Good Job Meeting Your Step Goal, Mu Qing!

by NicheAve

Summary:

It’s been a month or so since Mu Qing first brandished his new watch, and Feng Xin has never seen him take it off. He probably even showers with it on. A single slim band around his delicate wrist tells Feng Xin exactly how elevated and escalated Mu Qing truly is beneath that frosty condescension —no matter the words that come out of his mouth saying otherwise— assuming that Feng Xin bothers to peek at it, of course.
A repeatedly wasted opportunity.
Frankly, Feng Xin never paid enough attention to the stupid watch to notice. The only time he allows himself to look at Mu Qing’s stupidly pretty hands is when he’s taking them to the face. Not exactly the best time to check out someone’s watch.
But that’s all in the past; it doesn’t matter.
What matters is the here and now.

🙤 · ⊱ ━━⋅~ · ꕥ · ~⋅━━⊰ · 🙦

 

Mu Qing doesn’t talk about his emotions; he doesn’t tell anyone the rhythm his heart takes, what makes it race in excitement, throb in pain, or palpitate in fear. Feng Xin is pretty damn sure Mu Qing would be much more tolerable if he did— not that Feng Xin talks about his emotions either, but hey, at least he lets himself feel them in the first place. 

That was the reality Feng Xin understood as truth.

Recently, Mu Qing invested in this shiny new little watch, a fitness tracker that broadcasts the pulse of his heart for all to see; well, for those who find their eyes drawn to the elegant shine of the watch on his wrist… Feng Xin’s adamant avoidance of looking at Mu Qing’s hands notwithstanding. 

It’s been a month or so since Mu Qing first brandished his new watch, and Feng Xin has never seen him take it off. He probably even showers with it on. A single slim band around his delicate wrist tells Feng Xin exactly how elevated and escalated Mu Qing truly is beneath that frosty condescension —no matter the words that come out of his mouth saying otherwise— assuming that Feng Xin bothers to peek at it, of course.

A repeatedly wasted opportunity.

Frankly, Feng Xin never paid enough attention to the stupid watch to notice. The only time he allows himself to look at Mu Qing’s stupidly pretty hands is when he’s taking them to the face. Not exactly the best time to check out someone’s watch. 

But that’s all in the past; it doesn’t matter. 

What matters is the here and now.

Feng Xin was honest-to-fuck minding his own fucking business hunting for a munchy afternoon snack in the kitchen cupboards, mindlessly opening the fridge just to look at the same shit, close it, and recheck it thirty seconds later as if there magically would be something different this time around. There isn’t, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it. He considers ordering food but opens the fridge again and just… stares into it blankly. Yesterday’s leftovers give him the stink eye for abandoning them, so Feng Xin swings the door shut with a sigh.

He swears he was just about to begrudgingly fish out those leftovers when a familiar buzz dances across the kitchen island, drawing his eye, and he realizes with a confused pat of the phone in his pocket that it must be Mu Qing’s phone.

Unlocked. Vibrating across the counter like an abandoned sex toy all alone in this big, cold world of their shared kitchen. Eerie but intriguing. 

No Mu Qing in sight. Just to be one-hundred percent sure, Feng Xin peeks around the corner— both ways before crossing the street like a good boy. 

Nope. Not a single Mu Qing. 

Weird. Really fucking weird. The kind of weird that makes Feng Xin’s palms sweat inexplicably.

Feng Xin isn’t the type to dig through someone else’s phone —especially if it’s Mu Qing’s phone— but he also has never seen Mu Qing leave his phone so… naked and vulnerable. He always treats his phone as an extension of himself, all but literally fused to his flesh and bone.

It feels wrong in the way that it should be nothing at all if anyone else just left their phone on the kitchen counter, but not if it’s Mu Qing, not the man who keeps everyone at arm's length— or further, if the man happens to be named Feng Xin. Mu Qing locks his computer when he goes to the bathroom in his own damn house, for fuck’s sake. Feng Xin doesn’t know what Mu Qing has on his computer, and he doesn’t give a flying fuck one way or another. 

Sure, Feng Xin isn’t the type to snoop, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get curious. He squints at the screen, watching a counter rapidly growing in number.

“???” 

It takes a second to realize that he’s staring at Mu Qing’s stupid step tracker. He’s probably just on the treadmill with his headphones in. 

Feng Xin picks up Mu Qing’s phone and sets it back down. It feels so foreign in his grip, so different from his own phone that his hands are accustomed to. He picks it up a second time with an aggrieved sigh. Fidgets with it. Rubs the smooth sides of Mu Qing’s mint-condition phone case with the pad of his thumb. Sets it down. Picks it up again. 

Feng Xin smothers the deeply ingrained, raw instinct to heave the damn thing across the room just barely, and solely because he doesn’t want to have to buy Mu Qing a new one.

He scrubs his temples and scratches the back of his neck, his eyes never leaving the ominous yet quaint little black rectangle on the counter.

If Mu Qing starts a fight with him just for touching his phone to bring it back to him, then so fuckin’ be it. Feng Xin swipes it off the counter, crosses the flat in record time as if that would make the difference between Mu Qing snapping at him or not, and approaches Mu Qing’s bedroom door transposed into the very gates of hell. It’s just a fucking door. Feng Xin has swung numerous doors open on numerous occasions. A not-insignificant number of those times being this very door, in fact.

Still, the trepidation persists.

Full of misplaced, overcompensating gusto, he swings that bitch open like a man determined to catch his adulterous wife balls deep on the other side.

But Feng Xin really, really should have knocked.

In his defense, he and Mu Qing have been roommates for years, and he has never once bothered to knock on Mu Qing’s door. It simply did not cross his mind to do so. He can’t recall a single time Mu Qing has bothered to knock on his door, either. 

It is a mutually-respected disrespect of personal boundaries. 

The majority of the time, Mu Qing doesn’t even use his hands; he kicks Feng Xin’s door open like Feng Xin jacked off on the doorknob or some shit. 

So, he unceremoniously swings Mu Qing’s bedroom door open, spots the treadmill utterly still, and freezes.

Splayed across disheveled bed sheets lays Mu Qing, his hair a waterfall of cascading black ink so elegant in contrast with Mu Qing’s fist furiously and aggressively stripping his cock for all its worth. Eyebrows furrowed tight, eyes scrunched closed, his lips parted in heated, hiccuped, frantic breaths, the flushed tip of his cock only a blur beneath his hand.

Feng Xin has seen Mu Qing’s dick before. When you’ve known a man since your teens, it just happens. Gym locker rooms and showers and shit. Now they live together. It’s whatever.

But Feng Xin never saw Mu Qing hard . 

With Mu Qing’s astute and frigid attitude, Feng Xin had callously wondered in the past if his dick even worked. It may have been a joke at the time, but he sure as shit knows for a very accursed fact that it does now.

Feng Xin can’t look away.

Mu Qing’s back arcs, the crown of his head digging into the mattress, and Feng Xin follows the bead of a tear flick from long eyelashes to dissolve in the carpet. His hips twitch, seemingly aching to chase the undulating maelstrom of his hands, but unable to keep up with the pace. Feng Xin doesn’t blame it; he isn’t wholly confident that he could keep up, either.

It’s… kind of horrifying, actually. Auspiciously awe-inspiring but all the more terrifying for it.

Saliva collects on Feng Xin’s tongue, and he swallows it back like a shot of bottom-shelf microwaved whiskey.

In shock and bewilderment, Feng Xin lingers in Mu Qing’s doorway for what feels like mere seconds and agonizingly long centuries all in one moment before he snaps to his senses and retreats to the living room feeling notably…

Different.

It’s not until Feng Xin’s ass meets the sofa cushion and he’s staring blankly at the void of the dead television screen that he realizes his hands are suspiciously, concerningly empty. Free from the particular item that started this whole mess.

At some point in his understandably shocked stupor, he fucking lost Mu Qing’s phone.

Feng Xin immediately breaks into a cold sweat. If he knew that the threat of losing Mu Qing’s phone would be such a fucking workout, he would have canceled his gym membership years ago.

He doesn’t even have to stand up to see exactly where he dropped it— right in the middle of Mu Qing’s doorway…where Feng Xin left the damn door wide-fucking-open. From his spot on the couch, he glares at that little black curse on the carpet.

If he marches his ass back over there, he risks Mu Qing catching him— which is fucking bullshit because Feng Xin did not do anything wrong in the first place! But! If he doesn't, the phone will stay in Mu Qing's open doorway, a glaring testimonial of Feng Xin's accidental not -guilt!

Plus, Mu Qing’s bedroom door will remain open. Which it was not before. It would be so painfully obvious precisely what transpired there, and no one else lives in this beloved shithole but Feng Xin and Mu Qing. They don’t even have a dog he could try to pin it on.

Not that Feng Xin would try to shove the blame on someone else, but his point still stands.

In addition, Mu Qing clings to grudges like a little fucking bastard for shit way less important than Feng Xin leaving his bedroom door open when he accidentally waltzes in on Mu Qing jacking off at a speed that would make cheetahs break out in a nervous sweat.

Not unlike how Feng Xin is feeling right about now.

"Motherfucking— fucking shit fuck—fuck fuck FUCK!"

Feng Xin will never try to do anything nice for Mu Qing again. He never should have even fucking tried to help Mu Qing in the first place. Head in his hands, he breathes a ragged, exasperated breath.

If he listens intently, he can still hear Mu Qing. Actually, scratch that— there’s no way he can not hear Mu Qing. With the door open, now that Feng Xin knows what lay just on the other side of the wall, he cannot fuckin’ hear or think about anything else. All he can see in his mind's eye is the tremble of Mu Qing’s eyelashes, the slight part of his lips, delicate hands with slim wrists flexed with such deceptive strength, muscles seizing and racing to a finish line that Feng Xin can’t see, but desperately aches to.

Or that a very specific body part of his aches to.

Defeated and trapped on a fence he never meant to climb, Feng Xin mumbles, “…This is bullshit….”

He doesn’t pick up the phone off the floor. He doesn’t shut Mu Qing’s door. He doesn’t move from his spot on the sofa as if his ass is glued there by the very cum dripping down Mu Qing’s stupidly lovely fingers that Feng Xin may or may not want to put in his mouth.

Feng Xin has had nightmares less stressful than this.

Retroactively, he does find it pretty amazing that he managed to live with Mu Qing for so long without some dumb shit like this happening. Feng Xin thinks that, in his own way, living with Mu Qing is his masochistically self-induced nightmare. Yet, he stayed for years; likewise, Mu Qing has yet to kick him out. 

That mutually-respected disrespect of personal boundaries has a twin named Mutally-Masochistic Living Arrangements.

Being spotted in the doorway by Mu Qing seemed like the worse of the two options at first, but as Feng Xin cradles his fraying mind in his hands and listens to the relentless slap of Mu Qing’s pace with a deeply concerning well of stamina, the soft, barely audible pant of his heated breath, the single, slight, lip-biting slip of a deep-chested moan as though slipped accidentally, involuntarily, through gritted teeth—

Feng Xin starts to doubt that decision. Hindsight has a special way of slapping his hubris right into his balls— a real sack-tap of humbling reality. It doesn’t help that Feng Xin tossed his metaphorical pants in the trash chute and painted a bullseye on his balls decorated with a brightly flashing landing strip to really guide the hit home.

Would it be weird if Feng Xin jerked off himself? In the living room on Mu Qing’s couch? Listening to Mu Qing rage war on his own dick on the other side of the wall? 

Yeah, probably, but all of this is already so fucking weird; what does it even matter? Still, Feng Xin takes yet another deep breath in hopes this one will miraculously calm him down, reclines on the couch, and flicks on the TV. Maybe he can just… tune it out. It’s worth a shot if it means Feng Xin can avoid hoisting up that awkward guilt on his back for the rest of his life, or at least until he moves out of their shared flat, both out of shame and self-preservation of himself and what remains of his dignity.

Except, he can not tune out Mu Qing. No matter what channel he clicks through, nothing holds his attention quite like Mu Qing. Even amidst the most graphic horror flicks and tear-wrenching tragedies, Feng Xin catches himself listening for Mu Qing instead of trying to tune him out again, again, and again. If asked, he might say he listens so that he will know when Mu Qing finishes, but what a flimsy-ass excuse that would be. No one would believe that shit, and no one should believe it. Feng Xin doesn’t even believe that bullshit, and he is the one that thought up that pathetic delusion in the first place.

Feng Xin could just leave. He could step out of the flat for a bit, give Mu Qing some space, and give himself some fresh air. Unfortunately, he would have to take care of his own hard dick first or get real creative trying to hide it in public. If he tucks it up into the waistband, it peeks out to say hello to passing strangers on the sidewalk, but trying to smother it down or to the sides, it never stays put when he walks. Bouncy, persistent little fucker.

It’s a lost cause.

He collapses across the sofa, staring at the ceiling, and drags his hands down his face. The TV drones thoughtlessly in the background, a white noise second-stage to Mu Qing’s supposed-to-be-private intimacy. Feng Xin rolls onto his stomach, hugging the throw pillow Mu Qing bought the day Feng Xin moved in with a lethal vice grip. He struggles to breathe properly through the fabric, but with this, he can assure he will stop glancing at Mu Qing’s enticingly open bedroom door.

Feng Xin has long learned and accepted that Mu Qing is not an open door, and he never will be. Many things might change in life, but Feng Xin is willing to bet his toes under the threat of a miniature guillotine that Mu Qing will never change.

Burying his face into the dark, he grinds and ruts against the cushions, friction sharp and harsh on his cock, and he never once considers that he could just… go to his own bedroom where he has lube and tissues and ever-so-slightly more dignity.

Shifting and shuffling this way and that, he prods until he finds the crease between the cushions and fucks into the welcoming hole regardless of the layer of sweatpants trying to bar him from doing so. The sofa creaks under his weight, bowing to his strength, but regardless of how desperately Feng Xin drives his hips faster, he simply cannot match the speed of Mu Qing’s hand.

It’s impossible. There’s no way hips can move as fast as hands, and Feng Xin knows that, but his dick doesn’t care about physics or shitty biological limitations; it’s going to try its damned best anyway.

He doesn’t think about the what-ifs of Mu Qing discovering him rutting against the couch in the middle of the living room in broad daylight. He doesn’t really think much at all. As long as he can still hear Mu Qing on the other side of the wall, he’ll be good. That means Mu Qing is still just as occupied as Feng Xin.

The sewn ridge on the side of the sofa cushion digs rough paths on the underside of Feng Xin’s cock, punishing, harsh, as merciless as Feng Xin proves unbridled.

Mu Qing’s stupid fucking hands are too fucking pretty. So slim, delicate, strong, and dexterous in all they do. Even the graceful and callous wave of his sarcastic gestures while he degrades Feng Xin’s tastes in noodle shapes flow with such decisive elegance. Feng Xin wants to break them just as much as he wants to taste them, feel them heavy on his tongue, pressing further and further back until Feng Xin tastes nothing else and gags on them.

He muffles a whimper into the pillow, his hips driving faster. The friction chafes with each deep thrust, but the wet slide of precum helps and hinders in equal measure. He can’t free his cock from how it pastes the fabric to his skin, just as he can’t free himself from the phantom, imagined taste of Mu Qing’s fingers on his tongue.

Feng Xin’s entire body shudders, thighs trembling as he paints guilty indecency between the cushions of Mu Qing’s couch. Boneless, he melts and conforms to the cushions with a sigh.

His dick may be satisfied at the moment, but he is not. He beats his head pathetically against the pillow.

“...Fuck.”

The advantage of passing the fuck out immediately after jacking off is that Feng Xin does not have to cope with the inevitable post-nut clarity. The disadvantage is that instead of dealing with it while it's fresh —both literally and metaphorically— it's had time to adhere to his hair, skin, and brittle conscience for all eternity.

Feng Xin jolts awake, disoriented on the sofa, when Mu Qing’s bedroom door slams shut. For a blissful moment, he thrives in confuzzled ignorance of how he ended up dozing off on the couch— up until he shifts his painfully stiff and sore hips, and the dried cum plastered to his dick and thighs yanks his pubic hair.

He hits the floor with a punctured swear and a miserable groan, giving his head a solid whack on the coffee table on his way down. For once, he’s begrudgingly grateful for Mu Qing’s complete lack of fucks for Feng Xin’s general well-being because it means he will not come to check on him when he definitely heard Feng Xin beef it off of the couch. 

With his tail tucked between his legs and dried, flakey cum pulling his body hair with every shameful step, Feng Xin shuffles to the bathroom for a much-needed shower. Mu Qing has never knocked on Feng Xin’s door, but he’s also never barged in on Feng Xin in the bathroom. So, it should be safe.

It better fuckin’ be safe, or Feng Xin will find a new place to live. He’ll put up with a lot of shit —otherwise, he wouldn’t have lived with Mu Qing for so long— but bathroom time is private time. Breaking into the bathroom when someone’s in there? That shit is a deal-breaker— no pun intended, although the pun does give Feng Xin a good laugh.

Thankfully, Mu Qing seems to agree with him for once, and Feng Xin indulges in the extra time to scrub the dried disgrace out of his thigh hair in solace.

Hell, even when he emerges fresh and physically shame-free, his towel wrapped crisp around his waist and soiled clothing haphazardly tossed over his shoulder, Mu Qing remains nowhere to be seen. That’s fine. Feng Xin doesn’t want to talk about it anyway, and if he runs into Mu Qing right now, he’s not entirely confident that he could keep himself from blurting out that he walked in on Mu Qing with his hand on his dick only to immediately rut against the cushions of Mu Qing’s couch about it.

He doesn’t want to picture what that conversation would look like. It wouldn’t be a conversation; it would be an execution. Feng Xin wouldn’t be able to bring himself to fight back. He could only pray Mu Qing ends him quickly and doesn’t toy with him like a cat playing with a squealing mouse beneath its claws.

  He’ll just crash for the night, and tomorrow will be a new day back to the familiar norm of pointless bickering and petty bullshit. Norm is good. Norm is comfortable, expected routine. Norm does not include Mu Qing’s dick or Feng Xin uncontrollably rutting against the sofa cushions like a feral hound in heat. Plus, he won’t have to scrub dried cum out of his body hair!

All’s well that ends well.

…Except that it needs to end in order for that idiom to apply, and oh, how Feng Xin wishes it would end.

Feng Xin enjoys one day of peace. One single day where the only dick he sees is his own, and his memories are the only thing plaguing him from yesterday’s mishaps. And what a wonderful day! He bikes to the market, eats some good food, takes a nice walk in the brisk morning sun, and hits the gym so hard it drowns out how sore his hips still strain from his triste with the sofa. It’s pleasant. Normal. Just a day of Feng Xin doing Feng Xin things for the very man himself. He even manages a decent night of sleep the night before and the night of— which is particularly fantastic all things considered. 

He only thinks about Mu Qing’s beautiful hands and delicate wrists and sharp tongue wrapped around his cock within the safety of his bedroom. So, y’know, the norm. 

Except there’s no fighting with Mu Qing all day because he doesn’t see Mu Qing all day.

The calm before the storm, or perhaps more accurately, a quiet blip within the eye of the storm, considering the torrential downpour of suspiciously milky-colored rain he suffered through the day before.

A day goes in, a day goes out, and a brand new day shines with ominous brilliance.

Feng Xin wakes up in a good mood— not that Mu Qing cares. He never has, and he never will. That’s been a long-accepted fact of life between them. Mu Qing doesn’t care about Feng Xin’s happiness, and Feng Xin doesn’t care about Mu Qing’s. Feng Xin supposes, in a way, he is thankful for that much. The slightest sprinkling of normalcy amidst unbridled chaos goes a long way to gift him a wobbly leg of sanity to stand on.

Unfortunately, that is the only taste of normalcy Feng Xin gets.

Though, the worst part about all of this is that some soft part of Feng Xin doesn’t want to return to normal. All of him wants this awkward shit between them to end, don’t get him wrong, but one softhearted voice within him craves something else, something new, something… different— with Mu Qing. 

Something akin to the awfully familiar bright little spark he thought he had throttled and snuffed out for good decades ago when he learned the hard way that Mu Qing’s beauty, lithe figure, and sharp wit proved both keenly infuriating and unattainable.

But Mu Qing is never genuinely undesirable.

Hope never dies, and while that can be such a beautiful thing, it also can be a real fuckin’ pain in the ass.

Groggily, Feng Xin emerges from his bedroom like a bear in spring to see Mu Qing plopped on the couch. Despite it technically being Mu Qing’s couch, he never actually sits on it. In all the years that they’ve lived together, Feng Xin has personally witnessed Mu Qing sit on his sofa maybe twice, and once was just on the arm of the couch while he laced up his boots, so it barely counts. It’s Feng Xin’s couch in all but the name printed on the receipt. 

Tapping away on his phone, Mu Qing scarcely spares Feng Xin a side-eyed glance before swinging his legs up and taking up all three cushions with a feline stretch of long, slender limbs. He even wiggles his toes tauntingly. His lips curve into that infuriating little gremlin smile of his, the one that he always sports when he’s being a little bitch just because he can, and Feng Xin’s eyebrow twitches.

“.........” 

Fine.

Feng Xin didn’t want to fucking sit on the couch anyway.

He did, though. He did want to sit on the couch. He very specifically crawled out of bed to do precisely that because it’s in front of the only TV in the house, and Feng Xin always watches his favorite show on Saturday mornings. 

It’s not even worth bitching about— and not just because Feng Xin’s eye caught the shine of Mu Qing’s watch, effectively dissolving any complaint on his tongue in memories of aching wants and disgracefully yanked pubic hair.

Somehow, Mu Qing manages not to fight fair when they’re not even fighting. To spit in someone’s cup but not malicious enough to poison it, as Xie Lian had once described him, but for Feng Xin, a cup of tea from Mu Qing arrives in a shattered glass to slice his lips on.

Mu Qing’s eye gleams with a goading sparkle that Feng Xin craves to devour. 

With a humph, Feng Xin slams his bedroom door shut behind him and watches his show on his phone in a peaceful Mu Qing-free zone. No Mu Qing, no pants, just Feng Xin and his little show. No pressure. He dozes off a little for an impromptu nap, dreaming of Mu Qing’s slender fingers in his mouth, petting his tongue, but it’s a dream he’s had plenty of times before. So, that’s hardly anything new, just another one to throw into the vault and take to his grave.

When Feng Xin stirs awake, his bedroom door hangs open forebodingly. Although he’s bleary-eyed and a bit discombobulated, Feng Xin is pretty damn sure he had shut it earlier in an attempt to bar Mu Qing’s passive antagonism from accompanying him to bed. If Mu Qing could leave his passive-aggressive bullshit at the door, maybe it would be different, but there’s little respite in such farfetched fantasies.

Warily, Feng Xin slips into a pair of sweatpants and peeks through the hallway into the dark, seemingly-empty living room. He listens carefully like a rabbit sensing for predators before leaving its burrow, but the only sound he detects is the mechanical hum of the refrigerator singing its usual refrigerator song.

He doesn’t find out Mu Qing is still on the sofa until he plops down on a particularly lively lump of blankets.

Feng Xin just fucking wanted to watch TV, maybe a movie— anything to keep the thought of Mu Qing’s soft, labored gasps from his mind, but no. Mu Qing ejects Feng Xin’s ass from the couch and his sanity from his mind with a kick, sending him stumbling to his feet. 

“What tHE FUCK?!” Feng Xin’s foot hits the leg of the coffee table just right so that the corner goes right in between his toes, and it really, really fucking hurts. He tears up a bit, biting back the innate impulse to kick Mu Qing’s table out of the window. “WHAT THE FUCK IS—“ 

He whips around in a fiery-tempered rage that instantaneously sizzles out. 

That sentient heap of blankets he crushed with his ass is not Mu Qing.

“Sorry, sorry,” says Xie Lian with a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean to— it was just a reflex! Are you alright?”

Feng Xin doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. He doesn’t want to admit defeat in the face of a coffee table leg. It’s embarrassing. Feng Xin waves away the concern awkwardly, distracted by the aching, throbbing pain in the webbing between his toes. 

Fucking terrible. Famously, stepping on Legos is the worst, but stubbing the webbing between his toes is right up there with it as far as Feng Xin is concerned.

“I didn’t know you were here to visit,” Feng Xin mumbled, balancing on one foot in a wobbly mockery of a flamingo in an attempt to rub soothingly at his other foot. It does help a bit, or maybe it’s just Xie Lian’s cathartic cadence. 

Xie Lian breathes a gentle laugh, a medicinal balm to Feng Xin’s sizzling temper. “Mu Qing invited me to join you two for a movie… Is your foot okay?” 

Physically, sure, but emotionally? Not so much. Feng Xin half-expected to find blood and broken skin, maybe a broken bone sticking out. Instead, all he finds broken is his fiery spirit. He nods anyway. 

“Mu Qing invited you over?” It’s unprecedented. Suspicious. Feng Xin knows Mu Qing must be up to… something.  

From the kitchen waltzes Mu Qing with a bowl of popcorn cradled in his arms, and even amidst the dark, Feng Xin can sense the condescending smile in his eyes. He fucking did it on purpose. He doesn’t know why or how, but Feng Xin knows Mu Qing orchestrated this shit on purpose. 

Conniving lil’ fuckin’ bastard. 

They watch some film that Feng Xin doesn’t care about and doesn’t pay attention to. Despite Xie Lian seated between the two of them as a human buffer, Feng Xin spends the next two hours keenly tuned in to every peep from Mu Qing’s corner of the couch. Every shuffle, every huff, every dry little scoff, Feng Xin hears it all. He wishes he didn’t. He despairingly wishes he could just sit and enjoy watching a movie with Xie Lian, but he can’t. Not anymore, not while Mu Qing is right there, just barely out of his reach.

If Mu Qing was within reach, at least Feng Xin could punch him in the teeth.

Mu Qing’s ass planted in the exact spot where Feng Xin fucked the cushions while thinking of him fisting his cock on the other side of the wall —almost as if they did it together— consumes Feng Xin’s thoughts. Does he know? There’s no way he could know. Mu Qing didn’t notice Feng Xin in his doorway, clearly occupied. So, he can’t know. 

His circular, completely fucking unhelpful thoughts gnaw at him. Xie Lian glances at him from time to time, undoubtedly curious about Feng Xin’s endless fidgeting. 

As soon as the credits begin to roll, Feng Xin all but somersaults his ass off the couch like an Olympic gymnast and slides a homerun into the bathroom, an accomplished assassin after his own traitorous dick.

He doesn’t say goodbye to Xie Lian. Technically, he never said hello, either. It’s been a weird day... or a couple of days, as it were. 

By the time Feng Xin frees himself from his self-imposed tile-laden prison, the living room buzzes in vacant silence. Mu Qing didn’t even leave a courtesy lamp on for Feng Xin to stumble back to his bedroom by. Sour-tempered and bruised tender between his toes, Feng Xin traces the hallway walls with his fingertips in the night as dark as Mu Qing’s stupid silky hair and collapses in his bed with an exhausted oomph.

Figures. At least it’s in character for Mu Qing, and Feng Xin didn’t expect any less. Feared? Yeah, maybe— Well, not fear. He’s not afraid of Mu Qing. It’s more like he’s a little anxious, trapped in a purgatory of anticipated and maybe even slightly deserved violence. Feng Xin is simply waiting for the shit to hit the fan and for Mu Qing to call him out on the sewer rat of guilt gnawing and chewing on Feng Xin’s bones from the rib cage out. 

Ideally before the feral rats of his conscience burrow their way to freedom via Feng Xin’s loud mouth.

Feng Xin dreams of Mu Qing’s hands again, tracing tantalizing patterns that seared disparate characters of condescending affection into his flesh. Lust blazes so bright that it burns out in sizzling wisps of blackened cinders. Every stroke of fire from Mu Qing’s touch incinerates Feng Xin’s flesh with the comforting crackle of a wood-wick candle until nothing remains of him but a smoldering heartbeat of ashes.

Restless is too generous a word to describe Feng Xin’s sleep quality. Ice cubes thrashed in a blender probably sleep more peacefully than this shit. Opening his eyes proves too much of a chore. He scrunches his eyes shut tight and turns his back to the morning sun, burying himself deeper into the blanket. 

Time doesn’t make sense, and it doesn’t matter. It could be five minutes or five hours until he rubs away the crusted debris of sand at his eyes with a deep inhale. 

Feng Xin peeks at the flashing lights of his bedside clock that he keeps neglecting to reset after the power flickered two months ago. The clock reports that it’s half past two, but who knows what the actual time is. Maybe Feng Xin should invest in a watch, too. At least he would know better than to jack off with it on and leave his phone unlocked on the counter as a trap to condemn his poor roommate to sexual ruin.

With closed eyes, his dream replays in vivid clarity, a swirl of heat and the charcoaled remains of Feng Xin’s besotted mindscape. Bitterly, he notes that even the characters in his dreamscape prove accurately penned in Mu Qing’s refined calligraphy.

Fuck it. Laying in bed won’t make it any better. In fact, it might even make it worse if Feng Xin dozes off to have more weird-ass dreams about Mu Qing’s hands. Maybe he would luck out, and those entrancing hands would strangle him to death, but knowing his track record of Mu Qing-related dreams, Feng Xin doubts he would be so fortunate.

So, he opens his eyes once more, and, reclining casually against his door frame with arms crossed, stands who else but the dearly beloved man of his disturbingly wet nightmares: Mu Qing. 

Throat hoarse and voice culled deep, Feng Xin grunts articulately, “…What?”

He expects Mu Qing to laugh, but instead, he’s met with silence. Mu Qing doesn’t move; he doesn’t answer. Feng Xin can’t tell if he’s even breathing. He begins to wonder if it’s just some trippy hallucination, and in reality, Feng Xin is talking to the wall. Hell, maybe he’s not even actually talking at all, and it’s just some multi-layered nightmare bullshit. 

Mu Qing would make for a pretty damn good sleep-paralysis demon. 

There’s no analog clock to tick-tock away the passing moments. Feng Xin’s neglected bedside alarm clock flashes its lies ceaselessly in his peripheral vision. Motionless silence and the increasing palpitations of Feng Xin’s heart strangle his lungs. As his heart races faster, time drags its feet, a captive bound to Feng Xin’s drowsy spike of anxiety.

“Repaying the favor,” Mu Qing answers finally. His words appear casual, the wave of his hand flippant and performed with long-practiced ease, but each syllable rings strained and unnatural. The usual lilt in his cadence feels stilted, forced. He unfolds his arms and unceremoniously dumps whatever he has been hiding in his grasp. “Though, I would hardly say this makes us even.”

Feng Xin connects the dots as his phone hits the floor at Mu Qing’s feet.

But, unlike Feng Xin, Mu Qing does not walk away to fuck the crevice between the couch cushions. He lingers, sharp eyes pinning Feng Xin with cruel, rapt attention. 

Feng Xin would rather he go fuck himself or the sofa, whatever the hell works.

Mu Qing clings to grudges as his lifeblood, and generally, Feng Xin would scold him for dwelling on stupid old shit, but this time, he struggles to find any justification to yell at Mu Qing. Feng Xin did intrude on Mu Qing’s personal space during a very private activity, and it was only a couple of days ago, to boot. 

But he swears to the fucking heavens and back; he didn’t mean to!

“Even? What the fuck do you mean ‘even’?! It was a fuckin’ accident!” 

Mu Qing scoffs at him, and his temper flares. Defensive indignance curdles into defensive floundering. 

Feng Xin does not chew his words with care before spitting them out at Mu Qing’s feet. “What? The last couple of days weren’t enough for you? So what if I saw you and jacked off, you don’t get to—“ 

Mu Qing crosses the room instantly. Feng Xin suddenly becomes keenly aware of his disadvantaged position— that is, lying in his bed clad only in his boxers, sheets tangled around his legs, and Mu Qing towering above him. It’s more challenging to fight back when he’s already on the bottom, but that hasn’t stopped either of them before. It’s mildly comforting to know that if Mu Qing does decide to deck him in the face, the supportive mattress beneath him will benevolently absorb some of the impact.

“You—!” Voice caught in his throat, Mu Qing forces the words out one by one, each syllable quieter than the last, until the silence speaks louder than his voice. “You did— because of— from—? From what you …saw? Of….” 

“....” 

Belatedly, Feng Xin realizes that Mu Qing did not know that Feng Xin had jacked off in the living room. Obviously, there was no fucking way he would have known because he was clearly busy doing the exact fucking thing that started this. 

If Feng Xin hadn’t foolishly shouted it in his face, Mu Qing probably never would have known that Feng Xin desecrated his sofa. Well, he hasn’t explicitly disclosed that it happened on Mu Qing’s couch in the living room, but he would much prefer to keep his balls attached to his body and in working order.

Tucked beyond that sarcastic veneer of composure lies Mu Qing’s delicate yet razor-sharp temper. Years of belligerent acquaintance have shown that Mu Qing’s tongue is not a dagger but merely the lethal tip of a hidden saber. 

Feng Xin aims to placate but misses entirely, striking the bullseye of aggressive dismissal beside it with devastating accuracy. "It doesn't matter. Don't get your twisted thoughts wrapped up in it! Anyone would have done it." 

By blessing or curse alike, Mu Qing does not seem to hear. His unblinking gaze burns holes through Feng Xin’s skull, his thoughts and expression incomprehensible. He simultaneously looks right at Feng Xin yet does not look at him at all. Feng Xin shifts uncomfortably. He really wishes he had slept in pajamas, but it’s too late now. He doesn’t even own pajamas to begin with.

"... Me?" Mu Qing asks quietly.

Feng Xin doesn't quite follow. His eyebrows pinch in deep wrinkles. "You? Of course, you. No one else lives here. Who else would it be?" 

Mu Qing’s watch captures Feng Xin’s attention, the miniature heart on the screen rapidly flashing with Mu Qing’s thunderous heart rate. Escalated, flustered, angered, whatever cesspool of convoluted emotions swirls beyond Mu Qing’s crumbled mask of composure lay exposed to Feng Xin’s eye in the form of a cartoonishly pink heart.

The initial shock fades away, and Mu Qing replies with heavy-laden sarcasm, “You and me? I’m not stupid enough to fall for that.” With a flick of his hair, he turns on his heel to leave, pausing in the doorway. Over his shoulder, he adds, “Pick up your phone. Someone could step on it and break it.” 

He kicks Feng Xin’s phone back, and it slides across the carpet between them, a technological landmine laid between them.

“Wait— Fall for what?!” Feng Xin flings out of bed in a flurry of linens. “Mu Qing!” He clutches Mu Qing’s shoulder, shoving forcefully to twist him back around. With a flow as elegant as melting glacier ice, Mu Qing takes Feng Xin’s strength in stride and slips from his grasp with a twist. “MU QING! WAIT! STOP—!!”  

Mu Qing does not stop, but Feng Xin does not expect him to. Telling Mu Qing to stop is more of a formality than an order Mu Qing would abide by.

In fact, Mu Qing’s swift yet fluid stride breaks into a full fucking sprint. 

“Motherfucker,” Feng Xin curses under his breath as he chases Mu Qing around their shared flat, feeling extremely childish. It’s so fuckin’ ridiculous. Around furniture, through the kitchen, a hoisted leap over the back of the couch— Each time Mu Qing falls within arm’s reach, he finds some way to gain distance between them, and only the tips of his hair brush Feng Xin’s fingertips. Teasing, enticing, fucking infuriating— always there, yet as unattainable as always.

They’ve had innumerable fights over the years, but this one has got to be the most fucking absurd one to date. Which is really saying something. They’ve fought over some idiotic shit.

“I thought toddlers were the ones who run around in nothing but their underwear,” Mu Qing drawls over his shoulder. “Do I need to arrange a babysitter for you whenever I leave the house?”

Feng Xin skids to a stop in the hallway. 

All that fucking running, and they ended up back where they started in the first place. All the while, Feng Xin was too pissed off to clock that he has been chasing Mu Qing around in his fucking boxers. At least they’re the nice rusty orange ones and not the pair-that-must-not-be-named that he only wears on laundry days. Saving a little face is better than saving no face, even if it’s Mu Qing watching him do it.

Whatever. It’s nothing Mu Qing hasn’t seen before.

Regardless, Feng Xin successfully herded this feral cat into the hallway, trapping him between Feng Xin’s bedroom and Feng Xin himself. Once Feng Xin stops chasing, Mu Qing stops running, standing on either end of the narrow hallway in an impasse. Unless Mu Qing attempts to hop out of Feng Xin’s bedroom window —which Feng Xin would not put entirely outside the realm of possibility— he has nowhere left to run.

“Mu Qing,” he begins in between labored breaths, and although Mu Qing doesn’t turn to face him, he knows he’s listening. It’s not like there’s anything else to listen to. “What did you mean ‘fall for it’? I’m not lying; it was a genuine mistake!”

Mu Qing laughs dryly, nearly inaudible yet deafening in such a narrow corridor. “Of course, of course. That would be giving you far too much credit.” 

“I didn’t mean to walk in on you! Don’t get your thoughts twisted as tight as your fucking panties! I was— I was just trying to be nice and give you your fucking phone back! It's not my fault you jack off like you're trying to beat it to death as fast as possible!"

This throws Mu Qing off, and he stutters a confusing mess of half-vomited words that make no fucking sense at all. He recovers with an unconvincing scoff, and his ears vibrantly flush.

“Is that why you stayed in the doorway to watch?” 

A sound crawls out of Feng Xin’s throat that he can only describe as a confused, guttural hum punctuated by his voice cracking with all of the benevolent grace of a thirteen-year-old boy. What little face he saved before is officially obliterated. “You… You knew? Why didn’t you say anything?!” 

“The same reason you didn’t say anything!” 

“What was I supposed to say?!” Feng Xin closes the gap between them one heavy step at a time. “So, you knew I was there, and you didn’t stop? You just… pretended you didn’t know I was watching?” 

Mu Qing’s silence hails as a resounding confirmation. Feng Xin cautiously presses his chest to Mu Qing’s back, feels the shiver that wracks through Mu Qing’s spine, and tentatively rests his hands on his hips. It feels a little weird with Mu Qing fully dressed while Feng Xin remains scantily clad in just his underwear, but the belt loops on Mu Qing’s pants do make for excellent grips for Feng Xin to hook onto. 

“Were you…” Feng Xin reconsiders his question then reconsiders the reconsideration of his question and spits it out anyway. “Were you… into… it…?”

A slight intake of breath. If they weren’t standing chest-to-back, Feng Xin wouldn’t have noticed it. Feng Xin tries to look over Mu Qing’s shoulder to see his expression, but Mu Qing turns away from his prying eyes.

“Are you going to pretend you still don’t know?” Feng Xin presses, playing twenty questions with a flustered, selectively-mute statue.

No answer, but now that Feng Xin is this close, he can spot how the heated flush of red colors everything from Mu Qing’s ears to his clavicles. 

The greatest risks yield the greatest rewards. Testing the waters, Feng Xin brushes his lips lightly behind Mu Qing’s ear and slides his grip from Mu Qing’s belt loops down the front of his hips, stopping just before rubbing Mu Qing’s cock through his jeans, no matter how much Feng Xin craves to. He doesn’t need to venture any further to know Mu Qing is hard; the denim bulges painfully taut.

Feng Xin’s heart pounds in his chest, and absentmindedly, he wonders if Mu Qing can feel his pulse pressed against his back.

Feng Xin licks his lips and grinds his cock forward, heaving Mu Qing back in a slide up Feng Xin’s length fraught with coarse friction. Viscerally, Mu Qing gasps, and he whips around. He slams Feng Xin back against the wall, and Feng Xin’s skull smacks against the drywall, but Mu Qing devours any pain or complaint with biting affection.

With a hand pinning Feng Xin’s bare chest to the wall and another fisted into his hair, Mu Qing kisses as though he has something to prove, as if suffocating Feng Xin in frenzied affection soothes an ache of heat coiled deep in his gut. 

Maybe, it does. Feng Xin doesn’t know. He doesn’t really care. His head swims in the touch, the taste, the faint jasmine scent Mu Qing paints himself with. 

Feng Xin kind of understands how a male black widow spider must feel knowing that his mate will devour him once they’re done. He gets it; he really does. Making out with Mu Qing feels pretty damn similar. Slender, sharp, lethal, and enveloping, the impending death compounds the enrapturing adrenaline and ecstasy of such violent intimacy.

Could he do without the ferocity and ever-encroaching death sentence? Sure, but it wouldn’t be the same. The more Mu Qing’s grasp tightens, the more Feng Xin’s cock throbs. Mu Qing doesn’t break to breathe— Feng Xin isn’t sure he’s breathing at all. Chest to chest, he catches Feng Xin’s wrists and pins them against the wall with astute force.

Demure and Mu Qing have nothing to do with one another. Knowing this conceptually is one thing, but experiencing it up close and personal really drives the point home. Feng Xin goes lax in his grip, grinding his hips forward in search of purchase in any relief he can find. Mu Qing meets him untethered, breaking for a gasping hiccup of fractured breaths. He shifts methodically from side to side of Feng Xin’s cock with every wave of his hips. Strategic, thorough, that discerning eye for detail fixated sharply on Feng Xin’s trapped cock. Not a single millimeter escapes his rapturous attention.

“Mu—” He begins, but Mu Qing cuts him off, swallowing his words with vehement, silencing worship. Any spark of frustration drowns in Mu Qing’s fervor, and Feng Xin’s thoughts dissipate into static. Eyes open or closed, his head spins. Dizzily, Feng Xin tries to wiggle his hands lower, just enough to cling to Mu Qing’s hands to keep him grounded, but Mu Qing will not allow it.

Feng Xin groans, both out of agony and because the stiff bulge of Mu Qing’s clothed cock rubs just right against his own, right under the sensitive ridge of the head, and a spasm wreaks havoc through Feng Xin’s thighs.

He needs more. So much fucking more. Feng Xin wants to rip away every infuriating layer of clothing between them, haul Mu Qing into his bed, and burrow his cock so fucking deep that Mu Qing gets jealous that his stupid sofa felt it before him. 

It’s inane, but a horny brain is rarely a smart one. What the aforementioned horny brain lacks in wit, it makes up for in due diligence, though.

“Mu — ” Feng Xin tears his mouth free from Mu Qing’s assault, panting in memoriam of his dearly missed ability to breathe air. “Mu Qing, let me… move!”

“No.” Mu Qing doesn’t miss a beat. Not a single shred of hesitance. Zero mercy for Feng Xin’s poor neglected dick. Absolutely heartless.

So, Feng Xin also does not bother mincing words. He struggles his hands free from the wall, grabs Mu Qing’s hips with fiery intent, and aggressively guides Mu Qing into his bedroom. When push comes to shove, Feng Xin will very literally shove back. He refuses to have the very first —and hopefully not the last— time that he fucks Mu Qing to be in the shitty fucking narrow corridor with hard plaster walls and rough carpets ripe and ready for rug-burned elbows and knees.

For all that Mu Qing’s quiddities and quirks irritate the fuck out of Feng Xin, his heart still begs that he does well for Mu Qing— to fuck him properly. No shitty pump-and-dumps on the hallway rug. Even a bastard like Mu Qing deserves better than that.

Also, semen is super difficult to get out of carpet fibers, and Feng Xin does not want to deal with Mu Qing bitching about ruined carpet for the rest of his fucking life.

That being said, Feng Xin was unprepared for the lethal hit his heart takes upon seeing Mu Qing in his bed. Long dark hair carving creviced rivers across the rich red of Feng Xin’s bedsheets, cheeks flushed, clothing disheveled, cock stiff with arousal—

Feng Xin hovers at the foot of his own bed, casually cosplaying a sleep-paralysis demon, speechless and breathless. Every fold of fabric accents Mu Qing’s lithe figure, and the deep scarlet makes Mu Qing resemble a long-lost bride acquired and accosted anew.

“Is that it?” Mu Qing’s slender fingers bunch and wrinkle the sheets in their grasp. A lock of his hair tangles and weaves between his fingers, and he fiddles with it absently, belaying the nerves in accompaniment with the rapidly flashing heart on his watch. “Are you coming or are you going to go take a nap in my bed?” 

Feng Xin shakes away his stupor.

“Shut it.” He falls into the web of his bedsheets, collapsing into the embrace of the black widow.

Gently this time, Feng Xin guides the pace, tempering Mu Qing’s fervor. He draws back for breath each time Mu Qing drives too hard, too fast, too deep into Feng Xin’s kiss. 

Irritated, Mu Qing complains between breaths, “Why… are you… holding… holding back? Feng Xin— Just… Just— ugh! ”

He swings a fist at Feng Xin’s back in frustration. It doesn’t hurt. Feng Xin knows firsthand what a real hit from Mu Qing feels like; he’s taken those beautiful fists to every part of his body at least once in the last decade.

Feng Xin leans back leisurely, admiring the man beneath him. 

“Why are you trying to rush through this?” 

Mu Qing’s mouth opens, a retort hot on his tongue, but ultimately, he snaps his mouth closed without speaking a word. Whatever he thought to say, he swallows.

Feng Xin hmphs a single laugh through his nose and draws Mu Qing’s shirt away, tossing it carelessly out of sight. It doesn’t matter where it lands, only that Mu Qing is no longer encased within it.

He smooths his palms along Mu Qing’s bare skin, reveling in the smooth dips on his hips, the soft curve of his waist, the faintest line of dark hair trailing from below his belt up to his navel.

He’s seen Mu Qing shirtless before. Hell, he’s even touched it— if he counts their fights, that is. But this is different. Mu Qing lay in his bed wrapped in silken red fabric, his lips ungodly soft as he brushes kisses along Feng Xin’s jaw. It’s surreal, dreamlike. 

Feng Xin coils his arms around Mu Qing, cradling his head with one hand and kneading massaging patterns into his back with the other. Every press of his strength works his complicated feelings into Mu Qing’s flesh.

Just as Mu Qing wouldn’t allow Feng Xin to be free from his grasp before, Feng Xin will not allow Mu Qing to rush him through this. He grinds his cock down against Mu Qing’s, chest to chest, yet Feng Xin’s attention ruminates on how Mu Qing’s hands tremble ferociously against his back. Feng Xin caresses his hands in wandering paths, canvassing any bare skin he can reach. 

Hesitantly, he traces his fingertips along Mu Qing’s biceps, up his forearms, pausing at the slim tendons of his wrists. Feng Xin wants so fucking bad to take off his watch, but he knows damn well that Mu Qing would throw a fit if he does; so, he begrudgingly lets it be.

Even if it does hide Mu Qing’s delicate wrists from Feng Xin’s admiration.

His hands hover, anticipating, his fingertips touching feather-light at Mu Qing’s awaiting palms. He tries to distract Mu Qing from his cowardice with deep, passionate kisses and thrusts of his hips that torture Mu Qing’s cock trapped within tight denim, although he knows it won’t work. 

“ ...Fuck. ” Feng Xin growls at his own incompetence, retracting his hands from their poised affair.

He reassures himself that he just needs to… work up to it; that’s all. Yep. Just to uh… warm himself up a bit, ease into it like it’s a casual thing and not decades of belligerent wet dreams bleeding into hallucinogenic reality.

It shouldn’t be easier for him to peel away Mu Qing’s pants than to hold his hand. The same, if not even more so, could be said for Feng Xin’s ability to confidently slip Mu Qing’s underwear from his bare hips. Feng Xin is acutely aware of this. Awareness alone does not magically make that trepidation evaporate; honestly, it probably makes it worse. 

Mu Qing’s beauty shines more with each obfuscating layer thrown carelessly onto the carpet. With such a pale complexion, his skin glows such a deep, vivid blush spreading like wildfire with each passing moment that Feng Xin admires it.

Now that Mu Qing’s cock stands tall, revealed and vulnerable in the open air and Feng Xin’s all-devouring eye, Feng Xin truly understands why Mu Qing is so damn impatient.

“Holy shit,” Feng Xin comments breathily, palming the shaft of it, rubbing over the bead of liquid leaking at the tip and smearing it with his thumb in glistening awe. “You’re so hard it’s fucking purple.” He presses gently against the head, watching the skin lighten from the pressure, only to fade back to that terrifying reddish violet. He mumbles softly, more to himself than to Mu Qing, “...Should we… go… to the hospital for this…?” 

Mu Qing’s complexion flushes impossibly deeper, his cheeks trying desperately to rival his dick, Feng Xin assumes. A valiant effort. “Stop—!! What is wrong with you? Stop looking at it!” 

Feng Xin does not stop looking at Mu Qing’s dick. He gifts the poor thing a gentle, featherlight caress through his fist, and Mu Qing shudders violently.

Blue balls are one thing, but a purple dick? It looks about to burst, to split like a cheap hotdog cooked for too long. It looks agonizing. Mu Qing’s ferocity makes sense. If Feng Xin’s dick looked like that, he would beat the everloving fuck out of it, too. How Mu Qing manages to have this… affliction despite Feng Xin personally witnessing how fucking viciously he punished it only a couple of days ago at most is beyond his realm of understanding. 

Luckily, it’s not his job to understand. Feng Xin’s job is to rail Mu Qing until his dick has nothing left to give and his balls draw empty. Maybe with enough due diligence, he might even return it to its normal hue.

Feng Xin dips unceremoniously, swallowing Mu Qing’s violently flushed cock down to the base. Mu Qing gasps, his hands flying to clutch Feng Xin’s hair. Smoothly, torturously slowly, Feng Xin massages his tongue up and down the shaft, teasing the rim of the head. Mu Qing twitches and flexes in his mouth, heavy on his tongue, and Feng Xin squeezes Mu Qing’s hips to keep him under control.

“Hhhn… ” Mu Qing’s muscles spasm between incorporeal puddles and trembling diamonds. 

Feng Xin peeks up at his expression framed by muscular thighs. With Mu Qing’s mouth slack, his head tipped back, the rise and fall of his chest eclipsing his face from Feng Xin’s view, Mu Qing thrusts minutely against Feng Xin’s strength, fighting him even now to plunge his cock unimpeded down Feng Xin’s throat.

He’s seen how Mu Qing fucks his own hand; Feng Xin would very much like to be capable of talking for the next several months. 

Still, he acquiesces to indulge him a bit more, to thrive on the revelry in Feng Xin’s service, to chance at even the most minuscule possibility of a single murmur of praise from Mu Qing. He rubs soothing circles into Mu Qing’s hips, lessening his grip bit by bit. Mu Qing devours the opportunity ravenously, taking every millimeter Feng Xin offers and greedily toeing the line for more like a dog constantly pulling at the end of its leash.

The ruthless ambition Mu Qing equips to barrel past obstacles in everyday life buries his cock deep in Feng Xin’s throat. Feng Xin’s eyes begin to water at the crest, and he stifles the need to cough, swallowing roughly around Mu Qing’s girth. He grips bruises into Mu Qing’s hips, a plastic dog gate trying to restrain a wolf. 

A strangled whimper whines in Feng Xin’s throat, the vibration a welcome purr for Mu Qing’s cock. Rather than plead or dissuade, the pleasure burns in scalding heat clawing up his spine. His hips flex and twitch, precum leaking freely, and Mu Qing’s hands clench tight fists of Feng Xin’s hair, desperate for something to hold onto.

When the tears crested in Feng Xin’s eyes trail down his cheek and jaw, he pulls back with a ragged gasp for breath. Feng Xin wipes his eyes with his arm, swallowing saliva and massaging his mouth with his tongue, savoring the lingering taste of Mu Qing. 

Mu Qing doesn’t look at him. His eyes are open, but he doesn’t truly see anything. Nothing registers but a throb of his cock twitching and shining wet in the light, strings of milky liquid dripping against his hip.

Feng Xin exhales a slow, steadying sigh, mumbling, “...Beautiful.”

Transfixed, he dances his fingertips up and down the shaft, circling rings around the head, spiraling down to Mu Qing’s balls as he catches his breath. He ventures lower, tracing the seam, and presses gently on Mu Qing’s perineum, watching Mu Qing’s reaction. 

Feng Xin has no idea if Mu Qing has ever done this before. He has no idea if Mu Qing has ever even tried it by himself. But Feng Xin really really wants to fuck deep into that tight little hole. 

Muscles flex and contract beneath Feng Xin’s hand— hypersensitive, reactive to the lightest touch. 

Anticipation coils hot and tight through Feng Xin’s hips, his thighs, down through the base of his cock, and he has to remember just to breathe. His cock leaks dark spots into his boxers. At this rate, he will have a second pair for laundry days.

A deep breath, and Feng Xin retracts his hand. He swallows roughly, his voice thick and hoarse. 

"Wait a second, I just— uh, I have— have here… somewhere…." Feng Xin abruptly dives his torso off the side of the bed, reaching blindly for a nondescript little box stashed away.

Mu Qing’s eyes refocus, and he stares at Feng Xin flatly. 

"Don't look at me like that."

If a way exists for someone to look at him more flatly, Mu Qing sure has figured it out. A crisp sheet of fresh paper holds no water to Mu Qing. "I'll look at you however I want." 

"Mu Qing, I'll make you eat those words ass first." 

Mu Qing scoffs with a familiar sardonic smile. "That doesn't even make sense. How can someone eat something ass first?"

For the briefest moment, Feng Xin imagines trying to verbally explain the process of shoving dick up one’s ass while he pops the cap off a bottle of lubricant with an audible click. He can’t look at Mu Qing while picturing this hypothetical conversation they’re not even having, let alone trying to spit the words out. It’s like watching his life flash before his eyes, except none of it ever happened. 

Feng Xin replies hesitantly vague yet thick with intent, "...You're gonna have to tell me.”

Mu Qing doesn't take Feng Xin's threat seriously, and he shouldn't. It's not truly a threat anyway; it's an adumbrated promise.

Feng Xin does not bother to waste time taking his boxers off, merely pulling the waistband down until his hard cock springs free. He lacks that kind of patience. Taking his time for Mu Qing is all fine and good, but Feng Xin won’t bother to spare that time for himself. 

He slathers a palm of cold lubricant up his length and climbs over Mu Qing, pausing just above him, their breath mixed and eyes searching. Wordlessly, Feng Xin presses their lips together, tracing the soft curve of Mu Qing’s lips with his tongue, sighing into the kiss. Mu Qing’s slender thighs bracket his sides, entrapping yet welcoming, and Feng Xin slides his slick cock up Mu Qing’s length.

Grinding, he eases lower and lower until the blunt head of his cock meets the tight rim of Mu Qing’s hole. Feng Xin nudges, teasing himself just as much as he coaxes Mu Qing to relax.

He never thought he would say that kissing Mu Qing offers him a soothing, grounding pulse, just as he never thought he would murmur soft reassurances at every clench of Mu Qing’s muscle around his cock. Feng Xin thrusts slowly, in a bit, out a little, in some more, holding Mu Qing fast beneath him until his hips press flush with Mu Qing’s thighs.

Looking into Mu Qing’s eyes is a mistake, Feng Xin wholeheartedly believes. Even darkened and dulled by distraction and lust, his eyes remain delicately lambent. Beautiful, sharp yet dazed. His eyelashes flutter as Feng Xin presses a lingering kiss to Mu Qing’s third eye, praying it will open to see what Feng Xin can’t put into words.

Feng Xin leans back, pausing momentarily when their eyes meet, and he realizes with a start that Mu Qing’s gaze has sharply refocused solely on him.

His heart skips a beat.

He can’t speak and wouldn’t know what to say even if he tried. So, Feng Xin thrusts his cock deep, drowning out any possibility of spoken words as he kisses open-mouthed and ravenous. He feels more than hears the sharp inhale, the staccato of Mu Qing’s chest pressed against his own.

Feng Xin had never struggled to meet Mu Qing’s eye before. He’s never shied away from Mu Qing’s sharp gaze, never hidden from his attention. But, before today, he also had never kissed Mu Qing before, or held him, truly touching him, indulging in the softness of his skin, the firm flex of toned muscle… how it feels to be inside of Mu Qing.

Blurry, yet vivid. Lost in a thick fog encased by a twilight forest, he follows winding deer trails bracketed by infinitely tall, dark silhouettes of trees. Faster, he runs, his feet landing harder on the forest floor, cushioned by the plush bed of foliage below. Tree limbs with manicured nails scratch and dig into his bare skin slick from heavy beads of sweat, carving copies of their branches into his flesh, and Feng Xin groans as his skin prickles and hair bristles in their wake. 

Feng Xin tips back, and in meeting Mu Qing’s eyes once more, he succumbs. To what monster he succumbs, he’s unsure exactly, but the encroaching sense prods at the back of his mind incessantly. 

His hips drive his cock at a merciless, unbridled pace. Skin on skin smacks in resounding rhythms cradled by panting breath and the obscene, wet squelch between them. He nestles into the safety and warmth of Mu Qing’s nape, nipping sporadic affections into his jaw and teasing his ear with his tongue. 

Mu Qing cages him in with his legs, ankles crossed behind Feng Xin’s back, and with each thrust, Feng Xin fucks into that tight heat; Mu Qing’s heels bruise into his flesh, urging him harder, faster, deeper. Anything more Feng Xin might offer Mu Qing devours with greed.

More and more and more, Mu Qing meets each plunge of cock with escalating fervor, always pushing, always striving, always grasping at all within reach. Feng Xin’s shoulders, his back, his hair, biceps, hips— All scored with crescent marks and red trails of frantic desire. Faster and faster, Mu Qing culls and beckons with scrambling hands and rushed thrusts.

Slamming his cock into Mu Qing’s wet heat, feral and desperate and ruthless in his thrusts, Feng Xin strives in vain to keep up with Mu Qing’s pace. His hips can’t keep up with the merciless speed of Mu Qing’s hands, but he races, his muscles straining.

Heat and tension coil aggressively within, a looming threat begging Feng Xin to slow, if even only for a moment, to linger and savor each and every dive.

Like a fool, Feng Xin clumsily fumbles for Mu Qing's wrist.

“Give—” He pants, struggling to speak through the echoing slap of skin and gasps, “Mu Qing, give me your hand.”

Mu Qing blushes furiously, surely expecting something tender, something soft— maybe expecting Feng Xin to lace their fingers together, to hold Mu Qing’s hand within his own as he plunges his cock deeper with every thrust full of adoration and worship.

But instead, Feng Xin drags his tongue along Mu Qing's wrist, the delicate tendons trembling, and he draws Mu Qing's fingers into his mouth, sucking, tonguing, and scraping at them with his teeth. Feng Xin moans around the slender digits, his hips erratic in their rhythm, only to resume at a jackhammer pace. He traces the shapes of his fingertips, the pad, the knuckles, the edge of his nails with his tongue, committing to memory the sensation of them in his mouth, the taste of Mu Qing’s skin, and the minute, bewildered tremble of his fingertips.

It’s a fucking dream come true. Countless dreams, in fact. An entire vault of particularly wet spring dreams that Feng Xin has unwillingly dedicated to Mu Qing’s hands in his mouth, on his cock, tracing searing patterns into his flesh, exploring whatever he pleases at his leisure.

Feng Xin’s eyes flutter shut, and he hums a self-indulgent, ecstatic groan around Mu Qing’s fingers. His hips twitch and stutter, their rhythm staggered and broken— distracted, as Mu Qing’s touch nears the back of his throat. Heaving in stuttered breaths, Feng Xin swallows roughly, focused intently on how his muscles flex around the delicate fingers in his mouth.

Mu Qing stiffens beneath him, filled with uncertainty. Tentatively, he curls his fingers, petting Feng Xin’s tongue, massaging the muscle in swirling patterns, indulging, admonishing, and exploring.

Tossing away any despicable trace of mistaken affections, what little of Feng Xin’s restraint remained snaps. His wet cock slips free with ease, but relinquishing Mu Qing’s hands? Not so much. Feng Xin does not want to let go, but he acquiesces with a slow caress of his tongue on Mu Qing’s fingers on their way out. A loving farewell.

Mu Qing observes him in fascination, almost… studiously. Strategic. Mu Qing is always thinking, and Feng Xin would do well to keep that in mind, but he’s distracted. He let his guard down.

Without a single microcosm of warning, Mu Qing flips Feng Xin beneath him, straddling his thighs. Disoriented, Feng Xin looks up at him. 

“What are you—?” 

“Shut up,” Mu Qing demands, clutching Feng Xin’s jaw in his grasp. Gently, with a feather-light touch that tickles and teases more than caresses, Mu Qing brushes his thumb along Feng Xin’s bottom lip. Taunting, yet affectionate, as though he finds Feng Xin’s weird-ass behavior endearing.

A flicker of Feng Xin’s temper flashes, seeing as he does not particularly like to be treated similar to that of a dumb dog who can’t find his way out of a blanket, but then, Mu Qing’s hands are on him again, and his ability to think about anything else bleeds out his ears. 

Obediently, Feng Xin melts beneath his affectionate admonitions, his touch a spell to seal his lips. Mu Qing hums, and one hand on his jaw becomes two, smoothing slender fingers in a gentle caress from Feng Xin’s jaw to behind his ears. 

Feng Xin can’t breathe. He relaxes in Mu Qing’s hands, trance-like and floating, a meditation grounded solely in Mu Qing’s attention.

Inebriating, Feng Xin follows the paths of Mu Qing’s fingertips along his skin in his mind’s eye, into his hair, brushing so gently with his nails that a tingling wave of sensation pebbles Feng Xin’s skin and stands his hair on end. Mu Qing has always been sharp; of course, he would put the pieces together quicker than Feng Xin would find a way to explain it.

Not that Feng Xin would know how to explain it in the first place.

Worshiping in blasphemous rapture, Mu Qing weaves his hair through his fingers and grinds down on Feng Xin’s cock. Feng Xin exhales a shivered ah, reveling in the slower change of pace, in how with every lift of Mu Qing’s hips, his ass clings to Feng Xin’s cock, unwilling to part with it.

Mu Qing rides him like the tides, smooth, transfixing, and near-nauseating in how he encases and encompasses Feng Xin. His hands guide the undulating pulse of his body in a serpentine, fluid slither of muscle.

Dizzily, Feng Xin closes his eyes, his head falling back. He tries to follow Mu Qing’s movements, tries to rock in rhythm with his hips, but Mu Qing’s hands abandon their admiration of his hair to explore his nape, his shoulders, and down his chest. 

Feng Xin can’t think, let alone focus on anything else.

Mu Qing deftly pulls the marionette strings of his body, and Feng Xin is just along for the ride. He glides his hands along Mu Qing’s hips back to the swell of his ass, grasping the flesh to spread them further, fucking up deeper and deeper with every fall of Mu Qing’s hips.

Slow but abrupt, Mu Qing lands harder and harder back, driving Feng Xin to the hit with every strike, yet his hands canvas Feng Xin’s chest so gently, smooth and adoring.

“Fuck,” Feng Xin gasps as Mu Qing drives faster, swallowing his cock with a sharp slap of his ass against Feng Xin’s thighs. “Mu Qing—” Heat coils in wound tension in Feng Xin’s gut, the muscle of his thighs tensing, his cock twitching.

He doesn’t expect Mu Qing’s kiss. His eyes snap open, and Feng Xin hauls Mu Qing impossibly closer, chest to chest, every drop of Mu Qing’s hips on his cock, a slide of Mu Qing’s hard cock pinned between them. He moans into Mu Qing’s mouth, desperately clinging to his flesh, to the walking vertigo of his intimacy.

“You’re so loud,” Mu Qing comments, a smile seasoning his voice with affectionate flavor. Even if Feng Xin’s eyes were closed, he could picture his smile just listening to him talk. The lyrical lilt in his cadence carries a siren song of adoring sarcasm.

Then, it dawns on him.

That’s the first thing Mu Qing has said since Feng Xin shoved his dick in his ass. 

Not a whimper, mumble, or moan. 

Well, he told Feng Xin to shut up once, but that doesn’t really count, okay? That’s not the point. There should be more noise . He wants to know what Mu Qing’s voice sounds like throttled by Feng Xin’s cock. Anything less would be downright blasphemous. 

Clearly, this means Feng Xin’s dick isn’t working hard enough. Which, in turn, means that Feng Xin isn’t working hard enough. 

His hands tighten on Mu Qing’s slim waist, and Feng Xin throws his weight into his thrust, holding fast to Mu Qing, shoving him down to meet Feng Xin’s fervor. Eyes wide, Mu Qing gasps, and he clings for purchase in Feng Xin’s hair, caving forward and caging Feng Xin’s face against his chest.

Still, not a word. Feng Xin adjusts his hips, searching, seeking the most sensitive part of Mu Qing. He fucks him harder, faster, praying that if he rams Mu Qing’s prostate hard enough, fast enough, in just the right spot, it will free his voice.

Feng Xin wants —needs— to hear his name. He needs to hear Mu Qing call his name.

“Mu Qing,” He nudges, hoping Mu Qing will answer in kind. “Mu Qing, Mu Qing— ah!” 

Not even a mumbling of Feng Xin’s name, but he fists into Feng Xin’s hair, yanking with every harsh slam of Feng Xin’s cock.

Alright. New position, then.

Feng Xin throws Mu Qing back onto the mattress, ripping his cock free, frantically demanding, “Hands and knees. Now. Hands and knees, Mu Qing.”

“You think—”

Feng Xin pushes him onto his stomach, spreads his legs wide, and slams his cock back in. Mu Qing gasps, eyes wide and muscles seizing.

Feng Xin fucks in deep, grinding mercilessly, pressing flush with Mu Qing’s back. He fists Mu Qing’s long ponytail, tugging his head back to arch his spine like the curve of a bow.

“Be good,” Feng Xin commands.

He doesn’t wait for a response. Feng Xin releases his grip on Mu Qing’s hair, hauls Mu Qing’s hips up to his hands and knees, and he drives the blunt head of his cock directly into Mu Qing’s prostate.

Mu Qing’s face falls forward, his fists clenching with white-knuckled strength into Feng Xin’s sheets, and he shifts his hips back and up. His thighs inch further and further apart with every slam of Feng Xin’s hips, knees sliding across the mattress.

Draped over his back, Feng Xin nuzzles Mu Qing’s earlobe, teasing with his teeth, his breath hot and heavy prickling Mu Qing’s skin. 

“Good… good…”  Feng Xin mumbles absentmindedly, groaning against Mu Qing’s sweat-slicked skin. He caresses Mu Qing’s chest, down his slim waist and slender hips, enveloping his cock in a loose fist. Every thrust of Feng Xin’s hips slams Mu Qing forward, fucking through Feng Xin’s grip. Feng Xin squeezes up and down his length, memorizing every ridge, every vein, the curve of it, how fucking wet Mu Qing leaks in long strings down Feng Xin’s hand to soil his bedsheets.

Mu Qing pants; he gasps, his muscles spasming and trembling under Feng Xin’s ruthless force, but still, not a single fucking word passes his lips.

It’s starting to tick him off.

Feng Xin stretches across Mu Qing’s back, fucking his cock deep and stifling, and slides his palms over Mu Qing’s white-knuckled fists. He peels his fingers away from the sheets, the beautiful spreading of a lotus flower in bloom, and laces their fingers together.

Their hands are the same size, at least in length, yet Mu Qing’s hands feel so small in his. Longer fingers where Feng Xin’s hands carry broader palms, each digit more slender and dexterous, breathtakingly beguiling. 

Feng Xin has dreamt about those hands for decades; he knows how meticulously Mu Qing cares for them with supple lotions and creams that waft alluring scents of jasmine and lychee through the apartment. He always knew when Mu Qing immaculately cared for his hands, knew those scents as warning signs to clear the area for his own good.

Now, he doesn’t have to. Now, Feng Xin can indulge in all of Mu Qing’s hard work, indulge in the strength squeezing the fucking life out of his fingertips.

Feng Xin hisses through his teeth, crushing Mu Qing’s hands in wordless rebuttal. It doesn’t change anything. He’s unsure he wants to change anything, even if it crushes the nerves in his hands. 

He nips the sensitive skin behind Mu Qing’s ear, sucking deep violet marks into his pale skin. Mu Qing struggles to breathe with Feng Xin’s cock so deep, hiccuping gasps strangling whimpers at his throat.

Feng Xin pauses, not for mercy on Mu Qing’s behalf, but to stave off his own rising climax. For too long, he’s danced on the dangerous precipice, the threat of falling a looming weight. His cock throbs and flexes against the walls and rim of Mu Qing’s warmth. 

For a moment, it’s calm. For a moment, the incessant creaking of the mattress pauses, the slap of skin and wet squelch of lubricant goes quiet, and their staggered breaths echo in Feng Xin’s ears. The tension taut in his balls relaxes bit by bit, easing away from the cliffside step by step, and Feng Xin grinds his hips forward in waves of growing intensity.

He draws his hips back more and more with each wave until air breathes between them, and Feng Xin smacks their skin louder with every strike. Feng Xin shifts his hips, drives his cock fiercely, and Mu Qing collapses forward. His elbows slide across the rich red sheets, and his legs spread further, more room for Feng Xin to carve the shape of his cock within.

Feng Xin loses himself for a second. Sticky with sweat, skin against skin, the burn and sting of his muscles with exhaustion, wet heat hugged tight around his cock. Animalistic, driven by the chase of pleasure, his mind empties. Entranced, he revels in the touch, the taste, the smell, the everything of Mu Qing. The broken, exhausted whimpering gasps punctuating every strike of Feng Xin’s cock.

“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin groans deep in his chest, rumbling against Mu Qing’s back. “Mu Qing, just— open— open your… Let me hear you, holy fuck, Mu Qing—!” 

Obstinately, Mu Qing bites into Feng Xin’s comforter, stifling whimpering, muffled moans until Feng Xin wraps around him like a vice, pulling his jaw from its death grip on his blanket and cramming his fingers into Mu Qing's mouth in its place.

"The blanket didn't do anything to you," Feng Xin swears something rich and foul as Mu Qing bites down with a desperate huff, "Fuckin' shit, STOP BITING!! If you don’t talk, you'll fucking bite, is that it?!" 

Mu Qing's brows furrow sharply, and he bites down harder to make a point. Feng Xin vaguely regrets sticking his hands in the tiger's mouth. 

By force, he strains against Mu Qing's jaw to pry his mouth open, finally airing out the cobwebbed voice trapped in his throat with a hoarse cry and a harsh thrust.

It’s breathtaking. Mu Qing’s voice has always dug its lyrical claws into Feng Xin’s heart, but that’s nothing compared to the uncontrollable shout as Feng Xin fucks him.

“Yes— fuck, just— that’s perfect, Mu— ah, Mu… Qing—!” 

A reflective flash of light shines in Feng Xin’s eyes, and he clasps his hands around Mu Qing’s wrist, effectively pinning his watch where Feng Xin can witness the rapid beat of Mu Qing’s heart. It’s… intrusive yet grounding. Mu Qing’s heart is beating so fast, thunderously pounding.

Unconsciously, Feng Xin starts to match the pulse of the little heart on his watch, increasing in strength and speed alike until Mu Qing lays flat on the bed, his face soiling the pillow with tears and muffled staccato cries. With each beat of Mu Qing's heart, Feng Xin slams into his abused hole, a groan crawling from the depths of his chest to pant in Mu Qing's ear. Feng Xin’s attention lingers on that watch.

Tears drip and absorb into darkened spots in Feng Xin’s bedsheets, and Mu Qing’s back arches, spreading his thighs further, a loud yet wordless plea for more.

“Feng—” Mu Qing begins but cuts off with a shout. 

It’s so close. He’s so close. It’s fucking unbearable. White-hot tension coils tight, and Feng Xin squeezes Mu Qing’s hand within his own, determined and mulish.

Lubricant drips down his balls, a momentary distraction. His pace staggers only for a moment, and in that brief instant, Mu Qing whines in the back of his throat. Feng Xin doesn’t think that sound was voluntary; it definitely didn’t sound voluntary. 

But fuck, it sounded so fucking good.  

Echoing the pulse on Mu Qing’s watch, Feng Xin adjusts his pace, his rhythm, his strength— all abruptly, all changed without warning, without consideration for anything other than extracting his name from Mu Qing’s mouth laced with desire.

Mu Qing’s muscles tighten, his thighs spasming beneath them, his head tilted back to bear his throat, and he keens. He whines high and sweet, ringing in Feng Xin’s ear, shuddering a broken spill of Feng Xin’s name rolling off his tongue.

“Feng Xin—” 

He clenches around Feng Xin’s cock, suffocatingly sweet, tearing Feng Xin’s perseverance into pieces. Of course, when Mu Qing falls, he drags Feng Xin with him. 

Feng Xin tumbles over the precipice with Mu Qing wrapped tight in his arms. His hips stutter and grind to a halt, pressing his cock as deep as he can one last time, painting white as far as he can reach.

He tries not to crush Mu Qing beneath his weight —not that Mu Qing couldn’t take it— but exhaustion seeps deep into his bones and drags him to the sea floor. Mu Qing sighs under his weight, soft and pliant, frighteningly malleable and conceding.

Gradually, the reality of what Feng Xin just did sinks in. He tries to beat it off with a stick, but the stick snaps, and he’s left to fence off his conscience with a broken twig.

It is not very effective.

“So, I uh— I sorta… fucked your couch.” Feng Xin blurts out. It just spilled out! He didn’t mean to say it. He doesn’t understand why he said it. Starting a new relationship with a clean slate? A masochistic death wish fueled by post-nut clarity? A secret subconscious desire for new furniture? Either way, the silence between them rings stiff and foreboding. 

Completely, dauntingly motionless. Feng Xin assumes Mu Qing is processing or something, trying to figure out what the fuck Feng Xin just dropped on him and what the fuck that even means. Maybe he’s picturing it. Maybe he’s slotting all the little puzzle pieces into place until he can finally see the whole picture. 

Then, Mu Qing recoils violently— sharp eyebrows furrowed, eyes wide, nose scrunched up in adorable little wrinkles of absolute bewildered disgust, all just as visceral as Feng Xin imagined it would be.

“You—? What?! You fucked my couch?!”  

“I was thinking of you!”

As if that will stop Mu Qing from burning that couch in the alleyway out back. He gawks at Feng Xin in silence.

Feng Xin probably can’t save the sofa, but at least he won’t be burning in the alley along with it when the time inevitably comes to say goodbye to such a beloved piece of furniture.

It’s like losing a lover.

Feng Xin bursts out laughing uncontrollably at the thought. Mu Qing looks at him like he’s lost his fucking mind, but to be in bed with Mu Qing, maybe he has.

Mu Qing socks him in the chest, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Too high to argue, Feng Xin answers with a grin, “The same thing that’s wrong with you.” 

Suddenly, Mu Qing’s watch vibrates on his wrist, and the screen lights up brilliantly with a cheerful message and a burst of monochromatic fireworks: 

“Congratulations! You met your step goal!” 

Feng Xin has a feeling Mu Qing will be meeting his step goal a lot more often from now on.

Notes:

some dubiously important info I couldn't fit naturally into the story but I just need y'all to know
✧ Feng Xin is a bowtie pasta kind of man (it's the best pasta shape tho stars are a strong contender)
✧ Mu Qing absolutely always reaches his daily step goal regardless of if they fuck or not
✧ Mu Qing will never admit his exhibition kink but someday he will stutteringly admit he kinda sorta maybe likes Feng Xin a bit even if he never fixes his bedside clock
✧ Feng Xin never found his munchy snack :'( a true tragedy

Thanks for readin'! Comments fuel me to finish more fics (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧
Here's my ✧ Carrd ✧ if you'd like to find me elsewhere~

Thank you to Rain for the readthrough ♡