[ He’d known - of course he’d known - exactly how the two of them found entertainment. He’d tortured himself every night this week, listening to them in the dark when they thought he was sleeping. Every time Xingchen giggled and whispered to be quiet, every time his gentle laughter turned to moans.
He hated it. Or, more accurately, it made him hate himself with an intensity as hot as the inner furnace of the sun.
He had told himself he could bear it. That Xingchen’s happiness was worth his own broken heart 800 times over, that he deserved this for what happened between them.
That he deserved this for never having found the courage to touch Xingchen himself.
Hearing it had been torture.
Watching it was a special, unique brand of hell.
He was up before he even realised he was moving, actually jumping over the fire and landing light as a nightingale right in front of them. He moved sharply and pointedly but silently as he could, only a swish of fabric audible.
That way Xingchen wouldn’t know that Song Lan had grabbed the back of Xue Yang’s neck, fingers digging hard into his throat. Not cutting off air, but a good enough grip that he could slowly pull Xue Yang’s head back away from Xingchen’s crotch. ]
Fine.
[ The fact that he was shaking made his voice waver with unwanted emotion, made his grip on Xue Yang quiver in time. He felt like a cafed animal was trying to rip itself out of his chest, painful and hot all at once.
But worst was the way his blood had pooled in his groin - the way his jealousy had barely twisted his need, and only fueled his arousal.
He couldn’t think about it. He refused.
He couldn’t afford to hate himself any more than he already did. ]
no subject
He hated it. Or, more accurately, it made him hate himself with an intensity as hot as the inner furnace of the sun.
He had told himself he could bear it. That Xingchen’s happiness was worth his own broken heart 800 times over, that he deserved this for what happened between them.
That he deserved this for never having found the courage to touch Xingchen himself.
Hearing it had been torture.
Watching it was a special, unique brand of hell.
He was up before he even realised he was moving, actually jumping over the fire and landing light as a nightingale right in front of them. He moved sharply and pointedly but silently as he could, only a swish of fabric audible.
That way Xingchen wouldn’t know that Song Lan had grabbed the back of Xue Yang’s neck, fingers digging hard into his throat. Not cutting off air, but a good enough grip that he could slowly pull Xue Yang’s head back away from Xingchen’s crotch. ]
Fine.
[ The fact that he was shaking made his voice waver with unwanted emotion, made his grip on Xue Yang quiver in time. He felt like a cafed animal was trying to rip itself out of his chest, painful and hot all at once.
But worst was the way his blood had pooled in his groin - the way his jealousy had barely twisted his need, and only fueled his arousal.
He couldn’t think about it. He refused.
He couldn’t afford to hate himself any more than he already did. ]
I’ll tell you a story.