Work Text:
Xue Yang sits at the bar, nursing a rum and coke. It's busy for a Thursday night, and he's looking for a free drink or a fuck—preferably both.
This is one of those places that attract tourists who want to experience the city like a local: not exactly yuppie, but you wouldn't know it looking at the prices. Doesn't matter, because he's not going to be the one paying. He scans the room, sorting through the fresh meat, looking for his next mark.
Unfortunately, the familiar faces are all fucking losers: past hookups he'd rather not talk to right now, the regular that Xue Yang can typically flirt a drink out of when he's tipsy enough. Xue Yang doesn't care—he's so bored he could die. He wants something new. But the rest of the crowd seems worse: groups of college kids messing around; a guy in all black waiting impatiently at the bar, looking like he has a stick up his ass; a loud group of friends taking pictures of their drinks with their flash fully on.
His eye snags on a man in white. Long legs, smooth hair, thick glasses reflecting the bright screen of his phone, which he's half-heartedly scrolling on in a dark corner of the bar. He'll do. Xue Yang downs the rest of his drink and beelines straight for his table.
The man must feel Xue Yang's eyes, because he looks up and immediately makes eye contact. Contrary to what Xue Yang expected, he smiles kindly, setting his phone down on the table. His eyes look giant through his glasses, so piercing that it puts Xue Yang a little off balance, like he ought to turn back while he still can. But it also means that prettyboy is interested, and that's exactly what Xue Yang wants.
"Hey," Xue Yang says, leaning on the table as casually as he can. "Buy me a drink?"
The man blinks at him twice—drags his eyes down Xue Yang's body; then he lets out a small chuckle, and lazily props his chin on his hand, leaning forward.
"You're cute. Don't these things usually start with an introduction, at the very least?"
He's close. Xue Yang takes it as a dare, and gets closer. "Xue Yang. Get me something sweet."
Prettyboy doesn't back down. The kind smile is back, but there's an edge to it now, like a warning. Despite himself, Xue Yang starts to think he's going to lose this staring contest, but he's never been one to chicken out first; and now that he's looking, the man really is lovely. His hair, dark and cut to his throat, frames his face gracefully, balancing out his sharp features. His lips are soft, complementing his high cheekbones; Xue Yang wants to bite them. He exhales softly, his warm breath smelling faintly of mint.
Then in one swift motion, the man catches Xue Yang's arm and spins him around, hauling him back onto his lap in the dark corner of the bar. "Hey!" Xue Yang yelps, thrashing against the arms around his torso, kicking out—which pushes his ass towards the man's crotch, and—oh, he's one step closer to fucking this guy; he leans into it, intentionally grinding back. Two can play this game, and he isn't about to be outmatched by someone who is dressed frankly way too chic—seriously, who wears all white, a soft cardigan and pressed slacks, to a bar like this?
"So forward, gege," Xue Yang teases. "Do I get to know your name?"
"Xiao Xingchen," the man says, planting a chaste kiss on his neck. The arms around him squeeze tight. "Let's get you something to drink, sweetheart, shall we?"
Xue Yang lets his eyes half close, tilting his head back onto Xiao Xingchen's shoulder just because he can. Then he feels the other man look up, and becomes abruptly aware of the shadow looming over them.
"Zichen!" Xiao Xingchen says brightly, hands still wrapped around Xue Yang's waist. Xue Yang jerks his head up, suddenly very conscious of his position, to see a brick house of a man staring down at them. It takes a second before he realizes—it's the guy in all black from the bar. His jaw is set; his hair is neatly clipped, military. He's holding two drinks and glaring down at them—or, realistically, just at Xue Yang.
"Look what wandered into my lap!" Xiao Xingchen says. Xue Yang thinks about protesting, but Xiao Xingchen's arms are firm around him. "His name is Xue Yang. Could you be a dear and get him a Long Island?"
The man is still glaring, and Xue Yang—never a quitter—smirks up at him, rolling his hips back for good measure. The other guy's jaw clenches, but Xue Yang could swear he gives him a quick once-over. But before he can say anything about it, the man has already set his drinks down and headed back toward the bar.
"Who the fuck was that?" Xue Yang says. He tries to wriggle out of Xiao Xingchen's lap, but is quickly distracted by the straw for something colorful being held up to his mouth.
"Suck," Xiao Xingchen says, and somehow manages to slip it between his lips—or maybe his lips were just open. Either way, a free drink is half of what he came here for, so he does as he's told. It barely burns going down his throat. It tastes like grenadine and blackberry liqueur, syrupy and sweet.
Xue Yang lets the straw go, and Xiao Xingchen takes a sip over his shoulder, right where Xue Yang's mouth just was. "That was Song Lan, my husband," he says. "You'll have to forgive him, he isn't very talkative."
That's all he says, having apparently decided that he has better things to do—like kissing down Xue Yang's neck, and sucking little marks to his skin in places that are very much visible. Instead of, say, telling the guy he just met—the guy currently sitting in his lap—about his husband. The husband who looks like he could beat Xue Yang to a pulp.
Shit, he can feel his dick getting hard at the thought.
Xue Yang grumbles in annoyance, and the part of him that believes in self preservation steers him away from thoughts of Song Lan (wrapping his hands around his wrists, making use of all that muscle, choking him with his cock), and onto the fact that Xiao Xingchen had said husband—which means he should probably find someone else. He really doesn't want to end up in more relationship drama. He gets enough of that from Meng Yao's current on-and-off situationship bullshit.
But as soon as that thought floats into his mind, Xiao Xingchen is once again holding the drink up to his lips. And then Song Lan is back with another drink in hand, his eyes on Xue Yang: straw in mouth, on Xiao Xingchen's lap. He stares at them with a complicated expression and sets the drink down. Xue Yang turns his attention to Song Lan; looks up, flutters his lashes, and sucks. Song Lan's jaw clenches, but he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath—and then sits down across from them, picking up his own drink.
"So...," Xue Yang says, watching him. He's downed a good half of Xiao Xingchen's drink already; he's starting to feel a bit tipsy, a pleasant warmth spreading through him.
"So," Song Lan says, taking measured sips from his glass. It might be an old fashioned—not that Xue Yang can tell, with how dark this corner of the bar is. There are even more people now, somehow. Restlessly, he grabs the drink they bought for him. He feels the alcohol go down, barely tasting it. He drinks idly, more focused on the way Xiao Xingchen's arms are still wrapped around him, the way Song Lan is staring at him—at them—and the way his dick is half hard in his jeans.
Xiao Xingchen giggles, and gives Xue Yang more of his drink. "Isn't he cute, Zichen?" he says, as Xue Yang finishes it off. He could swear he's had more from Xiao Xingchen's glass than Xiao Xingchen himself.
Song Lan, or Zichen, whatever, just looks at them. He takes a sip and shrugs. "Looks like more trouble than he's worth."
Xue Yang bristles and glares back, challenging. He does a few quick calculations. He got his free drink, and getting involved with a couple like this seems like a lot more bullshit than he feels like doing right now—especially considering how obviously Song Lan had hated him at first glance. The fucker clearly just sees him as some sidepiece to indulge his husband; this is looking a lot like a one sided 'let's open up our relationship' situation, and Xue Yang is pretty fucking sure he knows who suggested it and who just went along with it.
And as fun as Song Lan's hands on him would be, he really is not in the mood to get into the middle of some couple's weird relationship problems. Judging from Xiao Xingchen's arms around him now, and Song Lan's death-glare on the two of them, there are much simpler ways to get a quick fuck that don't involve being hunted for sport three months down the line by a jealous husband.
Absentmindedly he takes another sip—and finishes off his drink. Did he really go through it that quickly? Or has he been sitting here in silence for longer than he'd thought? He frowns, putting the empty glass down onto the table. With nothing else to distract him, he is suddenly very aware of his body, where he is, Song Lan's eyes on him—and his increasing need to piss.
So he starts sliding off Xiao Xingchen's lap, feigning loss of interest, mumbling a half-hearted excuse, but the room tilts much more than he had anticipated—he didn't drink that much, did he? He doesn't get anywhere: Xiao Xingchen's grip clamps down, right on his bladder. Xue Yang curls up and moans, reflexive, clenching his core tight to keep from pissing himself right in Xiao Xingchen's lap.
He succeeds, mostly. Mortifyingly, he does feel something wet leak into his pants, and he's pretty sure it isn't piss. His cheeks heat. He's hard, dick chubbed up just at the thought of pissing himself.
"Aww, baby, what's wrong? Finished your drink already?" Xiao Xingchen asks sweetly, like he knows something Xue Yang is sure he can't know. The arms around him have managed to reposition themselves over Xue Yang's, pinning him in place.
Xiao Xingchen sounds like he's smiling. Does he ever stop fucking smiling? Xue Yang squirms. He needs to get away, needs to, before he pisses himself on Xiao Xingchen's nice pressed slacks.
A sudden hand palms his dick.
Xue Yang lets out a choked noise, biting his lip in an attempt to keep quiet, grabbing at Xiao Xingchen's arms. He scowls, trying to remain calm, and jerks his head. "Fuck off, I'm not interested anymore," he lies. "Your husband there looks like he wants to kill me."
But Xiao Xingchen carries on like he hasn't even heard him. "Are you sure?" He presses down on Xue Yang's dick, kneading it through the rough fabric of his jeans. "You're so hard, I can feel your cock twitching through your pants." Xue Yang tries to shove himself away, to get Xiao Xingchen's hand off his growing bulge, and only succeeds in making the arm around him dig into his bladder. He gasps, and tries to still himself.
"Cute," Xiao Xingchen says, more to himself than anything. His hand is still on Xue Yang's dick, idle. "Don't worry, Zichen won't hurt you—not unless I tell him to." The light shifts; flushed and panting, Xue Yang looks up. Song Lan has come back with another cocktail and a double in hand. He's standing next to Xiao Xingchen like he's waiting for something. When the fuck did he even leave?
Xue Yang doesn't have time to wonder more than that before the double is raised to his lips. Song Lan starts to tip it towards him. Xue Yang is trying to avoid having to take the bus home tonight in soaked pants, thank you very much, so he tilts his head back and opens his mouth, letting Song Lan pour it down his throat. It burns going down—it's fucking strong—but he doesn't have time to consider all that before the second drink is also pushed into his face, the straw slipping into his mouth. He takes a sip for a chaser, and looks up at Song Lan, who seems conflicted.
Another Long Island. Not Xue Yang's first choice, but better than the whiskey.
He's suddenly reminded of his problem when the hand on his dick presses down again, making him reflexively curl up, tilting the world and jostling the liquid in his bladder. He blinks up into space, panting, his eyes unfocused.
"Let go," Xue Yang tries again, mumbling. "I need to piss." He can feel Song Lan's eyes on him, watching him as he does his best to stay put, struggles to pull himself together. But between the firm ministrations to his cock and the arm holding him tight against Xiao Xingchen's growing hard-on, it's impossible not to squirm, to feel the tightness of his gorged bladder, his movements slow and sluggish.
Xiao Xingchen hums, the sound buzzing in Xue Yang's ears. It's barely an acknowledgement. If Xue Yang were a little less drunk, a little less horny, his bladder a little less full, he would fight back more—show Xiao Xingchen just how weak his pretty white-clad body is. As it is, all he can do is waver back and forth between mindlessly grinding on Xiao Xingchen's crotch and into his hand, and trying to keep still so he doesn't have to think about just how drunk he is, the pressure building in all the wrong places. He swallows another mouthful of his drink, finishes it, realizes too late that he had been absentmindedly taking sips while he was trying to ignore what was going on with his body. Why the fuck did he do that?
He glares up at Song Lan, who had been helpfully holding the drink to his lips the whole time. There's a small smirk on his face. Fuck. Did they plan this out? Do they do this often? Xue Yang needs to get out of here, but everything is moving too fast, out of focus. He shuts his eyes. Most of his brainpower is currently devoted to not pissing himself, and honestly, it's hard to concentrate on anything else. He's panting, trying not to move, desperately ignoring the building pressure in his pelvis.
"Fuck, what the fuck, are you crazy?" he gasps. His thoughts are barely in order. "Do you want me to piss all over you? Those pants don't look like the kind that like getting piss on them!"
Xiao Xingchen lets out a pure little laugh, and accompanies it with an especially hard press on his dick. Xue Yang groans, his hips jerking involuntarily. He is so close, so close, and feverishly warm—he might cum from the pressure alone.
"No, not particularly," Xiao Xingchen says calmly. He lifts his hand from Xue Yang's dick—he whines, hips hitching up—in favor of wiping the tears from his cheeks—when the fuck did he start crying? He needs to cum so bad. "I think you can be good. Getting my nice slacks wet because you can't control yourself is certainly not being good. You can be good for me, right, baby?"
Xue Yang whimpers, grinding back to get some stimulation. As embarrassing as it would be to cum in his pants from some basically-PG dick squeezing over clothes, without the distraction of Xiao Xingchen's hand on his cock, all he can feel is his bladder, spasming with every drunken movement.
"Here, drink." Xue Yang hears a deeper voice—Song Lan, it has to be—with… more drinks? Shit, when did he have time to get more drinks? A rough hand on his chin, a gentle thumb on his lips. He squeezes his eyes further closed, shakes his head. He doesn't want to, not when he's already dizzy from the alcohol. He doesn't want any more liquid in his body.
"You wanted drinks," Xiao Xingchen points out reasonably. He pets Xue Yang's sweaty hair, his swollen belly. "We're getting you drinks."
Xue Yang shakes his head again, jerks his face away from the touch. The grip tightens, Song Lan squeezing his jaw to force his lips apart. "I suggest you open your eyes," he says, lifting Xue Yang's head and tipping another glass toward his mouth. Xue Yang does, trying to blink the world into focus.
It doesn't work.
Clumsily he keeps his mouth open, letting the drink spill down his throat, down his chin—half chokes at the end of the shot, and ends up coughing, alcohol getting into his nostrils. It hurts, the rough movement making him painfully aware of his full bladder. All he can smell is the drink now; at least it tastes like skittles. He can barely get his eyes to clear, fighting to make out Song Lan in the low light.
"Good boy," Xiao Xingchen says, and pulls Xue Yang in for a deep kiss. Xue Yang goes limp, panting, the praise settling onto his skin. The kiss is soft but thorough, and tastes like gin and tonic; he'll take anything to distract him from the uncomfortable pressure of his bladder. He's still hard, grinding down, whining into Xiao Xingchen's mouth.
"It hurts," Xue Yang says pathetically. "Please." His stomach is cramping; the longer his dick goes untouched, the more it feels like he really is going to piss his pants.
"I'm sure," Xiao Xingchen says sympathetically, hands sliding down his stomach. He presses gently, and Xue Yang groans in pain. He's sweating with the effort of holding it in, of keeping still—trying to focus on anything in the room, anything that isn't—
Another press to his abdomen, harder this time—he's crying in earnest now, his body jerking involuntarily. He looks up, wanting to see Song Lan, except—where the fuck is Song Lan? For such a large man, he's sure fucking easy to lose. He'd like to think Song Lan is watching him, watching the desperate way his body is twitching under Xiao Xingchen's eager hands. But it's too hard to think, too hard to do anything but sit dumbly, his body moving of its own volition.
Xiao Xingchen murmurs empty words of comfort into Xue Yang's ear, reaching down to unzip his jeans. It's almost a relief, his belly bulging without the restraint of his waistband; he nearly shouts when Xiao Xingchen finally gets his hand around his dick, thumbing at the tip. His grip is nearly painful, but Xue Yang doesn't care. He's immediately back to fully hard, and Xiao Xingchen must have a sixth sense for these things, because he stops right away. Xue Yang sobs, thrusting his hips up, but Xiao Xingchen just keeps him in place, and all Xue Yang manages to do is dig his bladder firmly into his arms.
Xue Yang begs—or tries to. He isn't sure what he's saying anymore, words blurring before they come out of his mouth. Xiao Xingchen shushes him, kissing the back of his sweaty neck. "I know, I know," he says between kisses, lightly petting the head of his cock with his thumb. It hardly feels like anything. Xue Yang forgets why he's trying to stay still—and is reminded with every dizzying jolt of movement that sets the room spinning, every hitch of his hips that presses the walls of his bladder against the arms around him. Xiao Xingchen doesn't let up on his abdomen: squeezing him blithely like he's playing with a particularly overstuffed plushie, and putting absolutely no pressure on his dick.
"Zichen," Xiao Xingchen says, looking up. Xue Yang tries to follow his gaze, nearly going cross-eyed with the effort. Song Lan is standing in front of them, blocking the rest of the bar from seeing what they're up to. In his hands is another drink. Xue Yang tenses up, starts shaking his head.
"No no no no no," he pleads, slurring his words. He can't. He absolutely can't. He's so full, so drunk, every movement sending him into a delirious spiral, his stomach cramping up. He tries to beg Xiao Xingchen, but can't coordinate his muscles before Song Lan reaches out again, hand in his hair, and gently tugs his head back. Xue Yang's mind lurches, barely keeping up with the movement. Stubbornly he keeps his mouth closed.
"Sweetheart," Xiao Xingchen says, pressing on his bladder. Xue Yang leaks this time, can feel it, knows Xiao Xingchen can feel it too with his fingers circling his dick. He tries to focus on his breathing. "One last drink, and I'll let you cum, okay?"
He can't keep his head straight, not with the way Xiao Xingchen keeps playing with his cock, the way he keeps pushing down on his bladder—with Song Lan's hand in his hair—with pressure everywhere, inside him and out. He could burst with it, with how they're holding him. He looks at Song Lan, hoping for something—for mercy, sympathy, anything. But Song Lan just holds up the drink and stares him down, his eyes dark.
"I—I can't," Xue Yang mumbles, barely able to stay still with the way they're touching him, his core tense with the strain of holding it in.
Xiao Xingchen presses down on his stomach again, harder this time. A longer spurt of piss comes out, and Xue Yang's mind goes blank, everything he has focused on stopping the stream. Xiao Xingchen just squeezes his cock, using the piss to vigorously jerk him off.
It isn't good. It chafes, but it stops him from completely wetting himself in public. He's breathing hard, barely holding himself together, the tears flowing freely down his cheeks. He can't keep this up, and they all know it.
"It's just one more drink," Xiao Xingchen says innocently. "I just helped you make some room, so surely you can drink something as small as that?"
Xue Yang blinks up at him blankly. He hears Song Lan snort, and looks warily at the drink in his hand. No way. No fucking way. He's not going to drink even one more drink.
"Open," Song Lan says gently, and Xue Yang finds himself, bewilderingly, opening his mouth. He lets Song Lan pour the drink down his throat. It's not a good pour: it gets everywhere—down his chin, onto his pants, up his nostrils.
It's sweet, at least, and weaker than the others.
When he finishes, he's dazed, his body barely under his control. The room spins—hasn't stopped spinning—with every movement Xue Yang makes. He barely remembers how he got here, drunk, desperate, thrusting into Xiao Xingchen's frustratingly loose hand in this dark corner of the bar. He's coughing again, trying to get the alcohol out of his nose, and only making the room spin more, his bladder twinge more. His limbs don't seem to want to listen to him, his brain holding on just enough to stop him from pissing all over himself.
"I need—I need to—" he tries to say, his hips twitching—fighting between needing stimulation and keeping the piss in him from going anywhere. It's just so much. It hurts, so much, Xiao Xingchen switching between rubbing at his bladder and stroking his cock, grinding his own hard cock up against Xue Yang's ass. Song Lan's hands are still in his hair. His eyes aren't focusing, but he can tell Song Lan is looking at him—they both are. Looking at the wet spot on his jeans, at Xiao Xingchen's hand down his pants, at the desperate way Xue Yang is twitching, unable to move without reminding himself just how full, how drunk he is.
"Shhh," Xiao Xingchen says, softly petting Xue Yang's cock and belly. "You're doing so well, drinking all that for me, holding it in, such a good boy for me." His voice is so gentle; Xue Yang barely registers the words at all, but the praise still hits somewhere in his hindbrain.
Shivering, he hardly notices when Xiao Xingchen takes his hand from his dick, zipping him up and wiping his wet palm on Xue Yang's jeans. The waistband digs into his abdomen, his soaked pants clinging uncomfortably to his skin. Song Lan helps him slide off Xiao Xingchen's lap, and they gently usher him towards the side exit. Xue Yang staggers unsteadily along with them, holding onto Xiao Xingchen like he's the only thing keeping him upright. He can't even tell if he's pissing himself right now, or if his jeans are just that wet.
They end up in the alley behind the bar, sketchy and badly lit. The world swims. The air smells faintly of smoke, garbage, and now piss. Xingchen leads him to a sheltered spot against the back wall, Song Lan following in silence. Song Lan's face is twisted in disgust, his eyes fixed on Xue Yang, but Xue Yang is the one with his arms around Song Lan's husband, fuzzy as he is; he can't find it in himself to care.
Song Lan is also much closer to Xue Yang than he expects. This close, he can see just how blown out his pupils are, so dark Xue Yang needs to look away. He stares at his lips, surprisingly plump, trembling ever so slightly. There's an idea forming in the depths of his mind, but he can't quite catch it—he's so drunk—
He's so caught up in looking at Song Lan that Xue Yang nearly misses the soft voice with which Xiao Xingchen says, "Down, Zichen." It's expectant, nothing at all like an order, except—Xue Yang sees the way Song Lan stiffens at that, opening his mouth like he's about to protest, only for Xiao Xingchen to kick his leg out and nudge the back of his knee. Song Lan falls, easy, glaring up at Xiao Xingchen.
"Zichen," Xiao Xingchen says again, sweet. "Be a doll and unzip him for me, won't you?"
A moment's hesitation—and Song Lan reaches up. Xue Yang watches as if from far away, weak-limbed and dazed, as his jeans are once again undone, feeling something like relief as the pressure lessens on his abdomen. Everything is wobbling around him; he has to cling to Xiao Xingchen to keep himself upright. Song Lan's hands cringe from his piss-soaked jeans, his face crinkled in distaste and something that looks almost like fear.
Xue Yang hears a hum of approval, and Xiao Xingchen reaches down to pet at Song Lan's crown, then yanks his head back, fingers twisted in his hair. Song Lan groans, hands in his lap and his eyes half lidded. There's a beat of stillness. An undercurrent of tension Xue Yang doesn't know how to name makes itself known, spikes in the air with such abruptness it makes his head spin. A wave of dizziness hits him. And then Xiao Xingchen speaks. "Open your mouth," he says, an impish lilt to his voice. "Tongue out, please."
This time Song Lan does protest—or tries to. Xiao Xingchen jerks his head back roughly by the hair, choking it down into a startled whine. "Zichen," he admonishes. Xue Yang can't look away: watches unsteadily as Song Lan tries to resist, before he finally yields, his eyes fluttering closed as he extends his tongue.
Like this, Xue Yang can't help but notice the line of Song Lan's throat, his long eyelashes trembling like he might cry. He's flushed pink down to his neck. His muscles strain against his button-up shirt as he fights to stay still, taking hindered breaths. His dick is hard—the outline of it visible even in the cheap fluorescent lighting of the alley. It looks big. Xue Yang's mouth waters.
He likes this, Xue Yang thinks, dizzy and awed—and then: he's beautiful. It's in the simple way he gives in to Xiao Xingchen, his hazy eyes, his open mouth; he's shivering, just a bit, pulling back against the grip in his hair.
The realization is cut short by Xiao Xingchen's hand snaking down from Xue Yang's waist to his bladder and pushing in. His vision tilts dangerously. He's abruptly reminded of just how full he is, and how hard. It fucking hurts; he's been so full for so long that he'd almost forgotten. He whimpers into Xiao Xingchen's neck, already leaking a little into his underwear. It feels good, letting Xiao Xingchen do what he wants, not having to worry about what to do with his swaying body. He closes his eyes, panting, clinging desperately to awareness.
The sudden cool air on his skin is a relief as Xiao Xingchen takes his cock out. He makes a confused little sound; then he feels the press of a kiss to the hinge of his jaw, and hears a voice, hot breath on his ear. "Thank you for waiting so patiently for me, sweetheart," Xiao Xingchen murmurs. "Do you need to go?"
Xue Yang nods frantically—as if that wasn't obvious. As if Song Lan isn't on his knees in front of them with his tongue sticking out. The moment barely feels real; he's out of body, watching with a pained, hazy interest. The next step seems inevitable.
"Okay, baby," Xiao Xingchen says, and wraps his hand around his dick. "You can let go now."
Before he even processes the words, his body gives up. It's like a dam breaking, a relief like no other. Piss gushes out with a violent force, a spray of warmth in the cool night air. The stream hits Song Lan's face. Song Lan flinches back, instinctual—but then goes ramrod straight, barely straining against Xiao Xingchen's hold in his hair. Even so, he’s unable to hide how much he hates this: disgust mars his face, his fists clenched white in his lap.
Piss catches on his eyelashes, runs down his cheeks, before the stream is directed downwards into his mouth. His breathing is shallow, suffocated by the torrent splashing out of his mouth, overflowing onto his shirt and trousers; the strain of his muscles is evident under the soaked cotton, plastered to his body. The sight of it is obscene. A wave of want hits Xue Yang, cutting through the muddle of his mind.
"Slow down, baby, you're hurting him," Xiao Xingchen chides. He squeezes Xue Yang's dick, still lovingly aimed right at Song Lan's open mouth. Xue Yang gasps and tries to obey, tries to clench up, but there's just so much liquid inside him—even with the pressure of Xiao Xingchen's grip slowing his stream.
He tries to keep his eyes open, to watch what he's doing to Song Lan, quivering and unmoored—but each time he tries, the world sways: he's so drunk and it hurts so much. He's panting into Xiao Xingchen's neck, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes onto his cardigan. Xiao Xingchen is massaging his bladder, steady circles that are almost comforting—he can hear the low murmur of praises talking him through it, but his spinning mind can't make anything out. Everything is soaked with tears, spit, and piss, permeating the air, inescapable.
Eventually the stream slows. Xue Yang doesn't know when Xiao Xingchen shifted from holding his dick to lightly stroking it; without the overwhelming urge to go, all that's left is his aching need to cum. His hips jerk, chasing after more. Xiao Xingchen chuckles softly, lightening his touch, and Xue Yang whines.
Suddenly, the world tilts, and Xue Yang blinks dazedly before he realizes that he's no longer clinging tightly onto Xiao Xingchen—he's peeled Xue Yang off him, and dropped him onto Song Lan's lap. He finds himself straddling Song Lan's solid thigh, piss still dribbling out of him in weak spurts. Without something to tether himself, Xue Yang flounders—grabs Song Lan in a panic, grinding desperately down onto his soaked pants. It hurts, his cock rubbing against rough, wet fabric. It's the best thing he's ever felt.
He looks up at Song Lan. He's coughing up piss, sputtering, his eyes dark and angry. Xue Yang is overcome with the desire to kiss his open mouth.
He leans in; abruptly Song Lan shirks away. Xue Yang lets out a hurt noise—doesn't want to think on why. It takes a long, dizzy moment for him to realize Xiao Xingchen had jerked Song Lan back by the hair, pulling him into a deep kiss. Xue Yang hears the broken sound in the back of Song Lan's throat, feels it get choked off, and he squeezes his eyes closed at the rejection—at how lost they are within each other so quickly while he's stuck humping Song Lan's wet thigh like an untrained dog. Fuck, he's into this—he's such a mess—he needs this so fucking bad—
He cums like that, sobbing into Song Lan's collar. It takes a long time before he starts to come down from it. He floats for a while, straddling Song Lan's thigh while his hard cock pokes into his leg, listening to the wet sounds in his ear. He imagines it. Song Lan must taste like piss and alcohol, all the different liquids that have gone into his mouth tonight. He thinks of his piss in Xiao Xingchen’s mouth, of what he must taste as they’re kissing above him. It brings him some comfort—that Xiao Xingchen will bring a part of Xue Yang home with him; he's marked them both as his.
Whatever. It's fine; he doesn't even want to kiss Song Lan anyways. Maybe he could get his attention if he put his mouth on his dick. He reaches for Song Lan's fly, only to be brought up short by a hand around his wrist.
Xiao Xingchen is looking down at him, concerned and kind. He takes Xue Yang's chin with his other hand, and draws him into a tender kiss. Deliriously, Xue Yang thinks he can make out the taste of his own piss on his tongue; a shiver of satisfaction runs through him. All at once he's desperate again. This could be the last time Xiao Xingchen ever kisses him.
Finally Xiao Xingchen pulls back. "Are you okay?" he asks. Xue Yang blinks at him, struggling to summon up his words. He's still drunk, dizzy, the world spinning slowly around him, but somehow, he thinks, he feels better.
He's starting to register where he is: how all three of them are soaked and reeking of piss—Song Lan the worst of them all—and sitting on the dirty pavement. A breeze picks up in the cool night air, chilling his clammy skin, and he shudders. Unexpectedly Xiao Xingchen unbuttons his soft white cardigan, draping it around his shoulders. Song Lan is a line of heat below him. Xue Yang nods minutely, pressing himself tight against Song Lan's body; taking in this moment before he has to go back to his dark, empty apartment.
But then: "Do you want to come home with us?" He whips his head up, just to make sure he heard right. "Home, with us," Xiao Xingchen repeats, as sincere as he always looks. "We'd love it if you could, A-Yang."
Xue Yang pulls away in shock, looks up to see Song Lan nodding too, staring at him. Maybe it's the alcohol talking, but Xue Yang swears he looks fond. "We all need a shower after that anyways," he mutters.
Xue Yang stares between them, bewildered.
"Yeah," he says. "Of course I will, what the fuck, who'd say no to you two?"
Xiao Xingchen laughs and ruffles Xue Yang's hair. They help him up to his feet, leading him out of the alley toward the street. Despite the evening breeze, Xue Yang is warm between them.