Yao Ziyang waited until he was sure Dong Yingming was completely unguarded before striking!
Dong Yingming lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting across Yao Ziyang's lower back. His body was a map of power—broad shoulders, defined chest, veined forearms that hinted at strength even in stillness. But it wasn't just his size that made Yao Ziyang aware of him—it was the constant, simmering restraint. The way he held himself back, always careful, always controlled.
Yao Ziyang slept—at least, that's what Dong Yingming thought. His breathing was soft, even. His fever was gone, though a faint flush still clung to his cheeks. He looked calmer now, less haunted. Fragile still, but glowing in that strange way only the recovering do—like a candle reigniting.
But he wasn't asleep.
He stirred slowly, his lashes lifting just enough to peek through, and caught sight of Dong Yingming dozing off as he stared at him, the same as before. Watching. Guarding.
Yao Ziyang shifted gently, lips brushing the man's exposed collarbone.
"You're hard."
He whispered, a slight blush painting his cheeks.
A silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Yao Ziyang shifted beneath the covers, one bare shoulder slipping out from the blanket, catching the moonlight.
"I feel... better."
He said, voice softer now.
"Still weak. But... I'm warm."
"Good."
Dong Yingming's voice was rougher than it had been.
"You're supposed to be."
Yao Ziyang looked at him, eyes glinting with something coy beneath the illness—something clearer now.
"Are you going to just endure all night?"
Dong Yingming's brow twitched.
"If I have to."
A beat passed.
"Or I can help you."
That was all it took.
He didn't ask if Yao Ziyang was sure—didn't need to. His gaze scanned the boy's face, looking for any signs of fever returning, of weakness taking over. But all he saw was clarity. Want.
He sat up from the bed and Yao Ziyang reached out, trembling fingers brushing the man's wrist. Dong Yingming caught the hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the inside of the palm—slow, lingering. It was tender. But there was tension beneath it, too. Leashed hunger.
"You're still recovering."
He said, voice gravel-soft.
"I'm not asking for much,"
Yao Ziyang whispered.
"Just... you. Here."
Dong Yingming leaned in, one hand bracing beside the boy's head, the other cradling his cheek with a gentleness that was startling coming from hands that had broken bones. His lips hovered just above Yao Ziyang's, breath warm.
"You've got me."
He murmured. Then he kissed him.
It started slow—careful, testing, like they both knew one wrong move could shatter everything. But the moment Yao Ziyang sighed into him, Dong Yingming deepened it, letting years of discipline fray at the edges. Their mouths moved together in sync, wet and warm and desperate in quiet ways.
Yao Ziyang's fingers threaded through Dong Yingming's shirt, pulling him closer, until the weight of the man settled gently over him, body to body, heat to heat. His fever had broken, but this was something new—something intoxicating.
Hands roamed—but not too far. Just enough to feel skin, to feel life. Dong Yingming's mouth dragged down to his jaw, then his throat, planting slow, heated kisses that left a trail of goosebumps in their wake.
When he pulled back, their foreheads pressed together, both of them breathing harder, flushed and undone in the low light.
"You sure?"
Dong Yingming couldn't help but ask, voice like thunder muffled in velvet.
Yao Ziyang smiled, barely a curve of his lips.
"Just don't break me."
Dong Yingming chuckled, low and dark.
"Not all the way. Not tonight."
Dong Yingming promised then he kissed him again—deeper this time—and the night folded in around them, quiet and smoldering.
The air was thick with warmth and tension, each breath drawing in the scent of skin and sweat and faint traces of that herbal bath still lingering in the room. Yao Ziyang lay beneath Dong Yingming, one hand resting against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of a heart that beat just a little faster now.
Dong Yingming had stopped kissing him. He hovered there, staring down at the boy like he was something fragile and forbidden—like he didn't trust himself to take another inch. His jaw was tight, eyes dark with restraint.
"I should stop."
He muttered, voice low and tight.
"You're not ready. Not fully."
Yao Ziyang's fingers slid up to his collar, curling into the open fabric.
"Then don't take. Let me give."
Dong Yingming froze.
The boy shifted slightly, enough to sit up against the headboard, still wrapped in blankets, pale collarbone exposed. The flush on his cheeks deepened—not with fever now, but purpose. Slowly, with careful grace, he reached for the draw string around the man's waist and tugged it loose.
"Let me help you. You've been watching over and protecting me like a guard dog for days."
He murmured, eyes flicking up, soft but smoldering.
"You've done everything but let loose and enjoy yourself."
"Baby—"
Dong Yingming breathed, but the words died in his throat as slender fingers slid the knot out from its loops with practiced calm. His pajama bottoms became noticeably looser, barely clinging to his tapered waist.
Yao Ziyang leaned forward, breath grazing against Dong Yingming's throat.
"Lie back. Let me take care of you... just this once."
Dong Yingming didn't move for a moment, fighting it—but the moment Yao Ziyang's lips brushed his neck again, slow and warm, he gave in.
He sat back, just enough for the boy to straddle his lap, the thick blanket slipping further from his shoulders. Beneath him, Dong Yingming was all muscle and tension—hot, barely held back. His pants were still on, but his control was slipping with every soft touch.
Yao Ziyang's fingers worked deftly, pulling down his trousers and simultaneously lifting up his shirt. Each time more skin was exposed was like a match struck. Dong Yingming groaned low in his throat as he was almost freed, hardness heavy and pulsing as if enraged. For a moment, they both paused—just breathing, eyes locked.
Then the boy leaned down and kissed his collarbone. Then his chest. Then lower.
His lips were soft, his movements slow, reverent. He didn't rush. He savored. Like this was his own kind of medicine—like the act of giving was what healed him now.
Dong Yingming's hand slid into Yao Ziyang's hair, not forcing, just holding. Anchoring.
A slow breath called out to the young man.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
Yao Ziyang murmured again, fingers already gliding down the man's abdomen, brushing over tense muscle, feeling the heat beneath his skin.
When his hand reached lower, he paused, eyes widening just slightly. He'd seen it before—felt it pressed against him in the dark—but now, as his hand cupped Dong Yingming through the thin fabric of his boxers, the full weight and size of it caught him off guard again. It wasn't just large. It was heavy, warm, and unmistakably thick even through the cloth. The heat from it pulsed against his palm, and his breath hitched involuntarily.
Dong Yingming watched him carefully, eyes dark and half-lidded.
"Too much?"
He asked, voice husky with guilt and concern. Yao Ziyang shook his head, lips parting slightly.
"No. Just… not used to someone like you."
With reverence, he worked his hand beneath the waistband, moving slowly, delicately. The sheer size of Dong Yingming in his hand made his fingers stretch, and he moved with care, attentive to every twitch, every soft sound the man made. There was nothing rushed in how he touched him—no desperation, only focus, affection, and growing confidence.
He adjusted his grip, fingers wrapping around the thick base, thumb stroking along the underside with slow, practiced circles. Dong Yingming groaned softly, the sound deep and guttural, his hand moving up to cradle the back of Yao Ziyang's head as though he needed to feel him—anchor himself to the warmth being given so freely.
"Slowly."
Dong Yingming murmured, hips shifting slightly.
"You've only just gotten better."
"I know."
Yao Ziyang whispered back, leaning closer, his breath hot over the man's chest as his hand continued its careful rhythm.
Every motion was a silent offering—his fingers sliding with purpose, his palm guided by the weight and heat of Dong Yingming's length. Yao Ziyang's hand looked small by comparison, but that only seemed to make him more careful, more devoted.
Yao Ziyang leaned lower and brought his soft lips to the bulbous tip that oozed precum. He started with light laps from his tongue, getting familiar with the salty taste before he took him deeper, and the man hissed through clenched teeth, head tipping back. He tried to stay quiet—tried to hold back—but the boy's mouth was warm, too clever, too devoted. He let himself melt into it, jaw clenched, eyes half-lidded with fire.
But Dong Yingming still hesitated. His brow furrowed, and he gently nudged Yao Ziyang, placing a firm hand over the younger man's head and pulling away.
"I don't want to hurt you."
He said, his tone more gentle than it ever was in public.
"You've been through enough. I don't need you to prove anything with your throat."
Dong Yingming inhaled sharply, hand resting instinctively over Yao Ziyang's. His voice was rough with tension.
"I'm… not exactly small."
Yao Ziyang looked up at him, eyes soft but resolute.
"I can handle it."
"No! I'm not taking the chance of hurting you."
Yao Ziyang blinked, caught off guard by the tenderness beneath those gruff words. Before he could respond, Dong Yingming leaned in and kissed him—not hard, not hungry, but slow and grounding, like an apology and a promise all at once.
Then, with deliberate care, Dong Yingming guided Yao Ziyang's own hand, placing it so that they wrapped around his throbbing groin.
"This…"
He murmured.
"We can do together."
Their hands moved slowly at first, fingers tangling over warm, solid flesh. Dong Yingming's size was undeniable, thick and heavy in their joined grip, and Yao Ziyang let out a quiet breath as he adjusted, finding the rhythm Dong Yingming set. It wasn't rushed—it was controlled, intimate. Each motion was a shared language, their bodies communicating where words didn't reach.
Dong Yingming's other hand slipped beneath Yao Ziyang's waistband, wrapping gently around him. His palm was large, calloused from years of power and violence, but his touch was careful. Almost reverent.
Side by side, hands moving in unison, breath hitching in tandem, the room filled with nothing but quiet sighs and the soft rustle of shifting fabric. It wasn't just about pleasure—it was connection. Mutual. Grounded. Safe.
Their hands moved slowly at first, exploratory—testing warmth, pressure, and the rhythm of shared desire. Dong Yingming guided Yao Ziyang's smaller hand over his own length, steadying him with a firm but gentle grip. Their palms met, one beneath and one above, surrounding him in heat.
Yao Ziyang's fingers weren't large, but they were nimble, sensitive to every twitch of response beneath his touch. Dong Yingming helped at first, showing him how much pressure to use, how to stroke from base to tip in long, smooth motions. Each pass was deliberate, not rushed—every inch a slow offering of trust.
"Like that, Baby Bird. Hah!"
Dong Yingming murmured, his voice low and raw.
"Yeah, just like that…hah! Hah!"
Together, they created a rhythm—down with the firm heel of the palm, up with the curl of the fingers, Yao Ziyang's thumb brushing the underside near the sensitive ridge. Dong Yingming's breath hitched when he did it again, and a satisfied warmth bloomed in Yao Ziyang's chest.