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The humidity of the studio is unreal. The air is muggy and treacly and the moisture seeps into his thin shirt, plastering the fabric over his chest—he really would take it off, he really should take it off, but his swivel chair is swathed in rough, black fabric which would scrape at his bare skin like sandpaper. The computer monitor glares at him with a vengeance, the high-energy blue light knifing into his dry eyes. His head aches horribly. Changbin’s standing over him, back crouched to get a look into the monitor. Chan can’t quite get a handle on what he’s staring at.
‘This,’ he says quietly, wrapping his hand around the mouse. He clicks on a tonal graph and toggles the clicker to zoom in on a zenith. ‘We could bring this down.’
Chan’s eyes droop. He blinks hard and forces them open, eyelashes stinging as they split like paper. ‘Yeah?’
‘Mhm,’ he hums. His other hand curls around his shoulder, damp and weighty and too-warm as he squeezes his acromion. Chan squirms. ‘It’ll balance out better. Right?’
His head is dense with what seems like radio interference—static hums in his cortex, high and vibratey and packed tight like the buzzing of a bee. Chan feels dazed to death. ‘Right.’
‘Hyung’s not listening,’ comes Jisung’s voice. He’s lying on their sofa, has been for the last hour, since two hours after they joined up here. Chan would look at him, would send him a nasty squint, but even the thought of turning his head is too terrible to consider. He makes a helplessly annoyed noise at the back of his throat. ‘Why’re you even asking him?’
‘I am listening,’ he grates out, larynx abrading over the syllables. He swipes at the half-empty water bottle lying despondent over the table and rips the cap off, presses the cool plastic to his mouth. Each swallow of lukewarm water feels like nectar, like nirvana in his throat. Vacuum out the fluids, hah. He screws the cap back on and tosses it onto the cluttered desk. ‘You’re the one who’s not, Hannie.’
‘Oh, I’m not,’ he says brightly. Chan vaguely hears a creaking sound, then the soft shuffling flip-flap of footsteps on the laminate floor—Jisung’s voice is closer, hovers right over his head when he says— ‘But I’m not pretending to. Like you.’
He blearily bats his hand up, catches the jut of his chin. ‘I’m not pretending.’
Changbin clicks the mouse rapidly, continuous and irritating like a drill to his temple. ‘Quiet down,’ he says, which is so incredibly ironic. He taps thick fingers over his collarbone—Chan wants to shake him off, he’s already so sweaty and tacky and now Jisung’s hanging over him too, his body heat and the room’s crippling lack of fresh air enveloping him like a cloud of fire. He grabs Changbin’s hand and pries it away. ‘Whoa—’
‘‘S hot,’ he grits out. He grabs at the short sleeve of his tee and yanks it down his shoulder, the cotton light but strong as it stubbornly resists. He wants to rip it off, he wants everything gone and he wants to go home and he wants the fucking air conditioner to work and he wants to crawl out his skin and hide and fucking hibernate—aestivate?—he tugs at the collar of his shirt down till he’s sure the ribbed edges have marked his skin hibiscus red and—
‘Yah, calm it,’ Changbin says. ‘Just take it off.’
‘Can’t—the chair’s fucking rough.’ He digs his hands into the armrests and lets his head loll back. The heat is unbearable—shrouds him whole, wraps around his torso, his limbs, his oesophagus, pressing down and smothering him unyielding as the sweltering damp settles on his skin like a mercilessly suffocating blanket. He forces in a breath and closes his eyes. ‘Maybe we should go home—’
‘You were so worried about the song, hyung-ah,’ Jisung says, voice low, a bit asphaltic. The chair grinds forward as he rests his hands over the top, leaning into the back. ‘How could you leave?’
Breathing is hard. Every inhale cloys in his throat, the pressure behind his clavicle building and building like a yet-to-come volcanic eruption, unbearable as it grows unstoppable behind the cradle of his ribs. ‘Shut up,’ he exhales, even though he shouldn’t. Even though he should be nice. He feels a bead of sweat crawl wetly down his nape and a disgusted shiver shudders up his spine before he slaps his hand there. ‘Shut the fuck up. Fuck— fuck—’
A hand snakes around his neck and tips it at a forty-five-degree angle. ‘Calm down,’ Jisung says. His thumb pushes into the yielding skin beside his Adam’s apple. ‘Don’t be so weak, hyungie.’
His tongue is crackly-dry as he runs the tip of it over his gums. He jerks his head away. ‘Fuck off.’
Jisung gasps. His thumb digs further into his tender skin, and Chan wonders if he can feel the slam of his artery. ‘Changbin-hyung,’ he starts, that trademark whine blanketing his words, ‘did you hear what he said to me?’
Chan scoffs; he can’t help it. His hand shoots up to grasp Jisung’s and—
‘Yeah,’ Changbin says, voice inscrutable. ‘He’s being rude, isn’t he?’
Heat soars up his face. ‘Changbin.’
‘Chan-hyung,’ Changbin says, ‘don’t be mean to Jisungie.’
‘Stop fucking with me,’ he says. Laughs a little, false and raspy and too-high. He grabs Jisung’s wrist and pulls it away. ‘Jesus Christ. I’m—let’s. It’s fucking hot, I—we can’t, not—’
‘We can’t leave before we’re clear with this,’ Changbin says. He double-taps on a graph to zoom in, circles the pointer around something, somewhere, Chan’s way too dizzy and blurred out to concentrate, ‘can we?’
He shifts in his chair. Each breath he takes halts and drags like quicksand, the thick air clinging to him like this solid, corporeal thing, something alive and writhing as it wraps steamy tendrils around his brain. He looks up at Changbin, a little desperate. ‘Listen—’
‘We’re not getting anything done with you like this.’
‘Like what—’
‘Like a pissy bitch, hyung-ah,’ Jisung cuts in, almost crooning as he taps his fingers against his puffy cheek. What little oxygen he’d salvaged from the tarry atmosphere leaves his lungs in a rattling gasped exhale and he whips his head back to Jisung and— ‘how’re we to discuss when you’re being so rude?’
His mouth slides open-closed. His fingers stiffen over the armrest. ‘You do not—’
‘Respect goes both ways, you say,’ he says. His fingers slip from his cheek to the side of his lips, chapped and damp and scarlet from biting them to shreds. ‘And here you are.’
He tries a laugh, small and hysteric. ‘Jisungie,’ he says, ‘Bin-ah, Jisung— what—’
Changbin clicks around on the mouse, minimising the open tabs. ‘He’s right,’ he says. He turns to Chan, eyes hawkish as he braces himself against the deck. He looks—he looks good. Saliva pools in his mouth. His head spins, bloodless as it feels. He thinks he’s going to pass out. ‘What’re we to do when you can’t behave, hyung?’
Jisung huffs out a laugh octaves lower than it usually is and drags a hand down his shirt, over his abdomen, down to his shorts. ‘We make him behave.’
His hips lurch forward, Jisung tightens his hand. A gasp bullets from his mouth. ‘Jisung—’
Slender fingers slip into his shorts—brush over the skin there, over the sensitive part of his abdomen. Changbin clicks his tongue. ‘Impulsive brat.’
‘Hyung-ah,’ Jisung pitches, vowel drawn out and plaintive enough for him to imagine the jut of his bottom lip. ‘Now you're being mean.’
Changbin crosses his arms over his chest, and Jisung whistles lowly. Chan can't blame him in the slightest, because Changbin looks—attractive. Strict, like, calm and strong and so astoundingly firm, like a person of unshakeable authority, like a person who Chan really, really wants to— ‘let me suck you off again, hyung.’
Changbin sighs, but there's a smirk playing around the edge of his mouth, this non-greasy, intoxicating confidence oozing from him like syrup. Jisung—Jisung’s attractive, too, loose-tongued and a big roguish with it. Careless. Chan feels drunk on them both. He's half-hard. Maybe, like, three-quarters. Jisung trails his fingers beneath his navel, fists into his briefs—
‘Yah, wait,’ Changbin says. ‘Let him say something.’
Jisung's hands halt obediently. Silence cobwebs over the three of them, Changbin looking down at him expressionless as Jisung stands stock-still above him, his hand pleating into his shorts—it takes him more than a moment, stupidly enough, for his mind to spell their aim out, to unspool the implications—
‘Really,’ Chan sighs, ‘right now?’
Jisung huffs out a delighted giggle. ‘Like you're not gagging for it,’ he says breathlessly, thumbs hooking beneath his shorts as he tugs them down. Chan, a bit shamefully, lifts his hips for it—even the soupy air is a balm to his burning skin, the relative cool icing down the redness of his thighs. When Jisung squeezes his palm over the flesh, the softness pudges out between his bony fingers.
‘His thighs,’ he says, and he's not talking to Chan. ‘Really wanna fuck them.’
Changbin tilts his mouth dismissively. ‘Another time,’ he says. ‘What else do you wanna do to him?’
Jisung’s arm is flexed as he leans it over the armrest. Chan clings on to it like a limpet, like he’d an anchor, the melon-bulge of his bicep comforting as his fingers curve around it. ‘Dunno,’ he says. He slips his hand beneath his briefs and thumbs over the head of his dick—Chan heaves out a moan and curls his head into the crook of Jisung's elbow. ‘He looks like he's going to come already, so—’
‘Why'd that matter?’
Jisung's hand stutters. Chan hears his breath hitch, pause and stumble over another sharp inhale. Crimson flames up his ears.
‘Yeah,’ Jisung says croakily, all that flagrant boy-bravado useless with how openly affected he sounds. He polishes his palm over his sticky cockhead and grips the sides of his dick with nimble fingers. ‘Doesn't matter, yeah. Duh. Can—I wanna. Fuck him.’
Changbin lifts off the desk and snails forward till his knees hit the swivel chair. His hands are hot around his calves when he pries them apart, Chan's thighs spread so the sides are flush with the armrests, his briefs straining over the flesh. Changbin pinches at the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Jisung-ah, get them off.’
‘Chair—’ Chan rasps into Jisung's elbow, ‘—‘s rough. Scratchy.’
Jisung's hand flits to his chin and digs into his mouth, over and between his canines, nails digging into the lines between his incisors. He shoves his shorts down to his knees with a jerky push. ‘You’ll stop minding.’
Changbin slips his hands beneath his thighs and pulls up till his soles rest on the chair—it’s ironic, how this unbearable sort of shyness still stirs deep in him even with how many times they’ve done this, but shame isn’t evanescent. Once it roots in you, once it makes itself a home behind your ribs, there's no plucking it out without breaking bone. Chan shudders and grips Jisung harder.
‘You're so quiet now. Not hot anymore?’
‘Can't believe you don't think hyung's hot—’
‘I’ll slap you.’
The room is still clammy, saturated with water to a level that has the hairs at the base of his head slicking up with sweat. His shirt is damp all over, sweat pooling between his pecs, his love handles; his breath still clots heavy and thick in his throat but all is rendered secondary, rendered ignorable beside the arousal sucker-punching his abdomen. He's drooling, must be. Jisung's forearm is damp.
‘Do we have lube here?’
Jisung cackles. ‘You're seriously asking that?’
He hears a sigh. The rattle of a drawer being slid open, the rustling of objects being run through. The thud of it being slammed shut. The click, the wet squelch—
‘Hold his legs,’ Changbin says. ‘Get them up, make them stay there.’
‘Yessir.’
His body jerks like a snapped string when he feels two cold fingers pressing at him, dragging lube up the smooth skin to dip into his hole. His abdomen undulates back and his knees shift towards each other, his thighs strain together, curve inwards—
Jisung slaps them apart. ‘Stay still.’
Changbin quirks an eyebrow up at Jisung, dizzyingly hot. ‘Look who's saying that.’
‘Hey, hyung's worse.’
‘Nah,’ he says. He prods his fingers forward till the tips slot in. Chan's cock slaps against his tummy. He nuzzles his nose into Jisung’s elbow and keeps his eyes screwed tight. ‘He can listen, Jisungie. You can't.’
‘Literally fuck yourself,’ he says after a pause, a little fissure cracking his words. Always so obvious, he is with them, everything he feels neatly written on a manuscript for anyone to look through. He wants to be good, too. He's so good. He's always good. Chan would say that, but he's afraid nothing human would roll off his tongue if he opened his mouth now. ‘Come on, be faster—’
‘Patience,’ his fingers nudge further in, to the last joints. They're so thick. Chan's toes curl, calves tautening where they lay suspended. ‘I'm fucking him first anyway.’
Jisung gasps—comical if it didn't amplify so much his ego, which is very pathetic and fairly problematic and also something Chan has resigned himself to as a characteristic he can’t ever get rid of. Changbin scoffs a little and crooks his fingers up—more clinical than anything, stretching him more out of necessity than pleasure. His fingers barely skim over his prostate, knuckles splitting to widen the gape. Chan whimpers into the crook of Jisung's forearm, his mouth open and slippery against the flesh—it should feel awful, should feel stringy and damp and uncomfortably warm but Jisung doesn't say a thing, probably too taken with how fucking pathetic he's being. ‘That's so unfair,’ he says, ‘you said—’
‘Baby. You said you wanted to fuck him. Did I say I'd let you?’
No, no—Chan doesn't want that, doesn't want Jisung to be left out—
‘Don't you dare.’
Changbin’s lips tilt in a devastating smirk. ‘Maybe if you listen to hyung.’
‘Which hyung?’
The smirk blooms into a sharp grin. ‘Come on,’ he says, twisting his fingers up to press in another. ‘Look at him. Don't ask stupid questions, Sung-ah.’
His blunt nails dig into Jisung’s ripe-brown arm as he burrows into it, both hands firmly clamped around. He bites his lip and wonders if Jisung can feel his teeth. ‘He’s cute,’ Jisung says, ‘and I'm cute. Please let me fuck him first.’
‘I’ll stretch him out for you.’
Jisung makes an incredulous noise. ‘You’ll stretch him out too much—not everyone has a fucking tree trunk as a dick, bro—’ he pauses, ‘—like, in width.’
‘You’ll come in a minute either way. Suck it up.’
‘You fu—’
He can't stand it. He wants—he wants their attention, okay? He wants it so badly. He ruts his hips forward deliberately and whines loud enough that it goes unmuffled, brings his thighs up to his chest a little closer—
‘Christ, hyung,’ Jisung says, ‘fucking whore.’
Impossibly, he sounds fond. Embarrassment still flares pink in his cheeks. He clears his throat wetly and turns his cheek to face Changbin. ‘Don’t—ah, come on,’ he says, words cottony as they slur together, ‘just—put it in, Bin-ah. Please.’
‘He’s being so polite,’ Jisung lets go of his thigh and runs his fingers through the mess of Chan’s hair. ‘And I'm being so sweet. Fucking—come on. Don't you wanna fuck him?’
Changbin scissors all three of his fingers once, twice before he drags them out. He unzips his trousers and pushes them down to the tops of his thighs, the bulge of his cock visibly straining his boxers. Chan’s mouth waters—you can’t blame him, not when Changbin looks like that. You’d do the same. You’d drop to your knees and open your fucking mouth anywhere, anytime.
Changbin uncaps their industrial-sized tube of lube with a wet flick and squeezes it in his hand. Slathers his dick in it with a slow up-down that has his legs spread further, shuffles closer and smears the excess lube over his stretched hole. He rifles through the drawer and pulls out a foil-wrapped condom. ‘We need to teach you patience, Sung,’ he says, ripping at the cover, ‘should have hyung ride you one day. You're not allowed to come.’
‘S-shut up—fuck me whoa.’
It's not that Changbin hasn't fucked him before, far from it, but the stretch gets him every time. His eyelids slip shut and his nose scrunches and a low, long sound slides out his throat—the pressure is insane. He feels it to his stomach.
‘You’d bulge him so good if you were long enough, y’know.’
He'd break him in half if we were longer, and Chan would thank him for it. Changbin scoffs as he presses slippery thumbs over his hole and pushes in deeper, impossibly thick as he fits to the hilt. ‘Don’t piss me off,’ he says. His hands slide up till they touch over the hollows of his knees. ‘Do you want to fuck him or not?’
‘I hope you know this is blackmail, which is illegal—’
Chan lets go of his forearm and stretches his shivery hands to touch Changbin’s wrists. He pulls at them. ‘Bin-ah,’ he says, wet and cracking from disuse, ‘please.’
His gumdrop mouth pulls into the prettiest smile—fondness billows in him, makes him almost-mirror the smile before Changbin tugs up his knees and fucks into him hard enough to make him yelp. Jisung cackles.
The chair judders with every thrust, would’ve skittered away if Jisung weren't there—Changbin sets a pace too hard and too fast, harsh thrusts that punch the air out of him every time because he’s so thick and three fingers aren’t enough and it’s too, too much, he gasps and he tightens his hands around Changbin’s wrists and yanks and— ‘Ah— wait, wait—’
‘You asked for this,’ he says, glances at his white-knuckled grip with a tiny curve of his pink lips and slams into him—his calf kicks out of reflex, knees squirming in Changin’s heavy grip— ‘you begged for this, hyung.’
Jisung hisses when Changbin quickens, driving in and out deep and hard as tears prick Chan’s eyes. Pleasure blurs into pain and pain sends dopamine rushing through his blood. He tastes salt at the corner-crease of his mouth, the startling cool of dried water on his cheek— ‘hyung,’ Jisung starts, ‘hyung, he’s cryi—’
‘He can—’ Changbin exhales roughly. He pushes his knees further up and fucks a squeal out of him. ‘Hyung knows what to say if he wants me to stop. Doesn’t he?’
Chan nods. He turns his head into Jisung’s soft arm, feels him breathe a sigh of relief. His hand slips into the neck of his shirt to grope at his pec. ‘So he’s just a whore.’
Chan bites into his arm—tries to, blunt teeth scraping saliva over skin. Changbin huffs out a laugh and grinds right up—his belly feels taut, like it’s hollowing itself out to fit him. Cavernous and filled up, a paradox built for them. When Changbin’s fat cockhead brushes over his prostate, he thinks he’s going to come.
He doesn’t miss it, sliding over the sensitive spot with each of his bruising thrusts—Changbin’s girth stretches him till he feels like he’s going to be split like a bruised peach and the strain in his thighs adds to the burning pleasure and he just—he just wants to touch himself, he slips a hand to his bobbing cock and thumbs at his cockhead, rubs at it till it feels so good and the pleasure is pinpointed right where he needs it the most, each of Changbin’s thrusts gets a hiccuping moan out of him and when Changbin fucks in at where he needs it the most, he comes all over his belly.
Changbin doesn’t stop.
Chan shakes his head before Changbin can say anything mean. It hurts—Changbin’s not stopping and he’s still bullying his cock in deep and fast, Chan moans loosely and his cheeks are wet and his mouth crumples and he shakes his head, and—
‘Hey,’ Jisung starts, uncertainty tinting his tone, ‘hey, hyung, maybe—’
‘You still want to fuck him?’ Changbin slides his hands to his hips, presses them up as he pistons in and out harshly—it sends shockwaves pinballing up his spine, something like pain, something like pleasure, sour-sweet like lemon peels in sugar. ‘Hyung’ll be done soon, Sung-ah.’
Jisung inhales shakily. It’s not that he thinks Chan doesn’t want it—he’s just soft, his Jisung, he pets his shivery hand through Chan’s hair and touches his cheek and— ‘alright.’
Changbin grins. His hips slam in well—too well, but halt and stutter right as his eyes cross. Chan whines when he gets rougher, when his thrusts lose aim and he’s bulging his walls and it feels so good when he comes inside. The condom doesn’t let him feel, doesn’t let him feel the dirty drip and the exhilaration of being full. He still curls up. He still feels soiled.
Changbin pulls out. He tugs off the condom and ties it off, throws it into their bin. ‘Jisungie,’ he says, and Chan feels like he’s going to black out. ‘Come on.’
Jisung stays where he is for a moment—unnatural quiet settles, only the useless rattle of the fucky air conditioner and the low whir of the laptop fan punctuating the silence before— ‘yeah,’ Jisung says thickly. Chan lets his arm go before he tries to tug it away. ‘Yeah—he—yeah.’
The brief lull where they switch places—god, it’s humiliating. His crimsoned thighs tremble where they stay up, his waist aches from how he’s been bent in half for the better part of one-third of an hour and he feels so horribly empty because Changbin’s left him stretched out and open and Jisung is stalling, he walks oddly like a penguin and his hand is awkward when it touches his hip—dorky, mouse-nervous—
‘You want this,’ he says. His hand fumbles with the drawstring of his Shiro-patterned trousers—they’re not his, they’re Minho’s—and yanks them down; they pool around his ankles. He’s not wearing anything beneath. He shuffles closer. ‘Right, hyung?’
‘Yeah,’ he licks out at his lip and hooks a leg around Jisung’s narrow waist. ‘Yeah, baby, of course.’
Jisung exhales heavily. Chan watches as confidence slowly bleeds back into him, as his posture straightens, as he wraps a hand around his dick and— ‘thank you,’ he says, and slides deep inside. Chan’s eyes roll. ‘T-thank you, hyung-ah, ah— thank you, thank you—’
It hurts, and he can’t deny that, and he can’t deny he’s liking it more than he should. The biggest cliché. It hurts and he likes it. It’ll hurt and he’ll make sure his legs are spread and he’ll moan like a slut, dirty and desperate. Jisung is fast with it, unbridled. His head hangs low and his hands are tight and he fucks Chan like he doesn’t care about him.
‘Baby,’ he mumbles, and it glows through him. Jisung says it a lot—to anyone, everyone, but it still makes him feel special. A little idiotic, but he’ll take what he can get. ‘Baby, hyung— ah, sorry, thankyouthankyoutha—’
Oh, Chan loves him to death. ‘It’s okay,’ he says. His dick hurts with how it’s been forced to stiffen again, with how it stings and leaks with every jut of Jisung’s hips—it hurts, but it’s okay, Jisung wouldn’t—couldn’t last soon. He bites back a whine and tugs his waist closer. ‘It’s okay, babyboy—’
Changbin’s arm drapes over his shoulder when he leans in, heavy and warm. Like this, his face is right beside him—the cherry of his mouth, tinged sweetly, so incredibly inciting—Chan wants to kiss him, he really wants to kiss him, he always wants to kiss him, he makes a pathetic noise and strains his chin up and— ‘You’re getting hard,’ he remarks, and pushes himself in till he grips Chan’s swollen cock in his hand. ‘Seriously?’
His hips judder back. He makes a squealy little sound and grabs Changbin’s wrist but he’s strong, stronger than him, and he handles Chan like he’s nothing. He polishes his palm over the head of his cock and curves his hand around him, rubs his thumb right over a vein. His blood feels aerated. He clenches hard around Jisung.
‘Shit—’ Jisung falters. His eyes narrow when he looks at Changbin. ‘Hyung—come on, kiss him.’
‘He can ask if he wants—’
‘Yah,’ Jisung gives a wonky thrust that jabs at his prostate spot-on. It’s too much—the hot hand around his dick, the spotlight pleasure straight through his spinal cord, the pain sparking his back—it’s too much. Chan’s mouth trembles. ‘He’s been so good. Don't be mean to him.’
Jisung calling him good—that’s so nice. Makes him feel floaty, glittery. Luminescent. Changbin makes an amused noise and tilts him up with his free hand to slot his mouth over his, and Chan wonders what he’s ever done to deserve any of this.
Kissing is always nice. Changbin’s mouth is sticky and he kisses him precisely, flicks his tongue over his incisors and digs his teeth into the fat of his bottom lip. Chan tries to kiss back, tries to match his pace but Jisung is fucking into him faster and faster and he twists his hand into Changbin’s muscle shirt and whimpers into his mouth, saliva trickling down his chin, his neck—
He pulls back from Changbin with a wet gasp. Jisung slows down, surprisingly enough, rocking into him steadily.. His eyes slide and a hoarse sound beetles from his throat. ‘Gonna come,’ Jisung slurs. His hair flops into Chan’s face, he’s close enough for Chan to smell the pine of his shampoo. He grinds his dick up in a way that has light crackling behind his eyelids. ‘Hyung—gonna come, please, you’re—you’re close too? Baby, please—’
Chan tightens around him desperately. Changbin flits his hand over his dick and jerks him off—the pleasure is stupefying, the way he’s touching him, the way Jisung fucks into him, the way he squeezes his waist, the way everything feels so close—like something constricted, like the room is shrinking in on itself till it’s them—just them, pressed close, no molecule in between. He’d like that. He likes them both so much—and that adds to it, adds to the way his dick leaks every time Jisung drives into him, the feelings-y bullshit augmenting the physical transcendence of it all. He’s so close, which is fucking humiliating. His chest heaves. A hiccup stumbles from his throat.
‘Y’re so good,’ Jisung rams into him, sloppy but precise. His breath rattles through him. ‘Hyung—ah, feels—’
‘Hnfhh—’ his stomach spasms. Changbin thumbs at right where he’s wet and oversensitive and Jisung makes a hoarse, cracking moan as he comes in him, the heat of it leeching past the latex. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine. Blurry shapes pinwheel across his eyelids, light dancing at the corners as he closes his eyes. His hips jerk up when he comes, fist in his mouth as his cock flops sadly, something aching as his shirt gets dirtied. He moans weakly and bats Changbin’s hand away.
Jisung presses a kiss to his forehead before he pulls out, sliding off the condom and tying it off. ‘Fuck,’ he exhales, ‘you were—so good. You’re so—’
‘I know,’ he brushes him off. He can’t handle it when he’s being sincere, not like this. He pulls his shorts up his poor dick and lets his thighs down, winces when he hears his bones crack. He's going to feel the burn for days, and it sends a thrill sparkling through him. ‘Fuck—ow. All your fault, dickheads.’
‘Hyung wants a massage?’ Changbin palms over his pec and gets a yelp out of him. ‘Nice. keep working out, hyung.’
Chan snorts. ‘What, so you can fuck them?’
‘They’re not—’ Jisung collapses on the floor like some anime princess, knees splitting as his calves slide apart, cartoonish. He gestures something with his hands like they’re squeezing a ball between. ‘Like, too voluptuous. Like, big, but not—fat.’
Chanbin whistles. ‘You’re saying Chan-hyung’s chest’s not fuckable.’
‘Yours are volu—why did I use that word—yours are nice, thick—don’t pout, Channie-hyung—yours are like very fat—’
‘Christ, stop,’ he rubs his palms over his eyes and sighs. ‘My hips hurt.’
Changbin tugs at his hair. ‘Don't act like you weren’t equally desperate.’
‘Oh, so you were desperate?’
‘Duh,’ Jisung breathes from where he’s splayed apart on the floor, ‘look at me. Can’t even stand.’
‘You just have noodle legs,’ Changbin says. He slides his hand from his chest and taps Chan’s cheek. ‘You’re not in a mood anymore?’
Chan scowls. ‘Wasn’t ever in a mood.’
His fingers dig into his jaw. ‘Don’t brat.’
‘He just got fucked twice and you’re calling him a brat. No empathy, hyung. Truly disappointing.’
‘Like it was a punishment?’
‘I’m sore,’ Chan mumbles. He knocks his head back on Changbin’s sturdy torso, the squish of his tummy. ‘Can’t walk. Fuck you. Didn't even—’ he swallows and lets his mouth curl. ‘Didn’t even come in me. That’s so unfair.’
Jisung giggles. ‘Slut.’
‘Like any of you is better?’
‘You’re still so rude,’ Changbin sighs, ‘how to fuck you docile?’
It hits him like a kick in the spleen, the way he words it. Chan’s eyes fly wide. An indignant noise bubbles from his mouth and he turns to Changbin with wide eyes and—
‘Stop being horny,’ Jisung cuts in. His words are still slurring, and it makes Chan giggle. ‘Stop. Maybe think about, like, work. What pays our bills. Yeah?’
‘You did not work the whole entire day.’
‘I’m the baby,’ he poses with his head nestled between his palms like some sort of sunflower. ‘Aren’t I?’
‘Yeah,’ he sends Jisung a vague grin. ‘Babyboy’s so good for hyung.’
Jisung’s eyes slip shut. ‘I said no horny.’
‘What I said was perfectly innocent,’ he smiles at him sweetly. ‘It’s not my fault you get—’
‘Hyung was right,’ he sprawls on the floor and nudges Chan’s chair with his big toe. ‘We really should fuck you docile.’
Chan clears his throat and pointedly avoids thinking of dick. ‘Thought you said no horny.’
‘When did I?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘You’re seriously better now?’ Changbin interrupts. ‘You’re not going to be a brat anymore?’
His mouth dips down. ‘Was not a brat.’
‘Okay,’ amusement dances in the word, and Chan can imagine the little upside-down smile painting his lips. It’s so unfair, the way he can’t see his face. So unfair. ‘You’re good now?’
Remarkably, he is. Maybe the humidity’s dropped or the air conditioner has blossomed to life again or getting fucked twice so good has rebooted his brain to think of everything as pink and pretty. Rose-tinted glasses propped on his nose by getting fucked. In some way, it suits him. Oh, what is he even thinking? Chan feels drunk, fizzy. The air isn’t as hot as petrol on fire now, or maybe that’s a hallucination too. He really likes dick. His lungs inflate with cool air, and he sighs happily. ‘Yeah, Binnie.’
Chan yelps when Changbin swivels him around all of a sudden, forcing his gaze to stick once more to the dimmed-out monitor. He taps a key and it flares back to life, the green curves and the red markings stark against the graphed screen. Chan whines.
Vaguely, he can hear Jisung wheezing. Changbin presses his mouth to his head, tender like he always is—
‘This,’ he says, muffled in his hair, wrapping his hand around the mouse. He clicks on a tonal graph and toggles the clicker to zoom in on a zenith. ‘We could bring this down.’