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Mizuki had only just lit his joint when the door to the balcony swung open, and of all the fucking people who might have wandered out into the cramped patio, it happened to be Wuyang Ye.
Mizuki had been sitting on a small, sun-bleached couch in the furthest corner; one that someone had most likely dragged out to the balcony in the beginning of the summer and had never bothered to bring back in. The lighter was still warm in his hand, recently extinguished. For one absurd moment, he thought he might get away with it, that maybe Wuyang hadn’t seen him; the corner of the balcony was dark, devoid of much light except for the warm hue spilling out of the patio door, and the couch had been half-hidden in the darkness. The glowing orange tip of his joint was like a beacon in the light, however, and it gave his position away. The smell — sweet and skunky and unmistakable — curled up into the brisk air between them, and there was absolutely no hiding from that either.
Their eyes met and held, neither of them able to look away for a frozen, terrifying moment. Mizuki tore his gaze away first — his head snapping to the side way too quickly — and instead chose to stare at the scuff marks on his boots. His pulse was doing something stupid and traitorous in his throat; he felt it flutter in the skin of his neck, a quick staccato that betrayed what he hoped was an emotionless face. He was all too aware of who was standing right next to him. Wuyang Ye, 19 years old, a forward in their univeristy’s soccer team. A face you knew whether you meant to or not; ever present on campus, ever present on social media, ever present in Mizuki’s conflicted heart. Wuyang moved through campus followed by people who mirrored him, fellow teammates and people with smiles that came easy; people who were certainly not like Mizuki Kawano, who wore too much black and hid from house parties like a scared child.
“Oh. Uhh, my bad.” Wuyang said, voice cracking upwards, uncertain in a way that didn’t quite match the idea of who he was in Mizuki’s mind. He looked a little startled. “I can come back? I didn’t know you were, uh —”
The patio door was still half-open behind him, one broad hand resting on the handle, and through the gap came the party’s noise; bass thumping, people laughing, someone loudly arguing their point somewhere in the kitchen.
It took Mizuki an embarrassing amount of time to recover. “You can stay if you want. Just… shut the door behind you, okay? Don’t need the whole place knowing what I’m doing out here.”
“Oh! Right. Yeah, that makes sense.” Wuyang replied, shutting the door behind him, sealing them both in the semi-quiet of the apartment’s balcony. The party was reduced to nothing but muffled noise, dampened by tempered glass, and Mizuki was all too aware of the predicament he had found himself in. Below them, the city was indifferent; they could hear the distant rush of cars on the busy road in front of the apartment complex they found themselves in. He had no idea who’s apartment this was — something about a friend of a friend, their roommates conveniently gone for the weekend — but he found that he didn’t care either way. He had planned on smoking his joint and floating through the party until he reached the front door, leaving without saying goodbye; not that anyone would recognize him, anyways. At this altitude — twenty or so stories, the balcony tucked into the south-facing side of an impersonal mega-complex — the air was cold and thin, fleeting like the smoke curling from his joint. Mizuki felt, for a moment, like he was balanced on the edge of the world; up here, at this hour, nothing seemed to matter much.
He’d only come out for air, Wuyang might have said, if Mizuki had decided to ask; the party inside being too loud, too full of people wanting things from him, too full of people who didn’t really know him. Instead, the younger man just stood idly, leaning over the balcony’s edge to stare at the glittering city lights below. Wuyang was so endearingly awkward that it made Mizuki’s heart clench, arms poised on the railing like a dog waiting for a command.
“You can sit. I hate when people hover.” Mizuki finally said, still averting his gaze. He finally took his first drag since he lit the joint, inhaling deeply before exhaling a cloud of milky smoke. “Or don’t. It’s fine.”
Surprisingly, Wuyang turned around and stepped over to sit down on the couch, settling closer than Mizuki had imagined him to want to. Granted, the couch was more of a loveseat — a small thing that left so little space for him to occupy anyway — but he found himself being surprised at how close they were sitting, their shoulders almost touching. He could see the fine details of his clothes; the slight fuzz on a well-loved t-shirt, the tight weave of his jeans.
“Mizuki, right? Kawano?” Wuyang said, after a beat of silence, desperate to break the spell of silence.
“The very same.”
“I’m Wuyang. Ye Wuyang. It’s nice to see you here.”
“I know who you are.” Mizuki replied, detachedly but not unkindly. He adjusted himself on the couch again, learning forwards a little. He was uncomfortable and acutely aware of the space between them, uncertain of Wuyang’s intentions. “You’re on the soccer team.”
Wuyang blushed, almost imperceptibly, a faint pink hue that crept across his face and vanished almost as quickly as it had come. Mizuki, however, had caught it; he always caught on to the little details, especially with Wuyang. He had come to be constantly aware of his presence. Mizuki had mutual friends in Wuyang’s soccer team — Kiriko's friends, for the most part — which meant he was constantly in Wuyang’s periphery. At the library, at the edge of the soccer field after practice, near the subway station that serviced their campus. Mizuki had been watching Wuyang from afar; taking in the soft curve of his neck, the silkiness of his hair, the way sweat would accumulate on his forehead after drills, the way his laugh sounded like sunshine. Mizuki had known, with the soul-crushing certainty of a man who had learned not to hope for anything, that he could never have him. Wuyang was there to look at, not touch. Wuyang was a fantasy he allowed himself to indulge in the small hours of the night when his hand had more control than his conscience.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Wuyang said, readjusting his bun with economical movements. He was nervous. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight.”
“Not usually the type for parties.” Mizuki took another quick inhale, the orange tip momentarily flaring as he took another drag. He was acutely aware of just how close Wuyang was to him yet again; he swore he could feel the warmth seeping through his thighs, warming the air between them. He could smell Wuyang’s scent, utterly intoxicating; a dab of cologne, soap, and the particular arousing musk of a man who had been busy all day. He had never been this close before; he had always contented himself with watching from a distance. That fact, intertwined with the cannabis that fogged his better judgment, made his heart threaten to leap out of his throat. He forced himself to keep talking. “Kiriko brought me here.”
Wuyang beamed a bright, genuine smile. “Yeah? She’s Ryōta’s friend, right? I’ve seen her around.” He stopped for a fraction of a second, expression complicated, as if he wasn’t sure if he should speak the rest of his thoughts out loud. “And I’ve seen you around, too. You just transferred here, right?”
“Uh, yeah.” There was a pause, longer than Mizuki would have hoped it would have been. His brain, already pleasantly affected by the sweet haze of weed, was struggling to keep up. “Wait, wait — you’ve seen me around?”
Wuyang’s smile widened, bright teeth shining like gemstones, and Mizuki found it very difficult to look away from the small crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “Hard not to. Tall, dark clothes, dyed hair… y’know. I like the look.”
Mizuki’s mouth hung open for a second too long, lips slightly parted, completely speechless. Wuyang had recognized him, out of the hundreds of people he passes by on campus every day. What the fuck. What the actual fuck.
“I… thanks.” He managed, taking a third hit to fill the silence. He paused before speaking again, leg bouncing thoughtlessly. “Kiriko drags me along to a lot of stuff. Hope you don’t… think it’s weird or anything.”
“Not at all.” Wuyang reassured him. “You’re all good.”
There was a pause in dialogue; not awkward nor heavy, thankfully, but present all the same. Both of them seemed surprised, still, that the other had been willing to sit and talk at all. Wuyang had almost expected Mizuki to be as flighty as he seemed, to bolt right past him like a raven in flight. Instead, they sat in comfortable silence; the only sounds audible were Mizuki’s soft exhales as he’d take a hit, the ambient buzz of a sleepless city, and the party inside moving like it was alive. The silence stretched on for a moment, punctuated by the sound of a firetruck somewhere in the distance — sirens blaring as they sped down a nearby street — before Wuyang spoke again.
“Can… I have a hit?” Wuyang asked, voice tentative, as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask. “If that’s okay? Don’t wanna, like, steal all your… weed or whatever. It’s okay if you want to say no.”
Mizuki’s eyebrows shot up so far they threatened to disappear into his hair. He blinked — once, twice, almost cat-like — before his mouth curved into a smile against his will. “You smoke?”
“Uh… well, no. My sister and my parents would actually kill me if they found out. Anran is already kinda pissed that I’m out this close to exam week.” A pause, then an endearingly awkward half-shrug. “But, uh — first time for everything?”
“Do you even know how to smoke?”
“I have a vape, dude. I’m not completely clueless.”
That earned a breathless little laugh out of Mizuki, who finally passed over the half-smoked joint. Wuyang could see exactly how far gone he was — eyes glassy and half lidded, a small and unmistakable smirk plastered on his face — as he took it with unsteady hands. He analyzed it for a moment before bringing it to his lips; it was hand-rolled and packed generously with dried flower. He inhaled and braced for something harsh — something that would scrape his throat and leave him gasping for air — but the smoke was strangely smooth. It was still a little irritating, and he swallowed down a cough as he let warmth bloom through his chest. He exhaled, letting out a stream of pale smoke, before his body betrayed him and he finally let out a cough. It seemed to have startled Wuyang, who tried to muffle it with his palm without much success.
“Sorry.” He said, a bit too quickly. “Big hit.”
Mizuki looked at him with an expression that bordered between amusement and approval. “Not bad for a first time.”
“I’m a man of many talents, y’know.”
“Is that so?”
Wuyang had handed the joint back, and the motion had sparked a chain reaction; it had ended up dwindling steadily as they traded it back and forth in the relative calm of the balcony. Wuyang had stopped coughing sometime between the second and third hit, learning quickly not to hold it in too long. Their conversation drifted, casual yet strangely revealing. Wuyang spoke of his classes, the way he had struggled to find something that made sense to him, the way he still felt like he was one step away from letting everybody down.
Mizuki listened, attentively, as if he wanted to commit every vowel and consonant to memory. When Wuyang had stopped, he rambled instead about the club he was in, allowing Wuyang to see fragments of his past life, all while tracing lazy patterns in the air with a loose hand. The gesture, as small as it was, was absolutely captivating to Wuyang; he kept risking glances at his hand as it traced arcs through the air. He imagined those hands on him, tender yet rough, and wondered what they would feel like on his skin. He had almost wanted to reach out and grab it.
Wuyang’s gaze had been fixed on him in a way that was almost predatory; he was acutely aware of the fact that he had been staring, long past what was considered normal, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Whatever shame that might have lived in his body was drowned out by the pleasant buzzing settling into his limbs. The world had gone soft around the edges somewhere between one hit and the next — the city’s neon starting to blend together into something strangely beautiful — and he found himself staring at how it blanketed Mizuki. His hair, falling across his forehead in messy waves, reflected a myriad of colours. His cheeks were flushed and dusted a soft rosy colour, and Wuyang wished he could take a picture or paint a portrait of him. The younger man had lost the thread of the conversation, letting it slip between his fingers like sand — something about a local band Mizuki had found through the student radio — and instead had been staring intently at the way his mouth moved. He catalogued the way his lips curved, the way his eyebrows moved as he spoke, the way his pretty pink tongue would dart out to wet his dry lips.
Mizuki had only noticed that he had been staring when he dared to steal a glance back. He had found Wuyang’s dark eyes zeroed in on his face, staring at him with poorly concealed interest. In his foggy state, however, he found himself unable to gauge his intentions; he felt vulnerable.
“W-What?” He managed to stammer out. “Why are you staring? Did I — Did I do something weird?”
“You’re really hot.” Wuyang blurted out, clumsy and brutally honest, instead of something more appropriate like I just like to look or I think you’re cute. He was finally speaking the words he had been meaning to say all semester, releasing them into the smoke-tinged air they had been sharing. He had spent the entire semester up to this point catching glances of Mizuki — nothing but a handsome stranger then, all dark features and stormy eyes — and wanting to know everything about him. There had been something about him that had drawn Wuyang to him like a moth to a flame; an irresistible pull he didn’t want to disobey. He had been dancing in his periphery, catching his eye like a light in the distance.
“What?” Mizuki’s voice had gone breathy, as if the wind was knocked out of him. “Y-you’re fucking with me.”
"No," Wuyang said, a light laugh escaping his flush and parted lips. “I mean it. I mean it a lot, actually.” He leaned forwards, the carefully calculated distance between them crumbling entirely in the span of a second. Wuyang was so close he could see a tiny scar along his jawline, white and flat. “You’re gorgeous. Like a painting. I can’t stop looking at you. Has anyone ever told you that? That you’re beautiful?”
Mizuki’s brain short circuited entirely, his mouth moving wordlessly before managing to speak again. “Wuyang. You’re … we’re both so high right now.”
“Yeah. We’re high. It doesn’t matter. I mean it.” Wuyang continued, leaning in impossibly closer — as if he wasn’t close already — enough for Mizuki to feel his warm breath ghost his cheek. “I’ve seen you. At the field. Around campus. At the library. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You’re so pretty, Mizuki. I’d always wonder when I’d get to see you again.”
“Wuyang —”
“Shh.” His command was soft, but brooked no argument. His hand, broad and warm, closed around Mizuki’s bicep, pressing into the soft flesh as if asking for permission. “Can I…?”
Wuyang had been pressed close enough to Mizuki that it was clear what his intentions were. The older man’s breath caught, suddenly all too aware of what was about to happen. A rational part of him wanted to wait; Wuyang was high, he was high, and they were in a precarious situation up on the balcony. But Wuyang had been looking at him with wide, deep eyes, hungry in a way that sent a jolt of arousal through his spine.
His resolve crumbled completely. Time seemed to move impossibly slow as Mizuki let out a soft noise, nodding. He watched as Wuyang climbed over him to straddle his thighs, his heart hammering in his chest. Mizuki’s hands found his hips, instinctual, as if they had always meant to be there; Wuyang wasted no time in finding Mizuki’s mouth, sealing their lips together in a kiss that was all too intense.
It had devolved quickly from there; Mizuki was addicted to the feel of Wuyang’s plush, spit-slick lips gliding on his. Every kiss was met with a soft whine from either of them, enticing the other to continue, trapping them in a loop of pleasure that had no end in sight. Wuyang found himself rolling his hips, just as instinctual as Mizuki’s hands on his sides, as they lost themselves in each-other. There was barely any friction — their cocks hidden under too many layers of clothing — but the motion made them both groan.
“I need you.” Wuyang murmured against his lips when they had finally broken for air, both of them breathing heavily. “I need you so fucking bad.”
“Fuck, Wuyang.” Mizuki said, head lolling lazily, too affected by what was happening to form coherent thoughts. His voice, however, had been nearly incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe he was being serious. “H-here? Right now?”
“We can be quick. I swear. Please?”
“Fuck. O-okay.” The idea itself was enough to make Mizuki’s cock twitch with interest, his length growing slowly from their kissing. Wuyang’s insistent passion was like a revelation. It completely dispelled the dark thoughts that floated in his skull; he was thinking with his cock at that point, too horny to be self-loathing. A quickie with Wuyang was worth the potential risk by a mile for Mizuki, inebriated or not. “Okay. Yes. Please. Please ride me. But we have to be quick.”
The observation was enough to make Wuyang’s heart hammer in his chest; this was, arguably, a horrible idea. They were outside on a high-rise balcony, about to hook-up, a party raging in the apartment behind them; they had to be quick or risk getting caught. Nothing mattered to him, in that moment, other than finally getting to touch Mizuki’s cock; fogged by the heavy haze of weed, he was beyond reason. An insistent, wet heat had begun to pool in his groin, and Wuyang knew that he was slowly soaking his boxers. He had him right where he’d wanted him: Mizuki Kawano, subject of his recent desires, open and willing and pliant below him. He wondered how thick he was, what he tasted like, what it felt like to have him in his hands.
Wuyang tried shimmying his jeans down, breath still coming in shakily. He was a welcome and warm weight on Mizuki’s lean body, boxing him into the couch and straddling him; Mizuki watched with lazy, appreciative eyes as his back melted into the loveseat. One hand was braced on the back of the couch, the other struggling with his jeans. Mizuki swooped in to help him, fingers only marginally more steady than his, eventually managing to pull his pants down to reveal his boxers. Mizuki had been too aroused to be coordinated; his erection had gone from a half-chub to stiff and heavy, pressing against the confines of his pants, and it was driving him insane. He pulled the grey boxers down alongside the rest of his jeans, exposing Wuyang to the crisp night air in one quick movement.
He had almost expected a flushed, erect cock to spring out of his boxers — plush head leaking pre-come, needy and touch-starved — but he instead found a soft mound covered in dark, coarse hair. The further his eyes trailed down, the more he saw, and peeking through Wuyang’s puffy folds was his clit: engorged by arousal and testosterone, begging for stimulation. It was already hard, resembling a small cock, and Mizuki wanted nothing more than to latch his mouth around it and suckle on it until Wuyang squirmed.
“Oh,” Mizuki said, stupidly simple, his breath catching in his throat. He had been speechless, head cloudy and heavy from the drug in his system. This was much, much better than he expected. Wuyang had been so wet already; he could see the way his boxers darkened from his dampness, a visible dark stain on the light grey fabric. “You’re…”
“Trans? Yeah. Um, is that—”
“Wuyang.” Mizuki’s head struggled to look up for a second, movements slow and laborious. He was acutely aware of just how whipped he was for it; tearing his gaze away from Wuyang’s pussy was almost painful, his desire all-consuming. “I don’t give a fuck. This doesn’t change anything. I’m still gonna fuck you.”
Wuyang’s breath caught and let relief wash over him. Dizzy with need, he rushed to push his clothes out of the way — soaked boxers and loose jeans — until his pussy was in full view. There was awkward shuffling as Mizuki freed himself from his jeans, his fingers fumbling with the buckle. He cast one last nervous glance towards the door before presenting himself to Wuyang. His cock was thick, leaking from the tip, heavy and insistently hard. The feeling of the cool night air on his warm skin was enough to make Mizuki groan.
He watched with baited breath as Wuyang lifted himself up to spread his folds, revealing his hole. He took Mizuki in hand to align himself, giving him a few quick strokes. His warm, rough hand on his cock was enough to make Mizuki whine pathetically; every touch was overstimulating, the joint having hit him harder than he thought. He watched in embarrassment as another bead of pre-come leaked out of his sensitive slit, anticipating Wuyang’s cunt. Wuyang shot a nervous glance towards the door again, mirroring Mizuki, before beginning to sink on his cock. He bit back a whine as his cock-head stretched his entrance; Mizuki was watching with poorly concealed arousal as he slowly sunk into the man’s cunt with an ease that was almost unnatural.
He wasn’t expecting him to be that wet; he had seen the wet spot, had seen the light reflect off the beads of slick in the hair there, but had somehow failed to imagine just how good it would feel. Wuyang, in the time and space between the first hit and now, become so aroused he was drenched in his own fluid, coating his hole and every crease and fold. With a heady rush, Mizuki realized it must have been in part from the weed; he felt a sick satisfaction knowing that he, although perhaps indirectly, had brought him here. Wuyang finally sunk fully onto Mizuki’s cock, sitting flush on his lap, his interior pleasantly warm. Wuyang’s thighs were strong and muscular, dusted with fine, dark hairs; he was an athlete, after all, Mizuki’s mind supplied with an aroused jolt. He couldn’t help but peel a hand away from his hips to run them across the smooth, warm skin. He could feel the muscle underneath, strong and solid. His mind was already flooded with hazy, half-formed fantasies surrounding his thighs and hips; squeezing his head, pinning him in place, stealing his breath away.
“Jesus Christ, you’re so wet.” Mizuki murmured, experimentally rolling his hips. The movement got a groan from Wuyang, who’s eyes fluttered shut. He was beautiful like this — sweaty, needy, already a little out of breath — and Mizuki still couldn’t believe that he had him sat on his lap like this all to himself.
“Fuck, Mizuki. It’s — oh, fuck.” Wuyang slurred, his hands gripping Mizuki’s shoulders. The younger man squirmed, adjusting himself to the weight and girth of Mizuki inside of him, before lifting himself and tentatively slamming back down. The motion was sloppy, but the pleasure was anything but. Before Mizuki could process, Wuyang repeated his movement, clearly affected; he continued riding him, completely uncaring that they were steps away from the unlocked patio door. The sounds of their passion were audible to them — wet, rhythmic smacks that would give them away if anyone heard them, punctuated by breathless moans from both of them — but most likely inaudible to the party inside, drowned out by the music. Wuyang’s lips, still slightly slick with spit from their earlier kissing, parted to release a moan with every bounce.
Mizuki, overwhelmed by pleasure, let his hands map the lean expanse of Wuyang’s torso, snaking underneath his t-shirt and rucking it up to expose him to the cool air. He committed every touch and sight to memory — the hard muscles on his abdomen, the softer weight of his pecs, the smooth expanse of surgical scars underneath them — as Wuyang kept riding him. “W-Wuyang. Holy shit, you feel so good. You're so fucking loose.”
Mizuki’s head swam as Wuyang drove his hips into him with an urgency that bordered on thoughtless, the comment seemingly having chipped away at his control. Every bounce was uncalculated and primal; he was using Mizuki’s body for his own pleasure as he chased what he was craving. Mizuki bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to come; he could feel it, threatening to spill over and into Wuyang’s waiting cunt, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not yet; not when Wuyang was so beautiful, his face twisted with pleasure, stripped so naked it was almost too much to look at. His eyes would snap open for a second, eyes glassy with pleasure, when Mizuki’s plush cock-head would stimulate his most pleasurable spots, only to flutter to a close again.
The idea of Wuyang using him like this flooded his weak mind: after practice, sweaty and exhausted; after a game, victorious and dominating; after a hard exam, frustrated and overwhelmed. Mizuki imagined his heavy hands pushing him down, pinning him in place while Wuyang milked his cock dry, forcing him to come inside of him. Mizuki had to beg himself not to come for a second time, willing himself to resist the urge to breed the man that had been riding his cock right then and there.
Wuyang, overwhelmed by the sensations, began rolling his hips instead of slamming down. It seemed he had worn himself out, limbs hazy from the weed, and kept Mizuki’s cock nestled deep inside of him. His eyes snapped open once more as Mizuki’s thick cock-head found his sweet spot; he moaned, loud and unapologetic, hands gripping Mizuki’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. “Mizuki, fuck, I need, I need —”
“You’re so good at this.” Mizuki blabbered, lost in pleasure. A hand came to rest on Wuyang’s exposed hip, the skin there heated and sweaty, lightly guiding him as he kept riding him. “You feel so good.”
“Mizuki.” Wuyang’s head fell forwards, dark strands of hair escaping his bun to plaster his sweat-soaked forehead. A hand peeled away from Mizuki’s shoulders, coming between his legs to stimulate his swollen clit. He used two fingers to stroke the boosted nub like he would a cock, squeezing lightly. The first few strokes were enough for his eyes to screw shut and for his hole to flutter around Mizuki’s cock, which made the man underneath him buck and whine. “Mizuki. I want you to fuck me. I want you to f—”
Mizuki’s hips rose to bury himself deeper into Wuyang’s cunt, obeying his command without a second thought. The movement made the younger man gasp, a throaty moan escaping his body as his hole quivered yet again; egged on by his whines and sounds, Mizuki kept going, hands gripping his waist. Wuyang’s pussy was swallowing Mizuki’s dick with every thrust, enveloping him in a warm wetness he had never felt before. Watching his cock disappear into him as he stroked his clit — swollen and red with need — was sending Mizuki right back to that edge. He imagined it in his mouth, the way it would glide on his tongue, and opened his mouth to whine.
Wuyang took the opportunity to kiss him, and Mizuki knew the second their lips met for a second time that he wouldn’t be able to last. It was such a simple thing that pushed him over the edge. It wasn’t new. They had kissed before — it had been what had got them there in the first place — but it had been so needy and heated it made him see stars. Wuyang’s lips sought his desperately, their mouths locking in a bruising kiss that swallowed both of their moans. Wuyang kept stroking his testosterone-boosted clit, Mizuki’s cock buried deep inside of him, coaxing his own orgasm out with a desperation that rendered him completely brainless. Mizuki had been lazily driving his hips upwards, a slow rhythm that was drawing Wuyang towards his own release. The taste of weed on Wuyang’s lips was intoxicating, the earthy tang on his tongue doing nothing to ease his arousal, and Mizuki bucked into his needy cunt harder without quite registering the movement. Mizuki grasped, a little too late, that he was dangling on the edge, his orgasm held back by a thread. Wuyang, oblivious to his imminent climax, kept kissing him — loud, wet, moaning into his mouth — as his hips and hand maintained their brutal pace, lost in a fog of his own doing.
Mizuki broke off from Wuyang’s mouth, out of breath and struggling to get his words out. He could feel the point of no return creep up on him; the peak that made his balls tighten and his toes curl was just on the horizon. “Wuyang, I’m — I’m gonna come! Fuck, I’m gonna —”
Wuyang’s eyes snapped open and widened, zeroing in on Mizuki’s face — eyes squeezed shut, eyebrows furrowed, lips parted. Mizuki’s grip on his hip tightened to a painful degree, digging into the flesh like he was afraid of letting go. Wuyang, too high to function, made no conscious effort to aid him in pulling out; instead, he slumped his head on his shoulder and frantically rubbed his clit, desperate to come. Mizuki, however, had managed to pull out at the last minute, cumming once his cock had slipped out of Wuyang’s sloppy hole. Mizuki’s arms had snaked underneath his broad thighs, lifting him just enough as he emptied his balls. He groaned — deep and whining — as his head fell back, face twisted in pleasure. Wuyang inhaled sharply at the sudden disappearance of the weight inside of him, unable to articulate his disappointment through his inebriation.
“S-sorry.” Mizuki said, voice hoarse. He was still riding the aftershocks of his orgasm, his head lolling to his side. “Didn’t... didn’t wanna come inside.”
“I wish you could…” Wuyang admitted. He was still hovering over Mizuki’s come-covered cock, debating if he should sink back down. He had been so close; he would have been able to come if Mizuki had been able to last just another minute.
Mizuki took a deep breath, trying to steady his breathing. “Did you come?”
“I was close… But it’s fine, I can —”
“Okay, no. Stop.” Mizuki interrupted, his tone rough and final. “What do you need? I’ll help you.”
“Hah, fuck, I...” Wuyang’s voice was silent, almost weak. His breathing was ragged from his recent exertion, a thin sheen of sweat veiling his forehead; he knew he wouldn’t be able to walk out of this without coming. His clit had been so engorged that it felt rock hard, almost painfully so, and every touch was enough to make him buck and squirm. Mizuki’s eyes had trailed down to where Wuyang’s hand had stilled on his clit, his index and middle finger framing the bud beautifully.
“Please.” Wuyang said, voice strangled, when Mizuki’s eyes had lifted to find his own once again. “Please touch my cock.”
“I’ll do more than touch.” By the time Wuyang’s slowed brain registered the movement, Mizuki had already peeled him off his lap and settled him on the couch. He had started to kneel on the cold metal of the balcony, gently coaxing Wuyang’s legs apart. The action revealed his soaked hole, recently fucked and stretched, and he could feel himself nearly salivate. “Is this okay? Can I suck your cock?”
“But, I’m completely soaked, I —”
“That’s the best part.” Mizuki murmured against Wuyang’s knee, pressing a soft kiss to the scarred skin there. Wuyang’s heart fluttered, and he looked straight into Mizuki’s eyes. He had been met with arousal so deep it was threatening to swallow him whole, rendering the man nearly delirious as he kneeled.
Hazy and horny from the weed, he nodded, angling his hips towards Mizuki’s waiting face. He couldn’t deny that he was viciously aroused by this. He arched off of the couch, jeans pooled around his ankles, his legs spread obscenely. Mizuki began trailing down his thigh, planting little wet kisses as he went. Mizuki eventually leaned in, his breath barely ghosting his pussy, taking the time to steal a glance upwards; Wuyang’s face had been flushed, his lips parted as he anticipated his touch.
Mizuki’s tongue found his needy entrance first, slurping away the excess that had coated him. The taste hit his tongue almost immediately, and he couldn’t help but moan into his folds, his cock twitching with interest despite his recent orgasm. The coarse, thick hair that grew there brushed against his nose and cheeks, cementing the fact of where he was. Nose brushing against Wuyang’s engorged clit, he lapped up Wuyang’s slick with a flat tongue, eating it up like a man starved. Up close, Mizuki could see just how hard Wuyang’s clit was when he’d pull away momentarily; he had clearly been close when Mizuki had pulled out.
“You taste so fucking good.”
“Mizuki!” Wuyang said, voice strangled. “Fuck, my God.”
Mizuki’s tongue dipped inside of his loose hole after he had relentlessly teased his entrance, brushing against the soft walls. He had been completely buried in Wuyang’s cunt, face flush against his puffy folds, his tongue flicking as far as it could go. Wuyang tensed up, arching, his hand finding purchase in Mizuki’s soft locks. His tongue kept exploring Wuyang’s inner walls, mapping the space like he wanted to commit it to memory. Mizuki learned quickly, when he would come up for air, that Wuyang’s entrance was sensitive and receptive; simply flicking his tongue in and out was enough to have the man bucking into his face.
“That feels so good! Please, Mizuki, don't stop!” Wuyang said as Mizuki’s warm tongue circled his entrance, blunt nails digging into the skin of Mizuki’s scalp.
Mizuki dove back in, his tongue embedding itself deep in his hole yet again. He went as far as he thought he could go. Wuyang could feel his warm tongue press against his walls, and he was all too aware of the fact that it was Mizuki’s tongue — who had been practically a stranger to him only a few hours ago. Mizuki disengaged after a few more deep flicks, coming up for air once more. He was panting, face soaked in his fluids, catching the light in a way that made Wuyang’s breath hitch. Back inside, the party was still indifferent to their absence; the sound bled through the walls and the cracks in the door, loud and chaotic, and they were both acutely aware of how easily the door to their side could open. Mizuki, pussy drunk, had stopped caring entirely; a perverted part of him wanted someone to walk in on them and find him tangled up in Wuyang’s cunt — mouth against his waiting hole, his face coated in his slick, eating it up like a hungry mutt. “So good. Wuyang, your pussy tastes so fucking good… I can’t get enough.”
His mouth finally found Wuyang’s engorged bud, neglected and hard, mouth locking around it to form a seal. He suckled, lightly at first, gauging his sensitibity. He was rewarded with throaty moans, Wuyang’s face twisting in pleasure, inciting him to continue. His warm, slightly calloused hand hadn’t left his messy locks, squeezing and tugging as he reacted to what Mizuki was doing to him. His free hand, however, flew to his mouth. He clamped it shut to dampen his incessant moaning, but the sound managed to leak through anyways; shameless and pure, absolutely addicting to Mizuki.
Mizuki had been a breath away from coming up for air — nose pressed flush with his bush, inhaling his intoxicating scent — but the younger man’s hand kept him in place, pressing him into his folds. “Please, Mizuki, I’m so close. Please, keep sucking my cock, please!”
Mizuki responded by moaning, unapologetically, into the spit-slick expanse of Wuyang’s cunt. His mouth remained latched onto his cock, rolling his tongue over the engorged nub as he coaxed the man towards completion. Wuyang kept whining, seemingly melting into the couch from the incessant stimulation; Mizuki’s talented tongue was working him towards that delicious edge. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t focus on anything except for the warm, wet tongue gliding over his tiny cock.
Mizuki could feel Wuyang’s orgasm before it came; the bone-deep tremble in his thighs, the way his breath caught in his throat, the way his back arched, the way his fingers tightened painfully in his hair. Before he knew it, the hand grabbing fistfuls of his hair had pushed him down once more, suffocating him in his wet folds. A moan — louder than any of the others he had let out before — tore out of Wuyang’s throat, and Mizuki barely had time to react before he felt something warm and wet gush onto him, mouth still locked around his engorged clit. Mizuki whined as his mind caught up with him; he had realized, with a perverted sense of glee, that Wuyang had just squirted on his face.
Wuyang, riding out the last of his orgasm, finally let go; Mizuki came up gasping for air, face wrecked. His hair was wild and tangled, the skin of his scalp sore from the tugging, and he looked satiated in a way he never had before. Wuyang’s mouth opened to speak, his eyes half-closed in bliss — probably an apology for forcing his head down — but whatever he had planned to say died in his throat before it could be said. Instead, Wuyang looked mortified, the colour in his face draining almost instantaneously. He had spotted the glistening liquid on Mizuki’s chin and neck, the undeniable evidence of what had happened. “Oh my God. I am so sorry. I should’ve warned you that —”
“That you squirt?” Mizuki offered unhelpfully, a small smile plastered on his face. Hearing that come out of Mizuki’s mouth was enough to make the colour spread back to Wuyang’s face — beet red this time. “That was hot as fuck.”
Wuyang groaned as Mizuki leaned in again, nuzzling his bush before darting his soft tongue over his hole. He hadn’t even had the time to reply before Mizuki had pushed his face into his cunt yet again. Mizuki had leaned back in momentarily to tenderly clean him up, lapping up whatever fluid was left. Wuyang sucked air through his teeth as Mizuki’s exploratory tongue sent shocks throughout his body. Once finished, he sat back on his heels with a satisfied smile, stealing another glance upwards.
“Thank you.” Wuyang mumbled, eyes still closed. Slowly, the world began to ebb back into focus — the sound of the party inside, cars rolling faintly on the street below, a siren blaring faintly in the distance. He knew he should attempt to pull his boxers over his still-quivering hole, but he couldn’t seem to find the strength; instead, he let himself bask for a moment, boneless like a sleeping cat in the sun. “Thank you for making me come.”
“You don’t have to thank me.” Mizuki said, meaning every word. He pressed another kiss to Wuyang’s knee, then let his head rest there after, cataloguing the small marks that pitted Wuyang’s skin. "I don't regret it.”
Wuyang’s heart stuttered, a jolt of excitement running through him. He flashed another one of his easy, bright smiles, his eyes surprisingly tender. His hand found Mizuki's scalp; his fingers carding through his tangled strands and rubbing soothing circles into the tender skin as both of them caught their breath. “I’m glad you came tonight, Mizuki.”