Archive of Our Own

The door locks and the sound reverberates throughout the building as if it were devoid of all life. As if it had never housed a single inhabitant and they had just walked in on an existence suspended.

Despite the various portraits of the child and his carers, in his ears, the silence rings impossible to pierce and every step he takes inside his own home feels like trespassing. Sure, the walls are telling him he is undoubtedly the sleeping boy's uncle, but his vision has lost all sense of depth and his mind is loud with white noise.

Meng Yao's heeled formal boots make the foyer vibrate with their insufferable clacking and once he's taken them off, standing beside him, his barefooted steps annoy him only slightly less as they make way into their house.

Meng Yao is going to put the small boy in his arms to bed. The child fell asleep during the car ride. He hates to think that Jin Ling might have picked up on the horrifying atmosphere of that long ride home. 

Home. Is that where he is? 

-

Meng Yao knows he's anxious. He knows knowing means logical Meng Yao is driving and sensitive Meng Yao is getting run over. Sometimes this is a necessity.

Almost always, this is a necessity.

He expects very little from life but maintains the absurd hope that one day fixing everything around him will come as a joy and not a compulsion. It's a fantasy, he knows that well. 

He's fooling no one but he covers his ears and shuts his eyes, so that the fantasy never rolls dead out of the paperbag.

He tucks his little A-Ling to bed, kissing his forehead before leaving and smiles to prevent his face from grimacing. He's done crying. No more crying. 

Meng Yao turns the little night light on and walks back into their social space downstairs.

Damage control, at all costs.

Every step down the staircase feels like an abyss. The still dark hallway and foyer make him feel as though he’s walking into unknown danger. He balls his fists and locks his jaw. There’s a wine cellar under him that he hears open and shut on his way down and his bloodshot eyes follow a figure taking long strides out of it and into the dining room.

He’d know it anywhere, the long legs, the thin waist, the tense shoulders that sting when he touches them, the heavy darkness that looms over his back and drips after him leaving a cloud of thin air. Meng Yao retraces Jiang Cheng’s steps and feels his breath hitch.

He can see him moving, picking a wine glass out of a cabinet. Those aren’t the good glasses. His partner hasn’t been drinking.

In almost absolute darkness he sees this hunched creature violently cut the foil of a new bottle, shuddering and twitching in a way that’s familiar and frankly, fear-inducing. This, however, is nothing he cannot handle.

“What are you doing?” He dares to ask, stretching out his hand to turn the lights on. Jiang Cheng, with his back to Meng Yao, recoils from the brightness.

"Can't you see?" His deeper voice shakes the ground underneath them. Then, it softens, although not enough to hide the hint of anger and resentment that it’s harboring. "I'm pouring myself a glass of wine."

"It's late," Meng Yao says. It’s not meant to be anything other than an order: Do not. "And we need to talk about this."

He walks a few steps closer, keeping an eye on the bottle, on the screw of the rabbit wine opener, on the little blade of foil, on the wine glass. He can see how every one of his steps turns his partner into a more rigid and colder stone, but he chooses, not blindly, to believe he will remain safe. 

Meng Yao stands by Jiang Cheng’s side and takes a deep breath. An invitation to join him.

"There's nothing to talk about." Jiang Cheng answers, voice much lower and much quieter. He spaces out for a few seconds, using his hands to bend and rip the little foil. His mouth is thin and sour, his words are too. “Your family thinks they can take Jin Ling away from me, I disagree. That's it."

Jiang Cheng’s nostrils flare and his breathing is shallow, quick. The bottle has been forgotten. Instead of opening it, Meng Yao places it down horizontally over the buffet.

"You know I'm on your side." He whispers, careful and gentle. The way one speaks to a scared animal. I’m not going to hurt you.

The creature, with his heavy limbs and tired eyes, with his skittish movement and defensive stance, snarls at him and takes a step back. "Yes! I heard you bitching all the way here.”

Meng Yao’s back straightens and his eyes stay put over the wine glass. He smiles, the way he knows Jiang Cheng hates: absent and submissive. He must know he crossed a line because he continues, not a second too late. “There's nothing else to say. Don't waste our time, Meng Yao."

Jiang Cheng reaches for the bottle again and this time Meng Yao breaches the tense distance to stop him, grabbing him by the wrist. Again, another order: Do not. 

Usually he doesn’t get away with many of those.

"Jiang Wanyin."

He tries to reclaim his hand, tries to reach for the bottle again but Meng Yao doesn’t let go, if anything, he grips even harder.

"I'm not like you.” What implication lies behind that simple statement? He knows it all too well and yet, for the time being and in favor of fixing this and everything, chooses to ignore it. “I'm fine."

The scent and sound of danger aren’t quite as thick once he’s stepped into his space. How many times has he said “I'm fine” and meant it? He’s not afraid of the glass nor the metal because he’s not afraid of his partner. He inches closer and lays his other hand on his bony shoulder. The skin below Jiang Cheng’s shirt feels so cold and sharp it might as well have drawn blood from Meng Yao’s palm.

"You are not going to drink yourself stupid. Let's go." He blinks slowly, staring straight into his eyes, one pupil after the other. He blinks once more, and once more until Jiang Cheng does too after him. The man’s brow furrows, his body stays every bit as solid, as tough. Meng Yao explains himself, his eyes tinted with a flirty glow. "Up."

Meng Yao’s first daring hand slides up Jiang Cheng’s arm and places itself at his other shoulder. Bewildered, the cornered beast tries to back away but his smaller yet more commanding hands do not allow so. 

“Are… are you out of your mind?” Jiang Cheng asks, voice even less than a whisper, raptured by disbelief and indignation. “I’m not in the mood for that !”

"I know you're not. We have a child to raise and I need you in good shape tomorrow. Come upstairs with me."

His warm hands caresses Jiang Cheng’s sharp jawline and though his brow doesn’t relax, he lets out a breath that smells of anger and bitterness, for which Meng Yao would never blame him. The desire to be the one that makes this wild beast purr tingles at the tips of his fingers.

“Come.”

-

The lights are turned all the way off before they leave the dining room. Jiang Cheng does not feel in control of himself in the light of the staircase. This fever dream is happening to someone but not to him. He feels strange in his slacks, awkward in his shirt, enraged by Meng Yao's hand leading him up to their shared bedroom.

He sees the glint of Jin Ling's nightlight through a door ajar as they walk past it. It's silent in there, he's sound asleep; safe. 

The lamps on their nightstands are warm and comforting, dim. The room is large but the soft light makes it feel cozier. He enjoys being there, a place he only uses to rest, to love, to dream. Their room is elegant and beautiful but more than that, it's safe.

Meng Yao's eyes are swollen and reddened but they shine with the same warm incandescence as their bed. He's not stupid, he knows Meng Yao also had a terrible night, but he can't help but resent his honey colored eyes and his name; the one he doesn't use.

Jin Guangyao had been so performatively grateful to their hosts, such a gracious and generous couple! They invited them selflessly to dinner, to see Jin Ling and spend some quality time with them. Or so Jin Guangshan and his wife said, that was the bait. 

Of course, they ignored Meng Yao at every turn. Mrs. Jin had pretended not to hear him at least twice and had made some evidently homophobic remarks about how they were dressed and how they managed their home. They had both been expecting this. 

This thought makes Jiang Cheng's neck feel so tense the smallest tilt to the right makes it pop. Meng Yao's hurt eyes and polite smile are painful to witness. His small nervous hands fidgeting with the creases of his slacks are vivid in his memory, as though branded into his eyelids.

Jiang Cheng’s memory is not the best, so he feels for the one whose memory is cursed with near perfection. To remember perfectly how Mrs. Jin urged them to think about Jin Ling's future; how she insisted it would be bad for him to grow up without a real mother; how she made it very clear the Jin family could offer him bigger and better opportunities; how she begged them to not be selfish, to think of his happiness.

Meng Yao had cried in rage the whole drive home.

Yet he's mad. At him, at the poor humiliated bastard that had to sit through an entire dinner of backhanded compliments and passive agressive housekeeping "advice". He knows Meng Yao doesn't deserve his anger but he has nowhere else to put it because the smallest trace of Jin Guangshan's facial features on his lover's face makes him want to scream his throat bloody.

"Lie down." Despite it all, Meng Yao speaks gently. Jiang Cheng knows him well. He is wary but the bed truly looks inviting. His doubt does not go unnoticeable. "Please, I'll help you relax."

He is used to that, to leave it to his bed to take the sadness and the fear off of him every night. Since the accident, more than once his bed has been his first and last resort. One cheek on the pillow and the next morning he’d be ready to face it all again, pretending the night before never happened, that his hands were not trembling as he undressed and his heart was not beating a mile an hour, no matter how much he tried to take his mind off… it all.

Death. Abandonment. Solitude. Hopelessness. He scoffs.

"You? I hadn't seen you this tense since A-Ling came back from…"

A-Ling is sleeping two doors over, unaware his future was discussed that night. Mentioning him makes his body, already disjointed and unwieldy, grow twice its size and become nearly impossible to inhabit. 

"From daycare with a bite. Yeah." Meng Yao finishes for him. This is humiliating for them both. "Lie down" is his next subtle order. It’s an order, Jiang Cheng can tell a command from a suggestion and although he can scream and punch his way out, grab his shit, sleep in the guestroom… He doesn’t want to. The little blue glint inside his bright, raging anger says no. Stay. Lie down. 

So he does and his back aches as his muscles loosen up.

“Turn around. Let me give you a massage.”

He turns around, fully burying his face in their covers. He feels the little shift of their thin mattress when Meng Yao climbs after him and sits on his ass. This is not uncommon. For a couple of minutes, as he struggles to breathe through the comforter, Meng Yao occupies his hands, kneading the knots on his shoulders, not too hard. It’s a pleasant kind of pain, he is used to this.

The precision with which his partner does it all, how he knows exactly where to press his bony fingers to make him groan is as terrifying as it is admirable. Attractive, even. Jiang Cheng knows perfectly well he can’t, in good conscience, stay mad at him, or even hold the behaviour of his estranged father and harpy of a stepmother against him. Meng Yao loves Jin Ling.

And Meng Yao also loves Jiang Cheng. They’ve established this once or twice before, and so far, there’s no reason to believe otherwise.

He cannot breathe anymore, he turns his head to the side and is forced by this position to stare at the empty armchair with a knitted throw over it, darkened in a corner but inviting in its coziness. This is the home they’ve built together. There’s no reason to believe otherwise.

“See? I told you I could help,” Jiang Cheng can feel Meng Yao’s whisper on the back of his head. He sounds smug, caring, proud in a way he hadn’t heard all night. The subtle tickle of the tips of his hair that brush over his nape and face give him goosebumps. He sighs, and his body relaxes even more, melting into the mattress beneath him.

A kiss behind his ear makes him flinch. “You’re always so tense. I’m sorry.”

His apology, although uttered almost noncommittally, sounds heartfelt. In the gentle hands that untangle his hair and caress his scalp he can feel Meng Yao’s genuine care and remorse as he carefully unties his bun. Jiang Cheng can’t enjoy it as much as he enjoys the tingly feeling it shoots down his body. “Everything you do for us… I want to make it up to you.”

“Meng Yao, you don’t have to…” he barely gets to mutter, mouth pressed awkwardly against the comforter.

“Ssssh, none of that.” His little shush gives Jiang Cheng goosebumps once more. The chair at the other side of the room mocks him in its cozy stillness. Was he raised to be shushed? What would his late mother say? “You’re a responsible, hardworking and admirable man.”

Not that, that’s for certain. The weight of this thought presses hard on his ribs and when Meng Yao kisses the shell of his ear, he feels this embrace fall down on him as a shield, separating his uncomfortable, miniscule person from the wide horrifying emptiness behind his back. His jaw shakes from the tension he’s releasing.

His partner’s voice pulls him away from that cliff. “Also, insanely hot.” He says low and humid in his ear. Jiang Cheng’s brow furrows once more and he tries to shake his head. To this, the slippery sweetness of Meng Yao’s voice turns into a short giggle. “What? Should I keep it to myself?”

“Yes, it’s embarrassing.”

Meng Yao runs his hands down both of his arms and forearms, although he can only see the one, and they dexterously undo the buttons on his cuffs. He’s sitting upright again, slowly guiding Jiang Cheng’s wrists to relax above his head. He doesn’t disagree with the comfort this brings to his spine, nor with the cracking of his bones. 

“I don’t think I will.” Meng Yao slides his hands down Jiang Cheng’s sides, making him jerk again. The little huff of breath behind tells him about an early sign of laughter. He means to stop Meng Yao, but he doesn’t have the energy to make an effort. Meng Yao then untucks his shirt from his slacks. Jiang Cheng's half-assed resistance manifests as a low displeased grunt.

“Am I not the luckiest to share this bed with you?” he’s asked, nonchalantly. Meng Yao has used this tone of voice to ask about Jin Ling’s next doctor’s appointment. To comment on the size of a bag of rice. Is he?

He can’t possible be expecting an answer and yet Jiang Cheng’s mind is desperately trying to find a response that won't make him feel like a stupid, manipulated sap. He knows that special sweetness, he can taste it in his own mouth. The soft flavor of Meng Yao’s saliva trickling down that silver tongue.

“You’re so handsome, so strong, so loving.” So shameless, the way his partner is slurring these words, making them bounce against the warmly lit walls, softened when they finally meet Jiang Cheng's ears, gentle and affectionate. He feels mocked by them, choked up by them. He needs them to... 

“Stop.” He’s not ordering. How could he? Tonight has shown him how little in control he’s been, since before the car accident, since before he found his home surrounded by police, cordoned by red tape. He lets out a shaky breath.

There’s no need for Meng Yao to say no. He just takes the handful of strings he’s already pulling and runs with them. He puts his lips back on Jiang Chengs' nape and presses his sharp fingers on his lower back, hard enough to make Jiang Cheng groan in pain.

“I want to have all of you, just for me.” His words, no matter how apparently sweet, feel punitive. He wishes to unhear them. He wishes to make them stop. Stop. “Am I not the most greedy?” he whispers, sultry, mean.

“Just dro…” Drop it. He’s not allowed to continue. The nails on his lower back sink deeper and he tightens his eyes, willing a full body shudder down.

“Jiang Cheng.” this one, however, feels like a kiss. “Let me help you shake it off.” 

There’s a plea behind the imperative, a gentle need to be allowed to be of use. It drives Jiang Cheng’s stupid heart crazy as well. The nails find their way to his upper thighs and he sighs once more. Meng Yao’s bony ass over his more firm one feels almost funny, he’s way too skinny.

The night dawns on him. The cruel words, the expensive food, the inquisitive and innocent look on Jin Ling’s face when he strapped him to his carseat. Like a thick rain, it weighs him down and it blurs his thinking, numbs his ears. Meng Yao’s angry, teary eyes, his nervous sleeves, his pained smile when they wished their hosts a good night.

He's pulled out of the rain when Meng Yao spreads his legs a little wider, presses himself against Jiang Cheng's ass. "Let me take care of you." A question disguised as an order.

There is a moment where Jiang Cheng considers refusing, considers pulling them both out of this completely, but how could he when their night has already come to grief? How could he when Meng Yao’s silent tears in the car stung more than anything their most gracious hosts put them through? He nods.

“Please.” Meng Yao sighs.

“Fuck- fine. Yes.” Jiang Cheng should have known that wouldn't be enough. 

Is anything ever enough?

-

Jiang Cheng’s shirt is laced with his scent. The comforter beneath them caresses his ankles as he scooches down his body. Meng Yao loves the soft feeling of good organic fabrics on his skin. He didn’t know any of it when he was young. Now, this man, this resentful, closed-off man, has given him that and more, in exchange for what feels like peanuts. Their home, large and quiet, is a gift.

He pushes up onto his knees and takes off his belt, not forcefully so as to not come off too strong. Jiang Cheng below him still catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and he can see it, how his eyes dart to his hands and his brow furrows even deeper. He smiles and stretches a single finger to try to smooth it out.

His partner sighs and relaxes his expression. “Warning shot?”

Jiang Cheng nods.

Meng Yao smiles when he grabs the folded end of his belt with his fingers. He lets it resist the pull for a couple of seconds before he lets go. It cuts through the air fast and lands precisely on the roundest bit of Jiang Cheng’s still clothed bottom. He gets a small flinch and not more. No pushback. Taking that as a green light, he proceeds to make sure: “Please remind me of your…?”

His partner huffs exasperated, his eyes lost in some other place of the room. He answers, noncommittal. “Yes, yes. Three taps.” And taps the pillow three times with the hand opposite to the direction he’s facing.

He drags his folded belt over his lower back and ass, all the way down to his thighs as he climbs down and back up again the other way around, sitting over his lower back and spreading his legs to minimize the possibility of hitting himself over the knees.

“H-how many… are you...?” he hears from the back, the tiniest trace of fear and uneasiness audible in his partner’s voice. 

“Let’s warm up first.” He says attempting to be soothing, although he knows his answer isn’t very comforting. He picks up the belt again and holds it steady.

He needs to be precise. Life is like this. One small miscalculation can cost him everything. To overlook the smallest detail can be catastrophic. He cannot allow himself to be careless, so he pays every ounce of attention to his movements and those of Jiang Cheng. The subtle shifts of his body and his breathing tell him he has tensed up but it’s willing and ready.

He strikes again, harder this time, hitting under the first spot and gets a sigh of mild discomfort in response. He smiles, proud of his aim. Jiang Cheng can take a lot, a lot. Physical harm isn’t something either of them are particularly scared of. They’ve both taken beatings many times and for a big part of their lives. Physical harm isn’t something they shy away from.

The type of hurt they will each avoid with deranged desperation is exactly the one they’re feeling this night: vulnerability, self-distrust, fear of being ripped apart from the person they both love the most. The way their life has been threatened, even their own standing as a partnership has been violated by bigotry and put to the test by their own fears.

Would they stay together if not for Jin Ling?

Meng Yao’s next strike falls down a little too hard and he winces before Jiang Cheng can even complain, jumping a little on their bed.

“Jerk! You said...” he cannot see Jiang Cheng’s angry face with his eyes but he can with his ears. Meng Yao takes a deep breath.

"A-Cheng, don't tell me you can't take it. We’re just getting started." he bluffs with humor. He is aware he shouldn’t do this, but if someone has to bring some semblance of serenity into their bed, into their anxious, trembling bodies, it will be him. He will make things right. He will fix the mistake he made of not anticipating the behaviour of his father, of falsely believing they were safe. Everything will be alright.

He will make it so.

The third strike isn’t quite as hard and takes a little longer to land, which adds to the special flavor of expectation. He gets only a little grunt from that. That’s his signal to proceed.

The belt comes down with rhythm for a few minutes and he allows himself a giggle when it draws a funny or upset noise from his partner. Should he be calling him his boyfriend by now? His spouse? Don’t they share a home? A family? A bed? A future? For as long as there’s a child in it, at least. Shouldn’t they be giving each other more room in their mouths?

Jiang Cheng finally winces after a deliberate harsher swish and Meng Yao only then runs his hand over his clothed rear. His partner huffs again and his body softens under Meng Yao, noticeably. He knows, they’re done with this part.

“Will you please?” He asks, smiling. Which Jiang Cheng will for sure hear in his voice. He kneels once again and feels the body under him shift. His partner’s hands slither under them until he has undone his own belt and trousers and it’s pulling them down slowly.

Not yet one clear welt. From this point on, he counts. He’s not giving Jiang Cheng a number, he knows that only leads to him counting and willing himself to take them, completely disassociating from the pain. Sometimes that’s fun, not tonight. 

He hits the naked rosy skin of his cheeks and hears the first real wince behind him, his legs jump on the mattress and his torso and arms tense up in response to the sting. A little muffled cursing gets lost against the pillows. He continues with not too strong but faster strikes, trying to get a uniformly red glow on his bottom, occasionally touching him with his fingers, light as a feather, trying to feel the swollen bumps of the welts that are painting themselves lightly and then heat up, like flames rising from kindling.

A pitiful whine is heard fully buried in a pillow, he only looks back to make sure that, yes, Jiang Cheng has his entire face held hard against a pillow, clutching it with much strength.

“Good job. No noise. Our child is asleep.” He whispers and caresses his partner’s spine to get him to relax a little bit, even if only to make him relapse into panic once he starts belting him again; the little illusion of calm to give him a second dose of fear before Jiang Cheng inevitably dissociates from the pain again.

The next strikes are hard and in his mind, he counts, but it’s the angry shade of red on his skin that truly dictates how close they might be to the end. He encourages him by gently praising his endurance and his stillness. He could very well be kicking and definitely could overpower Meng Yao and send him flying towards the ground, but once he has said yes Jiang Cheng will do anything to please himself. His enormously unsatisfied ego.

“Are you tired?” He speaks gently, between harsh strikes. “Five”, he says, finally satisfied with the red splotches he sees forming at the swell of his buttocks.

He counts “five”. Letting his right hand drop with the most force he’s put so far, landing on Jiang Cheng’s upper thighs. He screams into the pillow and Meng Yao can only shush him tenderly. He doesn’t actually expect “no noise” from him.

He hits twice more and with each white hot welt, his partner’s legs tense more and more. He can see his muscles starting to tremble as he tries to will himself to relax, breathing heavily into the pillow. His breath is erratic and difficult, he’s trying so hard, so hard to stay in one piece. That’s not what Meng Yao wants at all.

So he gives his final two strikes to the very tender skin, already red and hot, with as much force as his swing can give him. The sharp sound of the belt cutting through the still air of their room, resounds in their quiet home, tickles between his ears and he shudders in pleasure.

After the out loud “one”, Jiang Cheng sighs and sobs in relief. Meng Yao breathes in deep and opens his eyes to a world a little more real, a little less out of control.

It’s still not enough. He relaxes his own back muscles painfully and drops his belt to the side. He slides down and he caresses Jiang Cheng’s sore ass. He isn’t proud, not yet. This isn’t his best. He could do better. But how? When he’s also trapped in a loop of fear and disgust.

He climbs up the bed and kisses his sweaty nape, his cheek. “Turn around. On your back” He orders, his whisper a caress to his ears. Trying to pull him back. Jiang Cheng takes a few seconds to move. It’s almost as if he’s too rigid to do it, but he manages, after a few kisses, after Meng Yao has run his hand through his hair and asked once again, kindly.

Jiang Cheng slowly turns and lies down, his face contorting in pain. “I’ll make it all better” Meng Yao promises, eyes to his temple, undoing the shirt button by button, slowly. “But  right now I want you. I want more of you”.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes open again as if questioning. Not bewildered anymore, hazy with exhaustion and passive interest. Meng Yao takes a look down at his body, his toned chest, abs, hips and hardened cock. He touches him gently and Jiang Cheng groans with no energy at all. Yet, his cock does respond to his caress.

He unzips his own beige slacks and kicks them off his legs, doesn’t bother taking his underwear off with any flair either, but does fold it neatly by his side. Jiang Cheng follows with his half absent eyes only and breathes in and out in a deceptively calm rhythm. His heart is pounding in his chest, he can see it.

The scar tissue on Jiang Cheng’s chest, which he usually goes to enormous lengths to hide, calls for Meng Yao’s gaze and he obeys caressing it with his fingertips only. Jiang Cheng only closes his eyes, as if in pain, as if embarrassed. But it’s soft, smooth and bright, in sensitivity quite frankly beautiful. Meng Yao smiles only slightly.

He slings one naked leg over his partner's body and carefully props himself on his hips. He’s not done, this isn’t it.

“May I?” he asks. His hands find bigger and stronger ones. He guides them to his naked hips, trying to find cues of his partner’s enthusiasm but there’s nothing, there’s barely any strength in Jiang Cheng’s grip. This hurts deep in his chest, but he’s much too bright to not know this passiveness is not about him. They’re not done. He repeats himself: “May I?”

He gets one weak nod as a response, which is not nearly enough to satisfy him. “Speak.”

This one is an order, one that isn’t obeyed. Because of this and because he’s not done, Meng Yao raises one steady hand and slaps Jiang Cheng square in the face with enough force to make his head bounce on the pillow next to him.

“Yes!” Jiang Cheng answers right after, a deep frown back on, voice aggressive, fingers pressing hard against Meng Yao’s hip bones. Nevertheless, he says yes. And because he could fling him across the room with minimum effort, but doesn’t, Meng Yao believes. 

Tentatively, he climbs on his lap. His warmed hand, the perpetrator, lies against the scars on Jiang Cheng’s chest. His partner’s nose twitches at this, but says nothing, breathing deep when Meng Yao positions himself on top of his hardened cock and rubs its tip against his entrance. Sure, normally he’d give them both more time to cozy up to the idea of connection, something they both enjoy but neither claims to need, but it’s late at night and their child will wake up before seven. No time to lose.

A soft groan escapes Jiang Cheng’s thin, upset lips as Meng Yao lowers himself down on his cock, letting it breach his tight, tense body. He winces as he takes it in, not letting his eyes drift away from the expressions of the one below him, who takes what he gives and looks back with angry, intense ardor. Neither will back down and neither will look away.

Meng Yao’s heart beats wild in his chest. Not only for the intense anxiety he hasn’t been able to shake off all night but for the animal pull he feels from the stare those sharp eyes are giving him; they shine almost offended by the pleasure he’s giving his owner. But he sits primly over his hips, mouth open slightly, and chooses to ignore that tiny glint of danger.

He’s not scared of those eyes because he’s not scared of their bearer.

Of course, the pressure his weight is putting on Jiang Cheng’s ass hurts, and he can see his eyebrows twitch as a sign of this discomfort. This he doesn’t ignore. When he rocks forward, slightly, he knows it will cause the swollen skin to sting even more, that the friction will be painful, so he laughs when Jiang Cheng mutters, angrily:

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah,” and he leans forward, to rub it in when he whispers back: “That’s what you’re doing.”

He hears his exasperated scoff bounce around the room but he sits upright again and lets his body get used to the penetration he doesn't usually expect nor experience. Because usually, he’ll be too focused on staying in control to make room for it; too concerned with making healthy snacks and meal prepping, cleaning the last corner of the kitchen the way he likes, finding better wines, ironing his partner’s work shirts himself because no one else does it right.

But now? There’s no time and yet he’s found it in a dark corner, between the mattress and the bedside table, just enough to rush the moans and the trembling of an uneventful night. Just enough to condense it into painful, uncomfortable, heart-clenching pleasure. So he rides, slow enough to feel the pull of the intrusion on his skin, a little too dry, too forced.

He wants this raw hostility and distraught bond. They have never been about that starry-eyed, deep-sigh, sweaty-handed love.

The pain makes Jiang Cheng grunt. He presses his thumbs much too hard on his skin. He is certain the hurt he’s feeling is nothing like what he just inflicted, but he’s smug enough to decide he won’t take it. He grabs his hands again, this time by the wrists and brings them to his exposed chest. The fabric around Jiang Cheng’s biceps is tight, the neckline of his shirt is crumpled and sweaty, his hair is messy against the comforter. 

Meng Yao presses both wrists against Jiang Cheng’s chest, trapping them under a fallacious hold and stretches his body upwards, looking at the ceiling fan that has to be cleaned properly soon. He rolls his hips and moans, closing his eyes and letting that uncomfortable stretch force his body into relaxing into it, into cooperating. He winces but slowly starts tilting his hips forward, fucking himself with careful precision. 

He finds, when he looks downward again, that Jiang Cheng’s eyes are unfocused with anger and arousal. Meng Yao asks with his eyes and brows, are you okay? At this, his partner bucks his hips upwards, making him topple slightly forward and laugh. “Alright, alright! I’m sorry!”

But he hoists himself up again with his hands, this time looking down at Jiang Cheng’s angry eyes. Behind that thin veil of aggression Meng Yao sees the faintest hint of fear, of tender sentiments, so he meets it with what he intends to be serenity. His hips lift slightly, drawing from him a quiet hiss of pain. Meng Yao can feel his body resisting the intrusion he has forced to be welcome, but he insists, slowly growing accustomed to the shape and size that’s still growing inside him.

An obscene wet sound makes Meng Yao close his eyes in embarrassment. How dare he have a body that wants, a body that feels good. Under him all he can hear is the labored breathing and low moaning of who he has trapped inside his warm shameful wetness. But the sounds and the pleasure are still far away from them, and in how Jiang Cheng fights the invitation to let go and enjoy himself, Meng Yao feels pain.

He hums, trying to sway him into it. If not by touch then by ear. He sighs and makes the tiniest, most dainty noises: something he knows his providing white knight of a partner enjoys. 

Much like then, Meng Yao usually chooses to use this information for persuasive purposes instead of the selfless act of pleasuring with no other agenda. His agenda is kind, he tells himself.

They both need this.

So he rides with unhurried movements, he lets his body get used to their connection, physical and emotional. Meng Yao allows the strife back into him, the fear and the breathlessness of a cherished life threatened. He shares that burden, feeling it claw at his chest and close up his throat as the pained pleasure he’s not fully welcoming either, builds up in his belly. As the goosebumps and shivers work their way up his body and escape through his lips as feverish moans.

It’s only when Jiang Cheng’s eyelids, although wide open, start trembling that Meng Yao can sense that the shedding of that hurt and rigid skin begins. He takes shallow breaths, he shudders with every one of Meng Yao’s movements, and little by little these small signs of weakness pile on. His lower lip trembles and his eyes, suddenly desperate, become bright with thick, heavy tears.

He resists shedding them, as anyone would. It might be the pain, might be the pleasure or the raveled thread of them both, it might be the way Meng Yao leans over him and kisses his forehead that does it, but when he finally sobs, Jiang Cheng, or whatever is still left of him, stretches his arms forward. He reaches for the smaller body on top of him, and the body, inhabited by a soul moved towards action, let’s go of him and allows for those shaking hands to hold his face with enormous gentleness.

With one hand on the headboard to prevent it from making any noise, Meng Yao rises and falls, his hair wild and beginning to stick to his temple. He pants, not daring to break the eye contact that binds them and makes the tears pour down on Jiang Cheng’s temples, the rush of affection that makes Meng Yao’s nose tickle. He bats his lashes trying to reign his susceptibility in. But he’s looked at with such emotional abandon his own eyes water.

He’s no longer resisting. The tears pour down and Jiang Cheng allows them to fall, to roll down free into his ears, into his hair, into the pillow. Meng Yao wipes a single one and whispers:

“You’re doing so well.” 

Meng Yao’s voice is gentle but breathy from the excitement of his heart. He continues to ride, blinking softly, little by little leaning into Jiang Cheng, surprised when he finds those trembling hands undoing his shirt too and caressing his warm chest with unexpected sweetness. His thumbs are rough over his nipple but his touch is docile, searching for the softest parts of Meng Yao to cling to. The shift in their position makes his breath hitch as a wave of arousal rises this time without mercy.

Jiang Cheng says nothing, he has spread and bent his knees, no doubt to minimize the surface that touches the comforter below them and holds Meng Yao by the sides and back, closer and closer with each delighted jerk of his hips.

He lets himself shelter the man below him once more, allowing his long hair to drape over their faces and give them the gift of intimate darkness. Their noses touch, and though Jiang Cheng is still crying, thick tears streaming almost non-stop down his cheekbones and temples, Meng Yao kisses his damp nose. How delicate and beautiful, how precious his hiccups and shy sobs are.

“Stay here, stay with me” He sneaks between short, breathless kisses to Jiang Cheng’s face. He kisses his eyes and holds himself upright by a fist over the pillow. If the headboard hits the wall, Meng Yao no longer cares. He twitches and rubs himself on Jiang Cheng’s lap, breathing through his mouth, feeling the tingle of an orgasm rise upward, making his nipples harden, his delicate skin rise on guard.

“Hold me,” Meng Yao asks, not forcing the slightest bit of distance between him and his lover. Isn’t that the name for the loved one who loves in turn? For the one who can love his body in this difficult, turbulent way. To fuck only in glee, what a waste of a heart. 

“I’m here…” He feels the nervous hands under his shirt tighten and those thin long lips press warm against his neck. “It’s just me.” He’s throbbing inside him, Meng Yao can feel his cock twitch with his movement. The anxious breathing of a chest that has not yet finished crying, it builds up inside his own rib cage. It’s that sensation of being trapped in an embrace so vulnerable and aprehensive, that aura of desperation and erotic confinement, that makes him moan and sob himself.

“Feel me.” he says, yes, yes, yes . He takes deep breaths as he writhes on Jiang Cheng’s cock, stroking himself hard enough for it to hurt, for it to make him wince and tense up. His whole body is overcome with difficult, guilty pleasure. His legs try to close on his partner’s slender and strong body, bliss impossible to keep caged. He trembles and he sobs with a slack mouth and overworked chest. 

Meng Yao breathes it in. He faces head on his body’s instinct to turn away and put an end to anything it can’t rationalize and control. The bolt of joy it dreads he wills himself to see through, to savor and suffer. Only ecstasy stretches his reign on himself as thin. 

He whispers “ stay” once more and this time he means himself: Meng Yao, stay for this .

Suspended behind the darkness of his own lids he sobs as his body contorts and spasms. His hips try to escape this pleasure but Jiang Cheng’s hands know to hold him harder, to make him stay, to will himself through it, and he’s pushed down into his lover’s lap, feeling Jiang Cheng’s cock rub at his insides, insistent, vigorous. He clenches around him, rubs himself furiously, and finally lets out a cry of abandon, the last of his resistance melting away.

He sighs, slowing down and still twitching in what now feels closer to discomfort than pleasure, and opens his eyes once more to look at the one who helped him allow his body that torturous euphoria he’s coming down from, foggy and more relaxed with every sigh.

There’s still one stubborn wrinkle between Jiang Cheng’s brows. His breath is ragged and his cheeks and eyes are still very red, but he’s crying no more. Meng Yao drags a sweet hand down his jaw and neck, leaning down to kiss where his partner’s eyebrows meet in tension and gets his face to relax if only the slightest bit. 

His lips are slightly ajar, his chest, pink as it is from the scars, looks particularly flushed and he stares down at him for a few seconds, as his words start coming back to him. Meng Yao licks his lips and smiles softly, a smile that’s barely there but it’s drenched in affection.

“You’re so loving.” He rolls his hips and makes Jiang Cheng grunt again. “So strong for us. So selfless.” Meng Yao mumbles. He places one wet hand over Jiang Cheng’s chest again to brace himself and moves again, more calculated. 

Below him, Jiang Cheng, face aching with distress, shakes his head. He refuses his words, he closes off to prevent them from reaching under his scarred skin and touching the very supple bits of him that have never stopped loving, that have never stopped welcoming every word and every touch with the tenderness of a child. But he is there, Meng Yao has finally found his way into bloody and delicate flesh, and with his voice he finds a nook for himself in there.

“You’re a good man” he says and he kisses that stubborn, tense jaw. It shakes under his lips. One sharp intake of breath that sounds much too close to a sob alerts him. “Yes, you are.”

He forces Jiang Cheng to look at him, between the thick heavy curtains of Meng Yao’s hair, by grabbing his face with his other hand with gentle steadiness. “Don’t fight it. Don’t fight me.” This time, his voice practically coos, as he lifts his wide hips forward, feeling Jiang Cheng’s cock slide in and out with no resistance. He winces, still too sensitive from his orgasm, but determined to get his partner to come too, to guide him into pleasure, by force if necessary.

Meng Yao goes a little harder, keeping his hold on Jiang Cheng, whose hands are gripping his hips almost painfully and helping him move. His mind, however, still resists the downpour. “Give this to yourself, darling. Feel good.” he kisses onto his nose. Jiang Cheng’s deep eyes shift between Meng Yao’s in heartfelt desperation.

He slowly closes his eyes, an invitation that Jiang Cheng follows with ease.

In this self-imposed darkness there is nothing but the sound of Jiang Cheng’s grunts that grow louder, longer with every slap of skin that brings him closer to the edge. 

“Yes. Come. Come inside me.” Meng Yao sighs in his ear. He feels Jiang Cheng buck harder upward, hold his breath, his abdomen trembles and his thighs tense up. His head digs back into the pillow and he completely stops breathing for a few moments where Meng Yao knows to move a little harder, drop a little faster, and to keep him tight in. A few more seconds later, Jiang Cheng lets out a series of breathy moans as he finishes, spilling inside Meng Yao’s belly marking him once more, leaving him warm and slick with release

Meng Yao’s hips sway much slower. Jiang cheng relaxes slowly, chest and hips still twitching from time to time. But after he’s seen Jiang Cheng relax, and he himself takes a big breath in and out to get them both to come down easy. “That’s it. That’s right. There.” And the hold on his face becomes a caress along his jawline.

The chest below his hand trembles again. It’s not quite a sob, his partner isn’t crying anymore, but is very clearly shaken. “Ssssh… we’re done. That’s it.” he whispers and smiles again, using his most gentle voice, like the soft sound of the wind, almost as quiet. “Good job.”

One sharp intake alerts him but it isn’t enough to make him expect the sudden movement. Jiang Cheng abruptly sits up and holds him by the waist, hiding his face between Meng Yao’s chin and shoulder. He can imagine how much that movement must’ve hurt, because his partner’s neck and arms tense up again immediately. But he puts that thought aside as he wraps his considerably leaner arms around Jiang Cheng’s back and shoulders. “Are we good?”

“Yes,” he receives, pitiful and broken apart. That tiny voice vibrating at his neck breaks his heart and brings new tickles to his nose and eyes.

“I am so sorry.” He offers. What a ridiculous attempt at repairing what he allowed to be broken that night. What a ridiculous excuse of an apology.

He’s held much tighter. Jiang Cheng is trembling around him. “You didn’t do anything.” Be it sadness or rage, Meng Yao wants neither on Jiang Cheng’s already hurt body and spirit.

As much as it would be more pleasant to take his word and run with it, absolve himself from blame, holding the warm, vulnerable skin in his hands, he can’t give himself the undeserved gift of indulgence. Not when they’re holding, tangled in the bed, with eyes still red and chests still sweaty. His partner is wet and softening inside him.

“I should have.”

Jiang Cheng moves to make a little distance. They can see each other’s exhausted faces again, clearly in their warmly lit room; the dark circles under their eyes, the fading blush of their cheeks, the strain on their eyelids. His partner opens his mouth to say something. Meng Yao never finds out what because he cuts him off, bringing both hands to the sides of Jiang Cheng’s face: “Listen to me: They are never taking A-Ling.”

One heavy sigh and tense expression are his cue to interrupt again before he’s flooded with reasons why he can’t be making that promise. He can, he’s willing to make sure. “Look at me. I won’t allow it.” His eyes dig deep into his partner’s light, hopeful ones.

Because behind that exasperated “Meng Yao”, he also hears the faintest hint of relief. How his heart is clinging to the possibility that yes, they will not. That yes, he will make sure. The boyish quiver of Jiang Cheng’s lip, the sad wrinkle on his brow, the intense look with which he searches for something solid to hang onto in Meng Yao’s gaze.

“I swear. I’ll kill them before they take him from you.” 

Meng Yao speaks with clarity and certitude unrehearsed and unfaltering. A rogue spark of passion sets his courage ablaze and he once again cradles Jiang Cheng’s face against his soft chest, feeling his own strength drum against his ribcage, the weight of the promise made and the ferocious confidence that washes over him.

The rough hands that circle his waist grow tender with every passing second and he does too.

-

Jiang Cheng lies face down on the bed. Meng Yao has pulled out their softest covers to sleep under and has promised nothing bad will happen if Jin Ling wakes up, he will take care of it. Jiang Cheng can sleep bare-bottomed, it will be alright. In shame, Jiang Cheng has buried his face down in a pillow again, one he didn’t drool on earlier.

It’s just more work for Meng Yao to wash their ruined bedcover and then whatever mess he makes on the softer set of sheets if he moves around during the night after they’ve put a little soothing balm on his swollen and stinging ass. But Meng Yao doesn’t seem to mind the extra workload. He can hear a little happiness behind his casual planmaking.

Jiang Cheng's skin is furiously hot. When he'd taken a look in the bathroom it had only looked marginally better than it felt. With mortifying embarrassment he has to admit to himself, it’s not the worst shape he’s been in.

He feels a light dip on the mattress by his side and he turns his face to look at Meng Yao, holding his pineapple yellow hydroflask.

“Hydrate or perish.” He’s smiling. He’s tired, anyone could see it, but he smiles as though everything he’s doing is menial, unimportant work. Meng Yao will stop at nothing to achieve perfection and sometimes Jiang Cheng wishes he were better at praising him for everything he does for Jin Ling and for him.

He slowly rises from the bed resting on his forearms and takes a couple of thirsty gulps of water. It goes down his throat making him feel much more relieved and, in some strange way, alive. He takes one more look around when Meng Yao stretches to leave the bottle on his bedside table. He’s put on his pajamas.

His profile is almost as beautiful as it is terrifying. Even about to fall asleep his posture is impeccable, even in the middle of the night he’s poised and collected. His warm eyes look back at Jiang Cheng and they too smile.

He lies back down and lifts an arm, to make room. “Come rest with me.” For him.

Meng Yao doubts. Blinks twice too many times and takes a little breath that dies on his mouth.

“Come here.” He repeats himself and nods. 

Jiang Cheng hates the guilt he sees pooling in Meng Yao’s stiff dimples, the subtle shiver of his long lashes and the way he looks down. He has come to understand and feel on his own chest the breath that gets stuck between Meng Yao’s collarbones when he’s afraid. And yet he loves - yes, loves - the way his small figure bonds with him, the soothing scent of white florals that lingers always on his skin, the weight of his relaxed breathing next to him as he clings to Jiang Cheng’s arms in an awkward embrace.

“Rest. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” Meng Yao murmurs, once the lights are out and they’re alone in the dark. With nothing but the feeling of each other, close and real. No decorations, no reflections, only the sweet caress of their breath on each other’s skin.

Jiang Cheng holds the back of Meng Yao’s head and pulls him closer. He can hear a faint moan and a heavy sigh of surrender.

It’s not too bad.