shape of the spark
by fruitjuicer

shape of the spark

fruitjuicer

Summary

And this is the thing: Kuan-hung's not busy, and he's sure enough to think that they both know it without his saying so. But he gives a little rolling shrug of his shoulders, anyway, with his limited range of motion, and answers, "I'm not," because he can. And, "Can't you take care of yourself?"

Notes

Imported from Archive of Our Own. Original work id: 37318291.

Chapter 1

Kuan-hung isn't sure what time Fu Meng-po gets back, only that it is, at least, late. He could swipe up his notifications to check the time, but he's a little preoccupied with rapid-fire depleting the energy in his game, and the foggy, tired sting to his eyes is proof enough of it besides. He's had himself in a belly-down flat hunch over his phone for long enough that his shoulders have locked up stiff, but the ache hasn't crept deep enough down his back yet for him to be thinking all that pressingly about making any postural adjustments.

So, he just stays where he is. Listens out, a bit more attentively than he'd readily admit, as Fu Meng-po shuffles around in the next-room-over backdrop. It's not as if he has to get up or call out for Fu Meng-po to know he's here and where to find him. Kuan-hung's not getting acclimated to this, or anything: he's not a part of Fu Meng-po's post-work evening wind-down and check-out. But he is letting himself enjoy it for the few more days that it's going to last, this whole having of someone comfortable in his orbit, unobtrusively circling.

Maybe calling it a post-work wind-down isn't entirely accurate tonight. Fu Meng-po's been out for dinner, or drinks. Something. He couldn't do either, anyway, really — his show's got him leashed on his diet, and he's wasted no opportunity complaining about it while palming things off to Kuan-hung, like fattening him up is any sort of consolation — so it'd been about off the clock company, however brief. He'd messaged Kuan-hung over WeChat, inviting him, then sent a sad-faced little kaomoji back when Kuan-hung had passed. He'd thought about it, then he'd thought about how Chia-yen might be there, and how if she saw him she might just end up seeing through him, too, and that had been the end of that.

She'd be nice about it, is the thing. But Kuan-hung doesn't think he can take— nice, right now, from people who are a few steps ahead of him in life experience. Who have seen him around Fu Meng-po more than enough to get their fill of a read, and who have probably already long drawn their conclusions. So he stayed here.

He's a little glad that he's only here for a week. He hates that it is only for a week. If this had all happened the last time he was here and they were both together… well, whatever. He had barely left in the end, anyway, and whatever he took with him wasn't entirely intact. But Kuan-hung isn't thinking about that. He's not thinking about ahead, and there's no need yet, if ever, to talk about any of it.

Everything that comes out of his suitcase of a morning goes back into it after, like it was always going to. And if he ends up wearing Fu Meng-po's shirts, sometimes, or bundling himself into his spare windbreaker when he's braving the tamed outdoors because Taitung is getting brisker than what he packed for, that's just practicality. Compromise and compensation. Kuan-hung is well compartmentalised. He knows his way around his own selective thinking.

He loses relative track of Fu Meng-po sometime after he goes into the bathroom. There's the sound of running water; the rattling groan of the pipes. Then nothing else loud enough, for however many long minutes it must all take, until there's approaching footsteps, the floorboards creaking beneath the padding shift of Fu Meng-po's weight. Kuan-hung still doesn't look up. But he's planning to, even gotten as far as thinking about it, until he's knocked off-guard, enough, by the sink of the bed beneath his hips as Fu Meng-po kneels in over him, that his thumb slips up his screen and misclicks.

Kuan-hung pinches his mouth in middling flash pan consternation, then clicks his tongue. Fu Meng-po settles in over him, head lowering so he can tuck his chin over Kuan-hung's bunched-up shoulder, and he's not— heavy, but he's bearing himself down in a way that's pressing, maybe, with this low-laying, unhurried intent. Kuan-hung's all too hyperaware of the rebound shake in his fingers as he realigns his clawed grip.

"Hey," Fu Meng-po greets, low, mouth tilted to Kuan-hung's cheek.

"Hey," Kuan-hung greets back. The catch in his voice is just rust with a scratch of dry. It's fine. He swallows while he shifts, slightly enough to seem indeliberate, between Fu Meng-po's thighs. Manages to tap the ability he means to hit on his screen on his next try with what he thinks is a pretty infallible air of indifference.

Fu Meng-po makes a soft sound, a hum that barely fills out the little space between them. He lowers himself down until his chest is flush to Kuan-hung's back, weight pooled out in the bent brace of his forearms. It edges the presence of him into a blunt pressure; tides the warmth of his body to whelming. Kuan-hung turns the sharp catch of his breath over in his mouth, shallows it into something whiny, complaintive. He can't hide how the beat of his heart kicks up in his chest, though, or the tense flex of his legs between Fu Meng-po's when his toes curl, tapering the shiver that rolls through him, full-body. Those are baring.

He can't be said to be watching his screen, anymore, but he still doesn't turn his head to give Fu Meng-po the last flimsy-thin line of his attention just yet. There's no sense to the choice, not when he's this transparent, but there is— some sort of space, to feel out. He's feeling it out. He's not sure he's meant to know what he's meant to find, or if he's supposed to figure it out any sooner than the split-second he stumbles over it, but it's there.

There is no usually, for this part between them, no used to, but— Kuan-hung initiates. At least, he thinks that's the trend of it, even if sometimes he's not so much leading the way as he is following along ahead. The last few days and nights have kept to some semblance of routine where he ends up taking the reins, even if it is just to hang himself with them while under Fu Meng-po's supervision. So this is— it's not. Fu Meng-po isn't even hard, he's just, there. Breath curling damp against his cheek with every exhale that sags the span of his chest across Kuan-hung's shoulder blades; smelling thickly of cypress and herbs where he's soaped off his cologne and stale sweat.

But Kuan-hung knows what this is. He wants what this is. So that's why he says, "Are you taking me to bed?" all cut to direct.

"If you're ready," Fu Meng-po says, easy, tipping his chin towards Kuan-hung's phone.

And this is the thing: Kuan-hung's not busy, and he's sure enough to think that they both know it without his saying so. But he gives a little rolling shrug of his shoulders, anyway, with his limited range of motion, and answers, "I'm not," because he can. And, "Can't you take care of yourself?"

It hangs for a moment that goes on for too long between them, and Kuan-hung starts to think that maybe the tease didn't stick its landing. Then Fu Meng-po kneels back up from over him, settling heavy across his hips, and Kuan-hung is convinced he's overshot this, this split-second impulse, into something tense. He turns his head to follow Fu Meng-po, intending to clarify it, or apologise, or something jumbled in-between, but he's barely got his mouth open around the start of it when Fu Meng-po's hand sets in on the back of his neck. It's nothing harder than intimation, but the collar of his palm and the curled pressure of his fingers pushes all thought back out of Kuan-hung's head, fills his ears with ringing white static.

"Stay there," he hears Fu Meng-po tell him. The pad of his thumb strokes down his throat until it catches on the hinge of his shoulder, sending a shudder down his spine. "I've got it." His knees shift, drawing in to brace flush against Kuan-hung's sides before he rocks himself down, just once, draggingly slow, achingly deliberate. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Kuan-hung repeats. Or thinks he repeats, anyway. He's not sure if it has left his mouth or if it's still stuck in his head. He must have said something, though, or made some semblance of affirmative sound, because Fu Meng-po's thumb kneads in, a tight half-circle of pressure that radiates pricking heat down through his trapezius. His other hand closes over Kuan-hung's hip, lifting him up, just a sliver of an inch shy of nothing, curving his back to pull him in tighter to his lap. His grip is so big. The span of his hand almost closes around the whole of him.

Fu Meng-po's still not hard. He's not hard yet. But Kuan-hung can feel the shape of him; the suggestion. There's no room for him to get his knees underneath himself, to do anything but take how the rut of Fu Meng-po's still-soft cock against his cleft bears him down flat, makes his own cock rub roughly against the mattress. It doesn't hurt from more than the shock, but the friction scrapes dry, runs bruise-hot.

He can't see his screen at all, anymore, and he can't just go and turn his head over his shoulder to look— "Ah," he gasps out, the noise too loud, taking up all this space in his mouth and his head and everywhere else where there's absolutely no room for it. Fu Meng-po slows the pace of his hips, but doesn't get as far as actually stopping, the blunt grind of his cock against him steady, relentless.

"Good?" Fu Meng-po murmurs. It doesn't sound like it's the same question, rephrased, but it's cast wide enough that it could be.

"You're—" Kuan-hung purses his lips, swallowing. "You're distracting me," he pushes out.

Fu Meng-po kneels up from him, thumbs curling in the waistband of his sweats. He feels around his hips, then hitches him up to work a hand beneath him and the bed. Kuan-hung yelps, jostled, and Fu Meng-po laughs down at him.

"Sorry," he says, smile in his voice, utterly unapologetic. His nails pick the knotted drawstring of Kuan-hung's sweats loose, and he shifts him again to pull them down over his ass, his hips, down his thighs. "Go back to your game. I'll be gentler."

Kuan-hung does. Or tries to, anyway. Fu Meng-po is obtrusive, even more so when he's trying not to be, gradual in the way he inches down Kuan-hung's calves, stripping his sweats off after him. His thumb curls in the arch of each foot as he eases the legs of them off, one after the other, and Kuan-hung tries not to twist out of his grip, burning hot, toes flexing.

Fu Meng-po's weight sifts around him, then settles back across his thighs, the backs of his knuckles brushing over his ass. He looks, he can't help but look, compelled before he can catch himself to turn his head and seek Fu Meng-po out from over his shoulder as Fu Meng-po's steadies him at the hip. He follows the slope of his neck, the line of his arm as it threads down between his legs, to the grip of his hand around his cock, still in his briefs, tenting the cotton, wet at the tip.

Fu Meng-po's eyes meet his, out from under the fan of his fringe, sweat-tamped to his forehead, his temples. Then, slowly, he takes himself, and guides his clothed cock to rut along his crease, pushing in, parting him.

Kuan-hung drops his phone; loses it, somewhere, shoved away in the flail of his arms as he grabs out for anything he can reach, what will hold him. "Oh god," he blurts out, burning up, face dropping back to the crook of his arm. "Oh god, please—"

"Too much?" Fu Meng-po asks, smug about it, shameless. "Still distracting you?"

"Forget that," Kuan-hung snaps, feet kicking out against the bed as he tries to rock himself back against Fu Meng-po's cock. "Just— fuck me." They were getting there, anyway. So what if he's eager for it?

"How do you want it?"

"Just hurry up," Kuan-hung doesn't beg him, not at all. "Hurry and open me up, please, just— get me on your cock."

It's not that— he does think that it's going to be a no. And it's okay if it's a no. They haven't actually managed it yet, and Fu Meng-po's been at work— no is not a disappointment. Fu Meng-po's going to take care of him. He always makes him feel good. So it's a little unexpected that what follows next, after Fu Meng-po's paused to linger on it, is, "Yeah. Okay, yeah."

"Oh." Kuan-hung can't help himself: the simplicity of it, the sudden actuality of its realisation— it's unguarding.

Fu Meng-po tips forward to press a kiss into his hair. A quick thing, fleeting, like the rest of him to follow. "I'll get you ready for me," he says. "You don't have to do a thing."

"Good. I wasn't, I wasn't going to." Kuan-hung pushes down on the urge to crane up after him, to chase for a kiss from him that will meet with his lips. All that bodes down that road is a real distraction, however sweet a one it might be.

Kuan-hung listens to him as he fumbles around beside the bed; has to press his snort into his arm as he hears him pop the cap on the lube, the squirt of the bottle as he squeezes it into his hand. He stays like that, still, as Fu Meng-po straddles him behind the knees, only moving to spread his thighs out wider for him with a soft sigh when Fu Meng-po nudges at him.

He tenses as Fu Meng-po grabs his thigh, sudden, his hand almost wrapping around the whole of it; sets his jaw against the whine gathering in his mouth as Fu Meng-po just— pushes him open even wider. Fu Meng-po stalls, at that, and, "No, no, it's good," Kuan-hung rushes to assure him, head jerking up. If Fu Meng-po actually stops— but he doesn't, just goes back to manhandling him to where he wants him, a wet finger teasing at his hole. "Oh— you're so strong, aren't you?" he rambles. "Moving me around."

"You like that," Fu Meng-po says as he sinks a finger into him, matter-of-fact. He doesn't leave him on it to linger, easing in the second before the first has even set to rest, his palm smoothing down the shudder that ripples up Kuan-hung's back as he's opened up. It's a stretch, but not as much as it has been, before, when Fu Meng-po has fucked him on his hand. Not enough to warrant the shallow thrust of his fingers, or how he's in no apparent hurry.

"I don't need much," Kuan-hung urges, impatience blurring into petulance.

Fu Meng-po stalls against him for a beat. "You're tight," he says, low, "I don't want to—"

"—I like it," Kuan-hung cuts in. "I like it." When you're rough is right, but it's not… close enough. Not what he needs. And so. "If it hurts. A little," he admits. His tongue feels thick around it, throat tight. He doesn't know how else he can say that he trusts Fu Meng-po to know where the line is on what he can take. Not without using those words, more precisely, and having to open himself up to their exactitude.

He lifts his head again, chancing another look over his shoulder. Fu Meng-po's face is what he sees, first, expression a crumple of concentration, restraint. It's not a far fall for his gaze to follow, from there, to Fu Meng-po's chest, his abdomen. Down between his thick thighs, the twilled muscle corded tense. To his dick, jutting up towards his belly, a condom already rolled on over his shaft.

"You've got it— you're ready?" Kuan-hung asks, even though the answer is obvious, unneeded. He can see that he is.

"Yeah." Fu Meng-po dips his chin a bit, almost as if he's shy about it.

"Oh," Kuan-hung says. "Oh, wow. Eager." Fu Meng-po's fingers twitch against him, telling. "Okay, then come here," he demands, "hurry." He turns his head, pushes his face back against his arm, leveraging it into an arch of his back that he hopes comes off as tempting, not coltish.

"I'll go slow," Fu Meng-po says, perhaps as much to Kuan-hung as himself, drawing up close, their knees knocking together, cock thrusting against his crease. "You tell me when."

"I'll tell you," Kuan-hung promises, "I'll tell you, just—"

Fu Meng-po doesn't wait for him to finish before he presses the tip of his cock in against his hole, the slide of it slippery, slicked latex catching on his rim. Then he's pushing in, and Kuan-hung is trying to relax, trying to breathe, taking it even when the stretch starts to ache so much his legs are going numb with it. And then Fu Meng-po opens him up on the inch that makes Kuan-hung feel like his throat is going to close up around it, and he can't—

"Too— ah," he tries to get out, eyes stinging with tears, tongue thick behind his teeth, but he can't speak, he can't really anything. Fu Meng-po has stopped, he's still, his fingers brushing against Kuan-hung's rim where he's stretched around him.

"It's okay," Fu Meng-po says, between all the nonsensical shushing, the rhythmic pet of his hand down between his shoulder blades, his thumb stroking at his nape.

"Sorry, sorry," Kuan-hung croaks out. He doesn't feel like he even— took anything at all. Fu Meng-po's hips are still tilted back at an angle, so far away. But he's so full.

"You're okay," Fu Meng-po gentles. "You're good. You took so much."

"You're lying," Kuan-hung's retort bubbles out of him, lilting up on a laugh. He shifts his hips, just slightly, teeth scraping along his bottom lip. "I think. I think you can move."

"You sure?" Fu Meng-po's hand on his nape stills, fingers tangling in his sweaty hair.

"Yeah," Kuan-hung pants, shifting again, just a bit more, bolder. "I— yes. Yeah. You, you have to." He swallows, shakily bracing his weight against the bed beneath him. "Hurry up," he demands, thin, fragile. "Hurry up or I'll die."

Fu Meng-po doesn't quite get full marks for hurrying up, but he does start to move. Slow, broaching slides of his cock, first, that build into hard, breaching shoves, backed up with the force that would slam his hips against Kuan-hung's ass if he could actually fit inside him, the circle of his fingers around his cock slapping against Kuan-hung's hole with every thrust. It's so— it's so. It feels good, like he's being used, almost, like he's of use.

He can feel the climb of his own pleasure, how it's jolting up from low down his spine, jarring through his belly, unfolding like a breath behind his ribs, but it's— slower. Off-pace to the way Fu Meng-po is moving against him, into him.

"Wait!" Kuan-hung gasps, rushing to keep ahead of his sputtering nerves, "wait, wait—"

Fu Meng-po stops still, mid-thrust, and the shove of it is blunter than if he'd just followed it through, stretches Kuan-hung even wider. Kuan-hung chokes on it all, his spit and his tongue and the cram of Fu Meng-po's cock half inside him.

"Don't stop," Kuan-hung yelps at him, kicking out at the bed. He squirms frantically around the breach of Fu Meng-po braced between his thighs, keeping him open, displayed. "I didn't say stop, when have I ever said stop, just— ah." He falters, voice cracking as Fu Meng-po, ever-obedient on the uptake, cants his hips, edging his cock back deeper with a short, shallow thrust. His face feels so hot, like the skin is about to split open, peel off. He tucks it back into the crook of his elbow, muffling his little punched-out whine as Fu Meng-po kicks his pace back up, hand sliding off his own dick to grip his ass, parting him.

"Are you, are you close?" His breath hiccups sharply as he's shoved up the bed, crushed into the sheets. God, Fu Meng-po's not even— he's so big. He's so big. Even when he's being so gentle, like this, not giving Kuan-hung more than he can take, maybe giving him less, even, he is just— there is just so much of him. He's everywhere, and he moves Kuan-hung around like it's too easy to do, like using him is something that just can't be helped. "Are you gonna come?" Kuan-hung croaks.

"Yeah," Fu Meng-po grunts out, rough. "Yeah, yeah." His thumb digs in as he grips Kuan-hung's ass harder, spreads him out as he pulls back, until all Kuan-hung can feel is the head of his dick snubbing his hole, the cling of his rim around the tip of the condom as he squeezes down around that almost-nothing, tries to pull Fu Meng-po back in.

"Can you," Kuan-hung starts, and fuck, he sounds as close to breaking as he feels, wound up tight and trembling out thin. Fu Meng-po is just watching him, looking down between his spread legs, breathing heavily through his nose. It's not like Kuan-hung has ever seen himself there, not when he's like this, but he's sticky, and he's sore, and he's watched enough porn that he can put together the dirty gist of it all. It's filthy. He's so filthy, and he can't hide it, not when he's holding Fu Meng-po's attention with it in the same turn. He can't do anything but lie there, trying to breathe around the way he's being looked at without choking on what he must look like.

"Yeah? Can I?" Fu Meng-po prompts. He sounds wrecked, breathless, but it's not even a consolation, not when he's holding so steady, patient, taking his fill. The pin of his hands, the way he's bearing down his weight— there's not enough give in either for Kuan-hung to fuck himself back onto his cock, to goad him into moving again. He's not in the rush Kuan-hung is, and they both know it. He'll wait.

So Kuan-hung sucks in a shuddery breath, then another; swallows them all until they stick, cold, in his chest. Then, "Can you take it off?" he finally manages to ask. His voice sounds like something he's not sure he wants to be his, let alone wants to be heard, all high and whiny, sloppy sob-wet. It's bad. "Can you come inside me? If you want," Kuan-hung adds quickly. Even with his cost already sunk past self-conscious, he's desperate to bite it all back behind his teeth as much as he's helpless to do anything else but say it.

He has no face left. He's going to come all over himself, barely even touched, just from having his cock rubbed raw while he's face down, being fucked flat against the sheets. And he'll probably cry about it, because it's so good, and that's humiliating, and then he'll die so he never actually has to look Fu Meng-po in the eye ever again. Night sorted.

"Fuck, Kuan-hung." Fu Meng-po's swear is guttural, scrapes like a shudder down the swoop of Kuan-hung's spine. He grabs at him, hip and back, grip flinching down so hard that Kuan-hung feels it, this stretched-tight sting that's going to bloom with an ache, going to litter his skin with bruises. Fu Meng-po's fingers are going to be on him for days, now, all that mindfulness spent keeping it to just marking him up with his mouth wasted in a moment. "Yeah, all right, that's all right?"

"If you want," Kuan-hung stresses. "If you want it." It comes out a little thin, vulnerable, the words tacky in his dry mouth. He hasn't had anyone… well, it's been a while, obviously. And it's not like he's into it or anything. It feels good only until his ears stop ringing, then it's just messy, and then it starts dripping and drying and— anyway. He's asked for it.

"Yeah," Fu Meng-po breathes, and, "hey, got you," he soothes, running his hand up Kuan-hung's side when he pulls out that last fraction of an inch and Kuan-hung makes a horrible, needy little sound, all struck-out. Stupid. Fu Meng-po isn't going anywhere. He's not going to leave him like this. "I'm here," he assures him, hands falling away as he leans back.

"I know," Kuan-hung mumbles, aggrieved. He tries to wipe his eyes, and his sleeve comes away wet. It's not like he can hear what Fu Meng-po's doing, down to the dirt of the minutiae, but he can hear the shape of him, moving around, and he knows the destination, so. Imagination is doing a good job of assuming some substance in the gaps left for all the rest.

He doesn't leave him waiting long before he's back, scrambling into it, the space between Kuan-hung's thighs where he just— fits. "Look at you," Fu Meng-po rasps out. His hips stutter forward, rutting his bare cock up along his cleft, plucking out a reedy little whine from between Kuan-hung's lips.

"Please," Kuan-hung fumbles, shuddering as he feels Fu Meng-po wrap a hand around himself, the backs of his knuckles brushing up against his balls. "Please, you're not, ah—"

"I'll give it to you," Fu Meng-po promises, kneeling up behind him. He smoothes his hand down Kuan-hung's spine, curving him into the tight circle of his hips, opening him up to the slap of his cock against his twitching hole. "All you need. Gonna—" Kuan-hung doesn't hear him swallow, but he hears the sudden stop of it, the sharp little intake of breath that follows. "Gonna train your tight little pussy up on my cock," he finishes in a rush, tripping over it. "Stuff it so full."

"Selang," Kuan-hung gasps, giddiness knotted in hard around something a little ashamed, and something a little more excited. He didn't— "You like that. You like that? You want to come in me. You're so, you're so dirty."

"Yeah," Fu Meng-po breathes out, slung low, coarse. "That's what you're here for."

Oh. "Mei shui zhun," Kuan-hung babbles, jackknifing into the brace of Fu Meng-po around and against him, possessing, "pi zai yang—"

Kuan-hung isn't sure who comes first, or if it even matters. It hits him like a blow, all the force of it, his breath tearing out of him as his cock spurts messily against his belly, the bed. Somewhere in all the shattering white static that's ringing through his ears, he feels the head of Fu Meng-po's dick push back past his sore, fucked slack rim; the wet of his come as he spills more on his hole than in.

Fu Meng-po bears over him in a stagger, cock sliding in tight between his legs, head snubbing up behind his balls. The shove of his body knocks Kuan-hung's knees too wide to suspend his own weight, spilling him over until he's laid out, face crushed to the sheets. His breath is hot on Kuan-hung's ear, the drag of his hand hotter as it scrapes in between the bed and his belly, fitting over his cock. Kuan-hung makes a wounded noise at the touch, still stung, sensitive, and Fu Meng-po pants out into his hair, hard, rushed.

"That's it," he slurs, voice rough, velvet-thick, when Kuan-hung whimpers, the flinch of his hips grinding his softening cock along the flat of Fu Meng-po's palm. "That's it. Rub your little clit down on my hand for me."

"Gege," Kuan-hung chokes out, spitty and stumbling, scandalised. He squirms, shying from Fu Meng-po's hand, but there's nowhere for him to go that Fu Meng-po doesn't follow him to, kneading at his shaft as he pins it tighter against his belly. He pinches the head between his thumb and forefinger, and Kuan-hung hisses, all wretched clotted sibilance, as the pressure pangs through his tensing thighs.

"There's my good girl," Fu Meng-po praises. He teases the pad of his thumb over his tip, smearing the beading come he's milked out from his slit. "Let it all out."

Kuan-hung makes another sound, wetter, incoherent nonsense, hips canting up into the brace of Fu Meng-po at his back. He scrabbles to get a hand beneath himself, fingers tangling around Fu Meng-po's wrist, but he doesn't— he doesn't try to push him away, not yet. Not just yet. He's so fucked out he can't swing his head around to any one thought, stripped back and narrowed down to the lazy pump of Fu Meng-po's fist around his softening cock, the slow drip of Fu Meng-po's come down his balls, between his thighs.

"Hey," Fu Meng-po rumbles, fuzzy.

"I can feel it," Kuan-hung blurts out to him. The instinctual clench of his teeth together comes too slow to stop it short, so he eases his jaw back open, licking out at his bottom lip. "Your come." Not that Fu Meng-po needs the elaboration, but.

"Yeah?" Fu Meng-po shifts against him, readjusting his weight, hand slipping free of his cock to trail up his belly, his ribs. "Do you want to see it?"

"Oh." Kuan-hung squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, sucking in a breath. "That's, um." A lot. "How?"

"Could take a picture." Fu Meng-po says, like it's, like it's that easy. Then, "With your phone," he offers, clarifying.

"I don't. Um. I don't know where my phone is," Kuan-hung manages, still a little dazed. It's true, he doesn't. But it's also easier, too, to say it, instead of something else a little more on point, straying personal. He's not sure how he feels about it, and he's not sure how he should feel about it, either. Thinking about it is one thing, and knowing what it probably looks like in theory is another, and that Fu Meng-po is seeing it, already, and liking it, another thing still, entirely, and— and.

If he took a picture, or, or if he recorded it, even— Kuan-hung doesn't think he'd be able to actually look at it. The way his hole must look all stretched around Fu Meng-po's big dick. The way his come would spill out after him as he slid free, strung between his tip and Kuan-hung's sore, pink rim. Was he thinking about it too loudly, before? Did Fu Meng-po see through him to all of his— all of his nasty little thoughts, somehow?

"S'all right," Fu Meng-po says, intervening before the wheelspin of his head can really pick up any traction. Because of course he does. He's so nice about it. It makes Kuan-hung feel worse, not insignificantly because of his sudden lack of surety that Fu Meng-po can't actually read his mind and is not using what he mines from there for horny evil, but it does also make him feel much better, so. It meets in a middle, somewhere.

Fu Meng-po doesn't stay all that nice about it, though. Doesn't even give him so much as a warning as he grips his ass and bows his head, nosing in between his legs. He spreads him wide with his thumbs, and Kuan-hung only manages to get a wet gurgle of a sound out of his mouth, face half-crushed to the sheets, as Fu Meng-po laps behind his balls, over his hole.

"Ah!" Kuan-hung wriggles beneath him, panting. "Fu Meng-po—"

"Shh," Fu Meng-po quiets him, throaty, harsh. "You don't want to be a mess."

The way he says it— he's right, but he's not placing it down like a question, so there's only one way that Kuan-hung can answer him. "Yes," he stammers. "Yes, yeah."

Fu Meng-po pants out, wet, harsh, licking in past his rim. Kuan-hung bucks, trying to push into his face and away from it in twisting turns. It's so— Fu Meng-po's grip edges in against his hips, encroaching bruising, and when Kuan-hung whines out in pitiable futility, Fu Meng-po growls against him, licks in harder. It's filthy, sloppy, and Kuan-hung can't really breathe, his head spinning so fast he thinks it's about to unscrew at his neck, a wet white blur bleeding into the edges of his eyes.

He can't be— he has to be clean, now, already. All he can feel is the smear of Fu Meng-po's spit as it drips down his chin, the wet smack of his mouth as he kisses against his hole, the wetter lash of his tongue. But Fu Meng-po doesn't stop, just presses his tongue in deeper, hands curving against him until the pads of his thumbs are kneading at his rim, holding him open for his mouth.

"It, it hurts," Kuan-hung groans out, after what must be— he doesn't know. He's not even sure it does hurt, he just, he can't get his head around thinking how to put it better. It's so much. There's not enough room inside of him for so much, even if it's so much— good.

Fu Meng-po gets it, though, or at least gets something, because he pulls back, just like that. "Easy," he hushes, voice scrape-rough, used. He runs a hand up and down Kuan-hung's waist, his hip, circling the broad flat of his palm anywhere he can reach, smoothing out the shivering. "You good?"

Kuan-hung gurgles, the noise all clotted thick in his mouth, wet. He needs a moment. He needs a lot of moments. Fu Meng-po seems content in his own comedown to hang back and let him have them, but he does make a sound that's almost certainly a laugh. It's okay, though. It's grounding, too, just like the wander of his hand, the weight of him, the fill of his presence.

"I'm, yeah," Kuan-hung finally dredges up, watery. "I'm— I'm sticky. Still."

"Yeah?" Fu Meng-po rumbles. "Huh."

"Should take care of it." If it's a little bit whiny, the complaint haught, then, well. He should, is the point. Fu Meng-po made him into this mess, he can make him out of it.

"Should take care of it," Fu Meng-po repeats. He seems to agree with him too, even, because then he's bowing back in over him, hands folding his thighs apart so he can lash his tongue across a streak of— something, come and sweat and maybe spit, too, stuck fast.

Kuan-hung jerks, grunting out as his cock chafes against the bed beneath him. "Gege," he whines, breathy. Fu Meng-po noses up into the crease where his thigh meets his ass; presses a kiss, there, to lay an outline for his teeth to follow as he sucks a mark into his skin, bruising. "Gege," Kuan-hung presses. "I think you're— you're going to kill me."

"Hmm." Fu Meng-po doesn't sound like he agrees with him, or that he cares about that consequence at all, if he does; confirms as much, in fact, when he speaks up again shortly after. "Think you can come again?" His voice is still a wet rasp, all thick and rough and run-ragged, breath hot where it laps over his tender skin. Grounding, somehow, even amidst all his shuddering, the rattle-fire of his burnt up, red-lit nerves.

"I don't—" He doesn't— "I don't know. I've never." He hasn't. He usually stops, after he comes, because it always feels like— it's too much. He's hard again, maybe even still, cock hot and sticky where it's pressed heavy against his belly, but it's a sore kind of need, nauseating. He's not sure about it. "You know I'm, I'm sensitive," he complains, shaky.

Fu Meng-po sighs out through his nose, then leans up, slow. "Try," he says, palms smoothing up his thighs to fit around Kuan-hung's hips, thumbs kneading into the small of his back. "Get your hands on your chest for me. Touch your little tits."

"Oh—" Kuan-hung trembles; tries to tighten up, but it just slides back off him, his body too fucked-out to hold onto the tension. He fumbles for the bed, arching his shoulders back, clumsy, until he can manage to fit his hands in between them. The hem of his shirt catches on his wrists, rides up higher across his back, bunches in tight under his armpits. "Like that?" he asks, shivery on the exhale, fingertips brushing across his chest.

"Feel good?" Fu Meng-po murmurs back, still kneading at him, steady.

"Yeah," Kuan-hung breathes. He strokes himself again, pressing his fingers in a little harder, rougher, nails flicking over his nipples. "It's, um, yeah." It does feel good. He thinks he can say it's good. It dulls the pleasure when it's him, his hands on himself.

"Then just like that," Fu Meng-po says, making it simple. "Keep going," he tells him, instruction punctuating the drag of his hands down from his hips, over his ass.

Kuan-hung pinches at himself, tentative, stifling a moan with the sink of his teeth into his bottom lip. The sound tapers, pitched up high, as Fu Meng-po spreads him back open, blunt fingers stroking over his hole. Kuan-hung's squeak garbles in the back of his throat as he pushes into him, a prisal without preamble.

"Oh," Kuan-hung gasps, strained, hands falling away limply from his chest. Fu Meng-po crooks his fingers, and Kuan-hung jerks against the bed, breath creaking out of him, cock pulsing as it drools precome into the sheets.

"There?" Fu Meng-po tenses against him, arm flexing taut as he curls his fingers up, hard, against his prostate, his other hand flitting to his waist.

"There!" Kuan-hung writhes, caught fast in the pin of Fu Meng-po's hand, holding him in place against the bed. "There, there, oh—!" Fu Meng-po fucks his fingers into him harder, the slide of it slick, the sound a wet, lewd squelch, and Kuan-hung gags on his tongue. "Fu Meng-po," he whimpers, "I can't—"

"You can," Fu Meng-po tells him, with all the firm, ungiving intonation of You will.

"Gege—" His fingers are stretching him so wide, pressing into him so deep, deeper than he could shove his cock, filling him up so far that Kuan-hung can feel him in the back of his throat.

"You're taking it," Fu Meng-po interjects, an edge to it, to him, that's— that's mean, almost, or at least a glance to the side of it. It's not— cruel, though, it's not bad, it's just— new. It's new, and Kuan-hung has already taken such a fill of new, he doesn't have— he can't take this, too. Not right now. He doesn't know what to do with it.

"I can't!" Kuan-hung wails, urgent, unheard. He feels so close that it's all too far, past reach. And Fu Meng-po doesn't— he doesn't let up, doesn't let him breathe, just holds him into it and makes him take it, the piston of his fingers in his hole greedy, ungentle. "I can't, I can't, I can't—!"

He can, he has to, and he does. It's a shock to the whole of him when he comes, sundering. Kuan-hung sobs out, shuddering, when he feels Fu Meng-po's fingers slide free of him, the sudden heft of his weight as it settles down hard against his back.

"Easy, zhengmei," Fu Meng-po murmurs into his hair, against his ear, his cheek, wherever he can reach. "That's it, you're okay." His cock is half-hard, nudged between Kuan-hung's legs, fat against the crease of his thigh, but he doesn't move, not even to try for a little friction, even though the slide between Kuan-hung's thighs must feel so smooth, sweet and soft, silky. He just holds him, like that, until the rage of it passes over, on, through, until Kuan-hung's breath starts to even out, sweat and come drying tacky between his skin and the sheets.

Kuan-hung hears the sound he makes instead of Fu Meng-po's name, this terrible, plaintive little thing, but Fu Meng-po's hand curves around his throat in a gentle coax to answer it. His fingers tilt Kuan-hung's jaw up to meet his lips in a kiss, the press of it sloppy, spit-wet and open-mouthed. Kuan-hung thinks he can taste himself when Fu Meng-po's tongue teases in past his teeth, tracing over his own, and he whimpers weakly at the revelation; feels the reverb of Fu Meng-po's moan as he drinks it down.

Fu Meng-po kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him, until all that's left to ring through his head is the crackle of the sheets beneath them as they shift; the slick, wet slide of their mouths; the tremble of their pants. He kisses him until his cock is hard and twitching against Kuan-hung's thigh, until Kuan-hung can't help but make the greedy little sounds he does into his lips, around his tongue. Until he is pushing his thighs together as best he can, trying to make a sleeve of them for Fu Meng-po to— to fuck. If he wanted to. All Kuan-hung has to do is be used. He doesn't even have to stay awake for that much.

Fu Meng-po makes a tight, hot noise into their kiss, a whimper edging feral. "Hey, hey," he mumbles against his lips. He tips his head back, and Kuan-hung blinks, bleary, to refocus him in his gaze, thighs falling back open. "Was it okay?" Fu Meng-po asks, quiet. "Are you okay?"

He sounds nervous, almost, but it could just be that he's tired. He's had a long day, and then he's come home, and Kuan-hung has goaded him into, well. Working him over a lot harder than he probably intended, if he even intended to begin with. It stands to reason that he's wrung out, and feeling ginger about it, tentative.

Still. "I'm not—" Kuan-hung starts. Stops. The hand Fu Meng-po doesn't have cradling his neck has found Kuan-hung's on the bed, somewhere, in the intervening seconds, and laced their fingers together. Kuan-hung squeezes down on the join of them, the mend, and watches Fu Meng-po's lips part; the flutter of his lashes. "It was good," he decides on. "I liked it."

Fu Meng-po inches back a little further, until Kuan-hung can see the crimp of his mouth, the furrow of his brow. "It was a lot," is all he says, his frown in his voice.

What he did, what he said, both— Kuan-hung does give him the space for it, he thinks, but Fu Meng-po doesn't take it to elaborate. And, well. It's not— Fu Meng-po is the sure one, that's how this works. But of course he can't be sure all of the time, that's, that's only fair.

He's been a little intense, since he got back from work, in retrospect. But that's— that's just how it is, sometimes. He didn't think much more of it. And Kuan-hung's not together enough for any sort of real— conversation, if one needs to be had. But he does know he does need to say something, so. So. "For you, maybe," Kuan-hung mumbles back. "I'm used to it. To you. Your whole— a lot."

It's shy, stilted. Embarrassed. But. It's not like Fu Meng-po can't know. It's not like Kuan-hung hasn't been pushing at him for this, with the purpose of getting it, even if he's not been entirely certain as to what it might mean, or be. Fu Meng-po shouldn't feel bad about it, or unsure. Not when Kuan-hung has been provoking him since he landed in Kaohsiung. Really, he's been provoking Fu Meng-po ever since they met, clambering on after him for any and all of his attention, his affection. For anything else he might get, so long as he could make something of it.

Even if he hasn't been sure as to a lot of things, like what he might want from Fu Meng-po, and what he's wanted Fu Meng-po to want from him, he hasn't shied away from the proof of it, of the wanting itself. The pretence of otherwise has never been anything more than a flimsy out, some crumbling misdirect. He does want this, he does want him, and figuring out how he feels about the specifics is just going to have to come later, at a different pace. He had fun, it felt good, and he likes— he likes when Fu Meng-po feels good. He likes when he gets a little— undone, like he can't help himself. It's not just about being desired; it's about who is desiring him.

So. He hopes this helps. He hopes he's helped.

Fu Meng-po does seem to sit with it, at least for a moment. Then, "Okay," he says. "Okay." He does at least sound like he believes him, so that's a start.

"Okay," Kuan-hung says. He wriggles, trying to grip at his shirt to occupy himself with something that isn't staring at Fu Meng-po, but Fu Meng-po is so tangled with him that it's really hard to split both his attention and his limbs elsewhere. "You're heavy," he complains, pouting.

Fu Meng-po's chuckle gusts out of him as he leans back, up. "Yeah?" he says, smile crooked, tender. "How's that?"

"Hmm." Kuan-hung makes a show of his consideration. "You're still trapping me," he complains next. "Look, I'm all— tangled." He paws at the all-but braid of his shirt for emphasis.

"Okay," Fu Meng-po says, "let me fix that." He reaches under his arms and helps him work it out from under there, off over his head, like it's nothing. Effortless. Kuan-hung sighs out, sagging limp against the sheets, shivering softly as Fu Meng-po dabs between the chines of his spine with the cotton, wiping him down.

"Stay here," Fu Meng-po tells him, after what might be a while, the heel of his palm kneading a slow circle over the jut of his hip, the weight pooled into it just enough to keep him in a gentle pin.

"Look cute," Kuan-hung slurs, a little bit stupidly. He thinks he might have dozed, or at least drifted somewhere in-between. He's still— it's going to take him a moment. He needs to— get dressed. Find his phone, put it on charge. Be clean. Sleep.

"Look cute," Fu Meng-po agrees, easy. "I'll get you water. Clean you up properly."

"Mm. So nice." He swallows, trying to ease the way of his voice as it scratches up his well-worked throat. It feels stung, tight, like he's shouted himself down hoarse.

"Nice, huh?" Fu Meng-po pats down his side.

"Hm." Kuan-hung tries to stretch himself out, but it makes where he's sticky just— pull, along his skin, so he grimaces and settles back still. "Maybe not nice," he amends. "Just trained." If that.

Fu Meng-po chuckles, the mattress slanting and sliding under Kuan-hung's belly as he kneels up straighter, gets his feet under himself to stand.

"I think I'm broken," Kuan-hung despairs at his retreating presence. "I think you ruined me."

"Yeah?" comes Fu Meng-po's voice, out from somewhere overhead.

"Yeah," says Kuan-hung, and then, "for sex, anyway." It's not entirely an exaggeration. Fu Meng-po has ruined him for sex, now, a bit, unrealistic and unreasonable standards and all. Kuan-hung is going to be chasing the high of his stupid big dick that doesn't even fit for the rest of his damn life. "Is that what you wanted?" he asks.

It's a bit of a serious question, but there's enough playfulness, there, a safe gap of plausible deniability that Fu Meng-po just casually steps over when he says, "Maybe," wry. That might be a bit too close to the truth for either of them.

"That's not very fair," Kuan-hung croaks, still too close to— anything. Maybe it shouldn't be, but it is, still.

"I'm not very fair," Fu Meng-po counters. Kuan-hung can't see him, but he can hear the small smile in his voice, knows him well enough to know that there would be a smaller shrug following it.

He's really not. Good that they can agree on that, then. But Kuan-hung doesn't have to do anything about it, yet, either, so. It's fine for now. It can just sit there, as-is, between the two of them.

End Notes

Are You There God? It's Me, Wuwa.

Fuckcation turned one in January! What a ride. Anyway, here's some more of that. This comes after give me shudders in a whisper, but only in that it is an escalation of the kink exploration that starts to happen there. Everything is as standalone as you want it to be.

Thank you as always to my wife, the professor, the sluts, and to everyone on twitter who cheered me on. Here's to doing it, and to hopefully doing it again.