Work Text:
Seungcheol’s back hurts. His feet and knees and shoulders hurt. His fucking tongue hurts from when he bit it, scarfing down lunch. If comeback prep blows, then concert rehearsals suck. It’ll all be well worth it in the end, but the process runs him ragged.
He lies down on the floor after practice, exempt from cleaning, but having trouble getting himself up and into a van. Minghao vacuums around him with a bemused smile, and Seungcheol smiles back, his lungs stuttering in his chest. We need to talk.
Minghao, Seokmin, and Mingyu—tonight’s unlucky trio—chat as they clean up. Despite the late hour, they’re loud and giggly, spraying cleaner noisily on the mirrors and tossing cushions across the soccer field-sized space. With a ton of bricks to the chest, Seungcheol remembers Minghao fucked them. Both of them. He suddenly regrets not leaving with the others.
He focuses on his breathing until they’re done, stirred by Seokmin poking his cheek. He scowls up at him, tugging his beanie over his eyebrows.
“Leave me alone,” he growls. “I’m sleeping.”
Mingyu grabs his ankle and tugs, yanking him a few squeaky inches across the floor.
“Fuck you,” he whines, sitting up, but caught off guard when his body screams at him. Pain pulsates in his lower back, down his ass and right thigh, the feeling enough to make a hiss escape through his teeth.
Minghao’s amused expression drops. “It’s your pinched nerve, isn’t it?” His worry is homed in on Seungcheol, searing him with embarrassment. As of late, Minghao has seen him weak too many times. Horrifically, it seems to be becoming a trend.
“Yeah,” Mingyu answers for Seungcheol, wincing.
“I can speak for myself,” Seungcheol says petulantly.
“Yeah, and you would’ve lied, hyung,” Seokmin says, very gently. He helps Seungcheol to his feet, and Minghao wraps his arm around Seungcheol’s waist, stabilizing him.
He groans in discomfort. “I can totally get myself to the van, you idiots.”
“Mingyu, carry him,” Minghao demands, making Seungcheol gurgle in anger.
They squabble all the way to the car, and by the time they get home, Seungcheol’s muscles don’t feel as rigid. Reverting to a standing position rockets him back into a world of pain, a stifled gasp caught behind his tonsils.
“Oh, hyung,” Minghao sighs, clucking his tongue. “It’s okay.”
Unrelated to the pain, Seungcheol’s eyes sting.
They assist him into the dorm, depositing him on the sofa. Before Mingyu and Seokmin leave, Minghao promises to take care of him.
The front door clicks shut in harmony with Seungcheol’s stomach writhing.
“I’ll be back; I’m gonna shower,” Minghao says, hovering by the foot of the couch. “Are you okay?” He holds so much pity in his gaze, and Seungcheol is drowning in the attention. He almost wants to play up the pain, just so he can see how far Minghao would go to make him feel better.
Two weeks have passed since he first got Minghao off. Terribly, he did it again a few nights later. And then once more, three days ago. The last two times, Minghao asked to return the favor, but he was rebuffed by Seungcheol’s stubborn resolve.
“I’m fine, Myungho-yah.”
Minghao still looks unsure, but he retreats—only to return a minute later with a cup of water and painkillers. He observes Seungcheol as he pops the meds and chugs the water. Under Minghao’s unblinking examination, the leader is flayed open.
“Do you want me to run you a bath?” Minghao asks, their fingers brushing as he reclaims the paper cup. Memory flashes hot through him—Minghao grappling at Seungcheol’s thigh as Seungcheol brought him to orgasm; his hand squeezing tight enough to bruise when Seungcheol sucked his sticky fingers clean. We need to talk.
“No,” Seungcheol rejects flat-out, creaking to his feet. “That’s pushing it. I can handle a shower.”
Minghao’s brow hardens. “So let me give you a massage when you get out, and then I won’t bother you for the rest of the night.”
Seungcheol’s chest clenches.” Fine,” he sighs, acting defeated as he accepts Minghao’s deal.
He gets in the shower half-erect, his hard-on persisting even when he bends over to pick up his body gel and his back seizes up. Teeth gritted, he rushes to wash up, using shampoo but forgoing his face cleanser. He doesn’t put on a shirt—boxer briefs only. He’ll just have to take it off anyway when Minghao gives him a massage. The younger man has done this for Seungcheol before, with new age-y music issuing from his phone and a palmful of lotion, but it’s always been with someone else in line behind him, dying for Minghao’s magic touch, or limned with laughter and light conversation.
He pads into the room, instantly feeling stupid and vulnerable half-naked. Minghao is laying out a few towels across his bed, and he’s wearing one of his fancy silken robes. They’ve all made teasing comments about his neon-red hair—Minghao himself included—but damp and hanging in his eyes, he looks gorgeous. Seungcheol almost pontificates at his feet. With less willpower, he would.
He watches from his place in the doorway, a nervous virgin, tucking his cock between his thighs. Their uncertain eyes meet from across the room.
Minghao has been remarkable in his patience. Seungcheol, meanwhile, is known to be im patient, but in this case, he could continue stalling. Not for much longer, though; he can’t take anymore of Minghao’s crestfallen gaze, the disappointment leaking out of him when Seungcheol goes another day without making a real move.
“Come on,” Minghao says, plucking up a bottle of massage oil from his bedside table. “Lie down.”
Seungcheol obeys without complaint. He crawls onto the center of the bed, levering himself up on his arms and lowering his chest into the fluffy towel. He flinches in surprise when Minghao brackets his hips with gentle palms, straightening Seungcheol’s spine.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“No, you’re fine,” Seungcheol says, his cheek squished to the bed.
Minghao clears his throat. “Are you okay to start?”
“Yeah,” Seungcheol replies, his lashes fluttering as he shuts his eyes, bracing himself. Minghao’s palms schlick together, slick with a few pumps of almond oil. The sweet scent bursts into the air. Seungcheol sucks in a deep breath of it as Minghao brushes his fingers against Seungcheol’s shoulders.
He begins lightly, warming Seungcheol up like full-body stretches before practice: short presses of his thumbs into Seungcheol’s vertebra, spreading out wide circles on his shoulder blades. Seungcheol huffs, a little displeased. When it comes to massages, he likes when they’re flavored with a tinge of pain, making him earn comfort. As someone who receives a lot of good things—more love than any one human deserves—he pays for it in sore muscles and pinched nerves. If the tension is going to be released, he should at least work for it.
Minghao digs in a little harder, but he’s good at giving massages. There’s a steady application of pressure, a small radiating ache, and then, relief.
“Harder,” Seungcheol says, muffled. Minghao pauses for a moment, then resumes, his motions a fraction rougher. Not enough, but Seungcheol knows this is the roughest he’ll get. Minghao would never hurt him, not on purpose.
The oil makes it easy for Minghao to slide his hands over Seungcheol’s bared skin, aiding the glide of his thumbs as he works his muscles, making his way downward. Seungcheol forces himself to melt into the sheets, killing the senseless anticipation rising as Minghao travels lower.
It hurts for real when Minghao gets to his lower back proper, and Seungcheol hides a cry of pain into his fist.
“Do you want me to stop?” Minghao asks, worried.
“No, don’t.” When Minghao eases up on the pressure, the pain bleeds into relief. It still hurts, undeniably so, but with more of Minghao’s hands on him, he’ll probably be able to fully participate in practice by tomorrow afternoon. “Keep going.”
Though hesitant at first, Minghao picks up his rhythm again, cooing under his breath when Seungcheol lets out small huffs of pain. “Are you okay?” he asks, checking on Seungcheol again and again. And yes, Seungcheol is okay. Minghao has an acute sense of where the pain is, and it feels like he’s coaxing away the compression, loosening his muscles with little effort. Seungcheol’s cock is hard, trapped against the towel, and the waistband of his underwear is soaked with almond oil. The mix of pain and luxurious release has rendered him light-headed. He moans, louder than intended.
Minghao is mostly quiet, but his hands tremble, stilling on Seungcheol’s slick skin. He hesitates at Seungcheol’s lower back dimples, his thumbs pressing inward, forming a V above the cleft of Seungcheol’s ass.
“Can I... go lower?”
Seungcheol whimpers, stunned dumb at the question. He throbs in his underwear.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yes, Myungho.”
Minghao exhales hard as he pulls Seungcheol’s boxer briefs down over the swell of his ass. The waistband catches on the base of his cock, so he lifts his hips enough so Minghao can tug them off all the way. The caress of cool air on his cock makes him shudder.
“Fuck,” Minghao hisses. Seungcheol hears his underwear land on the floor in a whisper of fabric.
With almost no hesitation now, Minghao cups his asscheeks, bringing up wide palms until he’s holding Seungcheol where lower back meets ass. He massages him like he’s been this whole time, but the pleasure far outweighs the pain trickling down his leg. Someone touching his ass like this is unfamiliar, and painfully hot in its novelty. His hips rotate, grinding his cock into the damp towel.
By the time Minghao is skirting the tops of his thighs, he’s whining, biting the swell of his palm to suppress the noise.
“Shua is sleeping in the other dorm tonight,” Minghao whispers, smoothing his hands back to Seungcheol’s ass. “I wanna hear how good you feel, hyung.”
He cries out, Minghao playing with his asscheeks in earnest, soft skin applying the perfect amount of pressure against his rim. He squeezes the meat of Seungcheol’s flank, stopping only to drip more oil onto his skin. Seungcheol feels flushed, head to toe, gripping the sheets, face down.
“Can I—” Minghao’s voice cracks. “Hyung, can I finger you?”
Seungcheol’s moan emerges strangled. “Yes, yes.”
He realizes he hasn’t looked at Minghao once, but he’s too scared now that he’s noticed. Instead, he lets Minghao rub the tips of his fingers around his hole, the other hand spreading him open. The exposure adds to his arousal, knowing Minghao is seeing him naked for the first time. He pleads nonsense into the sheets, needing Minghao’s knobbly fingers inside of him, and when he finally earns one, he begs for more.
“Hyung, you’re so beautiful,” Minghao says in amazement, sliding in another finger alongside the first. “The stretch of you around my fingers. You open up for me so well...”
“Just for you,” Seungcheol drools out, pitching his hips backward.
Minghao shushes him, urging him to stop. “Let me take care of you.” He crooks his fingers in deeper, fucking them in slow but firm. Seungcheol feels so wet, messy and open, oil dripping between his cheeks.
“You don’t have to,” Seungcheol mumbles, teary.
“But it makes me feel so good,” Minghao says, a pout clear in his voice. “Don’t you want me to feel good?”
Minghao has always known how to twist things for the positive, crafting truthful witticisms to uplift his friends. Even as his brain tips into something deeper than just pleasure, he has the wherewithal to acknowledge that Minghao is right. All Seungcheol wants is for Minghao to feel good, and Seungcheol has had the capability to do so this whole time—in a way that incorporates himself, too.
Seungcheol twists his neck, and it’s uncomfortable but worthwhile; he finally gets to see Minghao. His breath shakes like he’s about to cry. Minghao’s hands are drenched in oil, and his robe is untied, silk curtaining his cock. He’s visibly wet, like he jerked himself off with his free hand, getting off to Seungcheol’s ass sucking in his fingers.
Minghao hurries to close his robe, startled. “Oh my god, sorry, I was just—”
“Shut up,” Seungcheol says with a quavery chuckle. “Please fuck me, Myungho-yah. Please.” He whimpers, eyeing Myungho’s erection and imagining it crammed inside him.
Lips parted in surprise, Minghao sheds his robe. He climbs onto the bed, and Seungcheol spreads his thighs open so Minghao can kneel between them.
“Good, don’t move,” Minghao says in a rush, palming a reverent hand over Seungcheol’s ass. The wet sound of him stroking oil onto his cock is lewd in the silent room, and Seungcheol feels close to passing out.
“Come on,” he groans. “I want your cock, Myungho-yah.”
“So demanding, hyung,” Minghao says, a note of teasing in his voice. He drapes his body over Seungcheol, conscious of his lower back, but the pain is all but gone. Seungcheol wants to be crushed into the bed by Minghao fucking him; his lean, lithe build holding him down. He’s stronger than he looks, and Seungcheol is weaker than people think.
Minghao slides his cock between Seungcheol’s cheeks, grinding against him in a pantomime of fucking. For all Seungcheol wants to wail and throw a tantrum so Minghao can fuck him properly, he’s subdued by Minghao’s chest flush to his back, his full mouth nipping the shell of his ear. Seungcheol almost comes then and there, tingles erupting like a wildfire down his spine. He really does wail, arching against Minghao in desperation.
“Fuck me, fuck me,” he slurs, and Minghao shushes him again, this time with a kiss.
And it’s better than Minghao’s cock in his hand, or Minghao teasing him with clever fingers. Their noses brush as they sink into the kiss, and Minghao draws Seungcheol’s tongue into his mouth, hungry but exploratory. Seungcheol is pliant under Minghao, allowing him to take, take, take. He can tell Minghao is in love with kissing him, his cock twitching and leaking precome on Seungcheol’s hole. He runs his fingers through Seungcheol’s damp hair, holding him by the base of his skull.
They kiss each other breathless, and finally Minghao fits his cock inside of Seungcheol, inch by slow inch. Seungcheol sags into the sheets, panting. Minghao’s breaths hit the back of his neck as he slides into Seungcheol’s body, plugging him full, surrounding him so completely. He straddles Seungcheol’s thighs and starts to fuck him, gingerly. He grunts, sucking a reckless mark beneath Seungcheol’s ear lobe, and Seungcheol doesn’t have the heart to stop him. Just this once, he’ll wear Minghao’s ownership on his skin.
“So tight,” Minghao murmurs, fucking into Seungcheol with firmer, more confident thrusts.
Seungcheol moans, nodding. “Just for you. Been waiting.”
“Don’t say stuff like that,” Minghao says, his voice teetering on frustration. “I’ve been waiting for you so long, hyung.”
“You don’t—ah, ah, fuck—have to wait anymore. I’m—fuck—I’m sorry."
Minghao hammers into his prostate, his mouth pressed to the crown of Seungcheol’s head in juxtaposing tenderness. His hips, wild and bucking, haven’t faltered once.
“I was so patient, wasn’t I?” Minghao asks.
“Yes, fuck, you were, Myungho.” Seungcheol feels a tear trickle over the bridge of his nose.
Minghao fucks him like that until he comes inside of Seungcheol, screwing him until he’s electric from the stimulation. He pulls out with a half-scream, gone past his limit: Minghao can usually go more than once, but it only took one time for him to spill his whole load into Seungcheol. Sick, hot satisfaction surges in Seungcheol’s veins.
Minghao dismounts. “Careful,” he breathes, helping Seungcheol flip onto his back. It feels good for his injury when Seungcheol has his knees up and bent, even better now that his cock isn’t chafing against the towel.
“God, you’re so hard.” Minghao curses, laying down between Seungcheol’s thighs. “Gonna make you come,” he promises.
It’s the best and quickest blow job of Seungcheol’s life; the surreal vision of Minghao going down on him is enough to make him come with little provocation. Minghao swallows him down so well, sucking his cock like he’s dreamt of it for ages. It’s crazy: Minghao’s puffy lips wrapped around his cockhead, his long fingers jerking him off, his nose buried in Seungcheol’s pubic hair as he takes him in as far as he can go. He orgasms down Minghao’s throat, counterpoint to Minghao’s come dribbling, warm and slow, out of his hole.
Almost the exact moment the life-changing rush fades and Minghao is done licking him clean, Seungcheol gasps on a sob. Tears flood his cheeks in seconds, and he hides his face, embarrassed beyond belief.
“Hyung, what’s wrong?! Fuck, I’m so sorry, tell me what I did, please,” Minghao panics, gathering Seungcheol to his chest. He feels so good, wiry and dependable, and Seungcheol nuzzles into Minghao’s breastbone, even as he’s overwhelmed in senseless emotion.
He shakes his head, unsure of how to explain through hiccups. It’s just—the release of it all, the anxiety and guilt and grief over Minghao seeming pointless in retrospect, a year spent aching because of his own idiocy, and now he’s in Minghao’s arms, sharing an intimacy he’d never fathomed.
“Y-you did nothing wrong,” Seungcheol says, scrubbing at his nose. He babbles something else, his mouth moving without consulting his brain, but it makes understanding dawn over Minghao’s face.
And once more, he lets Minghao baby him. He’s led to Minghao’s en-suite bathroom, where Minghao fills up the tub—the one amenity on his Must Have list when they moved. A bath bomb plunks into the water, and Seungcheol watches it fizzle as Minghao cards his fingers through his hair. They climb in together, capsizing into the lavender-scented bath. The heat soothes any lingering twinges, and he melts against Minghao, sat snugly between his legs. He’s wrung dry from his crying jag, putting a damper on his enjoyment, but he’s soothed by Minghao speaking to him in Mandarin, understanding a few words in particular.
“Me, too,” Seungcheol rasps. “So much.”
They still need to talk—more than Seungcheol is mentally prepared for. It took too much to get to this point, and Seungcheol knows it was mostly his fault. Minghao has every right to be upset, but from how he fucked Seungcheol so tenderly—how he holds him in the bathtub, like he’s keeping the pieces of Seungcheol in place—it doesn’t seem like he resents him.
Judging by what Minghao says into his ear, sparking goosebumps, it’s the direct opposite.