[oneshot] take care + friends like these
Title: take care
Pairing: taemin/kai
Rating: nc17
Genre: pwp
Warnings: swearing, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: semi-public sex @ the august 18 smtown concert in seoul, written for an anon. 772 words.
The dance battle isn't terribly complicated, but when Jongin files off with the others he's still sticky with perspiration anyway. It's hot on stage with all the lights and pyrotechnics, and they're packed in with 70,000 screaming fans, each louder than the next. His ears are still ringing as they slide into the changing rooms, white shirt sticking to his chest, adrenaline pounding in his throat.
Jongin doesn't have anything else to do but wait until the concert's about to end. Taemin's next thing is Internet War, the whole nine yards. Jonghyun sends them a jaunty wave from where the stylists are putting the final touches on his torso make-up. Jongin gets shuttled off into a corner to change out of his clothing. Taemin's gray top's swapped out with a black blazer. On the monitors, they watch Boa take the stage.
Jongin's heart's still beating a little too fast, hasn't calmed down much at all since MAXSTEP, when he'd followed through on his last pop and lock. He disappears in the sea of racks to pick out a shirt, breath too shallow, and Taemin follows, fiddling with the bedazzled collar of his jacket.
"You nervous?" Jongin asks over his shoulder. He yanks at the hem of a dark navy tank to survey the design, and when he looks up again Taemin's sending him this flat stare, as if to ask: really? Jongin grins. "Sorry, stupid question. I forgot. You don't feel anything."
Taemin rolls his eyes. "Right. And you feel everything."
Jongin shrugs. He pulls the tank top off the hanger and tucks it over his head. It's barely settled around his neck when Taemin twists a hand in the damp hair at Jongin's nape and tugs him forward, gets up on his toes to suck at Jongin's mouth. Jongin's heart rate picks up again. His jeans go uncomfortably tight as Taemin's fingers slide over the fly to palm the outline of his dick. Shit. Maybe he shouldn't have changed out of those harem pants.
"You need to relax," Taemin murmurs, and there's something incredibly ironic about this attempt at comfort when Taemin's the one who's about to go back on stage to perform something completely new. When Jongin voices this thought aloud, Taemin smiles into his mouth and says, "I'm just getting into character."
"You're going to ruin your make-up," Jongin returns. He jerks back and almost knocks over a stack of skirts. A cursory glance over the rack jungle reveals that everyone else in the room is still preoccupied with Boa's performance. And Taemin-Taemin's unzipping his fly, Jesus Christ. "You're going to get my sweat all over your outfit."
"They have time to redo it," Taemin says flippantly, and sinks onto his knees.
"You-wait-" he stutters, gaze darting toward the far end of the room again with a vague sense of panic, but it's too late: Taemin's got Jongin's boxers rucked down around his thighs and half of Jongin's erection crammed in his mouth, lips curling around the head, tongue flicking up against the underside. He's never really been able to resist going where Taemin leads him-and the worst part, of course, is that Taemin knows. Jongin hisses and his hands land on Taemin's shoulders; he has to forcibly stop himself from clenching his fingers in the material, slides them forward instead to trace the rhythmic pulse of Taemin's jaw as it works around the rest of him. Taemin hums. Surprisingly low, starting from the center of his chest and radiating up along Jongin’s dick. His eyes glimmer with amusement when Jongin bites off a strangled yelp.
Latent adrenaline's still pumping through his system and he comes too early, shaky hands smoothing over Taemin's face, Taemin's forehead pressing into his aching abdomen.
Taemin pulls off with a wet pop when Jongin's got enough presence of mind to prise his fingers away. He straightens up and scrubs his mouth, lips swollen and red, the corners turning up when Jongin slumps against the sharp hangers. Jongin's just gotten his pants zipped back up when a stylist hollers for Taemin, head poking past the skirt rack, armed with an arsenal of foundation and eyeliner. She raises her eyebrows at Jongin. Belatedly, he remembers his shirt isn't even on properly. He jerks it down as fast as he can. His cheeks feel so hot they might melt off.
Taemin laughs, the asshole. His shoulder brushes against Jongin's as he scoots past him, and he drops a low, "You can take care of me after Internet War," into the lobe of his ear. Jongin's fingers tingle as he watches Taemin go.
Title: friends like these
Pairing: taemin/kai
Rating: nc17
Genre: pwp
Warnings: swearing, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: post-music bank win porn, bc of reasons. ft. boys crying. 1,173 words.
"I'm gonna send this to everyone we know," Taemin's saying. His face hovers somewhere in the middle distance behind his phone. It's kind of difficult to tell exactly where through the tears. "Even your sisters."
Jongin's fairly certain Taemin doesn't have their numbers anymore, but his stomach still clenches. He sucks in a wavering breath and scrubs the back of his hand over his eyes. It comes away dripping. "How's We Got Married?" he retorts thickly, a couple beats too late. "I hear Minho-hyung humiliated you last week."
Taemin's lips turn up, blandly cheerful. "This isn't about me." He ducks closer with his phone, fingers slipping around the frame. "This is about your tears, you big crybaby."
Jongin kicks out, half-hearted, and Taemin dances away to avoid a foot to the shin. The camera's fish-eye winks steadily at him as it bobs. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he accuses, words forcing their way out of his closing throat.
"You have no idea how much," he says, Cheshire grin stretching wide. He leans forward again and boxes Jongin into the corner.
In all honesty, Jongin isn't sure why he's crying so hard. He's grateful, of course. This is the culmination of everything he's been working toward for half his life, a quantitative measure of reward for long nights in the practice room dozing off on Sehun's shoulder in between routines, the balls of his feet stinging with blisters. A little glass trophy that says Music Bank in flowing script-and in the crystal margins: Hey, kid. You did it.
But part of it is also the exhaustion. They've only been promoting for two weeks but some mornings Jongin wakes up feeling like a dead man walking, his lashes crusted over with sleep gunk, and the haze doesn't clear for hours. Listening to Joonmyun lose it on stage, his voice cracking every other word, is the last straw. The final fissure in the cement, like a dam breaking, or something-and Jongin'd had to duck down into a squat, rim of his hat digging into someone's calves as he choked up.
Taemin's so close now that the lens almost bumps into Jongin's nose. Still taping his video for posterity. "I'm going to go wash my face," Jongin announces sullenly to the room at large, and shimmies underneath Taemin's arm to escape.
He can feel a new cluster of pimples blooming along his jawline as he barrels past Baekhyun and Jongdae, who seem to have a two-man monopoly on Standing Around in Doorways Looking Awkward. Yixing's still sobbing into Lu Han's neck, eyes filmed over, shoulders shaking.
The restroom is blessedly quiet. Jongin bends over one of the sinks, and the linoleum counter digs into his pelvis. He twists the knob, wets his fingers and probes gently around the tender area on his chin.
The door squeaks open again. "You can't hide from me in the boys' bathroom," comes Taemin's voice, as dry as Jongin's face isn't. Jongin shoots him a blurry glare. Taemin's phone's crammed in the pocket of his jeans. Weird. "I'm a boy, too."
Jongin tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a nervous hiccup than anything. "I know," he says, and turns to stare at his reflection in the mirror. His skin is blotchy and starting to bloat a little, eyelids even puffier than usual. Another tear rolls down his cheek and he brings his fingers around to brush it away. "Shit, we have a fansign later-"
Taemin crowds in behind him, grabs his wrist, tucks his chin over Jongin's shoulder. "Don't," he says, coughing around the word.
Jongin freezes when he feels Taemin's crotch press up against his thigh, chest curving to fit around the slouching line of his back. "Are you turned on because I'm crying?" he splutters.
"It's really cute," Taemin says, almost defensive, but not enough to stop him from turning Jongin to face him and bending him over the counter. "Is that a problem?"
Jongin opens his mouth, closes it, opens it. Closes it, teeth clacking. Taemin's smiling again. Jongin bucks his hips up, and Taemin's eyes go a little narrow with intent. "You are my least favorite person in the world right now," Jongin sniffs.
"Only now?"
"All the time," he amends, shifting on his feet.
Taemin says, "Tell me something I don't already know," and shuffles them into the handicap stall.
"We have to be in Gimpo in an hour," Jongin supplies.
"Better make this quick, then," Taemin says. He props Jongin against the door, fingers skimming along the hem of Jongin's stage shirt. This part's easy, familiar. Taemin isn't great at reading people but he's been Jongin's friend for years, long enough to take with impunity what he knows Jongin will give. A fresh wave of helpless tears builds up in the back of Jongin's throat, needling the roof of his mouth, and his neck clenches around the sensation. "Don't," Taemin repeats, voice dropping as a quick hand works its way inside Jongin's underwear, tugs at his stirring cock. Taemin presses his mouth against the wet skin over Jongin's cheekbone and mirrors the motion down below, with his groin and Jongin's hip.
Jongin twists his head, sticks his face in Taemin's collarbone and moans wetly. Taemin jerks him off so fast that his head spins, and Jongin barely has the wherewithal to time the rhythm of his leg to Taemin's stuttering thrusts before the telltale pressure in his stomach starts curling out. Taemin's other hand slides into Jongin's hair, winds through the strands and yanks hard enough to pull another whimper from Jongin's mouth. A hazy thought occurs to him. "Hey," he wheezes, the burn expanding as Taemin grinds down against his thigh, thumb fastening over the head of Jongin's dick, "if this is-doing it for you, then why were you-why were you really taking that video?"
The hand in Jongin's pants clenches with surprise and Taemin rears back a little. Jongin lets out a half-laugh, half-sob at the abrupt, crimson flush creeping up Taemin's neck. Another squeeze and he shoots his load in Taemin's palm, tears trickling down his nose to drip onto Taemin's shirt.
"Well?" he murmurs, grinning, and Taemin scowls, shoves his tongue in Jongin's mouth to shut him up. He ruts against Jongin's leg a couple more times before he comes, muffled groan reverberating across every point their bodies are touching.
His nose is blocked up beyond belief by the time they spill out of the stall and stumble back toward the sinks. His temples pound faintly. Fucking sinuses. Still, the post-orgasmic lethargy grounds him better than any vacantly comforting words ever could. Taemin offers him a paper towel and a mild, "You look like shit, that's going to suck tomorrow," to which Jongin tosses him a casual middle finger and a splash of tap water.
"Nothing the make-up noonas can't fix," he remarks, wiping his face clean. As clean as it'll get, at any rate. Taemin makes a vague noise of agreement and slings an arm over his shoulder as they stroll back out.
A/N: i'm so sorry i can't... write... taemin... regardless, these meager offerings are also collectively for everyone that i have screamed at abt taekai, if you'll have them ofc ~__~ there are a lot of u ~__~ i apologize ~__~
Pairing: taemin/kai
Rating: nc17
Genre: pwp
Warnings: swearing, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: semi-public sex @ the august 18 smtown concert in seoul, written for an anon. 772 words.
The dance battle isn't terribly complicated, but when Jongin files off with the others he's still sticky with perspiration anyway. It's hot on stage with all the lights and pyrotechnics, and they're packed in with 70,000 screaming fans, each louder than the next. His ears are still ringing as they slide into the changing rooms, white shirt sticking to his chest, adrenaline pounding in his throat.
Jongin doesn't have anything else to do but wait until the concert's about to end. Taemin's next thing is Internet War, the whole nine yards. Jonghyun sends them a jaunty wave from where the stylists are putting the final touches on his torso make-up. Jongin gets shuttled off into a corner to change out of his clothing. Taemin's gray top's swapped out with a black blazer. On the monitors, they watch Boa take the stage.
Jongin's heart's still beating a little too fast, hasn't calmed down much at all since MAXSTEP, when he'd followed through on his last pop and lock. He disappears in the sea of racks to pick out a shirt, breath too shallow, and Taemin follows, fiddling with the bedazzled collar of his jacket.
"You nervous?" Jongin asks over his shoulder. He yanks at the hem of a dark navy tank to survey the design, and when he looks up again Taemin's sending him this flat stare, as if to ask: really? Jongin grins. "Sorry, stupid question. I forgot. You don't feel anything."
Taemin rolls his eyes. "Right. And you feel everything."
Jongin shrugs. He pulls the tank top off the hanger and tucks it over his head. It's barely settled around his neck when Taemin twists a hand in the damp hair at Jongin's nape and tugs him forward, gets up on his toes to suck at Jongin's mouth. Jongin's heart rate picks up again. His jeans go uncomfortably tight as Taemin's fingers slide over the fly to palm the outline of his dick. Shit. Maybe he shouldn't have changed out of those harem pants.
"You need to relax," Taemin murmurs, and there's something incredibly ironic about this attempt at comfort when Taemin's the one who's about to go back on stage to perform something completely new. When Jongin voices this thought aloud, Taemin smiles into his mouth and says, "I'm just getting into character."
"You're going to ruin your make-up," Jongin returns. He jerks back and almost knocks over a stack of skirts. A cursory glance over the rack jungle reveals that everyone else in the room is still preoccupied with Boa's performance. And Taemin-Taemin's unzipping his fly, Jesus Christ. "You're going to get my sweat all over your outfit."
"They have time to redo it," Taemin says flippantly, and sinks onto his knees.
"You-wait-" he stutters, gaze darting toward the far end of the room again with a vague sense of panic, but it's too late: Taemin's got Jongin's boxers rucked down around his thighs and half of Jongin's erection crammed in his mouth, lips curling around the head, tongue flicking up against the underside. He's never really been able to resist going where Taemin leads him-and the worst part, of course, is that Taemin knows. Jongin hisses and his hands land on Taemin's shoulders; he has to forcibly stop himself from clenching his fingers in the material, slides them forward instead to trace the rhythmic pulse of Taemin's jaw as it works around the rest of him. Taemin hums. Surprisingly low, starting from the center of his chest and radiating up along Jongin’s dick. His eyes glimmer with amusement when Jongin bites off a strangled yelp.
Latent adrenaline's still pumping through his system and he comes too early, shaky hands smoothing over Taemin's face, Taemin's forehead pressing into his aching abdomen.
Taemin pulls off with a wet pop when Jongin's got enough presence of mind to prise his fingers away. He straightens up and scrubs his mouth, lips swollen and red, the corners turning up when Jongin slumps against the sharp hangers. Jongin's just gotten his pants zipped back up when a stylist hollers for Taemin, head poking past the skirt rack, armed with an arsenal of foundation and eyeliner. She raises her eyebrows at Jongin. Belatedly, he remembers his shirt isn't even on properly. He jerks it down as fast as he can. His cheeks feel so hot they might melt off.
Taemin laughs, the asshole. His shoulder brushes against Jongin's as he scoots past him, and he drops a low, "You can take care of me after Internet War," into the lobe of his ear. Jongin's fingers tingle as he watches Taemin go.
Title: friends like these
Pairing: taemin/kai
Rating: nc17
Genre: pwp
Warnings: swearing, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: post-music bank win porn, bc of reasons. ft. boys crying. 1,173 words.
"I'm gonna send this to everyone we know," Taemin's saying. His face hovers somewhere in the middle distance behind his phone. It's kind of difficult to tell exactly where through the tears. "Even your sisters."
Jongin's fairly certain Taemin doesn't have their numbers anymore, but his stomach still clenches. He sucks in a wavering breath and scrubs the back of his hand over his eyes. It comes away dripping. "How's We Got Married?" he retorts thickly, a couple beats too late. "I hear Minho-hyung humiliated you last week."
Taemin's lips turn up, blandly cheerful. "This isn't about me." He ducks closer with his phone, fingers slipping around the frame. "This is about your tears, you big crybaby."
Jongin kicks out, half-hearted, and Taemin dances away to avoid a foot to the shin. The camera's fish-eye winks steadily at him as it bobs. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he accuses, words forcing their way out of his closing throat.
"You have no idea how much," he says, Cheshire grin stretching wide. He leans forward again and boxes Jongin into the corner.
In all honesty, Jongin isn't sure why he's crying so hard. He's grateful, of course. This is the culmination of everything he's been working toward for half his life, a quantitative measure of reward for long nights in the practice room dozing off on Sehun's shoulder in between routines, the balls of his feet stinging with blisters. A little glass trophy that says Music Bank in flowing script-and in the crystal margins: Hey, kid. You did it.
But part of it is also the exhaustion. They've only been promoting for two weeks but some mornings Jongin wakes up feeling like a dead man walking, his lashes crusted over with sleep gunk, and the haze doesn't clear for hours. Listening to Joonmyun lose it on stage, his voice cracking every other word, is the last straw. The final fissure in the cement, like a dam breaking, or something-and Jongin'd had to duck down into a squat, rim of his hat digging into someone's calves as he choked up.
Taemin's so close now that the lens almost bumps into Jongin's nose. Still taping his video for posterity. "I'm going to go wash my face," Jongin announces sullenly to the room at large, and shimmies underneath Taemin's arm to escape.
He can feel a new cluster of pimples blooming along his jawline as he barrels past Baekhyun and Jongdae, who seem to have a two-man monopoly on Standing Around in Doorways Looking Awkward. Yixing's still sobbing into Lu Han's neck, eyes filmed over, shoulders shaking.
The restroom is blessedly quiet. Jongin bends over one of the sinks, and the linoleum counter digs into his pelvis. He twists the knob, wets his fingers and probes gently around the tender area on his chin.
The door squeaks open again. "You can't hide from me in the boys' bathroom," comes Taemin's voice, as dry as Jongin's face isn't. Jongin shoots him a blurry glare. Taemin's phone's crammed in the pocket of his jeans. Weird. "I'm a boy, too."
Jongin tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a nervous hiccup than anything. "I know," he says, and turns to stare at his reflection in the mirror. His skin is blotchy and starting to bloat a little, eyelids even puffier than usual. Another tear rolls down his cheek and he brings his fingers around to brush it away. "Shit, we have a fansign later-"
Taemin crowds in behind him, grabs his wrist, tucks his chin over Jongin's shoulder. "Don't," he says, coughing around the word.
Jongin freezes when he feels Taemin's crotch press up against his thigh, chest curving to fit around the slouching line of his back. "Are you turned on because I'm crying?" he splutters.
"It's really cute," Taemin says, almost defensive, but not enough to stop him from turning Jongin to face him and bending him over the counter. "Is that a problem?"
Jongin opens his mouth, closes it, opens it. Closes it, teeth clacking. Taemin's smiling again. Jongin bucks his hips up, and Taemin's eyes go a little narrow with intent. "You are my least favorite person in the world right now," Jongin sniffs.
"Only now?"
"All the time," he amends, shifting on his feet.
Taemin says, "Tell me something I don't already know," and shuffles them into the handicap stall.
"We have to be in Gimpo in an hour," Jongin supplies.
"Better make this quick, then," Taemin says. He props Jongin against the door, fingers skimming along the hem of Jongin's stage shirt. This part's easy, familiar. Taemin isn't great at reading people but he's been Jongin's friend for years, long enough to take with impunity what he knows Jongin will give. A fresh wave of helpless tears builds up in the back of Jongin's throat, needling the roof of his mouth, and his neck clenches around the sensation. "Don't," Taemin repeats, voice dropping as a quick hand works its way inside Jongin's underwear, tugs at his stirring cock. Taemin presses his mouth against the wet skin over Jongin's cheekbone and mirrors the motion down below, with his groin and Jongin's hip.
Jongin twists his head, sticks his face in Taemin's collarbone and moans wetly. Taemin jerks him off so fast that his head spins, and Jongin barely has the wherewithal to time the rhythm of his leg to Taemin's stuttering thrusts before the telltale pressure in his stomach starts curling out. Taemin's other hand slides into Jongin's hair, winds through the strands and yanks hard enough to pull another whimper from Jongin's mouth. A hazy thought occurs to him. "Hey," he wheezes, the burn expanding as Taemin grinds down against his thigh, thumb fastening over the head of Jongin's dick, "if this is-doing it for you, then why were you-why were you really taking that video?"
The hand in Jongin's pants clenches with surprise and Taemin rears back a little. Jongin lets out a half-laugh, half-sob at the abrupt, crimson flush creeping up Taemin's neck. Another squeeze and he shoots his load in Taemin's palm, tears trickling down his nose to drip onto Taemin's shirt.
"Well?" he murmurs, grinning, and Taemin scowls, shoves his tongue in Jongin's mouth to shut him up. He ruts against Jongin's leg a couple more times before he comes, muffled groan reverberating across every point their bodies are touching.
His nose is blocked up beyond belief by the time they spill out of the stall and stumble back toward the sinks. His temples pound faintly. Fucking sinuses. Still, the post-orgasmic lethargy grounds him better than any vacantly comforting words ever could. Taemin offers him a paper towel and a mild, "You look like shit, that's going to suck tomorrow," to which Jongin tosses him a casual middle finger and a splash of tap water.
"Nothing the make-up noonas can't fix," he remarks, wiping his face clean. As clean as it'll get, at any rate. Taemin makes a vague noise of agreement and slings an arm over his shoulder as they stroll back out.
A/N: i'm so sorry i can't... write... taemin... regardless, these meager offerings are also collectively for everyone that i have screamed at abt taekai, if you'll have them ofc ~__~ there are a lot of u ~__~ i apologize ~__~