SHINee Shorts 2014: jongtaenutella
Title: Tease
Author: jongtaenutella
Pairing: Kibum/Minho
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 3011
Tease (1) noun: gently pull or comb (something tangled, especially wool or hair) into separate strands.
It's not exactly the way that Minho had planned to wake up that summer morning. Not that he minds.
Kibum is seated on the edge of Minho's firm bed, drumming absently on his friend's back in an effort to wake him. When he first began to do this, he had wondered whether or not the admittedly catchy beat he had going along Minho's spinal column could become a song. He is in the middle of composing a lyric for it when he realizes, no, it will never become a song, because he's forgotten the musical structure entirely. Sunlight filters into the room from the window above their bodies, illuminating some dust particles and causing Key's fingers to cast thin shadows along Minho's spine. His fingers dance along the discs, a sort of ballet, and Kibum is lost in the soft, comfortable texture of the fabric of the tank Minho is wearing and in him. He awakens and their eyes meet at last- Kibum had been drumming for a few minutes now-and the shorter man perkily proclaims, “Oh good, you're up. We need to get going.”
Kibum comes into Minho's focus, his perfectly done raven hair hanging slightly in front of his sharp, handsome features and Minho gasps, half wriggling and half jumping in his attempt to scoot away from the man. He collides unceremoniously with the wall his bed is beside in a tangle of limbs and bedclothes, and Kibum does nothing to mask his laughter at this as he scoots further into his friend's bed.
“Why the hell,” Minho hisses, in a bit of pain, his eyes bugging out at the shock and mild embarrassment of having Kibum so close to him, “are you waking me up this early? And why are you touching me?”
“You wouldn't wake up.”
“I wouldn't-okay, fine, but why so early?”
Kibum smirks down at Minho, ripping the blankets from his body, to which Minho curls up tightly and shudders.
“Why so Serious, you mean,” he corrects over Minho's whining. “We have a performance of that, Dream Girl, and Sherlock for some reality program-KBS' Idol Evolution or whatever the hell it is.” Kibum is almost too busy laughing at his own little joke about their song to be annoyed about their hectic schedule, or with Minho for not getting up. Ever the obstinate sleepyhead, Minho reburies his face into his sheets, nuzzling against Kibum's thigh. While he normally would have accepted the gesture, Kibum is in no mood to be humored into letting Minho stay in bed all day.
Taking hold of his wrist, Kibum pulls Minho to his feet, to which the latter groans in protest.
“Look, I even picked out an outfit for you,” Kibum says, presenting Minho with a pair of tight, peach-hued skinny jeans, a faded blue button-up with the sleeves expertly pre-folded up to the elbows the way Kibum knows Minho likes them, and a golden necklace he'd purchased for him in London. Upon closer inspection, Minho notes that Kibum has even chosen a pair of underwear for him.
Rather than show gratitude for this, Minho cracks a smile and jokes, “You are such a mom.”
Kibum swats at him indignantly, even as a smile plays along his own lips.
A few minutes and some prodding later, Minho is dressed, but an issue remains; his hair is an absolute catastrophe. Kibum stares, amused and a bit alarmed at the disheveled (and slightly adorable) mess atop Minho's head.
“Don't look now,” Kibum remarks, “But an animal is nesting in your hair.”
Minho leans down to catch a view of himself in the vanity mirror and finds that his aphotic hair is even more disheveled than it feels (and it feels tremendously askew). However, to Kibum's displeasure, Minho declares, “Looks cool! Let's go.”
Kibum extends an arm, barring Minho from exiting the room. “Excuse me?”
Minho stops, giving him an unabashedly annoyed look. “Yes, mom?”
Ignoring the sarcasm that positively dripped from Minho's tone, Kibum states, “It does not look 'cool,' unless your concept is 'filthy adorable hobo.'”
There was a silence in which Kibum stared at Minho with his fists plunked firmly on his hips and Minho blinked rapidly at him. “You think I'm adorable?”
“No,” is the flat response. He removes one first from his hip to point at the floorspace beside Minho's unmade bed. “Sit down, let me do your hair.”
Kibum sits behind Minho, who is leaning against the bed, brushing Minho's hair. Minho takes the opportunity to close his eyes again, savoring the sensation of having his hair brushed. As the comb runs through the strands, Kibum takes a fleeting moment to fondle the tendrils. They have almost a velveteen texture to them; soft, simple, and thick. They comply surprisingly well with the brush given how tangled they were before this, and Kibum thinks briefly that he must use some kind of special (and beautifully scented) conditioner. He places the aroma as vanilla with pleasant surprise; he had never known Minho had such excellent taste in product. And then it occurs to him that the vanilla smell had caught his nose as something familiar...but Minho had apparently just bought it, how could he not have noticed before-?
“You ass, have you been using my conditioner?”
Minho flinches guilty, but still makes an effort to lie. “Why would I do that?”
“Obvious,” Kibum replies, flicking his wrist to tease a few strands apart, “You've got hair envy. You've always had inferior hair, everyone knows it.”
“Or I was just out of my own product.”
Kibum jabs the left side of Minho's head with the comb. “Just admit you're jealous that your hair isn't as manageable as you'd like, and I'll let it go.”
Minho turns round to smirk at Kibum, snatching the small brush from his hand and rising to his feet. “Just admit you think I'm adorable.”
“No,” Kibum denies.
“Then no.”
Tease (2) verb: make fun of or attempt to provoke (a person or animal) in a playful way.
It's no secret that Minho and Kibum are the bullies of the band.
Not in the sense that they are cruel, or that they ever attack the others or even mean them ill will. Indeed, Minho and Kibum were generally respectful people, always bowing and giving their pleases and thank yous. They were kind to those about them, except when it came to their teammates. Minho and Kibum were, as Taemin had once put it, 'merciless teasers.' The two of them often mocked Jinki for his generally ill-footed steps; on more than one occasion, when someone would trip they'd call it an Onew Impersonation. They also teased at the way that Jonghyun, even after a year of dating Taemin, still stares at his boyfriend as if he puts the stars in the sky. Jonghyun made himself an even easier target by doting on Taemin at every opportunity. The young man was never without a jacket in autumn or winter, and was, on the typical evening, receiving a massage from Jonghyun. There had been a time wherein the band's maknae contracted a sickness, and Jonghyun almost obsessively looked after him. So when he disappeared one evening during said illness, everyone was surprised.
“Hyung,” Minho had asked upon his return, “Where have you been?” And when Jonghyun replied that he was out getting supplies to manage Taemin's cold, Minho had scoffed, “That is so married of you!”
There's no one, however, that they tease more than one another.
In the beginning, it was the classics; jabbing each other's vocal abilities and dancing skills.
“Minho,” Kibum would taunt, “your impression of a duck sliding on it's belly down the mountainside is coming along nicely.”
“Kibum,” Minho would return, “Umma, check my temperature, you vocals left me ill.”
“Left you ill, did they? Too bad you're not as pretty as Taeminnie, maybe then you'd have a nice lady or gentleman to look after you, you flat-footed giraffe.”
But it had escalated from there, become increasingly less vague and increasingly more...ahem...personal.
Minho reflects on just that as he tries to take in what Kibum has just said.
“W-what?”
“I asked why you wear boxers if you've nothing but legs to put on them,” Kibum returns with a smirk, his eyes on the bit of waistband peaking out from the top of Minho's pants.
Minho uncrosses his legs rather deliberately, sending them thudding against his bed, and thinks to himself that it's lucky that the two of them are alone in their new room (a result in a dorm reassignment that meant everyone but Jinki had a roommate) because his ego is safe from the other members. He keeps a very short list of things about himself from them; his genitalia is definitely one of them.
Minho can only open his mouth and close it again, unsure of how to properly reply. He glaces over at Kibum, trying to get an idea as to what sort of underwear he might be wearing so as to tease him back. Finding no indication as to what kind it may be, Minho is at a brief loss as to what to say.
“I'm taller than you, I've got bigger hands and feet,” he retorts plainly after a beat or three. “There's no way I'm smaller than you, Bummie.”
“Oh?” Kibum questions, cocking a cheeky little eyebrow. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”
Minho's finely chiseled cheeks go ruddy. “I am NOT having a measuring contest against you! Absolutely not!”
Kibum raises up his smaller hands in mock affront. “Hey now, no need to get defensive, there's nothing wrong with being afraid to lose.” Minho grumbles indignantly, rising to his feet as Kibum's eyes fall shut to add to the smugness of his attitude. The man smiles even wider when he hears the clasp of Minho's belt being undone. He opens his graphite eyes and flicks them downward to begin to undo the four successive buttons on his own high-waisted pants, only to be struck full in the face by a pair of loudly patterned skinny jeans.
Kibum turns and finds Minho, now standing and clad in loose, checkered boxers, laughing to himself. He cannot help but to glance at Minho's bare legs, taking in how well-toned the man's calves are, how knobby his knees appear, how muscular his legs seem to be. And then his eyes settle on the fabric covering the upper half of Minho's thighs. Minho sees him looking and crosses his arms, leans on one hip, and offers a smirk of his own. Now, at last, it's his turn to return fire.
“You're so transparent.”
Kibum feigns ignorance. “I've no idea what you're getting at.”
Minho chuckles, torn between amusement, triumph and...something else. “You just wanted to see me naked! Didn't you, Bummie?”
“What, because I'm gay? That's a low blow, even for you.”
“No,” Minho rebuts with an eye-roll, refusing to let his friend play the homophobia card. “But you are curious, aren't you?”
Kibum offers no denial, choosing instead to continue gazing at his friend while slowly reaching for the zipper of the pants he's clad in in an attempt to fluster Minho. The latter has yet to notice, and so he carries on.
“You're so transparent,” Minho laughs, “and so dirty, too! Dirty dir-”
A pair of purple slacks hits him in the chest. Minho studies them briefly; despite having worn them all day they are unwrinkled and without any sort of food or drink on them. Not a wrinkle out of place. Noting that the waist, while high on Kibum, would barely be considered a low-rise on his own body, Minho turns his eyes back onto him. He cannot help to ogle (although mercifully his eyes do not widen) right back at what he sees.
“Now we're even,” Kibum returns, sitting back on the bed before Minho in a pair of rather tight ice cream cone patterned boyshorts.
“And by the way,” he teases, “you're staring.”
Tease (3) noun: a person who leads others on, or leaves them wanting.
It's late, very late, and the two are sitting on their respective beds, reading. Or at least, Minho is acting as if he is; he found it hard to be genuinely interested in some book Jonghyun had purchased for him-Improving Stage Presence for Dummies or whatever sort of sly dig it was-because of the person who is sitting in the bed opposite him.
Kibum's signature boyshorts are out on display, this time a deep red pair with black hemming and a small tear in the right thigh. The shorts are accompanied by a faded t-shirt he stole from Onew's laundry. Warm, wan light filters from the lamp, and it is incredibly flattering to the curves and ridges of his body, and good lord does Minho notice.
The younger man isn't even pretending to read anymore; he cannot help but to intently watch Kibum sitting there. His eyes are focused on his magazine (Dog Fancy, of course), a concentrated look that Minho finds oddly enchanting. Perhaps it is the way his brow furrows as he reads, or the way his eyes appear in the light. Kibum bites at his lip absently and then flicks his tongue out to soothe the sting, and Minho has to jerk his eyes off of the sight; look too long and Kibum would surely notice. His eyes wander down the expanse of Kibum's (likely very soft) skin, stopping to study the bit of clavicle that they can see. He never really noticed how slim Kibum actually is, Minho thinks to himself. He watches as Kibum shifts a bit in bed, exposing some skin above his hipbone.
Minho's eyes wander further down until they're on those red boyshorts. Those godforsaken boyshorts-they're not even real pajamas-that glorify the curve of Kibum's ass. Sure, Jonghyun sleeps naked and Taemin only sleeps in boxers, but at least they have the decency to not parade around in said attire. And though a bit obstructed by his leg, Minho also has an excellent view of the bulge that the fabric covers; he's not even being covert in the fact that he's staring at it, either. Unfortunately for him, this is the exact moment which Kibum notices. The young man stops reading and flicks a trite glance over at Minho.
“What're you staring at?”
Minho turns quickly to his book. “I was just thinking, isn't that Jinki's shirt?” He lies smoothly.
“Yeah it is,” Kibum returns with a little grin, eyes alight with cockiness. “But why were you staring at my ass?”
Minho can't get out of that one, so he goes with his tried and true tactic; avoid.
“Conceded much?” he asks, loudly turning to the next page in his book and determinedly reading about the importance of projecting one's voice to keep his ears from burning.
Kibum gets up, a smirk growing fast upon his handsome face.
“That's not all you were staring at either,” he prods, walking slowly towards Minho. Kibum deliberately places one foot before the other so that his hips have an extra sway to them. Minho cannot help but to go bright red and to force himself to maintain eye contact with Kibum, who continues, “You were staring at something else, weren't you, Minho?”
Kibum is positively dripping with smugness, heart alive with something primal and greedy and hungry. He reaches the side of the bed and Minho gulps as Kibum places a knee on the edge of the space he's inhabiting and leans into it.
“Tell me, what were you staring at, then?”
Minho's throat is dry, and it feels all the blood in his body is in his cheeks and face. “I-I don't know what you mean,” he stammers out, despite his gaze flicking back down to the offending area. Kibum follows his gaze and looks back at Minho with a smug little grin, now seated beside his flustered friend, and says, “I think you do.”
His hand, comparatively smaller than Minho's, reaches out to cup the hipbone of the younger man, and Kibum leans in even closer to him. Minho's heart accelerates, and every nerve he's got focuses on the patch of bare skin that Key has his palm on. This is not the first time Kibum has acted extra-flirty with him; everyone in the band knew Kibum was gay and Minho had come out as bisexual the previous month. Ever since then, Kibum had had a sultry air about him, as if he were some sort of raven-headed tempter.
“Kiss me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure those beautiful eyes of yours were on someplace a little...” His and moves, sliding painfully slow, until his hand is on the inside of Minho's upper thigh and he almost whimpers as Kibum concludes, “Lower.”
Kibum leans even closer to Minho, so much so that they almost nose to nose. Minho can smell mint toothpaste and expensive facewash as Kibum breathes, “isn't that right?”
Rather than say anything, Minho, unable to take it any longer, moves in to place his lips on his, eager to feel them, to taste them, to assert his dominance over Kibum, to kiss the very senses away from his friend...but Kibum pulls away before they can touch, despite letting his eyes fall shut. For Christ's sake, he thinks. Minho paws at the side of Kibum's jaw and tries to pull him in, but Kibum brushes his large hand away with his pale one.
“Interesting,” he breathes huskily, leaning in again. Minho's eyes fall shut, and he waits, waits for the sensation of Kibum's lips on his, and while it does not come, he can feel the older man's breath as he whispers,
“We'll see about this tomorrow night.”
Author: jongtaenutella
Pairing: Kibum/Minho
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 3011
Tease (1) noun: gently pull or comb (something tangled, especially wool or hair) into separate strands.
It's not exactly the way that Minho had planned to wake up that summer morning. Not that he minds.
Kibum is seated on the edge of Minho's firm bed, drumming absently on his friend's back in an effort to wake him. When he first began to do this, he had wondered whether or not the admittedly catchy beat he had going along Minho's spinal column could become a song. He is in the middle of composing a lyric for it when he realizes, no, it will never become a song, because he's forgotten the musical structure entirely. Sunlight filters into the room from the window above their bodies, illuminating some dust particles and causing Key's fingers to cast thin shadows along Minho's spine. His fingers dance along the discs, a sort of ballet, and Kibum is lost in the soft, comfortable texture of the fabric of the tank Minho is wearing and in him. He awakens and their eyes meet at last- Kibum had been drumming for a few minutes now-and the shorter man perkily proclaims, “Oh good, you're up. We need to get going.”
Kibum comes into Minho's focus, his perfectly done raven hair hanging slightly in front of his sharp, handsome features and Minho gasps, half wriggling and half jumping in his attempt to scoot away from the man. He collides unceremoniously with the wall his bed is beside in a tangle of limbs and bedclothes, and Kibum does nothing to mask his laughter at this as he scoots further into his friend's bed.
“Why the hell,” Minho hisses, in a bit of pain, his eyes bugging out at the shock and mild embarrassment of having Kibum so close to him, “are you waking me up this early? And why are you touching me?”
“You wouldn't wake up.”
“I wouldn't-okay, fine, but why so early?”
Kibum smirks down at Minho, ripping the blankets from his body, to which Minho curls up tightly and shudders.
“Why so Serious, you mean,” he corrects over Minho's whining. “We have a performance of that, Dream Girl, and Sherlock for some reality program-KBS' Idol Evolution or whatever the hell it is.” Kibum is almost too busy laughing at his own little joke about their song to be annoyed about their hectic schedule, or with Minho for not getting up. Ever the obstinate sleepyhead, Minho reburies his face into his sheets, nuzzling against Kibum's thigh. While he normally would have accepted the gesture, Kibum is in no mood to be humored into letting Minho stay in bed all day.
Taking hold of his wrist, Kibum pulls Minho to his feet, to which the latter groans in protest.
“Look, I even picked out an outfit for you,” Kibum says, presenting Minho with a pair of tight, peach-hued skinny jeans, a faded blue button-up with the sleeves expertly pre-folded up to the elbows the way Kibum knows Minho likes them, and a golden necklace he'd purchased for him in London. Upon closer inspection, Minho notes that Kibum has even chosen a pair of underwear for him.
Rather than show gratitude for this, Minho cracks a smile and jokes, “You are such a mom.”
Kibum swats at him indignantly, even as a smile plays along his own lips.
A few minutes and some prodding later, Minho is dressed, but an issue remains; his hair is an absolute catastrophe. Kibum stares, amused and a bit alarmed at the disheveled (and slightly adorable) mess atop Minho's head.
“Don't look now,” Kibum remarks, “But an animal is nesting in your hair.”
Minho leans down to catch a view of himself in the vanity mirror and finds that his aphotic hair is even more disheveled than it feels (and it feels tremendously askew). However, to Kibum's displeasure, Minho declares, “Looks cool! Let's go.”
Kibum extends an arm, barring Minho from exiting the room. “Excuse me?”
Minho stops, giving him an unabashedly annoyed look. “Yes, mom?”
Ignoring the sarcasm that positively dripped from Minho's tone, Kibum states, “It does not look 'cool,' unless your concept is 'filthy adorable hobo.'”
There was a silence in which Kibum stared at Minho with his fists plunked firmly on his hips and Minho blinked rapidly at him. “You think I'm adorable?”
“No,” is the flat response. He removes one first from his hip to point at the floorspace beside Minho's unmade bed. “Sit down, let me do your hair.”
Kibum sits behind Minho, who is leaning against the bed, brushing Minho's hair. Minho takes the opportunity to close his eyes again, savoring the sensation of having his hair brushed. As the comb runs through the strands, Kibum takes a fleeting moment to fondle the tendrils. They have almost a velveteen texture to them; soft, simple, and thick. They comply surprisingly well with the brush given how tangled they were before this, and Kibum thinks briefly that he must use some kind of special (and beautifully scented) conditioner. He places the aroma as vanilla with pleasant surprise; he had never known Minho had such excellent taste in product. And then it occurs to him that the vanilla smell had caught his nose as something familiar...but Minho had apparently just bought it, how could he not have noticed before-?
“You ass, have you been using my conditioner?”
Minho flinches guilty, but still makes an effort to lie. “Why would I do that?”
“Obvious,” Kibum replies, flicking his wrist to tease a few strands apart, “You've got hair envy. You've always had inferior hair, everyone knows it.”
“Or I was just out of my own product.”
Kibum jabs the left side of Minho's head with the comb. “Just admit you're jealous that your hair isn't as manageable as you'd like, and I'll let it go.”
Minho turns round to smirk at Kibum, snatching the small brush from his hand and rising to his feet. “Just admit you think I'm adorable.”
“No,” Kibum denies.
“Then no.”
Tease (2) verb: make fun of or attempt to provoke (a person or animal) in a playful way.
It's no secret that Minho and Kibum are the bullies of the band.
Not in the sense that they are cruel, or that they ever attack the others or even mean them ill will. Indeed, Minho and Kibum were generally respectful people, always bowing and giving their pleases and thank yous. They were kind to those about them, except when it came to their teammates. Minho and Kibum were, as Taemin had once put it, 'merciless teasers.' The two of them often mocked Jinki for his generally ill-footed steps; on more than one occasion, when someone would trip they'd call it an Onew Impersonation. They also teased at the way that Jonghyun, even after a year of dating Taemin, still stares at his boyfriend as if he puts the stars in the sky. Jonghyun made himself an even easier target by doting on Taemin at every opportunity. The young man was never without a jacket in autumn or winter, and was, on the typical evening, receiving a massage from Jonghyun. There had been a time wherein the band's maknae contracted a sickness, and Jonghyun almost obsessively looked after him. So when he disappeared one evening during said illness, everyone was surprised.
“Hyung,” Minho had asked upon his return, “Where have you been?” And when Jonghyun replied that he was out getting supplies to manage Taemin's cold, Minho had scoffed, “That is so married of you!”
There's no one, however, that they tease more than one another.
In the beginning, it was the classics; jabbing each other's vocal abilities and dancing skills.
“Minho,” Kibum would taunt, “your impression of a duck sliding on it's belly down the mountainside is coming along nicely.”
“Kibum,” Minho would return, “Umma, check my temperature, you vocals left me ill.”
“Left you ill, did they? Too bad you're not as pretty as Taeminnie, maybe then you'd have a nice lady or gentleman to look after you, you flat-footed giraffe.”
But it had escalated from there, become increasingly less vague and increasingly more...ahem...personal.
Minho reflects on just that as he tries to take in what Kibum has just said.
“W-what?”
“I asked why you wear boxers if you've nothing but legs to put on them,” Kibum returns with a smirk, his eyes on the bit of waistband peaking out from the top of Minho's pants.
Minho uncrosses his legs rather deliberately, sending them thudding against his bed, and thinks to himself that it's lucky that the two of them are alone in their new room (a result in a dorm reassignment that meant everyone but Jinki had a roommate) because his ego is safe from the other members. He keeps a very short list of things about himself from them; his genitalia is definitely one of them.
Minho can only open his mouth and close it again, unsure of how to properly reply. He glaces over at Kibum, trying to get an idea as to what sort of underwear he might be wearing so as to tease him back. Finding no indication as to what kind it may be, Minho is at a brief loss as to what to say.
“I'm taller than you, I've got bigger hands and feet,” he retorts plainly after a beat or three. “There's no way I'm smaller than you, Bummie.”
“Oh?” Kibum questions, cocking a cheeky little eyebrow. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”
Minho's finely chiseled cheeks go ruddy. “I am NOT having a measuring contest against you! Absolutely not!”
Kibum raises up his smaller hands in mock affront. “Hey now, no need to get defensive, there's nothing wrong with being afraid to lose.” Minho grumbles indignantly, rising to his feet as Kibum's eyes fall shut to add to the smugness of his attitude. The man smiles even wider when he hears the clasp of Minho's belt being undone. He opens his graphite eyes and flicks them downward to begin to undo the four successive buttons on his own high-waisted pants, only to be struck full in the face by a pair of loudly patterned skinny jeans.
Kibum turns and finds Minho, now standing and clad in loose, checkered boxers, laughing to himself. He cannot help but to glance at Minho's bare legs, taking in how well-toned the man's calves are, how knobby his knees appear, how muscular his legs seem to be. And then his eyes settle on the fabric covering the upper half of Minho's thighs. Minho sees him looking and crosses his arms, leans on one hip, and offers a smirk of his own. Now, at last, it's his turn to return fire.
“You're so transparent.”
Kibum feigns ignorance. “I've no idea what you're getting at.”
Minho chuckles, torn between amusement, triumph and...something else. “You just wanted to see me naked! Didn't you, Bummie?”
“What, because I'm gay? That's a low blow, even for you.”
“No,” Minho rebuts with an eye-roll, refusing to let his friend play the homophobia card. “But you are curious, aren't you?”
Kibum offers no denial, choosing instead to continue gazing at his friend while slowly reaching for the zipper of the pants he's clad in in an attempt to fluster Minho. The latter has yet to notice, and so he carries on.
“You're so transparent,” Minho laughs, “and so dirty, too! Dirty dir-”
A pair of purple slacks hits him in the chest. Minho studies them briefly; despite having worn them all day they are unwrinkled and without any sort of food or drink on them. Not a wrinkle out of place. Noting that the waist, while high on Kibum, would barely be considered a low-rise on his own body, Minho turns his eyes back onto him. He cannot help to ogle (although mercifully his eyes do not widen) right back at what he sees.
“Now we're even,” Kibum returns, sitting back on the bed before Minho in a pair of rather tight ice cream cone patterned boyshorts.
“And by the way,” he teases, “you're staring.”
Tease (3) noun: a person who leads others on, or leaves them wanting.
It's late, very late, and the two are sitting on their respective beds, reading. Or at least, Minho is acting as if he is; he found it hard to be genuinely interested in some book Jonghyun had purchased for him-Improving Stage Presence for Dummies or whatever sort of sly dig it was-because of the person who is sitting in the bed opposite him.
Kibum's signature boyshorts are out on display, this time a deep red pair with black hemming and a small tear in the right thigh. The shorts are accompanied by a faded t-shirt he stole from Onew's laundry. Warm, wan light filters from the lamp, and it is incredibly flattering to the curves and ridges of his body, and good lord does Minho notice.
The younger man isn't even pretending to read anymore; he cannot help but to intently watch Kibum sitting there. His eyes are focused on his magazine (Dog Fancy, of course), a concentrated look that Minho finds oddly enchanting. Perhaps it is the way his brow furrows as he reads, or the way his eyes appear in the light. Kibum bites at his lip absently and then flicks his tongue out to soothe the sting, and Minho has to jerk his eyes off of the sight; look too long and Kibum would surely notice. His eyes wander down the expanse of Kibum's (likely very soft) skin, stopping to study the bit of clavicle that they can see. He never really noticed how slim Kibum actually is, Minho thinks to himself. He watches as Kibum shifts a bit in bed, exposing some skin above his hipbone.
Minho's eyes wander further down until they're on those red boyshorts. Those godforsaken boyshorts-they're not even real pajamas-that glorify the curve of Kibum's ass. Sure, Jonghyun sleeps naked and Taemin only sleeps in boxers, but at least they have the decency to not parade around in said attire. And though a bit obstructed by his leg, Minho also has an excellent view of the bulge that the fabric covers; he's not even being covert in the fact that he's staring at it, either. Unfortunately for him, this is the exact moment which Kibum notices. The young man stops reading and flicks a trite glance over at Minho.
“What're you staring at?”
Minho turns quickly to his book. “I was just thinking, isn't that Jinki's shirt?” He lies smoothly.
“Yeah it is,” Kibum returns with a little grin, eyes alight with cockiness. “But why were you staring at my ass?”
Minho can't get out of that one, so he goes with his tried and true tactic; avoid.
“Conceded much?” he asks, loudly turning to the next page in his book and determinedly reading about the importance of projecting one's voice to keep his ears from burning.
Kibum gets up, a smirk growing fast upon his handsome face.
“That's not all you were staring at either,” he prods, walking slowly towards Minho. Kibum deliberately places one foot before the other so that his hips have an extra sway to them. Minho cannot help but to go bright red and to force himself to maintain eye contact with Kibum, who continues, “You were staring at something else, weren't you, Minho?”
Kibum is positively dripping with smugness, heart alive with something primal and greedy and hungry. He reaches the side of the bed and Minho gulps as Kibum places a knee on the edge of the space he's inhabiting and leans into it.
“Tell me, what were you staring at, then?”
Minho's throat is dry, and it feels all the blood in his body is in his cheeks and face. “I-I don't know what you mean,” he stammers out, despite his gaze flicking back down to the offending area. Kibum follows his gaze and looks back at Minho with a smug little grin, now seated beside his flustered friend, and says, “I think you do.”
His hand, comparatively smaller than Minho's, reaches out to cup the hipbone of the younger man, and Kibum leans in even closer to him. Minho's heart accelerates, and every nerve he's got focuses on the patch of bare skin that Key has his palm on. This is not the first time Kibum has acted extra-flirty with him; everyone in the band knew Kibum was gay and Minho had come out as bisexual the previous month. Ever since then, Kibum had had a sultry air about him, as if he were some sort of raven-headed tempter.
“Kiss me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure those beautiful eyes of yours were on someplace a little...” His and moves, sliding painfully slow, until his hand is on the inside of Minho's upper thigh and he almost whimpers as Kibum concludes, “Lower.”
Kibum leans even closer to Minho, so much so that they almost nose to nose. Minho can smell mint toothpaste and expensive facewash as Kibum breathes, “isn't that right?”
Rather than say anything, Minho, unable to take it any longer, moves in to place his lips on his, eager to feel them, to taste them, to assert his dominance over Kibum, to kiss the very senses away from his friend...but Kibum pulls away before they can touch, despite letting his eyes fall shut. For Christ's sake, he thinks. Minho paws at the side of Kibum's jaw and tries to pull him in, but Kibum brushes his large hand away with his pale one.
“Interesting,” he breathes huskily, leaning in again. Minho's eyes fall shut, and he waits, waits for the sensation of Kibum's lips on his, and while it does not come, he can feel the older man's breath as he whispers,
“We'll see about this tomorrow night.”