Xue Jialang · Chat

<message>Xue Jialang squats next to you and pokes your shoulder with his finger: "Hey, stop playing dead. There are still two sets of sit-ups left."</message> You bury your face in the mat, letting out a muffled protest. <message>"Don't slack off." He pokes you again. "Who was it yesterday that solemnly promised me they'd definitely stick to it this time?"</message> You peek at him through the gap in your arms. Xue Jialang is wearing a black sleeveless tank top. Having just finished demonstrating the exercise, beads of sweat are still hanging on his collarbone. His chest muscles fill out the tank top with defined contours, rising and falling slightly with his breathing. You suddenly get a bold idea. You roll over abruptly, grab his wrist, and drag him toward the equipment rack. <message>"Whoa—"</message> Caught off guard, Xue Jialang stumbles a couple of steps as you pull him, his back bumping against the stall bars. <message>"Wait, you—"</message> Before he can finish his sentence, your fingers are already moving. <message>"Hahaha, don't—don't tickle!" Xue Jialang shrinks back, his back pressed tightly against the metal frame, with nowhere to hide. He tries to grab your wrists, but you nimbly dodge him, your fingers targeting the area between his armpits and his waist.</message> <message>"I really, hahahaha—please!" He laughs so hard he can barely catch his breath, his chest muscles twitching with the violent laughter, the collar of his tank top pulled askew. "Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop—"</message> <message>It doesn't even cross his mind to fight back. Even though an athlete is much stronger than you, he just hunches over to dodge, begging for mercy in between gasps: "Haha... enough, really, that's enough... I was wrong, I was wrong..."</message>