Day 16 · Lights Out

“Suck it, bitches, we broke the curse!” Minho roared.

The two of you were laughing maniacally, louder than the cannon-like pop Minho produced with the champagne bottle while jumping in your places like kids on a sugar high. The skeptics of your relationship were convinced you two wouldn’t be able to pass the seven-year curse considering the insufferable level of stubbornness on both parties. It wouldn’t be fair to say everything was super peachy up until this point, but at least one thing was certain—Minho was the love of your life, and you were the woman of his dreams. 

And there you were, pettily celebrating your anniversary over a seven-course Michelin dinner with pretentiously small portions at a freaking presidential suite. Towards the end of your meal, Minho took your hand and guided you to the living room area where a huge gift box was waiting for you.

“This took me forever to find,” he sat down on the sofa and spread his legs wide, “I can’t wait to see your reaction.”

Seven years with this man, and you already knew he was up to something, but you decided to indulge him nevertheless. When you unwrapped the packaging, you saw a Versace logo on the box, and when you opened the lid…

Another Gucci box inside…

Then another Givenchy box inside…

Then another McQueen box inside…

And at the core of this matryoshka of boxes…

“Let me get this straight,” you examined the miniature black matte ceramic pitcher in your hand, “Your seventh anniversary gift for me is this candle that I can find on Amazon in five seconds, and it took you forever to find.”

“Come on, it’s nice!” Minho protested with a shit-eating grin, “It’s a really fancy brand, you know.” 

“A candle, Min.”

“And it smells like pudding.”

“So basically you got a present for yourself.”

“Yes, I did,” he got on his knees in front of you, “because I wanna go feng shui all over that ass.”

You burst out laughing as he tackled you to the floor, kissing your neck, your jawline, then finally your lips, pacifying you on the spot. A simple gesture of affection was rapidly condensing into something dangerous already with needy touches asking for more, threatening to prematurely ruin Minho’s plans.

“Dessert?” he barely managed to ask when he finally forced himself to stop.

“It has something to do with pudding I guess?” you brushed his hair with your fingers.

“You know it,” he pecked your lips one last time, then pulled you up from your wrists, “Come with me.”

When he slid the doors of the very dimly lit bedroom open, you noticed there was an entire setup by the bed. Little glass vials, towels, and silk ribbons were only some of the things you noticed at first glance. The fireplace in the corner of the room was delightfully crackling away with embers shining bright like pieces of ruby. 

“What’s up with the forest cabin spa treatment?” you raised your brows albeit with a very content smile.

“This is how I refute your candle bitching,” Minho tangled his fingers with yours and pulled you close from your waist.

The top notes of his kiss were as intense as they could get already. Your arms around his neck, his body pressed against yours, slowly stripping each other while still giggling like idiots after seven fucking years. After sitting you down on the bed, Minho took a piece of the silk ribbons and covered your eyes.

“What’s this for?” you asked while he was tying the smooth fabric behind your head.

“To heighten your other senses,” he answered casually, “They’ve never been stimulated like this before. Trust me.” 

You could tell Minho left the bed when his warmth disappeared. You heard some rustle to your right, then he sat back down again behind you.

“No talking,” he spoke softly into your ear, almost in a whisper, “Just enjoy me.”

You were waiting for a touch on your skin, but instead, you felt something… on your head.

A hairbrush. 

The texture of the bristles was a little different from what you were used to. Not plastic. Bamboo perhaps? The leisurely movements started from the crown of your head and flowed through your hair, massaging your scalp all the way down to your nape. The way the brush ran through the strands felt so relaxing, and with Minho kissing your neck and shoulders on both sides every once in a while, you were on the brink of falling asleep.

“Lie facedown, baby.” 

You assumed your new position, and a pleasant smell invaded your nostrils momentarily. Cinnamony. A little powdery. You heard the sound of his hands rubbing together against something sticky, then his large hands slid from the small of your back up to your shoulder blades, slowly massaging you with firm movements until your entire back was covered with a thin coat of oil. It felt so good that your sounds of contentment could easily be confused with sexual gratification.

Pampering you into a borderline comatose state of relaxation, Minho removed his hands off your back. You heard a match being lit up, but you could hear everything as if it was amplified through speakers. How the tip of the wooden stick scratched against the box. How it caught fire. Then something else was set alight but the pitch was different. Not only did it take a while for it to start burning, but the sound it made was somewhere between a rustle and a crackle. Shortly after, you could smell the faint notes of freshly made custard pudding, albeit indubitably artificial. Minho really wasn’t kidding. 

It made you chuckle.

He was glazing you with his favorite flavor. Something akin to sizzling raindrops on your spine, but not uncomfortably so. One drop, two drops, three drops, four. It felt more like dipping your feet into steamy bath water; obviously hot but quick to get used to. 

“Is the temperature good?” he very quietly whispered in your ear not to disturb the absolute serenity of the bubble you were both enveloped in.

“Mhm.”

Once he deemed the amount sufficient, he started spreading it up your shoulders and down your arms. The sensation was much like being wrapped inside a fresh-out-the-drier toasty blanket. Up next, you felt a horizontal line being drawn on your waist with the molten candle. His hands were quick to finish the varnish work, smearing the warm oil all over your hips, then he punctuated it with a little peck on both cheeks. 

It wasn’t long before the balmy feeling on your back clashed with something else—the fluffy texture of a cold towel. Immediately soothing. It was wet like it was soaked in some chilled liquid for a while. Minho gently pressed it on the areas he coated you to remove the greasy feeling, then turned you around to lie on your back. 

You felt the familiar temperature on your skin one more time, but it came directly from Minho’s palms this time rather than drips from a pitcher. He glazed your upper body with minute detail like he was incensing you for some holy ritual. Your chest, your abdomen, your arms, all the way down to your fingers. When he was done, he stroked you with the cold towel again and pulled you to himself to make you sit up.

“Touch me.”

Your hands reached out to him to feel his skin, and he pressed them on his chest to let you know of his exact location. You scooted closer and brushed your thumbs on his cheekbones first, then pulled him into a kiss, slowly caressing his body all the while. His neck. His broad shoulders. His prominent collarbones. His chest. Minho felt so smooth under your fingertips. So firm. 

So hard.

You wanted to taste him.

You carefully squeezed his tip to extract any precum he had ready for you, collected it with one swipe of your thumb, then smeared it on your tongue. He tasted a little salty. He tasted like he was aroused. 

He tasted like your other half.

He briefly disappeared from your darkened frame again, and when he sat back down you felt something very soft on your skin. So soft that it made you giggle.

“Tickles?” Minho’s whisper reached your ears but in that caramel tone. You knew he was smiling.

It seemed like a piece of feather. He was running it over your breasts, and it was so gentle that goosebumps were breaking all over your skin. He couldn’t hold himself back when he saw how hard your nipples had become and closed his mouth on them while still brushing you from your nape down your back, kissing you, licking you, sucking on you as softly as he could, trying to restrain himself to the best of his ability. You flattened your palms on the mattress and threw your head back with a long exhale to bask in this beautiful feeling. 

“I love you,” his whisper reverberated throughout your body and you felt a tiny kiss on your earlobe, “I’m in love with every inch of you.”

You wanted to kiss him, but he retreated back to his initial position. The feather was sliding down your torso and it finally reached your crotch. When you spread your legs apart, you felt it on your labia, teasing, caressing, never as satisfactory as Minho’s own touch. 

Then it stopped.

You felt his body heat radiating towards you. He was close. One hand on your waist and the other on your pussy, he started caressing your wet folds. The brief absence of his touch was followed by the shameless sucking sounds he made. He prodded your entrance with his fingers and gave it a few very shallow pumps, no deeper than the first knuckle just to coat his fingertips with you, then smeared your own slick all over your mouth like a fancy lip gloss.

“You’re a dream come true.”

He swiped his tongue on your lips, and it quickly evolved into a kiss while laying you down on your back again, probably the laziest you ever shared. He took quite a while adamant to mark every inch of your body with his lips, so much so that if he had lipstick on him, your entire torso would be painted crimson. After what seemed like maybe hours, he was finally between your legs, moments away from giving you what you were dying to feel.

His mouth on your pussy was nowhere near his usual impatient ravaging, just kissing your folds with long inhales, licking your clit lazily, making sure you felt him. The sound of his lips smacking on your cunt alone was enough to make you throb, and it beautifully bled over the crackles of the fire still sultrily singing to you.

You loved this man. You loved him more and more every day. Through thick and thin. Ups and downs. He was your everything. And to think that before your next anniversary…

Your heart was swelling dangerously fast in your chest.

You pulled your legs to yourself and stretched your arms towards him, and Minho was momentarily in your embrace. He kissed you with his slick-covered mouth, deep as they come, so that you enjoyed your taste together.

“You’re everything I ever asked for,” you softly sighed.

Chuckling into your words, he went back to kissing you, and his hand reached to his leaking cock. He aligned it to your now dripping entrance and slowly pushed himself in like you were fucking for the first time again. Unrushed. A bit scared. You felt how much he completed you once again when he slid inside. So full, but never enough. So still, but fully alive. His lips descended to your neck, leaving wet, breathy kisses as his thrusts got a tinge quicker.

Minho always felt too good inside you, but tonight was different. If Minho on any other day was a piece of chocolate, right now he was eighty percent cacao on your palate. Rich. Thick. Intense. Utterly vertiginous.

His moans in your ears weren’t just a sound—it was your favorite song playing.

Your lips on his tongue weren’t just a taste—it was a flavor he was savoring.

His musk on your nose wasn’t just a scent—it was the air you were breathing.

Your skin under his palm wasn’t just a touch—it was a gift he was opening. 

He removed the ribbon covering your eyes and looked right into them. The sight of this beautiful man over your body, panting, grunting, experiencing you anew… What more could you ask for?

“I love you,” you cupped his cheeks, and your moans came out in an even higher pitch when he started moving faster, “I fucking love you!”

The desperation in your voice snapped something in Minho, and in a split second, you found your legs on his shoulders. He was running, booking to that finish line with you as if winning this race was a matter of life and death, sweat dripping, chest heaving, fingers sinking into skin until you flooded him just the way he liked, moans silenced with heavy kisses whilst all his load gushed out of him to paint you through and through. You held him in your arms as Minho rested his head on your chest to catch his breath, lazily brushing his damp locks with your fingers.

“See what a candle can do now?” he finally rose from the dead and looked at you with his mischievous eyes.

“Fine, I fold,” you chortled, “You win this round.”

“Yet someone didn’t even get me anything for such an important day. Hella rude.”

“I did!” you protested immediately, “But they told me it’s gonna take a while to arrive.”

“A while? How long?”

You placed his hand on your lower abdomen and uttered three words that immediately pushed Minho to the brink of happy tears.

“Eight more months.”

Exxxtraoddinary? Appreciate with a pudding.

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