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Chan had spotted every repetition as if Jisung’s body were the only consequential thing in the room, as if the measured rise and fall of those narrow hips beneath his broad, pale hands mattered more than the muted city glowing beyond the wall of windows, more than the ventilation humming overhead or the slow evening sun pouring through the private gym in amber sheets, turning the chrome edges of the equipment molten and laying a warm stripe of light across Jisung’s throat each time he tipped his head back to breathe.
“Seven.”
Jisung drove his hips upward beneath the weighted bar, his heels digging into the rubber mat and his soft, full mouth parting around a breath that had gone thin with effort. His black tank had been dry when they came downstairs; now it clung darkly between his shoulder blades and beneath his chest, plastered to the long, lean line of his torso and the small inward sweep of his waist while the honey warmth of his skin gleamed along his collarbones and bare shoulders. Sweat gathered at his temples, darkening the feathery black strands until they curled over his brow and brushed the softly rounded planes of his cheeks.
“Good,” Chan said, low enough that the word seemed to land directly against the shell of Jisung’s ear. “Hold it there. Don’t let your left knee fall in.”
His hands stayed firm around Jisung’s hips, broad and thick-fingered enough to make the narrowness of Jisung’s frame more obvious, pale skin crossed by raised veins as his thumbs settled with the careful certainty of someone who understood exactly how much pressure to use and exactly where to use it, not moving the weight for him, never stealing the work, only correcting the minute shift of muscle before Jisung could hurt himself. Chan had spent years learning how to touch people without making them feel handled—patients, frightened athletes, strangers who arrived in his examination room braced for bad news—and yet there was nothing impersonal about the way his palms fitted over his husband, nothing clinical in the slow drag of his thumbs over the sweat-warmed fabric at Jisung’s waist after the correction had already been made.
Jisung felt every point of contact. The heat of Chan’s hands seeping through the material, the subtle flex of his fingers whenever Jisung’s form threatened to slip, the quiet praise delivered in that steady physician’s voice Chan could use to coax a panicking room into stillness and which, when turned on Jisung, made obedience feel less like surrender than being held carefully through something difficult.
“Eight. Perfect.”
“I hate you,” Jisung panted.
“No, you don’t.”
“Nine.”
“That’s my line.”
“I’m helping.”
“You’re disrupting the count.”
Chan leaned over him, his thick chest and broad shoulders filling Jisung’s view though they were the same height, and his mouth brushed so near Jisung’s damp temple that the almost-kiss carried more heat than an actual one might have.
“Again, baby.”
Jisung groaned with theatrical misery, but he obeyed like he always did when Chan used that voice. Not because he lacked the will to resist, despite what Chan liked to claim when Jisung was feeling particularly spoiled, but because there was something deep and almost embarrassingly sweet in giving his effort to someone who watched him this closely. Chan did not merely count until the set was finished. He noticed the second Jisung began compensating, the moment strain sharpened into pain, the tiny tremor in his thigh before fatigue became dangerous; he knew Jisung’s body not as an object he possessed but as a living thing entrusted to him, and sometimes Jisung thought that was the most erotic part of being loved by him.
“Ten.”
The bar settled safely onto the supports with a blunt metallic click.
Jisung collapsed against the mat, every muscle loosening at once, his slim arms falling open and his chest heaving beneath the soaked tank. The posture exposed the long line of his throat and the delicate inward curve of his waist, honey-toned skin flushed warmer across his softly rounded cheeks, collarbones and shoulders. For several seconds he existed as nothing except pulse, heat and breath: the hard thud beneath his sternum, the burn deep in his hips, the cool air grazing wet skin at his throat. A bead of sweat rolled from his jaw, slid down the side of his neck and disappeared beneath his collar.
“Done,” he announced hoarsely. “Finished. Retired from athletics forever.”
Chan did not answer.
Jisung lifted one forearm over his eyes. “I’m serious. Sell the weights. Donate them to someone whose husband doesn’t enjoy suffering.”
Still nothing.
He lowered his arm enough to peer beneath it.
Chan remained kneeling between his feet.
He had gone unusually quiet during the last set, but Jisung had assumed he was concentrating; now, though, he was not looking at the weighted bar, Jisung’s knees or anything that required the grave professional attention he had been wearing all afternoon. His gaze had caught lower, fixed somewhere between the hem of Jisung’s damp shirt and the dark fabric stretched over his hips. Damp black hair had fallen over his brow, softening the clean line of his nose and the strong angle of his jaw, but the stillness of his face was not calm at all. It was the rigid, precarious stillness of someone holding a door shut against pressure building on the other side.
“Baby?”
Chan’s eyes lifted at last.
Something in them sent a small current through Jisung’s stomach, cold first and then suddenly warm.
“Are you okay?”
Chan drew one measured breath through his nose.
“Yes.”
It did not sound convincing.
Jisung pushed onto his elbows and immediately regretted it when the muscles along his abdomen trembled in protest. “I’m going upstairs. I need a shower before my body legally becomes a biohazard.”
Chan’s hand closed around his ankle.
Jisung stopped.
The grip was not painful, not even rough, but it was absolute in a way Chan rarely allowed himself to be outside their bedroom, his pale, broad hand nearly encircling the slim joint while his thumb pressed against the racing pulse there.
“What?”
“Don’t.”
Jisung blinked. “Don’t shower?”
Chan’s mouth tightened, as though the word itself had offended him.
“Not yet.”
“I’ve been sweating for an hour.”
“I know.”
“I was outside all afternoon before that.”
“I know.”
Jisung glanced down at himself with growing self-consciousness. They had walked to the cafe, wandered through a crowded market and carried groceries home beneath the heavy late-summer sun before changing only their shoes and coming downstairs. The waistband of his shorts felt damp against his lower back. His tank was sticking in places no shirt should stick, tracing the slender slope from his ribs into his waist while sweat shone over the honey-gold skin of his thighs and arms. Now that Chan had drawn his attention to it, he could smell the warmth of his own exertion beneath the fading remnants of deodorant and body lotion—not something foul, exactly, but unmistakably human, private in a way perfume never was.
“I’m gross.”
Chan’s expression changed so quickly that Jisung almost wished he could pull the word back. The hunger remained, but something hurt entered it too, something almost protective, as though Jisung had insulted a person Chan loved in front of him.
“Don’t call yourself that.”
“I don’t mean morally,” Jisung said, trying to laugh. “I mean I smell like I’ve been marinating in this gym.”
Chan’s hand slid from his ankle to his calf, then higher, stroking the sweat-warmed skin with a solemnity that did not match the joke.
“Yes.”
The agreement should have humiliated him.
The reverence did something much worse.
“Chan.”
His husband leaned closer, one palm flattening against the mat beside Jisung’s hip.
“Do you know what you’ve smelled like for the last half hour?”
“Please don’t answer that.”
“You.”
Jisung’s attempted smile disappeared.
Chan settled his other hand beside Jisung’s waist, caging him without placing any weight on him. Up close, the careful control in his face had begun to split at the seams. The dark, almond-shaped eyes Jisung knew to be patient were blown nearly black; damp hair curved over his forehead, and his full mouth remained parted beneath the straight line of his nose as though even speaking required effort. A pulse beat visibly along the strong edge of his jaw.
“I could smell your soap when we came down,” Chan said. “The lotion on your chest. Your detergent.”
His nose brushed Jisung’s damp temple, barely touching, and Jisung felt the inhale that followed all the way down his spine.
“Then you started warming up.”
Jisung’s fingers curled against the mat.
“And every clean little thing you put on this morning started fading.”
Chan breathed again beside his ear, deeper this time, the sound indecently appreciative in the quiet room.
“Now you smell like yourself.”
“I smell sweaty,” Jisung whispered.
“Yes.”
“Chan.”
“Yes.”
The second answer came lower, roughened by something needier than lust alone.
Jisung stared at him, waiting for the teasing curve of Chan’s mouth, the fond laugh that would make the exchange ordinary again. It never came. Instead Chan lowered his face into the side of Jisung’s neck, the paler plane of his cheek sliding over Jisung’s honey-warm throat, his first breath restrained and his second so deep his shoulders visibly lifted with it, and a low sound rolled out of him, part groan and part relief, vibrating against Jisung’s damp skin.
“Oh,” Jisung breathed.
There it was.
The realization.
Chan was not overlooking the sweat because he loved him, was not magnanimously accepting an imperfect version of his husband while waiting for soap and hot water to make him desirable again. He wanted this version—the one left behind after hours beneath the sun, after coffee and errands and laughing in crowded aisles, after strain and effort and Chan’s hands correcting him through every repetition. Everyone else received the deliberate Jisung: clean shirts, chosen fragrances, hair styled to look as if it had fallen that way by accident, every private odor erased before he stepped into the world.
Chan wanted what remained when all of it wore away.
Jisung tried to sit up fully, but Chan followed him immediately, looping one arm around his waist and pressing his face more firmly beneath Jisung’s jaw.
“You are sniffing me.”
“Yes.”
“Like an animal.”
A pleased hum met his skin.
“Chan.”
Another inhale, long enough that Jisung felt it stir the wet hair at his neck.
His humiliation arrived hot and electric, rushing beneath his honey-toned skin until warmth darkened the tips of his ears and bloomed visibly across the rounded apples of his cheeks. Instinct told him to twist away, to cover himself, to retreat upstairs where he could scrub every trace of the day from his body, but Chan held him with such naked hunger that the urge tangled with something else—something warm, vain and startlingly tender. There was nowhere to hide, and some private part of Jisung did not actually want to.
“You like it that much?”
Chan lifted his head.
His expression was almost painfully open. “I’ve been trying not to touch you since your second set.”
“You were touching me the entire time.”
“I was trying not to touch you like this.”
His hand spread over Jisung’s waist, fingers flexing against the soaked fabric.
The distinction made heat coil low in Jisung’s body.
“You were standing behind me,” he said slowly, assembling the truth piece by piece, “pretending to be my responsible trainer while thinking about how I smelled.”
“I wasn’t pretending to be responsible.”
“You were thinking about it.”
Chan closed his eyes for half a second. “Yes.”
“How long?”
“All afternoon.”
Jisung’s embarrassment began changing shape. It did not disappear; it sharpened, brightened, became edged with power. He had watched Chan remain calm through emergencies that left other people shaking, had seen him explain frightening injuries without frightening the person receiving the news, had watched him silence a crowded room merely by lowering his voice. Chan was no taller than Jisung, but he was built so much more densely that he seemed larger wherever he stood: broad through the shoulders, thick across the chest and arms, pale skin fitted closely over compact muscle, composed and competent to the point of intimidation, a man who carried authority as naturally as breath.
And now he was kneeling between Jisung’s legs, breathing as though ordinary air had become insufficient.
Because of him.
Not perfume. Not lingerie. Not some polished seduction painstakingly assembled beneath flattering light.
Sweat. Warm skin. Jisung after.
He placed one hand against Chan’s chest. “Sit back.”
Chan obeyed before he appeared to realize he had done it.
Jisung’s brows lifted.
The surprise on Chan’s face might have made him laugh under any other circumstances. Instead Jisung shifted his lean body forward on aching muscles, narrow knees brushing Chan’s thicker thighs, and curled his fine-boned hand around the back of his neck.
“You really want me like this?”
Chan’s arms tightened reflexively around his hips. “Yes.”
“Without showering.”
“Yes.”
“Even though I’ve been wearing these clothes since lunch?”
Chan’s eyes darkened. “Yes.”
Jisung drew him closer until Chan’s nose pressed against the damp center of his chest through the thin tank.
Chan shuddered.
It travelled through his whole body, visible in the tense line of his broad shoulders, muscle bunching beneath pale skin, and the way his fingers dug into Jisung’s waist before immediately loosening, careful even while coming apart. The reaction passed into Jisung through every point of contact and left his own breath unsteady.
“Breathe,” Jisung whispered.
Chan did.
A rough, hungry inhale filled the space between them.
“Again.”
This one came deeper, accompanied by a helpless hum that warmed the soaked fabric over Jisung’s sternum.
Jisung understood, suddenly and completely, why Chan sometimes smiled when he begged. There was an intoxicating tenderness in watching someone powerful surrender willingly—not break, exactly, but open, laying down control because he trusted the person holding it.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“You’re supposed to be embarrassed.”
“I’m past that.”
“Obviously.”
Chan turned his face and pressed an open-mouthed kiss through the damp shirt, then another lower, tasting salt through cotton. The appreciative sound that left him was so involuntary that Jisung’s abdomen tightened beneath his mouth.
“Is that what you were trying not to do during my sets?”
“Yes.”
“You wanted to kneel here and smell me?”
“Yes.”
Jisung slid his fingers into Chan’s thick black hair and drew his head back just enough to see the strong jaw, full mouth and dark eyes gone unguarded beneath him. “Tell me properly.”
For the first time, shame flickered across Chan’s face—not shame about wanting Jisung, but about the depth of it being witnessed. His gaze dropped. Jisung stroked his thumb over the damp hair at his temple.
“Come on,” he coaxed, softer now. “You’ve already been caught.”
Chan swallowed. “I wanted to put my face against you.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
“Chan.”
The warning carried no real severity, and they both knew it.
Chan’s hands tightened. “Where you smelled strongest.”
The words were restrained. His expression was not.
Jisung’s body answered before his pride could, heat gathering beneath the damp fabric between his thighs. Chan noticed. Of course he noticed; his eyes moved downward and his lips parted, but he did not touch until Jisung gave the slightest nod.
That was all it took.
Chan moved with the contained violence of a man who had been waiting hours for permission. One hand caught the waistband of Jisung’s shorts and dragged them down over his hips, not careless enough to hurt him but far rougher than the measured hands that had guided his form a minute before, and Jisung barely had time to lift himself before the fabric was shoved to his knees. Cool air struck his slim, sweat-shining thighs, raising gooseflesh over skin several shades warmer than Chan’s hands. Beneath the shorts, his black briefs had gone dark along the center and clung tightly to him, holding the heat of his body against the thin material.
Chan stopped breathing.
Jisung saw the moment the sight reached him, saw the rigid line of his shoulders falter and the hunger in his face turn almost dazed. He tried automatically to draw his knees together.
Chan caught them.
“Wait.”
“I told you,” Jisung said, face burning as he looked anywhere except his husband. “I sweated through everything. Let me shower first and then you can—”
Chan pressed his face straight into the damp fabric between Jisung’s spread thighs.
The sentence shattered.
A low, needy whine left Chan before his nose had even settled firmly against him, the sound dragged out of somewhere too deep for dignity. Then he inhaled, long and loud, shoulders shaking beneath Jisung’s hands as the concentrated warmth trapped beneath the briefs filled his lungs: the clean salt of worked skin, the deeper musk gathered beneath his balls and between his thighs, the intimate earthy sweetness of his ass after an entire day sealed beneath fabric and an hour of hard exercise.
“Fuck,” Chan groaned, the word muffled into him.
Jisung’s whole body flashed hot.
“You’re actually—Chan, oh my God.”
Chan rubbed his face against the clinging briefs like he could not get close enough, nose dragging from the damp weight of Jisung’s cock to the seam pressing between his cheeks, breathing in short, greedy pulls now, each one accompanied by a broken hum of appreciation. There was nothing elegant in it, nothing composed. He looked less like the physician who had counted every careful repetition and more like a starving animal finally given the scent it had followed home.
Jisung’s hands flew to his curls, uncertain whether to push him away or hold him there. “You’re disgusting.”
Chan moaned.
The sound vibrated directly against him.
“That wasn’t praise.”
Another inhale.
“Chan.”
“So good,” he said against the fabric, voice rough and nearly incoherent. “You smell so fucking good.”
Jisung’s thighs trembled on either side of his head. “I smell like sweat.”
“Yes.” Chan mouthed at the damp bulge through the cloth, lips closing over the shape of him while his tongue dragged slowly along the material. “Yours. Warm. Been thinking about this all day.”
The wet heat of his mouth soaked through immediately, making the already-clinging fabric slicker, more transparent, and Jisung’s cock hardened helplessly beneath it. Chan felt the change against his tongue and made another pleased sound, deep and grateful enough that Jisung had to bite his lip.
“You sound like you’re eating something expensive.”
“My favorite thing.”
Before Jisung could retaliate, Chan kissed him through the cloth, then turned his face lower and pressed his nose firmly into the seam covering Jisung’s hole.
His entire body jolted.
The inhale that followed seemed to empty the room of air. Chan’s eyes closed, and the groan that broke out of him was so raw that Jisung’s cock twitched against the wet fabric.
“Hyung.”
“Hannie.”
The single word came out ruined.
Jisung stared down at the broad, pale shoulders wedged between his honey-toned thighs, at the man shamelessly grinding his face against the sweatiest, most private part of him, and felt embarrassment collapsing beneath a rush of stunned arousal. Chan was not teasing him. He was not performing filth because he thought it would excite Jisung. His reactions were too immediate, too physical: the tremor in his hands, the frantic rise of his chest, the way his hips shifted against nothing as if his body had forgotten it was not being touched.
“You really like my ass that much?” Jisung asked, quieter.
Chan turned his mouth against the fabric over his hole and breathed there. “I love it.”
“Even like this?”
“Especially like this.”
His tongue pressed flat against the seam.
Jisung gasped.
Chan licked slowly upward through the briefs, from the tight heat of his hole to the heavy curve beneath his balls, leaving the material soaked and cold for one second before the heat of his breath covered it again. He did it twice, three times, each stroke accompanied by a low hum that seemed to travel straight through Jisung’s pelvis, and when Jisung’s legs tried to close from the sensation, Chan spread them wider with both hands.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, lifting his head just enough that Jisung could see his face.
His pale cheeks were flushed rose. His full mouth shone, damp black hair had fallen untidily into his eyes, and the solemn attention in them had returned beneath the hunger.
Jisung’s heart turned over.
“I don’t.”
Chan searched him for another beat. “You’re sure?”
Jisung hooked one leg over his shoulder and drew him back down. “I said I don’t.”
The sound Chan made then was almost gratitude.
He caught the waistband of the briefs between his teeth and eased it down inch by inch, his hands guiding the fabric carefully over the narrow, elegant line of Jisung’s hips until he was bared beneath him—small and delicately proportioned, flushed a tender pink against the honey-gold warmth of his skin, pretty in precisely the same way the rest of him was pretty, as though anything heavier or more imposing would have looked wrong against that slender waist, those fine-boned hips, and the soft vulnerability of his body. There was nothing lacking in it, nothing unfinished; it suited him perfectly, neat and sensitive and unmistakably Jisung, and the sight of him made something helpless pass across Chan’s face.
For one suspended second, Chan simply looked.
His pupils widened, his expression turning reverent enough to make heat rush over Jisung’s skin, and then he lowered his head, pressing close with the breathless concentration of a man being allowed near something precious.
Jisung’s head touched the mat softly.
“Fuck.”
Chan nuzzled into the warm skin there, his mouth brushing gentle, worshipful kisses while a needy sound worked out of him, low enough that Jisung felt it resonate through his body more than he heard it.
“My pretty husband,” Chan murmured, the words roughened by affection. “Everything about you fits together so perfectly. These little hips, your warm honey skin, how small and pretty you are here—fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.”
Jisung’s fingers tightened in his hair, embarrassment and pleasure blooming together until he could no longer tell one from the other.
“I’m starting to get a clue.”
Chan laughed once, breathlessly, and closed his mouth around one ball with exquisite care, sucking just enough to pull a strangled noise from Jisung before letting it slip wetly from his lips. His tongue moved over the other, broad and hot, while his nose remained buried against him, still breathing, still taking in every trace of the day Jisung had wanted to wash away.
Jisung’s fingers tightened in his hair. “You’re like a fucking dog.”
Chan looked up from between his thighs, eyes dark and cheeks flushed. “Yours.”
The answer landed harder than it should have.
Jisung tugged his hair. “Then behave.”
Chan’s lashes lowered.
It was extraordinary, watching the change. The man between his legs was physically stronger, broad enough to pin Jisung down with one arm, disciplined enough to command rooms and carry frightened people through pain, yet at one word from his husband his whole body softened into attention.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Jisung’s pulse jumped. He was still embarrassed, painfully, deliciously aware that he was sweaty and spread open on a gym mat, but the embarrassment had become part of the pleasure now, something Chan kept transforming into praise each time he breathed him in.
“Show me what you’ve been thinking about all afternoon.”
Chan’s restraint broke again.
He pushed Jisung’s thighs back toward his chest, folding him open with his hands braced beneath his knees, and the position exposed everything: his hard cock resting against his stomach, his balls drawn tight, the small dark rim of his hole already damp from sweat and Chan’s mouth. Cool air touched him for barely a second before Chan lowered his face.
The first contact was only his nose.
He pressed it directly against Jisung’s hole and inhaled.
Jisung covered his face with one hand. “Oh my God.”
Chan groaned like the scent had struck him physically, hips jerking against the mat. His tongue followed, broad and wet, drawing one slow stripe over Jisung’s rim from below, and every muscle in Jisung’s body tightened at once.
“Chan—”
Another lick, slower.
The heat of it was shocking against skin cooled by air, the texture of Chan’s tongue rougher than Jisung remembered until saliva softened the drag; Chan circled the rim with the tip, tasting him without hurry despite the frantic sounds escaping his throat, then flattened his tongue and pressed upward again, mouth opening against Jisung as though he intended to consume every inch he could reach.
Jisung’s hand fell away from his face.
Chan was making noises continuously now, low hums each time he tasted the sweat gathered there, broken groans when Jisung’s hips shifted toward him, little muffled sounds of protest whenever Jisung instinctively pulled away from the intensity. His appreciation filled the room, shameless and involuntary, turning every lick into praise.
“So good,” he gasped, pausing only long enough to breathe directly against the wet rim. “Fuck, baby, you taste so good like this.”
“Dirty?” Jisung asked, the word barely audible.
Chan’s eyes lifted.
Jisung felt the vulnerability of the question only after it had left him. Chan did too. His hands softened on Jisung’s thighs.
“Natural,” he said. “Warm. Salty. You.”
Then, because Chan knew him too well to leave anything uncertain, he kissed the center of him with impossible tenderness.
“Nothing about you is dirty to me.”
Jisung swallowed around the sudden pressure in his throat.
“That was entirely too romantic for what you’re doing.”
Chan smiled against him. “I’m your husband. I can multitask.”
“You’re a menace.”
His tongue pressed inside.
Jisung’s retort vanished into a sharp cry.
Chan’s grip tightened beneath his knees as he worked the pointed tip past the resistant ring, not forcing, only circling and pressing until Jisung’s body yielded around him. The intrusion was shallow but intense, a slick, pulsing stretch that made Jisung’s hips jerk against his face. Chan moaned at the response and pushed deeper, tongue moving in slow, deliberate thrusts while his nose rubbed beneath Jisung’s balls.
The combination was obscene. Every time Chan breathed, Jisung felt the flare of his nostrils against oversensitive skin; every time his tongue withdrew, cool air rushed over the wet opening before heat returned. The gym’s ventilation hummed overhead, indifferent and steady, while the slick sounds of Chan’s mouth filled the empty room.
Jisung’s flushed cock throbbed untouched against his abdomen.
Chan noticed that too.
One hand left Jisung’s thigh and wrapped around him, engulfing his small cock, palm warm and slightly rough from weights, and the first slow stroke drew a helpless sound out of Jisung’s chest. Chan’s thumb spread the bead of precome over the flushed head, then his grip moved down in rhythm with his tongue, long and unhurried at first, as though he intended to make Jisung feel every distinct sensation until there was no room left in his body for shame.
“You spent the whole workout thinking about this,” Jisung said, words breaking between breaths. “Standing there acting normal while you wanted to get your face in my ass.”
Chan groaned into him.
“That’s a yes?”
His hand tightened around Jisung’s cock.
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
Chan lifted his mouth only long enough to answer, lips wet and swollen. “I could smell you every time you lifted your hips.”
Jisung’s abdomen clenched.
“I had my hands on your waist and all I could think about was pulling these shorts down.”
He licked over Jisung’s hole again, slow enough to make the words feel embedded in the sensation.
“Thought about getting on my knees behind you. Thought about pressing my face into you while you were still hot from the set. Thought about making you understand exactly what you smell like to me.”
Jisung’s breath shook. “And what do I smell like?”
Chan’s gaze locked with his.
“Mine.”
The answer shot through him.
Jisung reached down, gripped Chan’s hair and dragged him upward, not away but closer, until Chan’s face was pressed flush between his cheeks again.
“Then breathe.”
Chan obeyed.
The inhale was ragged enough to become a whine.
“Again.”
He did, shoulders shaking.
Jisung watched his husband’s control dissolve beneath him and felt his own confidence rise in its place, no longer merely enduring the attention but directing it. He shifted his hips deliberately, rubbing the wet rim against Chan’s mouth, and Chan followed without hesitation, tongue reaching, hands gripping him as though Jisung were the only stable thing in the room.
“Look at you,” Jisung murmured. “My responsible doctor.”
Chan’s eyes closed.
“My good, controlled husband.”
A broken groan met his skin.
“Reduced to this because I skipped one shower.”
Chan’s hand began moving faster around Jisung’s cock.
Jisung tightened his fingers in his hair. “No. Stop.”
Chan froze immediately.
The instant obedience made Jisung ache.
“Did I hurt you?” Chan asked, breathless but alert.
“No.” Jisung pushed weakly at his shoulder. “Lie down.”
Understanding moved across Chan’s face, followed by a flare of hunger so naked it nearly made Jisung lose his nerve.
He did not.
Chan lowered himself to the mat, his dense, pale body stretching beneath the amber light from broad shoulders to thick thighs, and Jisung climbed over him on trembling legs that looked longer and finer by contrast. Chan’s hands came automatically to his hips, steadying without directing, while Jisung positioned himself above his face.
For one second he hesitated.
From here the vulnerability felt different. Chan had already seen and tasted everything, but sitting over him made Jisung acutely aware of his own weight, the sweat still cooling along the backs of his thighs, the fact that the most intimate part of him hovered inches above Chan’s waiting mouth.
Chan looked up.
“Come here, baby.”
There was no mockery in him, only hunger and trust.
Jisung lowered himself.
Chan’s first breath against him was so deep that Jisung felt the pull of it. Then his mouth opened, tongue sliding hot over the center of him as his hands guided Jisung down until the soft weight of his body rested fully across Chan’s face.
Chan moaned.
The sound was muffled, almost swallowed by Jisung, and the vibration travelled through his pelvis in a wave. Chan’s nose pressed exactly where he had wanted it, buried against the sweat-warm skin beneath Jisung’s balls whenever Jisung leaned forward and directly against his slick hole whenever he rocked back. Each shift gave him another place to breathe, another taste, and he reacted to every one with the helpless enthusiasm of someone being rewarded.
“You wanted this?” Jisung asked, bracing one hand against the mat above Chan’s head.
Chan nodded beneath him, the movement rubbing his face deeper between Jisung’s thighs.
“Use your words.”
“Yes.”
The answer came muffled into his skin.
“You wanted your sweaty husband sitting on your face?”
“Yes.”
“Wanted my ass right on your nose?”
Chan’s fingers dug into his hips. “Fuck, yes.”
Jisung rocked back.
Chan inhaled sharply and pushed his tongue inside at the same time, and the combined sensation tore a cry from Jisung before he could swallow it. His thighs closed around Chan’s head. Instead of resisting, Chan made a low sound of satisfaction and held him more securely, accepting the pressure, licking deeper whenever Jisung’s body clenched around his tongue.
The realization that Chan liked the weight changed something in Jisung. He stopped holding himself carefully above him and settled down, giving Chan exactly what he had begged for, and Chan’s answering groan shook through them both. His mouth became relentless—long strokes over the wet rim, quick flicks that made Jisung jerk, slow thrusts of tongue inside whenever Jisung rocked backward—while his hands stroked up and down Jisung’s thighs as though worshipping the muscles he had just worked into exhaustion.
Jisung reached between his own legs and wrapped a hand around his leaking cock.
Chan saw.
His eyes opened beneath him, dark and unfocused, and the sight of that broad, pale, controlled man trapped willingly beneath Jisung’s slimmer honey-toned body while Jisung stroked himself over his face made pleasure gather with frightening speed.
“You like watching?” Jisung asked.
Chan answered with a desperate hum.
“Then keep your eyes open.”
He did.
Jisung stroked himself slowly at first, the slick head dragging through his palm while Chan’s tongue worked him open from below. Sweat prickled along his back again. His thighs trembled from the workout and from the effort of holding himself upright, and every tremor pressed him harder into Chan’s mouth, earning another appreciative sound.
Chan’s own hips had begun moving beneath him.
Jisung glanced back and saw the enticingly thick line of his cock straining beneath his shorts, saw Chan trying to grind against the fabric without taking his hands from Jisung’s body.
“Oh,” Jisung breathed, delighted. “You’re that hard.”
Chan whined.
“Take it out.”
One of Chan’s hands left his hip long enough to shove his shorts and underwear down. His cock sprang against his stomach, flushed and wet at the tip, the veins of it even more prominent now, and he wrapped his fist around it immediately.
“No.”
Chan stopped again, breathing hard beneath Jisung.
Jisung looked over his shoulder. “Hands back on me.”
The frustration that crossed Chan’s face was almost comical, but he obeyed, placing both hands around Jisung’s hips while his cock throbbed untouched against his abdomen.
“You said you’ve been hard since my third set.”
Chan nodded.
“You said you needed my smell.”
Another nod.
“Then that’s what you get.”
Chan’s eyes rolled shut for a moment.
Jisung tightened his thighs around his head. “Eyes open.”
They opened again.
There was something almost devastating in the obedience: Chan trusting Jisung enough to remain exposed, needy and denied while Jisung used his mouth for pleasure. Jisung leaned back, pressed himself fully over Chan’s nose and rolled his hips in a slow circle.
“Breathe.”
Chan inhaled.
The scent was strongest here, trapped all afternoon and intensified by sweat, heat and Chan’s own saliva, and Jisung watched the effect move through him, the violent shudder, the flex of his abdomen, the desperate twitch of his cock against bare skin.
“Again.”
Chan’s second inhale broke into a groan.
His tongue pushed inside Jisung at the same time, thick and wet, and Jisung’s hand accelerated around his cock. Pleasure climbed sharply, every stroke of his fist answered by Chan’s tongue, every rocking movement feeding Chan more of the scent that had reduced him to this.
“You like it,” Jisung whispered, half accusation and half wonder. “You really fucking like it.”
Chan nodded frantically beneath him.
“My ass all sweaty on your face.”
A rough moan.
“My balls against your nose.”
Chan’s cock jerked.
“You’re going to come just from smelling me, aren’t you?”
The sound Chan made was answer enough.
Jisung’s own climax gathered low and hot, tightening through his abdomen and drawing his balls close. He rocked forward, fed the slick head of his cock through his fist faster, then back again so Chan’s tongue could press deep inside him.
“Make noise,” Jisung said, breath breaking. “I want to hear how much you like me, hyung.”
Chan did.
Every sound came muffled beneath his body: deep groans when Jisung ground down, needy whines whenever the tight ring clenched around his tongue, breathless hums of appreciation that never fully stopped. The noises vibrated through Jisung until sensation seemed to fill every inch of him, until he could no longer separate the pleasure of Chan’s mouth from the pleasure of being wanted this completely.
“Chan—”
His rhythm faltered.
Chan felt it and tightened his grip, holding Jisung steady while his tongue worked faster, in and out, then broad over the rim, then inside again. His nose remained buried against him, breathing in every time Jisung’s hips lifted enough to allow it.
Jisung looked down at the dark hair spread beneath him, at the rose flush vivid over Chan’s pale cheekbones and strong jaw, at his full mouth parted and his eyes gone dark and unfocused, and the sight tipped him over.
His orgasm broke through him hard enough to empty his lungs. He cried out, fist tightening around his cock as come spilled hot across his own hand and stomach, each pulse accompanied by a helpless clench around Chan’s tongue. Chan moaned through it, kept licking, kept breathing, holding Jisung safely even when his thighs shook so violently he could no longer support himself.
The pleasure had barely begun to ebb when Chan’s entire body went rigid beneath him.
Jisung felt the change through his knees, the sudden locked tension in Chan’s abdomen and the way his fingers seized around Jisung’s hips.
“Hyung?”
A strangled groan answered him.
Jisung twisted enough to look back.
Chan’s heavy, engorged cock was untouched, lying thick and flushed against his stomach, but it jerked once, twice, and then come spilled in hot streaks over his abdomen as his body shuddered beneath Jisung’s weight.
The sight sent a smaller aftershock through Jisung.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “You’re actually coming.”
Chan’s eyes squeezed shut.
Jisung rocked down against his mouth once more, not cruelly, only giving him the scent and pressure he had begged for. Chan came harder, a broken, guttural noise vibrating directly through Jisung’s oversensitive body as another pulse streaked his stomach.
“That’s it,” Jisung murmured, wonder softening the tease. He stroked a hand through Chan’s hair. “My good boy, Channie. Breathe.”
Chan obeyed even through the climax, taking one ragged inhale against him before his entire body sagged.
For several seconds neither moved.
Jisung remained draped over Chan, panting, his legs trembling and his skin cooling wherever sweat met air. Chan’s arms stayed wrapped around his hips. His mouth had gone still, but his nose remained pressed against Jisung as if even after coming he could not bear to surrender the last traces of him to the room.
Eventually Jisung lifted himself enough to let Chan breathe normally.
Chan made a small sound of protest.
Jisung stared down at him. Chan’s pale face was flushed from forehead to throat, the color vivid over his cheekbones and the strong edge of his jaw; his full lips were swollen and shining, his chin wet, and his black hair had been pulled into complete disorder across his brow. The composed physician who had begun the afternoon correcting Jisung’s knee alignment now looked thoroughly ruined beneath him.
“You,” Jisung said, breathless, “are a fucking animal.”
Chan turned his face and pressed one last reverent kiss to Jisung’s hole.
“My favorite animal?”
“That isn’t how that works.”
Jisung shifted off him carefully and collapsed onto the mat at his side. Chan followed immediately, rolling toward him and resting his cheek against Jisung’s slick inner thigh.
“Do not start again.”
“I’m not.”
Chan’s nose nudged lazily beneath his softening cock.
“You are literally still sniffing me.”
“I’m recovering.”
“From what? Your own depravity?”
Chan inhaled one last time, eyes closing with visible contentment. “Five minutes.”
Jisung began laughing, too exhausted to stop it. “You came without touching yourself and you’re asking for more?”
“Five more minutes.”
“The shower is upstairs.”
Chan’s face fell so immediately that Jisung laughed harder.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that.”
“You’re going to wash it off.”
“Yes, that is generally the purpose of a shower.”
Chan tightened his arm around Jisung’s thigh. “Five.”
“You’ve had considerably longer than five.”
“Please.”
The quiet sincerity of it softened Jisung despite himself. He stroked his thumb over Chan’s damp temple, taking in the absurd image of his broad, heavily built husband folded between Jisung’s slender legs like a man who had finally reached sanctuary.
“Fine,” he said. “Five.”
Chan settled more comfortably against him with a satisfied exhale.
“And then we’re bathing.”
“Together?”
“Obviously. I cannot leave you unsupervised after this.”
Chan kissed his thigh.
Jisung looked down at the man who wanted every version he had once feared might be unlovable, who had taken the thing Jisung considered embarrassing and devoured it with gratitude, and felt something soft turn over beneath his ribs.
“Five minutes,” he repeated, quieter.
Chan closed his eyes. “More than enough.”
It was not.
Twenty minutes later, Jisung finally dragged him upstairs.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂
The bathwater was nearly hidden beneath bubbles.
Chan had used too much soap, perhaps as penance or perhaps because he approached aftercare with the same excessive seriousness he applied to everything else, and now white foam rose around them in soft, fragrant hills, clinging to his thick, pale forearms where they circled Jisung’s narrow waist. Steam silvered the mirror and softened the room’s edges. Jisung sat sideways across Chan’s lap, his slender frame fitting easily inside the circle of Chan’s denser one, freshly washed from hair to toes, honey-toned skin gleaming warmly through the bubbles and damp black strands falling around his softly rounded cheeks.
He had been silent for nearly a full minute.
Chan knew better than to disturb him.
Jisung turned his head slowly.
“You,” he said, “are an animal.”
Chan kissed his shoulder. “So you’ve mentioned.”
“You put your face in my post-workout underwear.”
“I remember.”
“You sniffed me.”
“Yes.”
“Loudly.”
“I was breathing.”
“You were huffing me like paint thinner.”
Chan’s mouth twitched.
“Do not laugh. I am conducting a serious review of your behavior.”
“I can tell.”
“You whined.”
Chan’s ears reddened.
Jisung’s eyes narrowed with delighted discovery. “Oh, now you’re embarrassed?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m sitting naked in a bath with you. I’m not embarrassed.”
“You came because your nose was buried in my ripe ass.”
Chan looked toward the fogged mirror.
Jisung twisted in his lap. Water sloshed softly against the tub. “Look at me.”
“I’m washing your shoulder.”
“You are hiding.”
“I am providing aftercare.”
“You are blushing.”
Chan sighed.
Jisung looked unbearably pleased. “My big, strong husband, respected physician, completely defeated by one sweaty bussy.”
“Never call it that again.”
“You had your tongue in it ten minutes ago. You’ve forfeited the right to object to terminology.”
“That isn’t what I’m objecting to.”
“What are you objecting to?”
Chan muttered something beneath his breath.
Jisung leaned closer. “What?”
“I said it wasn’t one little thing.”
There was a beat of silence.
Jisung smacked his chest so hard the bubbles jumped.
Chan laughed, caught his wrist before he could do it again and kissed the wet knuckles one by one.
“You liked it,” Jisung accused, though the answer was written across every inch of Chan’s softened face.
“I loved it.”
The teasing quieted.
Chan’s thumb traced slowly over Jisung’s fingers beneath the steam.
“Was it really not gross?” Jisung asked.
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“Not to me.”
Jisung studied his face. Chan did not laugh, did not soften the truth into something polite because he thought Jisung needed reassurance. He simply held him, his broad, pale chest solid against Jisung’s warmer, slighter side, expression open in the way it was only ever open here.
“You really wanted me before the shower.”
“Yes.”
“More than after?”
“No.” Chan adjusted him more securely in his lap, one arm beneath his knees and the other around his waist. “Different.”
“How?”
“After, you smell clean. Soft. Like the things you chose.”
He kissed Jisung’s temple, where the scent of shampoo had replaced salt.
“Before, you smell like the day we had.”
Jisung’s mouth parted.
“The coffee shop. The sun. The market. The workout. Me touching you through every set.” Chan’s hand moved in a slow circle over his stomach beneath the bubbles. “It’s all still there. Your body keeps the day after everything else is over.”
“That is disgustingly romantic for something so disgusting.”
“It isn’t disgusting.”
“You put your face in places I was actively trying to wash.”
“My favorite places.”
“Animal.”
“My princess.”
Jisung tried to maintain his offended expression, but Chan’s thick arms were warm around his narrow middle, the water was easing the deep ache in his hips, and his husband had begun rubbing slow circles into the muscle of his thigh with exactly the right amount of pressure.
“You can’t behave like that and then sit here acting domesticated.”
“I am domesticated.”
“You ate me on the gym floor.”
“The matts were clean.”
“That is not the point.”
“I wiped the equipment first.”
Jisung stared at him.
Chan stared back with complete sincerity.
“You planned it?”
“No. I’m hygienic.”
Jisung dissolved into helpless laughter, burying his warm, rounded cheek against the strong pale column of Chan’s neck while the water trembled around them. Chan held him through it, smiling into his damp hair, and the absurdity of the afternoon settled into something so warm that Jisung’s chest ached.
When the laughter faded, he remained tucked beneath Chan’s chin.
“You really love every version of me,” he said quietly.
Chan’s arms tightened. “There isn’t a version I don’t love.”
“Even the sweaty one.”
“Especially him.”
“The one who gets anxious and forgets to eat.”
“Him too.”
“The one who gets dramatic during leg day.”
“That one is difficult.”
Jisung pinched his side.
Chan laughed and kissed his forehead. “All of you.”
Jisung breathed in the clean, familiar scent of his husband’s warm skin. “You know this is going to make me unbearable.”
“You were already unbearable.”
“I mean worse. I know I can ruin you by existing near you without showering.”
Chan’s heartbeat changed beneath his ear.
Jisung lifted his head, delighted. “See?”
“Don’t weaponize it.”
“I absolutely will.”
“Jisung.”
“You spent an entire afternoon pretending you were interested in my form while secretly tracking the scent of my ass through every rep. You have no moral authority here.”
“I was interested in your form.”
“And my ass.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive.”
Jisung considered this. “Fair.”
Chan reached for the washcloth and began cleaning the last trace of dried sweat from the honey-toned curve of Jisung’s shoulder with absurd gentleness.
“You’re washing the gym mat tomorrow,” Jisung informed him.
“Of course.”
“And carrying me to bed.”
“Yes.”
“And getting takeout.”
“What do you want?”
“Something expensive.”
“Obviously.”
“And dessert.”
“Two desserts.”
Jisung looked back at him. “You may remain my husband.”
Chan smiled.
Jisung immediately pointed a wet finger at him. “Do not think this means I’m skipping showers for you.”
“I wouldn’t ask.”
“You looked devastated when I mentioned one.”
“I wasn’t finished with you yet.”
“You’re insane.”
“For you.”
Jisung rolled his eyes, but his hand found Chan’s beneath the bubbles and laced their fingers together.
Several peaceful seconds passed, filled only by the faint drip of condensation from the faucet and Chan’s thumb stroking over Jisung’s knuckles.
Then Jisung said, with careful casualness, “Next Saturday, we should probably work legs again.”
Chan went still.
Jisung stared ahead with innocent concentration. “For consistency.”
“Of course.”
“And I suppose there’s no point showering before the gym.”
“No point at all.”
Jisung felt Chan’s heartbeat accelerate against his back.
His lips curved.
“Animal,” he repeated fondly.
Chan buried his face against the warm honey skin of Jisung’s clean neck, Chan’s black hair brushing Jisung’s rounded cheek, and breathed him in anyway.
“Mine,” Jisung added.
Chan’s arms tightened around him.
“Always.”