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He wakes up palpably sticky with sweat everywhere he’s pressed up against another body. In their bed, under Li Lianhua’s thin blanket, heat radiates off Di Feisheng. Carefully, Fang Duobing scoots away. Di Feisheng doesn’t move. He sleeps like the dead most of the time, although the wrong movement will wake him instantly. Fang Duobing can’t bear Di Feisheng snarling at him just now. The inside of his head feels cottony and muzzy, the space behind his eyes pulsing faintly. The last jar of wine the night before really had been a mistake.
He has a faint sense-memory of being flung over Di Feisheng’s shoulder and carried bodily upstairs. He winces. Buries his face in Di Feisheng’s same shoulder and then, realizing what he’s done, recoils. They share a bed, yes, but they do not—well. Strictly speaking, Fang Duobing does often wake up curled up against Di Feisheng, but that’s because Fang Duobing’s sleeping body doesn’t know it’s Di Feisheng, demon lord of the jianghu. It just knows that he’s warm.
At least this is what Fang Duobing tells himself.
Before Di Feisheng, Fang Duobing had never shared a bed with anyone. He had grown up alone, the only child of wealthy parents, his bed his own. It had never occurred to Fang Duobing that this was strange until Wangfu had expressed surprise at receiving his own bed during their travels. Fang Duobing had slept alone that night as he always did and wondered at the absence for the first time.
Moving gingerly, Fang Duobing puts a good amount of space between himself and Di Feisheng, enough room that Hulijing could wedge her way in if she were so inclined, if she were ever to abandon her place curled up beside Li Lianhua. Trying to get comfortable, Fang Duobing settles back into feeling sorry for himself, for his headache and grogginess and the blossoming realization that what’s woken him is his bladder, calling him from bed’s warm embrace. Li Lianhua could have stopped him from drinking so much, but no. Some friend he was!
(A faint fragmented memory of someone’s hand on Li Lianhua’s knee. Li Lianhua swatting it off but not distastefully. Being ordered up to bed. Not his hand. Not his hand?)
Next to Fang Duobing, Di Feisheng’s breathing is slow and even and undisturbed. He didn’t drink too much. Or perhaps he did? Di Feisheng’s hand, Fang Duobing thinks, on Li Lianhua’s knee. The slow drawl of Li Lianhua’s voice: A’Fei, what do you think you’re doing? And Di Feisheng’s answer, irreverent, wine-soaked: I’m touching you. One of those looks had passed between them, sticky and private, the kind that Fang Duobing always felt excluded him and resented bitterly as a result. Old friends. Fang Duobing isn’t stupid; he knows that means they used to fuck.
Flopping onto his back, Fang Duobing stares at the canvas roof of Lotus Tower. Listens to Di Feisheng breathe. Tries to breathe in time with him. The light creeping in suggests it’s not so much earlier than Di Feisheng usually rises at the asscrack of dawn, crawling out over Fang Duobing’s body and carelessly bumping him awake. Fang Duobing has so little time left to enjoy the refuge of bed (less because he has to piss). He could sleep so much later if Li Lianhua would share with him instead.
He instinctively skitters away from that thought. He knows where it leads. He knows by now what he wants, even if he didn’t in the beginning. He thinks of Di Feisheng’s hand on Li Lianhua’s knee, lit by flickering firelight. Di Feisheng has strong, sturdy hands, hands that have tortured and killed people, hands that Fang Duobing has only ever felt on his body in violence. He has long fingers. Fang Duobing has looked at those hands, the knuckles on those fingers, has thought of how they would feel—
Fang Duobing rolls over onto his side. Burns with shame as he realizes he’s half hard just thinking about it. Di Feisheng is Di Feisheng. He killed Li Xiangyi. Fang Duobing can’t think about this here. Sliding toward the edge of the bed, Fang Duobing moves to get up.
A hand clamps down on his arm. “Fang Duobing, where do you think you’re going?” Di Feisheng grumbles, voice hoarse with sleep. To Fang Duobing’s horror, Di Feisheng closes the distance between their bodies, heat pouring off of him as he wraps his arm around Fang Duobing’s middle in a parody of an embrace.
“I have to piss,” Fang Duobing says. Not a lie.
Di Feisheng snorts. ”Is that what you were thinking about? How badly you have to piss?”
Fang Duobing freezes. His entire body goes cold. Di Feisheng is, after all, a very advanced martial artist. He might be able to—he could—it isn’t unheard of—
“I can hear how fast your heart is beating,” Di Feisheng says. “Not thinking about pissing, were you.”
Not a question.
Hesitating, Fang Duobing weighs lying. Doesn’t have the nerve. “No.”
”No,” Di Feisheng confirms. “We both know what you were thinking about.”
The shame is back, almost as hot as Di Feisheng’s bulk behind him. “I wasn’t,” Fang Duobing says too quickly. Di Feisheng can’t possibly know. He can’t read minds.
Di Feisheng’s breath is hot against the back of Fang Duobing’s neck as he says, ”Kid, most mornings, I wake up to you humping my leg like a dog.”
And, all right, Fang Duobing had wondered—wondered if Di Feisheng had noticed because it is many, if not most, mornings lately, but it’s hard when they share a bed and Fang Duobing has no privacy and barely enough time to take care of it without either of them noticing.
”I can smell it when you do it in our bed,” Di Feisheng growls into Fang Duobing’s ear. “It stinks for hours.”
“I’m sorry!” Fang Duobing blurts out. He tries to suppress the thought of Di Feisheng walking into their bedroom and smelling him. His arousal. His spend. His sweat. Di Feisheng’s face buried in their sheets. No—
Di Feisheng’s arm tightens around Fang Duobing’s abdomen, pulling him flush against Di Feisheng’s body. “Disgusting,” he says, grinding his hips against Fang Duobing’s ass. To his surprise, Di Feisheng is hard. Unbidden, Fang Duobing imagines it: Di Feisheng’s big cock buried inside of him. And it is big; Fang Duobing looked while they were bathing in the river. (Fang Duobing shouldn’t have looked.) Fang Duobing hasn’t ever—hasn’t even touched himself there—but he can imagine it. How it would feel. To let Di Feisheng press him down against their bed and shove it in. To be too full, achingly full of it, to feel him moving inside—
Fang Duobing groans, breaking off into a little sob when Di Feisheng thrusts up against him. It’s good, even through the thin cloth of their pants.
”Pathetic,” Di Feisheng spits. He scrapes his teeth over the nape of Fang Duobing’s neck before coming back and pressing a wet sucking kiss to it.
”So go downstairs and fuck Li Lianhua,” Fang Duobing snaps back. He pushes his ass back, shoving up against Di Feisheng’s erection.
Di Feisheng rocks back into him, careless of the angle. “Maybe I will,” he says. “Maybe I’ll make you listen to it.” Shifting downward, Di Feisheng presses his hand hard against Fang Duobing’s belly, right over his too-full bladder. It hurts.
Fang Duobing swats at Di Feisheng’s hand, expecting him to move it. He doesn’t. It stays there, holding Fang Duobing’s belly a little too tight. Each time Fang Duobing takes a full breath, a little pressure. A little ache. He needs to get up and piss. “Lao Di!” Fang Duobing shoves back, trying to dislodge him, but Di Feisheng rolls up into it, his hard cock sliding up into the cleft of Fang Duobing’s ass. Fang Duobing makes a choking noise, clenching down on nothing, a jolt of pain as it jostles his bladder. Mortification washes through him at how badly he wants there to be something inside of him to clench down on. How badly he wants it to be—
Di Feisheng snaps his hips up again, quick and sharp, and Fang Duobing hisses and clenches down and sobs at the throb of pain and the intensifying need. Clamps his thighs together. Each time Di Feisheng thrusts against him, Fang Duobing lets himself push into it a little bit more, press a little closer. Di Feisheng is panting raggedly in Fang Duobing’s ear, breath hot, the wet curl of his tongue against Fang Duobing’s skin.
Fang Duobing pretends he can’t hear the noises he himself is making, the needy sobs. And, fuck, he’s hard. He’s achingly hard and he wants to touch himself but he’s afraid—afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to hold it any longer. “Lao Di,” he whines.
Di Feisheng grumbles and shifts a little in their bed, and then—through cloth, Di Feisheng’s cock rubs dully against his hole.
Fang Duobing’s eyes slide shut and he lets his head fall back against Di Feisheng’s shoulder and to his lasting shame he starts to beg. He doesn’t notice immediately, as if his mouth has a headstart on him, but then the noises coming out of his mouth are: please, please, please. Little huffing breaths. Embarrassment welling up in him like tears.
“If I fucked you right now, you’d piss yourself,” Di Feisheng says casually. He presses down on Fang Duobing’s belly, threatening. Fang Duobing moans. It aches but there’s an unexpected pleasure to it that shoots through him. A fullness more obscene than getting fucked. It should not make him want to come. Should not make him leak a little, a pathetic spurt of what he has to hope is precome. He holds his thighs tighter together as if that will help. (Maybe Di Feisheng could fuck him there instead.)
Then, Di Feisheng starts to massage his lower belly, fingers firm and unyielding.
Fang Duobing yelps, too loud, “No!”
”Don’t wake him,” Di Feisheng hisses. Then, hooking his arm under Fang Duobing’s neck like he’s about to put him in a chokehold, Di Feisheng shoves three fingers into Fang Duobing’s mouth.
Fang Duobing gags immediately and feels his dick twitch. Three fingers is too many, starting to stretch the corners of his mouth. He sucks a little, drooling messily around them, unable to keep his mouth shut tight enough to stop the spit from trickling down his chin. Di Feisheng isn’t fucking his mouth with them, but he keeps pushing them a little deeper, a little deeper, until Fang Duobing’s lips brush up against the second knuckle.
He imagines his hole stretched around them, all of them, and spills a little, dribbling precome into his pants, and it hurts it hurts it hurts with how much he needs to piss and how hard he is. He’s crying, tears dripping down his cheeks, swallowing down soft gasps.
“Stop crying,” Di Feisheng snaps at him. “What are you crying for?”
Fang Duobing gives a ragged sob.
“Fine. I’ll give you something to cry about.”
And then Di Feisheng’s hand is gone, a momentary relief until it slides downward, cupping him through his pants. Fang Duobing gasps, choking a little on Di Feisheng’s fingers as Di Feisheng strokes him, overwhelming sensation even through cotton. Fang Duobing wants to come immediately, from the moment Di Feisheng touches him, but he can’t. He can’t. He needs to piss too badly to come. He needs to come too badly to piss. Fang Duobing keens as Di Feisheng keeps stroking him, merciless.
”I’m going to have to smell this all day. On the sheets. On our clothes. On my hands. On your skin,” Di Feisheng bites out. “You need to learn to control your urges. You are not an animal.” Di Feisheng’s hand abruptly leaves Fang Duobing’s cock and pushes on his bladder, hard enough that Fang Duobing can’t help himself.
He sobs a little, hot and humiliated, as it spills over his crotch, just a little at first and then so much more, dripping down over his thighs, hot and relentless. The stale alcohol reek of it. Spitting out Di Feisheng’s fingers, Fang Duobing hiccups. “I hate you.”
”Don’t get piss on the bed,” Di Feisheng says before rolling away. “And don’t let Li Lianhua see what a mess you’ve made of yourself.”
Fang Duobing lies there as shame curls in his belly. He’s no better than a child. The wetness cools quickly, soaked fabric clinging horribly to his skin. When he can’t stand it any longer, he slips out of their bed. Shucks his underclothes off. Uses the mostly clean shirt to wipe himself down. Pulls on a clean set of underclothes. When he turns to go down the stairs, Di Feisheng calls out from behind him, “Don’t you dare touch yourself.”
To Fang Duobing’s lingering shame, he doesn’t.