Kuan-hung wakes heavy; heavier than he remembers falling asleep, and heavier still than he’s used to. It takes him a moment to fill out, to find where he’s offset; he stretches his arms over his head to trembling, a whine whistling through his teeth. When he tries to kick his legs out flat, toes curling, he meets a brunt of resistance. His attention filters down onto it in pieces, fitting, first, to the chill of the night air sticking to the bared skin of his chest, then where it is dulled out by the radial heat of a broad hand branding the fan of his ribs.

He lifts his knees as he blinks open his eyes, finding that he makes another scratched apart sound from low-flung in his throat when his thighs brush up into the pin of Fu Meng-po’s arms, draped over him. Fu Meng-po hums in answer, the sound rumbling against him, the breath from its exhale lapping at his belly. Fu Meng-po lifts his head from where he’s pillowed it, and Kuan-hung shivers, all-over, jarring, as his stubble scrapes rawly across his skin.

“Don’t you have filming?” Kuan-hung rasps, bleary. He doesn’t know what time it is. The room is rounded out with artificial light that stings at the corners of his eyes, but that doesn’t tell him anything.

“I’ve got a little longer,” Fu Meng-po answers. He’s got his phone in the hand that is not keeping a hold on Kuan-hung’s side; he turns it over, now, to set it down on the bed.

Kuan-hung rolls his hips, trying to— adjust, he thinks, underneath being pinned from overhead, and he gasps softly as it rocks him flush into Fu Meng-po’s chest. The heat of him is heady, steadying. He moves again, just to— to test, and his head spins in on itself when Fu Meng-po just exhales in one long, slow scrape, and doesn’t stop him.

Right. Right, they were— Kuan-hung had been awake, before. He remembers the motions of it; his face crumpling against the light that roused him, the staggered turn-over to face Fu Meng-po, to push his complaint into him with his body. Fu Meng-po had haltered him in by the neck to kiss him, tasting almost distractingly of sleep, and then he’d pushed him down onto his back, and— somewhere between one moment and the next, that had been that.

Kuan-hung feels his cheeks warm pink. A rush of half-wound threads converge in his head, but none make their way up past the tangle there to his tongue save one of them: “Lucky me,” he says. Then, “Do you. Want to finish?”

Fu Meng-po cocks a brow, his smile crinkling his eyes. He almost makes it look like Kuan-hung sounds smoother than he does by responsive proxy. “Think you can stay awake this time?”

It’s a little teasing, a little edged, just enough to get him squirming as likely intended. His knees brush along Fu Meng-po’s arms when he tries to shy his thighs closed, and he plants his feet down flat on the mattress, spreading them back open with a bit more force than meant. It throws off the attempted casualness; pushes him up hard into Fu Meng-po’s chest, hard enough to make him gasp.

“Maybe,” Kuan-hung answers. He’d like to say it’s a cool admittance; that the heady pulsing heat of having Fu Meng-po on top of him alongside what he’s promising has him wide awake, but it’s really just the very uncertain truth. He still feels hazy, weighed down, like he could drop off again at any moment. Maybe it’s that aligning constellation of vulnerabilities that drives him to be that bit more honest, to give that bit more over of something he’s not even sure as to the whole shape of, let alone its potential; its consequence. “You could keep going. If I fall asleep again. You know?”

He feels Fu Meng-po’s chin dig down into him when he swallows; the twitch of his fingers along his ribs. “Yeah?”

It sounds like it’s winded him, and that’s— Kuan-hung likes that. He’s not really thinking about the practicalities of it, yet, or at all, of Fu Meng-po, just— using him. Of waking up full, or, or waking up empty but wet, rearranged and aching prettily. But he’s spent a lot of time in the abstracts of what Fu Meng-po could like, and he’s not all that surprised in himself that the envelope push that sways him into consideration is catching on that he’s found something Fu Meng-po gets shaken up hot over.

“Yeah.” He cocks a knee again, more purposeful, now, to give a spurring nudge to Fu Meng-po’s arm. He licks out at his bottom lip, slowing down the dart of his tongue to a lazy drag when Fu Meng-po’s gaze flicks down to track it.

He's starting to get hard, hard enough that Fu Meng-po can’t not feel it. Kuan-hung grinds his hips up, and it's a bit uncomfortable, the angle, but mostly it's good, good enough to make his sight unfocus for a blink. Fu Meng-po swallows and sets his jaw, his thumb swiping beneath the swell of Kuan-hung’s pectoral, almost like a recoil. He otherwise stays still. Keeps waiting.

Kuan-hung feels flushed full of white-hot heat, arousal coiling low and knotting choke-thick at the basest hollow of him. "You know how deep I sleep," he says, just to— put it on. Try it out. See how it fits. "And with my, with my, how my mouth is open. Sometimes. You could just.” He swallows to ease his throat as it starts to clamp up, drying tight. Finishes it up quickly, before he loses the thread of his nerve for it. “You could do anything. Whatever you want.”

Fu Meng-po exhales through his nose, sharp. His eyes are so wide and so dark where they’re peering up at him through the shag of his sleep-rumpled hair, and Kuan-hung does not miss, cannot possibly miss, the hitch of his hips as they rock down before he catches himself.

“xiao Kuan,” he husks, quiet.

Kuan-hung bites down on his lip, lets the flicker of the sting check him back into place within the dazed stumble of his head, the roiling race of his blood overrunning all other sound. “You like that,” he says, tongue-tripping garbled, just a bit, from the rush and spill of his glee. “Selang.”

He’s waking up into it, now. Thinking about it in the concrete, like it’s a tangible thing to get his hands on instead of a wayward rhetorical. “Kneel up,” he says, already scrambling to lift himself onto his elbows, pushing at Fu Meng-po until his adherence frees up the space for the rest of him to follow through and fill it out. Fu Meng-po sinks onto his knees with a shoved-back stagger, hands falling to grip at his thighs. It frames the bulge of his cock, tenting his sweats, with such an explicit obscenity that Kuan-hung has to focus on rolling his shirt back down from its ruck up underneath his arms so he doesn’t, just— bow in. Follow that swerve down until he’s tucked his face all the way up in between Fu Meng-po’s legs.

“Did you.” Kuan-hung sucks in a breath. He’s not really vetting what’s finding his mouth from his head, and he’s not really keeping track of his hands as they, just— drift, over his chest, down his sides, until they spill to a stall in his lap as he sits up the rest of the way. He’s watching Fu Meng-po watch him, though, and that’s a fine enough tune to his awareness. “Did you want to do it? When we were on set?”

“Yeah.” Fu Meng-po’s voice comes out so— hoarse, his hands flinching feebly against his parted thighs. God, he’s so big, all-over everywhere, but he looks so small, shoulders a little sloped in, the slight slant of his spine subdued. Kuan-hung doesn’t— he doesn’t think—

“Tell me.” It comes out a bit rougher than he even thinks he means it to, the demand more— overt. He lets his fingers fan out between his legs, thumbs sliding along the creases where his hips meet his thighs. It’s like he’s being pulled along, almost. Like he’s out of control, watching back the play-by-play of his own body.

“Fuck.” Fu Meng-po hisses, coarse-crude, all slapped-out profane. “It was you in that dress.”

“Uh-huh?” Kuan-hung’s heels skid across the sheets as he spreads his legs out wider, letting Fu Meng-po see just that bit more of him, bared up despite still being fully clothed. The sweat that's beaded up on his nape is starting to prickle cold, a drop dripping down to catch on the collar of his shirt. Fu Meng-po digs his fingers into his own thighs even harder, like he has to root himself to ground, and takes a sharp breath through his nose. He looks frayed wild, circling pained; eyes blown even wider black, mottled blush collaring his throat, cock leaking wet where it’s straining against his seam.

He’s not touching himself yet, though. He’s not even trying, and that’s a lot, for Kuan-hung to be given at this hour, a lot to grasp at all. He hasn’t got— there’s not a lot of time to feel this out, but he’s going to do the most with the best he has. And it’s something, it’s a little something, that Fu Meng-po has shown him, here, that’s heel-turning on an axis to make some pieces click into place. Ones that, before now, were just scattered errant, scraps of horny detritus in the back of his mind he was keeping hanging around to more-or-less trip over.

“I kept licking the lipstick off,” he recounts. “It was— we had to reset so many times because it was on my teeth, right?” Carefully, like a courting, Kuan-hung curls his fingers into his sweats, creasing them, as if they’re a hem that he can tease up his thighs. Fu Meng-po’s throat bobs. “You could have, just. I bet if you’d touched my mouth it would have smeared off onto you— your fingers. Or your cock.”

“Fuck,” Fu Meng-po swears again, hand finally sliding forward to slip deeper between his legs, and Kuan-hung reacts before he even thinks to respond, pushing his foot between Fu Meng-po’s knees to pin over his cock. He kneads his heel against his balls, toe snubbing his tip through the damp cotton, and Fu Meng-po moans, gutted, face screwing up tight as his hand falls back flat to his thigh, fingers trembling around nothing.

“Don’t,” Kuan-hung objects. It’s so sharp, snappish, he barely believes it’s him even with the lingering phantom impression of feeling his own mouth shape around it. “Just…” He trails off, a little lost, parallel alongside to it, and risks pushing his foot in a little harder, harsher. Fu Meng-po grunts, hand flinching back over to grip Kuan-hung’s bared ankle as he closes his eyes.

Kuan-hung breathes in; out; and feels his way out, back into where his skin seems to want him to fit. He finds something else to say to go with all the rest of it. “You can come like this, right?”

Fu Meng-po nods, his cock twitching against the arch of his foot, swollen thick and lit up filth hot even through the layers of cloth. His hips judder, chasing the pleasure of more pressure before he puts himself back into place and looks back up without so much as a need to be told to do either. Kuan-hung watches his chest jerk with the stab of his stifled inhale; gaze trailing over the peaks of his nipples; across where sweat has stuck the well-worn cotton to his sternum, under his arms.

“Wow.” It’s a little faint, rung-out hollow. Kuan-hung clears his throat roughly; inches his hands up just a little higher, giving Fu Meng-po a little more to look at. To pair to any pictures he might have in his head. Flexes his toes down against the line of him. “That’s so— you’re so dirty.”

Fu Meng-po gasps with a shudder, grip vicing down on Kuan-hung as his eyelids hood. The pad of his thumb flicks over the delicate bony chine of his ankle, then circles back with a skittish stroke.

Kuan-hung inches his own hands up, numb with a heady intoxication he can’t name or place, and hooks his thumbs into his waistband. “You can—” he starts, stuttering off into a pitched-out hiss when his sweats catch on the sensitive head of his cock. He tries to work them down enough to free himself, but even the wriggle of his hips, just— pushes his foot down harder into Fu Meng-po’s lap, wringing out this sound, all sweet and strangled and starved—

“God,” Kuan-hung rasps. He wraps his hand around his freed cock and rolls his thumb over his foreskin, almost idle, fuck-drunk inattentive. “God, yeah, okay, you can, you can, you’re allowed.”

Fu Meng-po groans something out that Kuan-hung doesn’t hear past the gratitude, his other hand lifting from its stagnation to wrap around the underside of his calf. He pulls Kuan-hung in the barest sliver of an inch and grinds up, mouth falling open, eyes sliding back shut, and the crumple of his face is— he is— Kuan-hung lets his head fall back as he strokes himself, just once, a bit too rough, an edge of still-too-dry.

“Good,” Kuan-hung praises out blind. “That’s— that’s my good boy.”

Fu Meng-po whimpers, the sound all bitten through to breaking, and clutches at him harder, desperate. The next shove of his hips is brutal, punishing. Kuan-hung doesn’t know which of them the force is meant to beat down at. He tries to follow where Fu Meng-po is tugging him to go, arching his foot to counterbalance the pinpointing pressures. He’s never done this before, but just like all his other never-dones expounded upon over the course of this trip, it doesn’t even seem to matter. Fu Meng-po’s really— he looks and feels so close, thrown open and torn up easy for the taking, and that’s provocation enough for Kuan-hung to push.

“You could’ve— could’ve just fucked my mouth right there,” Kuan-hung babbles. He fucks up into his own hand, scrambling to shove the other between his legs, digging the heel of his palm into his balls. The next upstroke on his shaft makes his wrist creak; wets his palm with precome; makes the downstroke slippery, almost frictionless. “Would have been so easy for you, so— so wet. Could’ve come right on my face, messed it all up.”

It doesn’t even matter to him what he’s saying. He’ll regret it later, on the comedown and cool off, like he knows he does when he’s so close to the cliff-edge and careening off unchecked. But for now, for right now, he’s got this, Fu Meng-po under his heel, looking ruined beyond repent, and it’s pulsing heady in his temples, curling dark, leashing his hindbrain.

“Could’ve— could’ve pushed up my skirts, and, and come on my thighs.” Kuan-hung groans, and Fu Meng-po’s startled whine layers over it, washes it out. Fuck, he’s thinking of the other night, when Fu Meng-po said— said that, about making him come from his chest, and he’s thinking of this, this whole fantasy with the dress, using him in it, and—

And he’s not even thinking at all, is he, because he’s too far past gone, too close to coming, all-over undone. “Yeah? Or did you want— did you want my, my pussy in your mouth? Huh?”

Fu Meng-po’s hands claw down on him, nails scraping his skin, as his teeth sink viciously into the reddened swell of his bottom lip, gagging his whine. His hips stutter mid-thrust. Kuan-hung’s foot feels so messy and so wet.

“You did—” he chokes on it, arousal seizing him by the throat. He’s dizzy. He feels like he can’t breathe, not if he keeps moving his hand, stroking himself way too fast, unforgiving, but he can’t stop. God, but he likes that. Fu Meng-po likes that, that word, and this. It’s too much. He wants more from him. He can’t take it. “You like— you wanted— fuck, are you going to come? Are you coming for me?”

Kuan-hung swings his weight forward, arcs it up, and comes with a sob-tinged wail, beyond bordering incoherent, spilling up his shirt and down his hand. The fog of his release rolls into his head, cut through only by the dulled sensation of Fu Meng-po rutting along the sole of his foot again, again, again, before finally, finally, he tenses up and shakes loose.

“Oh,” Kuan-hung hears himself say, wrung-out. He falls back heavily into his elbows as his strength seeps out, then sinks flat onto his back. He touches absently at his stomach; grimaces when he smears his own spend across his shirt, soddening the cotton. It’s sticky, already drying cool along with his sweat.

A bit distantly, through the daze of his rebound back into commission, he feels Fu Meng-po ease his leg down from his lap, and swipe— something, probably his shirt, along the underside of his foot. It doesn’t linger long enough to tickle.

Fuck. “Fuck,” he mutters, winded. His cheeks flush with fresh shame as the last splinters of pleasure crest out, leaving him open to deal with all their sharding consequences, in excruciatingly exact detail. He really just— did that. Mostly unprompted.

“Yeah,” Fu Meng-po agrees. His voice is so roughed-raw that it cracks on the last consonant and fades off. Kuan-hung hears him swallow, loud; feels him get up, quiet. He shuts his eyes, cheeks burning even hotter.

“Can you. Um." He flippantly flails the hand not currently preoccupied with further soiling his shirt towards— somewhere. “Get me another shirt?”

“Sure.” The mattress sags in around his feet, then springs back up, and Kuan-hung listens to the creak of the floorboards as Fu Meng-po putters off to somewhere peripheral. He obviously, audibly takes his time with it, so Kuan-hung does, at least, get to catch a break and take a few more deep breaths before Fu Meng-po comes back.

“Here,” he says, and Kuan-hung begrudgingly opens his eyes as he sits up to gingerly peel his shirt off over his head, mindfully fixated on the dual threads of his own drying come and how close Fu Meng-po is hovering.

“Are you,” Kuan-hung starts, mouth in-front and head on-heel. By the time he has the follow-on realisation that what he has to say is, quite frankly and fairly, ridiculous, it’s too late to put a stop to it, anyway. He may as well finish up quick. “Fine?”

Fu Meng-po chuckles, like maybe he’s thinking that that’s his line, the one he’s earned, all immediately preceding proceedings considering. Well, they can share it. “Yeah,” he answers, and he sounds sure enough that Kuan-hung chances a risk at a proper glance up at him as he takes the proffered swap-around shirt. It’s definitely too big to be his, he can tell that much just from the bunched-up handful of it.

“Are you?” Fu Meng-po asks back. Pries, really, if Kuan-hung can have a bit of an ungenerous and utterly mortified opinion on it. He shakes out Fu Meng-po’s shirt and starts shoving it on as a blatant stall.

“I’m just—” The shirt slips on far too quickly, and he drops his hands into his lap with a scowl-mouthed sigh before he lies back, legs kicking out to stretch down the mattress, fingers tangling in his hem as it swims across his hips. “Good,” he manages. Then, “Oh my god, Gege.” He laughs, embarrassingly giggly and far more than too loud for whatever could be the current time of night-to-day. What do you even say to that, anyway, after that? He’s going to be haunted by the ghost of its shape for the rest of his life.

“Go take your shower,” Kuan-hung finally tells him, when all it seems like Fu Meng-po is going to do is smile at him, all fucked-out soft around the edges and achingly fond, and leave the silence to grow out long. He makes a point to roll over, facing away. “I’m sleeping. See you.”

Whatever good that’ll manage to do. He’s wide awake, now. Up before the sun even is, however barely that might be, and with a head full of thoughts to think. Very, very carefully. Or not at all. Maybe? He’ll see.

He feels Fu Meng-po kneel over him, just enough to press a kiss into his hair, then another, briefer, when Kuan-hung reaches back to fumble for his shoulder because he’s weak and he caves easy, before he stands up from the bed and steps off to leave him be.