tip off the tongue
by fruitjuicer

tip off the tongue

fruitjuicer

Summary

More importantly, and to the point: it turns out that there’s no seamless way to go about asking for what you want. There’s really not. Especially and definitely if you're trying for sexy. And Kuan-hung has tried for sexy, he has tried very hard, and very determinedly, for sexy, in all the dress rehearsals he’s run through in his head. But no dice. He's not living in a webnovel.

Notes

Imported from Archive of Our Own. Original work id: 46922557.

Chapter 1

So, of course, once the thought of it has been put in his head, Kuan-hung is stuck with it. And once he’s stuck with it, there’s really only, ostensibly, one way he can become unstuck with it.

It’s fair to say that it put itself in Kuan-hung’s head; it’s factual to say it’s Fu Meng-po’s fault it found an in there to begin with. Kuan-hung fixates. He knows this about himself: how he’ll compel towards some needling intrigue or hint of exciting curiosity; how it’ll compulse him to chase after it until he’s turned it over enough times to draw a self-satisfactory conclusion. There’s an enjoyability in the certainty of knowing things completely.

And this is a kick and a twist of a contumacious conundrum for him, okay. He’s eaten pussy before, sure, but until Fu Meng-po, he’d never been eaten out himself. Therein lies outlined the gap in the slats bridging his experience together: if that’s a thing that he can have done to him, it stands to reason it’s a thing he can do, too. Maybe it’s on him that he got this far before it dawned on him as a consideration, but the arrived-at destination at the end of the road is his horizons, population: broadly expanded. He’s more than a little curious to feel out all the new shades of shape within them.

Maybe he’s more than a little acutely aware of the descent of his diminishing time together with Fu Meng-po, too. That’s not a far haunt from his head. He wants to do everything even as he knows there’s no time to get it done — wouldn’t be even if Fu Meng-po wasn’t working and he wasn’t trying to do right by a compromise with his own commitments. Kuan-hung is afraid that what he doesn’t take will be gone off the table once the week has been seen out and they’re back out of what and wherever this is. The thing and place that feels like it’s running parallel to the rest of the world, a sliver of a silk-screen divider keeping them shrouded from sharper actualities. They’re all very stupid fears. He doesn’t fear them less for understanding that.

More importantly, and to the point: it turns out that there’s no seamless way to go about asking for what you want. There’s really not. Especially and definitely if you're trying for sexy. And Kuan-hung has tried for sexy, he has tried very hard, and very determinedly, for sexy, in all the dress rehearsals he’s run through in his head. But no dice. He's not living in a webnovel.

So, Kuan-hung sucks it up, and sets about lining up a straightforward shoot of his shot. He takes a productive, moderately paced shower. He downs one or two too many coffees. He manages to keep himself occupied with something other than vibrating out of his own skin until Fu Meng-po finally trundles into the apartment, looking wrung out and beat dry. He’s dead on his feet enough that it really only takes the cajole of Kuan-hung’s hand on his wrist and the ulterior promise of a massage to stagger him out of his shoes and corral him onto the bed.

Kuan-hung does make a good and honest attempt at the massage, for all of five or six kneads, maybe, before he gives up the ghost of it and flattens himself out along Fu Meng-po’s back. Fu Meng-po gives one sweet, sore hiss as Kuan-hung’s weight settles, then sighs out, tips his head, and angles his phone so Kuan-hung can look at his screen from over his shoulder while he’s lounging.

It’s not very engaging content, but watching Fu Meng-po as he scrolls through his Instagram feed playing catchup does give Kuan-hung some leave to build himself up. After a few posts and emoji-punctuated comments, he's reached the point he needs to finally tilt his face towards Fu Meng-po’s. “Hey,” he says, mouth to the shell of his ear, completely casual, volume pitched low in respect to their proximity and also the fact that it’s in the range of well past midnight, “can I eat you out?”

Fu Meng-po doesn’t stiffen or anything underneath him, which seems promising. He does shift a bit, though, pausing in his scrolling, and that coaxes Kuan-hung into scrambling to tack on, “Is that something you like?”

“It’s something I like,” Fu Meng-po replies. Which, cool. Okay. Kuan-hung breathes out, kept nice and calm, hands not at all shaking where they’re pressed between his collarbones and Fu Meng-po’s shoulder blades.

“Well,” says Kuan-hung, still very casually, “just remember you said that. Because I’ve never done it before.” He almost gives the clarification, words piling up on his tongue. But he doesn't. He doesn't want to— he doesn't.

Fu Meng-po sets his phone face down on the mattress, then turns his head over, crossing the cradle of his arms to pillow it in. it brings their noses close enough together that the tips brush. It pushes his glasses up crooked. He still looks tired, drawn around the eyes, but wide awake, now, too.

“Is that something you think you’ll like?" Fu Meng-po asks. And it’s casual, not like Kuan-hung’s clumsy clutch at it, but real no-frills of pressure. Like how things usually are with Fu Meng-po. It makes Kuan-hung feel very pinned down anyway; opened up and peered at.

Kuan-hung shrugs awkwardly, fingers curling in Fu Meng-po’s shirt, nails scratching at where the cotton is stretched taut over the span of his back. His knuckles push up, needle-sharp, into the line of his own throat where he’s craned it into his hand. “I don’t know?” he admits, even though the honesty is honestly embarrassing. Nobody particularly likes not knowing, especially in front of the knowledgeable. That’s part and parcel of the point that’s delivered him here in the first place. “But I’ve been thinking about it,” he elaborates. “With you. I’d like to see?” Kuan-hung takes a beat; bites at his bottom lip. He feels Fu Meng-po’s exhale brush at his mouth, his chin; warm and damp. “If you’d. If that’s fine.”

“I’d like,” Fu Meng-po insists, soft. And, “It’s fine.”

“Right.” Kuan-hung nods against his hand. His tongue clicks awkwardly in his run-dry mouth.

“You’ll have to get up off me,” Fu Meng-po points out. He flexes his back to punctuate it, and, oh. Right.

“Yeah?” Kuan-hung huffs. He rolls over, flopping off Fu Meng-po with all the askance ragdoll grace and flailing limp limbs he can muster. He settles flat onto his back, folds his hands together in a loose clasp over his belly, and— feels it suck in shallow under his palms, around his shocked pull of breath, when Fu Meng-po kneels up on his elbows only to throw a leg over his hip and swing himself over into a straddle, bearing down over him. Kuan-hung thought he would— he thought. He doesn’t know what he thought. He just knows he didn’t think this.

“Hi,” he manages, breathless and more than a little stupid with it. Excitement is intrinsically intertwined with nerved apprehension, for him, at this juncture. He wants to be good. He knows well enough that it’s unreasonable to expect to be good at a first try. He still wants to be good. Who wouldn’t want to be good?

"Hey," Fu Meng-po murmurs. He brushes Kuan-hung's hair back from his face. He takes Kuan-hung’s glasses off, then his own, setting them both a little ways aside on the bed. Then, he leans in, and they're kissing, soft only for the split second before Kuan-hung gasps into it and Fu Meng-po slides his tongue in between his parted teeth, deepening it to something slick and filthy and without the gentle lead-in of preamble. Kuan-hung claws at his shoulders; curls his toes. Whines, pitifully, and shakes all over when he tries to arch up into Fu Meng-po and gets shoved back down flat against the mattress by Fu Meng-po's arm bracing over his chest.

"Wait," Kuan-hung pants out, muffled by the work of Fu Meng-po's mouth as he sucks on his bottom lip, "wait, wait—!"

Fu Meng-po eases back, gentling the pressure until it's a no less muddling brush of their lips and the maddening flick of a lave of Fu Meng-po's tongue, but he's no longer drowning, at least for now. Maybe. "I mean— don't stop? I just. Thought." Kuan-hung leaves it there, metaphorically dropped with its metaphorically flat, loud thud.

Fu Meng-po lifts his chin, breaking the kiss properly, and Kuan-hung squirms in chase, chest butting up against the pin of his arm. Fu Meng-po's eyes are already very dark; his lips ripening red. It's a good mirror tell, for Kuan-hung, as to what he probably looks like underneath Fu Meng-po right now. He shudders, pressing his thighs together, ankles crossing almost shyly as his cock twitches, already half hard. He's really easy, and he can't not think about how easy he is when he keeps getting fucked so much in such a short space of time. By someone who makes it look especially embarrassingly effortless to get a reaction, at that, even.

"We'll get there," Fu Meng-po says. His lips crook around it in a way that makes Kuan-hung's chest feel hollowed out and tight-hot. "Relax a little bit."

"I'm relaxed," Kuan-hung argues feebly. "I'm very relaxed." It's hardly convincing, though, so, "But if you don’t kiss me," he adds, "I will unrelax."

“Will you, now?” Fu Meng-po’s eyes crinkle at the corners as his smile sprawls out, endeared.

“I’m unrelaxing right now,” Kuan-hung warns, mock-haught.

Fu Meng-po, thankfully, caves to the pressure well before Kuan-hung has to confront the truth of the fact that he's already long made good on that threat. He drags the bar of his forearm a little lower, bends his wrist, and then his palm is closing over the swell of Kuan-hung's pectoral, squeezing him tightly, grip molten on Kuan-hung's bare skin even through his thick sweater.

“Oh—” Kuan-hung startles up into Fu Meng-po's mouth, and Fu Meng-po hushes him, all muffled by the curl of his tongue around Kuan-hung's, the scrape of his teeth. The scratch of his stubble on Kuan-hung's chin is starting to chafe, raw sore and more than a little good.

"Gonna make you come, first," Fu Meng-po tells him, rough. "Okay?"

Kuan-hung makes a cut-off grunt of a sound, hips bucking up into the maddening space Fu Meng-po is holding out between them. "What if I— fall asleep, after?" he protests, which is not an out-there concern, though it is, perhaps, a ridiculous fear. It's not as if this is a limited-time offer, one-and-done. He’s gotten it out here, now, which was more than half his struggle. It’s the window of chance-to-opportunity that’s restrictive, but he can work with that if he’s proactive.

Fu Meng-po's chuckle grazes the corner of his mouth as he tilts his head. "How do you want it?" he asks, sidestepping Kuan-hung's handwringing entirely. He circles his thumb, slow, until he finds the peak of Kuan-hung's nipple to press down on, wringing out a jagged gasp, guttural. "Think you can come from my mouth on you if I show you how to use it, huh?"

“Fuck,” Kuan-hung curses, strained, “maybe?” It’d be a close thing, if not. It’s not— he thinks he should amend it to something more sure, but then Fu Meng-po’s fingers meet with his thumb and he pinches down, twisting his grip in a way that scuffs and stings and sends all of Kuan-hung’s thoughts flying out of his head alongside the reedy little wail that rips clean from his throat through his teeth.

“I think you can,” Fu Meng-po says. It’s meandering, light; in complete discrete disarray to the crass way he’s groping Kuan-hung’s chest. “Or do you wanna come like this?”

"Like?" Kuan-hung's tongue feels thick around it, leaden and laid out with the fog in his head in place of any structure or sense past raw stimulation.

"Like this." Fu Meng-po's fingers loosen; he soothes over the throb with a soft pet. "Just from having your little tits played with."

"Uh—" Kuan-hung croaks out, faint. He jerks up full-body, head spinning, cotton-dazed. His cock leaks with a slick pulse where it's snubbing up the crease of his hip in his sweats, swollen throbbing thick and aching. "Uh!"

Fu Meng-po's hand drifts down, low, settling firm on his quivering belly. "Hey," he murmurs, "hey.” Kuan-hung’s ears are ringing a bit. He thinks Fu Meng-po has called out to him more times than that. He still can’t quite hear him right. “Too much?"

Kuan-hung thinks yeah, maybe it was, and he thinks, well, maybe it wasn’t, could be not. He doesn't know. He really doesn't know. "A lot," he gets out. He takes a breath; tries to arch up and urge Fu Meng-po's hand back to his chest, but Fu Meng-po just pins him down harder, keeps him stilled in place.

"Was it that word?" Fu Meng-po ventures, and Kuan-hung whines, plaintive, kicking out at the sheets, knees bumping against the insides of Fu Meng-po's legs where they're splayed over him.

"I don't know!" He throws his head back, snapping his eyes open. His vision swims. He blinks down on it, trying to distil the wet blind blur of his tears. "I'll think about it— please don't stop." If Fu Meng-po stops he'll die, which is yet to be proven true, but continues to overcome him each and every time, nonsensically, nonetheless.

"Not stopping," Fu Meng-po promises, fingers curling in his sweater. "Shh. Take a sec. Then I'll let you up, and you can get on your hands and knees for me."

"Okay." Kuan-hung breathes in again; pushes it back out. He brings his face back down level, draws his gaze up to meet Fu Meng-po's, still bleary. "Okay. I— sure. Yeah. Kiss me first."

"Okay," Fu Meng-po agrees, leaning back down to nose their mouths together. He keeps it soft this time, sweet; lulls Kuan-hung into the security of it, the rolling ebb-flow sway of a slow-beat rhythm. Kuan-hung hears his own breath shallow; hitch. Feels the ache of his cock even out to a needy throb he thinks he can survive, now, if not necessarily tolerate.

It's good. It's nice. By the time Fu Meng-po gets his other hand down on Kuan-hung's hip, Kuan-hung is feeling good, and nice, and less like he's going to starve, expire, or come all over himself when finally, finally, Fu Meng-po lets him gather the leverage up to thrust his hips, rubbing their cocks together firmly through their pants. Kuan-hung's feet slip in the sheets; send him back down hard enough that he gasps out; has to bite out at Fu Meng-po's lips to punish him for his gusty laugh.

"You're killing me," Kuan-hung groans, flustered, stricken. "You're killing me. Don't laugh about it!"

"All right," Fu Meng-po laughs more about it. Before Kuan-hung can lash back, Fu Meng-po's anchoring his fingers around the bony rise of his hip, and Kuan-hung gets no more than a huff in edgewise before he is just— flipped, in one smooth motion, until he's face down and flat on his belly.

“Oh.” Kuan-hung chokes on his own swallow. Wheezes a bit on the uptake. “Huh.”

“Get your knees up.” Fu Meng-po pets down his hip; curves his hand just so, and the fan of his fingers spills over onto Kuan-hung’s ass, his thumb curling into the crease where it meets his thigh.

Kuan-hung gets his knees up. When he goes to pick the rest of himself up to follow, though, he’s only allowed to get as far as his forearms, elbows tucked to his ribs for balance, before Fu Meng-po is sliding in between his spread legs and grasping him by the nape. He circles his fingers, tight, and pushes Kuan-hung’s face back down into the bed.

“Oh,” he repeats, weaker.

“Just like that,” Fu Meng-po guides, the rumble of his voice sounding very near and somehow all too far. “Push back a little bit. Into me.” Kuan-hung arches himself, chest stuttering up the sheets as he works his hips back, trying to feel out the proper angle. He groans out when the hot line of Fu Meng-po’s cock finally ruts up along his cleft. “That’s it,” he’s praised.

“It’s like you’re going to fuck me,” Kuan-hung blurts out quickly, then, “oh— oh.” He squeezes his eyes shut, and fights a hand up from his side to fling it haphazardly over his mouth.

Fu Meng-po tugs him back against his cock, rougher, one-handed, and gives a lazy thrust. Kuan-hung bites at his palm with a hiss; licks over the throb. He’s loud. He’s really loud, and it’s so late that it’s practically silent, and he really does hope that whoever’s in the apartment over from theirs is a deep sleeper. He’s not an iota envious of their wall-neighbour, right now, for more reasons than the big one right behind him.

“You want that?” Fu Meng-po asks. His fingers claw down; dig in. His grip kneads at Kuan-hung’s ass, parting him a bit for another thrust of his cock as he rocks his hips, his other hand uncollaring from Kuan-hung’s neck to stroke down between his shoulder blades.

“Ah— no?” Kuan-hung lies out from behind his muffling palm. Well, it’s not completely a lie. It’s just— he lets his hand fall back away to the bed so he can nuzzle his cheek straight into the sheets with a groan. He twists his fingers as the heel of Fu Meng-po’s palm massages down against his ridging vertebrae; as he hitches Kuan-hung’s hips back flush into another thrust.

Fine. “Yes!” Kuan-hung grits out, heat splashing up his cheeks. Fu Meng-po doesn’t even need to pull him up into the next rut of his hips; Kuan-hung meets it on his own, rubbing himself down the thick bulge of his cock with a stuttering groan. “I want it,” he adds unnecessarily, as if anything he’s doing is affirming everything but. “But you said, you’d show me— how. My mouth.”

Fu Meng-po slows down the grind of his dick to an agonising drag, like it's all second thought, here, for him, the friction of having Kuan-hung backed up against him just something to use at easy leisure. "Don't have to show you." The way his chuckle curls through his voice can't dull the hungry rasp of it, how it's gone all deep and breathy, and Kuan-hung burns up hotter. "Can just fuck you," Fu Meng-po tells him, easy. "Whatever you want."

"It's— that's too much choice," Kuan-hung moans, vainly cross. The next rock of Fu Meng-po's hips comes harder, the force more than enough to shove his body up the bed and the breath clear of his chest. Kuan-hung pants damply against the sheets, nipping into his bottom lip to stop a whine when Fu Meng-po grunts. "Oh—” wrenches out of him, muffled hoarse, anyway, despite it. “Oh god."

Fu Meng-po fists his sweater between his shoulder blades to yank him back into his next slamming thrust, and Kuan-hung yelps, scrabbling to gag himself again with the heel of his hand. His eyes are stinging with tears; his legs are shaking so hard he thinks they're about to shatter out from beneath him at the knee. Fu Meng-po feels so hot and so huge where his cock is nudging him apart, even through his sweats, that Kuan-hung is opened up and bared raw beneath him. He swallows desperately, then again, again, like Fu Meng-po is already sunk deep enough into him that he can feel the blunt pressure of the breach all the way up the back of his throat.

The moment he gets his voice back again, the first thing he does with it is choke on it, spluttering wet, then, "Fu Meng-po," he begs through the trembling clasp of his palm. Fu Meng-po claws at his hip, steadying him to take another thrust that's just flex and tight control, coiled muscle and power. Kuan-hung feels his mouth shape around a cry against his palm that doesn't sound out.

Fu Meng-po shows mercy — at least far enough as to unhand him. Kuan-hung listens to the crackle of the sheets as Fu Meng-po's palms smooth up them, paving the way for the rest of his body to follow. He's heavy when he drapes himself over Kuan-hung's back, but he's not too much. His chin nudges down the loose, low collar of his sweater as he noses behind Kuan-hung's ear, unabashed.

Kuan-hung frees his mouth to ground his grip on the bed. Like it'll help. "Gege," he whines out, tinny.

Fu Meng-po's damp breath ruffles his hair. "Yeah?" he teases.

"You know," Kuan-hung complains. "I know you know." Fu Meng-po is being so mean to him. He's done nothing to deserve it.

"I know," Fu Meng-po relents. He leans back a bit, only to refill the space with the dip of his hand under Kuan-hung's hem, fingertips trailing his belly. "Take this off, baobei."

"Do I have to do everything?" Kuan-hung gripes, already reaching for his neck. He can't really catch his breath, and the way he's spread out doesn't give him a lot of good leverage. He could kneel up, but— Fu Meng-po put him like this, and he didn't say he could get up. Not in so many words, anyway. So Kuan-hung stays bent over, face awkwardly crushed to the bed, and he struggles his way out of his sweater, taking his shirt with it.

"Good," Fu Meng-po tells him. His fingers trail to the waistband of his sweats, then give a flick of the ties. "These too."

"Okay." So much for his fight. He picks the ties open with his nails after a few false starts, then pushes his sweats and his briefs down to the catch of his knees. He tries to get them down a little further, dig out the leverage to kick them off, but then Fu Meng-po's hands push between his legs, and Kuan-hung fits his grip back to the bed, deferring to some instinctual obedience.

"That's good," Fu Meng-po says, low. "Like that. That's good."

"I can't move my legs," Kuan-hung mumbles. He nuzzles in against his shoulder, trying to catch a glance of Fu Meng-po over the slant of his back.

"You don't need to," says Fu Meng-po. "Do you?"

"Oh." Kuan-hung squeezes his eyes shut. "No," he concedes, face burning, eyes pricking wet. Breath lead-heavy in his mouth. He feels on display, like this, in a way he's realising is entirely on purpose. His cock is so uncomfortably hard between his legs, now, tip smearing sticky streaks on his skin whenever some wriggle or judder snubs it awkwardly against his belly. Fu Meng-po presses up against his ass as he leans over him, and Kuan-hung gasps at the rasp of denim peeling over the backs of his thighs, feeling as pushed to the brink of coming as he does held back from it, dizzy with the whiplash.

The lube and condoms have been out within arm's reach since they left Yuchi, which— Kuan-hung should be embarrassed about that, maybe. He might even have the room to feel as much if he wasn't otherwise preoccupied with working his way through the respective wholes of the bottle and the box at an unrespectable pace.

Kuan-hung is expecting something different to come, first, in the procedural steps between this and getting him fucked, which is why he jolts with an undignified yelp when Fu Meng-po's hand scrapes over his cock, irreverent. "A-ah?" is his tenuous recovery. "What are you doing?"

"You don't want to be a mess, yeah?" Fu Meng-po answers, sure, even as he stops in the beat.

Yeah. "Um— yeah," Kuan-hung wobbles out.

"How much do you remember, what I did?" Fu Meng-po asks, rolling the condom down over his tip.

Everything. Of course he remembers everything; it sent him out of his mind. But Kuan-hung can't just say that, be it at least aloud if not otherwise. That's just too much, isn't it? It has to be. "It was a lot," Kuan-hung argues instead, shored-up defensive; compromising. "There was a lot."

"Okay," says Fu Meng-po, voice grating thick. "I'll do it again, later." And then, "So you can remember it," he adds, as if having thought better.

"Oh." Kuan-hung's shiver is barely damped by Fu Meng-po draping himself over his back; undoubtedly felt. "Sure, yeah. You should do that, yeah," he rambles.

Fu Meng-po's whippy chuckle breezes across his ear, stoking the downy hairs on Kuan-hung's nape to stand on their ends as another shiver pricks between his shoulder blades. The way he gets his arm down between them is awkward, cramped, but when he finally shifts his straddling weight and sighs out, there's no complaint to it. "It's not that different," he remarks, parting him with his fingers to tease the pad of his thumb lightly over his rim. Kuan-hung makes a senseless noise. "If you've used your mouth before. You know?"

"I have," Kuan-hung spills out in a rush. Maybe because all of it feels like a prompting. It's spiteful— he wants to point it, break skin, draw blood. Feed the immediate and incomprehensible vindictiveness that rears in his gut.

"Yeah?" Fu Meng-po doesn't rile to the bait, of course. Gentles, even, in a way that's inappreciable without Kuan-hung looking to hurt himself with it.

Stupid. "You're taking so long," Kuan-hung goads pathetically, squirming. "Don't you want to fuck me?"

"I'm here," Fu Meng-po assures him, "I am." He grapples for his hip with his other hand, then he's shoving in to sheathe between Kuan-hung's slacked thighs, just like that, done with the prelusion. Motion all sweet-smooth with a stop sharp enough to knock the breath from Kuan-hung's mouth just when he's on the cusp of catching it.

"Oh," Kuan-hung chokes out, as Fu Meng-po's thumb nudges in hard enough to open him around the pressure of it.

"Sorry," Fu Meng-po grunts, dragging his hand from Kuan-hung's hip down between his legs, thick fingers fitting over his cock. "Wouldn't be that rough."

"S'hard," Kuan-hung says, since it singles itself out as the better option than to say it's not rough at all. That Fu Meng-po isn't rough at all. He's just strong, and thorough, and he seems to like— making things felt. Pushing to points past overwhelming. Much to Kuan-hung's embarrassment and wrecking.

Fu Meng-po eases the tip of his thumb back out, even as Kuan-hung twitches down around him, clinging. "Easy," he rumbles, nonsensical. Anticipating the inconsolable whine that Kuan-hung has to bite back in his mouth; apologising for it with the heady squeeze of his palm as he fists his shaft, the counterpointing rock of his breach between his legs. Each rub of him hurts, a little, almost; straddling. The latex isn't quite wet enough that it doesn't catch on the soft hairs of Kuan-hung's thighs, dragging. Friction rousing the tender throb on his skin from the bruises Fu Meng-po left there in Yuchi.

It's too much, scattershot-spread, splintering him out in wild and wide directions. "Fu Meng-po," he stumbles, not sure what he does or is meant to mean by it.

"Like that," Fu Meng-po murmurs back.

"Yeah." Kuan-hung closes his eyes, trembling. He's not taking any of it in; can't, really. No room to fit it, not with how Fu Meng-po moves and is moving him. "Like that."

It's a while after he's stopped listening before he realises Fu Meng-po has himself stopped speaking, trailing off to leave him with the simple soundtrack of the slick, scuffing slide of his hand over Kuan-hung's cock; the slap of their thighs together when he thrusts. Kuan-hung's own wet little gasps, dulling the hitching pants Fu Meng-po is mouthing into his neck.

He's too aware of his body, too inside of it, all at once. "What, what else," Kuan-hung stammers, gaspy, "what…?"

"Yeah," Fu Meng-po pants out, "huh." Not answering the question posed, but almost certainly paying attention. At least as far as how Kuan-hung is coming apart beneath him; every overused noise that shakes out of his mouth and every throbbing twitch of his cock against his palm.

The rhythm is a riptide; two currents in a collision course to pull him under. The surmount of his closeness to coming is so sudden it's choking. "Gege," Kuan-hung warns, whiny, "I'm going to, if you, you keep— I will—"

"Yeah?" Fu Meng-po quickens his stroke, deliberate, rubbing the pad of his thumb down over his tip. The condom squeaks sharply under the friction, lube and precome squelching between films of skin and latex. "Just let it, let go."

So— so Kuan-hung does. Not quite at once, frame-perfect, but in close enough quarters to be counted as following orders. His back arches up sharp into Fu Meng-po's chest, head thrown back and jaw slack, tongue prising out a wet whine from his mouth.

"That's good," Fu Meng-po murmurs, raspy and hot against his ear, big hand kneading down all over on Kuan-hung's cock as he spills. "You're so good, aren't you. There you go."

Kuan-hung groans back, fuck-stupid and tightening up around— nothing. There's nothing; a spite of fullness around the hollow tease of Fu Meng-po's twitching cock tucked up tight between his thighs. It's a little strange, as anything can go. He's at least sure that it's not unpleasant. But then, Kuan-hung is discovering that there's a lot more room between those points for pleasing than he was once led or learned to believe.

Fu Meng-po kneels back just as he's catching his breath, cock slipping free with a pinching chafe of latex. His grip fumbles on Kuan-hung, and Kuan-hung's shiver jerks him into the curl of his fist as he rolls his condom off. The mattress teeters beneath his knees, and then Fu Meng-po's hands are dragging up his thighs as he resettles Kuan-hung's briefs and sweats on his hips. Putting him in order. Kuan-hung shivers again, biting down on the little whimper that wants to scratch its way out.

Another beat from that and Fu Meng-po is upright, shuffling off and around somewhere, out of sight. Things to do. One of them has to be doing them.

"I don't think I can," says Kuan-hung, still a bit raspy, winded. It's meant for the room more than it is for Fu Meng-po, if only to give him a little plausible deniability as he leaves the shape of the unsaid hanging. His legs feel watery; his head is still spinning. Maybe he's got some sort of waify fainting disease. Maybe he's dying. Or it could just be the sex, really. It's almost certainly the sex. He's had a lot of sex the last few days. Probably more than over the course of his life by now, or something. At least by a tally of abetted orgasms.

"S'all right," Fu Meng-po says softly.

Kuan-hung turns to the warmth of his voice like he's a cat slinking after a shifting sunbeam. He finds what he's been coming to expect whenever he goes looking for it: Fu Meng-po holding steady, but remaining inscrutable in the one way Kuan-hung wants to leaf through.

"Ugh," Kuan-hung heaves out. "You know I'm like this." Defaulting to dramatics as a way to open up some distance. "It's why you made me come."

Fu Meng-po doesn't even deny it. "Won't hurt you to wait," is his shrug of an answer.

"It could," says Kuan-hung. "You don't know that."

He has no idea how Fu Meng-po is doing this, he realises. And then he gets up, after, and he goes to work for over half a day in the morning, each time. Maybe something has to give somewhere, or maybe it doesn't. It's only for a week, and it's getting closer to gone. That could just be where Fu Meng-po is pulling from.

Kuan-hung doesn't want to think about it anymore. And yet, "I still want to," he says aloud. A little petulant. Affording more space to breathe between them.

"I know," Fu Meng-po says. "You can." He smiles around it. He looks— funny, really, standing there, jeans slung low on his hips, zipped up but still unbuttoned. Hair all mussed. Condoms tied off and pinched awkwardly between his sticky fingers with their wrappers. "I want it too," he tells him.

"Okay." Kuan-hung breathes out. "Okay." He rolls onto his back, throwing his arm across his eyes. "Come here then," he says. "Hurry up."

He's not sure how long Fu Meng-po takes, after that. But it doesn't feel like it's long before he's crawling into bed, bleeding heat into his side, dressed down and scrubbed off. So it mustn't be much.