Work Text:
"What the fuck is the matter with you?!"
The question is, as it tends to be, really pointless in the face of someone as irrational as Mu Qing. As far as Feng Xin is concerned, everything is always Capital T, Capital M The Matter with Mu Qing, and nothing will ever not be Capital T, Capital M The Matter with Mu Qing. For all he pretends to be some kind of level-headed, magnanimous overlord of rationality, Feng Xin has never met a man more temperamental, hot-headed, and downright fucking bitchy as Mu Qing.
And Feng Xin has met Quan Yizhen.
And he's met Shi Wudu.
And, he's met fucking Hua Cheng.
And yet, none of the other temperamental, bitchy men who's passed through his realm of patience had ever tried him quite the way that Mu Qing does. Mostly, probably, because none of them have ever flung the door to his bedroom open at 4pm on a fucking Saturday, commanding all of his attention like Feng Xin was something other than his roommate.
Like he was his vassal—which was a word that Feng Xin had helpfully learned four whole weeks ago in his Global History 104 course and seemed to be the most appropriate thing he could fish for in the moment.
(This is likely due to the fact that Feng Xin's Global History 104 homework is splayed across his bed and the word Vassal and it's definition are staring back up at him. He will remember this moment in two more weeks, on his midterm exams.)
Mu Qing seethes in Feng Xin's doorway, his hair scraped back into a tight ponytail that dangles down all the way to the small of his back. It's still swishing with the residual force under which Mu Qing had flung the door open, making him look more like an irritated cat than anything else. It doesn't help that his black-laquered nails curl around the doorframe like claws, and his shoulders hunch up around his ears in the sharp, hissing fury that Mu Qing always seems to carry with him.
It makes him look like the tight black jeans and the matching black turtleneck he's wearing are just a coat of shiny fur.
Or that could be the fact that, because it's a Saturday at 4pm, Feng Xin is kinda high.
Kinda.
"Are. You. Insane?" Mu Qing grits, in the same careful and precise way that a butcher's knife separates meat from bone.
"I don't know," Feng Xin replies, already feeling the heat of irritation at Mu Qing burning up under his skin. "I thought being fucking crazy was your thing, not mine."
"At least I'm not the one who left fucking drugs on the counter in the kitchen like a fucking idiot!" Mu Qing snaps, wrenching one bony wrist to the side to grab for the pile of shit on Feng Xin's dresser that he hadn't yet put away (and that he hadn't put away for like… four weeks.) Narrow-boned fingers wrap around a bottle of over the counter painkillers that Feng Xin stole from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and forgot to put back, flinging it with deadly force directly at Feng Xin's chest. "I knew that you were stupid but forgive me for thinking that you were the second-most irresponsible person that I knew."
The bottle rattled where it hit Feng Xin's chest and his dulled reaction time was somehow still enough to catch it when it bounced slightly off his pectoral. He tossed it down onto his bed as he stumbled up off of it. "Dude! I know you're crazy fucking paranoid about this shit, but I keep all my weed in the bedroom like we discussed. I didn't leave shit out in the kitchen. Are you sure you didn't spill your fucking oregano or some shit? Oh—sorry, we all know that you're the fucking clean-freak and would never spill a fucking spice."
"First of all—" Mu Qing has the audacity to hold up a finger—a finger— when he starts. "It's a fucking herb not a spice. Next time you see your former lacrosse coach you can ask to be screened for another concussion because I'm starting to think that every single time you get hit in the fucking head, you lose forty percent of your mental capacity."
"Hey!"
"Second! Even if I did spill an herb on the counter, I don't think it would have manifesting into fucking weed brownies."
Oh.
Ooh.
Feng Xin winces.
He did leave those on the kitchen counter. In his defense, he had been planning on moving them! Really. He'd gone to Xie Lian's that morning to drop off some stuff that Xie Lian had left at their usual Friday night hangout, and Shi Qingxuan had been there. She'd offered Feng Xin a few wrapped brownies that she'd made herself, claiming she had overdone it a little with the oils and warned him thrice over that they were really strong. Xie Lian had taken a quarter of one and had been, when Feng Xin was there, mostly asleep in his creep of a boyfriends lap on the couch. With… for some reason, his creep of a boyfriends personal assistant gently rubbing his calves.
Feng Xin didn't want to stay long enough to go through the process of politely rejecting Shi Qingxuan and nor did he want to be around her in her barely-there crop top or her tiny shorts for a fucking moment longer than necessary.
So he took all half-dozen of the brownies she offered and immediately fucked off as fast as he could.
And then proceeded to leave them in the fucking kitchen.
Leave them in the kitchen as she had given them to him, individually wrapped on a plate and topped with a little piece of tape that boasts the reader to 'help yourself!'
Feng Xin is boned.
Feng Xin is so boned.
Actually—there is boned and then there is what Feng Xin is.
There is boned and then there is actually leaving weed brownies on the counter with a help yourself sign where your only and least tolerable and most paranoid and most dog-shit roommate would see them the second he got home from his night shift bussing tables at the diner down the road.
So Feng Xin does the only thing he can in moments like this. "Well what the fuck were you doing going through my shit?! If it wasn't yours, leave it the fuck alone!" He doubles down.
The next thing Mu Qing throws is a fit. "I have to be down at the gym for work in two hours!!" He bites, "there was a sign on it that said help yourself. It was intentional, wasn't it? You wanted me to stop working at your precious fucking gym so bad that you drugged me."
"Yeah, because clearly the handwriting on the fucking note is mine, right? Especially the fucking heart on it? If I wanted you to stop working at the gym, maybe I'd tell your boss about you letting people in to use the showers without a membership?"
Mu Qing's face colors with a fury that Feng Xin knows means that this is going to come to blows. He braces for the first blow. Feng Xin is stronger than Mu Qing, just in terms of raw power. He isn't any taller than him—no, they shook out to equal heights after a vicious and cut-throat back and forth of measurements during the years—but he's got at least twice his body-weight in muscle. He's stronger than Mu Qing, but he's never been any faster than him.
He's used to fights starting with Mu Qing's lightning crack fist meeting the cut of Feng Xin's jaw and ending with Feng Xin bringing him to the ground and pinning him like some unruly street cat.
They had been sparring since they were both thirteen, scrappy little kids bringing each other down into the dirt. Feng Xin has long been used to it. It's become more of a communication tactic than anything else, as far as Feng Xin figures. If they fight with their fists than they don't have to talk, and if they don't have to talk then no one says anything that the other one can warp or misunderstand.
A fight with words can keep going and going until someone says something they can't take back.
A fight with fists?
A fight with fists has a clear beginning and ending.
It's succinct.
He braces for the blow that doesn't come.
Well—okay.
He braces for the blow that doesn't come the way he expects it.
Feng Xin expects Mu Qing to punch him with his fucking mean right hook. He doesn't expect Mu Qing to barrel directly into his chest with the full-force of his minuscule body-weight.
All that escapes Feng Xin is a muffled: "Oof."
He fumbles to catch Mu Qing, who stares up at him with a furious, agitated gaze. The rise of his delicate cheekbones are flushed a deep and burning pink, and his pupils are entirely blown. The darkness of them wholly eclipses the deep brown of his iris, leaving him looking so much like a predator caught up with his prey. Feng Xin's mouth goes dry.
Mu Qing's lips part, slightly red and glossy. "I—" Mu Qing chokes, the fury in his eyes burning itself across his twisted, cat-shit-smelling expression. "Fuck you."
"You missed," Feng Xin teases, his chest starting to burn with something he keeps trying to keep kicked down. "Also how many of my fucking brownies did you steal?"
"J-just one," Mu Qing snaps. "I can't go to work like this, I can't—my legs—I can't fucking—"
"Finish a sentence?" Feng Xin taunts. "That'll teach you to steal my shit."
Feng Xin texts Mu Qing's boss, calling him in sick for the day, and clears the homework off his bed before he tips Mu Qing into it. Mu Qing falls forward into it, clambering up into the corner of the full-sized bed. Feng Xin tries to remember the last time he changed his sheets and when he can't come up with a time or date, he opts to just not bring it up to Mu Qing.
Mu Qing seems happy enough to burrow down into Feng Xin's sheets, pressing his face into one of the two (2) navy pillows that is on Feng Xin's bed.
"This smells terrible."
Well, maybe not.
Feng Xin scoffs, ignoring Mu Qing on the bed before sitting himself down on the floor beside it. Once he settles himself in, perched cross-legged in the ancient off-campus carpeting, he leans up to reach for his crowded bedside table for his lighter. He sits there, finding his tin and his favorite piece on the floor.
"Then don't put your fucking face in it."
It's a pretty-looking bong, the blown glass mixed with oranges and reds to make it look like quick-cut lines crawling up the shaft of it. He packs it before takes a long, greedy hit. If he was going to be babysitting a too-stoned Mu Qing, he's going to need the extra external support.
"What are you doing?"
Feng Xin's nearly jumps out of his fucking skin, swearing under his breath as he wrenches his head around to face Mu Qing. Mu Qing, whose head hovers a few inches away from him, turns to look at him as well with massive, curious eyes.
"I need to put a fuckin' bell on you, holy fuck-shit," Feng Xin chokes, the surprise making his lungs burn with the need to cough. Which… of course he fucking does.
"If you start hacking up a lung after taking one hit, maybe you shouldn't be smoking." Mu Qing says it like it's fact. Feng Xin has never wanted to cave in anyone's face more.
The buzz is so warm, though. And Mu Qing is so pretty.
And—well. Fine. Sure, Feng Xin thinks that Mu Qing is pretty! Like, who wouldn't?! Feng Xin is a straight man. That much he has known since he was little kid. He's a straight men who doesn't like other men. He likes chicks.
But this does not discount the fact that some men are built like chicks.
This does not discount the fact that Mu Qing is built like a chick.
He's all narrow bones and a slight waist that dips right in the middle and skinny thighs and lean muscle that sticks close to his skin. He's built like a runner trying to dodge muscle growth. Mu Qing has always had long, silky hair and thick lashes and heavy lips perpetually pulled into a slight pout. He's prettier than most girls that Feng Xin has met, honestly. He's pretty sure it's only natural to think that Mu Qing is pretty, really. Like… who would disagree with that?
"I'm taking a hit, I'm not gonna let you be fuckin' stoned while I have to sit around with my thumb up my ass." Feng Xin huffs, a strand of his hair flicking up under the force of his protest. The smoke from his choked exhale whirls around in the early evening sun that filters in from between the cheap blinds. "And I didn't fucking choke! You scared the shit out of me like some fucking creepy-ass ghost."
Mu Qing stares.
And stares.
And… stares.
Feng Xin moves slightly and Mu Qing's eyes track him.
"Well." Mu Qing sniffs. "Give it to me."
Feng Xin hugs his bong closer. "No! Why the fuck do you want it?!"
Mu Qing tips his head back in the same way he always does when he's evidently feeling uptight and snooty. "I want a hit." He wiggles his fingers as if going for actual grabby hands.
"Holy shit, you're already fucking shit-high." Feng Xin looks down up at Mu Qing's whose face looks pinched in abject determination. "And you don't even know how. You're such an uptight fucking priss."
"I am not. And how hard can it be, you do it."
"Not really encouraging me to let you take a hit." Feng Xin tells him, even as Mu Qing groans and flops down onto his side, rolling onto his back like a kitten exposing his belly for a trap. He even bites one of his nails, chewing on his thumb for a moment. Feng Xin's stoned mind accidentally provides the image of Mu Qing with big fluffy ears and a stupid pink collar topped with an inconveniently large bell. His mind doesn't provide any additional clothing.
Desperate to avoid showcasing an awkward half-mast, Feng Xin shifts himself a little bit further down.
"Let me. I'm not stupid, I know my limits."
"You didn't even know you were scarfing down a fucking weed brownie!" Feng Xin protests. But Mu Qing only tips his head, his lips parting as his head hangs off the couch as if waiting for a fucking cock to suck and—fuck! Fuck, Feng Xin is going to actually pop a fucking boner. "Fine! Fine as long as you stop fucking whining. Fucking—fuck!"
Feng Xin shifts, collecting his lighter. "You're not putting your fucking mouth on my bong," Feng Xin says, shifting upright. He holds his breath for a moment, feeling his heart patter out just for a moment. "I'm going to blow it into your mouth."
"That sounds more unsanitary."
"It sounds more like you need to shut the fuck up." Feng Xin snaps, scooting around to face Mu Qing on the bed. "It isn't unsanitary. People… people do it all the time."
Xie Lian did it for him once, their mouths slotting together as Xie Lian exhaled the weedsmoke into his lungs. It wasn't romantic. It was purely utilitarian. That Feng Xin had popped a boner during it was purely because he had been seventeen and who doesn't pop a boner when it feels like someone is kissing them at seventeen? Hell—if he was pent up enough, Feng Xin would spring if the wind blew the right way.
Feng Xin shifts, pulling on the threads of those hazy, far-gone memories. Last time, he and Xie Lian were on the same level. Xie Lian had been cupping the back of his head, holding Feng Xin steady as their spit slid between their mouths. It isn't impossible with Mu Qing hanging upside down off the bed, but it isn't fucking ideal. Feng Xin doesn't know if he can look him in the eye when he does it though.
Because—because it's Mu Qing. Because Mu Qing is pretty but he's fucking mean and Feng Xin doesn't know how to fucking stomach that. He hates but fuck—fuck his eyes are wide and a little red, making the dark, hollow pitch of his pupils seem infinite in comparison.
"I'm gonna take a hit," Feng Xin says, staring at the parted shape of Mu Qing's lips. A flicker of a pink tongue slides over them and Feng Xin hates that weed sometimes makes him horny and he hates that it only ever does it around his friends. "And uh… and then I'm gonna put my fuckin' mouth on yours and blow and you're gonna breathe in."
Mu Qing nods, wetting his lips again and Feng Xin can do this. He can do this.
His sweat-slick fingers fumble with his lighter as he struggles to catch it for a flame. He presses his mouth to the mouthpiece of his bong, drawing in a deep breath. He feels the acrid smoke fill his lungs and he tries not to think about the fact that it's going to be inside of Mu Qing next. Part of him—part of something that had touched the inside of himself was going to be inside of Mu Qing.
Like a kiss.
But—but it isn't a kiss.
Feng Xin holds it for a moment before he leans forward.
Mu Qing's mouth is warmer than he thought. Feng Xin forgets to breathe as he seals their lips together, too caught up in the sensation of Mu Qing's nose nudging up against his jaw.
It's only when Mu Qing's fingers reach up, collecting in the short-cut fall of Feng Xin's hair and grabs him that Feng Xin remembers what he's supposed to be doing and pushes out the smoke in his lungs. He feels Mu Qing gasp more than anything, a faint intake sucking the literal breath from his body before they part.
Mu Qing, hilariously, starts coughing.
Feng Xin cannot keep himself from laughing. He knows it hasn't really hit yet, but there's something about it that undoes the knot of anger in his belly. Mu Qing waves in front of his own face with a wrinkle of his nose.
"Do it again," Mu Qing says between coughs.
"Fuck no," Feng Xin says, reaching over and tapping Mu Qing's slick lower lip.
Mu Qing gives his hair a pull and Feng Xin isn't laughing anymore.
Feng Xin really isn't laughing any more.
Mu Qing tugs, hard enough to sting at his scalp and Feng Xin fucking moans.
And like… Feng Xin doesn't know what happens next.
Mu Qing had said what's so fucking funny? Do it again.
And Feng Xin had gasped, as Mu Qing had grabbed his hair to pull him in again and Feng Xin was on his back sprawled out on the cluttered floor of his bedroom and Mu Qing was kissing him. And Mu Qing was kissing him and Feng Xin was—Feng Xin—
Feng Xin is straight. He's totally straight.
It's just that obviously it hit because the weed makes him horny and Mu Qing is pretty in all the ways that a girl is pretty and it's fine.
It's not gay if he's high and it isn't gay if it's Mu Qing.
Mu Qing's tongue shoves into his mouth, pushing past the barrier of his lips and teeth and Mu Qing kisses like a fucking feral animal. He kisses like he's never kissed a person before, like all he's ever done his bit and hissed and consumed. Sharp little teeth clip over Mu Qing's lower lip and Feng Xin gasps and drops his hands to Mu Qing's tight little fucking waist to wrench him up over himself. He lays Mu Qing out on his chest, arms lashing them together as they knock over his fucking bong—his carpet is going to smell like bongwater for months, it'll never come out, it'll be an argument about who cost them the deposit later—while they make out.
Mu Qing straddles Feng Xin's hips next, his arms trembling where they cage Feng Xin into the fucking ground.
They only part when they need air, Feng Xin gasping as Mu Qing pulls back. His hair falls whip-wild and crazed around his neck, knocked mostly free from its ponytail and left fluttering down like a waterfall of ink. Feng Xin could live with Mu Qing's body pressed to him forever.
He could live here and die here.
Mu Qing's face is red, with fury or anger or arousal or something that looks like a mixture of all three—Feng Xin doesn't fucking know. "I don't want to look at you when I do this," Mu Qing announces and Feng Xin doesn't have time to ask what the fuck that fucking means before Mu Qing pulls himself up just long enough to flip around on Feng Xin's fucking chest.
He sits, so he's straddling just above Feng Xin's fucking nipples, his back facing him while he hunches down and fumbles for—
—holyfuckingshit.
"Wh—what the fuck?!"
Mu Qing's hackles rise with his shoulders, pulling up around his ears again. "You've been fucking hard this whole goddamn time," he snaps, those clever hands tugging at his jeans until the button pops. He wrenches them open like they've personally fucking offended him. "I can't stop thinking about it so shut up and just—shut up."
Feng Xin's mind goes fucking blank next.
His mind goes black because Mu Qing shoves his hands under the waistband of his underwear and takes hold of his fucking cock. This is it. This is the end of Feng Xin's fucking life.
Or the end of his cock.
If he wasn't high, Feng Xin is pretty sure that he'd be terrified that Mu Qing was going to bite the damned thing off. But Mu Qing doesn't. In fact, Mu Qing leans in and kisses the head of it like he fucking likes it.
"Stupid," Mu Qing huffs, those same warm lips that had been locked on Feng Xin's once already pressing flush against the drooling head of his cock. "Of course your dick is too big."
Feng Xin threw his head back, a huffing little groan escaping him. "What the fuck are you bitching about now?"
He can feel Mu Qing's fingers struggling to close around it, squeezing him so tight that his brain fully whites out until the grip slackens. Fuck, Feng Xin can feel precome dribbling down the length of it and he can imagine what it would look like running over Mu Qing's fingers as he clumsily strokes from root to head.
Mu Qing doesn't bother giving him an answer, hunching further to draw the head of Feng Xin's cock into his mouth instead. And Feng Xin tries to look. He tries to watch to see what this would look like beyond the dreams that he refuses to. confess he's ever had. But all he can see is the stretch of Mu Qing's back—the ghostly-pale skin just above the waist of his jeans where it gaps between there and the back of his turtleneck. All he can see is the prickle of goosebumps in the peachsoft hair that lines his skin.
And fuck—fuck! Feng Xin can't stomach another fucking second like this. He shoves himself up, uncaring how Mu Qing jerks forward onto his cock or whether or not he can feel him fucking choke on it. "Fine! If you're gonna fuckin'—if you're gonna fuckin' do that, then I'm doing this."
'This' in this case means 'drawing his hands around to the fly of Mu Qing's jeans and undoing them to start working that stupid skin-tight denim down over his hips.' It also means 'palming Mu Qing's cock through his underwear for the few moments before he loses himself in the starvation that he apparently smoked into his own bones and yanks down the last preservation of Mu Qing's fucking dignity.'
"What is wrong with you?!" Mu Qing snaps with a hand still wrapped around Feng Xin's cock. "Put my fucking pants back on!"
"No?" Feng Xin tries to bark, but it comes out more incredulous than anything. He shifts so that he can get his hands up to Mu Qing's pale, pert little ass. The small shape of each cheek fits in the perfect cup of his hand as he grabs it. "Dude you have such a small fucking ass."
"I'm going to bite your goddamn cock off."
"Do it and I'll fucking bite your asshole off!"
Mu Qing is well started into some kind of choked up fury about the word off being used in this context when Feng Xin splits him open—first with his hands and then with his tongue.
He doesn't take the time to linger on the furled, cute shape of Mu Qing's hole—or how pretty it looks flushed just slightly against his skin. He can do that later, when he's enjoying how open and relaxed it is under his mouth. But he's been thinking too much about getting his mouth on him to fucking wait, so he doesn't.
Mu Qing makes a noise like a dying animal, dropping his face to nuzzle into the side of Feng Xin's cock as Feng Xin rolls his tongue over the tight-clenched and pulsing little muscle. He laps at him, each pass with his tongue pressing harder and harder as he feels the tight-laced fury begin to quell and relax with each encouraging pass. Another stroke with his tongue and he feels it slowly bend as if waiting to welcome in a piece of Feng Xin.
Another piece of him.
Feng Xin had already left the air from his lungs inside of Mu Qing. What's his tongue next?
What's his fingers?
His cock?
His come?
The idea rolls in his stomach as he grips Mu Qing's ass hard enough to fucking bruise and pulls his tongue back to spear the tip of it into him. And he's inside Mu Qing.
He's inside Mu Qing.
This fact does not settle into his bones, even as he curls his tongue and pushes deeper against the slick, well-abused skin and muscle to feel him clench and flex. Feng Xin is inside of Mu Qing. He fucks his tongue deeper, feeling Mu Qing split and open to welcome him deeper and deeper into his body as Feng Xin presses closer and closer until spit and saliva dribbles down his chin and jaw. He feels himself getting messier and he feels his cock jump where Mu Qing is back at it again with tongue and lips and mouth. Mu Qing can't seem to fit more than the first few fucking inches of his cock into his mouth (a fact that will surprise Feng Xin later, considering how big he considered Mu Qing's trap to be) but his hands work the rest of him and Feng Xin is going to go inside.
He's going to go inside or he's going to come or he's going to do fucking something.
His tongue slides deeper, flexing and curling against Mu Qing's body as if trying to taste every fucking inch of him inside and out. It's only after Mu Qing is finally able to get past Feng Xin's fucking cockhead that Feng Xin realizes there's a chance he might blow before Mu Qing.
And like… he can't fucking do that.
Feng Xin releases one of Mu Qing's asscheeks, circling his hand around to take hold of his long, swollen cock. Mu Qing fucking bucks against him when Feng Xin starts to fucking stroke. He grinds his ass back against Feng Xin's face like he's trying to fucking ride him and holy shit who taught him how to do shit like that? Feng Xin had figured Mu Qing was too much of an uptight priss to know how to ride someone's face like this.
But here he is, being proven fucking wrong as always.
Feng Xin pulls his tongue back to the very tip before ramming it back into Mu Qing's willing, spit-slick body. Mu Qing makes a strangled noise, shoving himself back again and again as his cock flexes and kicks in Feng Xin's hand. He strokes to the time of Mu Qing fucking himself back on Feng Xin's tongue, feeling the whip-wild movement of Mu Qing growing more and more erratic and Feng Xin feels him grip his tongue tighter and tighter and holy shit if he's that tight around his tongue how is he going to feel around his cock?
The thought lingers, just long enough to Mu Qing to grit out some punched-out and gored moan and for Feng Xin to feel him splatter the fabric of his t-shirt with the force of his orgasm. Mu Qing's entire body goes taut, even the hand holding his cock and really—that combined with the thought of Feng Xin finally (finally?) getting balls deep in Mu Qing's tight fucking ass is enough to drive him to the fucking brink.
He's pretty sure he'll pay the piper when Mu Qing comes down enough to realize that Feng Xin has blown his load all over his face and he'll definitely get the shit kicked out of him when Mu Qing realizes it's in his fucking hair—but that's later.
The moment—the now—is ragged and sweat-slick in the post orgasmic bliss.
Feng Xin flops backwards, letting Mu Qing slump down onto his chest and stomach as they fight to catch their breath together.
"I always knew you were a fucking tight-ass," Feng Xin groans, tipping his head to the side as Mu Qing moves to kick him. Maybe it's the jeans still digging red lines into his thighs, or the weed still in his system, but Mu Qing misses and Feng Xin doesn't bother dodging again when gets him in the side of the head with his heel.
Mu Qing makes a little noise before pushing himself up. "Feng Xin," he says.
Feng Xin grunts, holding that skinny ankle in place.
"Feng Xin!" Mu Qing hisses, wheeling around to glare at him.
"What?!" Feng Xin snaps back, the post-orgasmic bliss fading immediately to a hot-headed anger. "What the fuck crawled up your fucking ass?!"
"Do you have any idea how fucking hard this is going to be to get out of my fucking hair?!" Mu Qing snaps, attempting to wrench his ankle out of the grip that Feng Xin only tightens. It sends Mu Qing tumbling into the carpet. Feng Xin is fast to roll them both over, pinning Mu Qing under him.
"Maybe if you'd just fucking swallowed like a bitch—"
It's about as far as he gets before Mu Qing's fist meets the side of Feng Xin's jaw. It's a solid hit.
If Feng Xin feels his cock start to stir again between them, grinding down against Mu Qing's hips as they fight in absolute earnest on the floor of their shitty, shared apartment—then that's no one else's business but his own.