of-factly.
He stares at you like he’s reconsidering every life choice that led him here. “You skipped a lot of steps.”
You coyly shrug and grin.
“I’d prefer to be cremated though,” he says, putting both hands on your back now.
“Oh?” You softly gasp, slightly surprised. Then, a second later—
“Oh!” you gasp again, the kind that comes with an idea. A strange, weird idea. “We can have our ashes pressed into diamonds and inherit it to our future children.”
Minho’s lips quirk into a half smirk. “That’s actually a good idea,” he agrees.
You beam and snuggle closer, feeling proud of yourself. You burrow your head into the crook of his neck and softly whisper, “So let’s get married, yeah?”
He pats your head like you’re an overly affectionate cat. “No.”
The proposal isn’t that serious but your head lifts anyway when he rejects you for the third time. “No?”
This time, he looks at you when he says it again. “No.”
“Why not?”
He holds your face with both hands like you’re a fragile object but the answer he gives you is nothing like it. “Cause you’re getting harder to tolerate,” he flatly replies.
Instead of feeling offended, you crack a laugh and bump your nose with his. “I hate you,” you say, affectionately.
“See? Hard to tolerate,” he says, smirking.
But with each rejection, you find yourself falling harder for him. And a tiniest bit of hope that he’ll marry you. For real.
-
The joke continues.
Every time he does something nice.
When he brings you coffee.
“Please marry me.”
When he fixes the loose cabinet door you’ve been ignoring for months.
“Please marry me.”
When he wordlessly hands you a blanket because he noticed you were cold.
“Please marry me.”
His responses are always the same level of unimpressed.
“Unlikely.”
“No thanks.”
“Absolutely not.”
Or his personal favorite:
“I’m not in the mood.”
Even when you’re already tucked in bed, drowsy and tired, ready to sleep. You look at Minho who’s peacefully lying beside you with eyes closed. You lean in to his ear, whisper while half asleep.
“Please marry me, Minho.”
Minho’s eyes snap open and slowly, he turns his head toward you. He gives you a look of disbelief. Then he runs his fingers down your face to force you to close your eyes.
“Go to sleep.”
“But—”
This time, he cuts you off with by pressing a sudden, hard kiss on your lips. When he pulls away, he mutters, “Your proposal has been postponed.”
And you can’t really complaint when he shut you up like that. So instead, you snug closer to him and try to sleep. At the same, you’re already planning on proposing again tomorrow.
-
Weeks pass.
The joke never really stops. It just becomes part of your routine now.
As Minho is busy preparing dinner in the kitchen, you hug him from behind. You wrap your arms around him, resting your head on his shoulder and feeling comforted already by the mere feel of his body against you.
Minho continues cutting ingredients like this is just another Sunday afternoon. The sounds of his knife hitting the cutting board are the only thing filling the silence. Until—
“Please marry me,” you say, voice a little muffled as your mouth pressed to his neck.
Minho sighs but continues cutting the carrot now. “You’ve proposed to me twelve times today.”
You grin and teasingly say, “So?”
He turns his head, looking at you like he’s both impressed and bewildered that you haven’t given up already.
You don’t waver. Instead, you feel encouraged. “Statistically one of them will work eventually,” you confidently say.
He smirks and simply says, “Good luck with that.”
-
One night you come home exhausted. Work had been long and irritating and your brain feels like it’s running on fumes. When you open the apartment door, the smell of food greets you immediately.
Minho stands in the kitchen, the sleeves of his dark sweater rolled up to his elbows, putting too much focus on plating dinner.
Just the sight of him is enough to make the weight of the day vanishes into thin air. “I’m home,” you weakly announce.
“You’re late,” he says without looking up.
You walk up to him, giving him a quick hug while letting out a sigh. Like you’re trying to exhale all the heavy, worried minds out of your head. When you pull away, you offer him a small smile.
“I’m just going to put my bag away and wash up,” you say.
He seems to notice that you’re more exhausted than usual. He gives you a quick kiss on the lips before letting you go.
When you return, he’s already set everything on the dining table and now, filling your glass with red wine. You take your seat, stomach grumbling at the mouth-watering smell of the food in front of you.
It’s when Minho takes his seat, you finally allow yourself to start eating. It feels good to come home to the man you love and eat the food he cooked. You couldn’t be luckier than this.
“Good?” he asks.
You have to stop yourself from shoving more food to properly answer him. “So good,” you say with stuffed cheeks.
He smiles at that, warm and affectionate, before getting back to his own plate of dinner.
At the end of the dinner, you feel so content. Literally. Figuratively. You have a small sip of wine before leaning in to the side until your shoulder meets his and stay there.
You tilt your head, meeting his eyes. “Thank you for dinner,” you genuinely mutter.
Minho puts an arm around your shoulder. “Glad you enjoyed it,” he says, followed with a quick kiss to the top of your head.
You have another sip of wine and feeling playful when you look at him again. Then you hesitantly ask, “Marry me?”
For once, he doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looks back at you. He studies your face for a moment. Then, finally answers, “Okay.”
Wow! That’s a first.
But you know him too well to know that he’s only saying that as a joke, to boost your ego. Or lighten up your mood after a long, tiring day.
“You’re not supposed to say yes. You’re supposed to reject me,” you tell him, half-laughing.
He tilts his head slightly and blinks his eyes a few times. “Well, I changed my mind.”
You can’t tell if he’s being serious now or just messing with you. You nervously laugh and decide to entertain the idea. “Okay, let’s go to the city hall tomorrow and get a marriage certificate.”
“Okay,” he repeats.
Your heart starts beating faster. “You’re joking, right?” you carefully ask.
“I’m not,” his voice is calm. Serious.
Your stomach flips. “Minho…”
The arm around your shoulder feels warm and steady. He looks you in the eyes as he says, “I though you always wanted me to say yes.”
Your brain struggles to catch up. “Wait, are you actually—”
“Yes.”
You sigh, a part of you still struggling to believe this. “Minho, I need to know if you’re serious.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why would I joke about that.”
You stare at him, completely stunned. “But I thought—”
“That it was just a joke?” he finishes.
You nod weakly.
He nonchalantly shrugs. “It started that way. But I thought about it.”
“And?” you whisper.
He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “And I decided I wouldn’t mind doing those things with you.”
Your voice comes out small. “Even the cremated part?”
He sighs like he’s fed up of you doubting his proposal. “If that’s what you want.”
A shaky laugh escapes you, half disbelief and half overwhelming emotion. “You’re really proposing right now?”
“You’re the one who proposed first.”
“That was a joke!”
“And this isn’t.”
The room feels very quiet suddenly. Despite the confusion, the suddenness of this moment, and the fact that it hasn’t sunk into you… your eyes start to sting.
“You’re serious…” you mutter to yourself while laughing in disbelief.
He gently squeezes your shoulder. “Do you want me to ask properly?”
You nod quickly.
He takes a small breath. Then, in the most Minho way possible, he says, “Do you want to marry me so we can open a joint bank account, get a mortgage and have our cremated ashes turn into diamonds?”
You burst into tearful laughter. “Yes. A thousand time yes,” you say immediately.
He nods once, satisfied. “Okay.”
With that, he pulls you into his arms like this was the most normal conversation in the world. That this is not him finally asking you to marry him and said yes to marrying you.
You cling to him, still laughing in disbelief. “Told you, one of them will work eventually,” you mumble into his shoulder.
“I know.”
You tilt your head up, looking at him in love and disbelief that you’ll have your forever with him. “Marry me, Minho,” you softly murmur it’s almost a whisper.
He leans in and places a chaste kiss on your lips. when he pulls away just enough to look at you, he smiles and says, “Already working on it.”
-
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Hello. I don't know how many of you that follow me also used to follow Kleo, but I hope this reaches the right people.
@oraclekleo has passed away in january. So stop sending asks or requests, and if you had sent some beforehand just know you will not receive an answer.
I'm sorry to say this so late, and I'm sorry if this doesn't reach all of Kleo's friends.
Scenario: You're not even friends, just enemies with benefits.
Mood + Warnings: Enemies with Benefits • Toxic Tension • Push & Pull • Late Night Hookup • Verbal Sparring • Power Struggle • Rough Sex • Biting • Handjob • Blowjob • Unprotected Sex • No Aftercare
Word count: ~4k
Recommended Track: Enemies With Benefits - MONSTA X
✦ ✧ ✦ 🍯 A/N 🌙 ✦ ✧ ✦
Hi hi!
I did a poll on X asking who people wanted to be enemies with benefits with & Kihyun won by a landslide, so here we are!! My first non-Jooheon imagine too! 😆
This one leans a little more angsty/toxic than my usual, so just a quick reminder that everything in this is 100% consensual and purely fictional. It does not reflect the real Kihyun in any way shape or form. This is just a made up story inspired by a song, nothing more. Enjoy! Xx
The knock on the door pulls you out of your doomscrolling, your eyes dragging over to the time on the phone.
12:32 AM.
You sigh, pushing yourself off the couch reluctantly to cross the room. You don't even look, just unlock the door and swing it open.
It's him. Of course it is.
You glance down at the bottle in his hand— the same one as always. That one pink champagne. The one he claims is too sweet but always brings it anyway.
You look back at him unimpressed before a quiet breath leaves you, something between a mix of a sigh and a scoff. Neither of you says a word as you step back, and leave the door open while you turn and head toward the kitchen.
The door shuts quietly behind you as you open the cabinet, but you don't turn around. You reach in, pulling down two glasses without asking.
"I thought we said we were done doing this," you say, your voice quiet.
Kihyun sets the bottle on the counter and moves to the drawer by the fridge, the one that always holds the corkscrew.
"We did," he says as he starts to twist it into the cork, looking back at you over his shoulder. "Why are you getting us glasses then?"
You huff, rolling your eyes as you turn and set the glasses down on the counter, sliding yours a little closer to him.
"Just pour the drink, Kihyun."
A quiet laugh slips under his breath as the cork pops, a smirk pulling at his lips. His head lifts, and his eyes meet yours for the first time this evening before his brow ticks up, holding the bottle up between the two of you.
"If you insist," he says. His gaze never leaves yours as he tilts the bottle, pouring into your glass.
You take it from him the second it's full, bringing it to your lips for a long sip. He pours himself a glass. You watch, waiting for that familiar twist of his lips, and when it comes—
"Still too sweet?" You ask.
He swallows, smacking his lips like he's trying to get the taste to fade quicker. "God, shit's terrible," he mumbles, setting the glass on the table. "It's like I can feel the cavities already forming."
You shake your head, letting out a half-amused breath as you take another sip of yours. "That's dramatic," you say bluntly. "Why do you always bring it here if you hate it so much?"
His eyes meet yours, but he doesn't answer. Just looks at you like he might, like he's thinking about it. Your grip tightens around your glass before you look away, taking another sip as if the question didn't even matter in the first place.
He lingers for another beat before he shakes his head, brushing the thought off completely. "How's your one guy?" he asks, changing the subject. "What's his name again?"
You lean back, shrugging.
"Wouldn't know," you say, not looking at him as you swirl your drink. "We're not seeing each other anymore. Just didn't work out."
He lets out an amused breath. "Shocker."
You narrow your eyes, glaring at him. "Shut up," you snap back. "What about you and that one chick? Has she gotten tired of you yet?"
He brings his glass to his lips again, taking another slow sip like he's got all the time in the world. His eyes land on yours over the rim. "You know the answer to that if I'm here," he says. He sets his glass down and shrugs. "It was never going to last."
You hum, nodding once like you agree. "Probably because of your giant ego," you say casually, glancing at your glass again.
He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head as he moves a little closer. "Yet you keep coming back to it."
Your eyes snap up to his, irritation simmering. "You say that like you weren't the one who showed up at my door tonight—" you push yourself off the stool, setting your glass down on the counter and get into his space. "—again."
He doesn't hesitate. He steps in, crowding you until your lower back presses into the counter. "Well," he murmurs low. "You didn't have to open it."
You bite the inside of your cheek, holding onto the front for a second longer before looking at him, voice low, almost daring. "Would you have really gone away?"
He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at you, his head tilting slightly as his eyes roam over your face, then drops to your mouth, like he's already made up his mind. Then he shakes his head, voice steady. "No."
Your breath catches, just for a second, but he notices. He always does. His mouth twitches almost like he was waiting for it. "That's what I thought."
You scoff, your eyes dropping away from his, looking at anything but him because you just can't. "You're so full of yourself," you murmur.
He lets out a quiet chuckle, closing the last bit of space between you. "That's some big talk for someone who keeps ending up right here..." His hands find your waist, firm, pulling you into him casually, his voice sinking. "and always begging for more."
You lift your chin, eyes focused back on him now. "I don't beg for you," you say defiantly. "You should know that by now."
"Yeah?" His gaze drops to your lips, his hold on your waist tightening just slightly. "We'll see."
You let out a quiet breath, barely a scoff. "You're actually the worst, Kihyun."
He smiles at that— just a little. "Yeah," he murmurs, leaning in closer, his lips just barely above yours now. "So are you."
For a second, neither one of you moves. The air around you feels charged with that familiar buzz, wound too tight to hold any longer, just his breath against your lips, warm and steady.
And then he kisses you.
You don't pull away.
It's desperate immediately, his grip tightening around you because no matter how much you hate this, you know you both can't get enough of it either. He groans against your mouth, that sweet wine still on his tongue mixing with yours and distracting in the best way possible.
"Tell me to stop," he mutters against your lips. "Tell me you don't want this, and I swear I'll leave right now."
Your fingers curl into his shirt, holding onto him tight. You know you should push him away. You know you should tell him to go back to his apartment and leave you the hell alone. You pull him closer instead.
"You're not going to go anywhere," you breathe against his mouth, your resolve slipping. "So just shut up and kiss me properly."
He lets out a dark laugh against your mouth. "God, you're bossy."
He grips your jaw before you can respond, tilting your head back to roughen up the kiss, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip hard to prove his point. You hiss at the bite, pulling back, your brows furrowed.
"Asshole," you mutter before your hand slides up to the back of his neck, pulling him down to give him a taste of his own medicine, right on his neckline. The bite isn't gentle. The mark it leaves is already a shade of purple by the time your lips leave him.
He lets out a low sound against your ear, his grip on your hips hard enough to bruise. "There it is," he says through clenched teeth, pulling back to kiss you hard again. "Knew you still had it in you."
"You're insufferable," you mutter against his mouth.
"Am I?" he laughs low and rough. His arm hooks around your back, lifting you up quickly and setting you onto the counter, the sudden movement knocking the breath out of your chest. "And yet you still let me do this."
He slides his hands up under your shirt as he says it, and you push into him instinctively, a soft moan slipping from your lips.
"You're the one who came over here," you breathe, your voice becoming more unsteady as you feel his cold fingers sliding up your flushed sides. "Stop acting like you didn't know exactly what would happen."
"Oh, I'm not," he says simply. His hand comes to your face now, fingers stroking over your lips. "So why don’t you stop acting like you weren’t sitting here waiting for it."
"Fuck you," you spit out at him.
A slow smirk spreads across his face.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "That's the plan."
You don't even respond, just grab his shirt and pull him back down to you, kissing him harder, messy and impatient. It's always like this. Fast, rough. Desperate. Like you're both trying to tear each other apart. Your nails dig into his chest, making him wince into your mouth, but you don't care. You pull back, breaking just long enough to breathe.
"Bedroom," you pant. "Now."
He doesn't argue. He doesn't even smirk this time. He just grabs your thighs to lift you off the counter, your legs wrapping around him instantly. He moves down your hallway like he owns the place, the door bouncing off the wall as he pushes his way through it, not slowing down before he drops you on the bed.
He's over you before you have time to think, his lips crashing into yours at the same time his hands find your shirt again, but this time with no intention of stopping.
You push up just enough for him to pull it over your head, tossing it aside without a second thought. You reach for the hem of his shirt next, feeling the twitch of his muscles as your fingers skim against his stomach.
You tug it up, impatient. "Take it off," you demand, your voice coming out rougher than you meant it to.
He lets out a sharp, almost mocking laugh, looking down at you. "Do it yourself," he says smugly.
Your brows raise, your chest still heaving as you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him. "Are you kidding me?"
You huff out a breath that's half annoyance and half amusement before you start to move toward him anyway, gripping the fabric and yanking the buttons open, not caring if anything rips.
You hold his gaze the whole time, hands sliding down his shoulders and arms to push the shirt off him. "You just wanted me to touch you," you murmur. "Admit it."
The corner of his mouth lifts just barely.
"I never said I didn't," he admits, a smug edge in his voice. "Now enough talking and use those hands for something more useful."
You roll your eyes but your hands drop to his belt. "Now who's the demanding one?" you tease, your fingers already working to unbuckle it, the leather sliding through the loops easily.
You pop the button of his jeans and pull the zipper down, and press your palm over the front of his boxers, barely letting him feel you. "Is this good enough for you?" You smirk, watching him closely.
His hips snap forward like he just can't help himself, a sharp breath sucked through his teeth as he drops his forehead to your shoulder. "You think you're funny, don't you?"
Your mouth twitches. Then you pull his boxers down quickly, wrapping your hand around him without warning. He groans, sharp and loud. "What was that?" you ask tilting your head, voice almost unimpressed as you stroke him a few times, slow and intentional. "I didn't quite catch it."
"Shit," he gasps, his forehead pressing harder against your shoulder. His fingers grip your waist hard, his hips jerking into your hand, chasing after the friction.
"You're such a brat," he bites out, breathless. "But you're damn good with your hands..." Another sharp breath leaves him, and his head falls back briefly, his jaw tense. "I'll give you that."
"You're just now realizing this?" you laugh, brushing your finger over the tip, making him jerk again. He shakes his head, his breathing rough.
"No," he says. "I've known." His eyes lift back to you, wrecked already. "Why do you think I can't fucking stay away from you?"
You smile at that, but your hand doesn't stop moving. "Flattery won't make you cum any quicker, Kihyun."
He scoffs. "I hate you," he grits out.
You just smile again. "Yeah," you say as you lean forward, your lips just ghosting over the tip of his cock. "I know you do."
Then you take him into your mouth, knocking the breath out of him completely. His hand flies to the back of your head as his whole body jerks into your mouth.
"Fuck—" he gasps, looking down at you with hazy eyes as his other hand comes up to brush your hair back, getting it out of your face.
You moan around him, taking him more deeply just to see how much he can take, the vibration making his brow tighten, and mouth drop as he watches you. Your hands stay on his thigh, nails digging into him simply because you like it when his muscles twitch beneath you.
His head thumps back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut, "God, your mouth..." he groans, barely able to stay still. "It's... not—fuck—it's not fair."
You hollow your cheeks and pull back, your tongue dragging along the vein on the underside of his cock before you take him in again, deeper this time.
He lets out a ragged groan as his hips jerk sharply when he hits the back of your throat. "You're such a show off," he pants, his grip in your hair tightening to keep you there for a moment longer. "Always acting so innocent when you take it like this."
You gag slightly, eyes watering, but you don't pull away. Instead, you just dig your nails into him more, enough to break skin, looking up at him through your lashes like you're daring him to look away.
He hisses at your nails, grabbing you by the hair and yanking you off of him. "Enough," he growls, chest pounding.
"Aww, what's wrong, Ki?" you ask, smirking as you wipe your spit off your chin with the back of your hand. "Can't take it anymore?"
"You know damn well I can take it," he breathes out. He pulls you up by the arm, his eyes meeting yours, dark and smug. "Just didn't want to finish down that pretty little throat of yours yet."
Then he crashes his lips into yours in a needy kiss, messy and desperate. When he pulls back, both of you are breathless. "Now get on the bed."
You move the minute he tells you to, not because you're listening to him. But because you want this just as bad as he does. You always do. You climb back onto the mattress, brows lifting as you look up at him with a lazy smirk.
"Well?" you say, motioning to the bed. "You gonna do something, or do you expect me to just sit here and look pretty for you?
He lets out a sharp breath, walking over to the bed with a hungry gleam in his eyes. "You don't ever know when to stop talking, do you?"
"Ahh," you nod, pursing your lips out mockingly. "The second one then?"
He doesn't respond, just crawls over you and hooks his fingers in the waistband of your jeans and pulls them down in one harsh motion. He moves to your panties, yanking them down and off too, tossing them to the side with the others.
The sight of you bare underneath him snaps every ounce of self control left. His mouth drags up your neck, finding the sensitive spot there and sinking his teeth into it, making you gasp, leaving a mark blooming in its wake.
Your legs wrap around his waist as your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer to you. His lips find yours again like they have their own magnetic pull, your body throbbing as you feel him hard and heavy beneath your thighs.
"Kihyun—" you breathe, your hips arching up off the bed, growing tired of the teasing and searching for friction. "Please."
He smirks against your lips, his breath scorching against your skin. "Was that a beg?" he murmurs. "I thought you said you didn't do that for me."
You groan, frustrated and desperate all at once, your nails digging into his shoulder. "Are you really going to make me say it?"
He leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Yeah," he mutters, softer this time. "I think I am."
You let out an exsaperated breath, but the heat spreading through your body is winning, and you can't wait anymore. "I want you," you murmur against his mouth, eyes locking onto his for just a moment. "I need you to fuck me, Kihyun. Now."
"There she is," he says, voice pleased.
And then he's pushing inside you in one slow, deep thrust, groaning low as he sinks in completely. You cry out at the stretch, the sensation overwhelming yet everything you needed in the same breath.
"Fuuuck, you're so tight..." His eyes slam shut, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he stills for a second for both of you to adjust. His hips rock against you gently, but not nearly enough.
"Oh god," you breathe, legs tightening around his waist. You push at his shoulders, heels digging into his back. "Move, Kihyun, please fucking move."
"God, you're demanding," he mutters against your neck, but you can hear the desperation in his voice despite it. He pulls almost all the way out and then slams back into you, setting a rough and punishing pace immediately. "Is this what you wanted?" he grits out, snapping his hips hard against yours.
Your head falls back into the pillows, grip tightening on his shoulders.
"Fuck yes," you gasp, back arching to meet his thrusts. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, biting down on the skin there again to stifle the sounds wanting to escape you. "Harder. Fuck me harder, Kihyun. Don't stop."
He groans, but he grips your hips bruisingly tight to give you exactly what you ask him for. "Such a bossy brat." He slams into you harder, his pace ruthless. "You always need more, don't you? " he bites at your neck now, licking the spot with his tongue to ease the sting. "Then don't you dare hold back. I wanna hear how much you love it."
"I—oh my god," you cry out, your words breaking into a sob as he hits that spot that makes your vision blur. Your nails drag down his back, leaving red trails in their path, and you can't help the desperate, almost crazed laugh that spills out of you. "Don't act like you don't love this too," you manage to gasp.
"Love it?" he pants, a sharp hiss leaving him at the feel of your nails. "I'm fucking obsessed with it."
"You're pathetic," you spew, but your hips keep rolling up into his, chasing the high as your legs start to shake.
"Look who's talking," he huffs as he leans back, angling his hips to find that spot again with a smirk on his face. "You're the one trembling beneath me right now."
You whimper as your hand flies to his chest, not to stop him but needing something to ground you. He snaps his hips harder, forcing a cry out of you. "So do you wanna keep talking shit, or do you want to cum on me instead?"
Your mouth drops, and you let out another disbelieving laugh, but the way you feel yourself clench around him tells him everything he needs to know.
"Shut the fuck up," you spit out, your voice cracking in the middle. You dig your heels in his ass again, pulling him impossibly closer, the friction so good it's borderline painful. "Make me cum then. If you're so good at it."
He lets out a sharp and breathless laugh and then shifts his angle once more, driving into you hard just to make you scream out again. He hits that spot he knows far too well over and over again, like he's trying to prove a point. "Go on, then," he grits out, his face contorted with his own restraint. "Make a mess on my cock."
You try to snap back at him, but you can't even form words anymore, your back arching off the mattress as a scream rips from your throat.
Your whole body seizes up, vision bursting white at the edges as your orgasm hits you hard, your walls clamping down around him as you shatter.
"Oh my god, Kihyun— yes, yes, yes!" You cry out, your nails digging in deep into his shoulders as you ride it out.
He grunts as he leans forward, his head dropping to your shoulder. "That's it, fuck yeah," he mutters against your sweat-slicked skin, not slowing down for a second and dragging everything out for you.
You're a shaking mess underneath him, the wetness of you dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets. "Kihyun—" you pant, pushing back on his thighs, overwhelmed, but he doesn't let up. "Ki, please, I can't—"
"You can take it," he growls, slowing down just enough to let you breathe. "I know you can."
You whimper, your legs trembling around his waist, wanting to close, but you nod anyway. "Then give it to me," you murmur, voice hoarse. "Don't make me wait anymore."
He groans against your skin, his rhythm faltering. "God, you're gonna kill me..." he breathes, his movements growing more urgent, frantic. "Take it, then."
He grips your hips tight and buries himself deep inside with a rough shout, spilling over the edge, his body shuddering against you, and you cling onto each other like your lives depend on it.
You're both a panting mess when he slumps over you, his breath hot against your skin as he comes down. He rolls off you, throwing an arm over his face, chest panting trying to catch his breath.
It's quiet for a moment. It always is. The high fades, the crash settles.
He turns his head slightly, like he's getting ready to say something.
"I—"
"Don't," you cut him off, your voice flat.
He stops, just like that, and pauses. Then he lets out a short breath through his nose, nodding once. "Yeah," he mutters, sitting up and reaching for his clothes. "Right. Don't."
You grab your clothes right after, the moment already gone. You pull them on quickly, and he follows, the fabrics rustling the only sound in the room.
"You should stop showing up," you say after a minute, not looking at him.
He scoffs softly, running his hand through his hair. "You should stop answering the door."
You roll your eyes, shaking your head. "Get out, Kihyun."
He grabs his jacket, smirking, already moving in that direction. "Lock the door behind me."
You wait a moment, listening for the quick click of the door shutting before you finally look over your shoulder at the bed. The sheets are halfway off, the pillows thrown across the floor. You let out a soft sigh as you stand, moving down the hallway.
The kitchen light is still on. The bottle of that pink champagne sits right where he left it, your glasses still half-full. You pick it up, staring at it for a second before taking a long, slow sip.
It is too sweet, you admit to yourself. It always has been.
You set it back down, not finishing it. Instead, you cross the kitchen and slide the rest of the bottle into the rack with the others— same bottle, same label, all half-empty, like it means nothing.
You don't linger, just turn and walk to the front door, fingers brushing the lock as you slide it into place, telling yourself this is the last time.
