"I do."
Yao Ziyang hushed back, leaning in.
Their lips met.
There was heat and tension and unspoken promises. Dong Yingming lost his breath, his control slipping as he grabbed the younger man by the waist, pulling him closer like he'd been holding back for too long.
When it finally happened, it wasn't gentle.
Their lips met in a clash of heat and hunger, mouths opening in perfect sync. It started with a soft press, then deepened in a heartbeat—urgent, consuming. Their mouths moved in rhythm, hands tangling in hair, gripping fabric, and every movement tasting of restraint barely held.
One hand cupped the other's face, thumb brushing a cheekbone as their mouths moved together with instinctive rhythm. Tongues met, slow at first, then boldly, as if claiming something long denied.
Breath hitched between them, mingled and hot. Fingers clutched at fabric, pulling each other closer, like the distance between their bodies had suddenly become unbearable. There was a hunger in the way they kissed—but also care. Not just physical craving, but a silent question:
Do you feel this, too?
Every pull, every sweep of tongue, every shared breath was a confession, and neither dared speak aloud.
When they finally broke apart, just barely, foreheads pressed together and breath unsteady, neither of them said anything right away.
"How do you feel?"
Dong Yingming was the first to break the silence. His voice carried a breathy tone as he tried to regain control over his breathing and himself. Yao Ziyang couldn't be bothered to respond. He merely wanted more of him. More touching. More tasting. He was beginning to feel greedy, a feeling he thought he had long forgotten. Not wanting it to end too soon, Yao Ziyang leans in for another kiss.
This kiss deepened, drawing them into something they couldn't slow down from—even if they tried to. Dong Yingming shifted forward, chest pressed to chest, arms wrapping around the other's waist with an urgency that trembled just beneath the surface.
The world shrank to the heat between them—the scrape of breath, the drag of lips, the quiet, unspoken hunger building in their bodies.
Hands wandered. Not rushed, not harsh—curious. Dong Yingming traced along Yao Ziyang's spine, fingertips brushing beneath fabric, mapping warmth and tension in equal measure. His other hand slid boldly across the curve of a hip, pulling them closer—until there was nothing but the press of body against body.
They moved in rhythm, slowly at first—just the sway of hips, the subtle grind of need restrained. It wasn't frantic. It was intentional. Each motion is a wordless plea:
I need you to feel this, too.
The tension between them pulsed like a second heartbeat. Yao Ziyang whispered the other's name against parted lips, his voice frayed at the edges. It wasn't just want—it was vulnerability. Desire tangled with emotion, something deeper than just a moment.
But even as their bodies pressed, tangled, teased—Dong Yingming held back. Not just from fear, but from reverence too.
Dong Yingming broke the kiss, breathing hard, forehead pressed to Yao Ziyang's.
"You're sick."
He rasped, voice cracked with longing.
"If I start… I won't be able to stop."
Yao Ziyang smiled, lips swollen, eyes misty yet blazing.
"Then don't stop."
But Dong Yingming closed his eyes, wrapped both arms around the smaller frame, and held him tight. Not in surrender, but in defiance — of desire, of danger, of everything he could take but wouldn't. Not like this.
"Not tonight,"
he murmured into his hair.
"But soon."
However, this didn't stop Dong Yingming from satisfying Yao Ziyang's desires. He mostly feared if he didn't, this minx of a man would stop at nothing and try this stunt again. Dong Yingming was confident about many things, but he was becoming aware that against Yao Ziyang, any fight would be a losing battle.
The room was dark, and the only light filtering through the heavy curtains was the faint icy glow of the moon—like a silver coin suspended in the night sky. Wrapped in a dark red blanket, Yao Ziyang lay feverish in the grand bed, his cheeks flushed from more than just illness.
Dong Yingming hovered just above him, his usual stoic composure taut with restraint. He watched the young man writhe softly against the silk sheets. There was a flicker of helpless desire in those fever-glazed eyes.
"You're burning up."
Dong Yingming murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from Yao Ziyang's forehead.
"You shouldn't be thinking about anything but rest."
"But I need it."
Yao Ziyang whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling. His legs shifted under the blanket, restless.
"Please… I can't fall asleep like this. Not with all this heat inside me."
Dong Yingming's jaw clenched. Every part of him screamed to pull away, but Yao Ziyang's hand reached for his wrist—weak, trembling, but insistent.
"Just… help me."
After a long silence, Dong Yingming nodded—once, slowly—and slipped his hand beneath the blankets. His palm found the needy member between Yao Ziyang's thighs, and he began to stroke with careful, deliberate motions. Not rushed. Not rough. Just enough to soothe the ache.
Yao Ziyang gasped and arched into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut as a shaky breath escaped his lips. Dong Yingming leaned down, brushing his lips against the younger man's ear.
"Relax."
Dong Yingming growled lowly.
"Let me do all the work."
Each stroke was a promise of restraint, a vow not to take more than what Yao Ziyang could handle. And yet, every breath, every quiver of his body tested that thin, dangerous line between control and surrender.
Yao Ziyang whimpered softly beneath the blankets, his fevered body trembling, caught somewhere between need and weakness. His breath came in shallow bursts, his skin flushed and slick with sweat, chest rising and falling under the thin fabric.
Dong Yingming's expression tightened with concern—but beneath it was something deeper. Hunger. Devotion. Something he never allowed anyone to see. He leaned in, close enough to let Yao Ziyang feel the heat of his breath.
"You shouldn't be asking this of me right now."
He murmured, his voice low, roughened with restrained desire.
"You're sick. You need care, not… this."
"But I need you."
Yao Ziyang whispered.
"Not just your hand. You. I feel like I'm disappearing. I need to feel alive."
That broke something in him.
Slowly, reverently, Dong Yingming pulled the blanket back. Yao Ziyang shivered as cool air kissed his feverish skin, but the moment was short-lived—warm lips followed, pressing soft, grounding kisses to the hollow of his neck.
Dong Yingming lingered there, tasting the salt of sweat, the tremor of a quickening pulse. He kissed lower, his lips ghosting over collarbones, pausing at the base of the throat to let his tongue flick gently, drawing a desperate gasp.
"You don't even know what you do to me."
Dong Yingming breathed against warm skin.
"Even like this… you're the most beautiful thing I've ever touched."
Yao Ziyang's fingers curled weakly, lifting his shirt as Dong Yingming moved lower, lips worshipping every inch of bare skin. His hands followed, slow and steady, brushing over trembling ribs, down soft hips. He touched like he was memorizing—like every inch of this fragile, feverish boy mattered.
And when his hand returned to cradle the heated shaft between Yao Ziyang's thighs, it wasn't just lust—it was care, devotion poured into every slow stroke, every kiss that marked him.
Yao Ziyang arched, whispering his name through cracked lips, and Dong Yingming kissed it from his mouth, swallowing every shaky breath.
"You're mine."
He said between kisses.
"Even like this. Especially like this. And I'll take care of everything."
Yao Ziyang's breathing turned ragged, his body trembling under Dong Yingming's touch. Fever and pleasure tangled together, burning just beneath his skin. Each stroke of Dong Yingming's hand felt heavier now—more focused, more intimate—as if he were drawing the need straight out of him. Dong Yingming murmured, his lips brushing Yao Ziyang's temple.
"Let go. I've got you."
Yao Ziyang whimpered, his hips twitching under the weight of the blankets, thighs parting instinctively as his body neared the edge. Dong Yingming kept kissing his neck—slow, warm, reverent—while his hand moved in smooth, coaxing motions, firm but never rough.
Yao Ziyang's hand gripped Dong Yingming's forearm weakly, his back arching as his body tensed—tight, breathless, teetering.
Then he broke.
A quiet cry left his throat as he came, hot and helpless, into Dong Yingming's hand, his whole body shuddering with the release. His eyes fluttered shut, face twisting with both relief and overwhelming vulnerability.
Dong Yingming didn't stop touching him—not yet. He stroked him through it, gently now, easing him back down, whispering soft things into his ear. Words in a language Yao Ziyang didn't fully understand but felt in his bones—calm, grounding, safe.
When the tremors stopped, Dong Yingming kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then pressed his forehead to Yao Ziyang's.
"You're safe now."
He said, wiping him clean with a warm cloth he had already prepared. Though its original purpose meant to wipe sweat due to fever rather than intimacy, it couldn't be helped.
"Sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up."
And with one arm, he wrapped Yao Ziyang in the blanket again, and with the other, he pulled him close against his chest—holding him not like something fragile, but something precious.