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Over on the other mattress, Qiao Yifan jerks up from where he’s been busy between Little Cold Hands’ legs. For a long, trembling moment, his cunt-glossy face is the picture of wide-eyed startlement; then, he drops back down on a low, slow exhale. He rests his face—docile, damp—on one of Little Cold Hands’ pillowy thighs. His lashes flutter darkly.
An Wenyi watches. And watches. And watches some more. He’s wilfully ignoring the naive little voice in the back of his mind attempting to suggest that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t need to keep memorising Qiao Yifan’s every little twitch and quiver.
He could reach out and touch. He’s touched before. He has permission.
Little Cold Hands, who had surely been just about to come, makes a noise of deep, disgruntled protest.
‘Ash,’ Qiao Yifan manages. Rather breathless. Not quite begging. Deliciously begging-adjacent.
One Inch Ash says, ‘Does the Young Master want more…?’
The phantom demon’s expression is indulgently playful. His body, in contrast—curved behind Qiao Yifan’s, their hips close together—is the picture of graceful sensuality. His rather haphazard state of half-undress, and the desultory, partial undoing of his high ponytail, somehow only adds to the eroticism.
An Wenyi could move closer and lick the shifting curves of One Inch Ash’s tattoos. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He wants, rather more, however, to shimmy over and lick the breath from Qiao Yifan’s panting, parted lips.
He scrapes the blunt edges of his nails, instead, up along the insides of his own thighs. He bumps his thumbnails across the cock rings now snug-tight around him.
He hasn’t forgotten what happened last time.
Qiao Yifan’s tongue licks across his lower lip, pink and darting. Qiao Yifan breathes out, unsteadily, ‘Gonna—gonna need a sec, actually.’ And then, flustered, ‘You don’t—don’t have to call me that.’
Little Cold Hands laughs.
One Inch Ash grins a wide, dangerous grin in her direction. He’s still smiling as he leans low, brushing a line of kisses along the bumps of Qiao Yifan’s spine. ‘And take away xiao-An’s fun?’ he says. ‘You know his dick stands to attention whenever I use Yifan’s proper title.’
An Wenyi’s boner twitches closer to his stomach. He schools his face into casual indifference. What Qiao Yifan’s avatar calls the guy is none of An Wenyi’s business. Besides, Happy has never been a stand on ceremony kind of team. Little Cold Hands would probably set herself on fire in preference to calling An Wenyi by his proper title—at least, not without him having suggested that she should step on him about it, first…
’Oh, please, we all know a blushing Yifan is a yummy Yifan,’ Little Cold Hands mocks, her tone slightly combative even as she pets Qiao Yifan’s blushing face in a soothing kind of way. It’s vaguely unsettling to hear her sound almost defensive on An Wenyi’s behalf outside of something more Glory-related. She’s clearly furious about her interrupted orgasm. ‘Don’t act like you’re doing things for An Wenyi’s benefit. I don’t see you offering him a turn on your Young Master, do I?’
Qiao Yifan whimpers. An Wenyi’s dick starts to throb.
One Inch Ash gives Little Cold Hands a sharp, knowing look. ‘Oh?’ he says. ‘Is there something your Young Master has been wanting? Funny, since I’ve never heard him speak up whenever mine is working hard to plan our activities together.’
Oh, god, no. Please say it’s not going to be one of those evenings.
’Ash,’ Qiao Yifan murmurs. Still kind of whimper-y. Even closer to begging. Undeniably appealing.
For a long, twinging moment, everyone stays silent.
Around them, their dorm room is low-lit and humming; also, tinted with the ambiguous touch of a boundary’s casting blurring the usually plain, straight lines of the walls. An Wenyi never has been able to look at that boundary in-game in quite the same way, not since having first seen it applied like this. For all that it means nobody can hear them outside the boundary’s range, however, there’s a certain elevation to everything inside. Even the tiniest sounds seem louder. The aggrieved swish of Little Cold Hands’ hair as she drags the damp strands away from her face and lets them fall again. The rough hitch of Qiao Yifan’s breathing (always hot, always sexual, always tangling into An Wenyi’s dreams and catching him in a chokehold) as Qiao Yifan does his best to adjust to whatever percentage of One Inch Ash’s cock was pressed into him during that first quick, blunt thrust.
A moment ago, An Wenyi was under the impression today’s sex would culminate (at least for him) with his dick in Qiao Yifan’s sweet, warm mouth. Qiao Yifan really does like to sketch out little game plans for these evenings (because of course he does), words tumbling out of him when they’re dragging their mattresses down to the floor. Now, though, with Little Cold Hands giving One Inch Ash a scathing, smouldering look while One Inch Ash pretends he hasn’t just stolen Qiao Yifan’s mouth from between her legs when she’d been a half-second from climax… well. That kind of thing tends to be a sign their avatars are about to go off-script.
An Wenyi hasn’t quite been able to decide whether that’s better or worse than when they work together as a unit.
Qiao Yifan’s fingers flex and shift where they’re buried against the curve of Little Cold Hands’ ass. When the cleric hums and responds with a drag of her nails across Qiao Yifan’s shoulders, Qiao Yifan groans and shivers, and—forgetting his own request for more time to adjust—pushes back against the bracketing embrace of One Inch Ash’s body.
Qiao Yifan’s cry is sharp and breathy: pleasure and pleasure-thwarted.
Too much, too fast, An Wenyi thinks with an empathetic wince and a grind of his hand’s heel against his aching dick. Qiao Yifan’s cry has shivered through him. It’s made the hair on his legs stand and prickle.
It makes the little voice in the back of his mind return to whispering blatant fabrications. Unhelpful misdirections about rules and what they were made for.
A person could start by kissing the welling salt at the corners of Qiao Yifan’s eyes, An Wenyi thinks. Little kisses. Tiny. Gentle. Soft kisses, the softest, leading down to taste the shaky breath on Qiao Yifan’s lips. Kisses to taste, and kisses to open, and kisses to—
Qiao Yifan wouldn’t say no. Qiao Yifan would probably welcome it.
An Wenyi catches the weight of Little Cold Hands’ gaze upon him.
He sits back. He wraps his hands against his knees. Holds still. Grips tight.
The cleric rolls her eyes. Her expression says, Coward.
Qiao Yifan—his words tucked within a breathy little laugh—says, ‘Maybe I… maybe I still need another sec, ha. Don’t know how I always forget… God, Ash. The size of you…’
Qiao Yifan’s fingers are kneading Little Cold Hands’ waist as he speaks. After a moment, though, he slips one hand down between her legs. Not really moving it. Simply resting it there.
Comforting, An Wenyi’s mind supplies. Apologising for the interruption of Qiao Yifan’s focus upon her pleasure and the disruption of her almost-achieved orgasm.
‘Really am sorry,’ Qiao Yifan murmurs, his smile small and helpless as he makes the apology overt. ‘I’ll be, um… in a minute…’
Little Cold Hands settles a hand upon Qiao Yifan’s head. She combs her fingers through his sweaty hair. She says, in her being-gentle-with-Yifan voice, ‘You know, the next time you apologise on behalf of that Ghostie’s oversized dick, xiao-Fan, I really think I’m going to have to punish you.’ Her gaze flits to An Wenyi. She smiles. ‘Maybe I’ll have Wenyi spank you.’
Qiao Yifan groans, rocking himself forward and hiding his face against her breasts. An Wenyi chokes on his own spit.
He doesn’t bother trying to glare at Little Cold Hands. What’s the point? He can already feel the heat flushing through him and, anyway, he knows she can see the way his skin scalds; the way his pre-come dribbles, hot and wet and sudden, and down across his balls.
Fuck, no. An Wenyi needs someone to throw him a lifeline here. They have early morning practice tomorrow. They don’t have time for whatever this is turning into. Someone needs to get them back onto Qiao Yifan’s neat, evening-appropriate little plan, and it sure as hell won’t be their avatars.
An Wenyi casts a half-desperate glance around the room. Doing so causes his eyes, quite accidentally, to meet Qiao Yifan’s now-lifting, still-blushing gaze.
‘Oh my god,’ Qiao Yifan moans, blushing harder. He has another go at rocking himself back onto One Inch Ash’s cock. His thighs are trembling, gorgeous. His boner, which had flagged beneath the sudden intensity of One Inch Ash’s heft inside him, lifts back into sight with a lovely, half-hard heaviness.
An Wenyi is… damn. An Wenyi is ninety percent sure Qiao Yifan’s words and movements have nothing at all to do with their eyes having met. And yet, it still feels like a thing that has happened.
One Inch Ash makes a languid, pleasure-warm sound. Beneath An Wenyi’s gaze, he draws Qiao Yifan a little closer—not thrusting in but, instead, tugging Qiao Yifan further onto his cock with an easy shift of his hands upon Qiao Yifan’s hips.
Qiao Yifan’s rubs his head against Little Cold Hands’ fingers. His mouth opens around a silent, aching noise.
An Wenyi would bet real money that it’s pleasure, this time, rather than discomfort.
Honestly—An Wenyi hadn’t bottomed in years before this whole… business with their avatars. He’d switched to topping the moment he’d grown out of being skinny enough and baby-faced enough for bottoming to have been the only thing anyone was interested in getting from him. He’d resented it, mostly, back when it was all that had been on offer. He’d enjoyed the burn, sure, but rarely the follow-through; it wasn’t as though he’d been in the habit of picking up guys known for being generous. And yet, no matter how much he’d resented it in the past, he hadn’t so much as stopped to consider saying anything other than yes when One Inch Ash had first offered to fuck him.
One Inch Ash is—as it happens—very, very generous.
In all the ways that wordplay could imply.
So, yes: An Wenyi can imagine, really very well indeed, just how good the ghostblade is making Qiao Yifan feel right now.
And Qiao Yifan—
Fuck. One Inch Ash is bad enough with that dick, and those horns, and those thick, dark lines of ink curling on his shoulders. Qiao Yifan, on the other hand… Qiao Yifan, blushing and bold… all familiar, eager smiles and half-familiar shamelessness…
Qiao Yifan had watched An Wenyi take it that first time, and he’s watched every time since. It isn’t something they do very often—not least because it isn’t something An Wenyi is willing to accept when Little Cold Hands is around to peer into the hollow bones of him. But, when they are doing it, Qiao Yifan has this habit of looking between One Inch Ash and An Wenyi with this expression of white-hot anticipation, as though watching An Wenyi take it up the ass is the most exciting thing he’s ever seen. Qiao Yifan will seriously just sit there with pupils blown to black and his gaze stroking to linger, for half of forever, on An Wenyi’s panting mouth. Sometimes, it feels like Qiao Yifan is desperate to kiss him. Sometimes, it feels more like Qiao Yifan wants to crawl in beneath his skin. And sometimes—
Sometimes, it almost feels as though Qiao Yifan only dips to lick An Wenyi’s cock to keep himself from hungering for something different.
Sometimes— Fuck, look, the last time they’d done it, alright? The last time they’d done it, An Wenyi had spread his legs and let One Inch Ash inside him, and Qiao Yifan—sweet, sunshine-coded Qiao Yifan—had just about sucked An Wenyi’s soul out with his spunk, he’d gone at it so hard. He’d licked dirty stripes along An Wenyi’s come-wet cock to soothe the discomfort of One Inch Ash pulling out, after, and then he’d licked even lower, too. He’d worked his mouth like electricity across An Wenyi’s climax-softened balls. He’d brought his tongue shockingly, dizzyingly, impossibly close to An Wenyi’s twitching, leaking hole. And then he’d hummed and lingered, tongue curling across the slippery-wet of One Inch Ash’s mess, thumb ghosting in its wake, and he’d murmured, ‘Look so beautiful like this, Wenyi. Makes me think about putting it in, too. Makes me think about using Ash’s come to just slide right—’
An Wenyi never got to hear the rest of whatever mind-breakingly dirty thing Qiao Yifan had been thinking about doing, because An Wenyi had bucked too sharply against Qiao Yifan’s face. And Qiao Yifan had come, then, with a wrung-out moan and with his mouth pressed, hot and open, against the wet seam of An Wenyi’s body.
It’s one of the filthiest things An Wenyi has ever experienced, and An Wenyi has done some things.
Qiao Yifan hasn’t mentioned it since. And yet, An Wenyi hasn’t been able to escape it.
Not that it’s— He isn’t obsessing about it. It’s not there, dwelling in his mind, the entire, wretched time. But it’s— Well. It’s one of the many reasons why he doesn’t object to Qiao Yifan’s adorable habit of planning how they’re going to fuck. An Wenyi appreciates knowing what Qiao Yifan has in mind. Of course, he also enjoys seeing the smile Qiao Yifan gets whenever he’s sure everyone is happy with his ideas. But he’s glad not to have to confess to things he, himself, might be secretly wanting. And he really, really likes knowing that there won’t be time for his sex-dumb mind to start drifting toward the thought of other, less helpful things. Like breaking his rules. Or crossing a line and begging Qiao Yifan to just bend him over and fuck him already, please.
Which is, of course, exactly what he’s thinking about doing right now. It’s beyond absurd. Not to mention, Qiao Yifan is the one who’s getting railed.
Well, Qiao Yifan is the one who is close to being railed, anyway. From their faces, it’s clear that One Inch Ash’s dick still isn’t quite where he or Qiao Yifan want it. One Inch Ash has started smoothing a sword-calloused hand up and down Qiao Yifan’s side: hip to underarm and back again, a nice little squeeze of ass. Qiao Yifan, who has been trembling and holding himself in place, grumbles and moans, dropping back down to rub his face in frustration against the comfort of Little Cold Hands’ thighs.
‘Should we—’ An Wenyi starts saying, but then—oh.
Qiao Yifan tilts his face toward him and smiles one of his sappy, sex-drunk smiles. ‘Wenyi,’ he whispers, admiringly, eyes glancing politely away from An Wenyi’s straining boner only to slide directly back again.
An Wenyi’s dick—nothing if not a Qiao Yifan simp—jumps in response.
Qiao Yifan giggles, then gasps—having giggled himself deeper onto One Inch Ash’s cock, An Wenyi guesses. He does it again, on purpose, anyway: a delicious little sway of his body while he exalts in watching An Wenyi watch him.
Qiao Yifan’s lips part upon the self-inflicted stab of it. On the pleasure of it. On the unforgiving heat of One Inch Ash’s really fucking big dick.
An Wenyi can’t help but wrap a hand around himself in response. He gives his cock a squeeze. Just a little one. He thinks about moving closer—about getting in their way a bit.
As though he’s read An Wenyi’s mind, Qiao Yifan moans, then frowns. Qiao Yifan says, sounding only slightly lost and really very apologetic, ‘Oh, no, I was going to blow you, too, wasn’t I? Really—’ Qiao Yifan’s eyes drift closed, fingers flexing against Little Cold Hands as One Inch Ash does something fun inside him. ‘Really, ah—really getting bad grades in giving head this evening, huh. In, um—in a minute—? When I’m—ah—’
One Inch Ash fucks forward. Qiao Yifan sobs in a hungry, blissed out way.
‘Hey, I’m good, man,’ An Wenyi manages. ‘I can just—you know. Nothing wrong with my hand.’
Little Cold Hands snorts. She’s watching him again, he knows it. You’d think he’d have gotten better at ignoring it by now, but he hasn’t. She has this—ugh. It’s that whole thing with corporealised avatars, isn’t it? She knows too much. An Wenyi can’t stand it. It’s—confronting. Unsettling. Unfair. Worst of all, it makes him want to do stupid things just to try and prove she’s wrong about something even stupider. Except that he knows, in the end, that it would still only result in her giving him that I Know What You Are look.
Little Cold Hands’ I Know What You Are look is even worse than Yifan’s because, in her case, An Wenyi really, truly feels he has reason to fear that it’s actually, unavoidably true.
Obviously, it isn’t true in Qiao Yifan’s case. That goes without saying. The very fact that An Wenyi is here with him, naked on Yifan’s bedding-messy mattress on their dorm room floor, and dribbling pre-come on his stomach while he gets to watch Qiao Yifan have his insides lovingly—thoroughly—rearranged is the most obviously glaring proof of that.
Qiao Yifan is far too sweet to have accurately unpacked An Wenyi’s bullshit and then chosen to play friends-with-bennies with him despite it.
Little Cold Hands, however… Little Cold Hands leaves An Wenyi feeling naked in an uncomfortable kind of way. It’s why the rare sex they have on their own, just the two of them, always ends up so fucking weird.
And yet—what do you know—it’s One Inch Ash who picks now to press closer against Qiao Yifan’s back and say, in a light voice very clearly intended to project, ‘I wouldn’t worry about helping xiao-An. I suspect he could finish just from watching you.’
An Wenyi flushes. That asshole. If it’s not one of them, it’s always the other.
Qiao Yifan’s whole body shudders. He rolls his hips like a wave. His eyes, when he flutters them back open in An Wenyi’s direction, are deep-dark with pleasure. ‘Oh,’ he moans. ‘Could you?’
When An Wenyi’s stupid cock twitches in answer, Qiao Yifan grins a crooked, sex-high grin.
‘Of course he could,’ One Inch Ash is saying. ‘Yifan’s always so pretty on my cock, beneath my mouth. Even when you’re fucking her,’—a faint nod in Little Cold Hands’ brow-arched direction—‘he can’t keep himself from wanting. Look at him. Xiao-An’s leaking all over himself and all he’s done is watch.’
Xiao-An is going to get homicide tips from lao-Wei, An Wenyi’s thinks sourly. No, wait—from Baozi. Wei Chen isn’t fucked in the head enough to attempt taking out an avatar, but Baozi will generally try anything once.
Of course, An Wenyi’s dick merely jumps and leaks some more.
Qiao Yifan’s tongue darts out, swiping down across his lip.
’Oh,’ Qiao Yifan says. ‘Oh, I’d like—I’d really like—’
An Wenyi is going to be ruined by this. Not today, perhaps, not really, but—one of these days. One of these days, he’s going to be ruined into actually wanting to believe—
Qiao Yifan is just—
Fuck.
An Wenyi imagines that, were he to put it to some kind of perverted public vote—some sort of One Inch Ash versus Qiao Yifan thirst-based face-off—people would probably declare One Inch Ash the hotter of the two. And An Wenyi even agrees, after a fashion. He’d been interested in getting his hands on Qiao Yifan’s avatar long before he’d known the guy could look like this—all playful and dishevelled and fucking into people with his unreasonably good cock. He’s just as gorgeous, albeit in a very different flavour, when he’s robed-up and neatly coiffed, and looking like he’s simultaneously off in his own aloof little world and also processing every iota of information within a two-block radius. An Wenyi admires him a lot, and An Wenyi enjoys getting to touch him a lot, too.
And yet, it’s Qiao Yifan who will be An Wenyi’s undoing. An Wenyi knows this. It’s Qiao Yifan who already has been An Wenyi’s undoing—who makes An Wenyi wish, in those wretched, unpalatable hours between midnight and two AM, that An Wenyi had the faintest idea how to be the kind of person capable of giving Qiao Yifan all the things he truly needs.
Qiao Yifan’s gaze, now, is so heavy upon him. He’s started moving beneath One Inch Ash’s hands—just a little, just the smallest amount, a subtle back-forth. He’s still sloppy-wet against Little Cold Hands’ thigh, though—her slick on his face, yes, but probably also spit, from the way he’s been squishing his mouth against her—and she’s turning his hair into a wild mess, and An Wenyi— An Wenyi wants him harder than he’s ever wanted anyone, ever, and An Wenyi wants him like that always, and An Wenyi can’t seem to figure out how to stop—
’God, I could kiss you,’ Qiao Yifan mumbles, voice rough with longing.
Of course, he’s squeezing his eyes shut a second later and groaning loudly. Probably in regret at having said something he hadn’t meant to say, An Wenyi supposes; after all, Qiao Yifan isn’t the kind of person to ask for something after he’s been told he can’t have it. Of course, maybe it’s just something more related to the push of One Inch Ash’s cock inside him, who knows.
It’s just as well, either way, because it means Qiao Yifan doesn’t have to see the way An Wenyi’s whole body sort of sways toward him in response.
One Inch Ash sees it, unfortunately. One Inch Ash smiles like he’s just seen a plan start to come together.
Little Cold Hands sees it, too. She rolls her eyes so forcefully, it’s a wonder she doesn’t strain something.
An Wenyi burns with that confusing breed of frustration that only Qiao Yifan can pull out of him.
He forces his expression into neutral. He says carefully, ‘I thought your Ash was selling you on the merits of not getting your mouth on me.’
Qiao Yifan—pouts. Huh. He rolls his hips more enthusiastically, clearly trying to make some kind of point. A second later, though, he’s hiding his face and grazing his teeth—loud and open-mouthed—across Little Cold Hands’ skin.
An Wenyi watches, and An Wenyi burns.
He knows exactly how good Qiao Yifan’s mouth, so sweet and wet, and so unexpectedly easy to lure into violence, feels against his own skin. He can only imagine how good it would feel to have sweetness, that wildness, fed to him by way of kisses. But there are— There are rules, is the thing. There are lines, important lines, etched deep in the ground during his first and only disastrous attempt at an actual relationship, and An Wenyi has toed them carefully for years now. And if An Wenyi could stick to his rules when fucking random, plush-mouthed strangers in back rooms and bars, then, by god, An Wenyi can make the effort to play decent for someone as precious as Yifan.
’Wait,’ Qiao Yifan is saying. ‘No, wait, sorry, Wenyi. I shouldn’t—shouldn’t have said that.’
Qiao Yifan reaches, apologetically, across the space between them. His sorry, sorrys fall like breaths. His fingers brush lightly across An Wenyi’s knee. ‘Can we go back to, um—your dick—’
An Wenyi laughs.
Qiao Yifan grins, delighted, like An Wenyi has just handed him some kind of prize. He grazes his palm along An Wenyi’s thigh. He wraps his fingers—ever-so-lightly—around the solid line of An Wenyi’s shaft. Any lingering embarrassment, at having asked for something An Wenyi has already refused, falls away the moment his fingertips hit the wet slick of An Wenyi’s pre-come. ‘God,’ he praises. ‘It’s such a great dick, though. So hard, Wenyi—so handsome—’
If it were anyone other than Qiao Yifan, An Wenyi wouldn’t believe a word of it. The guy literally has One Inch Ash’s cock halfway inside him right now. There’s no world in which An Wenyi’s offering compares.
It is Qiao Yifan saying it, though. It’s Qiao Yifan taking that dick, and still praising An Wenyi’s, and An Wenyi can’t even begin to deal with it. An Wenyi aches beneath Qiao Yifan’s touch. He aches beneath Qiao Yifan’s words.
Qiao Yifan’s eyes are so dark. His voice is so thick with admiration. His lips, still cunt-glossy, make An Wenyi think, again, about shifting closer—about cutting into Little Cold Hands’ dance and having Qiao Yifan suck him right now. Never mind that he’s already cutting into her dance just by having Qiao Yifan’s hand wriggled out from between her thighs to play with him, instead.
Qiao Yifan’s lips make An Wenyi think—again, again—about throwing out his own rules.
An Wenyi could—so easily. An Wenyi could scoot over with every fibre of his being singing out in pleasure at the idea. An Wenyi could lean down and kiss Qiao Yifan for hours, for days, for the rest of his fucking life.
It isn’t that An Wenyi doesn’t want to. It isn’t as though An Wenyi has a hate-on for kissing, or a phobia, or some aversion, or—or whatever it is, exactly, that Qiao Yifan has elected to believe from what little information An Wenyi has provided.
An Wenyi knows better: that’s all. An Wenyi is no good at love, and kissing is for lovers, and An Wenyi— An Wenyi might be many shitty things, but he has no desire to be the kind of asshole who leads someone on. Especially not someone like Qiao Yifan.
An Wenyi needs to stick to his rules. An Wenyi can’t allow himself to so much as bend them. It’s—it’s for Qiao Yifan’s sake, really.
If An Wenyi dreamt he were even vaguely capable of giving Qiao Yifan—
But he isn’t. He knows better. He remembers. He’s had it mapped out for him with perfectly clarity. He’s had it said to his face.
An Wenyi loses himself, instead—transfixed, enamoured, ruined down to the bones of it—in the way Qiao Yifan’s fingers stroke him.
‘So handsome,’ Qiao Yifan hums, again, swiping his thumb across the head of An Wenyi’s dick. ‘Really do wanna eat it.’ He gives An Wenyi’s length a satisfying little slap. His hum becomes a grunt as One Inch Ash fucks more firmly into him. His hand slips low, fingers glossing through pre-come to bump against the cock ring wrapped where shaft meets hair. His thumb slips lower still, pressing down upon the second ring slanting, criss-cross, down and snug beneath An Wenyi’s balls.
When Qiao Yifan shouts and squeezes tighter still, fingers twitching as he grips An Wenyi’s balls fiercely, An Wenyi understands that one of the others must have done something sexy. And yet, he can’t look away to see. Not when Qiao Yifan is touching him like this. Not when Qiao Yifan is squeezing down so sharp, so hard, so good.
’Yifan,’ An Wenyi says. A caution against continuing. A plea for more.
Qiao Yifan gasps, and laughs, refocusing slowly on An Wenyi.
They’ve been doing this long enough for Qiao Yifan to have been cured, at least, from worrying about hurting him. And yet, not long enough, apparently, for Qiao Yifan to have been cured from looking at him like he’s something special, something precious, while Qiao Yifan toys with An Wenyi’s balls roughly on purpose and says, voice warm and floaty, ‘Hey... is he right, though? Could you do it, Wenyi? Could you really come just from watching me—from watching us, I mean—from watching—ah—Ash, fuck, yeah, that’s good—’
An Wenyi could come just from Qiao Yifan asking him about it, frankly. An Wenyi could come right here and now, if only he chose to give into it all. The soft dance of Qiao Yifan’s fingers against him. The sound of Qiao Yifan’s breathy gasps and swearing as someone else brings him pleasure. The fact that Qiao Yifan has even asked such a thing while his hand is twisting pleasured pain into An Wenyi’s skin—while his lips are shiny from Little Cold Hand’s arousal—while he has One Inch Ash’s big cock fucking into him—
Coming from this wouldn’t be what Qiao Yifan is asking from him, though, would it?
’Feels like maybe you could, Wenyi,’ Qiao Yifan is gasping. ‘Feel so good in my hand right now. So hot, so wet, so fucking good, oh my—oh my god, Ash—’
An Wenyi clears his throat. ‘You, uh. You want me to come from watching you?’
‘Yeah,’ Qiao Yifan breathes. Little Cold Hands is doing something to his hair. It makes his voice high and thready. ‘Yeah, please, oh my god, please, Wenyi, I wanna see it so bad.’
‘Then, yeah,’ An Wenyi says. ‘Yeah, fuck, of course. Anything, if you want it.’
Qiao Yifan moans hugely. He touches An Wenyi’s dick like he’s loathe to let go of it—fingers slipping back up to stroke through the pre-come, thumbnail grazing across foreskin and cockhead, and setting An Wenyi to shivering. After a moment, however, he does draw his hand away. Albeit with a breathy little hum and another gasped out, ‘Ash—’
An Wenyi makes the mistake of glancing at Little Cold Hands. She’s looking at him as though she wants to call him names again, and also as though she’s maybe contemplating pushing him down and riding him. It’s terrifying. It makes his dick throb even more harshly.
Qiao Yifan’s face is flushed, when An Wenyi looks back toward him. Qiao Yifan’s tongue is curling between his fingers, attention absorbed by the business of licking An Wenyi’s pre-come from his hand. Not that Qiao Yifan isn’t still moving while he licks; more that his movement seems very much more driven by One Inch Ash than himself. He just about swallows his hand with a sticky-rough moan when One Inch Ash suddenly circles his hands around his waist and starts moving him faster.
Qiao Yifan isn’t even doing it on purpose, An Wenyi thinks with a groan. He isn’t even putting on a show, probably. He is—An Wenyi is reasonably certain—just that into it.
‘Oh my god,’ Qiao Yifan chants, slapping his spit-wet hand down against Little Cold Hands’ thigh to stop himself from wobbling, ‘Oh my god.’ He arches his back sharply. He swipes his lips with his tongue. ‘God, yeah, please. Lemme have it like that, lemme feel you really fuck—ah—’
Little Cold Hands is still looking at An Wenyi, and he knows it. She huffs, loudly—a noise clearly crafted to demand his attention. She meets his eyes knowingly, when he gives in and looks at her—gazing at him with this bright edge of almost vindictive pleasure that makes his chest tighten uncomfortably.
She walks her fingers across Qiao Yifan’s shoulders, and Qiao Yifan’s muscles jump beneath her touch. She combs her fingers up through Qiao Yifan’s hair, and Qiao Yifan moans in anticipation.
Little Cold Hands has mapped, intimately, the full depths of An Wenyi’s pathetic yearning and fundamental failure. An Wenyi understands this, the same way that An Wenyi has understood her attitude toward Qiao Yifan from the moment she’d deigned to corporealise in front of them.
The cleric’s lips lift in a demure-seeming smile. Her gently combing fingers fall still, then shift. They form a fist around a handful of Qiao Yifan’s sweat-damp hair. Little Cold Hands yanks. She pulls firmly—decisively—demandingly—insisting upon the upwards lift of Qiao Yifan’s face.
Qiao Yifan sobs in delight. Qiao Yifan stares up at her with eyes wide with pleasure—with lips parting around a breathless, ecstatic jiejie.
Little Cold Hands drags Qiao Yifan up like that. With her fist in his hair, and without the slightest bit of effort. With Qiao Yifan’s hands reaching sluggishly to brace himself somewhat vaguely upon her hips. With Qiao Yifan’s expression so loud and lust-rich.
‘You know,’ she says, ‘I’m not afraid of kissing you.’ Her tone is sweet and sensual—and unbearably pointed.
‘Oh,’ Qiao Yifan moans. ‘Oh, yes, please, please for kisses.’
An Wenyi watches. An Wenyi watches the way a someone starving watches someone else gorge themselves at the world’s most beautiful buffet.
Qiao Yifan always looks all kinds of deliciously responsive whenever One Inch Ash or Little Cold Hands tips his face their way to kiss. He always looks all kinds of affectionately glad.
He always looks so sweet, too, until he looks kind of feral.
Qiao Yifan seems to be skipping the sweetness, today. He licks into Little Cold Hands’ smiling mouth. His tongue is an obscene curl against her teeth—her tongue—the line of her lips. His kisses are eager, exuberant, and pornographically clear from where An Wenyi is watching, and he wields them with a ravenous fervour that has Little Cold Hands’ fingers yanking at his hair with an even greater roughness.
An Wenyi wonders whether Qiao Yifan’s mouth still tastes of Little Cold Hands’ cunt, or whether there’s a hint of An Wenyi’s arousal there.
‘Good boy,’ Little Cold Hands hums in approval, teeth biting down on Qiao Yifan’s lip. She hums even louder at how well Qiao Yifan squirms. She teases her tongue across the place she’s bitten, and he angles his face for another bite, desire writ so loudly across him. She slips two fingers, from her free hand, in between his lips instead. ‘Best boy.’
Qiao Yifan whines like begging. His cheeks hollow with how hard he sucks her. He stops trying to balance himself. He lets himself hang, instead—keening in clear pain and pleasure alike—between Little Cold Hands’ zealous grip on his hair and the solid clutch of One Inch Ash’s body. Swaying—surging—still sucking her down to the knuckles—Qiao Yifan cups one hand at one of Little Cold Hands’ breasts. He moans, and he kneads, and he catches her hardened nipple between his fingers. And then—with a twisting grind of his ass against One Inch Ash’s lap—Qiao Yifan bites down on her hand and pinches her nipple.
Little Cold Hands’ head drops back with a throaty, delighted wail.
An Wenyi’s cock jumps, hard. Fuck, but he wants get in their way. He wants to get in their way so very, very badly.
Behind Qiao Yifan, One Inch Ash smiles a slow, gorgeous smile. Having caught An Wenyi’s eye, One Inch Ash now shifts, as well, pushing Qiao Yifan slowly away from him—pushing Qiao Yifan in closer to Little Cold Hands’ vocal gasps, until An Wenyi can see the line of the phantom demon’s dick almost entirely out of Qiao Yifan’s quivering body.
One Inch Ash’s smile becomes a smirk. ‘Watch,’ he orders.
Qiao Yifan makes a long, low sound as—with One Inch Ash’s eyes still fixed upon An Wenyi—One Inch Ash yanks Qiao Yifan back in sharply against him.
It’s Qiao Yifan’s turn to wail in delight.
The intensity of An Wenyi’s arousal is about to start making the shift from overwhelming to disconnected, holy shit.
While An Wenyi struggles to hold himself together, One Inch Ash adopts an easy rhythm—push-pulling Qiao Yifan back and forth along his dick like the world’s prettiest cock sleeve, and all the while murmuring praise that An Wenyi has a strong suspicion is as much intended to arouse An Wenyi’s ears as it is Qiao Yifan’s.
‘Gege,’ Qiao Yifan moans from where he’s mouthing—briefly, loosely, on the forward push—against the pale line of Little Cold Hands throat. Because apparently they’ve reached that point, fuck. ‘Yeah, yeah, gege, please, use me like that, use me harder—’
Qiao Yifan’s dick is openly straining, now. Like Little Cold Hand’s breasts, it shifts and sways with every forward thrust of One Inch Ash’s body.
Forget having Qiao Yifan blow him. Forget coming untouched. An Wenyi wants to slip beneath Qiao Yifan’s swift-moving body and have Qiao Yifan fuck his face, instead.
An Wenyi thinks, fuck. An Wenyi thinks, please.
An Wenyi’s fingertips dig down into his thighs. Fuck not just slapping a hand on his dick and simply nutting like every inch of him is screaming for.
Desperate, An Wenyi scrapes his nails along his calves. He tucks his hands down behind himself; he curls his fingers tightly at his ankles. His balls ache to bursting. His cock drools. And still, he holds on—holding himself together—stopping himself from floating off or detaching—keeping himself grounded, while keeping from coming, too, because Qiao Yifan isn’t looking yet. Because Qiao Yifan cannot see him. Because he needs to give Qiao Yifan the thing Qiao Yifan has asked of him.
Little Cold Hands is murmuring something An Wenyi cannot catch.
One Inch Ash laughs and nods.
An Wenyi has no idea where to look. There’s nothing that doesn’t make him want to touch or lick or fuck, nothing that doesn’t make him want to come upon or come with. The soft swell of Little Cold Hands’ tits jiggling to the rhythmic beat of One Inch Ash’s fucking. The hard length of One Inch Ash’s dick thrusting in and out. Qiao Yifan—trembling and moaning and blissed out between them—all sweat and spit and hard-dicked delight—
Little Cold Hands grunts loudly and, for a second, An Wenyi thinks she’s going to take mercy on him and remind Qiao Yifan about An Wenyi’s stiff situation. She doesn’t. She braces herself, instead, against the hand not tangled in Qiao Yifan’s hair, and leans back, canting her cunt up even as she drags Qiao Yifan’s face down against it. Her profile is intoxicating to see: the peaks of her nipples so hard that even An Wenyi might be giving in and grovelling to suck them, if only he weren’t so very barely hanging by a thread; the lavender waves of her hair swaying damply at her shoulders; her thighs held wide and imperious as she brings Qiao Yifan down between them.
Qiao Yifan obeys with the rush of hungry noises that being allowed to go down on someone always draws out of him. He snares a hand around her ass. He chants out her name even as he gets his mouth—diligent, delighted, and greedy in that way that Qiao Yifan never seems to manage outside of bed—back in against her folds.
An Wenyi can’t see Little Cold Hands’ cunt when Qiao Yifan has his face against it, obviously. But An Wenyi can see the flick of Qiao Yifan’s tongue every time One Inch Ash pulls him back up and away to seat him tightly on his cock. An Wenyi can see the way Qiao Yifan grabs harder at Little Cold Hands’ ass, too—like he’s trying to get her closer even when he’s moving—like he’s torn between wanting to be fucked half to death by One Inch Ash and wanting to bask in the glory of Little Cold Hand’s pussy, too.
Little Cold Hands grunts again, now openly annoyed. She tightens her hold on Qiao Yifan’s hair. She drags him forward, unforgiving, rocking her hips up to meet him even as she rubs his face against her.
An Wenyi’s dick throbs so hard it hurts. Maybe he can’t see where mouth meets cunt, but he’s been on the receiving end of Little Cold Hands’ demands before. And, sure, it’s true that she’s usually a whole lot gentler with Qiao Yifan than she is with him. But—this? Here? Today? Yeah, An Wenyi is pretty sure he’s familiar with the way the cleric is fucking herself against Qiao Yifan’s entire face right now—the way she’s demanding the deep push of his tongue wherever she wants is, the sharp suck of his lips, the fervent bump of his nose against clit as she fucks and rubs against him.
‘Yeah,’ Qiao Yifan babbles, half-smothered and high on it, whenever One Inch Ash drags him back out of reach. ‘Fuck, yeah, please, jiejie, gege, please, please, can’t you, can’t you closer, harder, more, I need it, really need it, need it so—oh, oh fuck—Ash, please, your—your Young Master—your master needs it, gege—’
One Inch Ash laughs, hot and low and clearly satisfied. He changes up his rhythm immediately—shifting forward on his knees, moving closer to Little Cold Hands, and switching to fucking himself with Qiao Yifan’s ass at a pace now perfectly set to complement the way Little Cold Hand is enthusiastically fucking herself upon Qiao Yifan’s wet-loud moaning face.
When Little Cold Hands orgasms—a vast, breathless shout, both hands pressing Qiao Yifan closer while she shudders, at length, against him—One Inch Ash hardly slows. And when Little Cold Hands relaxes—lax in the wake of her climax, her tongue at her lips as she pets Qiao Yifan’s hair—Qiao Yifan doesn’t actually stop eating her out, either. He simply whines and huffs and jams an arm beneath himself, trying his best to prop himself up as he peppers her with kitten licks and sloppy kisses. It’s a while before he shudders and draws back, just far enough to be able to watch while he shoves his other hand—the hand he’d had on An Wenyi’s dick, the hand that he’d been sucking, what feels like half a month ago—in amongst her folds.
Oh, but An Wenyi’s cock has never been this heavy, this hard, this tightly straining. He’s going to break, actually. He’s going to fucking split open and burst into ruin, because—even now, even now—he refuses to let himself disconnect, and he refuses to let himself come. Not until he’s meant to. Not until he’s allowed. Not until it can make Qiao Yifan happy. And he hates it, holy fuck he hates it so much, and also he’s never wanting anything so badly in his entire, stupid life.
It doesn’t help that Little Cold Hands is now looking at him with a sated expression and twisting her body just so. Just so he can watch. Just so he cannot do anything other than swallow, and strain, and stare as Qiao Yifan is rocked back and forth upon One Inch Ash’s cock, sweat and spit dripping from his chin while he hums and gasps and moans, and lets the momentum of One Inch Ash’s movements fuck his fingers deeper into Little Cold Hands’ pleasure-plumpened pussy.
An Wenyi’s cock has started leaking in these aching little spurts, no matter his determination that it shouldn’t. He’s maybe kneeling in a small damp patch of his own making. He’s really very possibly losing track of his tensed-up legs.
With her cunt clenching around Qiao Yifan’s fingers, Little Cold Hands exhales on a shiver and takes a tighter hold of Qiao Yifan’s hair again. ‘I’ll have the rest of you, now,’ she demands, knees spreading wider, calf muscles shifting, as she fucks herself upon his hand. ‘Time to put your pretty cock to work, darling—even your Ash can’t help but fuck me just right with that.’
One Inch Ash’s groan is coarse. His hips snap fast as he buries himself to the hilt, scoops Qiao Yifan up against him, and moves them both sharply forward. Qiao Yifan’s groans aren’t much quieter—neither at the pleasure of being full-body manhandled, nor at the whole business of getting his body where Little Cold Hands wants it, and the head of his jutting cock pressed in against her twitching pussy, too.
An Wenyi can’t fucking breathe. He’s watched Qiao Yifan have this kind of sex with his avatar before now, of course he has. Wasn’t it the second thing Little Cold Hands had so imperiously demanded upon her first visitation?
He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel normal about it. The sound of it, the sight. The way Little Cold Hands cries out and clutches at the bedding, whole body lit with pleasure at the sensation of Qiao Yifan’s gorgeous cock sliding home inside of her.
He has no idea how he, himself, doesn’t come at the sight of them. At the sounds they make. At the blazing, all-apparent pleasure.
There’s barely a heartbeat, this time, before Qiao Yifan is balls-deep inside her and One Inch Ash starts to fuck him again. It’s hard and fast now. Rougher, fiercer, the force of One Inch Ash’s every thrust and drag simultaneously fucking Qiao Yifan’s cock—just as hard, just as fierce and rough—back and forth within Little Cold Hands’ body.
Little Cold Hands is never so noisy as when Qiao Yifan is inside her.
An Wenyi has never been so unclear of whom, in fact, he’d like to take the place of in this scenario the most.
He’s certainly barely himself. He’s drifted right out of that. He’s nothing, now, but his blind desire and his need to hold on.
He’s nothing but the skull-thumping throb of his cock.
‘Our xiao-An’s being so good for you,’ One Inch Ash says, mercifully, eventually. ‘Never seen a body so desperate to climax. Never seen a person so desperate to rein it in. So desperate to please you, so very—oh—oh, but Yifan makes him so hungry, so hard, to eager to please—’
Somewhere, distantly, An Wenyi is flushing—aggrieved by One Inch Ash’s assessment, but also appeased by the way it makes Qiao Yifan flail and grow louder, louder still, as he fucks and is fucked, beautiful and perfect and right here for An Wenyi to see. Everything is noise now, squelching and wetness and ball-slapping lewdity. Everything is Qiao Yifan’s bare body. His muscles. His mouth. His cock working, sight unseen, according to the needs of Little Cold Hands’ and One Inch Ash’s desires.
‘He’s trying so hard,’ Little Cold Hands groans out, agreeing, ‘but I’m not letting you look until I’ve had my fill, xiao-Fan. You two had better work harder, better.’
Qiao Yifan’s response is choked against her skin, all pornographic ecstasy and the slap of skin on skin. It’s not as though he has much say in how either of them is being fucked right now, not truly, but they also all know that Qiao Yifan’s need to please extends very much into the bedroom. He struggles to angle himself better. He struggles to please her, his energy renewed, with a desperate kind of diligence.
‘Good boy, best boy,’ Little Cold Hands praises. ‘Fucking me so well with his lovely, lovely cock. Such a travesty not to be fucked by such a lovely boy’s lovely cock, don’t you think, Wenyi?’ Her voice is wobbly, now, for all that she’s shit-talking still. Her words come out rough. Tiny, breathless pants of air puff between them, even as she turns the screw on An Wenyi. ‘Such a good boy. Fucking me so well. Taking it so well. So eager to make your Wenyi feel good, too, aren’t you? So desperate to see him to come because of you—so needy—oh—oh, make me make a mess all over your lovely, lovely cock, xiao-Fan, and then he can make a mess all over himself for you, too, hmm? Let him show you how much he wants it, xiao-Fan, let him show—’
Her eyes just about roll back in her head at the way Qiao Yifan holds on; at the way fucks himself between the them.
‘How he wants to please you,’ One Inch Ash manages, the words grunted out, his knuckles punishingly pale against Qiao Yifan’s darker skin.
An Wenyi’s throat is dry. His eyes are stinging. He thinks, perhaps, in some vague, distant part of his mind, that he might have found his answer, now, to the question of when their avatars are scariest. He thinks it might be now, like this, when they slide back into sync, as if sex were a battlefield and the pair of them a team. As though they have each other’s backs as impeccably here as there. As though An Wenyi’s refusal to bow to their obviously incorrect opinions on his feelings is their own personal Boss to take down and rend asunder.
An Wenyi can’t do anything about their growing obsession with his good-for-nothing, futile heart. When it comes to Little Cold Hands, however—
An Wenyi can reach out. He can, truly, even if it takes some serious effort to unlock his fingers from where they’ve been clutching at his ankle. An Wenyi can reach out, and slap that same hand against one of her breasts. An Wenyi can settle his thumb and finger around her nipple, once he finds the focus, too. An Wenyi can knead and tug and twist.
Little Cold Hands screams. She screams and she comes, surely putting even One Inch Ash’s silencing boundary to the test. One Inch Ash lets her ride it out around Qiao Yifan’s cock, this time. He let’s Qiao Yifan fuck forward, hard and deep, holding himself steady inside her, the way they know she likes, while she shudders and shakes violently around him.
The second she’s finished coming, though, oh. The second she’s done, One Inch Ash grunts and moves—pulling Qiao Yifan up and off of her, the wet mess of her climax running down Qiao Yifan’s thighs as he’s picked up and placed upon One Inch Ash’s lap—sat there, on display, while One Inch Ash fucks almost savagely back up and into him.
Their rhythm even harder now. Janky and urgent. Loud. So incredibly, wildly loud.
Little Cold Hands watches with a lazy, fucked-out-and-happy-about-it expression on her face. Qiao Yifan’s cock is dripping wet, but still straining; it’s shaking roughly with every jerk of One Inch Ash yanking him up and down, seating and unseating him on the line of his cock. An Wenyi could touch him now, so very easily. An Wenyi could bow low and take Qiao Yifan in his mouth. A shame, then, that the first push of Qiao Yifan’s salt against An Wenyi’s tongue would surely have An Wenyi lost and coming.
An Wenyi gnaws his cheek. He puts his hand back against his ankle. He’s drowning in the beat of blood behind his ears.
Qiao Yifan’s moans are endless. His eyes are closed. His mouth open. He reaches, now, for his own cock. He fists himself, rough and graceless, mindless and eager to come.
Little Cold Hands puts a hand on An Wenyi. She traces a fingernail along his calf. She bumps her fingers across the desperate clasp of An Wenyi’s tightened knuckles.
She purrs, ‘Xiao-Fan, xiao-Fan, your Wenyi needs you.’
An Wenyi has stopped caring what they say about him. An Wenyi sways toward Qiao Yifan. He does need him. He does need him so very fucking much.
Qiao Yifan’s lips part, bruised dark. His eyes flutter open. He looks, with his pupils blown to black and his fingers twitching, for An Wenyi. He smiles, bright and crooked, to find him so much closer than before. He curls damp fingers at An Wenyi’s arm. They squeeze to bruising on An Wenyi’s boiling skin as One Inch Ash jerks Qiao Yifan up then down, down, seating him to the root and holding him there to be filled by One Inch Ash’s surely pulsing cock.
Qiao Yifan wails. ‘Wenyi,’ he pleads, words all in a tumble. ‘Show me—show me how much you—fuck—fuck—Wenyi, want you to come for me, want you so bad—’
An Wenyi comes. He comes across his belly. Across his chest. He comes—with no hand there to hold his dick in place—with no brain left to give a fuck—anywhere—everywhere. He comes like it’s killing him, ripped apart by the sensation, by the heat, by the pure burn of relief tearing through him on Qiao Yifan’s sweet command.
He thinks—through eyes that can barely see, and with a mind that can barely process what it’s seeing—that it’s his come striping across Qiao Yifan’s chest, first, as Qiao Yifan stares at him, wide-eyed and stunned, and wrings his own cock dry with a spurting, heady mess—as Qiao Yifan sobs, and stares, and spills some more, and then goes lax—boneless—flopping back against One Inch Ash’s chest with sticky hands and shiny thighs.
One Inch Ash lifts a hand to Qiao Yifan’s throat. He tilts Qiao Yifan’s face back and touches his tongue to Qiao Yifan’s lips—licking in between them when Qiao Yifan opens for him with a sated, sleepy ease.
An Wenyi lets Little Cold Hands help him to untangle his fingers from his ankles and the rings from his cock. He lets her help him remember how his legs work. He lets himself drop back against the mattress, then—wet patch be damned—and, for a while, simply chooses not be.
Little Cold Hands’ breasts are soft when she flops down beside him. She squishes them against him, the way she knows he likes, even though he’s never actually admitted it in words. She drags her knee up and across him, nudging rudely in against his tender balls. He winces, but only a little. He kind of likes that, too. She nips his shoulder, but not as hard as he favours.
It’s only unfortunate that he can still hear the sound of One Inch Ash and Qiao Yifan making out.
‘Just get over yourself and kiss him already,’ Little Cold Hands mumbles. ‘You and I both know how much you want his tongue in your mouth and his cock inside you.’ She dips her tongue in his ear just to piss him off. ‘Should ask him to put it in his schedule, Young Master. You’d look so good on all fours for him. Mind you... you’d look good on your back for him too. Might even ride you again if you were, come to think of it. Bet you’d be the biggest you’ve ever been with his cock working you over from the inside. Maybe even bigger than tonight, hmm.’
An Wenyi’s dick, because it’s the most pathetic thing An Wenyi has ever known, makes a valiant attempt to twitch. Quite despite the mess it’s made of itself.
‘Nah,’ says An Wenyi blandly. ‘I’m sleeping.’
Little Cold Hands’ laughter is soft and warm. ‘Okay,’ she says, amused. ‘Guess I’ll keep doing it in your place, then. What a hardship. Suppose I’ll just have to keep kissing him for you, too.’
‘Whoskissing,’ Qiao Yifan slurs out. There’s a dip in the mattress. The whole damn thing rocks beneath them. An Wenyi grunts at the weight of a wet-messy Qiao Yifan being abruptly placed upon him him by One Inch Ash’s steady hands.
‘Dunno. I’m sleeping,’ An Wenyi insists, eyes shut, as if he wouldn’t be waking back up from death itself at having been gifted a naked Yifan blanket. Even a sex-wet and frankly kind of disgusting naked Yifan blanket is still really kind of frighteningly perfect.
Someone is mouthing at his neck, and someone is kneeing his balls, and someone has their fingers buried in his hair and their snoring face drooling on his shoulder, and there is nothing about this situation that seems sensible or wise in regards to waking up in time for tomorrow morning’s training, but—honestly? Right now? An Wenyi really cannot bring himself to care.
Content enough—as content as he’s able—An Wenyi lets his fingers take hold in return and, with a terrifying ease, he sleeps.