Lucifer
Title: Lucifer
Genre: fluff-tension (does that even qualify as a genre?)
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: 2min
Word Count:916
Taemin had an unfortunate habit of wearing shirts that didn't leave a whole lot to the imagination. This was something that Minho attributed partly to the coordi-noonas dressing him up in slinky, clingy shirts since he was fifteen and partly to him living in the same room and Kibum, who took great pleasure in using any living thing as his personal mannequin to dress as he pleased.
Whatever the reason though, Taemin had somehow managed to obtain the talent of being able to walk into any wardrobe or store and find the one shirt that slid over his body like silk. They were always the ones giving brief, tantalizing glimpses of collarbone or stomach, always draping gracefully over his sharp shoulderblades. It was agonizing for Minho, who had an imagination that ran rampant when it came to the younger boy when he was wearing normal clothes, much less the ones that he'd taken to wearing recently.
Today was no exception. They were rehearsing for a stage performance of Lucifer, one of the last ones before they performed it live. Taemin had chosen to wear a shirt that was dark, slim-fitting, and so thin it was almost transparent when caught in certain angles of the overhead lights. Add that to the blatantly sexual, sinuous movements of the choreography, and Minho wasn't sure how he was going to make it through the day without considerable embarrassment on his part.
It was even worse because of how Taemin transformed when he heard music. It wasn't that he fell into character; the music took unlocked a primal part of himself that he kept hidden on a day-to-day level. “It's like I have no control over myself anymore,” Taemin had told Minho once a while back when they'd finished a particularly grueling practice session in which he'd ended in tears, brought to emotion by the lyrics and music and intense dancing. “I can't help myself. I just have to let it take me.”
Those words had replayed in Minho's head ever since, always at the most inopportune moments. Taemin's hair winging, eyes half-lidded, hips rolling in a sleek gyration. No control. His hands smoothing up his sides in a self-caress, sensual and sleek. Can't help myself. His head tipping back, exposing a long, slender neck. Let it take me. It was useless to try to not watch him; he was altogether too beautiful to ignore.
Every time they ended practice, exhausted, breathing hard, and craving Taemin, Minho would find an excuse to brush past him. It was always disguised as being accidental or casual (or so he hoped), but in truth it was pure want, an inexplicable need to have some sort of contact. Taemin was a magnet, and Minho was drawn to him.
This time when practice was finished though, before Minho could begin to formulate a way to get close to the younger boy he found himself with his arms full of elated Taemin.
“Did you feel that?” he was saying, eyes dancing as he wrapped his legs around Minho's hips, hoisting himself more securely into his grasp. “It was flawless, no one missed a beat! Not even Jonghyun!”
Minho could hardly stand the intense unfairness of this situation. Here he was, Taemin in his arms, and all the younger boy was talking about was no one missing their music cues. How could he be expected to be chivalrous?
Taking advantage of his back facing everyone else Minho gave into the urge to be closer and pressed his nose into the hollow of Taemin's throat, breathing in his scent like a drug. It was sharp from sweat with undertones of something rich and sweet. “You smell good,” he hummed, and without thinking past the point of wondering if he'd taste the same, quickly touched his tongue to his skin.
“Yah!!” Taemin flew out of Minho's arms, eyes wild, face burning. “What--what--you--”
“I what?” Minho was innocent, far too much so, as he gazed unblinkingly at Taemin. “What are you talking about?”
Taemin glanced around quickly, looking to see if anyone was watching. “You licked me.”
It was too late to turn back now. “I actually tasted you,” Minho corrected stubbornly, folding his arms over his chest. “There's a difference.”
The younger boy was not falling for it. Eyes narrowed, he stepped closer to Minho, patting his sharply on his cheeks with both hands. “Babo, it doesn't matter. You don't put your tongue on someone else in the middle of the stage.” His hand slipped down to Minho's neck then, pulling him down so they were nearly eye to eye. Somehow the younger boy had gone from blushing and stuttering to confident and coy with a splash of irritation in a heartbeat. “And anyway,” he added in a devilish purr that was horribly destructive to Minho's sanity, “you're always supposed to ask first. But since you didn't, it's only fair that I get a taste, too.”
Taemin stretched up his tiptoes then and, leaning in to casually make it appear like he was whispering something, bit Minho's ear.
As Minho's world shattered into a hundred thousand white-hot pieces Taemin stepped away, smiling in a blasé manner like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “I'm going to go shower, hyung,” he said cheerfully, turning to go to the locker room. “I'll see you later!”
He was Lucifer, without a doubt.