Work Text:
The Seoul University gym smells like sweat, resin, and bad decisions. Friday night, close to nine, and the air hums with leftover heat, thick and sticky in the lights. Half the team is scattered across the bleachers, towels over their heads, pretending they’re not watching. Pretending that this isn’t their weekly ritual of tension of two co-captains at each others’ throats.
“Black looks cleaner,” Sehun says, voice even, but sharp enough to cut through the hum. “White stains too fast.”
“White looks professional,” Jongin snaps back, teeth pressed just slightly too hard against his bottom lip. “Black uniforms… Do you seriously think we’re in Karasuno High?”
The words land like sparks. Jongin exhales through his nose, shoulders tight, hair plastered damp to the edges of his neck. Across from him, Sehun’s calm is maddening. Sleeves pushed to his elbows, fingers curled loosely around the bench, posture perfect and waiting. Waiting for Jongin to slip. Waiting for a crack.
“The white gives better visibility under court lighting,” Jongin mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, knuckles scraping scalp. “You’d know that if you actually looked at the game footage.”
“That’s rich,” Sehun says, calm, precise. “Coming from someone who calls time-outs just to glare at me.”
Jongin glares. Sehun meets it head-on. Neither blinks. They are mirror images, each reflection in the other’s stance sharpening something unspoken. Around them, the team moves quietly, pretending to stretch. One wristband skitters across the floor. No one picks it up. No one breathes too loudly.
Finally, Johnny groans, voice carrying faintly across the court: “Can you two not do this again? It’s jerseys, not the Treaty of Versailles.”
Neither moves. Then, almost simultaneously: “Rock, paper, scissors.”
Fists rise. A ritual now. The game that started as a joke and became the only way anything ever ends between them. One beat. Two.
Then: Scissors. Paper.
The exhale that follows is collective, almost audible.
Sehun wins. Again. No celebration. No flourish. Just that crooked, small smile that feels like smugness carved into the air. “Black it is,” he says, pivoting, moving before Jongin can respond. Jongin’s towel finds his back a second later but Sehun is already gone, vanishing toward the locker room, shoulders loose, effortless.
“Kageyama,” Jongin mutters, jaw tight.
Sehun doesn’t look back. “You keep saying that like it’s news.”
A faint squeak of sneakers, the rush of water in showers starting, laughter drifting far and faint. It’s background noise. But Jongin still stands, pulse stubborn in his throat, hand resting on his hip like it’s holding him upright. Watching. Waiting.
And maybe that’s what cuts deepest: the way Sehun moves through the world like it costs him nothing, and still always wins. The way he could break Jongin’s temper with one tilt of his shoulder, one casual smirk, one damn quiet victory that feels like it lands inside Jongin’s chest, weighing, pressing, refusing to leave.
🏐
Their first rock-paper-scissors happened three years ago. Back then, they were still just “those two idiots in Intro to Sports Physiology.” The argument was about a presentation topic: The Biomechanics of Vertical Jump versus Serve Reception Efficiency. Sehun wanted the first. Jongin wanted the second. Neither would back down.
“You only want jump mechanics because you get to talk about your own stats,” Jongin said, voice tight, the kind of exasperation that only barely masks defensiveness.
“Maybe if yours were better, you’d want to talk about them too,” Sehun replied, calm, measured. But Sehun knew exactly what he was doing.
The classroom went quiet. Thirty pairs of eyes flicked between them. The professor, a man who had spent too many years corralling gifted athletes with more ego than sense, set his marker down with a sigh that seemed to shake the fluorescent lights above. “Rock-paper-scissors,” he said finally. “You lose, you shut up. You win, you also shut up. Deal?”
Jongin scoffed. Leant back in his chair. Arms crossed. Sehun tilted his head slightly, unshakable like nothing in the world could rattle him. That look made Jongin want to punch a wall.
Sehun won.
Of course he didn’t gloat. Not like a normal person would. Just that tilt of the head, the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. Jongin still did half the presentation. Claimed it was “to fix Sehun’s citations.” Spent a weekend rewriting slides that didn’t need rewriting. They got an A.
When the grades came out, Sehun leaned back in his chair, tapping a pen against his notebook, “Guess we picked the right topic after all,” he said. Not even looking at Jongin.
Jongin looked anyway. He looked too long. Because Sehun wasn’t gloating. Not really. That small satisfaction said I told you so sharper than any shout. And when the other group, the one that had taken Jongin’s precious Serve Reception Efficiency, got shredded for “conceptual incoherence,” Sehun didn’t move, didn’t laugh. Just shifted slightly in his seat, a subtle curve at the corner of his mouth that Jongin would carry in his memory for years.
But if Jongin was honest, which he almost never was, it started long before Seoul University. Middle school. The first day Sehun transferred in. Quiet, taller than most, fringe falling into his eyes. Polite. Punctual. The kind teachers adored because he never spoke out of turn. Jongin hadn’t cared, not then.
Until Coach Park made an announcement that hit like a spike to the chest. “New player joining the volleyball team,” he said, smiling. “Setter. Just like Jongin.”
It wasn’t even Sehun’s fault. Chanyeol-hyung had clapped Jongin on the shoulder. “Hey, switch to the opposite for now. Sehun’s got good hands.”
Sehun shrugged. And that shrug lit something inside Jongin he hadn’t known existed. Not anger, not exactly, it was a thread that had been pulled, and now it kept unraveling. Everything became a scoreboard: serve speed, reaction drills, who the coach called first, who stayed longest after practice. It wasn’t about being better than Sehun. It was about being matched, measured, met at every turn. About that unreadable expression that shouldn’t have mattered but did.
It wasn’t hatred. It was hunger. Sharp. Clean. That kind of hunger that made every breath a dare.
By high school, they were both scouted. By university, co-captains. And somewhere along the way, rock-paper-scissors became their language: who got first pick of jerseys, who subbed first, who ran extra laps when someone missed serve.
Jongin told himself it was just rivalry. Just a need to win. Nothing more.
But he noticed everything. The sweat trailing down Sehun’s jawline. The subtle nod that always came with a soft, private good serve. The way his presence got under Jongin’s skin without even trying.
Now, older, taller, sharper and not much has changed. Sehun serves, and Jongin’s pulse stutters. Jongin spikes, and Sehun’s eyes track it like it’s personal.
Sometimes, in the locker room, Jongin catches Sehun’s reflection in the mirror: bare shoulders glinting with sweat, hair pushed back, mouth set in that quiet, infuriating line. And every time, he thinks, this is why he gets under my skin.
Because Sehun doesn’t try. He just exists. And somehow, that’s enough.
🏐
The court reeks of sweat and liniment. The kind of air that sticks to skin, heavy with loss. The scoreboard’s still glowing faint red reminding of how close they’d been. One point. One fucking point.
In a fit of rage, it feels like they are transported into their locker room in a blink of a second with all their teammates quickly filing out after seeing the looks on the faces of their co-captains. When they’re alone, Jongin yanks off his jersey and throws it at the floor, the slap echoing across the empty room. “You shouldn’t have stayed in.” His voice is low, sharp, trembling somewhere between fury and fear.
Sehun’s sitting on the bench, knee wrapped, sweat dripping down the line of his throat. He doesn’t look up. “We were fine.”
“You could barely land your serve,” Jongin snaps. “You kept favoring your right—”
“I said we were fine.”
“No, you’re a goddamn idiot!” Jongin’s voice ricochets off the walls. He moves before he realizes it, steps closing the space between them until Sehun’s shadow meets his. “You think being captain means you get to play martyr?”
Sehun finally stares at him and it’s that same fucking look, the one that makes Jongin want to wreck him. “You would’ve done the same,” Sehun says, voice hoarse. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t.”
“Yeah,” Jongin spits, “but I wouldn’t be sitting here pretending it didn’t hurt.”
That lands. Sehun’s jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists against his thighs. “You think I don’t know my own limits?”
“Clearly not, because we lost!”
The word cuts through the silence like a serve slicing air. Lost. They both flinch.
Jongin’s chest heaves; Sehun’s breathing stutters. Every nerve between them hums, wired and raw. Jongin’s about to say something else when Sehun suddenly shoves him, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to snap the air.
“Then what do you want me to say?” Sehun bursts out. “That you were right? That I fucked up? That maybe if you’d stopped yelling long enough—”
“Don’t put this on me!”
“Then stop trying to save me!”
The words hit like a slap. Jongin blinks and realizes Sehun’s breathing unevenly, eyes bright, pulse visible in his throat. The space between them feels unbearable. Jongin curses, laughs. It’s not anger now but it’s something else. His voice drops. “Your knee—”
“I said I’m fine.”
The humid air crackled with tension as Jongin slams his locker shut, sweat dripping down his temple. "You’re not." he taunts, voice low and rough. Sehun doesn't turn from his bench, fingers gingerly probing the fresh bruise blooming purple across his legs.
Jongin prowls closer, the scent of salt and aggression clinging to his skin. "Is it so hard to ask for help?," he murmurs, knuckles grazing Sehun's bruised flesh. Sehun jerks away with a sharp inhale, eyes blazing. "Touch me again and I'll break your fucking hand."
"Prove it."
Contact. Salt. Breath. Static. Sehun shoves Jongin against cold metal lockers, fingers twisting in damp hair as Jongin's hands rips at waistbands. Breathless, Jongin rasps against Sehun's mouth: "Rock scissors paper,"
It wasn't a question. It was a statement hanging in the humid air, heavy with everything unsaid. Sehun pauses, halfway through pulling on his track pants. His knuckles were white where he grips the fabric. He finally looks up, his expression unreadable, guarded.
Sehun’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he reaches into his open locker, pulling out a small tube of gel, the kind they all used to stop chafing during excess running. He tosses it towards Jongin. It hits Jongin's chest with a soft thud and falls to the tile. An offering? A dismissal?
Scissors cut paper. Jongin lost. Sehun's triumphant grin was the first he’s ever shown as he pushes Jongin to his knees. Jongin stares at the tube.
Cold tile bites Jongin's skin. Sehun's grip was brutal on his jaw, forcing his head back. "Look at you," Sehun breathes. Jongin glares up, defiance flashing, but Sehun's thumb presses hard against his bottom lip.
"Open." The command was a low growl. Jongin obeys, tasting salt and hate, letting Sehun shove two fingers deep into his mouth, gagging him roughly. Sehun watches, eyes narrowed, groaning loudly.
Sehun pushes a lubed finger into him without preamble, a sharp, tearing stretch that draws a choked gasp from Jongin. Hands braced against the lockers, Jongin arches back, knuckles white. Sehun grips his hips hard enough to bruise, each thrust a punishing slam against the metal, the sound echoing in the humid air. Jongin bites down on a groan, turning it into a snarl. "Is that all?" he taunts, voice ragged. Sehun answers with a deeper, harder drive, fingers digging into Jongin’s hipbone. Sweat drips onto Jongin’s spine
Sehun leans close, breath hot on Jongin’s ear. "Still think you can take me?" he says, punctuating each word with a grind of his hips and another finger in. Jongin’s laugh was breathless, strained. "Fuck you."
Jongin pulls down Sehun’s pants and starts with a harsh suck. He almost sees red when Sehun moans and slams the three fingers in him, hitting a spot that makes his toes curl. The adrenaline from the game must not have worn out yet as Jongin leads Sehun deep into his mouth, almost into his throat until his own saliva and Sehun’s pre-come is dripping off his chin.
Jongin’s cock drips too, with his sore legs keeping him upright and Sehun’s fingers opening him up. It’s between his pride and satisfaction when he groans out, “More,”
He shoves back hard, guiding Sehun’s cock into him, the locker door rattling violently. Sehun’s hand fists in Jongin’s hair, yanking his head back, exposing his throat and leaving open-mouthed kisses. Neither spoke. Only harsh breaths, the slick slap of skin, and the metallic clang of the locker filled the space.
It hurts before it feels fucking amazing. Sehun fills him up that he can feel it in his stomach. Dripping more lube where they’re connected makes the fucking echo in the locker room. Sehun pulls out, and perhaps just to piss Jongin off, begins to fuck him with just the tip. He’d be more heated if it didn’t feel so good.
But it’s not enough and to Sehun’s delight, Jongin shoves him on the floor, and sinks deep onto Sehun’s cock. Up and down, teeth gritting, Jongin almost screams with the absolute pleasure. In this angle, Sehun rubs the perfect spot and Jongin chases the high. Sehun grabs the other’s cock in a tight grip, spits on it, and tugs.
Jongin’s vision blurs. He focuses on the sting of Sehun’s grip, the bite of tile beneath his knees. He arches, driving himself deeper onto Sehun, a silent challenge. Sehun groans with fingers digging bruises into Jongin’s waist. He loathes this man, as Sehun thrusts up and he’s deeper than Jongin could ever have imagined. It’s tight, maddening, heavenly.
The rhythm fractured, turned frantic. Jongin feels the tremor in Sehun’s thighs pressed against his own, the hitch in his breath. Hatred all-consuming. Sehun’s other hand slid around Jongin’s throat, not choking, but claiming. Possessing. Jongin pushes back harder, demanding more.
It’s so wet down there, yet Sehun squeezes more lube. The slide in goes smoother, faster. “I’m close,” Jongin whispers, reality almost sinking in how they’re defiling the same place they go everyday.
Sehun tightens his grip on Jongin’s cock at the base, barring him from any release. Jongin skin is hot, and his face is burning with frustration while grinding harder onto Sehun. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to get Sehun deeper in him or fuck into his hand. All the same, he’s pulled into a kiss.
It’s everything all at once. Sehun bounces Jongin on him while rubbing his thumb on the dribbling pre-cum of the other. Jongin doesn’t know how long he’s been riding his rival, and whether or not his teammates all really went home. “Sehun, let me fucking come,”
Sehun slams into him one final time, shuddering, a raw sound tearing from his chest. Jongin follows, biting down on his own knuckle to stifle the cry as white heat ripped through him. Silence fell, thick and heavy, broken only by their ragged gasps.
Sehun slumps forward, forehead pressed between Jongin’s shoulder blades, his grip loosening. Jongin stayed braced against the locker, trembling, the cold metal seeping into his skin. The air smelled of sweat, sex, and the sharp tang of blood where Sehun’s teeth had broken skin
Slowly, Sehun pulls away. The loss of contact felt jarring. Jongin turns, leaning his back against the lockers, meeting Sehun’s gaze. The triumph was gone from Sehun’s eyes, replaced by a hollow exhaustion, the slight limp on his leg stark under the fluorescent lights. Jongin wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting salt and copper.
Sehun bends stiffly, retrieving his discarded jersey from the damp floor. He doesn't look at Jongin as he pulls it over his head, the fabric catching on his sweat-slicked skin. The movement gets a low hiss from him, the exhaustion protesting. Jongin watches the wince flicker across Sehun’s face, a strange tightness coiling in his own chest. He pushes off the lockers, grabbing his own towel, scrubbing it roughly over his face and neck, the coarse fabric grounding him. It only dawns on Jongin then that he always loses in rock-paper-scissors.