Work Text:
The door beeps open and it’s all over from there—shoving his dick back into his pants, doing his best to adjust around its hardness as he pushes his chair back towards his desk, fumbles for a tissue, all the while wondering who and when—and he’s finally gotten his fingers dry and is reaching for his phone to show a semblance of occupation when Hongjoong rounds the corner—Mingi is so lucky his studio is two rooms—with his face all serious. Uh oh.
I tried calling you, he says, standing there in his glasses and sweats and a pair of crocs, fresh out of the studio. I was starting to think you went home.
Mingi’s heart is thumping so loud he’s afraid Hongjoong can hear it. Oh, he says, um, I didn’t see it, sorry.
Hongjoong, brows arching, points to the phone in his hand. Shit.
I—I had do not disturb on. Sorry. Not to mention the fact that none of his programs are open behind him; screens gone dark, notebook abandoned open on the desk. Um. What’d you wanna—
What have you been doing up here, huh? Hongjoong snarks, stepping closer, like he knows, but he can’t, like, Mingi can probably pass this off as a nap or that he was down an Instagram reels rabbit hole or something. Probably.
Of course, nothing plausible comes to his tongue: I, um. I—
Fuck, Mingi. Seriously?
Hongjoong’s gaze has fallen to his lap, where, of course, beneath his sweatpants and absolutely no underwear, Mingi’s dick is definitely visible. His judgement was hasty before—now it’s all over. His life, specifically, he figures.
There’s a very heavy pause before he squeaks out, I can explain.
But Hongjoong doesn’t ask him to—he only says, arms crossing, very no-nonsense leaderlike, almost like giving a child an ultimatum, if I blow you, will you go over these lyrics with me?
Mingi’s heart is definitely loud enough to be heard now; his dick, softened not a bit through this ordeal which he should really introspect on, leaks against his thigh at the proposition, and it’s the feeling of another droplet sliding over his skin which brings him back to himself. What?
I’m serious, Hongjoong says, and lowers himself to the carpet, even, just a foot from Mingi, and scoots forward. If you need it that badly I’ll help you out, but you have to get back to work once I’m done.
He’s just about between Mingi’s legs now, unconsciously spread further to make space, and he’s looking up at Mingi all stern-browed and dark-eyed and with his mouth a straight wet line, here with his hair pushed back, on the floor of Mingi’s workspace seeming like he’ll go ahead no matter what Mingi says, and Mingi will just have to take it. He might know better what to say if not for this: Hongjoong never says yes to this, here—Mingi’s lost count of the occasions where he, bored or tired or frustrated or in the middle of busy weeks when they can’t find time for each other, has propositioned Hongjoong during work only to be shut down. Without exception. He’s been fiending for this for ages, since before they even called this anything, before he knew Hongjoong saw him that way at all he’s been thinking of how easy it would be to fold himself beneath Hongjoong’s desk and suck him off while he works. How nice.
Why now his conviction seems to have faltered is unclear. Hongjoong doesn’t really get pent up like he does; their differing sex drives began as a point of contention, and he’s lucky now, for all he lets Hongjoong to do him, monitoring his masturbation habits isn’t one of them; it’s not something Hongjoong thinks of constantly, idly, especially not amidst work. It isn’t either like Mingi looks particularly irresistible right now. He’s been in the studio for hours in his tee and sweats with his face all bare, bangs held back by a headband, since they were irritating him. Hongjoong can get a little feral over him but that’s the him of tailored stage costumes and smokey eyes, not this—not when he’s been caught being so shameless, too.
He looks at Hongjoong knelt before him and realizes it doesn’t matter why.
Y-yeah, okay.
Hongjoong smiles. Good. And he’s got a hand in Mingi’s pants then and he’s leaning in and when his tongue kisses the tip, all of Mingi starts shaking.
Mingi regrets the thought when he has it, since if it ever left his head it would offend about everyone he knows, but getting head from Hongjoong is like a religious experience. The first time he did had Mingi digging his nails into his palms to focus on something other than coming instantly, and even then he’d lasted, as Hongjoong made sure to tell him, seven minutes. He knew what he was doing, and does even better now, acquainted with Mingi’s cock specifically and all the little things that make him tick, like running nails up his inner thighs, scraping his little fangs under the head, or pushing an entire forearm against Mingi’s middle to keep him from thrusting up. He’s not crazy on the rough treatment, and Mingi doesn’t even mean to be rough, there’s nothing he’s trying to assert here, only that it feels so unimaginably good that he loses control of his body.
Already he can feel it happening as he’s taken in halfway; Hongjoong’s tongue dances in patterns against his shaft for some stimulation while his jaw adjusts, it’s been a minute, and it’s a lot, and Mingi, meanwhile, faintly hears his phone fall to the carpet as his hands go limp.
This is so much better than jerking off in front of his mirror.
Not like it was the first time, but fuck, if he’d known that was what it took to break Hongjoong’s studio sex embargo he would have gotten way less responsible with his work habits way way earlier. Often for him people are coming and going, he loans his space out to hyungs of his and brings in collaborators and it’s not unheard of for Edenary members to pop in; Hongjoong’s case is no different, if busier, with the members in and out and Maddox a constant specter; when it’s just the two of them in this space, though, Mingi feels like he can relax. Even in spread-out living situations they’re on top of each other, constantly—any given day Mingi’s at risk of waking up with San in his bed, and it’s been awkward, before, when he’s tried to sneak in while Hongjoong was over. The other guys don’t have it as hard when they sneak off to hotels but the two of them, involved, together, are pressured constantly, and feeling truly alone is a Halley’s comet sort of rarity.
Despite its communal nature, this is the most a space has felt fully Mingi’s in years—not shared dorm rooms, not the one he had at his mother’s, not even the solo room he came back to, and not, now, the shoebox-sized square of freedom he has at home. He sits in his chair and lets Hongjoong swallow him to the root and there are no other sounds and it feels almost, for a moment, like this is theirs.
It’s why he doesn’t get Hongjoong’s opposition to fucking here. Other people use this space. Anyone could come in, not this late. It’s unprofessional, Mingi doesn’t buy. And, you’re distracted enough as is. That one just stings.
Hongjoong will say it later, no doubt, but Mingi can’t not think it now: he’s lucky Hongjoong loves him. Enough to be sucking down spillage in his throat, petting Mingi’s leg, and holding himself down for as long as he can before his breathing’s compromised; not, though, to be going at a pace any faster than glacial, hardly matched to the energy of his demands.
Hy-hyung, he starts to beg, and the reaction is instant, Hongjoong is focused; he pulls off entirely. Mingi whines and his hips arch up but he’s held back, hand on his thigh and a new one on his hip, thumb circling gently into his skin.
Hongjoong says none of that in a voice so low and charged Mingi feels his dick spit more pre, right onto Hongjoong’s chin, most likely. He laughs, so it’s likely. Relax, he chides, and, just let me, before his warm wet mouth is engulfing Mingi’s head again and the wider world fades out.
Wanna come, he reminds Hongjoong, please, like that’ll do anything. When he’s decided something there’s no changing his mind, even if Mingi were to say, logically, the pace is counterproductive, and he’s not treating this like much of a burden anymore; he’d only find some way to turn it around on Mingi, certainly will later: it’s all your fault, I had to teach you a lesson; if you just acted right, we wouldn’t be here so late, babo. Mingi can hear it already.
His demands are met with only a squeeze and Hongjoong’s nose sinking into his pelvis, which is, when he feels it, actually quite generous. And quite, quite conducive to that goal.
Shit.
Things stay slow, but Mingi slumps, his eyes slide open, and seeing Hongjoong like that is nearly enough to set him off without warning. In strange parallel to Mingi’s, he’s been letting his hair grow long, a generous rare crop of his natural color that falls over his ears, into his eyes as he draws his head down and up, unstyled but pristine with no intervention on Mingi’s part. Through his lenses—and the glasses, those are a tough sight to bear, too—with barely any light to glare off them his lashes are nicely visible, fanning down from lidded eyes, sweeping long. He’s flushed from the exertion and the warmth. His mouth is all stretched wet and glossy red and teasing easily at Mingi’s tip. His hand on Mingi’s thigh, stilled now but gripping firm, is strong and veiny in this way belied by its diminutive comparison to the breadth of Mingi’s bare leg, splayed soft over his desk chair, razed with thin pink lines inside. He shivers. It’s a lot. But he keeps looking.
Hongjoong pulls off with a cooling sigh to slide his mouth down the length of his dick, sucking sticky kiss after kiss into his skin, his mouth hardly lifts for even a second, and that may somehow be worse, how his lips move and spit slides and Mingi catches a flash of tongue dipping lower at his base, licking up flat and brusque over and over. Mingi wants to keep him there, slides a lazy hand to tangle in his hair that he’s happy Hongjoong doesn’t shake off, gets the motion repeated and a hand straightening his shaft against his stomach, blotting wet into his shirt. It uses the leverage to press and rub flat against him while that soft tongue works in its own feline way, and Mingi tugs his shirt up, tucks it between his teeth to keep it out of harm’s way because he can feel a telltale tightening in his gut and doesn’t want it to stain.
Easily Hongjoong’s mouth finds his pelvis, his stomach, his thigh, as his hand takes up the job, starting a brisk tugging pace to get him off; there’s teeth gnawing at where he’s softest, pulling at the skin, snap-and-release. When he’s nippy, he’s really into it—he’s given Mingi a helping of perfunctory orgasms, in bed before starting the day (showering it off doesn’t help) or backstage between recordings (everyone was looking at me, how was I supposed to react?) or in shared dorm showers when they really, really had to hurry (it’s been a week, please), and he’s got it down to a science, how most effectively to make Mingi come. This isn’t not for him—he trembles and gasps all punchy and can feel how slicker the slide around his cock becomes—but it’s definitely an indulgence—when Hongjoong has to get him off quick, he keeps the touching minimal, just enough to appease how clingy Mingi can be, but when they’re together and they have time and Hongjoong can’t seem to get enough of him, the fangs are out, always, without question. Not even to mark, Mingi doesn’t think, and not in the same way he craves idle fingers on his tongue, but there’s something to it. Insistent, obsessive.
They nibble by his knee and in towards his crotch, mostly don’t linger but there’s one spot or two where Hongjoong latches on until a bruise must bloom and his hand loses pace then, thumb swipes absently over the tip, until he’s back and breathing balmy and kissing the sore spot better, soothing with his spare palm. Mingi doesn’t complain for the pain, and Hongjoong lets it be when the hand in his hair tenses tight, groans a little, brows furrow, which only makes him hotter. By now Mingi is very much spiraling up and away from his corporeal form, the attentive mouth too good, the hand on his cock, the bit of hurt, the realization of this dream, the way Hongjoong looks between his legs, all small and yet with so much power here. Mingi wouldn’t have it any other way.
He tries to tell Hongjoong this—something, anything in approximation to this—but it all comes out garbled, in gasped half-word hiccups and twitching and the mighty throb his cock gives when Hongjoong plants his lips back on it, again lower down, these gentle sideways suckles trailing upwards with a lot of tongue, hint of teeth. As he knows Mingi, he must know when he’s close, and it’s dangerous what he cooks up for the delivering blow; there is no way to go gently. If he were a killer he’d be the kind to take a final head shot even after the guy had bled out. That’s how he is. A perfectionist with flair.
When he takes Mingi’s dick back into his mouth, Mingi dazedly, wishfully, stupidly starts to think it’s so he can come there—Hongjoong doesn’t like that but if he’s making concessions to Mingi already, what’s one more, why not give him this, given the location it makes for easier cleanup, after all—and his hand unconsciously activates, tensing to hold Hongjoong in place so he can thrust to warm completion, but that’s over, basically, before it’s started. Hongjoong pries it off and keeps it in his against Mingi’s hip while the other replaces his mouth like it never left, and he says relax even though Mingi’s huffing and whining like a dog having its chewtoy taken away.
Relax, Hongjoong repeats and weaves their fingers together. Don’t get greedy on me.
His voice is all low and thready and it only makes Mingi whine more. Please, I’m—please, Hongjoong hyung. Close.
I know, Hongjoong hums, leaning in to kiss his lower stomach, nibbling below his navel. He’s all sweaty and must taste of errant pre, too. Hongjoong keeps his mouth there, though, as he continues, all tongue-tied. Stupid for it.
All he can manage in reply is a weak few mmhms, cowed by the chastising but more concerned with this not stopping, the tightening in his gut, how he can’t seem to catch his breath, the soft nuzzling of Hongjoong against his abdomen and how he kisses and calls him good. He doesn’t have the mind, even, to save his shirt from where it’s fallen, stuck to his chest with sweat but still in the danger zone, it’s an issue for a future him, with clearer mind, open eyes. Pressure ticks up behind them now, stings under his lashes—no more than a misting but enough for Hongjoong to bully him over so he keeps himself from wiping it off, flutters blinking and lowers his head to his chest with the force of feeling collapsing him inward, every breath a gasp, his grip on Hongjoong warm, tight.
And the mouth on his middle moves, first to his base, then, thoughtlessly, in speech: so lucky I get to do this for you.
The words stumble from his mouth, far from a proper warning, but slurred thin enough that Hongjoong sees they are; his hand continues simply but he draws back to watch it happen, the first full shot and how quick it all comes after that, thick, pearled white wetness pouring over their skin-to-skin hand leg wrist stomach hardness, how Mingi bucks and tenses with it before he slumps still in his chair, ears ringing. Free hand fumbling towards Hongjoong’s hair to awkwardly pet an approximation of an immediate, urgent thank you—sated, and tenfold more than he’d imagined an hour ago.
His fingers tangle through a damp spot and he sighs. Shit, he mumbles, tongue still heavy in his mouth, and cracks his eyes to get a look, I got come in your hair.
Hongjoong huffs and the moment’s over. Great job, Mingi-yah. Stellar. You know I washed it this morning?
Yeah. He sighs. I know. ‘M sorry.
It’s whatever. Shrugging, he stands, maneuvers past the body he’s beleaguered to grab a box of tissues and get them clean. He doesn’t act up, doesn’t force any of Mingi’s own spend past his slack lips or tease him how he likes to, and Mingi thinks he’s actually, really annoyed until he leans in to press their lips together with a warm, dry hand on his cheek. That was fun, Hongjoong says, bends further for his lips to land where a single tear fell, dried already, but of course, he knew; I don’t see what about this place gets you all worked up, but I’d do it again.
Mingi can’t even address the slight: Really? he asks, turning so their noses collide, and Hongjoong laughs at him, how his eyes have gone wide. No, hyung, are you serious? Because I have—you have to let me plan, you have to, I have so many ideas.
Still laughing, every single tooth in view and a gleam in his eyes, Hongjoong gives him another kiss, good and slow, but prim, easy for him to pull back. How about this, he starts, thumb stroking Mingi’s jaw, and that voice is trouble, their staying eye contact too—Mingi is so, so in for it—you give a prompt response to all my messages for the next week, you can fuck me over my desk. Deal?
Shit.
He swallows. Deal.