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The most important event in Wuyang’s life happened after class on a normal day. He was walking through Hashimoto territory – something that was dangerous at the best of times, but he’d been practicing his martial arts that day and was feeling a little cocky. Dangerously cocky, it turned out, when he was yanked into a back alley and had the shit half-beat out of him by a pair of men in masks. It was then – half-conscious and about to robbed of all he was worth – that Mizuki appeared.
Later in life, in a different place and time, Mizuki would tell Wuyang about his past, being raised as a human weapon for the Hashimoto. Wuyang would have no trouble believing it.
Watching Mizuki fight was as if his kusarigama had a mind of its own, had possessed some unwitting human and gifted them with supernatural power. He moved like something straight out of a martial arts movie. There was a grace to the way Mizuki beat the shit out of Wuyang’s aggressors. Even when they eventually ended up as part of the same gang, Wuyang would never get used to the way Mizuki moved. Like a dancer, like a ghost.
“Are you okay?” Mizuki had asked when it was over and there were two unconscious bodies on the ground between them.
“Uh, yeah,” Wuyang said, trying to pretend he hadn’t almost cum in his pants watching that particular display of violence.
Mizuki had nodded. His hair had been short then – not like its length now, cascading over his shoulders, long enough that Wuyang can card his fingers through it (feel Mizuki nuzzle into the touch, tentative, like he’s afraid leaning into the feeling will steal it away) – but he still had a hat, shadowing his face. “Be more careful,” he had said. “This is Hashimoto territory.”
“Right.” Wuyang struggled to talk through how incredibly badly he wanted to suck this man's dick right then. Belatedly, he added, “Thank you.”
Mizuki had nodded. And then – he was gone.
That had been the turning point. For weeks after, everything in Wuyang’s life felt dulled, like his head was underwater – or rather, that pinpoint moment had been a surfacing, and now the attempt to return to daily life was a fight to stay above water.
So he dropped out of college. Dyed his hair. Got a tattoo. Abandoned his parents and lost contact with Anran.
All for this moment.
“Wuyang,” Mizuki gasps, blinking tears from his eyes as Wuyang eases his dick into him. Mizuki’s long hair is splayed out beneath him on the pillow, pristine in the midst of this rat’s-ass hotel room they’d rented to get away from the others’ watchful eyes for a night.
Wuyang brushes his thumb over Mizuki’s cheek – brings the thumb up to his mouth and licks the tears off of it. Fuck, he’s wanted to see Mizuki crying on his dick for so long now. “I’m going to keep going,” he says, voice an octave deeper than it usually is as he pushes in further.
“Yeah,” Mizuki breathes, eyes fluttering shut. He’s got his hands next to his head, fingers curled tight into the pillow. No hat to cover how his eyelashes flutter, how he bites at his lip. “Feels good.”
Fuuuuck. Wuyang’s hips jerk just a little at that, enough that Mizuki’s back arches off the bed. “Yeah? You like that?” Wuyang says. He uncurls one of Mizuki’s hands by force to intertwine their fingers. “You like the way my fat dick fills you up?”
Mizuki moans. “You know I do.”
“But I want to hear you say it.”
Mizuki almost rolls his eyes – and it thrills Wuyang, that he knows Mizuki well enough by now to know these tells – but Wuyang pulls out a little and shoves back in hard. Mizuki moans again, his grip on Wuyang’s hand going white-knuckle tight. “I like the way your fat dick fills me up,” he admits in a whisper, like it’s a big secret for the two of them to share. “Love the way you feel inside me. Come on, Wuyang, fuck me.”
Wuyang brings their locked hands up and kisses Mizuki’s wrist – tender, the first time, then with a long suck, laving his tongue over it. “Hold on,” he says, bending over so Mizuki can get a grip on his back.
And then he starts really fucking him. Wuyang’s been with a few girls in between meeting Mizuki and now, but whether it’s because it’s a man or because it’s the person Wuyang’s been chasing for years, something about fucking Mizuki is a whole other level. The half-working lights of the hotel room bathe Mizuki in a low glow as Wuyang fucks him, makes him look almost ethereal. The way Mizuki scratches up his back just turns him on more, somehow. The knowledge that normally Mizuki would be able to toss him across the room in a single motion, but now he’s trapped underneath Wuyang, caged in so he can’t do anything but take it – Wuyang makes an animal noise and leans in to mouth at Mizuki’s neck.
Wuyang thought, originally, that maybe if he fucked Mizuki just the once, he’d be satisfied, could go back to being a good college kid and living a normal life, having achieved his dream. But the truth is anything but. He never wants to be outside of Mizuki again. He can already tell he’s going to get addicted to this, the same way he got addicted to the fighting, the way he got addicted to watching Mizuki train against Odessa from across the room, watching the sweat gleam over his muscles.
He breathes hard against Mizuki’s throat. Almost ruins it by moaning something stupid like “Mine, my Mizuki,” but catches himself at the last second so it only comes out as a low mumble as he reaches down to jerk Mizuki off while he thrusts. Mizuki gasps, like he hadn’t been expecting that – and the noise alone is enough to get Wuyang the rest of the way, to bury himself deep and cum hard.
He’s breathing hard as he pulls out – bends down and takes Mizuki’s dick into his mouth the way he’s always dreamed of as Mizuki cries about above him. He feels hands tangle in his hair as he spreads his tongue flat, making loose popping sounds as he starts to bob his head. It’s only a few seconds for Mizuki to cum himself, and Wuyang swallows it all despite the taste. Mizuki has to push at his forehead to get him off, Wuyang is so determined to wring more out of him. “Stop,” Mizuki says weakly, and Wuyang reluctantly pulls back at that, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck. I wanted to come on your face.”
“We can do that too,” Wuyang says, a little too eagerly by the way it startles a chuckle out of Mizuki.
“Just give me a minute,” Mizuki promises;
Wuyang presses a kiss to his thigh. “Take your time,” he says. For Mizuki, he has all the patience in the world.