Work Text:
Jiang Cheng’s most terrible secret is this: he’s a goddamn mess. He lives in constant fear that his secret isn’t actually secret, but so obvious as to be visible from space, and to compensate, he cloaks his personality in impatient, cutting snark. Thanks to years of repression, all his more difficult feelings are transmuted into anger by a sort of twisted, biochemical alchemy, and while he’s old enough now to know that this isn’t a good thing – that it is, in fact, the kind of habit for which he ought to seek the aid of a therapist and/or mood stabilisers – the fear of being pitied, dismissed and above all found out keeps him from doing so. He might be bad with people in general and worse at finding partners and friends in particular, but he’s very good at his job, and at the end of the day, he knows which of those things his parents value more.
Ordinarily, he’s fine with that, or at very least able to convince himself that it’s better than the alternative. Right now, though, he’s dying a thousand internal deaths at the realization that the only two people with whom he’s developed a professional rapport on this new contract – who are also, coincidentally, the only two people to whom he’s felt seriously attracted in literal years – are not only taken, but dating each other. The feeling is very like being punched, except that the moment when he gets his breath back never seems to come. Instead, he’s stuck in a torturous, never-ending moment where Wen Qing is murmuring slyly into Nie Mingjue’s ear, his big hand curled around her delicate waist, and nobody else at this dinner is remotely shocked, because even if they didn’t already know about it (oh god, Jiang Cheng should’ve known, why the fuck didn’t he know this?) they’re clearly not being disaster bisexuals about it, and goddamn Wei Wuxian to literal hell for adding that far-too-accurate phrase to his vocabulary.
Jiang Cheng makes himself sit down, which he’d somehow forgotten to do already, smiles a tight, forced smile, and proceeds to shred his paper napkin into tiny little pieces under the tablecloth. Two seats over, someone whose name he can’t remember is ordering wine for the table – bless them, Jiang Cheng is going to get so drunk about this – while all around them, his sort-of coworkers are happily celebrating the big contract Sunshot Industries just won, thanks in no small part to Jiang Cheng’s consultation work. Wei Wuxian can scoff all he wants about how management consultancy is the nadir of modern civilisation, but Jiang Cheng’s bank account is doing very nicely out of it, thank you, and at least he doesn’t need a rich-ass boyfriend to bankroll his quote-on-quote arts career.
Not that Jiang Cheng would object to having a rich-ass boyfriend; or a rich-ass girlfriend, for that matter. He just doesn’t need one to accomplish basic adult goals like “having a savings account” and “not getting his power cut off,” unlike a certain adoptive brother who’s always getting away with things that would see Jiang Cheng disowned –
“You’re quiet tonight,” says Wen Qing, smiling at him from across the table. Jiang Cheng’s train of thought comes to a screeching halt, as it always does when Wen Qing shows even a tiny bit of softness. Her eyes are dark and her lips are red, and for all the delicacy of her features, she’s razor-sharp when she needs to be – which, in her capacity as Sunshot’s in-house lawyer, is often.
“Sorry,” says Jiang Cheng, neck heating with the inadequacy of the response. He flails about for an addendum and comes up with, “Just thinking, I guess.”
“About what?”
“About all this.” He gestures at the table, trying to encompass the three months he’s spent with Sunshot. “I’ve really enjoyed working with you.”
“The pleasure has been ours,” says Nie Mingjue, in that deep, warm voice that presses some pathetically animal button in Jiang Cheng’s hindbrain. He’s in his mid-thirties, darkly handsome and solidly muscular in a way that’s uncommon in the corporate sphere, where most gym-goers aspire to the same, conventional, toned-but-not-bulky aesthetic as Jiang Cheng himself. Nie Mingjue, by contrast, has biceps (and pectorals, and forearms, the latter of which are maddeningly displayed whenever his shirtsleeves are rolled up, like they are now), and as Sunshot’s head contract negotiator, his physicality alone has been known to strike fear into the hearts of his opposite numbers. “Your work has been exemplary.”
“I’m honoured that you think so,” says Jiang Cheng, bowing to cover the flare of embarrassed arousal that always accompanies praise from Nie Mingjue in particular and attractive older men in general. Quit hogging the daddy issues, Wei Wuxian told him once, when they’d both turned out to be eyeing up the same silver fox at a clan event, as though it wasn’t inherently mortifying to be in competition with your own brother for a man old enough to have fathered the pair of you. I’m gay and I need this, Jiang Cheng, there’s not even any hot waiters, have mercy!
That had been pre- Lan Wangji, of course; these days, Wei Wuxian is disgustingly monogamous. Jiang Cheng suppresses a jealous scowl and straightens, shoving all thoughts of his brother aside. You can do this, he tells himself firmly. You can have a nice, normal dinner conversation with Wen Qing and Nie Mingjue, who are doubtless very happy together, and afterwards you can go home and masturbate in the shower. Incentives like this are helpful for Jiang Cheng; he strives to be disciplined with himself in all things, because the alternative is a long, slow slide into being a less talented version of Wei Wuxian, and that way madness lies.
And so he talks to Wen Qing and Nie Mingjue, his natural awkwardness mitigated partly by the fact that they’re both good conversationalists, but mostly by the arrival of several bottles of wine, to which Jiang Cheng unhesitatingly helps himself. When Nie Mingjue laughs heartily and voices approval of his drinking, Jiang Cheng takes a very large sip to hide his flush, but is otherwise able to act like a normal human all the way through the main course.
And then, while half the table is perusing their dessert menus, Wen Qing looks up at him and says, with just a trace of mischief, “Jiang Cheng, I have to ask – did you know before tonight that Mingjue and I were together?”
Jiang Cheng chokes on a mouthful of wine. He’s pleasantly buzzed enough that his suddenly burning cheeks can be blamed on the alcohol, but far too sober to lie convincingly.
“Um,” he stutters, wiping his chin with the back of his hand and wishing the ground would swallow him up, “uh, no, I didn’t – sorry. Should I have known?” And then, because he’s apparently lost just enough of his brain-to-mouth filter to ruin everything, “I didn’t mean to make either of you uncomfortable.” He freezes, absolutely bluescreening at the admission. “I mean, uh –”
“You didn’t,” says Wen Qing, smiling – smiling with her eyes, too, not just her mouth, and tipping her head just so to include Nie Mingjue in her apparent good humour. “We were just wondering, that’s all.”
“Oh,” says Jiang Cheng, mortified to a degree that he didn’t hitherto know was possible – and that’s saying something, given who his brother is. His face is on fire, and Wen Qing is still smiling at him, and Nie Mingjue’s mouth is curved in a sort of predatory smirk, and Jiang Cheng is going to literally die of embarrassment if he stays here a moment longer. “I’m. I’m just. Please, excuse me –”
He flees the table, beelining urgently for the restroom. It’s mercifully empty, and the restaurant is upmarket enough that the sinks are spotlessly clean, such that he feels no compunction about filling one with cold water and then dunking his face in. Jiang Cheng yells into the water, a stupid arglbargl sound as bubbles jet out of his mouth. He stays under for as long as he can, and when he finally lifts his head up, sucking in air, he’s wet from chin to hairline. He feels better, steadier, for all of two seconds – and then he properly looks in the mirror, and realizes Nie Mingjue is standing behind him, a sharp grin on his face.
Jiang Cheng watches his own eyes widen in horror.
“I’m,” he says, face turning red all over again, “I’m – I’m so sorry, I –”
“Don’t apologise,” Nie Mingjue says, and there’s a note in his voice that’s almost a purr, pinning Jiang Cheng in place as the older man steps up behind him. They’re watching each other in the mirror, and Jiang Cheng swallows hard at the visual reminder of just how much bigger than him Nie Mingjue is, broader and taller, rings glinting on his fingers where he sets both hands on Jiang Cheng’s shoulders and presses down just hard enough that Jiang Cheng makes an embarrassing noise in the back of his throat.
“Nie Mingjue –” he starts, aroused and helpless and desperately out of his depth.
“Just Mingjue.”
“Mingjue,” he breathes, trying not to stare at the bob of his own throat, “I – I’m flattered, but you – you have Wen Qing, and I –”
Mingjue chuckles, rich and dark. “She wants you, too.”
Jiang Cheng’s entire brain freezes. “What?”
Mingjue’s thumbs stroke gently against the wings of his shoulders as he leans in, setting his mouth to Jiang Cheng’s ear. “Qingqing wants this, too. All three of us. You, me, her.” A shudder runs down Jiang Cheng’s spine; he’s dizzy, breath coming too fast, and he’s shamefully hard just from this, his erection trapped against the edge of the sink. “Would you like that, Cheng-di? It’s fine if you don’t, but if you do –”
“Yes.” The word rasps out of him, echo-y and desperate. “I want that.”
He’s burning up under Mingjue’s touch; the whole thing feels surreal, like it can’t possibly be happening to him – spontaneous threesomes are the stuff of Wei Wuxian’s raunchier university anecdotes, not something that upright professional Jiang Cheng should be able to stumble into at the tail end of his twenties – but then Mingjue leans in and kisses his neck, a scrape of teeth beneath soft lips, and Jiang Cheng whimpers, shutting his eyes in embarrassment at his own transparent neediness.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Mingjue’s voice is gentle, teasing; he moves his hands to Jiang Cheng’s hips and squeezes. “We’re going to take such good care of you. Do you believe me?”
Jiang Cheng nods, because he’s forgotten how language works. Mingjue laughs and kisses his neck again.
“Come out whenever you’re ready, then,” he murmurs. “We’ll be waiting to take you home.” He hesitates, then adds, “Just know, you can change your mind at any time.”
“I won’t,” snaps Jiang Cheng, defensive anger rising like a shield as his eyes snap open. He glares at Mingjue’s reflection, feigning a confidence he doesn’t feel. “I don’t back out of commitments.”
“This isn’t work,” says Mingjue, dragging his fingertips slowly up the outside of Jiang Cheng’s thighs. Then his hands still, his voice abruptly serious. “We have to know you’ll tap out if you need to.”
Jiang Cheng burns all over again, anger and want and humiliation. Part of him is ready to say “Forget it, then,” and storm right out, but he’s achingly conscious of the fact that he hasn’t had sex for over a year, and deep down, he knows that Mingjue is not only being reasonable, but responsible, in asking.
“Okay,” he makes himself say, and Mingjue exhales, fingertips resuming his drag up Jiang Cheng’s thighs.
“Good boy,” says Mingjue, and that’s –
Jiang Cheng doesn’t quite white out for a second, but he certainly experiences a Moment. When he comes back to himself, he’s gripping the edge of the sink, his flush is hectic, and Mingjue is looking at him like he’s everything on the dessert menu. His eyes are dark, and with a final, parting squeeze to Jiang Cheng’s hips, he steps away and vanishes out of the restroom.
“What the fuck,” Jiang Cheng whispers to himself. He washes his face again, then hides himself in a stall when he realizes he’s still hard in his work pants, willing his dick to calm down enough that he can walk out again with what remains of his dignity.
In the end, it takes him a little over five minutes; he actually does use the bathroom for its intended purpose, thoroughly washes his face and hands again, and is halfway to convincing himself that Mingjue and Wen Qing will have already left without him, only to find that they’re both still there, albeit standing. It ought to be incongruous, but dessert has evidently proved a divisive issue: a small group of younger Sunshot employees is already breaking off to go drinking, so nobody seems to think it odd when the three of them make their farewells and depart, all leaving generous cash tips, as the meal itself has been paid for on the Sunshot expense account.
Thanks to Wen Qing’s efficiency, a rideshare is already waiting for them outside the restaurant. She smiles wickedly up at Jiang Cheng and loops her arm through his, guiding him into the back seat, and just like that, he’s all keyed up again, drymouthed and completely without a playbook. Mingjue gets in the front seat, chatting easily to the driver as they pull away, and Jiang Cheng is left staring at Wen Qing as she laces their fingers together, tracing her thumb in circles over his palm.
“Is this,” he says, then falters, pitching his voice lower, uncertain and yet knowing he has to ask, “I mean, is this – you’re really on board with this?”
Wen Qing arches an eyebrow at him, much as she would at any junior employee who dared to question her expertise. “What do you think?”
Jiang Cheng can think of no answer that isn’t woefully self-deprecating, and so he dares to stroke his own thumb across the back of her hand, hoping that suffices. She grins in response, her expression every bit as predatory as Mingjue’s was in the bathroom, and Jiang Cheng has the sudden, breathless premonition that he’s about to have a transformative experience.
Wen Qing doesn’t speak again for the rest of the trip: just toys lightly with his hand, running her manicured nails over his hand, the inside of his wrist and smiling that same, sharp smile whenever he dares to look at her. By the time they pull up on an unfamiliar street, Jiang Cheng is sweating. He has no idea how he makes it out of the car and up the steps to the doorman building, but suddenly Mingjue’s rough, warm hand is supporting the small of his back, and that’s all he can focus on as he’s ushered through to the elevator. Wen Qing hits the button for the penthouse suite, and as the closing doors obscure them from the doorman’s eyes, Jiang Cheng shivers with nervous anticipation.
Mingjue and Wen Qing’s apartment is spacious, exquisitely furnished and immaculately maintained. Ordinarily, Jiang Cheng would exclaim over the furnishings, let his attention linger on the beautiful rooftop garden lit by soft spotlights that he can glimpse beyond the sliding glass doors, but there’s nothing ordinary about what’s happening now. There’s a moment’s pause as they all remove their shoes, and then Mingjue’s hand is back on his waist and Wen Qing’s hand is on his jaw, turning him down to kiss her. Jiang Cheng makes a shocked noise and parts his lips, trembling with desire and uncertainty as she slides her hands into his hair. He’s achingly aware of her mouth on his; of Mingjue shifting to stand behind him, pressing up against his back – and then Mingjue bends to kiss his neck, and Jiang Cheng groans, wondering how on Earth he’s going to survive whatever happens next.
Wen Qing leans back and grins at him. She’s much shorter with her high heels removed, but no less intimidating.
“You’re sweet,” she says, stroking his cheek. “We like how sweet you are.”
Sweet is not a word that anyone has ever used to describe Jiang Cheng. He swallows, worried he’s being mocked, and Wen Qing seems to sense it, as she leans up on her toes and kisses him again, more shallowly than before, worrying his bottom lip between her small, white teeth.
“Will you be sweet for us, A-Cheng?”
Jiang Cheng nods helplessly. He’s hard in his slacks, and suddenly two sets of hands are turning him, until he’s facing Mingjue. Wen Qing’s hands find the buttons on his shirt, expertly popping them open, and Jiang Cheng has no words at all as Mingjue cups his face and kisses him, deep and hungry. It shouldn’t make such a difference, Jiang Cheng thinks wildly, to be touched by a second set of hands, and yet it does – he can’t see Wen Qing, can only derive her position based on the motion of her fingers, the brush of her mouth against his neck, the fleeting press of her breasts – and together with the forceful claim of Mingjue’s mouth, it has his heart racing.
When Mingjue pulls away, he curls a possessive hand around Jiang Cheng’s neck and squeezes just so. Behind him, Wen Qing has finished with the final button on his shirt and tugs it gently off his shoulders, leaving his torso bare. Her hands rest lightly on his belt, but make no move to unbuckle it, as though awaiting permission.
“I haven’t done this before,” Jiang Cheng says, suddenly.
“Haven’t done what?” asks Mingjue.
“This. A – a threesome. Whatever.” He looks away, embarrassed.
“Cheng-di.” Mingjue’s tone is firm, but not unkind, and after a moment, Jiang Cheng has no choice but to meet his gaze. “Have you been with a man before?”
“I have.”
Mingjue moves incrementally closer, rubbing a thumb along the edge of Jiang Cheng’s jaw, and when he speaks again, his voice is like black velvet. “Have you ever been fucked?”
“Yes,” croaks Jiang Cheng. And then, because he can feel the question hanging between them, “I liked it. I like – I like that.”
Mingjue kisses him again, and Jiang Cheng melts into it, skin prickling with goosebumps as Mingjue strokes his bare arms and Wen Qing starts to unbuckle his belt, deft hands working his fly. He jolts whenever she brushes his dick, but then Mingjue’s hands are back on his newly-bare waist, distracting him. All he can do is keep kissing and being kissed, shivering as Wen Qing slips both slacks and boxers off his hips, tugging the clothes down his legs, and suddenly he’s stark naked while they’re still clothed, trembling between them. Mingjue’s knuckles brush his dick, which leaps at the touch; Jiang Cheng grabs hold of Mingjue’s shirt and pulls him closer, wanting both to anchor himself and exert some sort of leverage, and therefore misses the moment when Wen Qing sheds her business attire. The next he sees, she’s wearing nothing but blood-red lingerie, and the sight is so hot that his brain short-circuits.
“Let me show you the bedroom,” she says, and leads him away by the hand, Mingjue following several steps behind them.
The bed is a king, equipped with soft grey sheets and a very sturdy headboard. Wen Qing unpins her hair, dark locks cascading around her pale throat, and shoves at Jiang Cheng’s shoulder until he stumbles back and sits on the edge of the mattress. Wen Qing smirks at him, curls her fingers over his collarbone and climbs onto his lap, the soft, damp satin of her panties rubbing against his cock. His hands move of their own volition, stroking her ribs and waist as she grinds against him, nipping at his lips with short, teasing kisses.
“There’s more of me to touch than that,” she says, and guides his hand to her breast, where he can feel her nipple firming up through the fabric.
“Fuck,” he whispers, and dares to put his mouth on her neck, kissing up to her jaw as she tips her head back. Her breasts are a perfect handful each – for him, at least; Mingjue’s hands are bigger – and he thumbs her nipples through the satin, already feeling desperate at the way she whimpers, writhing against him. She grabs his hand again and guides it down between her legs, where she’s wet enough to have soaked the fabric. Jiang Cheng swears and lets her show him what she wants, which is to be touched through the satin, his thumb slipping against the outline of clit and labia as she whines in her throat and kisses him, grinding into the contact. He’s desperately hard, cock bumping against the back of his own hand; Wen Qing pinches his nipples, making him gasp, and he’s so overwhelmed by everything about her that for a crucial moment, he forgets to wonder where Mingjue is.
Until, suddenly, a big hand covers his own over Wen Qing’s breast. Jiang Cheng breaks their kiss and looks up, heart rabbiting as Mingjue bends down and kisses Wen Qing. She leans her weight onto Jiang Cheng as she stretches up to Mingjue, one hand curling around her partner’s neck as she grips Jiang Cheng’s cock with the other. He makes a wounded noise, held in place by the pair of them; by how hot they look together, and the sheer impossibility of his being allowed to participate.
Wide-eyed, he watches as Mingjue lifts his head and undoes Wen Qing’s bra. It drops to the floor, and suddenly Mingjue is beside him, adding his own fingers to Jiang Cheng’s where they’re stroking Wen Qing’s clit.
“Tell me, Cheng-di,” he murmurs, kissing Jiang Cheng’s jaw as Wen Qing strains against them, “are you clean?”
Just barely, Jiang Cheng suppresses a startled laugh. He’s been sexually inactive for so long that if he was a volcano, he’d be categorized as dormant. “Yes,” he says, the word dissolving into a strangled noise as Mingjue sucks a hickey into his throat.
“Us, too,” says Wen Qing, panting as she bends down to bite at his earlobe. “Do you trust us, A-Cheng? Do you trust us with that, to go bare with us?”
Jiang Cheng is a rational, sensible, careful person who has never had unprotected sex in his life, not least because of a recurring nightmare he’d had in his teenage years about having to tell his mother he’d contracted an STD while still being a virgin. Rationally, he should be asking to see test results, but rationality isn’t what brought him here, except insasmuch as he wouldn’t have agreed to any of this if he didn’t fundamentally trust both Wen Qing and Mingjue in the first place, and it’s this thought that decides him.
“I trust you,” he gasps, and groans as Mingjue kisses him again.
“Sweet boy,” Wen Qing purrs in his ear – breathily, as she’s still riding their fingers. “Sweet boy, you’re going to fuck me later, but right now –” she jacks him again, his cock already sticky with precome, “– I think you should take the edge off.”
Jiang Cheng makes a garbled noise of assent and notices, very belatedly, that Mingjue is naked, his thick cock hard against his very thick thigh. With a final gasp, Wen Qing stands, slips out of her panties, and shoves Mingjue onto his back, straddling him with one hand braced on his chest. Jiang Cheng watches, open-mouthed with shock and arousal, as Wen Qing guides that thick cock inside her, eyes rolling back as she starts to ride him, fast and needy. Mingjue’s fingers work her clit; Wen Qing’s breathing turns to urgent half-gasps, and suddenly she’s crying out, grabbing at Mingjue’s wrist to still him as she comes. He grins, not letting her pull him away until he’s wrung the aftershocks out of her: the whole thing has taken barely a minute, and now she’s swaying bonelessly towards Jiang Cheng, glowing in the aftermath like something out of a fantasy.
“Lie down, A-Cheng,” she tells him, and Jiang Cheng scrambles to comply, head on a plush, soft pillow as he stares at her down the length of his body. Mingjue slips out of Wen Qing, still hard, and rolls on his side to watch as Wen Qing slides between Jiang Cheng’s legs and takes him in her mouth.
“Oh fuck,” Jiang Cheng gasps, “oh god, fuck –”
Wen Qing’s mouth is plush and soft. He can feel her tongue working, lapping up his precome like a cat with cream; he knows this is meant to be taking the edge off, but he tries to hold back, not wanting to come in the first ten seconds. His desperate gaze lands on Mingjue, whose eyes go dark as he moves up the bed to Jiang Cheng’s side. Jiang Cheng whimpers deep in his throat as Mingjue kisses him again, one hand teasing his nipples. He’s been on edge for so long that it’s all too much: he comes with a cry that Mingjue swallows, hips bucking up as he fills Wen Qing’s mouth, and he flops back, feeling wrung out.
Wen Qing wipes her lips and stretches over him, kissing first him and then Mingjue, as though they’re sharing the taste of him. Her breasts press against his chest as Mingjue lies beside them, running an idle hand over Wen Qing’s back.
“Well, now,” she murmurs, looking extremely pleased with herself. “That was a very good start.”
Mingjue chuckles, his cock pressing against Jiang Cheng’s hip. Through the haze of his endorphin high, it suddenly strikes Jiang Cheng as unfair that Mingjue alone hasn’t come yet, but he doesn’t quite have the words to articulate this. Instead, he tries to shift beneath Wen Qing, looking pleadingly at her while flicking his gaze down – it’s utterly shameless, the sort of thing he wouldn’t ordinarily do, but he’s feeling fuzzy around the edges in a way that isn’t wholly due to the orgasm, and now that the thought has occurred to him, he badly wants to suck Mingjue’s cock.
“Hmm,” says Wen Qing. She studies Jiang Cheng with a mock-frown on her face, and for a horrible moment he worries that he’s done the wrong thing, ruined her plans somehow. It must show on his face, because her smile comes back instantly, soft and reassuring. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says, “here, I know what you need. You want to use your mouth? You want to be sweet for Mingjue?”
Jiang Cheng burns all over and nods, because he can’t speak. Wen Qing beams at him and rolls off, giving his hip an affectionate pat as she does so.
“Good boy,” she murmurs, and Jiang Cheng makes a strangled noise, the words fizzing through him like champagne bubbles. Nearly euphoric at the praise, he moves between Mingjue’s legs and looks up at him through his lashes, desperate for more approval.
“Good,” says Mingjue, running a hand through Jiang Cheng’s hair as, with a whimper, he takes him into his mouth. Mingjue’s cock is tacky with Wen Qing’s slick, the taste a mix of salt and musk that he chases with his tongue, licking Mingjue clean, guided by the scratch of fingernails against his scalp. He vaguely registers when Wen Qing rises from the bed, but he’s too busy trying to take as much of Mingjue into his mouth as possible to give it much thought. There’s a floating feeling, Jiang Cheng’s found, that comes from giving head: his anxiety switches off, all his senses narrowed down to the task of pleasing someone else, of being good, and every twitch and thrust of Mingjue’s hips, every tightening of the hand in his hair, is a sign he’s doing well. He’s not hard again himself, not yet – he isn’t nineteen any more – but it won’t be long; he can’t help rutting against the mattress, hips working in helpless little circles as he braces his hands on Mingjue’s thighs and swallows until he chokes.
“Look at you,” rasps Mingjue, petting Jiang Cheng’s hair in a way that’s more like pulling. “You’re perfect, Cheng-di, I thought about you doing this in my office, thought about you on your knees for me, sucking my cock with my tie around your wrists, just staying where I put you –” He breaks off, groaning, and Jiang Cheng can tell he’s close, redoubles his efforts as his own dick starts to chub up again, “– always so sweet, you’re so good for us –”
Jiang Cheng would sob at that, but his mouth is full of Mingjue: his cock, his come, a hot burst that goes on forever. He swallows desperately, as though by doing so he can take Mingjue’s praise into himself, and whimpers as he pulls off, still licking traces from the head of his softening dick.
The bed dips behind him. Wen Qing has returned, and he feels her gentle fingers stroking the backs of his thighs.
“So good,” she coos, “A-Cheng, will you kneel up for me?”
He obeys without question, all self-consciousness atomized by the thrum of approval, the taste of come; he keeps his forehead pressed to Mingjue’s hip, breathing in the scent of him, and moans low in his throat when Mingjue resumes petting his hair, blunt nails scratching at his scalp.
He feels Wen Qing move between his legs; feels her squeeze his ass, a slim hand sliding under to press and stroke at his perineum. Then he hears the click of a cap, and a cool, lubed finger presses at his entrance. He exhales against Mingjue’s hip and bears down for her, flushed all the way from cheek to chest. Mingjue murmurs praise to him, and he floats a little, barely aware of anything but the gentle slip of Wen Qing’s fingers inside him, smaller than he’s used to; of the scent of Mingjue every time he inhales. Wen Qing can’t reach too far inside him, but her touch ignites him nonetheless. His cock is hard again, hanging obscenely between his legs, and when Wen Qing finally draws her fingers out, he’s expecting her to touch him.
Instead, he feels the unfamiliar press of something cool and firm against his entrance – something thicker than fingers, and made from plastic. He jerks his head up, staring at Mingjue, frozen with just the tip of whatever-it-is inside him.
“Is this all right, didi?” Mingjue asks, and something in Jiang Cheng rolls over and bares its throat at being called didi like this. “Would you like Qingqing to fuck you open for me?”
“Oh god,” Jiang Cheng gasps, “oh god, fuck, please –”
Wen Qing soothes his hip as her strap slides into him, opening him up. It’s tapered, thinner at the tip than the base, and at the deepest point of each slow, purposeful stroke, it opens him just wide enough that, every time, he thinks it’ll be too much, until it isn’t. She squeezes his hips with both hands, fucking him slowly, telling him how sweet and pretty he is. His cock is dripping, untouched still and so hard it hurts, but he doesn’t try to touch himself, because nobody’s told him to.
“Didi,” says Mingjue, and Jiang Cheng stares at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “Didi, will you be a good boy and get me ready for you?”
“Yes, da-ge,” Jiang Cheng breathes. Mingjue swears and grips his hair, and Jiang Cheng would feel embarrassed about letting that slip out – will probably have to reckon with himself about it later – but right now, all he can focus on is the relentless, slow press of Wen Qing’s cock inside him and the feel of Mingjue in his mouth. Mingjue’s eyes fall shut with a groan; he holds his head in place, letting Jiang Cheng suckle him back to hardness. As Mingjue thickens against his tongue, Wen Qing starts to fuck him harder, her thrusts pushing him further onto Mingjue’s cock, until he’s fully hard again and Jiang Cheng is in danger of choking. He’s about to say as much – or try to, anyway – when Mingjue puts two fingers under his chin and guides him off.
“Good boy,” he says, and Jiang Cheng trembles as Wen Qing slowly pulls out of him, leaving him clenching down on nothing. He whines at the empty feeling and is relieved when Mingjue kisses him, drawing him up on his knees as Wen Qing comes to lie down before him. When Mingjue lets Jiang Cheng go, Wen Qing’s strap is gone and she’s lying with her hips tilted up on a small, wedge-shaped pillow, one leg cocked to rub her foot against his thigh.
“Come here, A-Cheng,” she says, and Jiang Cheng goes, letting her guide him onto her. She’s flushed and smiling, and takes the time to kiss him properly, smoothing a palm across his ribs. “You ready to fuck me, sweet boy?”
He makes a garbled, affirmative noise. She pets his hair and laughs, kissing his cheek.
“Ready for Mingjue to fuck you, too?”
Jiang Cheng whites out briefly, or at least he assumes that’s what happens. No time seems to pass at all, but it feels like his heart is beating outside his body. “Yes,” he slurs, and his tongue feels thick in his mouth, clumsy with need.
Breath hitching, Wen Qing reaches down and guides him into her. She’s wet and tight, and Jiang Cheng, who has never barebacked in his life, groans at how much better it feels than anything he’s done before, the slick, intimate clench of her around his bare cock. He thrusts once, then seats himself in the cradle of her hips, weight braced on his knees and forearms – and then he feels Mingjue move up behind him, his big hands parting Jiang Cheng’s cheeks as he presses the head of his cock against his ass.
“Go slowly,” Wen Qing says, and Jiang Cheng doesn’t know which of them she’s talking to; he’s too busy trying to control his breathing. Mingjue is as thick all over as Wen Qing’s strap was at the base, and sheathed in the heat of her, the feeling of Mingjue pushing into him, slow yet inexorable and big, so big, is utterly overwhelming. Mingjue stills as Jiang Cheng cries out, stroking a worried hand over his hip.
“Too much?”
Jiang Cheng shakes his head, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes. It is too much, but in the very best way; he just needs a moment, that’s all. His body adjusts; he breathes again, and nods for Mingjue to continue. But Mingjue stays still, hands still stroking his hips and waist.
“Need to use your words, didi,” Mingjue says, leaning forwards to kiss the top of Jiang Cheng’s spine. “Is this all right?”
“Please,” Jiang Cheng all but sobs. “Da-ge, please, fuck me.”
“Anything for you,” says Mingjue, and does so.
If Jiang Cheng hadn’t come once already, he would’ve been undone on the first thrust. Wen Qing’s legs are around them both, her cunt clenched tight around his dick, and Mingjue is fucking him so hard and deep that he knocks Jiang Cheng forward each time, so that he’s not so much fucking Wen Qing himself as being used to fuck her. He’s sheened with sweat, gasping and desperate; Wen Qing rocks beneath him, slim hands curled around his forearms as she whines with pleasure, while Mingjue picks up speed behind him, fingers digging into his hips. It’s so intense that Jiang Cheng loses himself, his entire body wound impossibly tight as he’s fucked between them, wrecked and claimed and held at a brink he can’t tip over.
Then:
“Next time,” Wen Qing gasps, “I’ll have Mingjue take you first, so I can fuck his come back into you. Would you like that, sweetheart?”
The dirty talk is one thing, but it’s the concept of next time that gets him; the idea that this might be more than a one-night stand.
“You really –” he starts, and chokes on the words as Mingjue rams into him, grinding his cock so deep into Jiang Cheng’s body that he can practically feel it in his throat.
Mingjue crowds over him, sucking a biting kiss into Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. “Cheng-di,” he rasps, “we both want you. Want you more than just for this, but this – this is good, too. Do you want that, didi? Want to be with us?”
“Yes,” sobs Jiang Cheng, “oh god, fuck, please, can I come, da-ge, Qingqing? Can I come now?”
Mingjue swears, fucking into him harder. “Such a good boy, you can come –”
“Come in me,” Wen Qing gasps, arching under him, “A-Cheng, come on –”
Jiang Cheng makes an impossible noise and comes so hard his ears ring as his vision blacks out. He collapses across Wen Qing, shuddering through his aftershocks as Mingjue comes in turn, filling him up. He doesn’t lose consciousness, but he drifts for a little while, heavy-limbed and insensible, vaguely aware of being rolled onto his side; of Mingjue tenderly cleaning him up; of Wen Qing stroking his hair. He blinks, or does something that feels like blinking, and when he comes back to himself, he finds his fingers entwined with Wen Qing’s, her grip tensing and flexing against him as Mingjue eats her out. The noises she’s making are gorgeous, and Jiang Cheng shudders all over to realise that Mingjue is licking his come out of her. He watches greedily, too exhausted to get aroused again but unable to look away, and when Wen Qing comes with a choked-off sound, he squeezes her hand in sympathy.
Wen Qing’s head lolls on the pillow, eyes slightly out of focus as she looks at him. She frowns for a moment, then smiles and tugs at him, urging him closer. Jiang Cheng obliges, albeit with considerable difficulty; his bones feel like they’ve stopped working. Mingjue’s mouth is shiny with slick as leans down to kiss Jiang Cheng again; the taste of him is dizzying. With a grunt of effort, Mingjue pulls away, levers himself over Jiang Cheng’s legs and spoons up behind him, one arm wrapped around his waist, while Wen Qing cuddles against his chest with a satisfied sigh.
“We should really have a proper conversation,” she murmurs sleepily, “but that can wait ‘till morning, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” breathes Jiang Cheng, and for the first time in a very long time, he isn’t afraid at all.