Work Text:
Ice chases Jisung up the stairs.
Their elevator is broken. It’s the third time this year, and it’s only just reached March. Jisung thinks the young boys who live a few floors below them are stuffing coins or something down the cracks. Minho thinks there’s a larger conspiracy at play.
“It’s insurance fraud,” he’d told Jeongin loudly, at the tail end of a recent karaoke session. “I’m telling you. There’s no other way to explain it.”
“There’s literally so many other ways,” Jeongin had said.
As the conversation took place, Jisung – slightly tipsy and more than moderately whiny, leaning heavily against his boyfriend – had felt inclined to agree. Now, with the third occurrence, and this late in the evening, he wasn’t quite so forgiving. Whatever the problem was, they needed to sort that shit out. They lived on the sixth floor for fuck’s sake. They’ve been doing days of back to back dance practice. He’s tired.
The laptop bag he has strung over his shoulder feels five times its true weight by the time he reaches their landing. A chill sings straight through him as he steps into the corridor, a wind tunnel, lovely in the summer but cruel in the cold. The rain, which had been gently beginning when Jisung had reached their building, is now falling in full force. The wind whips it through the air, with a stinging cold that bites at his lips, and hassles the back of his neck.
Jisung shoves his hands particularly deep in his pockets and hastens to their door. He fishes for his keys, inadvertently stabbing himself in the knuckles, which makes him hiss. In an attempt to soothe the pain he shakes his hand in the air, but it barely helps. His fingers are stiff. Sore.
Shoving the keys in the door is a task. Fighting the wind and getting the door open is another.
Jisung huffs, wrestling with his jacket, his bag, which has gotten stuck on the doorway, the chill still chasing him in through the open door, and—
“Jisungie,” a warm, pleased voice calls from further inside. “You’re home.”
Jisung frees himself of the threshold. His bag drops to the floor, and he kicks the door shut behind him.
In the quiet space that greets him, he sees the top of a head appear over the back of their sofa. Minho’s hair is ruffled. His eyes are soft and sleepy. His cheek, which is already creased from sleep, probably the afternoon nap that Minho likes to steal where he can, presses into the top of the sofa cushion.
Jisung’s shoulders slump. He takes a big, long breath.
Then he says, “Hyung.”
Only he draws it out. He almost sings it, a whine and a greeting and a swooping relief. Tension bleeds from him, just at the sight of his boyfriend, and the knowledge that his day is done. For the rest of the night, all he has to do is this.
“Hyuuuuuuuuuung…” it sounds like, filling up their quiet home.
When he’s finished, he has to take another deep breath, just so he can keep complaining.
“Today sucked so hard.” Jisung kicks his shoes off. He shrugs off his heavy coat, and collects his phone from one of the pockets before he hangs it up by the door. “So, so, so hard. It was so shit. You don’t even know.”
“It was?” Minho says, cheeks still squished against the lounge cushion. He tracks Jisung as he walks across the room. “Poor baby.”
It’s not exactly uncommon for Minho to enable Jisung’s whining, but he’s just as likely to make fun of him. Jisung will take the win every time he gets one. This time, Minho entertains him so far as to jut his bottom lip out, pouting in exaggerated sympathy.
Jisung drinks it in.
He pouts himself, and nods morosely, and says, “It was. I’m so tired, hyung. The elevator is broken again. I had to walk all the way up here.”
It’s sickening. Jisung knows this, but that’s why it feels so good when Minho lets him get away with it. He wouldn’t have a bar of it from anyone else. For Jisung, he tilts his head to the side and widens his lovely eyes.
“That must have been so hard for you,” Minho says.
Jisung nods again. “Thank you, it was.”
When he approaches the couch, Minho’s body twists to meet him. Jisung sees their woollen sofa blanket over his lap, and two cushions stacked against the armrest, their seamed designs clearly responsible for the pink imprints on Minho’s cheek. Nap confirmed.
“You’ve been hard at work I see,” Jisung says.
“Mhm.” Minho nods sagely, an easy smile creeping onto his face as he shifts into a long stretch. He groans luxuriously. “I sure have.”
After their dance practice this morning, all non-3RACHA members had been given the afternoon off. Felix and Jeongin had the audacity to book massages. Chan and Changbin had frog-marched Jisung straight to their writing room.
Jisung scowls at Minho, even though he knows it’s exactly what his boyfriend is looking for. Maybe because of that.
“Selfish,” he scolds him.
Minho hums again. It’s smug this time.
“Maybe,” he says. One of his brows quirks upward, a very small and very welcome challenge hovering with it. “Come over here. Let’s see.”
By the time the last word has left his mouth, Jisung is already there. Minho brings his hands up, open palms bracketing Jisung’s hips, slotting right into their place. Minho massages him briefly there before tugging him close. Jisung’s knees bump into the sofa, and his own hands settle gentle in Minho’s hair.
Jisung huffs another laugh. They come easily now, in here, at home.
“See what?” A challenge of his own.
Minho keeps tugging at Jisung’s hips. When he realises that Jisung can walk no further, Minho leans forward, closing the remaining distance between them himself. He thumps his head into Jisung’s sternum. His arms wind all the way around Jisung’s waist.
Voice muffled by Jisung’s shirt, he says, “How selfish I am.”
He reaches down and takes a firm handful of Jisung’s ass. He squeezes him generously there, and Jisung laughs again, combing his fingers carefully through Minho’s hair. Minho’s body is warm. His hands too.
Jisung shuts his eyes, his weight wobbling a little as his entire body begins to relax. Minho has lit Jisung’s favourite candle. It flickers on the mantle, right near their TV, above a pool of moderately melted wax. It’s been alight for a while. It makes their apartment smell like smoked cinnamon. Amongst it, Minho smells like himself.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Jisung sighs.
Minho rocks him slightly.
“Who’s threatening?” Jisung can hear his scowl, even though it’s pressed quite thoroughly into his chest. Minho’s breath makes Jisung’s skin feel hot through his t-shirt. “If I’m so selfish, what do you have to worry about?”
Jisung huffs another laugh. It is all that needs to be said out loud. They both know exactly how Minho’s selfishness manifests. The sounds he likes to pluck from Jisung, carefully, slowly, gently. The tears that almost always accompany them, dripping over the plumb of Jisung’s pinkened cheeks while he hiccups and sniffs and begs.
The thought makes Jisung’s body feel heavier. He doesn’t try to fight it. He leans his weight against Minho instead, and smoothes his hands down, from the crown of Minho’s head, to his nape, then gently over the curve of his shoulder blades. At his shoulders, he reverses course – easing his hands back towards Minho’s collarbones. He massages Minho’s muscles gently, and feels himself thicken a little, so he leans forward there too. He presses his hips against Minho’s chest, not too much. Just a little. Just enough.
“You’re supposed to be being nice to me,” Jisung whines.
Minho feels Jisung’s thighs. Rubs him there, while he nuzzles Jisung’s chest, humming again.
“I’m plenty nice,” he says.
“Ha,” Jisung replies.
Questing fingers scold him briefly for his sarcasm. So do gentle teeth. Minho nips at Jisung’s right pec.
“I’m being nice,” Minho says, with more intention now, and more gravel in his voice. “I could stop. If you want?”
Jisung shakes his head quickly, shushing him.
“No, no,” he backtracks quickly, kneading Minho’s shoulders again. “This is good, this is good. I like this.”
A smug hum is Jisung’s reward. Minho resumes his gentle petting, mapping out the lines of Jisung’s thighs. He searches as if he doesn’t know the pathways already, intimately, like the back of his own hand.
“Good,” Minho says quietly.
When he taps at the backs of Jisung’s knees, Jisung understands immediately. He goes where Minho guides him, shifting his weight, placing a lot of it on Minho’s shoulders as he gets into his lap. With his thighs tucked neatly around Minho’s hips, Jisung feels another wave of loosening ease through him.
Minho slips his fingers smoothly beneath Jisung’s shirt. He skims them over the waistband of Jisung’s jeans, dipping briefly inside before his palms settle warm over Jisung’s lower back. Minho rolls the balls of his wrists there a little.
Softly, he asks, “How was the studio?”
Minho is watching him. Jisung’s not looking, he can’t see it for proof. His head is tilted backwards, his eyelids half to closing, his focus on sensation. It is for this reason exactly that he doesn’t need to see. He can feel it.
Jisung sinks a little deeper. He drapes his arms either side of Minho’s head, curling up around him, letting his face drop down onto Minho’s shoulder. Relaxed enough to be slightly less dramatic, he says,
“Was good.” It’s annoying to admit. It had been worthwhile to invest a few extra hours on the track. Changbin had rerecorded his verse, still not quite satisfied with what they’d settled on the week earlier. He’s happier with it now, and Jisung thinks he was right, it does sound better with the new pronunciation Changbin has tried. Still. Despite their productivity. “Long.”
“Did you eat?” Minho asks.
Jisung had grazed at the studio. Nothing as substantial as one meal, but he’d snaked several mouthfuls of the instant noodles Chan had heated up for himself, and devoured half a packet of shrimp crisps with Changbin.
When he tells Minho this, he gets a disapproving smack, light on the small of his back. Seconds after, the same hand returns to its gentle massaging, so Jisung figures Minho will go easy on him.
“So, no,” Minho translates. “You haven’t eaten.”
Sort of easy. Jisung will take it.
“We could order something?” He suggests, skipping a few steps to smooth things over. “What do you feel like? Wait, have you eaten?”
Given the time, Minho could have easily cooked himself a dinner and finished it by now. The scent of the burning candle is strong enough that Jisung can’t detect any lingering spices in the air, but Minho is also pretty good at cleaning up after himself. Everything he uses, all the pots and pans and ingredients, are always neatly back in their place by the time he sits down to eat. Jisung, who cooks very rarely and leaves a nightmare in his wake whenever he does – “I’ll do it after!! No – don’t you do it! Come on. The food will get cold!” – thinks that this is an especially impressive talent.
Minho says, “Not yet. Thought I’d wait til you got home.”
Jisung’s entire body thrums happily. It’s like a warm little shiver, just for him, only on his insides, and it floods through all of him. His fingers, his toes, his belly. His deeply contented heart. He squishes in a little closer, impossibly closer, and turns his head so he can nuzzle Minho’s neck properly.
“You wanted to have dinner together, hyung?” He teases, all the sweetness he can manage mixed in with the words.
Minho smacks him again, taps him, really, but huffs a little laugh while he does. It betrays him, filled with fondness, and Jisung’s off to the races.
He wiggles his hands into the warm, miniscule space between their bodies. He digs his fingers into Minho’s sides, playful, and with his thighs bracketing Minho down – for a moment, there’s nothing he can do in response but squirm.
Jisung says, “Did you miss me? Ahhh, hyung, you missed me so much, I just know it.” Minho’s muscles tense up, another treat for Jisung. So are the happy little giggles that break free, right next to Jisung’s ear, even as his struggling intensifies. Jisung only has a few more seconds of the upper hand. He uses them to his full advantage. “You love meee.”
Right on time, Minho changes tactics. He fixes firm hands on Jisung’s waist, allowing Jisung’s fingers to roam mercilessly, but only for a beat – because in the next, he has lifted Jisung’s weight, and hauled the both of them over. Quick as a flash, Minho has Jisung on his back, pressed into the cushions he’d stacked for his nap. Minho’s weight keeps him there, pressed warm and heavy between Jisung’s splayed legs.
One of Jisung’s feet is kinda twisted beneath them and his back is at a weird angle. He barely notices either, and makes no attempt to change his position. The positives far outweigh the negatives.
Still laughing himself, now breathless, Jisung says, “Don’t even try to deny it, I know all your tricks—”
Minho kisses him. His tongue licks the words neatly from Jisung’s lips, stealing them from Jisung’s thoughts just as well. He slips a hand beneath Jisung’s shirt, and pinches his side, light, but just enough to sting. A nice little bruise for Jisung to find later. A welcome reprimand for his teasing.
If it were a little earlier in the day, or a little brighter outside, or if Jisung had worked a little less, he would take it as a challenge. Jisung would buck his hips up, and do some squirming of his own, because nothing is likely to disarm Minho faster. If either of them had more energy, Jisung would play with Minho a bit more. Let himself be played with.
But as it is,
Jisung opens himself up to Minho, his teasing forgotten. Another exquisite shiver runs through him, but this one Minho feels, and chases – sucking bruises into the side of Jisung’s neck until he has neatly coaxed out another. Jisung groans, and rolls his hips up into Minho’s leisurely. Between his legs, he can feel Minho is hard, but there’s nothing urgent about it yet. For his part, Minho seems happy to let his weight alone encourage the gentle friction between them.
Jisung, mouth freed but open, face once more tilted up to the ceiling, attempts to continue their conversation.
“See?” he gasps, occupied, more than a little dazed. “I told you.”
Minho nips at his collarbone. “What?”
“Your tricks, ah—!” Jisung says, right as Minho’s fingernail scrapes light over his nipple. “I know them.”
“Sure,” Minho says – and for a fraction of a second, Jisung frowns, because that was far too easy, but then – “and you’re known famously as a man of mystery.”
Jisung scowls.
Minho takes the opportunity to duck forward and nip at his lip.
“I could be mysterious if I wanted to be,” Jisung says, mostly into Minho’s mouth, right before he’s thoroughly kissed again.
Minho’s a bit more intentional with his weight this time. He pulls himself up Jisung’s body a little further, pushing Jisung more deeply into the couch, giving him even less room to wriggle beneath him. He pulls a hand from beneath Jisung’s shirt and uses it to cradle Jisung’s jaw instead. To keep him in place, wherever Minho wants to put him.
When their mouths part once more, it’s because Minho has decided so.
“You can be anything you want to be, baby,” he says.
He smirks with it, happiness dancing in those bright eyes of his. He is more awake now than he had been earlier, having bled some tension of his own. Minho’s afternoon, though a different shape to Jisung’s, must have drained him a little. He seems to be recharging now though, just as Jisung is, now that they’re both at home.
Chasing his tiredness away is Jisung’s great privilege.
Warm, and content, and very happy to play along, he says, “Damn straight.”
Minho snorts. He buries his face in Jisung’s shoulder and rubs his nose there, letting his body loosen. He keeps kissing Jisung, but only lightly, and in the places where he is tucked by Jisung’s neck. There is nothing hasty to it. Rather, Minho drapes himself over Jisung like a blanket, one that breathes steadily, and continues to occasionally nip at Jisung’s skin.
Jisung settles a hand in Minho’s hair, and resumes his earlier combing.
Time slows. So does the rise and fall of Jisung’s chest.
Tomorrow they’ll be back to work. It’s an early morning for the both of them. Minho’s been going to the gym at the crack of dawn lately, trying to fit it in at least every second day before their formal schedule begins. Jisung’s got more studio time on the books. He thinks they have a few meetings set with the staff too, just administrative stuff, planning for the coming months. They’ve got to record some social media content, and then, in the evening, there’s a dinner event they’re supposed to go to, for some brand deal Jisung can’t quite recall the details of. He doesn’t really try.
If there is a world outside, then just for right now, Jisung forgets it. He has this, instead. Minho’s reassuring weight, his familiar scent, and the little home they have made together.
Minho’s hands are on Jisung’s body again. Over the shirt this time, but returned to his waist, one of Minho’s favourite spots. There, he moves his fingers rhythmically to a beat that Jisung quickly recognises as one of the choreographies they’re currently learning. It only makes Jisung’s thoughts cloudier. For a little while, Jisung is just his body and that beat. All of it in Minho’s hands. Jisung’s favourite spot.
They doze in those clouds for a long while.
Eventually though, Minho hums. He presses the contented sound right in Jisung’s skin, and the feeling of it reverberates through Jisung’s body.
“Dinner?” Minho suggests, voice quiet, a little rasped.
Jisung makes a soft noise of complaint. He doesn’t say anything, but he does push his hips up again. His leg is beginning to go numb, where it is caught beneath both of them, but that doesn’t matter to him. He bumps his half-hard cock against Minho’s hip, and feels Minho in the same state, still pressed against Jisung’s open thigh.
Minho snorts. Still, it is a soft thing.
He nips at Jisung’s throat again. Jisung’s belly – the traitor – chooses this time to rumble. Minho’s second laugh is louder.
“After,” he promises.
Already he is lifting his weight away. Jisung clings to him, but it is somewhat half-hearted. He is hungry, after all. When Minho slips off of him, getting to his feet, Jisung finally has the chance to move his leg. Extending it makes him hiss, his muscles screeching at their mistreatment.
“Hyung,” Jisung says, drawing the sound out again, his eyes accusing. “You made my leg go numb.”
Minho helps Jisung up. He is much more abrupt about it than Jisung had been expecting, and this results in him stumbling as soon as he is on his feet. He falls straight into Minho, which he understands a moment later had always been the plan.
Minho catches him, steadies him, then pats him once more on the hips. He leans in close, and makes sure he has Jisung’s eye.
Then he says, “I can make both of them numb later, if you like?”
Jisung’s head rushes.
“Yah—!” He’s breathless again, indignantly turned on, more than half-hard now. Minho just told him to wait, and yet he’s – he’s – “Yah, you can’t say things like that and expect me to—”
He leans in to steal Minho’s mouth again, all thoughts of food abandoned, but this time Minho dodges him.
Jisung’s lips land clumsily on Minho’s chin.
Minho laughs again, and pats Jisung’s bum.
“After,” he says, like it’s Jisung’s fault they’ve become distracted again. “God. You can’t get enough, can you?”
He zips out of reach then, laughing as he goes, and leaving Jisung somewhat shellshocked behind him. It doesn’t take him long to snap out of it though. Not when all that’s left to do is chase his boyfriend into their kitchen. Have dinner, and let Minho fuck him silly.
Minho’s right. He can’t get enough, actually. The limit does not exist, or whatever.
Jisung heads towards their kitchen, body light again, heart thrumming.