Work Text:
Five minutes. Definitely enough time.
“We’ll finish up the shoot after a quick break, make sure to get your makeup touched up before then.”
The eight of them and the staff scattered quickly enough that no one—minus a certain observant blonde who was glued to Jisung for the first half of the shoot—would notice Minho quite literally dragging Jisung towards, well, somewhere. He hadn’t thought this far ahead because he wasn’t sure they’d get a break, so—
“Um, where are we going, hyung?” Is naturally the first thing Jisung asks, nearly tripping twice in those goddamn moon boots they just had to dress him in. He looks like a little stuffed angel, or in Minho’s opinion, an angel that needs to be stuffed.
It was a rough first half of the day between ogling-not-ogling at Jisung, staring holes into anyone that touched him, and dealing with the miserable outfit he was forced to wear. From the bulky teddy bears hanging off his blazer to the most itchy necklaces that pinched his skin a bright red, along with the roadkill hat they put him in—Minho’s patience boiled over well before the announced break.
Every time Jisung posed a little pout at the camera and turned his bare knees inward, was a moment Minho had to remind himself to blink, blink, blink.
He’s just a man. Just a man with little time and a little angel to ruin.
Minho’s hand twitches tighter around Jisung’s wrist, pulling him along faster while Jisung continues to whip his neck around to ensure no one is following them, “W-we only have five minutes—”
“I’m very aware, Jagi.” Minho responds nonchalantly—demeanor the complete opposite of a currently skittish Jisung—simply because he's too hyperfocused on the task at hand. He makes quick work testing every handle in an unoccupied hallway with his free hand, hoping for just one to be unlocked—and empty. And have a surface to throw Jisung onto, preferably. But he’d make it work if not.
The fifth door gives in, and Minho throws it open with an alarming amount of haphazardness, when in reality he had zero explanation prepared if they actually ran into anyone. Too little time to care.
Empty. Prop closet. An obscene amount of plushies for the Over The Rain & SKZ 5’CLOCK promotions. A tiny table that Minho recognized from Chan’s part of the shoot where he had to play with some godforsaken children’s train set. Ironic.
Perfect.
The next 10 seconds are a blur of pure haste.
Minho slingshots Jisung into the closet with one arm, uses the other hand to whip the door shut without it being a full on slam, and before Jisung can even get his pretty little hood resituated on his flower accented hair, Minho is on him like a wolf to a stray fawn.
“Min—” The back of Jisung’s knees hit the table from the sheer force of Minho’s mouth colliding their glossy lips together and he falls back onto it, now having to crane his neck up and scramble his arms to bring Minho down with him.
Jisung becomes pliant pudding in no time flat, his jaw slackened for Minho to coax open and steal the anxiety right out of his mouth, kissing him like a sedative.
It only lasts a moment though, before the hurriedness of the situation finally dawns on Jisung and he’s moving like it’s dire, with the same insatiable pace as Minho. Like he's teetering between we can’t and–
“More–” Jisung brings a hand up to shove the fuzzy gray abomination of a hat off of Minho’s head to who-cares-where, giving Jisung full purchase of those tousled wavy locks that he wastes zero seconds tugging on. Which is great, because they barely have seconds as is.
Minho groans into Jisung’s mouth, sinking a knee onto the table while Jisung holds onto his hair for dear life. Like the air between them was too heavy to bear and separation threatened suffocation. One of Minho's hands falls in a well practiced motion to the white fluff of the jacket where Jisung’s tiny waist would be, while the other waterfalls its way down his body to the revealed skin of Jisung’s thighs, just where his shorts end and temptation lies waiting. His fingers dance on the hem.
“Minho, we only have three and a half—” Jisung’s paranoia tips the scales again, and paired with his inability to stop talking—which Minho would usually find very endearing and would listen to every word out of his pretty mouth—he's wasting way too much time.
“Turn over.”
“Wha—?” The big eyed blink through flowery fringe nearly drops Minho to both knees right there, but he maintains enough composure to do his Jisungie a favor and think for him. He slips his hands under Jisung’s thighs and hoists him up only long enough to twist him around and bend him over the edge of the table. It’s a little short, so his knees end up on the floor, and Minho has enough foresight to push two raindrop shaped plushies under Jisung’s knees so that what he’s about to do doesn’t look entirely obvious to anyone with uhm, eyes.
At long last, thank god, Jisung’s adrenaline finally catches up with the task at hand, now trying to keep his head off the tabletop so as not to ruin his makeup or hair or really anything for that matter. And for the first time, Jisung makes no move to play the time card again. Instead, he submits to his wants and dips his back into a small arch, throwing another doe eyed look back over his shoulder at Minho, who’s now on his own knees behind him and eye level with his favorite ass on the planet, mentally trying to calculate time and pleasure like they’re linear.
The excessive amount of pink blush on Jisung’s round little cheeks makes him look like a strawberry.
Minho wants to eat him.
He has three minutes.
“Gonna eat you out, bug.” He states plainly, like it’s just part of the itinerary for a day at Disney World. It wasn’t far off, really. Jisung’s ass might as well be EPCOT because he’s sure he could eat it for the rest of his life and never starve, forever drunk on honey skin. Like nectar.
But his blown out pupils and heaving chest betray his thinly veiled composure to Jisung and all the younger can do is push his ass back at him, get Minho to move.
Finally ready to let time be the ally instead of the enemy, Jisung starts begging, “Please, fast, hyung—”
Minho needs no further prompting.
Starting with those stupid fleece shorts that had been distracting him for hours, Minho dips his fingers under the waistband and tears everything down to the floor between Jisung’s knees, which are already shaking. Cute. Minho’s palms are on supple, bare flesh like a moth to a flame, kneading and smoothing over the curves before landing one swift slap to his right cheek. He had zero opportunity to touch Jisung all morning, he deserved this one.
Jisung whimpers down onto the table, only arching himself further so that his white wooly jacket starts slipping up his back. Minho gets a peek of the tattoo that descends below Jisung’s hip and he just about dies right there from the view.
“Pretty baby.” That’s about as much verbal warning Minho can breathe out before he’s spreading Jisung’s cheeks and licking a tantalizing stripe up over his hole.
While Jisung isn’t being talkative per say, he’s now being far too loud. The moan Jisung lets out is one Minho would relish at home, his favorite melody—but they’re not at home. They’re in a prop closet with way too many walking liabilities around them. Minho doesn’t even remember if he locked the goddamn door. Does it even have a lock? No time to think about it.
So, he does the next best thing to keep Jisung quiet: while his tongue continues teasing around his hole, he reaches his left arm out to shove two fingers into Jisung’s mouth. Stuffed as close to silence as choked little moans can be.
It takes everything in Minho to keep his own arousal in check because while he has time for Jisung, he does not have time for himself, and he knows Jisung will try to take care of him if he sees, and god they just don’t have time, he doesn’t have time—he just wants to go home. Get out of these frilly outfits and bury Jisung’s face into the nearest surface, ruin his makeup and fuck the flowers out of his hair—maybe keep the moon boots on—
God this is so bad. He’s got two and a half minutes.
The angle is a little awkward now that one hand is preoccupied pacifying Jisung—who is apparently determined to make Minho go insane since he’s literally sucking his fingers off—but Minho just uses his right hand to spread his cheeks again so he can spit right down onto Jisung’s perfect and pleading hole. Jisung keens, reduced to rutting against the plastic table. His eyes are far off and glazed over, slipping somewhere that Minho can’t even properly carry him through right now.
Minho needs more hands. More time. This idea seemed so good ten minutes ago. He felt like he was going to die if he didn't get to touch Jisung for at least a second today.
Apparently he severely miscalculated the value of a second, and how incapable they were of keeping their hands off of eachother once the dam broke.
“I’m so sorry, baby, promise I’ll fuck you right as soon as we’re home. They shouldn’t have dressed you so fucking cute. Fuck.”
He dives back down and his tongue is prodding inside of Jisung within a beat, lapping and stretching, which just feels mean at this point because he can’t actually fuck him, but god if he doesn’t taste incredible. Disney be damned.
Clearly as impatient as Minho, or maybe just hearing the imaginary ticking of a clock hanging over their heads, Jisung reaches his arms back to pull his cheeks open, leaving Minho a free arm to reach under and grab Jisung’s desperately leaking cock.
Poor thing.
They’re a disastrous entanglement of arms, a sure sign of their mutual urgency, and Minho officially can’t recognize how much time is passing because he’s in a drunken stupor of ass eating. So he just smears the precome that beaded its way out of Jisung around the tip, one circular little swipe to be a two-second tease, and starts pumping in time with his tongue that fucks in and out of his hole like his life is on the line. Might as well be at this point.
Minho feels a telltale choke of a sob tumble out of Jisung’s mouth, nearly gagging on his fingers.
He pulls his face back from his relenting on Jisung’s hole and bites right onto his left cheek, because he’s got no hand to slap down on him with and teeth are the next best tool, threatening, “Don’t you dare start crying, Jisung. We don’t have time to get your makeup fixed.” He sucks a mark there, lapping at it, “We don’t have time. Stay with me, baby.”
While biting into his ass like a lion on a gazelle probably isn't helping, he's out of ideas and time. He also just doesn't think he could hold himself together if Jisung started crying all cockdumb—he'd devour him. Crave more. Hours more.
“Th-thorry—“ Jisung’s voice breaks over Minho’s spit slicked fingers. His hips are thrusting erratically into Minho’s fist, chasing release against a clock they can’t hear and his knuckles have gone white from holding his own cheeks open, nails engraving moons into sunny skin.
Beautifully deconstructed in less than two minutes. Minho burns the image into his brain, blinking a thousand times like each one is a separate frame.
They have a minute. He needs Jisung to come.
“Don’t—dont be sorry, baby. Bug. You’re doing so good, letting me wreck you in a fucking closet.” He twists his fist on Jisung’s cock roughly and rips his other hand from Jisung’s mouth with a lewd pop, “Come for me, my sweet little Jisungie. You’ve been so good. So good.”
Once more, he leans down to slip his tongue back into Jisung, but for good measure he uses the spit lubed hand that Jisung was face fucking to prod his middle finger into his hole alongside it. He moans right into Jisung. He hopes the vibration will send him over the edge, because if it doesn’t he fears they aren’t making it out of this fucking closet without a problem.
Praise is Jisung’s vice, and Minho is a viper coiled around his neck.
“Fuck—‘M good, love you—” A hopeless romantic even as he’s coming white hot onto the floor. Jisung’s voice is pitchy and ragged and so much higher to where it almost matches his outfit, angelic. So pretty. His hole clenches around Minho’s finger and tongue that are still inside him and Minho pumps him through his orgasm, and a little after it, because he likes when Jisung gets overstimulated. Time was already against them. He might as well enjoy Jisung squirming a little.
They definitely only have thirty seconds or less.
Minho pries himself off of Jisung and kisses his slightly stretched hole apologetically, an I’ll be back for you later and peppers kisses along the small of his back, crawling up to cage himself over Jisung who’s become all but a puddle on the tiny table. He can’t help but laugh down into the angel wings of Jisung’s hood. He was so anxious about time and now he’s doing exactly what he does at home: play pillow princess.
Old habits die hard. Minho loves him harder.
“Love you more, baby. We gotta go, though.”
He noses down at Jisung’s face, mindful not to kiss him so he doesn’t completely destroy his makeup—they’ve made enough of a mess. Jisung takes a shaky breath in and lets Minho pull him up and back by the hips so they’re both standing, and Jisung’s knees do what they do best, especially post orgasm. They knock, buckle, and go full baby deer mode.
Minho can only roll his eyes and lean Jisung back against a supply shelf as he rummages around for something akin to tissues or towels in the mess of junk, “Just stay there, princess.”
“W-we don’t have time, hyung. Minho, they’re gonna find us—” Ah, the clarity arrives.
“Bug,” He starts, arm shoved between a bunch of plushies where he grabs for what looks like a pool towel, “I just set an Olympic record in getting you off. I do not care.”
He emphasizes the last part by tugging the towel out from its hiding spot, promptly throwing it over Jisung’s spend on the cold floor to wipe it up. He then turns towards Jisung, eyeing the fact that his cute little shorts are still around those even cuter little moon boots. Yeah, those are staying on later.
“And for someone so hellbent on time,” he crouches, eye level to Jisung’s now softening cock and wipes him clean with an unused section of the towel, a small smile quirked on his lips, “You’re still half naked and a mess,” He clicks his tongue and coos, “Always need to be taken care of, hm?” He raises a brow up at Jisung, who simply tugs his hood back onto his head properly and hides his face between his hands.
Minho shimmies Jisung’s shorts and briefs back up onto his hips, not before leaving a kiss or two along the intricate ink there, and stands upright—towel tossed somewhere for some poor janitor to discover or an intern to be traumatized by. He nudges Jisung’s hands from his face, peeking between them like a game of peekaboo.
Jisung is so pretty it’s downright dumb. He’s right back to the reason he dragged him here in the first place.
He needs to kill the stylist, respectfully. For that, and for making him sit in a fucking shopping cart earlier. Or maybe it’s the manager’s fault. Whatever. Someone’s gotta die for the sins he’s going to commit on Jisung’s asshole because of it.
Ten seconds seems generous now.
“What about you?” Jisung’s eyes flicker down to Minho’s lower body, then back up to his face. Well, lips really. Minho just leans in and steals the thought from his brain, kissing him.
“Got willpower of steel, baby. Besides, we’ll be home soon. I’ll be fine.” He reassures between a few pecks to pillowy lips that mesh against his own in a seamless fit, made for him.
“Willpower of steel, huh. Is that what got us in this predicament?” Jisung snakes his arms up around his shoulders to play with the curly little frays of hair at the base of his neck, like they were teenagers in the school hallway and not two seconds from fucking in a prop closet. Jisung’s voice is low, but the shit eating grin on his face is bright as can be, “Your…willpower?”
“I’m gonna eat you.” Minho jokes, kind of, sort of, and Jisung yanks him in by the hair to slam their lips together again, a few random supplies falling onto the floor due to the force. Neither of them care.
They’re out of time.
A deep, all too familiar voice cuts through the shred of air between their breaths,
“Time’s up.”
The door clicks open, and both of them can only turn their heads and stare at whoever’s in the doorway with kiss swollen lips and an incriminating backdrop. Minho is now hyper aware of the fact that it smells like sex in the tiny confines of this closet.
“I told the stylists I’d come get you so they wouldn’t come looking themselves, I even lied and said Jisung had a stomach ache and you wanted to make sure he was okay and thank god I’m the one that found you because you two are not quiet and painfully easy to find and—“
Felix stands in the doorway, hip cocked and never looking more Barbie in his life while he babbles on, with what Minho thinks is supposed to be a lecture. He can’t take him seriously with that much blush and glitter on his face. And little wool sweater paw gloves.
Jisung went from nearly fainting to nearly—well, still nearly fainting but from relief instead of blood curdling fear. He lets out a cartoonishly loud exhale that he’d been holding in.
“Oh my god Felix shut up, please, I love you, thank you. Holy shit.” Jisung’s thoughts are too fast for his mouth, always like that when he’s flustered. A little hamster on a rapidly spinning wheel. Minho shakes his head and stares at him with a fondness that will indeed get him in trouble one day, if not today.
“You’re welcome!” Felix beams, far too pretty and far too dangerous. Minho knows a cat anywhere. You owe me next time!
Jisung slips out from Minho’s grip around his fuzzy waist and throws his arms around Felix, planting a kiss into his blonde waves as thanks, and so as not to ruin his makeup either. The stylists were already going to hate him and Minho. He instantly recoils from the overwhelming hairspray mixed with gel taste and sticks his tongue out, whining. “Oh my god your hair is a hydrogen bomb, Lixie.”
“Aaand that’s why I’m dying it black next week.” Felix rolls his eyes and taps Jisung affectionately on the chin. His eyes flit past him over to Minho, still standing in the closet where he found them, staring stupid and in love at Jisung who is shuffling in place in his little moon boots, giggling and glowing. Sue him.
“Oh my god let’s go, you’re doing that thing where you stare at Jisung like he’s dinner, come on.” He waves a hand and starts down the hall, not even looking back to see if they’re following.
Jisung pushes the door all the way open and leans in the doorway, waiting. Grinning.
“What?” Minho grins back, teasing him by cocking his head side to side, leaning closer to Jisung each time.
Jisung pulls his hands out from behind him where they were resting against the doorway, revealing the god awful lump of a furball hat that Minho had to put back on for the shoot, “Can’t forget this~”
Jisung leans up as much as his bulky moon boots will allow and rests it back atop Minho’s head, and he’s somewhat thankful that the gaudy excuse for a fashion piece covers how utterly fucked his hair looks. Jisung just beams at him regardless. He loves his little tangerine mouth so much.
Jisung swivels on his foot to start down the hallway but Minho catches him by the wrist, pulling him in close one more time before they have to go suffer for what seemed like an endless amount of hours now.
He tucks his nose into the space between Jisung’s white hood and his ear, nuzzling his hair that somehow managed to go undisrupted while keeping his voice just above a whisper, “Wear this home. Beg the stylists. Please.”
He gestures down at the boots that swallow his honey toned legs, pointing, “These too. Definitely these.”
Jisung runs a palm up Minho’s stomach then, fingers twirling and tangling into the mess of chained necklaces they styled him in—which were driving his skin absolutely crazy—and he stops to cup the big green star pendant. “Only if,” He pulls Minho in by the pendant, chain digging into the back of his neck and he sees stars, sees God, he’s pretty sure. He wouldn’t know, hasn’t spent a lot of time near a Bible. But he’s spent a lot of time inside of Jisung, which might as well be the same thing as far as heaven or divinity is concerned. He outright moans, and Jisung’s mouth is hot on his lips again, voice so sultry and so low, “You don’t wear this home.”
Negative forty-five seconds. Time is a construct.
Minho can only exhale a few giggles, airy and sweet. They both need new lip gloss. “So beanie, black t-shirt, and sweats. Apple Watch. What I came here in. Got it.”
“Hot.” It’s Jisung who groans this time, eyes rolling back playfully and Minho has half a mind to not throw them back into the prop closet before Felix is doing his job again, whispering as close to a shout as possible from down the hallway,
“You have five seconds to get down here or I’m blowing your cover, I swear—”
Minho regards Felix. Cocks a brow, purses his lips at Jisung.
“Five seconds is a lot of time, Bug.”
Jisung just shakes his head and laces their fingers together, just like they’re meant to, and winks up at Minho, “We’ll have tons of time when we get home, hyung.”
He breaks into a run down the hall, pulling Minho along with him to where Felix waits for them. His little white angel wings bounce on the hood of his jacket while he runs, and Minho can’t wait to make them bounce for an entirely different reason once they get home.
Time is a silly thing. He’s got forever with Jisung, anyway.