Fic: Next Stop
Title: Next Stop
Pairing: Onho
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1300
Notes: Haven't written in half a year and the first break in radio silence is smut. Blatant PWP. For Emily. Hasn't been proofed, probably some embarrassing, mood-breaking spelling error in there but I'll fix it later.
"Wait," murmurs Jinki when they're in bed later, much later, like two hours until the sunrise later, which is also around the time they've finished peeling off sweat-stained stagewear and washed up and brushed their teeth just to pretend like two hours of sleep is sufficient enough for a working body, always fully engaged, full throttle all the way, 24/7 a day.
Minho grunts, turns his head slightly so that their noses brush; even in the dark whatever remaining light, like the city through the blinds reflecting off the television reflecting off the polished wood of the tables and chairs reflected in the corners of Jinki's eyes is enough for Minho to get that yeah, okay, he's awake.
"What's up," he asks.
"You really want to sleep?"
Sort of, he's tempted to say, because in two hours is Korea which means another cycle of an unyielding, unhealing bruise of a shooting schedule, which means last minute rewrites handed to him ten minutes before they start filming, which means take after take until the earth's spun around the sun twice, which means shitty food and carbonated drinks meant to keep him awake, which means unanswered texts and missed phone calls, which means an exhaustion that drains him of everything except a desire to sleep.
In lull of answering, he buries his face into the crook of Jinki's shoulder, the concave sweetness like a holding dock for his chin, trails his lips up that column of smooth, smooth skin, pulse beating against his cheek, mouth pressing patterns like creeping vines, snuffling behind his ear, to his hairline, nipping at the side of his jaw. Jinki is trying his hardest not to be affected, hands fisted against his chest, gentle pry and push.
"Stop, I -- trying to sleep. Your idea, remember?"
"Mm," Minho says, and relents, at least enough for them to breathe. Jinki kisses him an apology, once, twice; Minho remembers to smile against his lips the second time, an unspoken agreement.
Which is obviously the best moment for his mind to dive into overdrive, like suddenly everything's keeping him awake; the hum of the mini-fridge, the clink of the AC, the traffic outside. Fatigue's a weird thing, how sometimes it just comes full circle, bypassing the dream state and heading straight to delirium. Minho isn't exactly laughing at every whim, per se, but now he's suddenly wide awake enough to be the biggest distraction to himself.
"Hey," he says, a few minutes later. No answer.
"Fuck," Minho mutters to himself, sighing, then tries to remove his arm from underneath Jinki's head, still pre-pins and needles but it's getting close and he'd just rather not--
Which is when Jinki pounces.
"Hey there," he says, suddenly straddling his crotch. Even in the dark, Minho can hear him smile. "Still sleepy?"
He growls in response, making Jinki laugh, his hands poised to tickle, except then Jinki rocks back and presses down, hard, straining his thighs, and Minho chokes mid-laugh because yeah that was getting to the point pretty quick.
"If not, then I'd like to--" Jinki begins, his hair falling across his face, and this literally is the only thing Minho can comprehend right now, so he reaches up, cups Jinki's face, then slides his hand down to grip his neck, then his shoulder as Jinki leans forward, still moving, rhythmic, sliding friction, the front of his t-shirt dipping down to skim Minho's bare stomach, back and forth like a paintbrush on paper.
"Jinki--" Minho breathes, chest constricting as Jinki grinds down on his dick, more urgent now, bottom lip caught between his teeth, one palm pressed against Minho's chest to stabilize himself, the other hand reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ear, eyelids fluttering, just to confirm what Minho can clearly see, that he's not the only one--
Both of them still have their briefs on. "Don't you think we should--" he starts to say, then his body spasms a little, precursor to the peak of the wave, no way to go but forward now, electricity shooting up his spine.
"You okay?" Jinki asks redundantly, because really what kind of answer does he expect at three o'clock in the morning lying in a Tokyo hotel room getting dry fucked by his sort-of bandmate. A year ago the only way this could've happened was exclusively in a dream state. Now it was like, their band as a travel destination, and Minho had this all-access pass to something far beyond the horizon, beyond the range of telescopes or cartographer kits, something he could've still imagined, maybe, or encountered in books or movies, but here it was, real, and difficult, and as far as he was concerned there was only one right decision. Reinforced by stuff like, how he feels like a million bucks every damn time Jinki so much as looks at him -- which they're careful about, which Minho is reluctantly grateful for, because there are only so many hidden corridors or flat surfaces in public spaces, and -- he groans suddenly as Jinki rolls forward more forcefully than usual.
"Pay attention," he huffs, straightening, and Minho bucks his hips up, meeting the challenge, Jinki's teeth clenching just as Minho gasps out, again rather redundantly, "You're beautiful."
He needs that t-shirt to go.
Bottom hem gathered between his fingers, then yanking up and off his shoulders amidst Jinki's muffled protest before tossing it to floor so he can finally touch all that skin, thinly sheathed by Jinki's misguided sense of modesty. He runs his hands up and down Jinki's sides -- can hear the hitch of breath, worth it for how tiring it's becoming to lift his arms, trace his ribs with the pads of his thumbs, grazes his knuckles down his abdomen, over hardened muscle, marveling, then slips between his legs to something harder still. Jinki moans softly, exhale with intonation, and Minho strokes him through his underwear, fingers pressing a little less than gently, like saying hey, hey, I can do this to you too, what you do to me.
They do this for a while: Jinki's breathing becoming shallow, erratic, Minho occasionally catching his name like a whisper in a windstorm, skimming kisses intensifying into a sweet crush.
He comes first, his head pressed back into the pillow as his grip tightens around Jinki's length, making him cry out, thrust up, hips moving, rolling in tandem, anything to sustain the heat and friction, addictive, breath-catching, before it settles out; warm, wet, sticky.
Jinki slumps forward, and Minho can feel his heart pounding, matching tempo with his. He moves to kiss him then, wearily raising his head, and Minho tries not to think about the rest of the day, of how they'll have to clean up in a few minutes, then get up, shower, the chartered ride, the outbound flight; thinks instead of how, every time he opens his arms for an embrace, Jinki will automatically fall in, like they were designed with two in mind, like they were meant to be or something.
"Mm," Jinki says then. "How much time do you think we have now?"
Minho starts craning his neck to try to catch sight of the clock, but Jinki just shakes his head, lightly nips at his chin. "I'm kidding, I don't really care."
"I'll be paying for this today," Minho muses. Hopefully they'll just be shooting indoor scenes, nothing too physically challenging.
The pause is too long, and he looks down to see Jinki's face tipped up, watching him, hesitant. "I'm sorry," he says finally, eyes dropping down just as Minho rolls his.
"Shut up, hyung," he says, and pulls him close.
Pairing: Onho
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1300
Notes: Haven't written in half a year and the first break in radio silence is smut. Blatant PWP. For Emily. Hasn't been proofed, probably some embarrassing, mood-breaking spelling error in there but I'll fix it later.
"Wait," murmurs Jinki when they're in bed later, much later, like two hours until the sunrise later, which is also around the time they've finished peeling off sweat-stained stagewear and washed up and brushed their teeth just to pretend like two hours of sleep is sufficient enough for a working body, always fully engaged, full throttle all the way, 24/7 a day.
Minho grunts, turns his head slightly so that their noses brush; even in the dark whatever remaining light, like the city through the blinds reflecting off the television reflecting off the polished wood of the tables and chairs reflected in the corners of Jinki's eyes is enough for Minho to get that yeah, okay, he's awake.
"What's up," he asks.
"You really want to sleep?"
Sort of, he's tempted to say, because in two hours is Korea which means another cycle of an unyielding, unhealing bruise of a shooting schedule, which means last minute rewrites handed to him ten minutes before they start filming, which means take after take until the earth's spun around the sun twice, which means shitty food and carbonated drinks meant to keep him awake, which means unanswered texts and missed phone calls, which means an exhaustion that drains him of everything except a desire to sleep.
In lull of answering, he buries his face into the crook of Jinki's shoulder, the concave sweetness like a holding dock for his chin, trails his lips up that column of smooth, smooth skin, pulse beating against his cheek, mouth pressing patterns like creeping vines, snuffling behind his ear, to his hairline, nipping at the side of his jaw. Jinki is trying his hardest not to be affected, hands fisted against his chest, gentle pry and push.
"Stop, I -- trying to sleep. Your idea, remember?"
"Mm," Minho says, and relents, at least enough for them to breathe. Jinki kisses him an apology, once, twice; Minho remembers to smile against his lips the second time, an unspoken agreement.
Which is obviously the best moment for his mind to dive into overdrive, like suddenly everything's keeping him awake; the hum of the mini-fridge, the clink of the AC, the traffic outside. Fatigue's a weird thing, how sometimes it just comes full circle, bypassing the dream state and heading straight to delirium. Minho isn't exactly laughing at every whim, per se, but now he's suddenly wide awake enough to be the biggest distraction to himself.
"Hey," he says, a few minutes later. No answer.
"Fuck," Minho mutters to himself, sighing, then tries to remove his arm from underneath Jinki's head, still pre-pins and needles but it's getting close and he'd just rather not--
Which is when Jinki pounces.
"Hey there," he says, suddenly straddling his crotch. Even in the dark, Minho can hear him smile. "Still sleepy?"
He growls in response, making Jinki laugh, his hands poised to tickle, except then Jinki rocks back and presses down, hard, straining his thighs, and Minho chokes mid-laugh because yeah that was getting to the point pretty quick.
"If not, then I'd like to--" Jinki begins, his hair falling across his face, and this literally is the only thing Minho can comprehend right now, so he reaches up, cups Jinki's face, then slides his hand down to grip his neck, then his shoulder as Jinki leans forward, still moving, rhythmic, sliding friction, the front of his t-shirt dipping down to skim Minho's bare stomach, back and forth like a paintbrush on paper.
"Jinki--" Minho breathes, chest constricting as Jinki grinds down on his dick, more urgent now, bottom lip caught between his teeth, one palm pressed against Minho's chest to stabilize himself, the other hand reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ear, eyelids fluttering, just to confirm what Minho can clearly see, that he's not the only one--
Both of them still have their briefs on. "Don't you think we should--" he starts to say, then his body spasms a little, precursor to the peak of the wave, no way to go but forward now, electricity shooting up his spine.
"You okay?" Jinki asks redundantly, because really what kind of answer does he expect at three o'clock in the morning lying in a Tokyo hotel room getting dry fucked by his sort-of bandmate. A year ago the only way this could've happened was exclusively in a dream state. Now it was like, their band as a travel destination, and Minho had this all-access pass to something far beyond the horizon, beyond the range of telescopes or cartographer kits, something he could've still imagined, maybe, or encountered in books or movies, but here it was, real, and difficult, and as far as he was concerned there was only one right decision. Reinforced by stuff like, how he feels like a million bucks every damn time Jinki so much as looks at him -- which they're careful about, which Minho is reluctantly grateful for, because there are only so many hidden corridors or flat surfaces in public spaces, and -- he groans suddenly as Jinki rolls forward more forcefully than usual.
"Pay attention," he huffs, straightening, and Minho bucks his hips up, meeting the challenge, Jinki's teeth clenching just as Minho gasps out, again rather redundantly, "You're beautiful."
He needs that t-shirt to go.
Bottom hem gathered between his fingers, then yanking up and off his shoulders amidst Jinki's muffled protest before tossing it to floor so he can finally touch all that skin, thinly sheathed by Jinki's misguided sense of modesty. He runs his hands up and down Jinki's sides -- can hear the hitch of breath, worth it for how tiring it's becoming to lift his arms, trace his ribs with the pads of his thumbs, grazes his knuckles down his abdomen, over hardened muscle, marveling, then slips between his legs to something harder still. Jinki moans softly, exhale with intonation, and Minho strokes him through his underwear, fingers pressing a little less than gently, like saying hey, hey, I can do this to you too, what you do to me.
They do this for a while: Jinki's breathing becoming shallow, erratic, Minho occasionally catching his name like a whisper in a windstorm, skimming kisses intensifying into a sweet crush.
He comes first, his head pressed back into the pillow as his grip tightens around Jinki's length, making him cry out, thrust up, hips moving, rolling in tandem, anything to sustain the heat and friction, addictive, breath-catching, before it settles out; warm, wet, sticky.
Jinki slumps forward, and Minho can feel his heart pounding, matching tempo with his. He moves to kiss him then, wearily raising his head, and Minho tries not to think about the rest of the day, of how they'll have to clean up in a few minutes, then get up, shower, the chartered ride, the outbound flight; thinks instead of how, every time he opens his arms for an embrace, Jinki will automatically fall in, like they were designed with two in mind, like they were meant to be or something.
"Mm," Jinki says then. "How much time do you think we have now?"
Minho starts craning his neck to try to catch sight of the clock, but Jinki just shakes his head, lightly nips at his chin. "I'm kidding, I don't really care."
"I'll be paying for this today," Minho muses. Hopefully they'll just be shooting indoor scenes, nothing too physically challenging.
The pause is too long, and he looks down to see Jinki's face tipped up, watching him, hesitant. "I'm sorry," he says finally, eyes dropping down just as Minho rolls his.
"Shut up, hyung," he says, and pulls him close.