Mo Fan watches as An Wenyi kisses Qiao Yifan.
Wenyi’s hand is on Yifan’s cheek, the other curled possessively around his hip, holding him close. Their kisses are soft, familiar, as though they’ve been doing this for years, but even from where he’s standing, Mo Fan can hear Yifan moan.
It’s the single most erotic thing Mo Fan has heard in his life.
He’s jealous, but he can’t imagine anyone not by being somewhat envious of what he’s seeing in front of him. Both Wenyi and Yifan are gorgeous in their own right – together like this they’re works of art. He’s jealous of the way Wenyi is stroking Yifan’s skin, delicate like porcelain. He’s jealous of the way Yifan has his hands in Wenyi’s hair, gently tugging him into whatever position he craves. He’s jealous of the way they fit together so perfectly.
They pull apart and both turn to look at him. Their lips are kiss swollen, glistening, and both of them have flushed cheeks, and the sight takes his breath away. He doesn’t understand how or why this is happening, but they both have the same expression, one that says they want him as much as he wants them. It’s an intoxicating feeling, one he doesn’t entirely believe he deserves, but he’s nowhere near close to being strong enough to refuse the offer.
He steps forward, into the space they share, and looks first at Wenyi and then at Yifan. He feels like he should say something but his already insubstantial words fail him when Yifan licks his lips and smiles at him. This time the moan comes from him, and he leans into Yifan, unable to resist anymore.
Yifan kisses with the same intensity and seriousness he plays Glory, as though it’s the only thing that matters, and Mo Fan’s breath is taken away from all that attention being on him. Yifan’s arms are around his neck, keeping him pulled in close, and their bodies are pressed together enough that he can easily feel how much Yifan is enjoying this. Yifan’s lips part slightly and Mo Fan takes the opportunity to lick into his mouth, chasing a taste that is so completely and uniquely Yifan.
He feels another body press against him from behind, and he reaches back with one arm to pull Wenyi close, despite the awkward angle. Wenyi’s mouth is warm against the back of his neck, and Mo Fan can feel him leaving small butterfly kisses against the sensitive skin there, sending shivers through his body.
Reluctantly, he pulls away from Yifan, who sighs softly at the loss, and turns to find Wenyi’s clever mouth with his own. Wenyi’s kiss is different from Yifan’s, less intense but more desperate, as though he can’t possibly get enough, and Mo Fan wants nothing more than to give him everything he wants. Wenyi's hands are on his waist, the tips of his fingers sliding beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and it feels like his skin is burning in all the best ways.
He twists back and forward between the two of them, unable to stay away from either for too long. He’s already addicted to the taste of them, and he knows he’s close to falling in love with them both. Their attention on him is overwhelming though. It’s a lot, almost too much, and Mo Fan feels as though he’s on fire, sparks igniting through him from head to toe. He has to take a breath, just for a moment, before he loses himself. He reaches out his hands – one to each of them – and steps back, pulling them together. He watches as they seamlessly fall back into their own kisses, still holding his hands, occasionally breaking apart to smile at him, as if they want to make sure he’s still included.
The feelings running through him are no longer envy and jealousy. Now it’s love and desire and pride, and the feeling that he’s the luckiest person in the world.