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The bass thumps somewhere behind Jiang Cheng’s breastbone, too-loud and almost nauseating when he gets too close to the speakers. He can feel it everywhere; his ankles and knees and hips and the tips of his fingers, and he can’t tell if he’s supposed to be getting turned on by how hot and gritty everything is or if he’s just supposed to be going blind, because he feels like it’s mostly the latter.
Jiang Cheng is three drinks deep, leaning on the sticky bar, and the man next to him smiles like he wants to buy him another. Jiang Cheng doesn’t want it and doesn’t want to examine the reason, doesn’t want to know if he doesn’t want this guy to buy him a drink because he’s already feeling dizzy and clumsy or if it’s because he’s actually straight-with-an-exception.
The bartender hands him the drink and it’s some fruity shit that instantly compounds the headache he already has pounding behind his eyes. The guy grins and Jiang Cheng doesn’t make eye contact before he slides away from the bar, where he doesn’t have to look at someone else being disappointed by who he is.
It’d be easier, he thinks, depositing the drink in its shitty plastic cup on the nearest unoccupied table, if he knew who he was. At least then he could be disappointing on purpose, instead of leaping from surprise to surprise with it. At least then when Wei Ying had licked into his mouth at a stupid fucking frat party (wet wet wet, Wei Ying’s mouth a curved-up smile, mojito-minty behind his teeth), Jiang Cheng would be self-aware enough to know whether he’d gotten hard because of broad shoulders and slim little hips or because he has an inexplicable attraction to people he’d been raised with. If it's the latter, he might as well just throw himself into the harbor, because sinking to the bottom of the ocean and living there is just as stupid as the alternative.
The dance floor is sweaty and slippery and Jiang Cheng nearly bumps into a couple making out on the very edge of it, both of their eyes closed and eyelashes casting flashing shadows on their cheekbones. They share lip gloss between them in slick murmurs and Jiang Cheng feels the bass in his stomach, hard and thrumming.
A man drags a hand around Jiang Cheng’s hip and it’s enough to urge him further into the hot press of bodies, too-close too-hot too-much. The music builds-builds-builds to an easily predictable drop, we like to party, and a woman's back presses to Jiang Cheng’s chest when the crowd crushes in.
She’s small enough to fit in his arms, probably, doesn’t even come up to his chin, and she dances like she’s trained for it, like there’s somewhere you can go to take lessons in grinding at clubs. It sort of defeats the purpose of self-discovery to dance with a woman who’s so safe (anonymous, small, probably a lesbian-) but it makes the press of the crowd less uncomfortable to have a buffer that he knows won’t turn around and-
She tilts her chin up, moving to the beat of the track, and her eyes slide over him, top to bottom. The beat goes dirty and buzzing and she has to raise her voice to say, “I don’t fuck straight guys.”
Someone grinds against his ass and he looks down at the prettiest girl he’s ever seen and says, stupid with something to prove, “Good thing I’m not fucking straight, then.” He sounds like he’s sure of it, even though he’s not, but his best decisions have always been forced out of him by people bolder than he is.
She raises her eyebrows like she doubts it and he doesn’t even know how he’s supposed to- what is he supposed to do to prove it, fucking take his phone out and flash her the porn he’s been jerking off to? The guy behind him mouths behind his ear and Jiang Cheng loops an arm around his neck to draw him in closer. His eyes are still caught in hers when he draws his nose along the line of the guy’s cheekbone and the lights flash, turning the scene into a stop-motion backed by the rise of the beat. The guy turns his head to kiss him and Jiang Cheng watches the woman wet her bottom lip, watches her catch it between her teeth at the same time that Jiang Cheng slides his tongue into the guy’s mouth, tangles his fingers into the short hair at the nape of the guy’s neck.
He’s drunk but not that drunk, not drunk enough to have an excuse, and the woman turns around when the beat drops, presses her tits up against him and tucks her fingers into the pockets of his jeans like she’s staking a claim. The guy bites a kiss into the corner of Jiang Cheng’s mouth and smears spit across his cheekbone before he pulls away, leaving Jiang Cheng alone with the bright-eyed woman in a sea of humanity.
“Fine,” She says, sounding almost like she’s mad about it, and drags him off the dance floor as the next song starts, energy frantic. She pulls him to a dark hallway and doesn’t tell him her name, kisses him hot and wet and doesn’t ask him to buy her a drink first. He has to bend down for her and she fists a hand in his hair to keep him in place, biting his lip hard and mean enough to make him grunt.
“Let me fuck you,” She says, and he strangles out an agreement even though he’s never in his life felt moved to fuck someone in a club before. He can still feel the beat pounding in his chest, quieter with a wall between them and the speakers, and he reels her in again while the bass goes deep, deep, deeper, until it tangles up in his stomach with how bad he wants her.
They fumble their way to a bathroom and lock themselves in even though it’s a single-person and it’ll mean that everyone else has to wait. Jiang Cheng goes on his knees for her and she hitches her skirt up, holding the trailing edge of it flat to her belly so he can see her panties plastered against her where she’s wet.
“Come on,” She says, and he pins her hips to the wall and holds her underwear aside with a thumb so he can lick into her. She gasps at his tongue and the bass vibrates into the wall under Jiang Cheng’s palm and she hitches her hips to the hot, slinking beat of it, chasing after his mouth every time he pulls away. “Come the fuck on-”
“What’s your name?” He asks, and nudges his knuckles up against her just to feel how her slick slides down his wrist.
“Earn it,” She says, and laughs, head tipping back against the wall, when he traces the characters of his own name into her clit with a pointed tongue.
Her thighs tremble when he strokes the pads of his fingers across her hole but she shakes her head when he makes a questioning noise, tangling her fingers into his hair and directing his mouth instead. The high little noises she makes come in time with the music, in time with the flicks of Jiang Cheng’s tongue, and when she comes she does it with a gritted-out moan and a jerk of her hips that threaten to bruise Jiang Cheng’s mouth.
He looks up at her, licking his mouth and fingers clean, and she yanks his hair and says, “Wen Qing. Come home with me.”
He’s hard against the zipper of his jeans and he feels like he’s been hard for hours, forever, even though he had half been thinking of going home before he’d fallen into the dance floor.
“Yeah,” He says, and stands up. She unlocks the door and pulls him out before he can wash his face, drags him through the club with her slick on his chin and his fingers and wrists and mouth. He’s hyper-aware of himself, of the beat thudding against his shoulder blades, of how hard he is and how badly he’d like to come, to wrap fingers that smell like her around himself.
The outside of a club is a strangely cold liminal space, the spill of music and bodies cutting off every time the door swings closed. He texts Wei Ying that he won’t be home and she pins him to the wall around the corner with her hips, rocking against his thigh when he slides it between her legs.
“Jiang Cheng,” He says into her mouth while they wait for a car, her hands on his ass and his tucked into the waistband of her skirt, smearing fingerprints against her hip bones. “My name.”
“Jiang Cheng,” She agrees, and puts her tongue in his mouth when he opens up for her.
They kiss the whole ride to her apartment, and then up against the wall of the elevator while she fumbles to tip the driver for the emotional distress. They miss the floor twice, the doors sliding closed on them once while he pins her to the elevator railing and then again when she drags him down far enough to bite a mark just below his ear, mean and obvious.
Wen Qing laughs when he kisses the sweat-salty nape of her neck while she unlocks her door, and then they’re tumbling into her entryway and kissing in the dark, biting at each other’s mouths while the triangle of light from the hallway slowly narrows.
She peels him out of his shirt and hisses at the sight of him, dragging her hands up his ribs in a way that makes him shudder. “Fuck, you look good. Your waist’s so narrow.” It’s a weird compliment but it still sends heat through him, flushed with the pleasure of being pleasing.
The quiet feels like a blanket after the noise of the club and Jiang Cheng feels himself floundering, a little, without the easy backbeat rhythm. He leans to kiss her again instead, because kissing is easy, and she puts her hands around his waist with her thumbs pressed to the divots of his hip bones.
“Bedroom,” She says, and leads him there with his hand in hers. The apartment is clean and smells good and Jiang Cheng politely pays as little attention to it as possible, instead watching the shift of her shoulder blades beneath her thin silk top. She’s not wearing a bra, he doesn’t think, the line of the bone uninterrupted, and he wants to kiss down her spine, put his tongue on all her sharp edges.
She pushes him down into her big bed and takes off her top while he watches, squirms out of her panties while she’s still wearing her skirt. He tries not to be greedy about it, eyes skipping from her collarbone to her ribcage out of some fucked sense of propriety, and flushes when she laughs and climbs up to straddle his thighs. Her hair is long and swings over her shoulders when she bends over to kiss him, sliding against the pillows in loose shiny coils. He wonders if she’ll let him touch it.
Wen Qing’s hands find a home low on his belly, fingertips petting over his hip bones, and he wants her so much he aches with it, in his chest and his belly and his cock.
“Let me fuck you,” She says again, and how can he help but nod when it sounds almost pleading? Like there’s nothing she wants more? She brushes another kiss to his mouth and swings off the bed while he fumbles his pants off, kicking them aside once he manages to squirm out of them.
Jiang Cheng breathes the cool air of her apartment and waits for her to come back, feeling strange and exposed in a bed that doesn’t belong to him. His eyes are drawn to her like a lodestone and she’s so fucking small and pretty that he doesn’t even notice, at first, that-
Oh. Let me fuck you.
She has a harness around her hips, black webbing across her bare skin, and his mind scrambles to catch up with the inversion of his expectations. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s never done this because he doesn’t want her to make him leave. He doesn’t want to be bad at this because he doesn’t want her to know. He looks at her and she looks back at him, something vulnerable and defiant in the jut of her chin, and he thinks that he might like her, fuck, isn’t that embarrassing?
“Gonna let me pick?” He drawls, because she doesn’t have a strap-on strapped on, and her mouth quirks up in a grin. She doesn’t walk to the bed so much as prowl and when she leans over to kiss him again her breasts press against his chest, small and plush and perfect. He wonders if he’s allowed to touch.
“No,” She says, smiling, and pecks kisses to his top and then bottom lip before leaning over to fish around in her bedside drawer. He breathes a laugh and huffs a noise when she drops a bottle of lube on his belly, cold and heavier than he’d have expected. If he were expecting a bottle of lube.
She pushes his leg up, testing the fringes of his flexibility, and kisses the inside of his knee when his thigh trembles.
“Are you lost?” He asks her, and she bites him hard enough to make his hips jerk up with surprised pleasure at the pain. Her eyes go sharp on his face.
“No,” She says, slow and considering, “But if you keep asking stupid questions, I’ll gag you.”
His breath shudders out of him in a- he doesn’t want to call it a whimper, but it’s not not a whimper, either. He’s never been gagged before, has never had cause to fuck around with it, but God the idea of not having to worry about what he’s saying or what he sounds like, God, he wants. He wants. Wen Qing looks at him like how hawks look at mice and he feels hot and cold down his spine.
“Yeah?” She asks, voice down low, and he nods, helpless to resist for even a second. She gropes behind herself for her discarded underwear and he opens his mouth for her to- to gag him. On them.
It’s not actually that much fabric but he is so aware of it, aware of the texture on his tongue, and she’d worn these. They taste like her pussy, salty and musky, and she stares at him like she’s never seen anything better in her entire life.
“Over,” Her voice is so hoarse, so low, and she helps him turn over with cool, slim hands on his hips. He gets his knees under him and presses his face to the pillow, breathing as evenly as he can through his nose while silk holds down his tongue. He muffles his noise around them at the snick of the lube bottle, at the press of her hand on the small of his back.
She has narrow fingers but they feel big when she pushes them inside him, two at once. She murmurs something that he doesn’t really register and slips them out, in, fucking lube further into him. It doesn’t feel good so much as strange, wet and hot and achy more than pleasurable.
It makes him want more, makes him arch his hips up in silent question that she answers with another finger and a wet gasp against his tailbone.
He presses his teeth into the soaked silk of her underwear, shudders out a moan when she crooks her fingers against something inside him that makes the not-really-good-strange feeling jolt into strange-good-too-much. Jiang Cheng garbles something that could be a please and Wen Qing’s next breath shudders when she stretches up to press herself all along the line of Jiang Cheng’s back.
She’s wearing a- the. The thing now, and it bumps against Jiang Cheng’s tailbone when she shifts. He’s shocked at how desperately he wants it in him. He hadn’t known, had never touched himself like this in his life, but he wants her inside him so badly it aches. Her dick presses against him, plastic sliding against his hole (where he’s wet, where she’s carefully opened him up to make him ready to take her), and he closes his eyes and presses back in lieu of begging around the panties in his mouth.
“Good,” She says, sounding breathless. Her hands go around his hips and she’s- nudging up against him, just there, and she says “Good, good boy-” as she inches inside him.
Jiang Cheng grunts at the stretch of it, scrambling for a hand-hold on the pillows, and Wen Qing stretches to kiss across his shoulder blades and fucks deeper into him, tiny little movements of her hips that press him open-open-open.
He doesn’t know if he can come without a hand on his cock but his body seems convinced that it’s not just possible but likely. He trembles through waves of confused not-pleasure that make his stomach twist and his cock jerk, that make him leak precum onto the bed, and when she nudges deep enough to hit whatever-the-fuck in him, he whimpers a high, wounded little noise.
“Oh,” She breathes, and slides out in a long, easy slide that makes him twitch before she shoves all the way back in and he yelps around the underwear. “Fuck, you're good, you take it so well.”
He pants through his nose and darts a hand down his body to jerk himself off, because suddenly all he can think of is an orgasm, and she slaps his hand away before he can even touch.
“Just like this,” She says, pressing her teeth into the tob knob of his spine and fucking him so hard his teeth rattle.
He claws at the sheets, twisting under her like a livewire. His brain says can’t and his body says will, will, will, anything-
He comes with an animal little cry that he muffles into the silk behind his teeth and she fucks him through it, jerking him off until he’s trying to squirm away at the too-much sensation of her hands.
“Fuck,” Wen Qing whispers, and shoves at his shoulder until he turns over and she can pull her soaking panties out of his mouth and kiss him, hot and hard like she’s aching for it. “Fuck, please, you’re so good.”
“Lemme get you off again,” Jiang Cheng says, desperate, and reaches for her hips.
“Yeah,” She hisses, and yanks her way free of the harness. She’s so wet it rolls down her thighs, so hot that Jiang Cheng can feel her from inches away. “Your mouth, you’re so fucking good-”
He urges her up with his hands and licks into her while she straddles his face, slides his tongue into the slick heat of her with his nose up against her clit. Fingers, she gasps, and he gives her two, crooking them until she keens and jerks above him.
“Again,” She says, twisting a hand into his hair, and Jiang Cheng grits out a noise and spreads his fingers inside her, drags the flats of his teeth against her clit until she’s sobbing and coming again.
She doesn’t ask for another so Jiang Cheng licks her clean instead, broad swipes of tongue that make her shudder and pull his hair. He could spend forever like this, drowning in her, feeling the flutter of her against his tongue.
“Fuck,” She says when he’s done and she’s spread out next to him. Her chest is heaving and Jiang Cheng wipes his hand off on his thigh so he can twine her hair around one of his fingers. It’s as soft as it looks. “Christ.”
He thinks of making a joke, of saying no, Jiang Cheng, but he’s kind of having A Moment and he can’t find his words. She turns her head to look at him with her big, pretty eyes, and touches a thumb to the corner of his mouth.
“Okay?” She says, and he nods and clears his throat.
“Yeah,” He says after probably too-long, and she smiles. He can’t ask her how it was, doesn’t know how to put into words I’ve never done this and My sexuality crisis has been put on hold and Is it weird to be in love with someone you’ve known for three hours if their dick has been in your ass? “Better than.”
“Me, too,” She says, and rolls off the bed with a huff. “Do you wanna go get pancakes?”
He stares at her ass, which is perfect, and tries to remember what breathing feels like. “Yeah,” He says, because he suddenly, desperately does. “Sure.”
“Cool.” She says, and leans over to kiss him again. “You can spend the night after.”