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Performing on stage had become Meng Yao’s greatest pleasure in life. At first, the attention had been strange, had even felt wrong on some days, but after years and years of hard work, Meng Yao had grown accustomed to being on stage. His voice was stable by now, his movements fluent, his painted face all over the billboards. He had always been fascinated by his mother’s performances, and he had never seen her smile as much as when he had told her about his ambitions to follow in her footsteps. His mother was the one who had given him his stage name – Jin Guangyao. She had wanted him to shine bright, and when Meng Yao finally stood on the biggest stages the world had to offer, he truly felt as if he was glowing. Everybody knew his name, his face, his voice. His mother would have been proud. Meng Yao wished she could have seen him rise.
She had given him her opera robes only a few days before her death, and he had since worn them to his performances, making few alterations when necessary. After his mother was gone, her robes were always by his side, accompanying him on his way to success and popularity.
Like always, his show had gone perfectly and yet Meng Yao was exhausted, worn down from the heat of the spotlights beaming down on him, the noise, the- everything. Meng Yao had grown tired. He’d always kept a smile on his face, hiding how much the fame had worn him down, how much he wanted to cast that mask aside that he had built over the years, how much he longed for the anonymity of his old life. The fame had its ups and downs, and while Meng Yao enjoyed being Jin Guangyao, loved and respected by all, the fake smiles had become painful.
Sitting all alone in his room backstage with a glass of red wine had become a routine to him. It calmed him down after the performances, gave him some time to let his mask fall, to allow himself to turn back into who he really was. Meng Yao looked up into the make-up mirror, at his emotionless painted face. The blush around his eyes and cheeks made him look even more tired than he already was, the red lipstick seemed just a shade too bright, the black lines around his eyes too sharp. He couldn’t wait to wipe it all off.
A figure appearing in the mirror caught his eye, tall and lean, almost as elegant as Meng Yao himself. He felt the corners of his lips rise into a genuine smirk.
“Was the play to your liking?” he asked, taking another sip. There he was, the only living person Meng Yao felt anything but concealed hate for. After his mother’s death, there were no more people he had any genuine connection with – no family, no friends. He had never had any proper friends growing up; nobody wanted anything to do with an outsider who was bullied for wearing the same clothes three times a week, for smelling bad, for his mother not having nearly as much money as the other kids’ parents, for his father not being in his life. When Meng Yao rose to fame, they kept crawling back to him, like a bunch of moths attracted by the light. Meng Yao was quick to realise they didn’t want anything to do with him, only with what he represented. They wanted a glimpse of fame. Meng Yao never replied to a single message.
Lan Xichen was different. Had his mother still been alive, she would have liked him, and she might have thought that Meng Yao liked him, too. The truth was that Meng Yao didn’t like people, no matter who they were, and much less love anyone. What connected Lan Xichen and him was the mutual dislike for what they were, what they had become – rich, loved, respected, feared. People acted overly polite and friendly towards them, refusing to see them as anything but a step to power. While Meng Yao had worked his ass off to become a bright star, Lan Xichen had been born as the oldest son of an influential family. Both of them, despite their different upbringing, were hardworking, and entirely sick of being reduced to their worth as a public figure and people treating them like they would break if given a bit of attitude. Xichen and him, they had a connection, nothing more. They weren’t even friends.
Meng Yao turned around on his chair, watching intently as Lan Xichen pulled a pack of cigarettes from his suit, sticking one of them into his mouth and lighting it up. He closed his eyes, inhaling a deep breath of smoke, and Meng Yao could almost feel it burning inside his own lungs.
“Do you mind?” Xichen asked, cocking one of his eyebrows as if to provoke Meng Yao. He was acting brave today, but he would have to try better. Humiliation had been a big part of Meng Yao’s life, and he simply refused to feel shame or weakness ever again.
“Go ahead,” he said, smiling his fake smile that he didn’t have to put up around Lan Xichen. He always saw right through it. Perhaps Meng Yao intended him to. He didn’t like the smell of cigarettes, never had, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care if they were in Xichen’s mouth.
Watching Xichen smoke, Meng Yao crossed his legs, leaning back to let his eyes wander up and down the other’s body. He was wearing a dark grey pinstripe suit that was just tight enough to not leave the physique below to imagination. Long, dark strands of hair framed his handsome face, and the black eyeshadow he only wore whenever he came to the opera house made his eyes seem much more intense than they usually were. No matter what Xichen chose to wear, he was beautiful, always, there was no denying it. Meng Yao had seen his bare body below him, above him, way too many times to not imagine what it looked like underneath the suit now. They weren’t friends, they weren’t lovers, but they were certainly… something.
“I bet during my play, you wished you could have made me your concubine,” Meng Yao said, locking his eyes with Xichen’s, licking his lips for good measure before forming them into a cunning smile. “Would you like that?”
“You know me too well, A-Yao.”
A thing about Meng Yao was that he simply knew everyone too well. A single look at a person usually told him all he had to know. It didn’t have anything to do with Lan Xichen. He wasn’t special.
Pushing the thought away, Meng Yao got out of his chair with a smirk, closing the distance between them and taking the cigarette out of Xichen’s hand with a fluent movement. “If I am the drunk concubine now, does that make you my emperor, Xichen?”
Meng Yao inhaled, not deep enough for the smoke to reach his lungs, and then blew it right into Lan Xichen’s face. He didn’t smoke, of course not. It was not only because he hated the smell. He had to protect his voice and didn’t like the taste, but to mess with this mortal god in his dark grey suit was generally worth it. It would rile him up. Make him easier to deal with. Break the little bit of attitude he had.
Lan Xichen merely stared at him, mesmerised, right how Meng Yao wanted him. An easy target, he tried telling himself, ignoring the way his heart skipped a beat at the other’s expression.
“I would treat you much better than him,” Xichen said, gently taking the cigarette out of Meng Yao’s hand, putting it out next to the window. Neither of them doubted his words.
“Oh, would you now? Will you prove it?”
Lan Xichen’s hands were quick, practised, as they removed the layers of Meng Yao’s clothes, the pins and decorations in his hair, and Meng Yao closed his eyes to enjoy every second of it. Removing his costume felt like a weight coming off his shoulders.
There was a tender pressure to his lips once he was bare. They didn’t kiss often, but if Xichen felt bold enough to initiate a kiss, then who was Meng Yao to deny him the pleasure? He kissed back, still keeping his eyes closed, letting his lips move hard against Xichen’s, smearing his lipstick all over them.
“I saw you in the audience,” Meng Yao said when they pulled apart for a breath. “I saw your hungry eyes following me. Were you already thinking about what you were going to do to me?”
He let his lips meet Xichen’s again before kissing all the way up to his ear. “I’ve thought about it too,” he whispered, letting his breath ghost over Xichen’s ear, conscious of the way Xichen’s shoulders tensed in anticipation.
Oh, how much he had thought about it. During his entire performance, Xichen had been all he could think of. Meng Yao took one of his hands, guided it back to his ass, letting Xichen’s fingers hit the plug buried deep inside it. A surprised gasp sounded through the room, and Meng Yao took a moment to appreciate the look on Xichen’s face, his slightly parted lips, the stars in his eyes, pretending that the picture wouldn’t etch itself into his memory.
“You had that in during your performance?” Xichen asked, his voice a little rough, disbelieving, turned on.
Meng Yao replied with a hum, dragging Xichen towards his chair and making him sit while he pulled the plug out. He didn’t take the time to remove Xichen’s suit, merely pulled his pants down just enough to free his hard cock and sat right down on it.
Watching Lan Xichen throw his head back, Meng Yao’s lips curved into a satisfied smile before he pressed them up against the other’s neck, smearing red colour all over it as he moved his hips up and down, fucking himself hard and fast. Xichen started thrusting up into him, not quite meeting his rhythm yet, but oh, it was good. Good enough to kiss Xichen again. And again. And again. He shouldn’t do it, they shouldn’t kiss, because why would they? They were nothing to each other, they were only fucking, nothing more, and they shouldn’t kiss. Meng Yao couldn’t stop. He wanted to mess Xichen up, to paint his entire face with his lipstick first, with his cum later. There wasn’t anything else he wanted from Xichen. He simply wanted to mess him up. Nothing else. He tried to hide the thoughts behind a wicked smile. At the moment, Xichen would be too distracted to notice.
Without a word, Meng Yao got up, pulling himself off Xichen’s cock, already missing the warmth. If he wasn’t connected to Xichen physically, then were they really connected at all?
Xichen tried to stop him, his hands connecting them at Meng Yao’s hips for only a second before Meng Yao slapped them away. He couldn’t deal with this now. “Keep your hands to yourself. If you touch me again, there will be consequences.”
Trying to shake the off feelings, he disappeared for only a few seconds, coming back with a piece of fabric which he quickly wrapped around Xichen’s eyes. If he couldn’t see, he couldn’t notice anything strange. He’d always been too quick to notice when something was off.
“Sit still now, pretty boy,” Meng Yao ordered, sitting back down on Xichen’s cock again, fucking himself nice and slow, watching the other man bite his lip and tremble in his seat. Xichen’s knuckles turned white with how badly he wanted to touch. He was trying to hold back, and Meng Yao couldn’t wait for his control to break.
Suddenly, he slammed down hard, making Xichen gasp and grab his thighs in surprise, to which Meng Yao responded by slapping his face and standing up again. Cold air hit his hole. It felt too empty without Xichen’s cock inside. Without a sound, he pressed the plug back inside, shamelessly rolling his eyes at the stimulation. For a moment, he imagined it to be Xichen’s cock, his fingers, whatever, anything but the lifeless object it was. It felt good to be full, but at the same time, the lack of proper relief annoyed him. He chose to take it out on Xichen.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep your hands to yourself? You can get off on your own now.”
“I’m sorry,” Xichen said quickly, and he meant it. “It won’t happen again.”
Meng Yao didn’t care. He had planned for this to happen, hadn’t he? Both of them had known that it would come to this.
“I gave you an order, not a suggestion,” he hissed. “Go on, touch yourself. Get yourself off.”
Meng Yao watched as Lan Xichen swallowed hard, and when he finally started touching himself, slow and gentle, tiny whimpers escaping him every now and then, Meng Yao couldn’t help but moan a little at the sight. It didn’t take long for Xichen to be close, with the loss of sight and the imagination of Meng Yao watching him as he fucked his own hand. The trembling intensified; the strokes became frantic; his hips started thrusting upwards.
Meng Yao waited just a little longer, then told him to stop. Xichen’s entire body twitched when he removed his hand, and Meng Yao finally got a good look at his cock. It was thick and long, glistening in precum and remains of the lube Meng Yao had used for his plug. It was pretty. Meng Yao wanted it in his mouth so badly his mouth started watering, but it wasn’t the right time. Not yet.
“Did you calm down?” Meng Yao asked, his voice almost mocking. Xichen didn’t seem to trust himself to speak up, and a nod was the only reply he gave. It would be enough. He was calm now, so…
“What are you waiting for?”
Xichen’s hand flew right back to his cock, stroking it roughly as soon as it connected with his own hot flesh, desperate for release. He was a sweaty, gasping mess, and Meng Yao couldn’t ignore the pull in his own groin any longer. Keeping his eyes on Xichen, he sat up on top of his make-up table, the plug burying itself deeper inside, and began stroking himself, slowly, with just enough pressure to get the edge off for a bit. It wasn’t enough for long. When Meng Yao saw Xichen trembling again and told him to stop, he struggled to keep his voice stable. He kept stroking himself, rougher, faster, still not allowing Xichen to keep going, watching him gasp and shake and whine, “please, please, please”, and Meng Yao couldn’t take it anymore.
“Open your mouth,” he said, barely waiting for Xichen to follow the order. His cock pulsed, covering the tongue below it with streaks of hot cum, filling Xichen’s mouth until it ran down his lips, leaving tracks of white all over his already smeared face. He looked like a piece of art, covered in cum and lipstick and- oh, Xichen was trembling, twitching, coming without a hand on his cock, and soon enough, his thighs were stained too.
Meng Yao was on his knees with a mouthful of cock just a second later. It lay heavy on his tongue, still pulsing, still pumping a few drops. Xichen was sensitive, could barely take the stimulation, his nails started digging into the chair, and Meng Yao kept going. He had denied himself the pleasure for a little too long, and now that his mouth and throat were finally filled with Xichen’s cock, he didn’t really feel like stopping any time soon.
“Please,” Xichen started begging again, his pleas falling on deaf ears. “A-Yao, I can’t-“
Meng Yao wanted to mark him up. He made sure to smear the remainder of his lipstick onto the base of Xichen’s cock, the red colour growing deeper every time he came in contact with it. Xichen was a mess. Meng Yao wanted to ruin him. He sucked until his mouth felt numb, until the cock inside swelled back to full hardness, until his own started thrusting up into thin air, until he wanted nothing more than to ride Xichen until his ass was so full of cum, he would leak for hours.
Deciding not to deny himself the pleasure anymore, he got off the floor, pulled the cloth off Xichen’s eyes, meeting his desperate gaze. There was a time for restraint, a time for keeping his mask up, and Meng Yao decided it was over.
“Get inside me,” he hurried. “Right now, come on. I need you to fuck me into oblivion, Xichen.”
Xichen got up from the chair without a single moment of hesitation, finally grabbing Meng Yao’s hips and roughly bending him over his make-up table. Right away, Meng Yao’s ass was empty, the plug almost ripped out and quickly replaced by Xichen’s warm cock. It hammered right into his ass, hard and fast and oh, how Meng Yao had wanted this. His hair was being pulled, his neck bending back uncomfortably, and yet, Meng Yao felt better than ever before.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Xichen-“
“I’m close,” Meng Yao groaned, his breath hitching at a particularly hard thrust. He wasn’t the only one losing his mind, not the only one on the brink of what would surely be one of the best and most intense orgasms he’d ever had.
"Can you beg for it? Please, A-Yao, please-"
"Beg? You want me to beg? Ah, Emperor... There is not a single thing I like more than having your fat cock up my ass, filling me up so good. Can’t you feel how I’m sucking you in? Can’t you feel how much I want this? Please, Xichen, please, make me come, I need you-"
Lan Xichen all but whined, his hands gripped tighter, fingernails burying into Meng Yao’s thighs, leaving angry red marks. Meng Yao came with a high-pitched groan, one he would definitely deny if anyone asked him about it, and while his cum splattered the floor, Xichen kept pounding into him. His thrusts grew more and more erratic, pushing him hard against his table. With as much strength as he could muster, he met Xichen’s thrusts, pushed back against him, eager to have him finish. This must be punishment for the earlier overstimulation, after he had Xichen hold back for so long. It was his turn now.
“Come inside,” Meng Yao gasped, his voice so unlike himself, so raw and vulnerable and desperate. “Fuck, make me mine, emperor, prove to me that I’m yours, please-‘
He didn’t think it possible for Lan Xichen’s grip on his thighs to tighten even more, but oh, it did, and it hurt so well. Meng Yao was already looking forward to the way his thighs and hips would bruise. He had messed Xichen up with his lipstick, but Xichen’s payback always struck twice as hard. Unlike the lipstick, the bruises would stay for a while. He would have to hide them for tomorrow’s performance, and for the one after. The thrill of getting caught sent shivers down his spine, not enough to arouse him again, but enough for him to clench down right as Lan Xichen buried himself impossibly deep inside, as he bit down on Meng Yao’s tense neck, as he kept fucking into him slowly, finally filling him with hot cum.
Meng Yao’s legs shook, threatening to give out under him as Xichen pulled out, if not for the man’s hands steading them. His touch was gentle this time. Meng Yao barely noticed Xichen kneeling down behind him until he could feel a tongue licking from his balls all the way up to his entrance before it pushed inside. He let it happen for a while, let Xichen clean his own cum away, relaxing into it.
“Enough,” he said after a while, straightening his back and pushing Xichen away, forcing his legs to walk over to the sink without so much as a wobble. With a wet towel, he wiped his body, hissing every now and then when he put a little too much pressure onto his new bruises. They hurt. His ass burned. Meng Yao loved it. The bruises would remind him of Xichen whenever he looked into the mirror, and while he had loved marking Xichen up, he was almost proud of the marks on his own body. Xichen did this to him. Marked him up. Showed him who he belonged to. Meng Yao wondered if he would like to belong to Xichen, if maybe, the connection between them was more than sex and filthy words, but he didn’t allow himself to imagine it. Maybe he liked Xichen, maybe he didn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t ever admit it out loud. They weren’t meant to be, should never be, and while Meng Yao tried to convince himself that he couldn’t care less about what they were in the end, his heart ached for a life he would never allow himself to have.
When he deemed himself clean enough, he cleaned the towel in the sink, handing it over to Xichen after.
“You look like a mess. Clean yourself up, and then leave.”
There was a moment of hesitance, like always, but Meng Yao chose to ignore it. Instead of looking at Xichen again, he simply sat down on his chair and started to remove his make-up. What good would it do to look at him now? He had to keep his façade up for as long as possible. Xichen had made it rip, had been given some glimpses beyond the curtain, but Meng Yao would stitch it back together carefully, piece by piece.
“I will see you tomorrow, then?” Xichen asked once he was done cleaning, his tone a little unsure.
“You know it.”
There was a gentle smile on Xichen’s face, and Meng Yao didn’t have to turn around to see it.