He walks down the sky with the moon in his hands
Fandom: SHINee
Pairing: 2min
Rating: PG-13 for language
Genre: Fluff, Romance
Summary: Minho's hands always keep the maknae busy.
1,881 words
Being Taemin was a daunting task.
By definition, carrying your existence as the youngest of the group implied being picked on, laughed at, made fun of, called names and treated, most of the time, like the support for the others’ corny, insolent, often demeaning jokes. It meant having to strain with hassling remarks and squalid commentaries from the moment you walk out of your room to the minute -and what a blessed minute it always is- you trudge back in, late at night, after a day of ongoing rehearsal and outcries from your manager.
Being the youngest also meant having to deal with all those appalling, hormonal changes, with wet dreams that always begin early in the morning and end precisely before one of your band mates walks in, just in time to notice a small, damp portion of bed sheet right above your pelvic area. This always results in a confused, wide-eyed Minho mumbling a faded ‘Sorry’ as he walks out, and an embarrassed, ready-to-crack-into-a-million-pieces Taemin, who covers himself completely, hoping that by burying himself under the covers all problems with disappear into thin air.
And of course that never happens, because sooner or later Taemin simply has to come out of his hiding spot and fake an amiable ‘Morning’, while at the same time sitting down and thanking to all heavens above that Minho is the only person in the kitchen.
‘Hey’, the older replies by looking at him briefly, instant in which Taemin can notice him taking a quick glance at his shorts before turning away towards the stove, on which he was preparing some sort of odd-smelling omelette. And despite the fact that both of them are perfectly aware of the awkwardness floating around like an annoying bug, it’s circumstances like this in which they pretend that nothing is wrong and try -sometimes failing to no extent- to carry a normal conversation.
‘I’m making eggs with sausages. Do you want something else?’ Minho asks out of the blue, getting some plates and glasses out, still refusing to turn around. Taemin knows he is just doing this out of politeness -because one of the many things he loved about him was that he never made fun of him- and says that eggs and sausages were exactly what he needed.
‘But still, why are cooking by yourself again?’
‘The others left.’ Minho responds shortly, with the calm he always possessed in his voice. ‘And they already ate. Onew and Jonghyun had cereal, while our diva some fancy, meat-with-I-don’t-know-what dish.’
‘I see. That’s so typical.’
‘It sure is.’
Taemin tries to think of something else to ask, just to shake the gawkiness away, but finds himself, to his most utter desperation, in lack of ideas. And Minho ignoring him by opening the window to let the steam out and starting to search for something in fridge isn’t helping much. And, just like every time they’re together alone like this, it’s like they have an unspoken agreement of not talking with each other.
Taemin always asks himself why and wonders if Minho is also concerned about this, but decides he couldn’t be. He always seems so silent and detached from everything around him that the younger sometimes wishes to be able to open his head up and look for an answer inside his brain.
And just as he was about to say something, Minho comes dangerously close to him and starts arranging the plates in front of him, giving him a coy smile when Taemin looks up at him questioningly. And he can’t help but notice how good he always smells, even after hours of unending dancing and not showering.
After both of them sit down facing each other -why do I always end up with him like this- they start enjoying the tasty slices of bacon, even if Taemin had to admit that decorating the food was never one of Minho’s strong points, with pieces of egg sticking out on the edge of the plate and an overall look of a mini battlefield. But he simply enjoys the sweet, crunchy feel it leaves behind, and who really cares about the aspect of it when those hands -my God, those hands- made everything with such care?
As expected, Minho finds Taemin staring at his hands, with his piercing gaze carefully following every move the older makes, with a chop of bacon hanging from his fork, halfway through his slightly opened mouth. Nothing new, Minho thinks, so he decides to wake him up from his reverie before drool falls onto the plate.
‘You want some?’ he asks, gesturing towards his own plate. Taemin seems to reconnect with reality, shaking his head in amusement.
‘Why are you asking me that? I’m having the same thing.’
‘I know. But they always say that someone else’s food always tastes better than your own.’
And, hesitantly at first, Taemin opens his mouth lightly, motioning for Minho to feed him. The named one simply laughs -most adorable laugh in the history of adorable laughs- and stretches the hand holding the fork, at the top of which he put a generous amount of food. They stare at each other the entire time, because who would be so insane not to look into that pair of mousse-like eyes.
Minho looks at him dubiously, waiting for an apparent approval. Taemin finds it otherworldly.
‘It sucks’ he finally says, continuing to eat from his own plate. ‘Mine is like ten times better.’
‘Liar. It comes from the same frying pan.’
‘It still sucks.’
‘Prove it.’
Without hesitation -and mainly because Taemin always enjoys these little moments they share when no one else is around- he picks up the largest piece from his plate and feeds Minho back, who takes everything in with a skeptical look on his face. He grabs him by the wrist as the younger pulls out the fork, to steady his hand, and lets his fingers -goddammit- linger along his skin. He continues looking at him pensive, after which a firm statement comes along.
‘Not even close. They’re the same.’
‘You’re just saying that.’ Taemin replies, both because he can’t think of anything else to say -you sure know how to fuck with my mind- and because he was never good at carrying long, meaningful conversations. He sometimes wonders why SM picked him out of all the candidates, since celebrities were supposed to be comfortable around cameras, whereas he was stiff and awkward as crap.
‘So.’ Minho tries again, noticing the slight discomfort his band mate was trying so hard to conceive. ‘How did you sleep?’
Well damn. It wasn’t enough that he had caught him only minutes earlier in the middle of a nocturnal ejaculation, now he also had to justify it.
‘Fine. But it was too warm.’
And what else was he supposed to say? That the object of his most hidden desires focused on Minho’s hands? That he dreamt every night about being touched, caressed, stroked by his strong, but at the same time gentle fingers? That he was fascinated with the way Minho picked up every little thing he came in contact with, with such delicacy and heed, as if it might break any minute? That he had the dreadful -but at the same time so erotic- way of combing his way backwards with his fingers, which drove him deranged? Or no, better yet, the way he always -freaking always- dawdled his index and middle finger above his lower lip, petting it gently whenever he was deep in thought.
‘Well, my room is always too cold. I should come sleep with you next time or otherwise I’ll freeze.’
Of course he always had to say something along these lines, simply to make his heart race with a thousand miles per fraction of a second. But would he ever refuse?
‘Yeah, maybe you should.’
Unmistakably not.
As such, with the arrival of yet another late evening, all five of them find themselves back at the dorm, exhausted from yet another practice decorated with yelling and ‘You call that dancing? From the top!’ belonging to their choreographer. They shower with such laziness like it was the first time learning how to shower and eat with such appetite as if nobody had eaten in decades.
As they are about to go to bed, Key makes a remark -it always has to be Key commenting about something that displeases him- directed to Minho, asking him what are you doing with your pillow and why are you going to Taemin’s room, don’t you have your own room and are you two having a slumber party without us.
‘My room is always cold. And his is always warm. You figure out the rest.’ Minho replies dreary, not bothering to continue talking, pushing Taemin inside his room -their room- and closing the door behind. Normally the others would start joking about poor Tae’s baby needs again, but knowing how protective their rapper can get around him, they just keep their mouths shut and head straight into their own hostels, while at the same time murmuring dispersed ‘Night’s.
Inside his room Taemin doesn’t know what to say -what the hell are you even supposed to say in a situation like this, anyhow- and asks Minho if he really is that tired.
‘Why, aren’t you?’ he asks back, somewhat surprised.
‘No, I am. I am.’
‘Are you sure? Because if not, we can just-’
‘I said I am.’
Taemin thinks that came out harsher than he had intended and immediately looks at Minho for some sort of dander that might be written on his face, but he simply says ‘Alright then’ in response, heading for the bed and starting to make himself comfortable. He looks up at Taemin for a brief moment, noticing he was pierced in place, and starts laughing.
‘Did someone glue you to the floor? It’s cold, get in.’
So Taemin obliges without muttering a sound and slides in next to him, immediately turning his back and positioning himself on the edge of the bed, with his knees brought up to his chest, curled into a ball. He hears Minho laughing behind him once more -‘You’re going to fall, come closer’- and feels two hands grabbing him by his waist, dragging his entire body with such ease as if he was made of cotton. He then senses Minho’s hands making their way through his arms, so that in the end he can perceive one of them resting on his abdomen.
They both fall asleep without adding anything else, and when they wake up the next morning, Taemin is disappointed to notice that Minho is gone. He hears the flush of the toilet somewhere behind his door and then steps leading to his room. He briskly closes his eyes again, just in time to hear the door open, followed by footsteps walking towards the bed. Someone pretty heavy climbs above him and then occupies the empty place behind him -that scent, he can recognize it everywhere- and his heart accelerates -not again- when last night’s same pair of arms embraces him.
And he smiles. He can’t help it, a perky smile crept onto his lips and now refused to go away.
Maybe being Taemin wasn’t such a daunting task after all.
Pairing: 2min
Rating: PG-13 for language
Genre: Fluff, Romance
Summary: Minho's hands always keep the maknae busy.
1,881 words
Being Taemin was a daunting task.
By definition, carrying your existence as the youngest of the group implied being picked on, laughed at, made fun of, called names and treated, most of the time, like the support for the others’ corny, insolent, often demeaning jokes. It meant having to strain with hassling remarks and squalid commentaries from the moment you walk out of your room to the minute -and what a blessed minute it always is- you trudge back in, late at night, after a day of ongoing rehearsal and outcries from your manager.
Being the youngest also meant having to deal with all those appalling, hormonal changes, with wet dreams that always begin early in the morning and end precisely before one of your band mates walks in, just in time to notice a small, damp portion of bed sheet right above your pelvic area. This always results in a confused, wide-eyed Minho mumbling a faded ‘Sorry’ as he walks out, and an embarrassed, ready-to-crack-into-a-million-pieces Taemin, who covers himself completely, hoping that by burying himself under the covers all problems with disappear into thin air.
And of course that never happens, because sooner or later Taemin simply has to come out of his hiding spot and fake an amiable ‘Morning’, while at the same time sitting down and thanking to all heavens above that Minho is the only person in the kitchen.
‘Hey’, the older replies by looking at him briefly, instant in which Taemin can notice him taking a quick glance at his shorts before turning away towards the stove, on which he was preparing some sort of odd-smelling omelette. And despite the fact that both of them are perfectly aware of the awkwardness floating around like an annoying bug, it’s circumstances like this in which they pretend that nothing is wrong and try -sometimes failing to no extent- to carry a normal conversation.
‘I’m making eggs with sausages. Do you want something else?’ Minho asks out of the blue, getting some plates and glasses out, still refusing to turn around. Taemin knows he is just doing this out of politeness -because one of the many things he loved about him was that he never made fun of him- and says that eggs and sausages were exactly what he needed.
‘But still, why are cooking by yourself again?’
‘The others left.’ Minho responds shortly, with the calm he always possessed in his voice. ‘And they already ate. Onew and Jonghyun had cereal, while our diva some fancy, meat-with-I-don’t-know-what dish.’
‘I see. That’s so typical.’
‘It sure is.’
Taemin tries to think of something else to ask, just to shake the gawkiness away, but finds himself, to his most utter desperation, in lack of ideas. And Minho ignoring him by opening the window to let the steam out and starting to search for something in fridge isn’t helping much. And, just like every time they’re together alone like this, it’s like they have an unspoken agreement of not talking with each other.
Taemin always asks himself why and wonders if Minho is also concerned about this, but decides he couldn’t be. He always seems so silent and detached from everything around him that the younger sometimes wishes to be able to open his head up and look for an answer inside his brain.
And just as he was about to say something, Minho comes dangerously close to him and starts arranging the plates in front of him, giving him a coy smile when Taemin looks up at him questioningly. And he can’t help but notice how good he always smells, even after hours of unending dancing and not showering.
After both of them sit down facing each other -why do I always end up with him like this- they start enjoying the tasty slices of bacon, even if Taemin had to admit that decorating the food was never one of Minho’s strong points, with pieces of egg sticking out on the edge of the plate and an overall look of a mini battlefield. But he simply enjoys the sweet, crunchy feel it leaves behind, and who really cares about the aspect of it when those hands -my God, those hands- made everything with such care?
As expected, Minho finds Taemin staring at his hands, with his piercing gaze carefully following every move the older makes, with a chop of bacon hanging from his fork, halfway through his slightly opened mouth. Nothing new, Minho thinks, so he decides to wake him up from his reverie before drool falls onto the plate.
‘You want some?’ he asks, gesturing towards his own plate. Taemin seems to reconnect with reality, shaking his head in amusement.
‘Why are you asking me that? I’m having the same thing.’
‘I know. But they always say that someone else’s food always tastes better than your own.’
And, hesitantly at first, Taemin opens his mouth lightly, motioning for Minho to feed him. The named one simply laughs -most adorable laugh in the history of adorable laughs- and stretches the hand holding the fork, at the top of which he put a generous amount of food. They stare at each other the entire time, because who would be so insane not to look into that pair of mousse-like eyes.
Minho looks at him dubiously, waiting for an apparent approval. Taemin finds it otherworldly.
‘It sucks’ he finally says, continuing to eat from his own plate. ‘Mine is like ten times better.’
‘Liar. It comes from the same frying pan.’
‘It still sucks.’
‘Prove it.’
Without hesitation -and mainly because Taemin always enjoys these little moments they share when no one else is around- he picks up the largest piece from his plate and feeds Minho back, who takes everything in with a skeptical look on his face. He grabs him by the wrist as the younger pulls out the fork, to steady his hand, and lets his fingers -goddammit- linger along his skin. He continues looking at him pensive, after which a firm statement comes along.
‘Not even close. They’re the same.’
‘You’re just saying that.’ Taemin replies, both because he can’t think of anything else to say -you sure know how to fuck with my mind- and because he was never good at carrying long, meaningful conversations. He sometimes wonders why SM picked him out of all the candidates, since celebrities were supposed to be comfortable around cameras, whereas he was stiff and awkward as crap.
‘So.’ Minho tries again, noticing the slight discomfort his band mate was trying so hard to conceive. ‘How did you sleep?’
Well damn. It wasn’t enough that he had caught him only minutes earlier in the middle of a nocturnal ejaculation, now he also had to justify it.
‘Fine. But it was too warm.’
And what else was he supposed to say? That the object of his most hidden desires focused on Minho’s hands? That he dreamt every night about being touched, caressed, stroked by his strong, but at the same time gentle fingers? That he was fascinated with the way Minho picked up every little thing he came in contact with, with such delicacy and heed, as if it might break any minute? That he had the dreadful -but at the same time so erotic- way of combing his way backwards with his fingers, which drove him deranged? Or no, better yet, the way he always -freaking always- dawdled his index and middle finger above his lower lip, petting it gently whenever he was deep in thought.
‘Well, my room is always too cold. I should come sleep with you next time or otherwise I’ll freeze.’
Of course he always had to say something along these lines, simply to make his heart race with a thousand miles per fraction of a second. But would he ever refuse?
‘Yeah, maybe you should.’
Unmistakably not.
As such, with the arrival of yet another late evening, all five of them find themselves back at the dorm, exhausted from yet another practice decorated with yelling and ‘You call that dancing? From the top!’ belonging to their choreographer. They shower with such laziness like it was the first time learning how to shower and eat with such appetite as if nobody had eaten in decades.
As they are about to go to bed, Key makes a remark -it always has to be Key commenting about something that displeases him- directed to Minho, asking him what are you doing with your pillow and why are you going to Taemin’s room, don’t you have your own room and are you two having a slumber party without us.
‘My room is always cold. And his is always warm. You figure out the rest.’ Minho replies dreary, not bothering to continue talking, pushing Taemin inside his room -their room- and closing the door behind. Normally the others would start joking about poor Tae’s baby needs again, but knowing how protective their rapper can get around him, they just keep their mouths shut and head straight into their own hostels, while at the same time murmuring dispersed ‘Night’s.
Inside his room Taemin doesn’t know what to say -what the hell are you even supposed to say in a situation like this, anyhow- and asks Minho if he really is that tired.
‘Why, aren’t you?’ he asks back, somewhat surprised.
‘No, I am. I am.’
‘Are you sure? Because if not, we can just-’
‘I said I am.’
Taemin thinks that came out harsher than he had intended and immediately looks at Minho for some sort of dander that might be written on his face, but he simply says ‘Alright then’ in response, heading for the bed and starting to make himself comfortable. He looks up at Taemin for a brief moment, noticing he was pierced in place, and starts laughing.
‘Did someone glue you to the floor? It’s cold, get in.’
So Taemin obliges without muttering a sound and slides in next to him, immediately turning his back and positioning himself on the edge of the bed, with his knees brought up to his chest, curled into a ball. He hears Minho laughing behind him once more -‘You’re going to fall, come closer’- and feels two hands grabbing him by his waist, dragging his entire body with such ease as if he was made of cotton. He then senses Minho’s hands making their way through his arms, so that in the end he can perceive one of them resting on his abdomen.
They both fall asleep without adding anything else, and when they wake up the next morning, Taemin is disappointed to notice that Minho is gone. He hears the flush of the toilet somewhere behind his door and then steps leading to his room. He briskly closes his eyes again, just in time to hear the door open, followed by footsteps walking towards the bed. Someone pretty heavy climbs above him and then occupies the empty place behind him -that scent, he can recognize it everywhere- and his heart accelerates -not again- when last night’s same pair of arms embraces him.
And he smiles. He can’t help it, a perky smile crept onto his lips and now refused to go away.
Maybe being Taemin wasn’t such a daunting task after all.