Insinuations
Title: Insinuations
Pairing: 2min
Rating: pg-15
Genre: fluff, crackfic
Summary: Taemin's innocence has gone, completely and utterly.
Words: 1609
The incident was what made Minho realize that what scant shreds of innocence Taemin might have had left had completely gone.
Yes, he still had that wide-eyed blink that people (also known as Kim Kibum) fell for left and right, he still had a breathy, sweet voice that sounded more like it ought to be coming some heavenly creature than a nearly twenty-year-old boy, and he still was more enamored with sweet things than was necessary, but he was absolutely not an innocent.
Actually, Minho thought dryly, the bit about him loving sweet things was what made him realize that Taemin simply had no innocence left at all.
//
They'd been in the kitchen. It was just him and Taemin, the latter downing a banana milk like his life depended on it, the former absently paging through a book left at the table.
It wasn't an excellent situation-they only had an hour and a half to relax before they had to go meet Kibum and Jinki at an interview, and Minho was getting painfully turned on because the maknae was very exuberant about drinking. He didn't just sip, he wrapped his entire mouth around the top of the bottle and tipped his head back and it was just particularly bothersome to Minho because his mouth just looked...
It wasn't appropriate to shove him into the bedroom at three in the afternoon with Jonghyun still home when they only had a short amount of time, he told himself, trying to ignore the wet lips across the kitchen as Taemin opened even wider, tilting back even further, trying to see if there was any of the drink left in the small, plastic bottle.
“I guess that's it,” he finally said dejectedly as he tossed the empty container in the general vicinity of the trashcan. “Will you drive me to go get more?”
It bounced off the rim, skittering over the floor and landing somewhere near Minho's feet. With a sigh Minho leaned down, groping around beneath the table to find it. “Why now? You just had one, and we have regular milk in the refrigerator. We're going to get more groceries soon, can't you wait until then?”
When he sat up Taemin was kneeling next to the short table, eyes locked on Minho's with that falsely innocent wide-eyed gaze that he still wasn't whether he should dread or anticipate because it nearly always preceded some dirty idea.
“Hyung,” he said, reaching out to take the empty bottle, “it would make a lot more sense to go now. You know as well as I do that I only drink banana milk.”
Perhaps it was him that was the innocent one, because at that point in time Minho was too distracted by Taemin's pretty hands wrapping around the bottle to process what he was saying. “It's just as good,” he muttered, slumping back in his chair. “I don't know what you see in banana milk anyway. It's nasty.”
“Minho.” Taemin said slowly, leaning on the table on his elbows, hand dangling over the edge dangerously close to Minho's crotch. “I want banana milk.” Each word was precise and deliberate and suddenly Minho was putting two and two together, his mind sinking into the gutter even further as he realized that the younger boy was definitely not referring the the bottled drink he'd just finished.
“Fine,” he said, standing quickly and trying to ignore the hoarseness of his voice. “Come on, let's go. We don't have a lot of time.”
It was at times like this that Minho found himself extremely thankful that he'd chosen a loss of sleep to learn how to drive.
It was also at times like this, Taemin sitting in the passenger seat next to him with a severe case of wandering hands, that he wondered how he was ever going to manage to live through the year.
“Taemin!” he cursed, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel as Taemin started growing impatient with just tracing circles on Minho's thigh. “I can't-I, just, no, you can't. You have to stop. I'm going to kill us both.”
Taemin withdrew, pouting. “Then pull over. No one will notice anything if you put on your sunglasses and pretend you're sleeping.”
The thought was as intoxicating as Taemin himself with his dark eyes and full lips and warm breath. “We need to go somewhere more private,” Minho insisted, but he could hear the weakness of his voice.
Taemin could too, and he pounced on it with soft assurances. “The windows are dark. No one will see anything.” And suddenly his hand was back, just barely brushing Minho's bulging jeans.
He gave up, cranking the steering wheel to the side so hard that Taemin hit the window with his shoulder. “Fine,” he said for the second time in ten minutes, but this time it was a command. “You want to stop here, we'll stop here.” They were in the parking lot of a supermarket, parked between a family van and a small red sportscar.
Taemin was unbuckling his seatbelt, motioning for Minho to move his seat backward so there was room for him on the floor.
“You want banana milk, hm?” Minho asked, slanting a glance at the younger boy, predator to predator. “Come here, then. Come get it.”
Taemin was crawling over, sliding with practiced ease to his knees on the floorspace at Minho's feet. “You're kind of an idiot sometimes, you know that?” His danced his fingers up Minho's legs, stopping at the button to his pants.
How he managed to look predatory when he was on his knees was beyond Minho's comprehension. It was like this every time Taemin decided he wanted him-he found a way to get him alone, then teased him and lorded his power over him until the older boy thought he would cry with frustration.
He was undoing the button, slowly easing the zipper down, when he stopped suddenly. “Eyes shut,” he told Minho sharply. “I don't want to be caught. You're an actor, you should be able to pretend to sleep well enough, right?”
It was with regret that Minho closed his eyes. He was going to miss seeing Taemin's face, miss the satisfied glint in his eyes that meant he was utterly pleased with himself and Minho.
“I'll stop if you open them, so don't even try.”
“You're enjoying this too much,” he hissed, trying to keep his breathing regular. “Way too much.”
He didn't answer, just laughed, then Minho's jeans were slipping down over his hips and Taemin was humming appreciatively. “Mm, I love your hipbones,” he sighed, and abruptly there was a hint of a tongue tracing the sharp point, trailing sparks down the slope of it.
When he jumped, eyes opening in shock, Taemin bit down hard and backed away. “You're supposed to be sleeping!” he warned. Minho shut his eyes just as quickly as he'd opened them, colors jumping around tauntingly on the backs of his eyelids.
His tongue was everywhere then, tracing shapes on Minho's stomach, hips, thighs, always close but never quite close enough. It was torturous; he was aroused beyond belief, blood pulsing in his veins as he worked to keep his face from twitching and betraying that he wasn't actually sleeping at all.
It felt like an hour, two, seven, before Taemin finally shimmied Minho's briefs down to meet the jeans at his knees, and then there was breath ghosting over him, warm and agonizing. “Mm, Minho. Minho, Minho, you're beautiful,” Taemin was murmuring, reverent. “So perfect.”
There was a moment where Minho really couldn't help the moan that escaped because Taemin took him into his mouth and it was the most perfect thing he could have imagined because it was hot hot hot and wet and Taemin.
It was on instinct that his hands blindly found the younger's hair, tangling in the strands and holding him in place so he couldn't back off, couldn't stop because that would be the worst thing in the world. Minho knew without a doubt that he would die without this. He would die without the maknae, his maknae, would wither away into nothingness if he couldn't have him--
When he came it was fire in his blood, only intensified by his lack of sight. He could feel the younger still though, careful not to leave a mess. This thought, this need to see his face, was what made Minho open his eyes.
Taemin was perfect, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied. Minho disentangled his fingers from his hair, dropping his hands to the nape of the younger's neck, nudging him upward into his lap so, after a quick glance around to verify they were safe, he could kiss him.
“You taste like banana milk still,” Minho breathed against him, still too mentally and emotionally imbalanced to make a more coherent statement.
Taemin laughed into his mouth, very much still alive and full of excitement, a stark contrast to Minho's sated murmurs. “I wonder why that is?”
Minho bit the other's lower lip in the equivalent of an eye roll. “Shut up.”
The younger brushed his hips against Minho's stomach, the gesture slight but very deliberate. “Want to make me?”
It wasn't quite as easy for Minho, with his long legs, to kneel in the small amount of floor space, but Taemin felt he managed well enough.
Pairing: 2min
Rating: pg-15
Genre: fluff, crackfic
Summary: Taemin's innocence has gone, completely and utterly.
Words: 1609
The incident was what made Minho realize that what scant shreds of innocence Taemin might have had left had completely gone.
Yes, he still had that wide-eyed blink that people (also known as Kim Kibum) fell for left and right, he still had a breathy, sweet voice that sounded more like it ought to be coming some heavenly creature than a nearly twenty-year-old boy, and he still was more enamored with sweet things than was necessary, but he was absolutely not an innocent.
Actually, Minho thought dryly, the bit about him loving sweet things was what made him realize that Taemin simply had no innocence left at all.
//
They'd been in the kitchen. It was just him and Taemin, the latter downing a banana milk like his life depended on it, the former absently paging through a book left at the table.
It wasn't an excellent situation-they only had an hour and a half to relax before they had to go meet Kibum and Jinki at an interview, and Minho was getting painfully turned on because the maknae was very exuberant about drinking. He didn't just sip, he wrapped his entire mouth around the top of the bottle and tipped his head back and it was just particularly bothersome to Minho because his mouth just looked...
It wasn't appropriate to shove him into the bedroom at three in the afternoon with Jonghyun still home when they only had a short amount of time, he told himself, trying to ignore the wet lips across the kitchen as Taemin opened even wider, tilting back even further, trying to see if there was any of the drink left in the small, plastic bottle.
“I guess that's it,” he finally said dejectedly as he tossed the empty container in the general vicinity of the trashcan. “Will you drive me to go get more?”
It bounced off the rim, skittering over the floor and landing somewhere near Minho's feet. With a sigh Minho leaned down, groping around beneath the table to find it. “Why now? You just had one, and we have regular milk in the refrigerator. We're going to get more groceries soon, can't you wait until then?”
When he sat up Taemin was kneeling next to the short table, eyes locked on Minho's with that falsely innocent wide-eyed gaze that he still wasn't whether he should dread or anticipate because it nearly always preceded some dirty idea.
“Hyung,” he said, reaching out to take the empty bottle, “it would make a lot more sense to go now. You know as well as I do that I only drink banana milk.”
Perhaps it was him that was the innocent one, because at that point in time Minho was too distracted by Taemin's pretty hands wrapping around the bottle to process what he was saying. “It's just as good,” he muttered, slumping back in his chair. “I don't know what you see in banana milk anyway. It's nasty.”
“Minho.” Taemin said slowly, leaning on the table on his elbows, hand dangling over the edge dangerously close to Minho's crotch. “I want banana milk.” Each word was precise and deliberate and suddenly Minho was putting two and two together, his mind sinking into the gutter even further as he realized that the younger boy was definitely not referring the the bottled drink he'd just finished.
“Fine,” he said, standing quickly and trying to ignore the hoarseness of his voice. “Come on, let's go. We don't have a lot of time.”
It was at times like this that Minho found himself extremely thankful that he'd chosen a loss of sleep to learn how to drive.
It was also at times like this, Taemin sitting in the passenger seat next to him with a severe case of wandering hands, that he wondered how he was ever going to manage to live through the year.
“Taemin!” he cursed, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel as Taemin started growing impatient with just tracing circles on Minho's thigh. “I can't-I, just, no, you can't. You have to stop. I'm going to kill us both.”
Taemin withdrew, pouting. “Then pull over. No one will notice anything if you put on your sunglasses and pretend you're sleeping.”
The thought was as intoxicating as Taemin himself with his dark eyes and full lips and warm breath. “We need to go somewhere more private,” Minho insisted, but he could hear the weakness of his voice.
Taemin could too, and he pounced on it with soft assurances. “The windows are dark. No one will see anything.” And suddenly his hand was back, just barely brushing Minho's bulging jeans.
He gave up, cranking the steering wheel to the side so hard that Taemin hit the window with his shoulder. “Fine,” he said for the second time in ten minutes, but this time it was a command. “You want to stop here, we'll stop here.” They were in the parking lot of a supermarket, parked between a family van and a small red sportscar.
Taemin was unbuckling his seatbelt, motioning for Minho to move his seat backward so there was room for him on the floor.
“You want banana milk, hm?” Minho asked, slanting a glance at the younger boy, predator to predator. “Come here, then. Come get it.”
Taemin was crawling over, sliding with practiced ease to his knees on the floorspace at Minho's feet. “You're kind of an idiot sometimes, you know that?” His danced his fingers up Minho's legs, stopping at the button to his pants.
How he managed to look predatory when he was on his knees was beyond Minho's comprehension. It was like this every time Taemin decided he wanted him-he found a way to get him alone, then teased him and lorded his power over him until the older boy thought he would cry with frustration.
He was undoing the button, slowly easing the zipper down, when he stopped suddenly. “Eyes shut,” he told Minho sharply. “I don't want to be caught. You're an actor, you should be able to pretend to sleep well enough, right?”
It was with regret that Minho closed his eyes. He was going to miss seeing Taemin's face, miss the satisfied glint in his eyes that meant he was utterly pleased with himself and Minho.
“I'll stop if you open them, so don't even try.”
“You're enjoying this too much,” he hissed, trying to keep his breathing regular. “Way too much.”
He didn't answer, just laughed, then Minho's jeans were slipping down over his hips and Taemin was humming appreciatively. “Mm, I love your hipbones,” he sighed, and abruptly there was a hint of a tongue tracing the sharp point, trailing sparks down the slope of it.
When he jumped, eyes opening in shock, Taemin bit down hard and backed away. “You're supposed to be sleeping!” he warned. Minho shut his eyes just as quickly as he'd opened them, colors jumping around tauntingly on the backs of his eyelids.
His tongue was everywhere then, tracing shapes on Minho's stomach, hips, thighs, always close but never quite close enough. It was torturous; he was aroused beyond belief, blood pulsing in his veins as he worked to keep his face from twitching and betraying that he wasn't actually sleeping at all.
It felt like an hour, two, seven, before Taemin finally shimmied Minho's briefs down to meet the jeans at his knees, and then there was breath ghosting over him, warm and agonizing. “Mm, Minho. Minho, Minho, you're beautiful,” Taemin was murmuring, reverent. “So perfect.”
There was a moment where Minho really couldn't help the moan that escaped because Taemin took him into his mouth and it was the most perfect thing he could have imagined because it was hot hot hot and wet and Taemin.
It was on instinct that his hands blindly found the younger's hair, tangling in the strands and holding him in place so he couldn't back off, couldn't stop because that would be the worst thing in the world. Minho knew without a doubt that he would die without this. He would die without the maknae, his maknae, would wither away into nothingness if he couldn't have him--
When he came it was fire in his blood, only intensified by his lack of sight. He could feel the younger still though, careful not to leave a mess. This thought, this need to see his face, was what made Minho open his eyes.
Taemin was perfect, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied. Minho disentangled his fingers from his hair, dropping his hands to the nape of the younger's neck, nudging him upward into his lap so, after a quick glance around to verify they were safe, he could kiss him.
“You taste like banana milk still,” Minho breathed against him, still too mentally and emotionally imbalanced to make a more coherent statement.
Taemin laughed into his mouth, very much still alive and full of excitement, a stark contrast to Minho's sated murmurs. “I wonder why that is?”
Minho bit the other's lower lip in the equivalent of an eye roll. “Shut up.”
The younger brushed his hips against Minho's stomach, the gesture slight but very deliberate. “Want to make me?”
It wasn't quite as easy for Minho, with his long legs, to kneel in the small amount of floor space, but Taemin felt he managed well enough.