Work Text:
“I’m going to kill you.”
Two-sixteen in the morning is a little late for death threats in Minho’s opinion. But if he’s learnt anything over the past decade and a half, it’s that his opinion doesn’t count for much when Kim Kibum wants to kill him.
On the other hand, he hasn’t died yet
“Yeah?” Minho grins at his phone and the scowling image of post-concert Key that he finds there. “And then what?”
The eyeroll that little comment wins him is truly top-tier, made even better by the fact that Minho pulls it out from behind the hydrating face mask Kibum is wearing. Like, anyone can make this man annoyed at them. Minho gets to do it when he’s all wrung out from performing, freshly showered and soft, bundled into bed with a headband pushing his fringe back and his Idol Maintenance Regime underway.
(Kibum had thrown a tub of serum wipes at him when Minho had absently referred to the whole skincare thing as self-care. ‘Self-care is the thing you do for yourself! This is work! Do you call the amount of time you spend lifting heavy objects and putting them down again self-care?’)
(He’d thrown some kind of face-buffing brush when Minho, mostly to see how far he could push it, replied ‘yes?’)
“And then you’ll be dead, genius, what did you think this was? Did you think I would call you internationally just to boost your ego after what you did today? The whole internet is already taking care of that for you.”
“You were looking, huh.”
“Please. Our algorithms have been handcuffed together since before Facebook bought Insta. You can’t do a bicep curl without my FYP screaming at me about it.”
“It’s Meta now,” Minho says, because it is, but also because he wants to see if he can make his this man mad enough that his face scrunches up enough to dislodge the face mask.
“Nuh uh. That’s bait, honey, I know you.”
“Bait? What do I need bait for? I’ve already caught you, haven’t I?”
Kibum’s shout of protest has Minho rocking forward with the force of his laughter, which only has the effect of setting Kibum off on a loud rant about toxic masculinity and how he’s not some kind of prey animal and he should have known this was exactly the kind of boyfriend Minho would be. Minho is so delighted by hearing the word boyfriend from his boyfriend that he gives up on the bit, gazing so fondly down at his phone that Kibum doesn’t even bother to wind the rant up properly.
“Oh, don’t,” he bitches, a complete counterpoint to the smile tugging at his mouth under the mask. “You can’t look at me like that, it makes me forget to pretend to be mad at you.”
“Because you like me so much.”
“I like you a little.”
“You loooooove me,” Minho coos, pulling the camera in until it’s just his mouth and part of a nostril crowding the screen. “You love me so much, you look up videos of me taking my shirt off on the internet even though you can just call me and ask me to do that for you any time you want.”
“You have a booger,” Kibum sniffs, which isn’t true, but Minho makes a show of jerking the camera back to check anyway. He won’t do anything for the bit, but he will do any bit to make this man laugh, and this one is as successful as all the others. Minho is the king of making Kim Kibum laugh. No one is pulling giggle numbers like he is. “Yah, okay okay, that’s enough, am I a three year old? Are you going to do peekaboo for me next?”
“If you want,” Minho says. “It’s not really my thing, but I’ll try anything once if it’s for you.”
“I am going to kill you for a completely different reason.”
“And miss out on all of this?” He holds his arm out to give Kibum a shot of his body in all its post-Waterbomb glory, clad in some ancient sponsor’s shirt that’s thin with wear, sheets bunched around his waist, glasses perched on the end of his nose because he’d been laughing hard enough to dislodge them. “You’d only be punishing yourself.”
It’s a joke, mostly. An opening for Kibum to riposte, to poke fun of his ego or brag about himself instead. That’s their game these days, not really about scoring points on each other so much as it’s for giving each other opportunities to riff. Kibum likes to get mad at him over stupid shit. Minho likes to see him get mad. It’s push-and-push, this antagonism that has only sweetened with age, and any recent changes in their relationship haven’t made either of them less inclined to shove.
It has given them both access to a broader range of weapons, though.
“Huh.” Kibum gives him an inscrutable stare that has a shiver of what Minho can only term horny foreboding race down his spine.
He waits, breathless, for the inevitable attack - which is probably what seals his fate. Instead of saying anything, Kibum’s attention focuses off-camera, and then so does the rest of him. The camera blurs as it’s set aside, and when the image refocuses, it’s to an empty hotel bed.
“Wh - Bum-ah. Jagi, baby, where are you going?”
Kibum answers with the sound of shuffling footsteps, the creak of a door. Minho is familiar enough with his bathroom noises that even through the phone quality audio, he can tell - he’s finishing off his fucking skin routine. Minho barks a laugh, flopping back into his pillows. The nerve on this guy!
Still, he can’t help the frisson of anticipation that slithers through him at the prospect of whatever Kibum is hiding behind that huh. It’s not exactly like Minho has been trained to perk his metaphorical ears up any time Kibum starts to ignore him, but - it’s just sensible to be on high alert, right? Before they started on this new phase of their relationship, it paid to be on the look out for retaliation.
It still pays, to be honest. It’s just that retaliation looks a little different these days.
“Baby?” he tries again. Kibum likes the endearment in English, had confessed this into the crux of Minho’s armpit early into their dating career. As though Minho hadn’t spent years seeing his face pink and his mouth pinch in cutely any time one of his boyfriends rolled it out.
(Minho had teased him for the response at the time, but it hadn’t surprised him that other men liked pulling that kind of thing out of him. Wasn’t it the same thing Minho did when he got Kibum riled up, if from a different angle?
Not so different after all, it turns out).
Either it works, or - more likely - Kibum is done. Minho’s view changes from mussed up blankets to Kibum’s mussed up fringe, free from its headband prison. His skin glows with the sheen of the recently be-snailed, and it takes everything in Minho to bite back his smile when he notices the rosy smear of lip tint. He looks just-kissed and dishevelled, and while Minho mourns the fact that he isn’t the one who made him that way, he still appreciates the impact.
“Gorgeous,” he says softly. There’s a second where the cool distance slips from Kibum’s expression, reveals the same fondness that sits in Minho’s chest twenty-four-seven.
“Aish,” Kibum chides. There’s no heat to it, just more of that gentle affection. “You and your big heart. I’m trying to set up an atmosphere here, and you’re going to ruin everything with compliments.”
“You can’t set up an atmosphere and let me call you gorgeous at the same time?”
“Not when I have better things for you to do with your mouth.”
The transition is as smooth as it is rapid. Minho blinks, and Kibum has his head tilted back, eyes lidded. Rosebud lips part, not wanton, but waiting. Minho’s spine straightens, sitting up properly before he even realises what he’s doing. Ah, Minho loves the push, but Kibum really does have him on a leash when it comes down to it.
“What exactly are you planning to do with it, when you’re so far away from me?”
“You leave that for me to worry about, honey.”
Kibum has this way of flicking his gaze over Minho’s body, somehow appraising and dismissive all at once. It had driven Minho crazy in those interminable weeks before they’d gotten together, because he’d been sure that Kibum liked what he saw, and yet something about him was coming up short. Even with empirical proof that Kibum appreciates what his body has to offer, that coy lowered gaze still sets him on fire.
There’s nothing Minho enjoys so much as proving that he’s worth it.
“You said you’d take your shirt off any time I wanted, didn’t you?” Kibum sounds bored. “Then why are you still wearing one?”
If there are two wolves inside Minho, one of them is playful, revels in the chase and the bite, better if he wins but still good if he comes off second best. The other is - devoted. It’s no contest. Kibum asks him why he’s still wearing his shirt, and after a beat to catch his breath, he’s reaching over his shoulder to haul the thing off by the collar.
“Ugh, you’re such a boy,” Kibum sighs, like that’s not exactly the kind of thing he likes. “You were such a tease in front of that crowd, but for me you’re just going to rip it off?”
“You want me to put it back on?” Minho offers, chuckling at the Look he gets in response. “Isn’t that the advantage, dating me? You don’t have to wait. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”
It’s hard to tell over a video call, but Minho is pretty sure that wins him a blush. He’d been nervous going into this relationship, that Kibum would be too far ahead of him. Not that Minho wasn’t determined to catch up, but it was no secret that Kibum was demanding, and Minho was starting with the handicap of a lifetime of heterosexuality.
As it turns out, this aspect of their relationship works mostly the same as the rest of their relationship. They both like the push, but at the end of the day Kibum wants to be spoiled, and Minho wants to spoil him.
He leans back into the pillows behind him, holding his phone out at arm’s length for the best angle. Admittedly, he’d worked his way through craft services and drank his body weight in electrolytes the second he’d gotten off stage, so Kibum isn’t getting precisely the show Waterbomb had - but that’s kind of the point. If Kibum likes him when he’s a boy, he likes him soft and at rest, too. Skin rehydrated, folding over at the hinge of his waist, the sharp definition of his abs blurring at the edges. This body is for the two of them.
“You caught me,” Kibum admits. “I don’t want you to put the shirt back on.”
“Yeah?”
It’s hard not to feel kind of silly doing this, bracketing his throat in the web of his thumb, drawing his hand down to the bulge of his pec. He might be a veteran performer when it comes to showing off for fans, but framing his body for Kibum’s direct appreciation like this is still new. He squeezes, watching Kibum watch the swell of muscle, the naked want simmering under that heavy-lidded gaze. It feels nice enough, but the shiver that works down Minho’s spine has more to do with the way Kibum looks at him like a slab of beef he’s about to tenderise and serve up still bleeding.
“That’s nice, honey. Jiggle it for me a bit, hmm? I want to play with you.”
“Ah…Kibum-ah, that’s a little…”
“You don’t want to? Too embarrassing?”
Minho draws in a breath, tracks the way his whole chest moves a beat later in the small inset image. It’s hard to track the ruddy flush seeping into his skin in the tiny picture, but he can feel the wandering path of it, heating him from the inside out.
“Not - not too embarrassing,” he admits, and does what was asked of him.
He doesn’t usually touch his - it’s not the kind of thing he really thinks about doing on his own. He’s not that sensitive there, and the girls he’s been with in the past had always been more interested in touching his chest themselves than having him do it. There’s something about not only doing it now, but doing it for Kibum - not just touching, but teasing, blunt fingers grabbing hard enough to indent flesh, and yeah, okay, jiggling - it really drives Minho crazy.
He was kind of idly chubbed up before, just from the post-performance high and the fact that he’d been scrolling through TikToks of Kibum’s own concert. Because he missed him, mostly, but he hadn’t exactly been jumpscared by the state of his dick before Kibum’s ringtone had interrupted his plans for the evening. Minho knows there was a time when seeing Kibum on stage with all that fire and focus didn’t make him unreasonably horny, but the line between Before and After has gotten increasingly blurry as Minho gets increasingly familiar with what other situations bring that level of intensity out in the man.
All this to say, there’s nothing idle about the state of him now, dick hard and straining against the seam of his sweats as he pinches his nipple for Kibum’s heavy gaze, pushes thick muscle in towards his sternum like he can make - like he’s a--
“Oh, that’s pretty, honey. Too bad you can’t use both hands, huh? Put yourself on display for me? I guess I’ll just have to enjoy what you’ve got for me now.”
God, his voice. Minho doesn’t bother to bite back his moan, knows Kibum wants to hear him. Isn’t that the basis of this whole relationship? They like listening to each other. Kibum gets this treacle tone in his voice when he talks Minho through touching himself like this, effective even through the phone and the distance and the shitty audio quality between them.
“This isn’t enough display for you?” He abandons his chest, drags blunt nails down his abs instead. Even from his own touch, his lower belly is sensitive; he jumps, breath hitched, and it takes a second to remember the rest of what he wanted to say. “You need - you need me to give you more face? Should I lick my fingers first? I know you like it wet, I could--”
“Take your pants off. Underwear, too.”
Minho pauses, thumb already hooked under the band of his sweats. It’s a little hard to catch the details of Kibum rolling his eyes, but some knowledge is ingrained.
“It’s half past two in the morning!” he protests. “I was going to go to sleep! Just because we don’t all care about matching underwear to our pyjamas--”
“They don’t have to match, some of us just aren’t interested in imbuing the clothes we sleep in with Eau de Dicksweat.”
“Eau de - yah! Kim Kibum-ah, I hate you, you’re perfect.” Shoving his sweats down when he’s laughing as hard as he is should win Minho some kind of medal. “Where do you even come up with this kind of stuff, do you just lie there in bed thinking ‘I bet my boyfriend isn’t wearing underwear tonight, what insane type of thing can I say to him about that?’”
“Please. You think after that performance of yours, that’s why I was thinking about you without your underwear? You - ah, there it is. That big for me already? You like me playing with your tits that much, or did this call interrupt you in the middle of something?”
If he was pink before, he’s flustered with it now. Minho isn’t - look, no one’s ever complained before, he’s proportional! Dick size is the kind of thing he’d stressed about for five minutes as a teenager, and maybe ten minutes as an adult wondering what Kim Kibum liked on a man. And then Kim Kibum had gotten his hand down Minho’s pants, looked him dead in the eye, said ‘Oh honey, is all of that for me?’, and suddenly it’s a thing.
“I was--” Wow, his voice cracks. At the beginning of this call he might have rolled his eyes at Kibum making fun of him for it, but right now? With his dick fat and leaking onto his stomach? It just takes the faint hint of a smirk to have Minho whining in horny protest.
“Cute,” Kibum murmurs, drinking in the sight of him. Kibum hasn’t even undone any of his buttons, nothing but the flush high in his cheeks to give away how much he’s enjoying this. Well, that, and his filthy mouth. “You going to finish that sentence, or are you just muscles and that pretty cock tonight?”
“‘M whatever you want me to be.” Minho does his best to hit sardonic, but the sincerity bleeds through the same as it always does. And as much as he likes the teasing - the way Kibum softens for him, like slow melting butter, gets him every time.
“What am I supposed to do with a guy like this?” Kibum’s tongue darts out, probes at his bottom lip like he’s thinking about it. “Put your hand on it, baby, but don’t jerk it yet. You want to tell me what you were up to?”
Minho does what he’s told. Even just that touch - palm sweaty, sticky at best from pre-cum - has a current running through him, a full-body twitch. Kibum’s gaze on him is just as hot, just as heavy, and Minho thinks he’d do anything he asked to make sure he keeps looking at him.
“Uh, but I was - hah, I was looking at your concert clips. Not to - not for this, I just wanted - seeing you perform is something else, you know? SHINee’s Key, my Kibum-ah, no one else does this job like you do, I could watch you forever.”
Is it a praise kink if you’re turned on by how good the other guy is? Minho doesn’t really care, distracted as he is by the twitch of his dick in his palm, the way Kibum’s red, red lips finally part for pleasure instead of play. There’s a blurred second of footage (Minho yelps a protest), but when Kibum leans back he’s hands free, the camera set at a low angle. He’s cross-legged on the bed now, the tent in his pyjamas proudly on display. Minho garbles a series of words that are supposed to be did you bring a fucking tripod to our phone sex session?, but Kibum’s lovely, delicate hands are doing an obscene job of framing his dick through silk, rubbing over the bulge with this casual, boyish arrogance that drives Minho crazy.
Like, is he out here inspecting other men and their crotch grabs? They work in the professional dick choreography industry, but Kibum’s the only guy who’s ever made Minho’s mouth go dry like this. It had been kind of confusing at first, catching himself wondering what it would be like to - touch, with his hands, with his mouth, however Kibum might indulge him, and not sparing a second thought for any other man. He’d wondered if maybe it was a SHINee thing, a weird outgrowth of being in each others’ pockets for the better part of two decades, but it wasn’t like watching his other members perform got him hard like this.
He’s stopped trying to figure it out (although he has a sneaking suspicion Kibum is still trying to pick the knot apart in his spare time). Minho loves this; Minho loves Kibum. Minho has Kibum’s dick on display for him in the most pixels a 2024 front-facing camera can manage, and the thought he keeps circling back to is how badly he wants it in his mouth.
“Better?” Kibum asks. “Since you like looking so much.”
God, he’s such a - Minho is pretty sure he hasn’t always found this man’s attitude such a turn on, but he also can’t remember when it started. Actually, his brain’s having trouble with a few functions right now; he can see himself sprawled in dumb contrast to Kibum’s cool confidence, and it’s wrecking his ability to put a sentence together. Still, he gives it his best shot, wrist flexing with the effort it takes to resist jerking off until he’s told to.
“Honestly?” he manages. “Why’re you being so shy with me? Could stand to see more.”
“Oho. You think you’ve earned that kind of prize?”
“Do you?” he shoots back. “Doesn’t matter what I think, right?”
The audio doesn’t make it across their connection, but Minho knows what Kibum looks like when he says shit under his breath. He pants the start of a laugh, but is quick to cut it off at the way Kibum narrows his eyes, thumbs at his waistband.
“That’s what I thought,” Kibum sniffs, and hooks his thumb in. Minho has been subjected to more than his fair share of teasing over the course of this relationship, but there’s something about the way Kibum just pulls the elastic off his hip. Tucks it under his balls, doesn’t even bother getting undressed the whole way.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to take your hand off that big dumb dick of yours, and you’re going to lick it clean for me. And when you’re done, you’re going take - hmm, two? Okay, two fingers, and you’re going to show me how badly you wish they were this instead.”
Kibum’s own hand curls neatly around the flushed pink head of his cock; it’s a hard call whether the way he drags his palm down the length of it is more obscene, or the open-mouthed moan that drops out of him. Minho - Minho likes instructions, likes these instructions, likes that Kibum knows him well enough to give him the opportunity to excel, but. But.
He’s only human, right? The sexiest man on earth is jerking off in slow-motion in front of him, and he’s supposed to stop touching himself? It’s takes a second of convincing, the reflexive squeeze of his fingers punching a soft groan of his own out of his chest, his grip on the phone going slack like that compensates somehow. He doesn’t drop it on his face or anything - catches it before it slips that far - but if a couple of wires are crossed right now, Minho doesn’t think that’s on him.
Kibum pauses. “Babe.”
“Shut up, oh my god, is it my fault that you’re this hot?
“Am I the one who’s supposed to be shutting up right now?”
It’s not that the urge to bite back is gone, exactly. It’s just, Kibum asked him to do something for him. And if there’s one thing Minho is weak for, it’s fulfilling this man’s wishes.
Does the taste of his own spunk do it for him? Honestly, not really. But that’s kind of beside the point when he can lick it off his palm and make Kibum stop breathing. When two fingers in his mouth has Kibum’s gaze dark and demanding, has Kibum’s thighs shift wider to make sure Minho can see the full length of him as he indulges in touching himself to the sight, when Minho isn’t allowed to yet.
He slides them in deep pretty quickly, feels himself flush at Kibum’s amused ‘so eager, but like - yeah! It’s not just Kibum’s obvious enjoyment, it’s the salt tang of sweat and skin, it’s the pressure of something solid pressing down his tongue, it’s the the stretch and satisfaction of seeing how far down he can get this time. His fingers aren’t - he really would prefer Kibum’s cock, the weight and the warmth of it, doesn’t love the scrape of his own nails against his soft palate, but the sensation is still - ah, Minho had discovered pretty early on in their relationship that he just likes this.
“Look at you,” Kibum coos, the sweet condescension in his voice barely broken by the hitch in his breath, the rapid pump of his fist. “That’s it, drool on it for me, get it wet. Is that how far you can take it? Because I think you could - ah, ah, gentle, honey, I need you to take care of my Minho when I’m not there to do it, okay?”
Minho’s throat spasms, but he doesn’t gag this time. Just swallows convulsively around his fingertips, blinking wet from the reflex. It’s quiet in his room, in this apartment without Kibum in it, so the gluk of him choking on his own fingers is kind of - it’s loud, but that just means that Kibum can hear it better, right? It leaves more space for that gentle, honey to linger, slipping warm down Minho’s spine, spreading hot in his gut. His dick twitches pre-cum, the molten core of him, and he thinks - he doesn’t think. He doesn’t need to. Kibum told him what to do.
Minho draws his fingers out of his mouth, dripping. Works a third one in. Rubs the rough pads over the back of his tongue, pulling his jaw down so that Kibum can see the soft pink hole of him, what Minho is willing to make himself into for Kibum. Spit gathers at the corners of his mouth, spills over his chin - messy, he’s so messy, Kibum loves to mess him up, loves to see Choi Minho melted down into honey, into baby, into my Minho-yah.
On the call, Kibum’s fringe has flipped over his forehead. Minho whines in the back of his throat, teeth scraping along the urge to reach through the phone and brush it back. It must get to Kibum, the noise, the need, because the slick pump of his fist speeds up. Minho is treated to a low groan, the long, delicate stretch of Kibum’s neck when he throws his head back, the slip of silk pyjamas falling off his shoulder - Minho has never been so jealous of a designer outfit before. He should be the one plastered to Kibum’s body, getting steadily soaked with sweat and spit and other bodily fluids. He could wrap warm around Kibum’s body, grind up against some soft part of him - that still counts as not touching, right? He’d have Kibum’s fingers in his mouth instead of his own, because his would be taking care of Kibum, curled around the thick heft of his dick and putting into practice all his hard won expertise from the last couple of months.
“Bum-ah,” he manages to slur wetly, that whine still sharp in his words. “Bum-ah, Kibum-ah, ‘s it good? Y’ feel good?”
“Oh,” Kibum stutters, and his pretty pink lips form the start of a shape that might be honey, baby, Minho. But it’s a quiet grunt that spills out instead, and he spills all over his fist as well, whole body hunching forward with the force of his orgasm as his shaky hand struggles to work him through it.
Minho watches, enraptured. Dimly, he’s aware of the tremble that’s taken up in his own thighs, desperation driving his body to spend all that pent up energy somewhere, but he’s too focused on his phone to really notice the finer details. Like, sure, his body is on fire and he’s you could flick his dick right now and he’d come, but - Kibum. Colour high in his cheeks, panting like he just performed a solo concert, clean hand splayed out on the sheets in front of him to stop him faceplanting into them instead.
And - it takes a second for the bliss to burn hotter, but Kibum catches his breath first and then Minho’s gaze through the camera, unerring after all their many years of practice, and he’s smug. Insufferable, infuriating, he could blow a kiss and it wouldn’t be out of place as a daesang-winning ending fairy.
“Well,” he starts, and Minho’s going to kill him, he’s going to find his shirt and drive to the airport and fly out to Japan and - god, actually he better never look at anyone like that in public, that smirk had better be all for Minho and Minho’s dick, red and wet and so fucking ready--
He must make some kind of sound. It might be please, slipped unsteadily out through his fingers. Kibum cuts himself off, and the smirk softens; he leans back against the hotel wall with a sigh, shoves his sweaty fringe back off his forehead. Bare-faced and tired (and this really is for Minho), he says,
“Okay, Minho-yah. Put on a show for me.”
For a show, it’s probably anti-climactic. Minho is so focussed on Kibum’s face first and jerking off second, camera-work is a barely present third. Between his mouth and the steady leak of pre over the course of this private party, the slide of his fist is slick, frictionless, almost too fucking easy. Kibum says something about how good he looks, how pretty, that’s it honey, nice and sweet for me. There’s no build to it, no burn; he gets his hand on his dick, works his thumb over the head. Nothing fancy, the pump of it simple and mechanical and he must look kind of dumb with his mouth hanging open and the harsh pants of pleasure he’s pulling out of himself, but - Kibum likes him kind of dumb, sometimes. Kibum likes him however he happens to be right now, because Kibum pushed and prodded him to this precipice, and, and,
It’s romantic, right? To come like that? Minho will have to double check with his boyfriend later, because his orgasm rips through his body then, white-edged and raw. If he says anything, it’s probably just Kibum, the syllables a mess in his mouth like his chest is a mess of sweat and cum and marks that Kibum made him leave. Little reminders of him, even from far away. Minho flops back into his pillows with a satisfied sigh, tipping his phone back up to his face. Honestly, he doesn’t love the post-sex stickiness the same way Kibum does, would really rather grab some wet-wipes or maybe a warm face-towel for clean up as soon as possible, but that’s when they’re together and clean up means he gets to have his hands on Kibum’s body all over again. Separated like this, he’d rather stay on the call for now.
“Still going to kill me?” he asks, and maybe it’s time for a bit of his own smugness to creep onto his face. “Or did that atone for some of my sins?”
Kibum is beautiful all the time, but there’s something about him like this - wrung out with pleasure and hung up to dry, the slump of his shoulders eased of tension, the precious folds of his tummy finally allowed to hang loose. Minho wants to press his face into it and breathe. At some point in the hazy span of time since Minho had gotten off, Kibum had wiped his hand clean - Minho wants it in his hair, wants it winding through the curls of his fresh perm, wants the low hum of Kibum telling him about his day and the gentle tug on his scalp that lets Minho know he wants a response.
This life they have is a good one, and Minho wouldn’t trade it. Well, maybe he’d give up Waterbomb for a night with this man. But Kibum would never ask him to, and more importantly, Minho would never want Kibum to give up his concerts to indulge Minho’s desire for post-coital comfort. He can cope with this much, the little pieces of themselves they’ve cobbled together to tide them over until - until.
Maybe Minho’s still a little hazy, or maybe he’s too caught up in his own meanderings, but it takes him a second to realise Kibum hasn’t actually answered his question. And like, Minho has fucked him speechless before, but that had required significantly more time and physical contact than they’ve been able to achieve tonight, so he’s pretty sure that’s not the reason.
“What?” he asks, and then again when Kibum’s lips pull in, tucking under his teeth like he’s physically biting back a smile. “Yah, what is it? It was good, right, you got off right when I asked, it must have been good!”
“It was! Jagi, it was, it was, you were perfect, ten out of ten.” Kibum is definitely laughing at him. “Just at the end there - oh my god, stop pouting at me, I’m just saying it was mostly skin and half a nipple on my screen there at the end, okay? Which, when you think about it, is kind of its own compliment?”
“What,” Minho says again, pure indignation chasing the last of that post-orgasm lassitude from his muscles. “What! Kibum-ah! Are you saying - we had phone sex and I messed up the entire phone part? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Well,” Kibum says, “you were really in it, you know? I didn’t want to ruin it for you.”
“Okay, but--” It comes back to him in bits, the murmur of Kibum’s praise more than enough to get him to the edge in the moment, but the specific phrases-- (he does not stop pouting). “Yah, you definitely said some things in there about how good I looked. Were you just making that up? You said I looked pretty!”
“Please! As though I need a frame by frame action shot to know you look pretty. You look pretty now, you looked pretty before, you think you somehow morphed into a monster in the thirty seconds it took you to come?”
“Thirty seconds!” Minho bemoans. “Okay, that’s it, we’re going again.”
“We - Choi Minho. We are not. It’s nearly three in the morning, the only place we’re going is to sleep!”
But Minho is already sitting up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He does actually have a tripod around here somewhere, or he can sit his phone up at his desk - maybe they can roleplay as office workers again, they had a good time with some of Kibum’s Good & Great fits a while ago.
“I’m hanging up,” Kibum announces. “Go have a shower, I know you hate being all sex-gross afterwards.”
More than the threat of sleeplessness, that’s what slows him down. Not Kibum hanging up, but the way he knows him so well, his post-sex habits, the fact that his cum pooled in his belly-button and it is starting to bother him, actually. He’s not sure what his expression does in response to this, but whatever look is on his face has Kibum cooing softly.
“You think hearing you wasn’t just as good? You think I don’t have it burned into my brain what you look like when you feel good? You don’t think I’d rather you were so out of your mind you couldn’t hold the phone up properly, instead of thinking about your angles?”
When he puts it that way. Minho leans forward on his elbows, still pouting into the camera. With his hair poking up at all angles, he knows he looks cute. He can at least give Kibum that much.
“I guess,” he sighs, which is about as willing as he is to give in out loud. “I miss you.”
Back when they first started this, that would have won him an eye-roll. Fond, maybe, but definitely flustered, some snarky commentary about Minho being too sticky in other ways. Even now, Kibum doesn’t say he misses him back. That’s not really how he operates, and Minho knew that way before they became what they are to each other now.
“Yeah, yeah. I love you, okay? Get clean, get some sleep. I’ll text you when I’m free.”
God, that’s so much better. “One of these days,” Minho says, “One of these days, that’s going to stop working.”
Kibum’s smile is brighter than his phone display can handle. “Not today, though. Say it back, then leave me alone.”
And - well. Minho has always been good at following instructions.
“Kim Kibum, I love you.”
“That’s right,” Kibum says smugly, then hangs up. Because like, god forbid he not get the final word in or something.
The blank screen of his phone reflects Minho’s goofy smile back at him. What kind of past life did he live to be this happy now? He’ll have to think about it in the shower. Kibum did tell him to get clean.