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Yunho curls his toes into the carpet, rubbing his hands on his thighs over the gray, loose sweatpants. He shakes his head and tries not to look at the closed door leading to the bathroom. He looks up through his freshly washed bangs, absentmindedly following the glint from where the warm light of the room's only lit light source reveals the frayed edges of his bleached hair. He tries to remind himself that he is patient, and when his antsy shiver of anticipation eats that thought up, he considers powering on his phone again to send Mingi a snide message about how his knees are starting to hurt, since Mingi couldn’t even deign to give him a pillow to kneel on.
He doesn’t, in the end, even if he throws a glance at his quiet phone on the bureau twice. Yunho has never been a stickler for justice or anything, but it doesn’t feel particularly fair. The scene hasn’t started yet, so Yunho could just get a pillow if he really wanted it. It’s not Mingi’s fault that Yunho loathes the anticipation as much as he loves it, the claws of it making his belly sweep upside down as he tries, and fails, to play it cool.
A moment later, when Yunho is contemplating his phone-idea again, the handle to the bathroom door makes a noise as a hand (Mingi’s, obviously, unless Wooyoung has climbed in through the vents to try and crash date night) grasps it from the other side. Yunho breathes in, his head snapping back so that his gaze is fixed forward. He tries for relaxed, or, well, as relaxed as is possible when one is kneeling on the floor and waiting for your best-friend-turned-coworker-slash-bandmate-turned-boyfriend.
It takes another moment, because of course it does. Because Mingi is a bonafidé brat, domming or not. Yunho kind of wants to get up to his feet and leave. He, also, kind of, wants to scratch at the bathroom door and beg for Mingi to come out and fuck him already, scene be damned.
Pride allowing for neither option, Yunho decides, instead, to be still.
When the door opens, Yunho’s gaze snaps to it.
Yunho’s mouth dries as Mingi is revealed to him, dressed in a perfectly tailored navy-blue suit. Mingi’s dark hair, dyed blue-black rather than his natural and softer, warmer dark brown, is coiffed back and Yunho is reminded of just how flustered Mingi can get him when Mingi doesn’t have any bangs to hide behind. It was one of the reasons to why the short hair, hastily and unevenly chopped as it might’ve been, had been so devastating. Sometimes, Yunho thinks about the snaggle-toothed, cute boy with flushed cheeks and knobbly knees, the one he got to know all those years back. Sometimes, he is brutally reminded of how that bright, fragile nerd grew into someone that kinda looked as though he was built in a lab to me as sexually appealing as possible, with his high cheekbones, well-defined jawline, sharp gaze and full, pink lips.
This is definitely the latter.
Swallowing, Yunho shifts his weight, licking his lips, waiting for Mingi to turn to him.
Mingi is disinterestedly checking the cuffs of his shirt, long fingers fiddling with the engraved, gold cufflinks. He doesn’t even look as he gently kicks the door shut with one foot, pulling the edges of his double-breasted suit jacket once he abandons the intricacies of his cuffs, brushing down the flawless, lintless, front of it.
With a small noise, Mingi turns to the mirror next to the bathroom, looking at himself before he even spares a glance at Yunho, smirking as he meets his own gaze in the mirror. Yunho can practically feel the flush starting on his own cheeks, the way it warms its way down his neck and over his chest. He drinks Mingi in, the beautiful line of him, broad shoulders and long legs, gaze tracking down where his suit jacket dips in at the arch of his back, then the way it falls over the curve of Mingi’s ass.
“I’ll be late,” Mingi says, startling Yunho back into something akin to reality. Or, well, play-reality. Where Mingi is on the way to a meeting, which is one of the reasons why the blinds are drawn so tight, to help sell the fantasy that this is in the morning and not... way too late at night. Mingi looks at him, gaze flicking over him a bit like you would glance over a dog sulking in the corner. Yunho’s hands tighten over his sweatpants, trying to ignore the way his cock is already going from half-chub to hard just from dismissive Mingi in a suit being in his general vicinity.
“Stay,” Yunho answers, after a moment, finding his footing in the scene, “Mingi, can’t you take the day off?”
Mingi sighs, shaking his head, turning back to the mirror as he plays with a lock of his hair, as though he hasn’t deliberately made it fall over his forehead in a way that reminds Yunho of movie stars in old films, the ones Yunho doesn’t like to watch because they’re not in color, but he watches with Mingi, because Mingi is a romantic in the media he consumes, listening to ballads when it rains and watching movies in black-and-white because he’s both pretentious like that and genuinely likes them.
“No,” he answers, curt and to the point, which makes Yunho’s shoulders tense and bunch tight. It also makes his stomach clench, his weight shifting as he tries to make room for his growing, hungry arousal. Another sigh, this time accompanied by a dismissive wave of his hand, a motion that Yunho tracks like a cat watching the magpies in the yard through the window, “Don’t look at me like that, you know I have important work to do.”
Yunho licks his lips, leaning forward so that one hand splays over the hotel room carpet.
“Please?” he tries, meeting Mingi’s gaze in the mirror for a second before he demurely pulls his eyes away even though he wants to keep staring.
“Yunho-ya —” Mingi starts, voice low and grave, but stops as his brow furrows. He digs his phone up from his pocket, lifting the edge of his suit jacket to reach it, which in turn shows how the navy-blue fabric stretches over his ass. He’s downright skinny now, this close to a comeback, but still there’s enough fat and muscle there to make every pair of fitted, store bought pants just a bit too tight. His phone stays dark as he talks into it, and Yunho’s heartbeat is loud in his ears.
“Yes, yes, I’m on my way,” Mingi says, trying to sound proper, the way their managers sound when journalists or higher ups are calling. It works only because his voice is so good, low and gravelly, naturally serious and melodious when he doesn’t pitch it cuter, “I am well aware of the importance of today, and like I said, I am right about to step out the door.”
Mingi moves to the bureau, pressing the phone between his ear and shoulder as he uncorks the bottle of cologne, dotting it on the inside of his wrists. He tugs at his collar, two buttons undone and a thin, golden chain around his neck, its drape shaping itself over his collarbones. He mutters something into the phone as he opens the highest drawer, taking out a pair of leather gloves.
“I do not think the client will want to start before I get there,” Mingi says cooly, turning back to Yunho as he slides his first hand into the dark brown leather, pulling it taut over his big hand before doing the same to the other. Yunho can barely breathe, and he has to actively stop himself from pressing a hand against his cock to try and relieve the pressure. Mingi holds the phone proper again, taking two steps to stop in front of Yunho, still kneeling on the floor.
Yunho looks up, gaze dragging over Mingi’s long legs, over the way his suit nips in over the waist, his broad shoulders, his dark gaze, his parted, pink lips, showing just the edge of his teeth. And then the gloves, dark brown leather, nicely tailored. Yunho bought them for him two years ago, in Milan, when Mingi had been trying to hide how cold his fingers were by curling his fingers into his own sleeves. He’d never seen Mingi use them after that, understandably, both of them are too reliant on their phones to bother with something that effectively hinders them to use it. Did Mingi bring them just for this?
“I said one second,” Mingi snaps into the phone, meeting Yunho’s wide-eyed gaze with his own. He smirks, easy and cocky, the way he does on stage, and Yunho is so turned on he swears he can taste arousal on his tongue. It’s sharp, tangy, possessive. Yunho breathes, reminding himself of the scene, of the play, of what comes next.
“Please?” Yunho tries again, voice soft, tilting his head as he looks up at Mingi, settling back on the heels of his feet. His breath stutters as Mingi reaches for him, tilting Yunho’s chin up with two fingers. The leather is soft against Yunho’s skin. They smell like leather balm, as though Mingi makes sure to take care of them, even if he never uses them.
“Please, what?” He says, his voice so low that Yunho almost feels it reverberate where Mingi’s fingers are connected to his chin.
When Yunho doesn’t answer, Mingi frowns, prompting him again.
“Please, what, Yunho-ya?”
“Sir,” Yunho breathes, arousal bursting like tiny fireworks over his spine. He closes his eyes, leaning forward, sloppy as he nuzzles against Mingi’s pants, pressing his nose against Mingi’s bulge. The tension doesn’t leave him though, the scent of leather still lingering, and when Mingi eases back, spreading his legs slightly to allow Yunho better access, one of Yunho’s hands drag over Mingi’s pants, from his knee to his thigh, digging his fingers into the fat of it.
“Hm, I’ll think about it,“ Mingi starts, his breath quickening as Yunho mouths over his cock, tongue wet against the fabric, “If you —”
“Los Angeles,” Yunho says, mouth pressed against Mingi’s pants, shivering as he shakes the scene off, head buzzing, “Mingi-ya, let me —”
At the safe word, Mingi flounders, as though a glitch worked its way into his assuredness, but he starts taking a step back, blinking, raising his hands.
“Too much?” He grimaces, apologetically, and then frowns as Yunho doesn’t let him move, still holding him tight and close, “Yunho —”
“No, ah, not that,” Yunho tries finding words around his arousal, looking up as Mingi blinks down at him, tilting his head. So fucking cute, with his navy-blue suit and his soft leather gloves, with his too-polite pretend accent and bricked phone, refusing to use even his own turned off one (lying next to Yunho’s on the bureau) because what if he hadn’t turned it off properly and Yunho being submissive was broadcasted to someone that hadn’t been invited.
(and we would be outed, i guess, yunho had said, giving up on arguing as mingi dug through his drawers for his old phone.
mingi, pausing, brow furrowing, had said: that too, yeah.
as though that was secondary, as though being labelled pariahs by their entire industry was less important than their private, romantic moment being intruded on, as though the worst thing that could happen was someone seeing yunho vulnerable, and mingi failing to protect him from that)
“Let me fuck you,” Yunho breathes, getting up from his knees with only his bones doing a little bit of complaining, “Just, fuck, I want to fuck you.”
“Uh, yeah,” Mingi swallows, his pink tongue darting out to flick over his full bottom lip, “I mean, sure, I —”
Mingi makes a soft, surprised sound as Yunho pushes him back against the bed, bewildered and turned on in equal measures. Kneeling onto the bed, Yunho places one hand on Mingi’s chest and pushes him down again, anticipating Mingi trying to lean up towards him before he even makes the movement. Pressing one knee between Mingi’s legs, up against the bulge of Mingi’s cock, hardening underneath the too-tight pants and the slight sheen of the fabric making it even more obvious, Yunho places both hands on Mingi’s wrists and holds still. Mingi stares up at him, breath stuttering in his chest. His fingers curl, making the leather of the gloves crease.
Yunho leans down, pressing a kiss against Mingi’s lips, almost stupidly chaste for someone who also has his thigh pressed so tight up between Mingi’s legs he can feel every twitch of his hips. The second one is decidedly less so, Yunho biting Mingi’s bottom lip red before slotting their lips together, licking Mingi’s soft, low noises right out of his mouth. Mingi arches up, rolling his hips with that stupidly good body-control of his, dragging his cock against Yunho’s thigh. He moans at the friction, and Yunho’s hands tighten around his wrists, bearing down, kissing Mingi until neither of them have any air left.
Mingi is almost wheezing when Yunho lets up, releasing Mingi’s wrists to unbutton his jacket, pulling the shirt from where it’s tucked into his pants, rucking it up just enough to trace his fingers against the tan, soft surface of Mingi’s stomach. The soft touch makes Mingi’s abs clench, makes the entirety of Mingi shiver, and Yunho can’t believe they had a whole scene planned when Yunho’s been horny for what feels like decades.
“Yunho, ah, okay, wait, uhm,” Mingi fumbles with his shirt, trying to unbutton it but failing because of the gloves, flushing as he brings one hand up to his mouth to bite into the leather and pull them off. Yunho, who is discovering something about himself, presses a nipping kiss against Mingi’s jaw, a bit too risky considering all the photoshoots they have planned for the next couple of days.
“Keep them on,” Yunho says, so horny he doesn’t even cringe at what he sounds like, like a leering pervert seeing a pair of stained lace panties. Mingi, who only seems to have a functioning cringe-radar when it comes to himself, just nods, eyes wide, cute teeth still digging into the brown leather.
Quickly, Yunho unbuttons Mingi’s pants, pulling them off, swearing in equal parts frustration and pure horniness when they catch on the thicker part of Mingi’s thighs. He manages to pull them off without removing the fine, brogue shoes Mingi is wearing only through sheer horny stubbornness and the kind of single-minded focus only a lifetime of dancing can bring, and it’s — fuck, it’s so hot, with Mingi’s suit all dishevelled, his cock hard and thick, the head of it swollen pink and already stained wet with precum.
“No underwear?” Yunho says, acting surprised, as though he didn’t already know. Mingi just shrugs, lackadaisical, even with his legs around Yunho’s legs, still wearing black, calf-length socks and fine brown shoes, so new they haven’t even creased yet.
Yunho pulls down the waistline of his sweatpants and briefs, the elastic catching on his erection, making it sway as he hooks them underneath his ass. He digs his fingers into Mingi’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart to look at the furled muscle.
“Still good?” Yunho asks, pressing his thumb against Mingi’s hole, making it wink and clench against the pad of his finger.
“Fuck, yeah, of course,” Mingi says, voice rough, spreading his legs wider, “You’re too big for it to not keep me stretched for a bit.”
Yunho closes his eyes, taking a breath, opening his eyes to give a smiling Mingi a baleful glance, “You can’t just say stuff like that.”
“It’s true,” Mingi says airily, as though that makes it better. In the next breath, he breaks into a giggle, his face lighting up into his gummy smile, and Yunho is so rocked by it he almost fumbles the lube. Luckily, he keeps his cool enough so he can squeeze a sizeable dollop onto his cock without any issue. When he presses the tube up against Mingi’s hole, squeezing out another thick glob of lube, Mingi hisses.
“Cold,” Mingi whines, the sound still carrying the shape of his laughter. Yunho coos, indulgent and loving, chucking the tube to the side, barely making a sound as it falls into the carpeted floor.
“I’ll warm it right up, don’t worry,” Yunho smiles, grabbing his cock and moving his hand in a loose grip over the length of it, spreading the lube over the shaft and head. He presses it up against Mingi’s hole, and it’s tight, it’s always tight, but when the head of his slides past the ring of muscle, rolling his hips to slide deeper, Mingi just sighs happily at the feeling. He leans back, eyes fluttering shut as Yunho thrusts in gentle circles, sliding a little deeper with each complete movement. Mingi’s mouth falls open on a moan, and usually, Yunho would give him his fingers to suck on. But this time —
“The gloves, Mingki,” Yunho says, voice tight as he grips onto Mingi’s ass, spreading him further as he slides home, bottoming out with a groan, “Fuck —”
Mingi looks at him, eyes so dark they look almost black, lashes dipping low and casting shadows over his high cheekbones. He brings his fingers to his mouth, nipping at the tips of the gloves first before hooking a finger so he can bite around it. The leather dips underneath Mingi’s teeth, and when Yunho thrusts, the first proper one, deep enough to make the bed move up against the wall, Mingi has to readjust his bite, letting Yunho see the indent his teeth leaves behind.
It’s hurried, after that. Yunho sets a hard, unrelenting pace, and Mingi takes it, groaning at each finished thrust, whimpering at the few times Yunho pulls out far enough to leave him feeling kind of empty. Yunho leans forward to brace his next thrusts against the bed frame, and Mingi’s eyes roll back as he drools and bites his fingers, the pink of his lips so devastatingly clear against the dark brown leather. Mingi is tight and hot, his smooth walls gripping Yunho’s cock so tight Yunho would worry Mingi is trying to snap his dick off to keep it if they hadn’t already agreed that this wouldn’t be the worst way to go. Mingi’s ass clenches, his inner walls starting to almost pulsate around Yunho’s cock as he arches his back, and Yunho watches him the entire time. His cock, pressed against his stomach, smearing cum over both the suit jacket and dress shirt, kicks once, and as Mingi shivers apart, Yunho fucks him through it, with deep, forceful thrusts.
Mingi barely has time to start whining, to complain about tipping into oversensitivity, when Yunho groans, hips stuttering and then snapping close, and follows. Mingi shivers, as he always does, when Yunho fucks him raw and comes inside. When Yunho slips free, Mingi makes a soft, instinctual sound, whiny and petulant. As though he wants Yunho to stay.
Yunho groans as he turns over, falling onto his back next to Mingi, who is breathing hard. For a moment, they just lay next to each other, catching their breaths.
If he was less of a gentleman, or if this was when he and Mingi were still pretending as though they were just two friends helping each other out in the interrims between the company lawyers drafting new NDA’s, Yunho would fall asleep. But since he is a gentlemen, and he and Mingi managed to stumble their way into an mutually embarrassing and earnest confession, and because Mingi is still half-dressed and outright clumsy after coming, Yunho just makes a soft sound as he sits up, preparing to get up and get some towels and water.
After a quick wash, Yunho comes back with two bottles of water and a wetted hand towel. Mingi is leaning up against the bed frame while waiting for him, his suit jacket thrown over the end of the bed. Yunho unscrews and hands him the bottle, flushing when he realizes that Mingi is still wearing the gloves. Not looking Mingi in the eye, Yunho places the bottle on the end table, grabbing the wrist of the glove and peeling one off, and then the other. He smooths the two gloves together, placing them to the side, giving Mingi the water bottle before moving to work on the shoes.
“Did I hit too close to the daddy issues?” Mingi says as Yunho’s wrestling with the Mingi’s stupid double-knotted laces, making Yunho splutter and look up.
“No,“ Yunho says, and it feels like a lie even though he doesn’t think it is one, “I don’t, uh, I don’t have daddy issues.”
Mingi snorts, and Yunho glares at him, finally managing to untie one shoe and taking it off. He pulls off Mingi's sock, and Mingi stretches his toes, taking another sip of his water.
“I’ve seen you around big men,” he says, rolling his eyes, “You have daddy issues.”
“It wasn’t that,“ Yunho protests, the second shoe going easier than the first, “It was...” he places the shoe on the ground, trying to find the words, “It was the gloves.”
Mingi raises an eyebrow, and Yunho kind of hates that even though Mingi is kind of oblivious when it comes to people, he has somehow managed to burrow into Yunho’s brain, picking out thoughts with the same ease he deciphers the themes of his favorite poems.
“Oh, come off it,” Yunho mutters, holding out his hand so that Mingi can hand him the towel. He wipes it over Mingi’s inner thighs, between his legs, over his taint and folding it twice before gently cleaning Mingi’s softening cock, still half-hard, always taking a long time to soften.
“We’ll talk about it,” Mingi smiles, and Yunho, cheeks red, grumbles, “For next time.”
Yunho, a familiar spark of anticipation traveling down his spine, leans forward, pressing a kiss against the tip of Mingi’s sharp nose, “For next time.”