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Lean arms snake around Xie Lian’s waist, and a cool body plasters itself to his back. Hua Cheng’s breath tickles the nape of his neck, fresh and sweet with the mint of their toothpaste. As he noses along the side of Xie Lian’s throat, Xie Lian can feel the flicker of his eyelashes: a smattering of delicate butterfly kisses.
“I’ll be done in just a moment, sweet boy,” Xie Lian says. He’s elbow-deep in their sink, warm water sliding between his fingers as he washes their dinner dishes. Iridescent suds, sharp with the scent of bergamot, lather his skin. “Thank you for being so patient.”
Hua Cheng hums softly in response. He hasn’t spoken since dinner: he’s still so far under it makes Xie Lian’s heart throb. After all, it isn’t often that Hua Cheng allows himself to indulge this headspace for long stretches of time, which makes today particularly unusual—and particularly important.
Xie Lian had put him under hard and fast this afternoon, at his request, with deft touches and carefully-chosen words. Hua Cheng had stayed under throughout the duration of their aftercare, which in itself was not odd: he likes to be spoiled. Then he’d roused himself enough to help Xie Lian cook dinner, and he had joked and grinned and teased, but there had been a fuzziness around his eye he couldn’t quite shake. Xie Lian is very familiar with that fuzziness and what it means for his husband. He had drawn it forward again, with gentle orders and steady hands, and Hua Cheng had folded back under without complaint.
Now, Xie Lian rinses the last of their glasses and sets them out on the drying mat before turning in Hua Cheng’s arms. He dries his hands with the kitchen towel folded by the sink, then loops his arms around his husband’s neck and looks up at him. Hua Cheng blinks, slow and languid as a cat’s kiss, before bending and pressing his face to the side of Xie Lian’s throat again.
“Sweet boy,” Xie Lian sighs, pushing his hands through Hua Cheng’s hair to scrape nails across his scalp. He feels Hua Cheng’s shiver roll through him. “Let’s get ready for bed. Go fill the bath for us.”
Hua Cheng presses the sharp point of his nose a little more stubbornly into the vulnerable skin beneath Xie Lian’s jaw. Xie Lian, ever weak to his wiles, indulges him a moment more. Then he grips a handful of Hua Cheng’s hair and tugs, peeling his husband off of himself. Hua Cheng doesn’t fight him, although he does pout when their eyes meet.
“San Lang,” he chastises. “The bath, please.”
“Yes, dianxia,” Hua Cheng finally murmurs, his voice low and soft. He pads across the kitchen, sure-footed even like this, and Xie Lian watches him go with a fond smile.
While Hua Cheng prepares the bath, Xie Lian goes to gather their pajamas. He picks out the softest, warmest things for Hua Cheng: checkered flannel pants, one of Xie Lian’s own well-worn sweatshirts, and a pair of boxers with little flaming hearts on them. Hua Cheng insists that he doesn’t mind the cold, but Xie Lian knows he likes to feel warm anyway. He had needed no more reason than that to begin procuring an entire closetful of sweaters, jackets, and fuzzy socks for his husband. It feels good, to be able to care for Hua Cheng in this way—in any way. It is but a fraction of what he deserves.
Xie Lian flicks on the heated mattress pad, while he’s at it, and then tosses a pair of towels into the dryer to warm through. Once he’s finished with his preparations, he makes his way back to their master bathroom. Hua Cheng kneels beside the tub, testing the temperature of the water on his wrist, and glances over his shoulder when he hears Xie Lian enter. His smile is smaller and softer than usual, but by no means less real.
Xie Lian sits behind him, wrapping his arms around Hua Cheng’s waist and kissing his shoulder. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he says. “Are you ready to get in now?”
With Xie Lian’s help, Hua Cheng divests himself of his clothes before stepping into the bath. He immediately grabs for Xie Lian’s sweater, tugging him forward, and Xie Lian has to bat him away before he can be toppled in after.
“San Lang!” he scolds, but the laughter in his voice makes it clear how very much he doesn’t mind. Hua Cheng’s smile grows a little wider and a little more mischievous, so Xie Lian quickly sheds his own clothes and joins him in the tub. Best not to tempt fate too much, he reasons. Their dryer is already busy.
“Dianxia,” Hua Cheng sighs, satisfied, as he wraps himself around Xie Lian like a sodden blanket. The warmth of the water is bleeding into his skin already—he feels more lukewarm, now, and less like sentient ice. Xie Lian reaches back to stroke his flank, and feels Hua Cheng’s skin tremble at his touch. “Dianxia.”
“Shh, I’m right here. Sit back and let me wash you.”
It takes some rearranging, but Xie Lian manages to get Hua Cheng settled between his legs. His back presses against Xie Lian’s chest, and he drops his head to rest against Xie Lian’s shoulder, baring the long white arch of his throat. Xie Lian kisses the lump of his Adam’s apple and feels it bob beneath his lips.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. Hua Cheng exhales shakily but does not deny it; he knows better than to try, now. Xie Lian raises a hand, brushing his fingers across the smooth black leather of his eyepatch. “Can I take this off?”
Hua Cheng’s answer is immediate, today: “Yes, dianxia.”
With deft and practiced fingers, Xie Lian unties the string that holds the eyepatch in place. He sets the patch on the bathroom counter, where it will stay safe and dry, before kissing the sharp edge of Hua Cheng’s eyebrow. Hua Cheng sighs and turns his face into the touch, earning himself another kiss—this one lands on the sunken indentation where his right eye once sat, the skin long-healed and smoothed over an empty socket.
“Good boy,” Xie Lian says, picking up a soft washcloth and lathering it with Hua Cheng’s body wash. It infuses the air with the warm, solid scents of cardamom and cedarwood. He starts at Hua Cheng’s throat, dragging the washcloth along his skin in long, smooth strokes until it’s coated in a thin layer of white foam. Extra care is taken to clean the dark, wiry curls of hair below his arms and between his legs. Hua Cheng parts his thighs, rolling his hips lazily into Xie Lian’s touch although his cock is still soft. “Hm? Do you want something, San Lang?”
Hua Cheng, to his credit, pauses to mull this over. “This San Lang is fine,” he decides, “but if dianxia wants something, I will for sure give it to him.”
“Maybe later.” Xie Lian kisses his cheek and tastes the mild, bitter tang of soap. He continues his ministrations, coaxing Hua Cheng to pull his knees to his chest so he can reach his feet and scrub between each toe. Hua Cheng squirms against him, nose wrinkled. Undoubtedly, it tickles, and if Xie Lian were feeling any less merciful he would linger here—but Hua Cheng is so loose and relaxed already that it would be a pity to rile him up again.
So, once Xie Lian is done scrubbing him, he guides his legs back down. Using his palm, he cups handfuls of steaming bathwater and sluices it over Hua Cheng’s skin to rinse the suds. He scoops water into Hua Cheng’s hair, too, wetting it until it’s heavy and soaked through to his scalp. It looks even darker when it’s wet like this, the strands fanning across their skin and the water’s surface like an ink spill.
Xie Lian works shampoo into the upper third of Hua Cheng’s hair, rubbing circles across his scalp and watching his eye grow heavier and heavier. It’s half-lidded by the time he moves onto the conditioner, rubbing it into the remaining two-thirds of hair before piling it into a bun so it won’t sink into the water and rinse out prematurely. Between the two of them, there really is so much hair to keep track of.
“Dianxia?” Hua Cheng asks, stirring briefly in his arms.
Xie Lian tightens his grip, coaxing Hua Cheng into relaxing again. “Yes, San Lang?”
“May this humble servant help dianxia to wash, too?”
“If he wants,” Xie Lian allows, since he can’t rinse Hua Cheng’s conditioner out for several minutes yet. While they wait, Hua Cheng turns around and carefully cards shampoo and conditioner into Xie Lian’s own hair, then sets about wiping his limbs down. Although he lacks some of his usual focus, he still moves with painstaking care, keeping each touch light and reverent. Xie Lian is full with abounding love of him. “San Lang?”
“Yes, dianxia?”
“I love you.”
Hua Cheng ducks his head, studying the tangle of legs between them. Xie Lian is sure that, if he could blush, the tips of those pointed ears would be pink. “This one loves dianxia, too.”
Xie Lian leans forward to kiss his forehead, then smacks his lips as the taste of shampoo strikes him. Hua Cheng laughs and looks up, rubbing a thumb over Xie Lian’s lower lip.
“I’m all soapy, dianxia. You have to be careful where you kiss.”
“Well, you’re not soapy here—” A kiss to the tip of his nose. “—or here—” To his cheek. “—and certainly not here.” To his lips, warm and full and parted around a smile. “Mm, nope. You just taste like San Lang.”
Hua Cheng reaches up, cupping the side of Xie Lian’s face. He scoots closer. Their knees bump. “Dianxia, may I kiss you again?”
“You may.”
Hua Cheng kisses him, soft and sweet and unusually passive. Xie Lian takes the invitation for what it is and bears into him, guiding him to deepen the kiss. Breath washes between them, warm and humid, and Xie Lian tastes toothpaste on the edges of Hua Cheng’s elegant canines. His tongue dips further into Hua Cheng’s mouth, brushing along the soft insides of his lips. There is no urgency, here: he can take as long as he likes simply exploring, and so he does.
By the time he draws back, Hua Cheng’s mouth is red and wet. He leans after Xie Lian but makes no demands of him, his eye closed and his breathing slow. He is beautiful every way, but especially like this, Xie Lian thinks, soft and yielding and pliant.
“I love you like this,” Xie Lian murmurs, because Hua Cheng deserves to hear it. “I’m so glad you trust me enough to let me take care of you this way.”
A purr catches in Hua Cheng’s chest, and he blinks his eye open, clearly startled by himself. “Gege—”
“Good boy,” Xie Lian soothes, reaching forward to rub Hua Cheng’s sternum. “That’s a good boy, San Lang, it’s okay. You can relax. You can let go. Gege’s here, gege’s got you.”
Hua Cheng’s breath hitches around another warbling purr, and he grasps Xie Lian’s hands and brings them to his face. Xie Lian obligingly pets him, allowing him to hide his expression as that purr finally takes root in his chest. It’s a rocky, rolling rumble of a noise. Xie Lian still remembers the first time he heard it, all those years ago. It had been quieter, then, rustier. His poor Hua Cheng had never purred before.
The sound is a well-worn one, now, and Xie Lian drops a hand to feel the familiar vibrations of it. Hua Cheng squeezes his eye shut, but there’s a smile on his face. “Gege,” he says. “Gege.”
Xie Lian sits with him, there in the bath, until their fingers begin to prune. Only then does he urge Hua Cheng to his feet, directing him to stand beneath the hot spray of the shower to rinse. He darts off to fetch the warm towels, patting Hua Cheng’s skin dry and wringing the excess water from his hair. Hua Cheng’s purr is a ceaseless thing, echoing off of the tile.
The blow dryer is loud enough to drown it out—just barely—which Xie Lian thinks is criminal. Still, he’d rather Hua Cheng not go to bed with wet hair, and he knows for a fact that Hua Cheng likes the hot air and the way Xie Lian’s fingers card through his hair as he dries it. Thus, this simply isn’t a step that can be skipped.
Once Hua Cheng’s hair is dry, Xie Lian smooths camellia oil into the ends, then combs and braids it. By the time he’s finished, his own hair has dried enough to not drip all over his shoulders and the floor—which is, by his standards, all that’s required. Hua Cheng turns to fuss at him about it, but Xie Lian sets a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
“It’s alright,” he says. “Gege will do it himself. I have something else I want San Lang to do for me.”
Hua Cheng looks at him, rapt and attentive.
“Grab the lotion and bring it to the bedroom. Lay down on your side of the bed and wait for me. Make sure you cover up with the blankets, so you don’t get cold.”
“Yes, dianxia.”
Once Hua Cheng has gone, Xie Lian quickly combs his own hair and leaves it down so it dries faster. He tugs on his own boxers before going to find Hua Cheng, who has obediently curled up beneath the blankets on his side of the bed (the left—he prefers to have Xie Lian on his right side, when he can, for reasons that make Xie Lian tremble with the amount of trust placed in him). His purr has faded, in Xie Lian’s absence, but that’s okay. They can get it back.
“Alright, sweetheart, roll over for me,” Xie Lian says, tugging Hua Cheng’s shoulder. Hua Cheng unburies himself, rolling onto his back and peering intently up at Xie Lian. He offers the lotion, which Xie Lian readily accepts and begins to smooth over his husband’s skin. The winters always dry Hua Cheng out. Once he’s finished, he kneels on the side of the bed and asks, “San Lang, will you help me, now?”
Hua Cheng scrambles up, clumsy in his haste, and reaches for the lotion. He sits behind Xie Lian as his hands spread a thin layer of lotion over Xie Lian’s skin. His palms are still warm from the bath, strong and capable as they press into his flesh, and Xie Lian feels himself relaxing beneath the touch. He lets his head hang forward, his hair curtaining his face, as Hua Cheng rubs along the small of his spine.
“Mm, San Lang is doing so well,” he sighs. “He is so good for his gege.”
Hua Cheng’s forehead bumps his back, directly between his shoulders. His arms loop loosely around Xie Lian’s waist. His fingers, still slick with lotion, skate aimless patterns over the planes of Xie Lian’s stomach and chest. “Gege...”
“Yes, San Lang?”
“I can’t reach your feet.”
Laughing, Xie Lian unfolds himself and sprawls out on the bed. Hua Cheng hovers over him for several seconds, nuzzling against his chest, before beginning to work lotion into his legs and feet. After, they dress in their pajamas, and Xie Lian tosses several pillows onto the floor. Hua Cheng straightens up, expectant.
“Kneel,” Xie Lian commands, although he keeps his voice soft—there is no need to do otherwise, when Hua Cheng obeys him so readily.
Hua Cheng lurches off of the bed to kneel on the pillows, dropping his chin but keeping his back straight. He tucks his hands behind himself. His eyes are averted but Xie Lian knows, without a doubt, that the full of his husband’s considerable attention rests with him.
“Good,” Xie Lian croons, standing and resting a hand on top of Hua Cheng’s head. “Very good. My San Lang listens to me so well.”
Hua Cheng nudges up into his hand, and Xie Lian strokes his hair before going to their dresser. He crouches, opening the bottom drawer and withdrawing a length of smooth white rope. He moves back to Hua Cheng, pressing the pads of his fingers into the back of his neck. He holds the rope out, on Hua Cheng’s left side, so he can glimpse it in his peripheral vision.
“I’m going to tie you now,” he says—a statement, arguably, but also a question. If Hua Cheng wants to tell him no, now is the time. He waits, patient, as Hua Cheng decides. It does not take very long.
“Yes, dianxia,” Hua Cheng says, his voice thick. “Please.”
“Cross your arms behind you. Hold your elbows.”
Hua Cheng obeys, and Xie Lian loops the rope around his forearms before knotting it snugly.
“How does it feel?” he asks, resting a hand against the small of Hua Cheng’s back. “Answer me honestly.”
“It’s good. It’s really good.” Hua Cheng’s pupil is blown wide. “Thank you, dianxia.”
“Will you be alright if I leave you for a few minutes?” It’s a serious question. Sometimes Hua Cheng can handle it. Sometimes he absolutely cannot. Xie Lian does not want to find out the hard way that this is one of the times Hua Cheng loathes to be left alone. “I’ll only be in the kitchen.”
“...just a few minutes?”
“Just a few. You can shout if you need me,” Xie Lian assures him. Or ask me here, he adds, in their private communication array.
“Okay,” Hua Cheng decides, relaxing against the ropes. “This San Lang will wait.”
Xie Lian bends to kiss his forehead, then hurries to the kitchen. He prepares two mugs of chamomile tea, setting them on a small wooden tray alongside several cubes of sugar. Hua Cheng has always had something of a sweet tooth. Once the tea has steeped, he returns to the bedroom and sets the tray down on the bedside table.
“Good boy, San Lang,” he praises, reaching out to pet Hua Cheng’s hair. He’s still kneeling, his back straight and his shoulders loose. “So patient for me. I’ll have tea for you just as soon as it’s cooled.”
“Thank you, dianxia.”
Xie Lian sits on the edge of the bed and guides Hua Cheng to relax, bowing his head until it rests against Xie Lian’s knee. A slow breath leaves him as his spine curves, and Xie Lian sees him flex against the ropes—once, and only once—before he slumps into their hold again.
As he waits for the tea to cool, Xie Lian picks up the book on his bedside table and begins to read. His attention is only ever half given to the book, when they do this—and half might prove to be a generous estimate. A great deal of his focus never sways from Hua Cheng. He listens carefully to the rate of his husband’s breathing, the way he shifts on his knees. He takes note of each time Hua Cheng presses against his restraints before allowing himself to yield again: how hard he presses, how quickly he gives. All of this together tells him how safe Hua Cheng is feeling, and how far under he is.
Right now, Hua Cheng is telling him that he’s very, very far under—and slipping faster by the minute. His breathing is slow and deep. The weight of his forehead against Xie Lian’s knee is heavy; he’s barely holding himself up, allowing Xie Lian to support the bulk of him. After the first couple of minutes, he barely shifts against the ropes any longer. His eye is closed. His face is soft.
He’s perfect.
Xie Lian turns the page of his book, then allows his hand to drift to Hua Cheng’s hair. He pets over it—a steady, predictable rhythm that has Hua Cheng sighing in contentment. The tea cools far too quickly. Reluctantly, Xie Lian sets the book aside and nudges his husband back. He lowers himself to sit in the pillows behind him, then grips his shoulders and guides him back, off of his knees and into the curve of Xie Lian’s body.
“Come here,” he murmurs. “Let gege hold you.”
Hua Cheng slumps against him, stretching his legs out in front of him. Xie Lian brackets him between his own legs, Hua Cheng’s back tucked to his chest, and reaches for a mug of tea. He brings it to Hua Cheng’s lips, tapping his chin gently to encourage him to open his mouth.
“Drink for me,” he instructs, and Hua Cheng does. When Xie Lian pulls the mug back, his soft pink tongue darts out to lick the last of the tea from his lips. “Good?”
Hua Cheng nods—too hazy, so it seems, to muster a verbal response. That’s okay. That’s perfect.
Xie Lian kisses his temple, then lifts his own mug and drinks. The tea is smooth and mellow. The aftertaste is of apples, and it lingers. Once he’s finished, he sets both mugs aside and slides tea-hot hands underneath Hua Cheng’s sweatshirt to press palms to his belly. Hua Cheng lets out a shivery little sigh, turning to nose against the corner of Xie Lian’s jaw.
“Precious,” Xie Lian reminds him, rubbing his belly in absent circles. Hua Cheng stretches into the touch and yawns. Xie Lian can’t resist leaning over and kissing the corner of his open mouth, which gets Hua Cheng to crack his eye open and arch an eyebrow. “What? You’re too cute, San Lang, you know I can’t resist.”
Hua Cheng hums, accepting this as fact, and closes his eye again. There’s so much faith in that simple gesture. Here he is, bound and willingly blind, in Xie Lian’s lap. Xie Lian could do anything to him. Xie Lian could really, really hurt him.
Xie Lian would never.
Instead, Xie Lian rubs hands firmly over his sides and his stomach and his chest. The muscles he feels are all slack and giving beneath his touch. He trails his nails from Hua Cheng’s navel to his sternum, and he feels his husband’s purr rumble back to life. He kisses his neck, his jaw, the side of his face and nose. His skin has cooled since the bath, but beneath Xie Lian’s ministrations it stays pleasantly warm.
When Hua Cheng is as still and calm as Xie Lian can get him, Xie Lian brings his hand back up. “Open,” he murmurs, and Hua Cheng’s lips part. He slides his first two fingers in, rubbing the pads of them along the dull ridges of molars and the sharp slants of incisors before finally settling them against the soft, wet skin of Hua Cheng’s tongue. “Suck.”
Hua Cheng obeys, his tongue flattening against the underside of Xie Lian’s fingers as he suckles. Xie Lian hums his approval, rubbing his thumb in a soothing arc across Hua Cheng’s cheek.
“Beautiful,” he says, and Hua Cheng squirms. “Wonderful, San Lang, my San Lang. Do you know how good you are?”
Hua Cheng falters, his mouth tightening. His teeth press against Xie Lian’s knuckles.
“Gentle,” Xie Lian reminds him, and Hua Cheng’s jaw immediately loosens. The touch of his teeth vanishes. “Good boy. Always such a good boy for me. San Lang is so responsive, and so brave, to let me see him like this. He honors me with his trust.”
Hua Cheng’s nose wrinkles, but that’s the only protest he can make, like this—which is exactly why Xie Lian enjoys this position so much. With Hua Cheng’s mouth full, he can’t disparage himself or reject the compliments Xie Lian so badly wants to give him. He can only whimper and whine, and he does so desperately as sweet words continue to spill from Xie Lian’s mouth. Xie Lian allows this token bit of fussing: he knows how disconcerting his husband finds such abundant praise, and to demand complete silence or stillness would be cruel of him.
He does, however, demand attention.
Every time Hua Cheng falters—when his teeth press a little too hard, or when his mouth grows a little too slack—Xie Lian will curl his fingers and press them against his tongue. “San Lang, focus,” he says, firm and unwavering. “Suck properly.”
And Hua Cheng—dear, precious, perfect Hua Cheng—obeys every time.
Xie Lian does not push long, tonight, not when Hua Cheng is so sleepy already. Instead, he contents himself when he has delivered three compliments, in a row, without Hua Cheng shying away or nibbling his fingers in retaliation. Then he pulls his fingers from Hua Cheng’s mouth, slick with spit, and wipes them off on his own pajama pants. He wraps his arms around his husband’s chest, rocking him softly for a handful of minutes and encouraging him to relax again.
“Sweet boy,” he coos, when Hua Cheng turns his face to nuzzle against his throat. He peppers that face with kisses until Hua Cheng’s eye squints open, narrow and dark with abject pleasure. He tries to kiss Xie Lian in return, but he’s clumsy and unable to squirm into a better position with his hands bound as they are. He pouts, and Xie Lian quickly concedes to kiss him again. Into Hua Cheng’s mouth, he coos again, “Sweet boy, sweet sweet boy, I love you very much.”
Hua Cheng’s purr starts again, a pulse of rumbling noise, and Xie Lian squeezes him until he squeaks. Gently, he unties the ropes and massages Hua Cheng’s wrists and fingers. His husband leans against him the entire time, loose and heavy and clearly unwilling to help out in the least. He whines when Xie Lian tries to nudge him to his feet, so Xie Lian scoops him up and cradles him close. Hua Cheng, spoiled thing, lets his head loll against Xie Lian’s chest with a satisfied little smile.
Xie Lian gets them both tucked underneath the blankets, and Hua Cheng winds around him unreservedly. He’s not sure when Hua Cheng falls asleep. He is sure that Hua Cheng purrs the entire time, and that when Xie Lian wakes up to the honey-slow drip of morning light on their walls, his husband is still smiling.