EGRV 44 | Trust

[I said it’s okay—please believe me.]

Chi Yu went to the doctor early the next morning to have his cast removed. The moment it was off, even though his arm still couldn’t fully straighten, he bolted straight from the clinic to the ski resort to start training.

That day, based on intel, the back mountain at Blackcomb had prime powder. By midday, fat snowflakes were drifting down, and Liang Muye was already up on the lift, geared up in his twin tips, waiting for him.

The Bent Chetler boards he was on had a 120mm waist—wider than standard freeride boards, boosting float. Chi Yu, meanwhile, had grabbed his fire-red directional board, the Jones “Flagship.” That morning in the groomed run, too lazy to hike down for his powder skis, he’d used a portable screwdriver to shift the bindings back a foot, lifting the nose. Sunlight filtered through the cutouts in the core, casting the fiery red freeride beast onto the snow.

Off-piste conditions were stellar—virtually deserted. The fresh snow had only fallen the night before; Chi Yu had barely taken two turns when he triggered a small sluff, which rolled straight down the 30-plus-degree slope to the bottom.

Liang Muye knew snow too, so he halted, refusing to push on.

Chi Yu stopped as well, kicking up a half-meter snow pit with his board perpendicular to the fall line. Neither man said a word. After a long moment, Chi Yu clipped back into his bindings.

“It’s good to go—let’s ride,” he said to the man behind him.

But Liang Muye didn’t follow. He looked at Chi Yu and said, “Don’t push it just because I brought the camera…”

Chi Yu stepped closer—two paces—pulled off his goggles, unbuckled his helmet, and tilted his head to listen.

Liang Muye repeated himself: “What I’m saying is, photos or no photos, it doesn’t matter. The fresh snow’s only been down less than twenty-four hours. If conditions aren’t ideal, we can reschedule. You’ve got a comp next week—I don’t want any unnecessary drama.”

He was long past the age of proving himself through reckless stunts, and he’d never equated brute risk-taking with some bullshit macho ideal. Ever since the Mufeng incident, his outlook had shifted even more. The crevasses near Mustagh Ata C2 were common knowledge; avoiding the crevasse zone at night was basic common sense. Yet even Chen Nian—his most trusted friend, the elite mountaineer—could get cocky and ignore the obvious hazards in a rush for glory. When he left that world, it wasn’t just because chasing first ascents and speed records felt pointless. There was another layer: he could no longer trust anyone, not even a close buddy like Wang Nan’ou. And trusting himself? That was even harder.

Chi Yu didn’t argue or question him. He just squatted down, pressed his palm into the snow pit to test stability. Then he pulled a black card from his jacket pocket, placed a crystalline snowflake on it, and held it up to the light to examine the grain structure, double-checking the conditions.

“This is north-facing—the fresh stuff’s already wind-scoured. Look up at the trees; you’ll see. What’s under our feet now is older, consolidated snow—over twenty-four hours old. Slope’s under thirty degrees, and the slab’s got solid structure. You haven’t even done AST training; I’m not taking you into high-exposure zones.”

“I’m talking about you,” Liang Muye shot back. 

“I don’t want you taking unnecessary risks either.”

Chi Yu nodded, knowing he meant the comp next week. He said, “I know. I said it’s okay—please believe me.”

Liang Muye met his gaze, and after a beat, he nodded in agreement.

As it turned out, Chi Yu was right. This off-piste pocket was untouched, with stable, soft snow—the perfect setup. Liang Muye had his pack slung over one shoulder with his compact Nikon, tailing Chi Yu all afternoon, snapping stills and action shots alike. He captured his eyes amid swirling snow, those jet-black lashes like feathers; he caught him carving virgin powder.

Chi Yu had said powder backcountry turns beat even sex, so Liang Muye shot him spinning through the storm, slicing out of the sluff like a rapier.

On the drive back into the city along Haotian Highway, Chi Yu kept overtaking, occasionally gunning it to 120 kph. Their boards were jammed together in the trunk, while Liang Muye leaned into his right ear, insistently whispering sweet nothings.

That night, they ended up at Harbor City 2603—Liang Muye’s apartment—simply because it was closer. Chi Yu stripped every last piece of clothing off him, straddled his hips, and rode him, clenching his abs as he rose and fell, hunting for that spot that hit just right for himself. Liang Muye let him have his way, propping himself up lazily to watch.

In bed, he was used to taking charge, doing all the heavy lifting. The guys he hooked up with were usually pretty boys, slim-waisted enough to wrap a hand around. By the end, they’d always be whimpering about being tired and needing to stop, so he’d have to coax and cuddle to keep going. But Chi Yu was different—leaving aside the fact that stripped down, he had that stunning, athlete’s build all his own, his core especially powerful. When Chi Yu fucked, it was like a wolf on the hunt: eyes gleaming, strikes ruthless and precise, tireless.

By the end, Chi Yu even had the stamina to sync with him—one hand gripping the headboard, hips rolling to meet each thrust. Their rhythm wasn’t frantic, but every time Liang Muye drove in, Chi Yu let out a ragged cry, voice hoarse as hell. It pushed Liang Muye over the edge; he pinned him down hard, hips snapping tight, using the mattress’s bounce to piston up, his cock slamming in and out of Chi Yu’s ass with brutal force. This time, Chi Yu obeyed, arms locked around his neck, panting hot and fast against his ear.

Liang Muye had never been big on kissing before. But right then, he surged up, lips crashing against Chi Yu’s in a biting, devouring kiss—trailing from mouth to throat to chest.

He’d always known where this desire came from. From that first shutter click amid the blizzard, he’d been fantasizing about this. His camera had seized countless fleeting moments, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to set the lens aside, shed the layers, and capture him raw and unguarded. This moment couldn’t be photographed—only savored with eyes, felt with body.

Halfway through, Chi Yu was clearly on the brink, thighs quivering with excitement, hand working his own cock nonstop. Liang Muye, wild with lust, yanked his throbbing dick out root-deep, lube trailing down Chi Yu’s crack in sticky drips.

“What the…?” Chi Yu sounded confused, a touch annoyed.

But before he could finish, Liang Muye grabbed the full-length mirror from the living room. Then he pinned Chi Yu’s wrists, bent him over the wall, and slammed back in.

“Ah…!” Rear entry always hit deepest; Chi Yu lost his voice on impact, spine arching taut, eyes squeezed shut as he took it, sweat beading and trickling down his back.

But the man behind him commanded, “Chi Yu, open your eyes—look at yourself right now.”

A pair of strong arms pinned flat to the wall, only his round, firm ass exposed, getting smacked relentlessly from behind. Liang Muye’s hand stayed clamped on one cheek, leaving a clear handprint. The hole was fucked red, clenching and fluttering like it was spasming around him—born to be railed. Chi Yu looked up, eyes locking in the mirror, staring him down with pure focus. His gaze was always so unfiltered—whether coiled for action, deep in thought, or lost in pleasure. A walking contradiction: innocent and filthy.

Who knew if it was punishment for him… or for himself.

Liang Muye couldn’t hold back anymore, rhythm and finesse be damned. He went feral, pounding that spot that ripped cries from Chi Yu’s throat. Chi Yu was already teetering on orgasm; he couldn’t take it—his knees buckled.

Liang Muye caught him quick, letting him brace himself, licking his left ear as he hoisted one leg for the mirror’s view and kept railing.

It only took a few more thrusts before Chi Yu groaned hoarsely, cum spurting in ropes—all over the mirror. He couldn’t stand anymore, sliding down the glass to his knees.

Liang Muye was done for, the clench flooding him with ecstasy. He pulled out, condom snapping off, told Chi Yu to close his eyes, and unloaded across his face and neck—even his lashes weren’t spared.

It took him ages to catch his breath. But when he looked up, Chi Yu had already tugged on his pants and was in the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face alone. The flush of arousal still lingered on his cheeks, fresh and old hickeys layering his neck. Lately, they’d been going at it like maniacs—Chi Yu never said stop, always had endless energy, so why would he hold back?

After washing up, Chi Yu threw on his T-shirt, grabbed the car keys, and headed for the door.

Liang Muye yanked him back from behind.

“What’s up?” Liang Muye almost thought he was embarrassed and bailing, so he teased, “Don’t take the bed talk seriously, baby.”

Chi Yu scowled, tugging the door. 

“Don’t call me that. Use my name.”

Liang Muye tried to sweet-talk him: “Chi Yu. Little Yu.”

Chi Yu turned then, but his face stayed stone-cold: “My full name.”

Liang Muye said, “Gao Yi can call you that—why not me? You got a nickname? Let me hear it.”

Chi Yu shot back, “None,” yanked the door open, and bolted.

He fled like he was escaping a disaster, forgetting his jacket even. Liang Muye snatched it up and raced downstairs to intercept. By then, Chi Yu’s car nose was poking out, blinker already flashing for the lane change. He waved the jacket wildly, dashed across the street in two strides, and shoved it into his hands.

That sky-blue shell had the Salomon logo bold on the front, “Summit” lettering beside a tiny mountain icon.

Chi Yu muttered a stiff “thanks,” then twisted away, refusing to meet his eyes.