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It’s a gentle process that eases them into it.
It starts with Minho on the floor with his eyes closed in anticipation. Jisung asks that he doesn’t open them until they’re done with this part, and it’s not an order, just a request, Minho won’t be punished or reprimanded if he oblige, but he does regardless - because Jisung requests it, and why wouldn’t he. This is the most simple part to all of this, but still the most important, the most special: Jisung will ask something from Minho, and Minho will do it, even if it’s hard, even if it hurts. Because it’s Jisung, and because it’s him.
So it starts with Minho on the floor, naked, eyes closed. He’s not paying much attention to himself, but Jisung will circle him and give him light nudges in the right direction - push his shoulders a little more down, angle his head this way and that, his posture, his legs, his hands on his lap, until he’s sitting nicely tucked, balls of his feet right under the curve of his ass, arms to the side, hands on his lap, palms up, thighs pressed together. His head is bowed just slightly. This is position 2.
Then, with caressing touches, Jisung guides him through his stretches. Head still clear, Minho focuses on the feeling of the carpet on his naked skin - when they first got this apartment, it had this terrible linoleum floor, impossibly cold. They replaced it with wooden tiles nearly a year ago, with the same company they’d got the infiltration sorted out and installed suspension hooks to the living room ceiling; all expensive fixes, but worth it, because Jisung loves the look of the wood, and Minho loves suspension, and they both hated the leaks. On top of the wood, they keep dark maroon carpets that are fancy enough for hosting but plush enough that Minho won’t have to worry about bruises on his shins later.
Stretching is an intimare process, and if Minho’s honest, one of his favorite steps. It’s not necessary, he can very well stretch by himself beforehand, he might even do it better if he did, but there’s an intimacy in relaxing and letting Jisung take over, bend him around, press him down, pry him open so he can hold him together later.
Neck, back, shoulders, arms, wrists - in this order, at first. Then, once Jisung deems him loose enough, he gives Minho a subtle nudge to let him know it’s time for the ropes. He ties him up slowly but assertively, and Minho slips more and more with each knot and loop. When he’s finished, Minho’s forearms are tied to each other behind his back. Usually, his biceps would also be tied to his torso, but not today, when it could interfere with his breathing, or he could get rope burns. After, it’s the same for the legs - Jisung helps him stretch them out, which goes quickly ever since Minho slept on the splits at the dance studio years and years ago, and sets about with more rope. Calf to thigh so he’s forced to kneel - as if he would ever actually need to be forced.
Minho feels like a particularly happy stuffed turkey. The imagery makes him giggle a little.
“Having fun down there, jagi?” Jisung asks him in an amused voice. Minho smiles and nods his head, which is for now just about all the movement he has. Jisung chuckles. “I’m glad.”
Jisung’s hands flutter over Minho for a moment, fussing over this and that, double checking his knots. Minho lets him be. It’s like how he checks if he locked the car twice every time they park. Just his little Jisungie-isms.
“You can open your eyes now.” He says after he’s done. Minho does.
The light prickles his eyes just a little, but after a couple fast blinks it’s gone. The living room, as living rooms tend to be, is just as it was before Minho had his eyes closed. Still reasonably spacious, but overall small, filled with their tchotchkes from over their years, still cozy and perfectly Jisung-and-Minho sized.
“Too tight?” Jisung asks, as he always does, even though Minho is reasonably sure that he could tie these knots in his sleep and Minho would still be able to slip into them like his favorite sweater. “Too loose?”
Minho wiggles around a bit and shakes his head. “Just right.”
Jisung smiles at him lovingly and, as gently as one can, bodily hauls Minho until he’s in front of their sofa, his back to it. Jisung settles there, behind him, one leg on each side of him.
“I’m not going to blindfold you today.” he says, one hand loosely curling strands of Minho’s hair. “But keep your eyes closed when I tell you to.”
Minho doesn’t reply, because he wasn’t asked a question. Jisung continues to pet him soothingly, slowly, until Minho is feeling like a puddle that spilled on the floor. After a while, Jisung slips his left hand over Minho’s mouth, close to his nose. Minho can feel his breath tickling Jisung’s skin.
“Show me you can lick me or bite me.” he orders, and Minho does, nicking at Jisung’s hand with his front teeth then licking a wet stripe across his palm. Jisung giggles above him and hits him playfully on the shoulder. “Okay, ew, you don’t need to be gross about it, do you?.”
“No, Master, I’m sorry, Master.” Minho answers mockingly, and Jisung hums in fake appreciation.
“That’s what I thought.”
The petting goes on like before, and with the incentive of the ropes Minho relaxes completely until his head is resting back near Jisung’s crotch, body fully lax. He can’t let go completely, though, not with Jisung’s hand over his mouth - it’s just enough to keep him alert. A promise, an anticipation. Still, Minho does his best to be patient and not give into the suspense.
After what feels like an hour, Jisung speaks.
“Do you wanna keep time with me today?”
Minho thinks about it, shakes his head.
“No, thank you.” he replies
Jisung scritches behind his ear. “You don’t need to thank me. Now close your eyes.”
Minho does. It’s hard getting used to having them closed again, but he tries to relax his muscles. Jisung gives him a moment, then “I’ll start counting down in 3, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Get ready, jagi.”
The petname is a rare appearance this far into their scenes, but the softness of ones like this are always prone to such sentimentalism. Minho smiles, not sure if Jisung noticed. He must have.
Jisung counts 1, 2, 3, and Minho starts minding his breathing. They count down from 45, always. Minho times it accordingly, following Jisung’s voice.
He starts breathing in as deep as possible, feeling his chest, his ribcage, his lungs expanding when he inhales, his back straightening to help with the expansion, the slight discomfort in the center of his chest when he breathes in too deep, just shy of being painful. In through the nose, out through his mouth, as slow as he can, 3 times, trying to get as much air in as his lungs can take. He focuses on the way it feels. It’s meditative. He relaxes even more, and were they not already closed he’s sure his eyes would be fluttering shut with the sensation. At 21 seconds, it’s not as slow. It’s still deep, he can still feel it in his chest, still has the mind to exhale properly, but he can’t get in as much air as before. His breaths get quicker with each second - by 9, they’re frantic. Breathing in as much as he can with barely any time between inhales and exhales, and he can’t actually feel any air coming into his lungs.
For the last three seconds, he’s hyperventilating.
Then, Jisung’s hand clasps over his mouth and nose, and he can’t breathe.
He doesn’t try to. It would be useless, and by now he doesn’t feel the need to. He tries not to tense his chest, focuses instead on the upper part of his throat, loosens his tongue, and lets go. They won’t go too long for this first lap, he knows. This one is so he can get used to it, remember how it feels, so he can properly ease his body into the asphyxiation. The breathing techniques are great, he learned them from a diving instructor, and for now, he feels okay. He relaxes against Jisung’s hold.
He can’t know how much time has been - either 10 seconds or 40, but he knows JIsung is keeping a close eye on him and on the stopwatch on his phone.
There’s always this moment, at the very start of sessions like this. Minho, unconsciously, lets his thoughts get so far away from him. It’s the deprivation: of movement, of sight, of air, that gets him thinking too much. So there’s always the moment, when he first notices the lack of air, when he remembers that this is what this is about: he needs to let go.
It starts to hurt.
A couple seconds go by with Minho doing the work of getting his mind back to where it needs to be; here, at Jisung’s feet, there is no better place for him to be.
The tightness in his chest worsens. Minho accepts the discomfort easily and gladly. For now, he can stay calm. That won’t be the case for long.
Jisung moves his hand just as the unease is turning to pain.
“There we go.” he says, voice soothing. “Remember, slowly.”
Minho abides - resists the urge to breathe in through his mouth, and minds his breathing. Jisung presses his knee to Minho’s back, reminding him not to slouch. Posture is important. Jisung is so attentive.
“55 seconds. You sure you don’t want to keep time with me?”
Although not on his mouth, Jisung’s hands never leave him, an anchor, keeping him present.
Minho shakes his head, not wanting to mess up his breathing by speaking. Jisung seems to understand.
“Okay.”
He gets his hand back in place, and is kind enough to let Minho breathe in one last time before he cuts off his air again.
It’s immediately harder this time. Although he had time to breathe, he was too busy making up for the first lap to get ready. The discomfort sets in much quicker, but Minho tries his best to pay it no mind.
He consciously relaxes, sagging against Jisung’s leg. They used to do these kinds of sessions in a hogtie, with Minho belly down in bed, so he could get as loose-limbed as he could without worrying about falling on his face, but they would always worry about the blood pooling on Minho’s head and the restriction the mattress presented when he had to breathe in. They do it like this now, and Jisung makes up for it by reaching down and keeping an arm around Minho’s middle, securing him. It must not be a very comfortable position, but Jisung is happy to do it, so Minho lets him.
Jisung won’t let him fall, he thinks. His body is trying to get air, but Jisung will also let him breathe when he needs to.
Jisung will take care of it. Jisung is so nice.
The discomfort gets more intense very quickly, and Minho feels the need to start fidgeting in place, but resists, tries his best to remain limp on Jisung’s arms. He itches to know how long it’s been, and weakly regrets having denied Jisung’s offer to keep time with him, but really, this anticipation that he doesn’t know the end of is part of the fun.
If he knew how long it would last, he’d be more confident, more at ease.
This isn’t meant to be easy, or comfortable. That’s not the point; they have other things for that. Right now, the ropes dig into his skin, itchy and harsh, and Jisung’s knee is pressed between his shoulderblades so he doesn’t slouch, and he can feel the blood flow to his hands slowing down.
It’s meant to be hard. Minho wants it to be hard.
The discomfort shifts, finally, into pain, and Minho lays in it for a few moments, wondering how far Jisung will take this, when finally his hand withdraws. Minho is immediately sucking in a gasping breath.
“Keep your eyes closed,” Jisung reminds him, and Minho obeys gladly, squeezing them so he won’t open them by accident.
His breaths are hitched and erratic, his body too desperate to make up for lost time to breathe in properly. He’s heaving.
“Are you still green?”
Minho gives him a weak thumbs up. Immediately Jisung wrestles his head back into his hold.
This time, Minho is exhaling when Jisung cuts his air off.
It’s worse. It’s so much worse.
The pressure on his chest feels like it could burst, like there’s a bubble of air in his lugs that’s about to pop.
It’s so much harder to keep himself from panicking when it really, truly feels like there is no air in his body. What’s a relaxing technique? He could sing a song in his head, word for word so he’ll have something to do. Maybe one of Jisung’s. Jisung’s songs are beautiful. Minho is shameless about preferring them when he’s choosing songs for his end of the year showcases at the academy. He just loves Jisung’s voice. God, he really can’t breathe. Just as he starts a song the panic sets back in and he sidetracks. He shouldn’t be panicking. Panicking makes time go by slower. How long has it even been? This is the beginning of asphyxiation; sluggish thoughts, loss of coherency. The diving instructor at the classes Minho took explained it. Asphyxiation sets in and your body can’t function, so different systems slowly stop functioning, one by one, until you lose consciousness and either start breathing again, or die. The instructor was a middle aged man with decades of diving experience and he said asphyxiation is terrible and scary and he wishes none of them would experience it, and Minho quietly laughed, because wow, he didn’t even know how to swim, and he was taking the diving classes just so he could learn to asphyxiate better. Because, truthfully, this is exactly what he enjoys: the agony, the distress, the detached fear. He can feel his pulse getting quicker, can feel his hands flailing uncontrollably, his body twitching like a prey animal for no reason other than desperation.
It’s so quiet in their living room, the only sounds are Minho’s struggle and Jisung’s breathing. There’s nothing to distract him from the lack of air.
It’s only because of Jisung’s arm holding him that Minho doesn’t flop face forward on the floor when Jisung finally lets go.
His chest hurts from his labored breathing. The relief makes him lightheaded.
He has no time to savor it, then Jisung’s smothering him again.
He needs to breathe. He needs to breathe. He needs to breathe so bad, he’s going insane for it. His whole body is flailing now, tensing against his restraints, against Jisung’s hold, head thrashing from side to side uncontrollably. Jisung’s resorted to pinching his nose shut now, trying to hold him in place and failing. Minho’s rocking like he’s having a meltdown, and in a way in he is, it feels like he is, like his brain is turning to mush inside his skull and it’s going to ooze from his ears. He needs to breathe. His skin is too tight, his whole body hurts like he’s cramping all over. It’s not even desperation anymore, it’s closer to anguish, to full existential agony. He should feel safe in his lover’s arms and he doesn’t, because he’s beyond rationality now - terrifyingly, he can feel the ball of panic building and is powerless to stop it. Let go, Jisung’s hand over his mouth seems to tell him, let go, and I will catch you. And Minho is terrified, of himself, of passing out, of the things the lack of oxygen to his brain can do: Minho, who is not an overthinker by nature, wonders for a second if Jisung will take it too far and kill him.
This is not good. He needs to breathe. This is not good.
Jisung releases him. The gasp he takes is almost animalistic, more like a howl than a breath.
“Trust me.” Jisung orders, stern, right next to his ear. “You’re not trusting me. You need to let go.”
Right, of course. Trust Jisung. That’s all he needs to do right now.
With all the energy he still has, fueled by adrenaline alone, Minho sucks in a last feeble breath, and it starts again.
He’s not going to panic, he tells himself. Resigned to his predicament, Minho wills every muscle to relax. Blood rushes to his ears. It’s disorienting. He can barely think. His lungs restrict, he can feel the muscles of his abdomen flexing because of it. The blood on his ears is looming and disquieting. The need to breathe turns into a sort of hunger as his body shakes. Minho swallows to distract himself. It’s going to be okay, and he’s not going to panic. He doesn’t need to do anything but relax - Jisung, sweet Jisung, the love of his life, his soulmate, takes everything from him. He takes his sight, he takes his movement, he takes his breath away - hah, literally - and he takes care of everything. Jisung is everything he needs. Here he is, putting his life in his hands, and there Jisung is, shouldering it gladly. He can’t keep his limbs from spasming, but he doesn’t worry about it, because that’s a natural response, and Jisung is strong, he won’t let him fall, won’t let him hurt himself. The hunger subsides, and, in his heart at least, he’s calm.
“You’re doing well.” Jisung praises him in a low voice, right next to his ear. It’s like his voice embraces him whole, soothing, all encompassing. “You’re doing so well. There we go. Isn’t it easier when you just let go?”
Of course. Silly Minho. When he tries to take control, he panics, and when he panics it’s no good. But, like this, Minho thinks, maybe a little stupidly, it’s nice - like this, he could live forever, trussed up at Jisung’s feet, never having to breathe again. He could survive off Jisung’s love and care alone.
His chest still hurts. He’s twisting from side to side. Everything is uncomfortable and it feels like there’s no way out. Minho gives in to the asphyxiation. He’d probably be smiling if it weren’t for Jisung’s hand against his lips.
When Jisung lets go, Minho is almost sad.
“We’re gonna do one more. Just one more, jagi. You can do it.”
Jisung is so sweet. His hold on Minho is just as strong and unrelenting as before, but Minho is glad for it. It’s grounding, tethering, tender, almost, in the way it smushes Minho’s cheeks and tickles his nose.
Jisung above him is calling him good, so good for me, you’re amazing, jagi, I love you so much, but Minho only lightly registers it. He feels barely there, like a cloud or dense mist. Everything feels fuzzy, hazy, and still so real, so present, like a cat lying in a sunspot, lazily dreaming its day away. When will Jisungie let me breathe? He wonders vaguely. It feels like he’s floating, like he’d fly away like a balloon if Jisung wasn’t holding him there. The adrenaline in his body is switched for dizziness and the giddy aftertaste of trust. Jisungie, Jisungie, his everything.
Minho’s world is reduced to this: Jisung, Jisung’s presence, Jisung’s hands on him. There is, by virtue of who they are, no better place for him to be than at his lover’s feet. Like all the space inside Minho’s lungs reserved for air is filled with his love for Jisung instead.
“Okay, we’re done.” Jisung tells him.
The gulp of air Minho takes is pure relief, deep and expansive, oxygen flowing through his body. He takes one, two, three more, before finally settling back and trying to breathe normally again. His chest is light and his body is weightless.
Jisung’s hand moves so it’s cradling Minho’s face. “My baby.” he says, voice filled with affection. “We’re done, jagi. You did it. Almost three minutes.”
The praise blooms inside Minho’s chest. He did well. Of course he did. He always does when Jisung’s handling him.
“Let’s rest for a moment, but then I gotta get you out of these ropes, yeah?”
Right. The ropes. Minho’s limps need proper blood flow.
Whatever. They’ll get to that in a minute. For now, the important part: the sweet molasses of coming down from the high of a scene, relearning how to breathe and how to think. He doesn’t open his eyes yet, wanting to bask in the softness of his headspace as it lingers for some moments more. He nuzzles Jisung’s hand and receives well earned head rubs. Jisung laughs softly at him.
“Damn, hyung, I think we need to reassess you being a kitten again. You really acting like one right now.”
Minho blows him raspberries playfully and Jisung laughs again.
They stay in blissful silence for a while before Minho decides it’s time to open his eyes again.
He does. Blinks quickly a couple times, eyes darting across the room. Still the same. Still theirs. To one side, their too expensive full length mirror they got for sexy purposes and also to hide the mess ups in their wall’s paint job. To the other, a peak into their kitchen, where later they’ll probably admit defeat and demolish all the kimchi pancakes Minho’s mom packed them that they were going to save for the week in one sitting, and where Jisung will probably hand Minho a surprise convenience store pudding because he takes ‘getting your blood sugar up’ after a scene as an excuse to spoil Minho, every single time.
He looks up. Jisung is looking at him with a huge, heart shaped smile. Minho smiles back, all teeth.
“Doing good, jagi?” Jisung asks.
“I feel great. You?”
“I love you.” Jisung replies rushedly, like it was on the tip of his tongue the whole time, begging to be let out. Upon Minho’s inquisitive stare, however, he adds “I feel good too.”
They move on to untying Minho, which is a long, methodical process that Minho would love to skip right past, but Jisung, annoyingly yet rightfully so, insists on undoing each knot slowly, carefully, massaging and stretching Minho’s muscles as he goes. It’s boring, sure, but Jisung leaves featherlight kisses all over his skin, which is endearing and, to his credit, Minho hasn’t gotten a post-shibari cramp in years now.
When the last knot is undone, Jisung allows himself to momentarily be a bad rigger and leaves his ropes thrown on the floor to, instead, jump Minho and smother him in kisses.
“Sungie! I’m naked and sweaty!” Minho fake protests, choking on his laughter.
Jisung fakes a moan. “Just how I like you.”
“Gross!” Minho yells, and then takes a cursory glance at Jisung’s crotch, finding his dick a little hard under his pants. He eyes the erection musingly.
Jisung follows his eye. “Oh. I didn’t even know I was hard.”
“I’d offer a blowjob but nothing is getting near my airways for at least 24 hours.” Minho declares. “But… One-hand frotting in bed later?”
Jisung beams at him like Minho is his long-time crush finally asking him out, not his partner of almost 10 years. “It’s a date.”
Minho is overcome with the urge to tease him about it, but swallows it and settles for a long kiss to his perfect lips.
The rest of the process is nice and easy: this is a scene they’ve done countless times, and Minho is happy in the familiarity of the motions. They fold and store the ropes, wrestle their carpet back into place where Minho’s thrashing moved it, apply a little ointment on his skin where the ropes rubbed too hard, and Jisung finishes them off by demanding Minho drink two glasses of water.
“I’m gonna burst.” Minho complains to him throughout the ordeal.
“This is not a piss holding scene, stop being a drama queen, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t die of dehydration.”
Hours later, then, as they’re getting ready for bed, Minho is afflicted by the same annoying thing that always happens after these scenes: he thinks about it too much, and in the process psychs himself out of breathing normally.
He squeals with exasperation.
“Did you forget how to breathe?” Jisung asks, not even looking at him.
Minho huffs. Why is it so hard to stop thinking about breathing?
“I hate this. I’m never going to breathe normally ever, now.”
“Want me to take over again?” Jisung suggests jokingly. Minho turns and hits him on the chest.
“Don’t even joke about that.”
Because Minho, deep down, would kind of love it if Jisung took over again.
It had been, possibly, the hardest thing they’d done in their dom and sub journey; figure out where to take it. Everything else was trial and error, learning along the way, always getting better as long as they were open to the effort. Minho tested his pain levels on himself, and got his free diving training to learn how to not breathe correctly, and Jisung got his first-aid and CPR training, experienced the ties for himself - together they went to nearly every workshop the BDSM clubs in their city offered, researched and tested carefully each kind of rope, each tie combination, experimented their way through every kink, laughing and joking, or seriously and tensely. It was part of the fun, and it could be taught and learned.
What could not be taught was the important part: the balance, the limits of how much Minho was willing to give, how much Jisung was willing to take - and vice versa -, but also how much they should give, how much they should take. There had been points in their power exchange when Jisung was organizing and overseeing Minho’s meal planning for the week, when Minho would call him Master throughout their day-to-day routines, and there had been points when Minho was trying out domming, and Jisung was trying to be his sub.
It takes more than trial and error to find their footing around this; it takes time, and care, and trust.
Jisung can’t think of a sign of trust bigger than giving your breath to someone else, and Minho can’t think of anything more caring than taking it.