ex husband!shiu kong is trying too much to win you back (christmas edition) ╱ mdni, 4k words, fingering, pussy eating, p in v. pre valentine's day edition, valentines day edition ˚.✦
"Oh, c'mon! Are you really going to make the kids spend Christmas with their mama and papa separated?" He told you, when you finally picked up his calls.
The kids, in fact, were the golden retriever and black cat he already had before marrying you.
"Stupid me," you drawl, leaning back against your kitchen counter, phone pinned between your ear and shoulder as you pour yourself a very necessary glass of wine. "I really thought you were calling to tell me you finally signed the fucking papers."
You hear the scoff. "Merry Christmas to you too, babe."
"Don't 'babe' me, Shiu. That privilege died the day you decided 'working late' meant ignoring me for the third week in a row while I handled everything alone."
He goes quiet for a beat, just long enough for you to know it landed.
"Fair," he mutters. "I deserved that."
"Anyway," you barrel on, "congratulations on remembering my number exists. What do you want? I'm busy."
"You're drinking alone on December twenty-third, aren't you?"
You glance at the half-empty bottle. "...No."
"Liar." You can practically see him sprawled on that stupid leather couch you both fought over at Ikea, feet almost certainly propped on the coffee table you told him a thousand times not to use as a footstool. "Come on. It's Christmas. Mochi and Whiskey miss you."
"Mochi and Whiskey miss the treats I used to smuggle in my pockets. They have you. They're fine."
"They're depressed," he says, deadpan serious. "Mochi hasn't chased his tail in weeks. Whiskey won't even sit in the sunbeam by the window anymore. You know, your spot. Where he'd curl up right next to you while you read those trashy romance novels and pretended you weren't crying at the ending."
You hate that he remembers that. Hate the way your throat tightens at the mental picture.
"They're animals, Shiu. They adapt. Unlike certain husbands I know."
He pauses, the silence he always uses when he's switching strategies.
"Remember our first Christmas together?" he asks, voice going softer, dangerous. "We couldn't afford a real tree. Just that pathetic little fake one from the convenience store with the wonky stand. You still made me string popcorn with you, and we burned half of it because we got distracted making out on the floor."
You press your lips together. You remember. You remember how he'd laughed when the popcorn caught fire, how he'd kissed the tiny burn on your finger like it was the most important thing in the world.
"Stop."
"And the year after that," he keeps going, relentless, "when Mochi was a puppy and ate half the ornaments off the bottom branches. You cried because you were convinced he was going to die, and I stayed up all night with you at the emergency vet. He shit tinsel for a week straight."
A laugh slips out before you can trap it. You hate him for that.
"Or the Christmas we got Whiskey," he continues, voice warm now. "You said the apartment was too quiet after Mochi destroyed everything in sight. We drove three hours in a snowstorm to that shelter. You held that tiny black kitten the whole way home, and he fell asleep on your chest purring so loud the car was vibrating."
"Shiu—"
"We were happy," he says quietly. "We were so damn happy. And I know I fucked it up. I know I was a shitty husband. I disappeared into work, forgot birthdays, left you to deal with every bill, every vet visit, every crisis alone. I made you feel like you were living with a roommate who didn't give a damn. But it's Christmas. Just one day. Come over. I'll make that terrible lasagna you pretend to like. We'll wear those ridiculous matching reindeer pajamas you bought us. One day. That's all I'm asking."
You stare at the wine glass in your hand, at the faint red ring it's left on the counter. Your apartment is quiet. Too quiet. No golden retriever feet thundering across the floor. No black cat glaring down at you from the top of the fridge like you're late with dinner.
"I'm not coming back," you say finally. "Not like that."
"I'm not asking you to," he says quickly. "I swear. Just Christmas. For old times. For Mochi and Whiskey. They really do miss you."
"They're pets, Shiu. They don't understand divorce."
"They understand you're gone," he says, and damn him, his voice cracks just a little. "And so do I."
Silence stretches between you. In the background you hear Mochi bark—probably at his own reflection again—and then the soft thump of Whiskey landing on something he knows he's not supposed to be on.
"One day," he repeats softly. "Like it used to be. Just... us. Please."
You close your eyes. Pinch the bridge of your nose.
"You're a manipulative bastard, you know that?"
"I know," he says, and you can hear the smile creeping back in. "But I'm your manipulative bastard. At least for Christmas."
You exhale, long and slow.
"If you burn the lasagna again, I'm leaving."
"I won't burn it."
"And if you call me 'babe' one more time, I'm taking the dog, the cat and never coming back."
"Deal."
"And you're signing those papers in January."
A pause.
"...We'll talk about it."
"Shiu—"
"See you tomorrow, sweetheart."
He hangs up before you can snap at him.
You stare at your phone for a long moment.
Then at the empty wine glass.
Then at the bag in the corner you haven't fully unpacked since the last time you swore you were done for good.
"Fuck," you mutter, and go dig out the reindeer pajamas from the bottom drawer.
You show up at exactly 9:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve, because being fashionably late is your last remaining weapon, and you’re damned if you’re going to let him think you were eager.
The door swings open before you can even knock. Shiu’s standing there in a grey T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, flour smeared on one forearm. He looks unfairly good for someone who’s supposed to be your almost-ex-husband.
“Took you long enough,” he says, smirking like he’s been waiting to use that line for hours.
You shove the overnight bag at his chest harder than necessary. “Traffic. And I stopped for wine that isn’t the cheap crap you buy.”
He catches the bag easily, steps aside to let you in. “I bought the one you like. The expensive Pinot you pretend isn’t your favorite.”
“Shut up.”
The house smells like garlic, tomato sauce and something sweet burning. Mochi barrels into your legs immediately, whining and spinning in circles. Whiskey appears a second later, winds around your ankles once, then sits and stares up at you like you’ve personally offended him by leaving.
“Yeah, yeah, I missed you too, your highness,” you mutter, scratching behind Whiskey’s ears. He starts purring like a motorbike.
Shiu closes the door, leans against it with his arms crossed. “You look good.”
You glance down at your black jeans, oversized sweater and the scarf you definitely didn’t choose because it’s his favorite color. “I look like someone who’s only here for the animals and free food.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes flick over you anyway, slow and obvious. “Lasagna’s resting. I was attempting dessert when you decided to grace me with your presence.”
You toe off your boots, hang your coat on the hook that’s still labeled with your name in faded Sharpie. “That explains the burning smell.”
He flips you off without heat and heads toward the kitchen. You follow because, well, because your feet do it without permission.
The kitchen island is a war zone: bowls everywhere, sugar spilled like snow, a stand mixer that looks like it lost a fight. There’s a half-assembled tiramisu on the counter, ladyfingers soaked but not yet layered, mascarpone mixture sitting in a bowl looking lumpy and sad.
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re making tiramisu? The dessert you swore was ‘too fiddly’ every single year I tried to make it?”
“I thought I’d step up.” He shrugs, but there’s a faint flush on his neck. “Figured you deserved something that didn’t come out of a box.”
You snort. “How’s that working out for you?”
“The mascarpone split. Twice. And I can’t get the coffee strong enough without making it bitter as hell.”
You lean your hip against the counter, fold your arms. “Amateur.”
“Help me then, chef.” He gestures at the mess like it’s your fault. “Since you’re here and clearly superior.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re already pushing your sleeves up. “Move over. You’re hogging the bowl.”
He doesn’t move far, just enough that you have to brush past him to reach the mascarpone. You feel the heat of him at your back immediately, that familiar wall of solid warmth you spent years pretending didn’t affect you anymore.
You grab the bowl, taste the mixture with the tip of your finger. Too sweet, not enough vanilla, and yeah, it’s starting to separate. “You overwhipped it, genius. And you used cheap instant coffee.”
“I followed the recipe.”
“You followed it wrong.” You reach for the vanilla extract, add a generous splash. “Here. Fold, don’t beat. Gentle. Like you’re trying not to wake someone up.”
He watches you work, arms crossed again, leaning against the opposite counter now. “Bossy as ever.”
“Someone has to be.” You dip a ladyfinger into the coffee-rum mixture, lay it carefully in the dish. “You always rush the soaking. They need to drink, not drown.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You shoot him a glare. “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. I’m not your mother.”
“No,” he says, voice dropping a little. “Definitely not.”
You ignore the way that lands low in your stomach and keep layering. He’s quiet for a minute, just watching your hands. Then he steps closer, reaches past you for the cocoa powder.
“Need this?”
You take it without looking at him. “Obviously.”
He doesn’t step back. He stays right there, close enough that you can smell the coffee on his breath, the faint trace of his cologne you bought him two Christmases ago and swore you’d never buy again.
You dust cocoa over the first layer, start on the second. “Stop hovering.”
“I’m not hovering. I’m supervising.”
“You’re breathing down my neck.”
“Am I?” His voice is right by your ear now. “You used to like that.”
Your hand falters, cocoa puffs up in a cloud. “Used to. Past tense. Learn it.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “You’re cute when you’re pretending to hate me.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“Liar.”
You finish the last layer, smooth the top with more force than necessary. “There. Now put it in the fridge before you ruin it.”
He takes the dish from you, slides it onto the middle shelf, then closes the door and turns back. You’re wiping your hands on a towel, trying to ignore the way your pulse is hammering.
He steps in again—closer this time—and before you can dodge, his arms slide around your waist from behind. Slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.
You don’t.
His chest presses against your back, chin resting on your shoulder. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your neck.
You stiffen. “It’s just dessert.”
“No. For coming. For not making me spend Christmas Eve alone with two depressed animals and burnt sugar.”
You try to keep your voice sharp. “Don’t get sentimental on me, Kong.”
“Too late.” His arms tighten a fraction. His hands splay over your stomach, thumbs brushing the hem of your sweater. “I missed this. Missed you bossing me around in my own kitchen.”
“Our kitchen,” you correct before you can stop yourself.
He goes very still. Then his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Yeah. Our kitchen.”
Your breath catches. You hate that it does. You hate that your body remembers exactly how his hands feel, how perfectly you fit against him like this. You try to hold onto the anger, the resentment, the hundred nights you fell asleep alone while he was “just finishing one more call.”
But he’s warm and he smells like home and his voice is rough with something that sounds painfully honest.
“Shiu,” you warn, but it comes out shaky.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I know I don’t get to do this. I know I fucked up enough to lose the right. But just five minutes. Let me have five minutes.”
You should step away. You should remind him about the papers, about boundaries, about the fact that you’re leaving tomorrow and this is temporary.
Instead, your hands come up and cover his where they rest on your stomach. Your fingers lace through his without permission.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. His forehead drops to your shoulder.
“You’re still wearing the ring,” he says, voice muffled against your sweater.
You glance down. You are. On your right hand now, but still there. You hadn’t taken it off. Not really.
“Sentimental value,” you mutter.
“Bullshit.” He presses a kiss to the side of your neck. “You missed me too.”
You close your eyes. Your head tips back against his shoulder despite every protest your brain is screaming.
“Don’t push it.”
“I’m not.” Another kiss, just above your collar. “Just stating facts.”
You turn in his arms, hands sliding up to grip the front of his shirt. His eyes are dark, searching yours, waiting for you to shove him away.
You don’t.
Instead, you rise on your toes and kiss him with anger, like you're trying to punish him. He groans into your mouth, hands tightening on your hips, pulling you flush against him like he’s scared you’ll vanish.
You break it first, breathing hard. “This doesn’t change anything.”
“I know,” he says against your lips.
“We’re still getting divorced.”
“I know.”
“You’re still a shitty husband.”
He winces, but nods. “I know.”
You kiss him again, slower this time, letting yourself sink into it. Letting yourself melt, just a little.
He backs you up until your hips hit the counter, lifts you onto it without breaking the kiss. Your legs wrap around his waist like muscle memory. His hands slide under your sweater, warm palms against bare skin, and you arch into him with a sound you will deny later.
When you finally pull apart, foreheads pressed together, he’s smiling that small, crooked smile you used to love.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispers.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. “You’re still not off the hook.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You’ll fight about the papers tomorrow.
“Bedroom’s too far,” he growls against your mouth, voice rough and low.
You bite his bottom lip in answer. “Then don’t fucking take me there.”
He doesn’t.
He spins you around, sets you back on the counter, yanks your sweater over your head in one impatient motion. Your bra follows a second later, snapped open with that practiced flick of his fingers that still pisses you off because it reminds you how well he knows your body.
“Still wearing the black lace one,” he mutters, eyes dark as he drags his gaze over you. “The one you said was for special occasions only.”
“This isn’t a special occasion,” you snap, but your hands are already fisting in his T-shirt, pulling it off him. “It’s hate sex. There’s a difference.”
He laughs, hot against your throat as he mouths down your neck, teeth scraping just hard enough to make you gasp. “Sure it is.”
Shiu takes one of your breasts in his mouth, lapping at the nipple like he might pull something out of it. He makes sure to leave all the possible red marks and bites he manages.
At the same time, he's testing the waters around your sex. Sliding his hands up and down your thighs, making you all squirmy and desperate for his touch.
"I'm not shaved," you say in one moment of fear.
"Oh, shut up."
That only makes him drop to his knees faster, yanking your panties down until they are discarded in the floor.
“Spread your legs wider,” he orders, hands already hooking under your thighs to yank you to the very edge of the island. “I want to see how fucking soaked you are for me.”
You try to snap back with something sarcastic, but it dies in your throat when he drags his tongue up your center in one long, filthy stripe. Your hips jerk involuntarily, a choked gasp ripping out of you.
“Shiu—fuck—”
“That’s it,” he groans against you, the vibration making your thighs clamp around his head. “Say my name like that again. Like you’ve been dying for my mouth.”
He doesn’t tease. He dives in like he’s trying to devour you whole. Lips sealing around your clit, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the cold marble, your bush tickles his nose so good. Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling instantly to stroke that spot that makes your vision spark white.
“Jesus—oh god, right there—”
“Greedy fucking girl,” he growls, pulling off just long enough to look up at you. His lips are shiny with you, eyes dark and feral. “You taste like you’ve been thinking about this all day. Walking in here acting pissed, but this pretty cunt’s been dripping for me since you knocked, hasn’t it?”
You try to deny it, but he crooks his fingers harder and your words turn into a broken moan.
“Answer me,” he demands, slowing his thrusts to an infuriating drag. “Tell me you missed my tongue.”
“I—fuck, Shiu, please—”
“Please what?” He licks a slow circle around your clit, barely there. “Please make you come on my face? Please tongue-fuck you until you’re crying?”
“Yes—yes, please, don’t stop—”
He chuckles before burying his face back between your thighs. His tongue spears inside you alongside his fingers, thrusting in and out, fucking you with it while his nose grinds against your clit. The wet sounds are obscene, echoing in the quiet kitchen.
You’re babbling now, desperate and shameless. “Shiu, I’m—oh fuck, I’m so close—don’t stop, I swear to god—”
He pulls his fingers out just to spread you open wider with his thumbs, exposing every inch of you to his mouth. Then he sucks your clit hard, flicking his tongue over it in rapid, merciless strokes while he groans like he’s the one getting off.
“Come on my tongue,” he rasps against you. “Want to drink every drop of this needy little pussy.”
Your orgasm hits like a freight train, thighs shaking around his head, hands yanking at his hair hard enough to hurt, a strangled cry tearing from your throat as you grind against his face. He doesn’t let up, licking you through it, drawing it out until you’re oversensitive and whimpering, trying to push him away.
He pulls back, lips swollen and glistening, looking up at you like he’s proud of his destruction.
"Fuck you," you manage to say, flicking at his chest. He just laughs it off.
Then he’s standing, shoving his jeans down just enough, lining up, and thrusting into you in one hard stroke that punches the air from your lungs.
You both freeze for a second. Just that single, perfect moment of being joined again after months apart. His forehead drops to yours, breath ragged.
“Fuck, I missed you,” he whispers, like he can’t help it.
You claw at his back in response, heels digging into his ass. “Move.”
He does.
It’s not gentle. It’s not making love. It’s two years of resentment and loneliness and still wanting each other so badly it burns, all slammed into every brutal thrust. The island creaks under you. A bowl clatters to the floor and shatters, neither of you care.
He fucks you like he’s trying to erase every night he wasn’t there. You meet him stroke for stroke like you’re punishing him for it.
You come again with your teeth in his shoulder, muffling the sound. He follows seconds later, buried deep, groaning your name like it’s the only word he remembers.
For a long minute, the only sound is both of you trying to catch your breath, his weight braced over you, your legs still wrapped around him.
Eventually, he lifts his head, brushes damp hair off your forehead with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
“The lasagna’s probably set by now,” he says, voice hoarse.
You huff a laugh. “You’re thinking about food right now?”
“I’m thinking,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, “that round two should happen on a surface that isn’t covered in cocoa powder and broken ceramic.”
You glance down—yeah, there’s mascarpone smeared on your thigh, cocoa dusted across his chest like war paint.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling despite yourself. “You’re cleaning this up.”
“Deal.” He pulls out slowly, winces at the mess, then just scoops you up again, bridal style this time, ignoring your half-hearted protests.
“Shiu—”
“Shower first,” he says, already walking toward the hallway. “Then bed. Then maybe we eat the damn lasagna before the pets do.”
Mochi is sitting in the doorway, head tilted, looking deeply offended by the noise. Whiskey is on the counter licking mascarpone off a spoon like he’s been waiting for this moment his entire life.
You bury your face in Shiu’s neck to hide the laugh you can’t hold back.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” you mumble against his skin.
“I know,” he says quietly, carrying you like you’re something precious. “But it’s Christmas Eve. Let me pretend for one night.”
a/n: no masterlist for shiu YET (edit: now we have shiu masterlist yay)
