Work Text:
"Watch closely."
Minho carefully winds the boxing wraps around the base of each of Jisung’s fingers. Jisung follows his movements as best he can, brow furrowed. When Minho’s done, he tickles Jisung’s palms—not that he can feel it under all the wound fabric—and takes a step back. “There. Got it?”
Jisung turns his hands over, eyes tracing along the lines of the wraps as if they hold a secret code he’s been trying to figure out. “I’m never gonna be able to do it, jagi,” he insists. “When you do that flip thing to go between my fingers, that’s when I get lost.” He imitates the movement, gets it all wrong.
“It’ll get easier the more you do it,” assures Minho, gathering his own wraps from the top of the fresh laundry pile. “Look, you can watch me again.”
After their first couple of boxing sessions together at the gym, Jisung had decided that he actually did feel like he could keep doing this, and so Minho had ordered a bunch of gear for them both to use to safely spar at home. The gym was fine, but there was something to be said for being able to work out in the privacy of their own home whenever they liked, at their own pace.
And Jisung was really loving his new hyperfixation. He'd finally found a form of cardio that was actually fun, genuinely enjoyable in a way that running wasn't. Company-mandated jogs had been miserable and boring—not even his exquisitely-curated playlists could stop his mind from wandering—but boxing kept him anchored in the present, focused on his own movements as well as his partner's. And it was exhilarating: it turns out that the endorphin rush of consistent exercise Changbin had always waxed poetic about really was addictive, which was infuriating, because it meant that Changbin was right about something again and would hold it over Jisung’s head for at least three weeks.
Jisung’s relationship with working out had famously been an on-and-off type of thing for years; his gym phases tended to be small stretches when he had the extra time (rare) or needed the distraction from a creative slump (less rare than he’d like). Until recently, it had always been an either/or activity: either he creates, or he works out. There simply wasn’t time for both.
Lately, though, he’s been better at balance. Kinder to himself. He’s been letting himself write, sing, work on things when it feels good, and when it doesn’t? He leaves the studio. He gets out of his head, puts his energy elsewhere. He goes home.
And coming home now feels different than before. Before, it was often difficult to turn his brain off, especially when he’d left behind a frustrating day at the company only to open the front door and run right into Chan and/or Changbin. He hated it when just seeing the people he loved reminded him of work, of what he was convinced he was failing at: whether or not they were graciously giving him the space he needed or subjecting him to a bit of light ribbing (“Oh, Channie-hyung, look. Someone’s exhausted from napping on the studio couch all day,” Changbin had joked once, risking his life). More often than not, on particularly bad days, Jisung would duck into his room as soon as he could to cocoon in his bed like the world’s grumpiest caterpillar, trying to drown out his thoughts with the first movie or show he clicked on.
He doesn’t hide anymore, doesn't feel the need to seek out solitude quite so much. Not when coming home feels like storm clouds parting, sunshine streaming through to greet him. There might as well have been songbirds and a choir for how it made him feel sometimes.
Maybe this mental shift happened to coincide with a change in his living situation. Maybe.
At least he has the time, energy and motivation to work out consistently now.
After another two unsuccessful attempts to wrap his own hands, Jisung finally manages to do it with Minho’s patient guidance and an assurance that he’ll definitely be better at it next time. They easily run through the most recent set of simple combinations Minho had had him practice earlier in the week, loosening their limbs and working up a sweat just shadowboxing, utilizing the open space between the living room and the kitchen.
“Ready for something new?” Minho asks once they take a quick break.
“Bring it on,” Jisung challenges, leaning against the back of the couch as Minho demonstrates the motions.
Minho boxes like he dances: effortlessly controlled and precise, not letting a single movement go to waste. Just as Jisung frequently finds his eyes landing on Minho's reflection in the practice room mirrors when they rehearse, he can't help but be mesmerized by the sight of him simply striking the air in their own apartment. The sleeves of his baggy t-shirt slip as he moves and expose the cut of his upper arms, shadows outlining the muscle, expertly sculpted.
Jisung sees him all the time, and yet: it’s still captivating.
He’s so into him.
Minho runs a hand through his hair as he bends down to pick up the training pads, clearly completely oblivious to how obnoxiously attractive he’s being, and slides them onto his hands. He holds them up expectantly. "Remember the combo? Like a dance."
Jisung nods, raises his fists. Wonders if Minho read his mind. "Like a dance." He inhales, exhales, and strikes.
"Jab, cross, hook," he sounds out each move as he does them, brows knit together in concentration. "Uppercut, hook, cross." Utterly delighted at the successful combo, he bounces on the balls of his feet. "Wow, I really nailed that.”
Minho beams back at him. "I knew you would.” Then he drops the smile, deadly serious in an instant. "Now do it ten times. I’ll count you down."
Jisung's face falls. "Hyung."
No mercy.
"You said you wanted to get better. This is how you get better." Minho wiggles the pads with all the charm of a tropical bird trying to impress a mate. "Hit me."
Jisung heaves a sigh. "My knuckles already hurt! I think they're bleeding."
His knuckles are not, in fact, bleeding, or even blemished. But that's besides the point.
"That's proof of hard work." Minho waves the pads again enticingly. "Don't act like you don't think scarred knuckles are sexy. You kiss mine all the time."
Jisung ponders that for a moment, chewing his lower lip. "That's different."
"How is that different?"
"Because it's a critical part of your bad boy tsundere idol persona. And I get to kiss them better."
"I'll kiss yours better." Minho winks.
It's more like an asynchronous blink, but Jisung feels his heart leap a little all the same. God, he’s so stupid for this man. "Yeah, you should," he says, rolling his shoulders and getting into his stance. "Okay, let's go."
“Ten,” Minho begins, angling the pads to catch each of the strikes, then returning them to the starting position without giving Jisung the chance to stop and feel tired. “Nine.”
Four is where it all goes wrong.
Maybe Minho’s mind had wandered for a split second, or Jisung had driven his fist upwards at a slightly different angle. But his uppercut slips off the pad and—in excruciatingly slow motion, to his absolute horror—collides with Minho’s beautiful, perfect jaw.
Jisung’s soul fully leaves his body. He’s watching the two of them in third-person perspective from the afterlife, floating somewhere near the ceiling, having just punched the love of his life right in the face. Of all the ways he thought he’d go, death by mortification was not on the list.
So young. How did he die?
He loved a man so much he punched him in the face and then cried about it.
“Oh my god ohmygod oh no hyung ohmygod I’m so sorry I’msosorry hyung I’m so—” he babbles nonsensically, reaching out for Minho’s face.
Minho, darling Minho, frozen in position, head tipped back where Jisung’s fist—his fist!—had pushed it. Slowly, he lowers his head. There’s a small smear of blood across his lower lip.
“You’re bleeding!” Jisung yelps in horror. “I made you bleed! Hyung, I—”
“Haha, nice,” Minho chuckles, wiping his mouth with his forearm.
“Nice?!” Jisung cradles Minho’s face in his hands, brows pinched so tightly with worry they form a perfect upside down "v". “I punched you in the face and made you bleed and all you say is haha, nice?!”
“It’s fine, jagi,” Minho assures him, tongue dipping out to catch the blood. Jisung's eyes are helplessly drawn to the motion despite his concern. “You were already tired, so you didn’t hit me that hard,”—okay, rude—“and I bit my own lip. It’s really fine.” He offers a reassuring smile even as the blood beads anew.
“Are you—are you sure?” Jisung asks. “You’re not just saying that to help me feel better?”
"Am I ever not honest with you?" Minho prompts. "I'm fine. You didn't hurt me."
Jisung quiets, brushing his thumbs over Minho's cheekbones. "Okay," he says finally, then leans in to press a kiss to his bloodied lip.
"Hot," Minho smirks when Jisung pulls back. "Do you want to keep going?"
Jisung, eyes lingering on Minho's mouth, takes a second to register the words. "Oh, you mean boxing."
"I do mean boxing," Minho says slyly. "But you let me know if you'd rather be doing something else."
Jisung shakes his head, definitely not thinking about how hot Minho looks with a bitten lip. It's not even as though this is the first time he's seen him like this; he's drawn blood on Minho's lip before. In bed. This is a totally different context. "I can focus."
Totally different.
"Mmhm," Minho hums. "Want to practice slips and blocks?"
"Okay," Jisung agrees. "I'll do my best not to actually punch you this time."
Pads discarded, Minho guides him through a combination of moves that feel like learning new choreography: actions that start slow and deliberate to get the muscle memory down, then gradually becoming faster, sharper, more defined. Minho throws a jab with his left hand towards Jisung; Jisung slips to his right to dodge it, then straightens to throw a jab of his own. Minho passes under it effortlessly, and when he motions to make an uppercut, Jisung leans backwards to put himself out of range before coming back in with a hook from his left, which Minho blocks.
Seeing his partner gaining confidence, Minho goes off-script: he tosses in an extra jab here, a cross there, sure that Jisung knows enough now to be able to safely freestyle with him. And he does—because of course he does, of course they can read each other here, too, anticipate what's next. They're one.
As they exchange moves it begins to feel more and more like a dance, and suddenly Jisung hears himself laughing. It's not that anything's funny: he's just suddenly overcome with the joy of it, the chemical rush of physical exercise, the love he feels for Minho and this precious thing they share and all its forms. It's infectious—now Minho's laughing, too, and Jisung is about to bring their little match to a stop when suddenly Minho's hand is at his waist and—oh!
"Ah!" Jisung yelps in surprise as he's pulled in, suddenly finding their bodies pressed together in a pose not unlike a tango. A sweaty, panting tango. "You call this sparring?"
"We could, if you like," Minho offers playfully, planting a kiss on Jisung's wrapped fist where it's caught between their chests.
"I see what you're doing, hyung," Jisung says, all suspicion. "You saw that I was getting too good, so you had to deploy your distraction technique because you can't handle me being better at boxing than you."
"If that helps you sleep at night."
"It does, actually," Jisung fires back, squirming out of his grip and squaring back up. No way is he going to let Minho get away with that. "Come at me, baby."
"Oh, you want more? Okay." Minho raises his fists in response. "Remember that you literally asked for this."
Jisung doesn't falter. He strikes first with a left hook that Minho dodges with ease, then attempts to throw a cross. Minho keeps himself out of range before stepping in and making a big show of pretending to deliver an uppercut to Jisung's stomach, followed by a left hook of his own. Jisung leans away from that fist, taking a step back and making sure to keep his hands up to protect his face, like Minho taught him. Minho presses in further, using his initiative to pressure Jisung backwards until he hits the back of the couch. Minho brings his hips in close and twists at the waist, about to—
Pause.
"Jagiya," says Minho quietly.
"No."
"Are you hard right now?"
"No," Jisung says again, too quickly. "You're imagining things."
"I'm not sure that I am." Minho leans in, breath fanning across Jisung's ear. "Do you think this is hot?"
"Ugh!" Jisung throws his hands up in defeat, lets them land on Minho's shoulders. "Yes, okay, fuck! I do! This is really hot, actually!" He digs his fingers in and gives him a little petulant shake. "You should kiss me about it!"
Minho's mouth is on his instantly, roughly, as though he’d been holding himself back the whole time. His tongue pushes in urgently and Jisung lets it, doesn’t care that he just fucking groaned into his mouth, dragging his hands up into Minho's hair and gripping to lock him in place. Dropping his hands to Jisung's waist, Minho presses his hips in further and finds the other man meeting him where he is, pushing back, the back of the couch digging into his thighs where he's shoved against it but refusing to be forced all the way down. Hands grab desperately: fistfuls of hair, clothing, skin. In their fervor, Jisung’s teeth catch on Minho's lower lip. He tastes blood.
They part for a breath.
"Fuck." Jisung runs his tongue across his own lip, chest heaving.
Minho's eyes drift downwards without thinking. A bead of sweat snakes its way down to Jisung's collarbone. The edges of the tattoo at his right shoulder peek out from beneath the strap of his tank top. And below, the black fabric pulls taut against the definition of his chest as he breathes. In. Out.
Minho stares.
"My eyes are up here."
Minho looks up. “Yes,” he agrees. “But your chest is down there.”
Jisung laughs, hands dropping from Minho's hair to his shoulders, feeling the muscles tensing below his touch. “You’re so obvious. Take it off, then.”
Minho bites his bloody lip and wordlessly slips his hands under Jisung's tank top from the waist, pushing up. Jisung lifts his arms obligingly and allows Minho to slide it over his head and toss it to the floor. It lands somewhere near the boxing pads, already forgotten—no use pretending any further training is happening today. The action dislodges part of the wrap on Minho’s left hand and Jisung seizes the loop of it, twisting it around his fingers and using it to yank Minho closer. He tugs at the hem of his shirt—he’s still wearing it, unfairly—with his other hand.
“C’mon, make it even,” Jisung all but purrs.
Unable to deny him a single thing, Minho pulls off his t-shirt in one smooth movement. Jisung lets go of the wrap, leaving it to dangle as he places his hands on Minho’s bare waist. He blows a lock of freshly tousled hair away from his eyes and leans in only for Minho to hold a hand up to stop him.
"Hold on, jagi," he says, leaning back to get a full view of Jisung's naked torso. "I want to admire you for a second."
"Hyung," Jisung huffs out a laugh when he realizes he's on display like a piece of meat in a butcher shop window. "You see me all the time."
"Yeah," Minho agrees with a nod. "And I admire you all those times, too."
Jisung's dedication to working out over the past few months is obvious, bringing bulk and definition to his previously svelte form. He's always been able to build muscle easily even after long periods of relative inactivity, and the members are never shy about telling him as much despite the occasional comment about the injustice of it all (“You’re not even trying!” wailed Chan, as if he wasn’t oozing with pride). His shoulders are broader, his clothes fit differently and—most importantly—Jisung feels good. More confident, secure. He carries himself in a new way.
Minho's a fan; but then, of course he would be. He's been a fan of every part of Jisung since he first laid eyes on him almost a decade ago.
"Do the thing," he demands.
"Which one?"
"You know." Minho makes an earnest attempt to twitch his own pecs, but instead ends up just shifting his shoulders up and down. "That one."
Jisung rolls his eyes. "You're insatiable." Still, he pumps his chest out and twitches one side, then the other. He pokes his tongue out between his teeth for effect, hands on his hips where his sweatpants are slung low, shamelessly cocky now. Minho's attention is always his favourite.
Minho watches approvingly. "Mm. Yes, thank you." Unable to resist the urge anymore, he reaches out to place a hand on each pec and squeeze.
"Ah! Hyung," Jisung protests as though he’s upset about it. He isn’t. "I never took you for a tits man. My ass is going to start feeling neglected at this rate."
"You're making me a tits man, I think," Minho replies, using his grip to push Jisung's pecs together and apart as he watches with unabashed fascination.
Impatient, Jisung grabs Minho's elbows and uses them to pull him close until their chests collide.
"Happy now?" Jisung says, wrapping his arms around Minho's neck.
"Yeah, actually," Minho replies, shifting to press a muscular thigh between Jisung’s legs and smirking at his sudden gasp. “This is much better.”
Part of Jisung wants to fight back, tease Minho in return, but all coherent thought leaves his mind as he finally feels the friction he was aching for. He arches his back to press their torsos impossibly closer. His chest slips against Minho's; their nipples catch on each other and a sound he did not intend to make escapes his throat.
Minho, thrilled at that development, lets his hands drop to the small of Jisung’s back. He grabs the loose loop of the wrap on his left hand with his right, pulling it taut across the skin to make sure Jisung can feel it, and waits for the reaction.
There it is: Jisung gasping against his ear when he realizes he’s trapped, dropping his hands to Minho’s shoulder and digging his nails in. Deftly, by feel only, Minho fully unwraps his left hand, then his right. He lets one fabric strip fall to the floor but retains a grip on the other; he only needs one.
Jisung hasn't noticed. He's grinding against Minho's thigh, doing his best to swallow down his own whines because it feels so good but it's not enough. They had already worked up a sweat sparring; the slick rub of their chests as they press against each other now feels downright filthy. He's delirious with want, with the need to feel all of Minho at the same time. He gives in to the pressure of Minho's body on his, lets himself be pushed down to a sitting position on the back of the couch. He hooks a leg around Minho’s to keep him close, feels Minho's hardness on his own thigh. Sighing out a moan against his ear at the contact, Jisung's hands slip to Minho's chest, nails scraping against skin, leaving marks.
Minho knows an opportunity when he sees it. While Jisung's attention is elsewhere, he quickly threads the end loop of the remaining wrap over Jisung's left thumb and winds the strip around both of his wrists, binding them together.
Jisung realizes what's happening too late, pulling back just as Minho finishes tying a knot secure enough to hold his wrists together in the way he likes, but loose enough that he can get himself out of it if he needs to.
Minho knows he won't.
"Whoa," Jisung breathes out, more impressed than anything. "Nice."
Minho lays a palm flat against the other man's chest, spreads his fingers. "Down." He pushes.
Jisung allows himself to be tipped over the back of the couch and lands on the cushions. Minho swings his legs over and joins him, settling on the tops of his thighs and caging him in with his hands on either side of his head.
"I told you this couch was a good idea," Jisung says. "Super convenient."
Minho responds by burying his face in the tender spot where Jisung’s neck meets his jaw, nipping at the skin as he makes the infuriatingly slow journey to his collarbone. Jisung loops his bound wrists around Minho’s shoulders and writhes under him, trying to draw his attention further south.
“Hyung,” he whines.
“Mm?” Minho hums as he trails his mouth down, placing a kiss between Jisung’s pecs. “Something you need?”
“You’re being particularly cruel right now,” Jisung complains, trying to buck his hips up. Pretending he’s not loving every second.
Minho pushes down against him. Jisung may be getting stronger, but not enough to throw him off balance. (Yet. Minho’s not quite sure what to do with that possibility.) “Oh no,” he says dryly, ducking his head out from between Jisung’s arms and sitting up. He drags his hands across Jisung’s chest shamelessly.
Jisung would be lying if he wasn’t enjoying the novel attention to the area he’s been putting so much effort into. He arches his back again, pressing up into Minho’s touch, running his tongue across his upper lip in satisfaction. If Minho can tease, he can too. Minho watches him do it.
Then he’s leaning back down and Jisung closes his eyes, bites his lip, expects the delicious sensation of teeth to his nipple. He practically squirms in anticipation.
Instead Minho presses his mouth to the center of Jisung’s chest, pushes his pecs together and blows against the skin, shaking his head rapidly and making a godawful wet sound that bounces off the walls of their apartment like a jetski.
Jisung screeches and bucks, and if his hands hadn’t been tied and trapped under Minho he’d probably have punched him for a second time that day. “You MONSTER!”
Minho rocks back on his heels and cackles. “I’ve been wanting to do that for way too long. Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Divorce!” Jisung wails, as if they’re married.
“You’d never,” Minho chides, moving a hand down to palm him through his sweatpants, an immediate distraction. “I’ll make it up to you.”
Jisung throws his arms above his head, tipping it back against the cushions. “You’d better. I’m—ahh—going to do it to you when you least expect it.” His hips jerk upwards despite himself, desire interrupting his own tantrum.
“I sincerely hope you do.” Minho shifts on Jisung's legs and tugs at his waistband.
Jisung lifts his hips, lets the rest of his clothing be pulled off. He groans about it like he’s annoyed, like Minho doesn’t deserve to have his way with him after that little stunt. But Minho can always tell his true intentions, and so he presses a kiss to the inside of each of Jisung’s thighs as he positions himself between them. He ghosts his fingers up the side of the length in front of him, dangerously taunting.
“You’re dancing on a thin line, jagi,” threatens Jisung through gritted teeth, loving it.
“Mm,” Minho replies nonchalantly, wrapping a hand around the base and taking Jisung into his mouth, swirling his tongue slowly around the head.
Jisung can’t stop his bound hands from instinctively reaching down to grab at Minho’s hair but, tragically, Minho slips off him and leans out of reach.
“Keep those up there for me, baby,” he says, and Jisung obeys instantly.
“You’re lucky you’re hot,” he complains, flopping his arms back above his head.
“Uh huh.” Minho makes sure Jisung’s watching as he drags his tongue up the side of him, open-mouthed and shamelessly self-indulgent.
Jisung bites his lip and his hips jolt upwards helplessly, unable to keep pretending he’s not enjoying every second of this: of Minho’s undivided attention, his infuriatingly teasing tongue. Not for the first time, or even the thirtieth, he silently thanks the powers that be that they live alone now: when Minho sinks his mouth down around him fully, he lets himself make all the depraved noises he wants.
Minho hums approvingly around his cock and the vibration sends a jolt all the way up to the tips of Jisung’s fingers. He pulls up, licking around the head before taking in as much of Jisung as he can, closing his eyes, relishing every inch of him. Jisung moans and arches his back off the couch, starts to roll his hips—Minho places a hand on his abdomen to stop him, feels how tense his muscles are, how much he’s trying to hold back. It’s delightful. He’s barely been down there a minute, but Jisung was already so turned on when they started this whole thing that he's not going to last a second longer if he lets this continue.
“Ahh, jagi,” he whines, trying to still himself. “You’re gonna make me—I don’t—” Minho releases him with a truly indecent pop. “I need you to fuck me. Please.”
Minho twitches a knowing eyebrow, immensely pleased with himself right now, with the effect he has. The corner of his mouth tugs up just enough to be maddening.
“Oh, don’t give me that face," says Jisung, who loves to be given that face.
“Whatever you say, beautiful,” Minho replies, wiping a hand across his mouth. He sits up, whips off his own sweatpants and underwear before Jisung can complain that he wanted to be the one to do it, and settles back between his thighs. He runs his hands along them in appreciation—he's stopped skipping leg day—before he pauses.
"Ah. The—where—"
"Bedside table," says Jisung, reading his mind. "Where it always is?"
"Right. Stay there." Minho gets up and does a stupid little run towards the bedroom as if he doesn't have his own raging erection.
Jisung stares at the ceiling and huffs out a single, helpless laugh. Left alone on the couch, wrists bound above his head, almost painfully aroused, and all he can think is: I love him so much.
The sound of a drawer slamming is quickly followed by the sight of Minho jogging back and resuming his position, lube in hand.
Jisung looks down his own body at him. "I love you, you know that?"
Minho smiles back at him fondly, flipping the cap of the tube open. "Good to know my mouth on your cock for like ten seconds is all it takes for you to forgive me."
Jisung kicks a heel into his side. "Asshole."
"I love you, too," says Minho, and slides a slick finger into him.
Jisung tips his head back with a sigh and lets his body relax into the sensation. Even when their pace starts off all desperation and heat, Minho still likes to take his time here, make sure Jisung is comfortable.
“Okay?” Minho asks softly, checking in. "You feel good."
Nodding, Jisung gives him the go-ahead for more. “I might’ve already… earlier.” He catches Minho’s eye, a little embarrassed, before looking away. “Before we—started training.”
“Jagiya!” Minho gasps in amusement, curling his fingers to make him squirm. “You planned this all along?”
“Not exactly,” Jisung breathes out, rolling his hips against the touch, urging him to press deeper. He wants so badly to use his hands, touch Minho in return. “I just… sometimes. Training with you. It’s hot, okay? You’re hot. I just felt like I should be prepared.”
Minho leans up and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Smart.”
Jisung drops his arms around his neck while he’s there, capturing his mouth in a kiss of his own before speaking against his lips, breathy and needy. He doesn’t care how desperate he sounds with Minho’s fingers inside him. He knows what he wants. “Let me touch you. Please."
Minho darts his tongue across Jisung’s lower lip. “I guess you’ve been good enough,” he says. "Need help?"
"It's—aah—it’s hotter if you do it," Jisung admits, unhooking his arms from Minho's neck and bringing them to his own chest, intimately aware that one of Minho's hands is already occupied. He's using the other one to brace himself over Jisung.
Meeting his eyes with a calculating look, Minho takes the dangling end of the knot in his teeth and tugs. Jisung watches as it unravels easily and falls to the side. His own boxing wraps are still on his hands, and now that they're free he wastes no time unwinding them and throwing them unceremoniously over the back of the couch.
Minho hums appreciatively. "Smooth," he says. "Let's see if you can be that fast getting them on next time."
Jisung seizes Minho's face between his hands. "Oh, shut it." He kisses him aggressively, pushing his tongue in and licking at Minho’s teeth before breaking away breathlessly, burning with the sudden desire to assert himself. He snakes a hand down between them, grasping Minho's cock and smirking at the way he shudders in response.
"A-ah," Minho stutters, his own rhythm interrupted as Jisung swipes his thumb over the head, spreads slickness down the shaft.
“That’s right,” Jisung all but whispers. “So wet for me, baby.” He almost has the upper hand, but—
Minho curls his fingers again to regain control. He succeeds—Jisung moans, immediately distracted. Minho would tease him for it, how easy it is to knock him off course, if he wasn't almost delirious with the ache to be fully inside him. He slips his fingers out.
"Ready for me, baby?"
Jisung nods vigorously.
Minho grips the underside of Jisung's thigh with one hand, lines himself up with the other and pushes in slowly, carefully, on an exhale.
It doesn't matter how many times they've done this, over the years: it always feels incredible.
Jisung sighs out as Minho brings them flush against each other, adjusting to the feeling, the fullness. Minho leans over to kiss his forehead. When their eyes meet, Jisung places a hand on the side of Minho's neck and brushes his thumb against his jaw, consenting. Minho pulls back, almost all the way out, then drives forward: again, and again, slowly building their rhythm. Jisung presses his heels to Minho's back, urges him to push harder, faster. He does. He snaps his hips and Jisung sees stars.
Hooking his arms under Minho's to dig crescent moons into his shoulders, Jisung moans his name in a series of broken gasps, almost drowning out the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin. Minho sinks to his elbows, pressing their bodies closer together and bites at his neck, possessive and molten, not caring about the bruises he’s no doubt leaving. The new friction against Jisung's cock, hard and leaking between them, has him whining with urgency on every perfect thrust, clawing helplessly at Minho's back.
"Are you—" Minho asks into his skin, pulse racing against his lips.
Jisung nods again frantically, wordlessly, against the side of his head. Fucking whimpers in his ear.
"Good." Minho pushes himself back up and grabs Jisung's thighs with renewed energy, all but folding him in half as he fucks him over the edge.
The sound Jisung makes as he comes is so raw, so delicious it makes Minho fall apart too: he shudders, electrified, bites his lip hard enough to reopen the wound there. Jisung grabs his hips, keeps him there so he can feel it too, every twitch. Lets him ride it out inside him. Minho squeezes his eyes shut against the exploding stars.
After a few moments he pulls out, lowers his trembling body onto the man below him; Jisung wraps him in his arms and presses a series of feverish kisses to the top of his head, entwines their legs as though he can’t bear for them to separate. Not yet.
And just like that it’s over: tangled up and sticky, utterly fucked out and spent, trying to catch their breath.
Jisung runs his hands up Minho’s heaving back, slick with sweat, criss-crossed with stinging red marks. He pats his shoulder once, twice, three times. “Good training today,” he pants, absolutely wrecked. “Same time tomorrow?”
Minho nods against Jisung’s chest, attempts to steady his breathing. “See you there.”