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Time changes consistency, Hyunjin always finds, when only one of them is asleep. Like this: honey-viscous one moment, or two or three or a thousand, and then all at once thin and cloudy like paint-muddled wastewater. Slipping through his fingers. Then lube-tacky, like an unloved toy, like spit drying on skin. He doesn’t know how long he’s been doing this. He knows it doesn’t matter.
Changbin stirs in his sleep but does not wake. He always does: a twitch of his lips as Hyunjin drags his hands across Changbin’s body, a little furrow in his brow if Hyunjin is stretching him, a wordless grumble if Hyunjin is touching his cock. He sleeps restlessly but resolutely. He’s so cute. Always is, like this. Hyunjin had not wanted to disturb him, at first; had woken up next to him with an itch under his skin and a surliness he knew would only be blown away by getting off, his body holding him hostage until it got what it demanded. That had been — hours ago? Minutes, moments? Hyunjin long ago trained himself out of looking at the clock when he couldn’t sleep, because otherwise he would watch the hours tick by with bitter ire, would berate himself and his body for it. No. He has permission to do whatever he needs to do to relax; he has given himself permission to be awake. His therapist had insisted upon it.
He has permission to use what he wants. (”What’s mine is yours,” Changbin had said, with a broad silly grin, unselfconscious. No, not quite — maybe unabashed. Hyunjin had looked at him hard and said “Are you quite sure,” not knowing why his own breath was sitting too shallow in his stomach until Changbin had tilted his head and said, seriously, “Hyunjinnie. Yes. You’re not catching anything from a dildo that you haven’t already caught from me, right?”) It hadn’t scratched the itch. This, now, does. Better. Time had gone from syrupy to see-through when the blunt ache of Changbin’s cock had bullied Hyunjin open — a little too soon, a little too dry. Probably wasn’t as nice for Changbin that way. Hyunjin liked it better. And anyway, Changbin was — is — only dreaming.
The drag of it is clarifying and demanding, reduces Hyunjin from his scattered brain to his coiled body, the tension in it, the release. Changbin’s cock is smaller than his own dildo, the one Hyunjin had abandoned on the other side of the room hours-minutes-moments ago when it became clear it wouldn’t satisfy him — but blood-hot, skin-soft. Perfect. Irritatingly perfect. It pisses Hyunjin off sometimes, how Changbin is always his answer; how he is always what Hyunjin needs.
How Hyunjin always needs him. Which is the same thing, maybe, but somehow worse.
Beneath him, Changbin makes a breathless half-groan, shifts his hips minutely and spears Hyunjin more squarely upon him without even knowing it; of course it’s so effortless for him, Hyunjin thinks a little nastily, his head sticky with wanting Changbin, of course he can do it in his sleep, of course it’s still the best Hyunjin’s ever had. Of course. It had always felt so consuming, needing him. So natural, inevitable, that Hyunjin had forgotten to be embarrassed about it for years and years — back when he was so skinny it was easy to drag him around, when Hyunjin could get one arm around Changbin’s waist and use it to keep him where he was, when Changbin couldn’t stare back at him for too long without going slightly flushed and making it into a joke. Laughing. Loudly, that staccato rich-man bullet-rattle of a thing.
He’s quiet now. Hyunjin can’t drag him around now. Maybe that was inevitable too. Changbin — laid out on his own sheets in an old, ragged t-shirt that Hyunjin has pushed up to bare his belly, his hair dark and a little curly from having been washed — makes another, more insistent grumbling sound, and this time Hyunjin knows he’s actually coming awake. Slowly, inevitably. Fine. Good. Let him see what he’s been missing out on.
Hyunjin’s thighs are just tired enough for him to feel the faint ache, a much duller thing than the bluntness inside him, by the time Changbin’s hands come up to settle on his hips. His eyes are bleary. The fogginess there sends a shot of arousal through Hyunjin, abrupt and insistent — he had been lazily circling his hips before, relishing more the physicality than the pleasure, but all at once he needs it, to fuck himself, to be fucked. Changbin looks so out of it. Dizzied. His lips part; Hyunjin makes the first sound he has all night, a helpless grunt, and settles his weight in earnest upon Changbin’s hips. It drives him so deep Hyunjin can’t think straight. It’s a surrender. Changbin squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, shifts his hips experimentally, then swears.
“Morning,” Hyunjin says insouciantly.
“Fucking — time is it?”
“Dunno.” Changbin tilts his head as if to check; Hyunjin, whip-quick, reaches out to cup his cheek. He’d grab Changbin’s chin in earnest if he thought he needed to, but he has his wife well-trained. “Doesn’t matter.” Changbin lets his head be tilted by the barest pressure. His chin lifts when Hyunjin tugs at it, until he’s looking squarely at Hyunjin, only at Hyunjin, only his.
Changbin’s grin is slow-spreading and sweet. “Pretty thing,” he says. Hyunjin would dismiss it as idle dirty talk if he didn’t sound so earnest. He runs that little mental gauntlet every time Changbin opens his mouth, he swears: he can’t mean it, he’s just flirting, except that Changbin doesn’t really bother saying things he doesn’t mean. He jokes sometimes, but when it’s a joke, he laughs. He isn’t laughing now.
Hyunjin shudders. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says, somehow helpless. It should embarrass him. It might have done, if he was the same person he used to be.
Changbin’s thumbs trace gentle circles into his hipbones. “Couldn’t resist me?” he teases, and the difference is stark, his smile a different shape; the joke only underlines how much he had really meant his earlier endearment.
Sort of. Not really. “Who could,” Hyunjin sighs, hand to his heart, then folds himself forwards until his lips can find the edge of Changbin’s jaw. Changbin turns his head into it, keeping his mouth closed, letting Hyunjin kiss the shape of his smile; silly man, silly, does he not realise that Hyunjin wants it, the gross parts too? Wants to taste his morning breath. Wants the sting of not having quite prepped enough. Wants the soreness tomorrow. He pulls away, says imperiously, “You know your dildo is bigger than you are.”
“Which one,” Changbin ripostes. His eyes are small happy crescents. Sap. There go Hyunjin’s dreams of cuckolding him with his own toys; probably Changbin would just sit in any given cuck chair and say he was happy to be in the room. Not like Hyunjin, who if someone tried to cuck him would probably kill everyone in the room except Changbin and then himself.
“Doesn’t matter,” Hyunjin says roughly, abruptly incensed for a reason he can’t quite place. Changbin grins up at him and lifts his hips experimentally; it’s easy for him to lift Hyunjin’s entire body weight off the mattress, which is horrible, and Hyunjin shrieks as he almost loses his balance before catching himself on Changbin’s chest. For his troubles, he scrapes his teeth over Changbin’s tummy. Reparations. He had been about to demand that Changbin pay attention to him; now he remembers that weathering the undivided force of Changbin’s attention is a trial he is never prepared for. “You said I could use them.”
“I did,” Changbin says mildly. One of his arms slides around Hyunjin’s waist, securing him. Once Hyunjin might have been able to hold him in place the same way; now he gives an experimental squirm, feels more than hears Changbin’s huff of laughter and the way he obligingly tightens his grip because he knows that more than anything, what Hyunjin wants to feel is the fact he can’t escape.
Hyunjin shivers in his hold. “And you said I could use you too. Whenever I wanted.”
“I did,” Changbin agrees. His other hand wanders from Hyunjin’s hip to the swell of his ass, explores the shape of their joining, measures the slightly tacky texture of his own cock where Hyunjin had smeared it with lube. “Do I get a product review? Five stars?”
“Shut up,” Hyunjin says.
“Mm-hmm,” Changbin says agreeably, probing at Hyunjin’s rim with the threatening blunt-edged sword of his forefinger. Hyunjin shudders. Then Changbin sits up straight, positioning Hyunjin to his liking in his lap, and Hyunjin stops thinking anything at all, stops feeling anything but the long unspooling of his body everywhere Changbin touches him.
The first time they had done this — Hyunjin still technically teenaged at nineteen, Changbin still skinny and with that abrasive defensiveness he’d grown out of over the years — it had frightened him how good it was. In retrospect, it had not been good sex. They’d both been awkward. Hyunjin had never fucked a man before; Changbin only once. They hadn’t quite been comfortable enough in their intimacy to laugh through the sillier mishaps, the frightening newness, and instead they had touched each other in reverent near-silence, Hyunjin treasuring the raggedness of Changbin’s breath. They had gone to sleep next to each other and woken up in each other’s arms, drool-messy, and Hyunjin had kissed Changbin, morning breath and all, and then refused to talk about it for the next several years.
It’s better now. Changbin had gotten better at fucking people while Hyunjin had been — not gone, never gone, he had always been right there. But. While he had been at arm’s length. Changbin had grown into his body in the meantime; he had a new, comfortable physicality that came with the fact that he knew how to use it. He puts it to use now. Drives his hips up into Hyunjin once, twice, then — eyes raking over Hyunjin’s face, the glassiness he knows must be slipping over him as his exhaustion settles back into his body — flips them around just as Hyunjin feels his thighs threaten to give out.
Always knows just what Hyunjin needs. It’s infuriating. Hyunjin hooks his legs around Changbin’s waist rather than spreading them wide, lets the breadth of Changbin’s torso keep a space for itself between them, drinks in the air Changbin breathes out in harsh little snorts as he sets to fucking Hyunjin how Hyunjin wants to be fucked. He’s so good at that. Exasperating! Horrible. His breath billows over Hyunjin’s cheeks. Hyunjin feels a wide, silly grin blossoming across his face despite himself, then feels it slip away as the beat of Changbin’s hips knocks all the air from his lungs.
He’s not sure who’s using who. Feels himself melting into the sheets as Changbin’s closeness settles his nerves, as the raw physical demand of being fucked leaves no room for whispered clutter in his brain. “Yeah,” someone says, drawn-out, lazy with pleasure; a beat later Hyunjin realises the voice is his own. “Yeah, good, like that. Feels good?”
“Yeah,” Changbin answers, almost brusque with effort. Hyunjin cracks his eyes open — had not realised he had closed them — to take in the Renaissance-style tableau of his body, the tangled bulges of muscle, the pearly sheen of sweat. The lighting in the room is elegant and high-contrast, the shadows kissing their way along the undersides of his pecs, his jaw, his biceps. Hyunjin had arranged the lamps for precisely such an effect. It still takes his breath away. So too does the way Changbin’s brow wrinkles as he fucks someone, the scrawl of effort and focus across his face, the mark of his tunnel-vision.
Pleasure blurs the lines between Hyunjin’s mind and his body; abruptly his orgasm is nearer than he had quite realised, and he digs his heels into Changbin’s back, urging him onwards, letting his hands wander where they will. Unsurprisingly, they find their way to Changbin’s torso. Hyunjin gropes one pec with as much focus as he can muster, then lets his head fall back, baring his throat to the ceiling, as Changbin lifts his hips just slightly and shifts the angle. Pleasure spears high and brilliant through his body, strings him like an instrument, draws him tauter and tauter like an archer pulling back on the arrow. “Fuck,” he gasps. Is too drunk on it to be embarrassed. Loves Changbin too well to be embarrassed.
“Tell me,” Changbin says hoarsely; his rhythm falters, right when Hyunjin most wants it to be brutal and in-time and perfect. They’re too in sync for their own good. “Hyunjinnie —” Another ragged thrust. Tell me. Hyunjin likes to imagine he’s begging. When they’re close, Hyunjin always talks more; Changbin always talks less. Another little equilibrium. But Hyunjin will give Changbin what he wants.
“Mine,” Hyunjin says — breathless, insistent, his head fuzzy and his body sated and his spirit so, so full. “You’re — all mine, what’s yours is mine, your body is — is mine, I’m yours, I — I get to use you when I want, come on, come on —”
Changbin bows forward over Hyunjin’s body, a tree in high wind, as he comes; Hyunjin locks his legs tighter around Changbin and grinds himself closer once, twice, feeling the hot pulse of Changbin’s spend, drunk on the way Changbin’s face tautens at the overstimulation, before he follows, makes a mess of his stomach and Changbin’s perfect chest and, a little, the sheets. His heartbeat drums in his ears. He’s cartoonishly sweaty; Changbin reaches for him and pushes his hair out of his eyes, then cackles when he realises it’s damp to the touch. Brat. Honestly. Hyunjin has just enough presence left to realise that Changbin will pretend to be furious once he notices Hyunjin has come on the sheets; it will, of course, all be an act. It is very difficult for Changbin to feel genuine anger when Hyunjin is involved. Hyunjin should know; he has tried.
He nuzzles into the pillow, luxuriating just a little in the lax, melty relief blossoming in his muscles, all the tension gone out of him. He can’t think. Doesn’t need to. He is, at last, exhausted, the itch scratched. “Pretty wife,” he says sleepily, “hold me, please.”
“Yes sir,” Changbin mumbles, just coherent enough to sound faintly teasing. He also passes out immediately post-orgasm. It’s why they make such a good pair. Hyunjin pinches Changbin’s belly in reproach, and Changbin squawks, then corrects himself, appropriately contrite: “Yes, wife.”
Better. Best. “Mine,” Hyunjin says sleepily, insistently, and feels a curl of satisfaction in his belly when Changbin makes a grumble of vague assent. Yes. It’s the way of things. Changbin’s bed, and his body, and his sex toys, and his stupid expensive impulse-buy of a car, and every one of his skincare products, and his pleasure, and his heart: Hyunjin’s, all Hyunjin’s, to have and to use and to care for. Changbin wants it that way. Changbin likes it that way. He had said it first; he had offered himself up.
He holds Hyunjin like Hyunjin belongs to him, too. Hyunjin — delighted, sated — melts, at last, into sleep.