Xue Yang didn’t exactly mean to pick up a couple but he’s not mad about it. It’s going to be fun. It’s the waiting that’s the awkward part; the car is five minutes out and he’s cold, thrumming with anticipation, wanting to make a nuisance of himself but not so much that they leave without him when their ride comes.
The scowly one whose name he didn’t bother to catch is glaring at his phone as if he can make the car arrive by willing it to, and Xiao Xingchen is whispering something in his ear that is not meant for Xue Yang. It should feel rude but Xue Yang doesn’t exactly mind the edge of denial as long as he knows he’ll get what he wants eventually.
He occupies himself deciding what the best arrangement will be. Get in the middle of the backseat where they can’t ignore him? Take shotgun and see how badly he can get under the driver’s skin in the time it takes to get where they’re going? In the end he decides to make it their problem. When the car shows up he flings himself into the backseat first and smiles a challenge at them, waiting to see who will follow.
It’s clear that Xiao Xingchen doesn’t need the hand into the car that the growly one gives him. Equally clear that it means something, a zing passing between the two of them that Xue Yang doesn’t quite understand. He settles sideways and throws his feet over Xiao Xingchen’s lap, smirks at the sight of the other one climbing into the passenger seat rather than crowd in with them, and enjoys the view.
Xiao Xingchen’s thumb rubs idly at Xue Yang’s ankle while Young Master Cranky gives the driver an address. When the practical business is done, he leans forward as close to the front passenger seat as he can get and says, “Song Lan, tell me about our new friend.”
The growly one - Song Lan - looks back over his shoulder at Xue Yang and raises an eyebrow.
“How many words?”
Xiao Xingchen says three immediately in a way that makes it clear this is a game they play together. He was expecting the question. Xue Yang, who prefers to be the one inventing the games, stares back at Song Lan and lets his mouth set itself into a fuck-you-and-the-sword-you-rode-in-on line.
“Sharp, pretty,” Song Lan says, and then pauses. He seems to evaluate and then rapidly dismiss Xue Yang as he faces front again and says casually, “trouble.”
Xiao Xingchen’s little burst of laughter feels discordant. It rubs up against the seams of the coiled and hissing thing under Xue Yang’s skin that he’s been trying to outrun all night.
"I knew that last one,” Xiao Xingchen says. “Tell me something else.”
Song Lan doesn’t look back again, his eyes on the patches of road lit up by the headlights when he says, “He smiles like a fox.”
Xiao Xingchen lights up like Song Lan and Xue Yang have done a magic trick just for him. He breathes out. From this position, Xue Yang can see that Xiao Xingchen’s eyes flutter closed behind his dark glasses.
He’d been like that on the dance floor, sinuous, eyes closed behind the glasses, heedless of Xue Yang dancing three feet away looking, frankly, fantastic and entirely fuckable. He’d wanted to grab Xiao Xingchen by the face and say look at me, asshole, I’m the prettiest thing in this room except for you and you haven’t looked at me once. It hadn’t been until several minutes later that he’d realized why.
Now, in the car on their way to some apartment where Xiao Xingchen is hopefully going to fuck Xue Yang senseless even if he won’t know how good Xue Yang can make it look, Xiao Xingchen’s other hand comes to rest on Xue Yang’s shin above the one already rubbing circles into his skin. “Ah,” he says, low and pleased and pitched for Song Lan’s ears as well as Xue Yang’s. “He likes you, little fox.”
The sharp thing in Xue Yang’s chest settles warily. He does not, for the moment, ask what would your boyfriend not liking me look like?
The apartment is neat, spare and uncluttered. Honey and cream tones. Boring. Xue Yang kicks off his shoes where Song Lan does and watches Xiao Xingchen tuck his glasses into his bag and hang it on a hook near the door.
He could ask for water or make polite conversation. He does know how to act like a person. He just doesn't want to. Instead he tugs his shirt over his head and chucks it toward the back of the sofa he can see through the open entryway.
Song Lan's gaze follows it. For a minute Xue Yang thinks he's going to snatch it out of the air. The tidiness, he's fairly sure, isn't just about Xiao Xingchen knowing where everything is. Song Lan radiates big I Hate Disorder energy. He's either going to hate the rest of tonight or turn out to be extremely freaky about mess in bed. Either way sounds interesting. Xue Yang can work with those options.
Xiao Xingchen steps up close, into Xue Yang's space so they're nearly dancing again, and puts out a hand. The corners of his eyes go crinkly and pleased when he touches bare skin. His fingertips glance over Xue Yang’s chest, not coming to rest anywhere in particular, just mapping the territory.
"Lovely," he says. "Zichen?"
Song Lan clears his throat.
"Still pretty," he says. "Kind of wiry, probably stronger than he looks. No tan lines - you don't see the sun much, do you?”
"Everything interesting happens after sunset," Xue Yang shoots back, resisting an urge to squirm. He can't decide whether being described is hot or makes him feel like a nature documentary.
"Hm." Song Lan sounds dubious. "Three freckles near his collarbone, on your right. I'd get my mouth on them, if I were you."
Xiao Xingchen tilts his head, considering, and then says, “Show me.”
When Song Lan’s hand comes to rest on Xiao Xingchen’s wrist - encircling it, making it look breakable, dragging his boyfriend’s fingers across Xue Yang’s skin until they come to rest just there - it feels like something clicking into place. And then it’s just hot, no more nature documentary. Something makes sense when it’s the three of them, like a live circuit.
Xiao Xingchen doesn’t give any sign that he’s aware of it, but he taps one of his fingers lightly over Xue Yang’s heart.
“I’ll be Zichen’s hands tonight,” he says. “He doesn’t always like touching people who aren’t me. Let us know if it gets weird for you, we can do something different.”
Xue Yang rolls his eyes and tries not to get too obviously weird and thirsty about the way Xiao Xingchen’s forearm looks with Song Lan’s hand over it. He kind of wants to lick them both. Instead he says, “Whatever. Just don’t get boring.”
“We’ll try not to bore you, little fox.”
Xiao Xingchen doesn’t need Song Lan’s direction to find Xue Yang’s mouth. He kisses the mockery from Xue Yang’s lips slightly off center at first and then right where he should be.
For the first time he can recall in ages, Xue Yang isn’t bored at all.
The bedroom is all cool greys and whites with the occasional splash of an icy blue that’s probably supposed to impart a personality. It’s going to be like fucking in Antarctica.
“Do you just hate colors?” he asks Song Lan for something to say as he’s shimmying out of his jeans.
Song Lan’s eyes are on Xiao Xingchen unwinding himself from his pale layers, luminous in the low light. He barely seems to hear himself answer, “It’s restful.”
In a fit of honesty Xue Yang says, “I want to get blood all over this place.” He does. Big splashes of crimson, his or someone else’s, it hardly matters. He just wants to fuck up this room with its perfect corners and pristine surfaces. Wants to make them push back. Wants one of them to get their hands on him for real, before he comes out of his skin.
Xiao Xingchen continues to be entirely unruffled by Xue Yang’s everything.
“Probably not tonight” is all he says, matter of fact. As if Xue Yang isn’t a perfect stranger standing in his bedroom thinking about smearing blood on his horrible fancy sheets while Song Lan folds the blanket back. “Ask us for something else.”
That takes approximately no thought at all. Xue Yang’s eyes have been catching on Xiao Xingchen’s mouth since those kisses in the hallway.
“One of you should blow me,” he says. He lets his eyes pass over Song Lan and dismiss him. The meanness of it curls in his stomach like pleasure. “I guess that’s gonna be you.”
The flicker of Xiao Xingchen’s tongue wetting his lips looks like hunger. It seems too pink and soft and vulnerable to be any part of this.
“I guess it is,” he says.
There’s a lesson somewhere in how Xiao Xingchen manages to look that gentle and that predatory all at once. Some other time, Xue Yang would like to learn it.
In the end it’s both of them - Xiao Xingchen who floats to his knees at Xue Yang’s feet light and slow as a feather, and Song Lan who folds down abruptly as if his own center of gravity is Xiao Xingchen. Song Lan who hands Xue Yang a condom with an expression that warns him this is not a negotiation, and Xiao Xingchen whose lips quirk into a smile at the ripping sound of the packet.
Xue Yang’s love of mess extends to this; he would like to lick himself from Xiao Xingchen’s mouth. But he’s not going to argue with that promising smile.
Xiao Xingchen’s mouth is a furnace. Song Lan’s hand, cupping Xiao Xingchen’s face, thumbing at the motion of Xue Yang’s cock inside, is something else Xue Yang doesn’t have a word for. He thinks about pushing further, making room for himself in Xiao Xingchen’s throat, and letting Song Lan feel that, too. Who would moan first, and how loud?
Xiao Xingchen leans into Song Lan's hand. He pushes himself further down on Xue Yang’s cock. He goes where they want him. He gasps for it, when he comes up for air. When Song Lan and Xue Yang do not speak - when Xiao Xingchen's body is their intermediary - they fall into an unexpected harmony.
The drag of Xiao Xingchen’s mouth on him is perfect - the prettiest thing, Xue Yang thinks again, dizzy with a slow unfurling pleasure that sparks and sparks and does not, quite, ignite.
"Beautiful," Song Lan echoes the unspoken thought. "Xingchen, you're so good like this. You can go a little faster, if you want. He’s close."
Xiao Xingchen pulls off Xue Yang’s dick instead and bites hard at the inside of his thigh where the skin is soft and unprotected.
“Ow, what the fuck!”
Xue Yang’s body tries to act on instinct and snap his thighs shut, but Xiao Xingchen is there, solid, hands on him, holding him apart, and there’s nowhere to go.
“You wanted blood,” Xiao Xingchen says, candy-sweet, and for a moment Xue Yang thinks that when he looks down he’ll see exactly that - blood on his leg, on Xiao Xingchen’s mouth, and maybe Xiao Xingchen would go back to sucking him just like that. But the imprint on his thigh is barely visible, and while he’s still trying to register that, Xiao Xingchen gets Xue Yang’s cock in his mouth again.
Xue Yang’s nerves don’t know what to do with the one-two punch of unexpected pain and resumed pleasure, and Xiao Xingchen’s peaceful face like sucking Xue Yang’s cock is all he wanted to do with his life, and Song Lan near his ear saying something about you wanted this all night, didn’t you, it’s a pity that club doesn’t have back rooms, we could have put you on your knees right there, my beautiful Xingchen, you should have everything you want, and that’s it.
He’s gone, he’s flying, the shitty screaming thing that’s been clawing at his insides all day is dissolving into need and satisfaction and white-hot pleasure. For a moment he’s out of the clamor of his own head, and it’s such a fucking relief.
Xiao Xingchen’s hand at his hip keeps him from jerking his hips up too fast when he comes. It’s good because his coordination is somewhere else, along with his breath and the part of him that has any shame about the sound he makes.
“Shit,” he hears himself swearing in the come-down, “Fuck goddamn.”
“Eloquent,” Song Lan says drily somewhere near his right ear.
“Fuck you,” Xue Yang pants, smiling ear to ear, and if he still looks like a fox he hopes it’s a smug one. Smuggest fucking fox that ever was. A fox that could eat Song Lan for lunch.
“That’s not on the menu,” Xiao Xingchen answers, amused and only slightly wrecked. Xue Yang looks down to find his hand has found Xiao Xingchen’s hair somehow, is petting at it clumsily as Xiao Xingchen rests his chin on Xue Yang’s unbitten thigh. His chin is tilted up like he’s seeking something, and he’s too composed.
The part of Xue Yang that likes to upend things and watch them spill everywhere thinks Xiao Xingchen isn’t messed up enough yet. There’s a secret, somewhere, to taking Xiao Xingchen so far apart that Song Lan’s hands have no hope of holding him together. Xue Yang wants to learn it.
“Fuck you, then,” he says. Xiao Xingchen does the thing again where he lights up from the inside out like a lantern.
Xiao Xingchen holds a hand out and Song Lan takes it and presses a kiss to his knuckles. His mouth lingers there. It’s too tender for this moment. It’s all wrong. Xue Yang hates it and he can’t look away from it.
“We’d like that,” Xiao Xingchen says, his hand still in Song Lan’s and his head still at rest on Xue Yang’s leg.
“I’ll get us started while you deal with that,” Song Lan says, a vague wave toward Xue Yang and the whole condom situation, and he uncurls from the floor. He draws Xiao Xingchen up with him and they sway together like a dance.
Watching them kiss, Xue Yang wishes even more that he’d been able to come in Xiao Xingchen’s mouth. If Song Lan were tasting him in Xiao Xingchen’s mouth, that would be - it would be something.
It’s going to take him a while to get it up again but the frisson up his spine tells him that it’s not going to take as long as it might under other circumstances.
He gets moving.
The two of them have mostly taken care of rearranging themselves by the time he comes back to them, having taken a moment to slam a glass of water and stare at his mussed, wild-eyed reflection in the bathroom mirror. Whatever he’s waiting for his reflection to tell him doesn’t materialize, so he goes back to the awful serenity of the bedroom.
Song Lan’s taken off his shirt and made himself comfortable leaning back against the headboard with Xiao Xingchen sprawled out, languid, head in his lap. Song Lan is whispering something low to Xiao Xingchen, too quiet for Xue Yang to hear. Whatever Xiao Xingchen might say in response is lost; his mouth is occupied with one of Song Lan’s thumbs not really doing anything, just - resting there. Keeping Xiao Xingchen busy. Keeping him filled up.
A tidy pile next to them contains more condoms, a bottle of lube, and a hand towel.
“I’m starting to think you two do this a lot,” Xue Yang says, looking over the pile. “Or you’re just well prepared for some sort of sex emergency.”
Xiao Xingchen bites down on Song Lan’s thumb and Song Lan makes a vague tsk-ing sound at him.
“Little bit of both.” Song Lan gestures vaguely with his free hand. “I like to be prepared for things. Including sex emergencies. You should see what we keep under the bed.”
Xiao Xingchen manages a garbled laugh despite his occupied mouth and Xue Yang very nearly drops down to look, but he decides not to press his luck. It’s interesting enough that Song Lan sounds more entertained than annoyed now, as if Xue Yang has passed some sort of test. “Getting a blowjob” seems like a weird test, but there are clearly deep waters here that Xue Yang has no interest in diving into.
“I hope it’s a trapdoor,” he says, climbing onto the bed and making himself comfortable between Xiao Xingchen’s legs. “But you can keep your weird prepper sex dungeon secrets for now.”
Song Lan makes a noncommittal noise and settles in to watch as Xue Yang gets his fingers slick and starts to work Xiao Xingchen open.
“I don’t know if you paid much attention to his hands earlier, Xingchen,” he says after a minute or two, only sounding about half interested. “They’re smaller than mine. You’re going to need to be patient.”
Xingchen makes a muffled noise that makes Song Lan set his mouth free.
“They’re good. Calluses,” he says, more clearly this time. “He does - something. Not an instrument, I don’t think.”
If Xiao Xingchen is paying enough attention to the hand on his thigh to notice the calluses, he’s not paying enough attention to what the right hand is doing, Xue Yang thinks. Also, he doesn’t particularly like to talk about that hand in bed. He gives Xiao Xingchen another finger and presses his legs further apart, for both the distraction and the show of the muscles in his thighs being put to work. Maybe he’ll make Xiao Xingchen ride him to see more of that.
“Metalwork,” he says when Xiao Xingchen is paying no attention at all, biting his lip to accommodate the various ways he’s being asked to stretch simultaneously. He’s gone a bit pink in the cheeks and down his chest now, a gorgeous display. “Iron, mostly. We can talk about steel alloys right now if that’s really what gets you two going.”
“You’re doing fine already,” Song Lan says, which is unexpected. He glances up long enough to see that Song Lan’s eyes are fixed on Xiao Xingchen’s cock, slick and neglected and reacting beautifully as Xue Yang keeps up the rhythm of his fingers, twitching when he teases around his prostate and doesn’t quite give him the pressure he wants. “Keep going. Xingchen, you should see yourself. Your mouth looks so used already. You’re going to be a mess after this for us, just like you wanted.”
“Is what what he was after?” Xue Yang asks, letting his free hand roam now to palm Xiao Xingchen’s dick lightly, more of a tease than a help, spreading the sticky wetness there around and rubbing it into the tender skin in the cradle of his pelvis. “Someone to make a mess of him?”
“Please,” Xiao Xingchen says, abruptly, voice nearly cracking. Xue Yang’s been taking this slow and lazy, giving himself time to wind his own arousal back up, enjoying the show, but Xiao Xingchen sounds like he’s tripped over some threshold suddenly. Like before he wanted it and now he needs it, like Xue Yang’s dick specifically might save his life.
A soft oh wants to escape Xue Yang’s mouth. It’s the sort of sound you make at something rare and precious, not whatever this is. He bites down on it hard until it shatters. He tastes blood.
“Good job picking me,” he says instead, and twists his fingers nearly viciously to see just how open Xiao Xingchen is now. To punish him for the other world where he might have picked somebody else, some random dance floor loser who wouldn’t give it to him half as good as Xue Yang is going to.
Xiao Xingchen’s gasp turns into a moan halfway through, and Song Lan’s surprised chuckle transmutes itself into a sigh. Xue Yang grins at both of them, something bubbling up in his chest warmer and lighter than the snarling thing that was there before
This isn’t his first go-round with threesomes. He’s been through plenty of boring permutations of fucking and getting fucked, various positions named after assorted feats of architecture, whatever, it’s too dull to enumerate. Sometimes he even remembers their names for a week or two. But this feels new, pressing into Xiao Xingchen’s impossible body heat, right up into the raw and aching core of him, and watching Song Lan be affected by it. Touching Song Lan without touching him at all, watching Song Lan’s hand tighten on Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder and feeling Xiao Xingchen’s body clench up for a moment around Xue Yang’s fingers, some sort of escalating feedback loop feeding current through all three of them. It feels like black magic. Alchemy. Something more than the sum of its pedestrian parts.
“Fuck,” he says fervently, an entire paragraph of meaning in it. “Xingchen, tell me you’re ready, I need to get in you right the fuck now.”
“Close enough. Do it.” Xiao Xingchen’s gone breathy and he’s stolen one of his hands back from Song Lan to touch himself, skimming over his own chest. He teases lightly past his nipples in a way that makes Xue Yang wonder whether they don’t do much for him, or whether they do too much and he’s holding back. Something to find out.
He wipes his lube-messy hand absently on Xiao Xingchen’s hip and reaches for the condoms.
Song Lan doesn’t say anything but he leans forward as much as he can with Xiao Xingchen cradled in his lap. Xue Yang knows an honest look of hunger when he sees it, even if the twist of Song Lan’s mouth isn’t quite on the same page as his eyes. If he preens a little under Song Lan’s gaze - strokes himself two or three times more than necessary, shows off an angle of his cheekbones that he knows to be flattering - that’s between them and not something Xiao Xingchen needs to know unless Song Lan wants to tell him.
You’ll both think about me when I’m gone and not thinking about you, he thinks, and knows it to be a lie even as the thought forms, and buries that knowledge immediately in the first press and slide of his cock into Xiao Xingchen’s body.
The long, shuddering breath might come from any of them. It might come from all three of them. It might be the room breathing with them.
“Xue Yang,” Xiao Xingchen says, and Xue Yang leans forward to kiss him as he starts to move. It seems nonsensical all of a sudden that he hasn’t, since the hallway. He licked at Xiao Xingchen’s hipbone two fingers deep in him, and Xiao Xingchen sucked him, but they haven’t had this sweet, urgent press of mouths. He wants to swallow all the sounds he can wring from Xiao Xingchen’s body. He wants to make them loud and set them free for the neighbors to hear. He wants to run them up a flagpole so everyone knows.
He hitches Xiao Xingchen’s leg up around his waist to get the angle better. He looks up at Song Lan through his eyelashes and the fall of his hair in his eyes when he says, “Do something useful and tell him when he can come.”
That gets him a satisfying bitten-off curse, probably from Song Lan but honestly he’s losing the plot a little. He puts his head down and sets to licking and biting a path up Xiao Xingchen’s neck where the tendons stand out when he arches up toward Xue Yang.
It takes a little exploration to find the good spots but when he finds them he exploits them ruthlessly, grinding his hips in and in and in while he sucks a mean mark under Xiao Xingchen’s jaw. It’s too high up to be covered. Song Lan will probably have to take responsibility for it. But they’ll both know whose it is. And that’s - fuck, that’s really good for Xue Yang. He’s panting into Xiao Xingchen’s skin, closer than he meant to be so quickly.
He sits up enough to get a hand around Xiao Xingchen’s dick for real this time. The heft of it feels good in his hands, and the slickness where he’s been left wanting.
“Tell me how you like it,” he says, starting to move his hand slowly up and down. Before Song Lan can say anything he flicks a warning glare at him. “You tell me, Xingchen. Don’t make Song Lan do all the work for you.”
Xiao Xingchen’s already so flushed there’s not much more blushing he can do, but his mouth drops open a little at that, like Xue Yang’s slapped him. It seems like a waste not to immediately fill that mouth up with something, but Xue Yang bites his lip and keeps fucking Xiao Xingchen with a slow, steady pace that almost hurts to maintain when he wants to go fast and hard and leave Xiao Xingchen feeling it for days.
“I,” Xiao Xingchen starts, and then stops. “I want. Zichen--”
It’s the most flustered he’s been, as if he loses the thread of his thoughts with a tiny gasp every time Xue Yang’s cock slides into him. Song Lan doesn’t say a word. He just watches the both of them with a set to his jaw that says he wants to do or say something he’s resisting.
“I’ll make all the mess you want,” Xue Yang manages to say, “if you tell me you want it.” The words are hard to get out. He’s starting to feel like there’s no room in his body for air or anything but wanting. Xiao Xingchen feels too fucking good, hot and tight and moving with him like he wants everything Xue Yang has to give him.
“Fast,” Xiao Xingchen finally manages to say. His voice is shaky when he adds, “Fast and hard as you can, don’t make me wait.”
Xue Yang bares his teeth but he’s not sure it qualifies as a smile. It feels wilder than that.
“I can do fast, but Song Lan gets to tell you when you’re done waiting.”
Song Lan looks very nearly tender but his voice sounds scraped thin when he says, “Not yet, Xingchen. We have to show our guest a good time. Hold on for us a while, you’re so good like this, it won’t be long.”
Xiao Xingchen makes a noise like a sob and Xue Yang grabs his hip more firmly with one hand and starts to jack his dick in earnest with the other. He’s got a good angle now and he can chase Xiao Xingchen’s pleasure alongside his own, even if he’s handed the former over to Song Lan.
It doesn’t take long after that, and Song Lan must be seeing more on Xue Yang’s face than he meant to give away. Soon he’s cradling Xiao Xingchen’s face in his hands and saying, “He looks like he’s not going to last much longer, sweetheart. If you want him to come on you, you’d better go ahead and come now.”
Xiao Xingchen’s legs tighten around Xue Yang’s hips and the arm he has around Xue Yang’s back - the one that’s not holding Song Lan’s hand - scratches at him reflexively in a way that’s going to sting.
“Fuck,” Xiao Xingchen says, dropping the curse precisely from his bitten mouth like a single perfect pearl. It’s unfairly hot.
He stutters in their rhythm and comes all over Xue Yang’s hand and his own stomach, breaking on a moan when Xue Yang keeps fucking him through it. In the aftershock, his legs loosen from around Xue Yang but he doesn’t try to push him away, shivering obediently through a few moments of helpless sensitivity before Xue Yang decides to show him some mercy.
Xue Yang means to form some sort of words - to tell them it was good, maybe, or that if he could possibly manage it he’d keep fucking Xiao Xingchen to see if he’d cry eventually. Instead he only manages some sort of formless groan and a creditable attempt to get the condom on the towel instead of the bed when he pulls out and strips it off.
He strokes himself precisely four times before coming more extravagantly than should really be possible for a second round, all over Xiao Xingchen’s hip and spent cock and the mess already on him. His whole body is on fire with it, he wants to do it again instantly. He wants to go back to that dance floor and do the whole night again, and he has to fall back on his heels abruptly before his knees give out.
He only meets Song Lan’s eyes for a moment but they’re doing something he doesn’t understand and can’t possibly make sense of in his current state. He looks away instead, back down to Xiao Xingchen who’s still panting and trembling, his long limbs nearly but not quite graceless even now.
“Fuck,” he agrees, belatedly, and collapses down onto Xiao Xingchen. He manages to maintain exactly enough control of his limbs to avoid actually touching Song Lan, and that’s as much as he has in him before he buries his face in Xiao Xingchen’s chest and waits for his body to make sense of itself again.
There’s murmuring and rustling. Xue Yang doesn’t care. He deserves to pass out. He’s going to sleep for a week and then get up and forge a knife that looks the way fucking Xiao Xingchen felt, gorgeous and lethal.
“You’re missing out,” Xiao Xingchen says so close to Xue Yang’s ear that his hair tickles.
Xue Yang cracks one eye open and attempts to focus his vision over Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder.
Song Lan’s slid out from under them to shove his pants down to his knees, and although Xue Yang frankly hasn’t been thinking much about Song Lan’s dick, maybe he should have been. It’s substantial. A take-no-prisoners dick. Xue Yang could ride it into next week, given the opportunity.
Instead he decides it’s worth opening both eyes for and struggles up onto one elbow to watch Song Lan working himself fast and hard and impatient, like he was waiting for them to finish and now he’s done waiting. Like he’s worked up in spite of himself. Xue Yang’s never seen anyone look quite so annoyed while jerking himself off. It’s weirdly cute.
“Stop smiling,” Song Lan spits out, levelling a completely ineffective glare at Xue Yang. The heavy-lidded dark-eyed heat in his eyes really ruins the effect.
“Nah,” Xue Yang says, smiling bigger out of sheer contrariness. “But you can come on my face if you want.”
That’s not really his favorite thing, but the offer is completely worth it for Song Lan’s outraged expression and the clearly-involuntary twitch of his dick as he sucks in a breath and comes like a freight train. He doesn’t actually hit Xue Yang’s face, but some of it lands on Xue Yang’s arm and chest, and the rest joins the mess-in-progress on Xiao Xingchen’s increasingly biohazardous stomach. It’s. Fuck.
The sheets are a shitshow. Song Lan’s chest is heaving and Xue Yang wants to lick it. Xiao Xingchen’s beatific expression is the most pornographic thing in the room.
Xue Yang is having a sex crisis right now after all.
He puts his head down on Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder and cackles, loud and helpless and far more honestly than he’d meant to do anything tonight.
Eventually Song Lan gets up and comes back in a different pair of pants, with a glass of water and a cloth. Xue Yang rolls his eyes at sharing a water glass but decides it’s a bit late to get precious now.
He gulps down half of the water and watches with lazy, semi-sated interest as Song Lan sorts out the disaster of Xiao Xingchen’s hair and makes an effort to clean up the worst of the mess, pressing kisses and whispered endearments into his skin. He should probably roll his eyes or something but that feels like effort.
Instead he just grumbles, “I’m right here.”
“You’re pretty too,” Xiao Xingchen tells him warmly, which, a) how the fuck does he even know, Song Lan could have been lying, Xue Yang could be a troll, and b) that was not the point.
He opens his mouth to clarify that he wasn’t fishing for compliments, but startles into silence when Song Lan reaches for him.
He keeps the towel between them so their skin never touches, but he wipes Xue Yang’s arm and chest down carefully. He doesn’t meet Xue Yang’s eyes as he takes care of them both. Which is what it feels like - care. Xue Yang has the impression he’s holding something sharp by the wrong end and needs to put it down immediately.
What the fuck. Xue Yang squirms and bats at Song Lan’s arm, but is careful not to actually touch him.
“Settle down, vixen,” Song Lan mutters. It’s not the voice he was using to lick affection into Xiao Xingchen’s skin, but it’s very nearly fond.
Xue Yang grumbles and finally says, “Not a girl, asshole.”
“I’m not fighting with you about gender this late at night,” Song Lan says, and yes, there is a touch of warmth there, something rough and unpracticed and pleased. Ugh. Xue Yang considers hiding his face from it.
Instead he says, “Are you kicking me out?”
Xiao Xingchen, gone drowsy under Song Lan’s attention, stirs enough to say, “Stay. Song Lan doesn’t sleep well with a third person but we have a great guest bed down the hall. I’ll come cuddle you in the morning.”
“I don’t cuddle, what the fuck.”
Xue Yang ignores the fact that what he’s doing - legs still tangled with Xiao Xingchen’s - could be construed as cuddling.
Xiao Xingchen hums a pleased little noise, unbothered, sleepy and sweet. “Then you can snap at us in the morning and take a bagel to go if you won’t stay for breakfast.”
Xue Yang stares at the hollow of his throat and thinks about biting it or bruising it or burying his face there and purring.
“Fine,” he says instead. “I don’t eat breakfast either. But you can make me coffee.”
“We have tea,” Song Lan says, tossing the towel in a perfect curving arc into the hamper nearby and settling down next to Xiao Xingchen. “If you aren’t too much of an asshole I might give you the good tea, though.”
Xue Yang has made a series of terrible choices, apparently.
“I can’t believe I fucked tea drinkers,” he says, unwinding his limbs from Xiao Xingchen’s with a bit of unnecessary dramatic gesturing. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that up front. I regret everything.”
When he gets off the bed he takes the blanket with him from where they folded it down to the end of the bed at the beginning of the night. He wraps it around his shoulders like a cloak and marches off with his prize to find the guest bedroom.
Song Lan’s irritated sputter and Xiao Xingchen’s laughter follow him down the hall and keep him warmer than the blanket itself.
In the morning when he makes it back to his own shithole apartment, he texts them as promised to verify he got home safe. (Like he was going to get mugged in broad daylight in his own neighborhood? What the fuck, what kind of assholes are they, who does this.)
He sends them a selfie of himself drinking a fuck-off big mug of actual coffee in his kitchen. He doesn’t clean the dirty dishes out of the sink first because part of him wants to, and he refuses to let them be people he tries to - what? Impress? Absolutely not.
He sets the phone aside and pretends he’s not waiting for a response as he curls both hands around the I’d Hit That mug with the anvil drawing. He lets the heat curl up around his face and waits for the caffeine to hit and the phone to buzz.
“message from: leaf-water-drinking assholes” says his phone screen, and Xue Yang hides the curve of his smile behind the mug’s rim before he picks it up again.