from fire to a blaze

Ever since the fire, Zhuang Luyin hasn’t been able to put Zang Hai out of his mind.

When he closes his eyes, he sees the flames lick up at the walls of Zang Hai’s cell, reaching for his hunched form in the corner. When he looks around, he sees all the little things Zang Hai has been doing since he wormed his way into the Zhuang manor and in Luyin’s heart. When he looks at Zang Hai, visions of all times he’s been on his knees before Luyin flash through his treacherous mind, concentrating on how Zang Hai looks up, how wide his eyes are, how he begs Luyin to believe him, how his lips part just slightly to…

Zhuang Luyin can’t stop thinking about Zang Hai and it’s driving him mad.

”The new robes suit you well,” he says and feels his heart speed up when Zang Hai ducks his head and a pleased flush rises to his cheeks.

”That’s all thanks to you, My Lord,” he says.

Zhuang Luyin wants him to look up.

Zhuang Luyin wants to push him to his knees.

Zhuang Luyin wants to grip his chin, claim his mouth, and make him pant with pleasure.

”Nonsense,” he says instead. ”You are smart, resilient, and dedicated. You have earned your place.”

Zang Hai bows again and then looks at him through his lashes.

Fuck, Luyin thinks.

This isn’t the first time Luyin has wanted a man. He made his career in the military, after all, and soldiers take and find pleasure where they can. Luyin is no stranger to how another man’s cock tastes or how it feels in his hand or in his mouth, and when he makes his partner writhe and cry out under him, he doesn’t care if they’re male or female. This is, however, the first time in a long, long while that he feels his whole concentration aimed fully at one person with an almost predatory focus, and the thrill of it is as maddening as Zang Hai himself. There’s something about him—his presence that’s both humble and searingly intelligent at the same time; his willowy frame that bends so easily but that hides tenacity and strength under the flowing robes; his lips that can shift from his usual, gentle smile into a tight, unimpressed line in a heartbeat—something about him calls to Luyin, invites him into a dance of wits and hidden meanings, and he can’t help but be delighted.

The last person who made him feel like this was Zhixing’s mother. 

He refuses to think about what happened with her in the end.

He is different. 

Zang Hai is different.

They’re alone in his study when he finally loses control. He isn’t sure what Zang Hai says; something about the changes he’s about to make, and Luyin has lost several sentences to the way his lips move and the mole under his lower lip.

”You truly are something, aren’t you, Zang Hai?” he muses and steps closer.

”My Lord?” he asks hesitantly.

Luyin cocks his head. ”Such a clever, clever boy,” he murmurs.

Something flashes in Zang Hai’s eyes, there and gone again, so fast that if Luyin hadn’t been watching, he would’ve missed it.

”Zang Hai thanks Marquis of Pingjin for the compliment,” he says and moves to bow again. 

Luyin stops him, reaches out a hand, and gently lifts his chin up and, oh, yes. He’s seen that look before on other men’s faces: startled eyes with pupils that blow wide, flush rising to the cheeks, parted lips, pulse racing under his fingers. 

Zang Hai is as drawn to Luyin as Luyin is to Zang Hai. 

”I appreciate cleverness,” Luyin says in a low voice and leans in.

The first touch is tentative. While he is Zang Hai’s superior both in rank and brute strength and could just push him the way he wants, he appreciates his partners willing. So, at first, he merely grazes Zang Hai’s lips, reining in his need to dominate, and holds back to wait for what Zang Hai will do next.

At first, nothing, merely a startled gasp as Zang Hai freezes in place, trembling in Luyin’s hold. Then he lets out a small noise and falls into him, grasps a hold of Luyin’s lapels as he crashes his mouth against him with way more enthusiasm than skill. Luyin tastes blood but it only makes the kiss more heady, and the red is fetching on Zang Hai’s lips as he finally lets go for air.

”My Lord!” he says—pants—as he sees blood on Luyin’s lips. ”I’m sorry—!”

Luyin presses a thumb on his lower lip and wipes at the blood, cutting off Zang Hai’s protestations. ”I’m not,” he says in a low voice and barely has the time to see Zang Hai swallow before he claims his mouth the way he’s wanted for weeks now. 

As he knew, Zang Hai submits to him beautifully. Even though he’s taller than Luyin, he folds into his embrace with a shiver and lets him lead the kiss with lust and fervor that would probably feel a bit frightening if Luyin had the presence of mind to think right now. It’s glaringly obvious that Zang Hai has never been kissed before let alone been a part of anything more, and that, too, only spurs Luyin on. The prospect of having all that intelligence, all that cool, collected politeness reduced to incoherent pleasure under him is…

”Bed,” he growls and all but carries Zang Hai into the daybed in the corner. He somehow remembers to drag the privacy screen in front of the bed to cover them from the prying eyes of anyone entering the study, and then he turns his attention to divesting Zang Hai from his robes, peeling him bare like a present. His heart beats wildly in his chest as he discards his own robes in a heap and takes a bottle of sword oil from the stand next to the day bed.

”My Lord,” Zang Hai says and then stops. He already sounds breathless, wrecked, and looks like that, too; he’s flushed to the chest and the bruises Luyin has kissed on his skin are already blooming. He looks gorgeous.

”I know,” Luyin says as he uncorks the bottle and pushes Zang Hai’s other leg up to give himself more room. ”I promise I’ll make it good,” he growls. 

He doesn’t promise to be gentle.

When Luyin pushes into him, Zang Hai kisses him with desperation and what almost feels like anger, and Luyin answers in kind until he tears himself away and presses his mouth against Zang Hai’s throat, more feeling than hearing the sound Zang Hai makes as he comes. It’s too soon for Luyin, though, and he shifts, growling when Zang Hai flinches and starts to squirm with oversensitivity that soon turns into full-body trembling and whining as Luyin forces him to come again before chasing his own pleasure with brutal force.

After, when he pulls out with a dark satisfaction curling in the pit of his stomach, he watches Zang Hai shiver with aftershocks, watches how his spend slowly leaks out of him, watches his long limbs loose and relaxed, watches his cock softening against his thigh, and thinks, mine.

Later, each time Luyin takes Zang Hai apart, he kisses with equal desperation and anger and lust, and each time it drives Luyin equally mad. It feels like he’s no longer the driving force in their encounters; instead, he’s drawn to Zang Hai with a fervor he neither quite understands nor wants to examine further. 

Zang Hai ducks his head, says ”My Lord,” in that demure voice of his, and Luyin is lost.

It feels like an inevitability.

It feels like fate.

It feels like instead of being the one burning, Zang Hai is the fire and Luyin is a moth, flying straight into him, knowing he’s doomed, and not caring one bit.

Zang Hai ducks his head, says, ”My Lord,” and Luyin kisses him again.