Feng Xin’s topknot has already come halfway undone by the time Mu Qing slams him into the wall. The wood rattles, creaks with the force of them both, but it holds. The wall’s resilience makes Mu Qing strangely angry, this fucking refusal to break, and there’s nowhere for his spitting rage to go but where it always goes.
“Coward,” Feng Xin spits at him, neck straining against the arm Mu Qing has braced against his throat. Teeth bared, but red splitting his lower lip already. “Fight me properly, you dog-shit bastard,” he says, yanking down hard with the hand he has twisted in Mu Qing’s collar.
“Shut the fuck up,” Mu Qing hurls back at him. “Do you want a goddamn spar? Jun Wu himself to come judge for us?”
Feng Xin snorts. “Sure,” he says. “Only if you’re ready to bow to me when you lose.”
Mu Qing hates him. Hates the taste of mocking laughter laced in his voice, the goddamn smug tilt of his chin, hates how crass and stupid the taunt is, hates how much it gets to him anyways. Mu Qing hates how much he hates Feng Xin, but that doesn’t mean it’s not still satisfying when his fist cracks against that arched cheekbone hard enough to smart across his knuckles.
Feng Xin grunts. “Fuck you,” he half growls, hands scrabbling at Mu Qing’s tunic, still pinned back by the throat. “You classless lowlife motherfucking scum—”
He gags, stream of curses cut off, when Mu Qing pushes harder, digs his forearm hard against Feng Xin’s windpipe. For a moment, Feng Xin’s lips move soundlessly as he strains, mouth twisted in a scowl, blood dripping in earnest from the split now, but then he stills.
Mu Qing only has half a second to tense before Feng Xin suddenly surges forward and smashes their heads together with a resounding smack.
“Shit,” Mu Qing mumbles, stumbling back.
He’s still blinking the spots away from his vision when there’s a foot hooked onto one of his legs, and Mu Qing has half a mind to curse again, louder, when he’s sent unceremoniously crashing onto the floor.
He lands on a shoulder and it fucking hurts.
“Who’s the coward now?” he yells, slamming a fist onto the wooden floorboards. He tosses out a kick blindly, but Feng Xin has a hand fisted in his tunic again, and it throws him off balance.
To his surprise, Feng Xin starts to haul him up.
Mu Qing reaches out by habit, hands finding something solid for purchase.
When the ringing pain in his head recedes, he realizes he’s on his knees. Hands flat on the wall on either side of Feng Xin’s waist.
“Well?” Feng Xin is saying, that casual, easy, brutish smirk loosening his lips around his words. “Ready to bow?”
Mu Qing’s blood freezes with fury.
“I—” he manages to splutter, “You.”
And Feng Xin laughs.
Mu Qing’s shoulders shake. His fingertips dig into the wall, splinters digging under his nails, stabbing pain into his skin. Feng Xin doesn’t bother to hide the heave of his chest, the harsh bob of every swallow. He thinks he’s won. He could reach a hand down and push Mu Qing’s face into the ground, make him eat the floorboards, bow down to him a thousand times to remind him of it all: this is where you belong.
“Fuck you,” Mu Qing snarls.
Then, because eight hundred years is a long time for Mu Qing to come up with every single technique that could possibly take one General Nan Yang Feng Xin down, he pushes himself off the wall and takes firm hold of Feng Xin’s hips.
Instantly, Feng Xin tries to buck away.
Mu Qing presses down firmly, thumbs digging into the solid bone of Feng Xin’s body.
They’re close enough that he can hear Feng Xin’s breath hitch, see the clench of his jaw. “What are you doing?” he asks, voice harsh. Already the hint of a tamped down tremour in it.
And there it is, the flare of satisfaction low in Mu Qing’s gut. “Conceding your win,” he says dryly, and digs the heel of his hand straight into Feng Xin’s crotch.
He’s already half hard. Mu Qing raises an eyebrow.
“Shut up,” Feng Xin snaps.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Mu Qing eyes the outline of Feng Xin’s cock. “Alright.”
Feng Xin follows the line of his eyes, and seems to realize that Mu Qing is not, in fact, bluffing. He flushes all the way up to his unkempt hairline, jerking again in Mu Qing’s grip. “Okay you’ve made your point,” he says, resolutely looking away, “now get the fuck off me.”
“Oh stop pretending,” Mu Qing says, pitching forward. He hooks a hand on the waistline of Feng Xin’s pants and tugs. “As if you don’t fantasize about sticking your cock down my throat whenever you tell me to shut up.”
Feng Xin blanches. “I—”
“You think you like me here like this,” Mu Qing says, digging his fingers into Feng Xin’s thigh, knocking his legs apart. “Beneath you.”
Feng Xin groans, shaking his head.
“Liar,” Mu Qing snarls. “Who’s the crass lowlife now? What happened to the honourable General and all his integrity? You fucking disgust me.”
“Hah,” Feng Xin says, the corner of his lips still quirking up. “Then why are you still here?”
Mu Qing finds the heat of Feng Xin’s cock and grabs the length of it in hand, smiling triumphantly at the sharp inhale that hisses into Feng Xin’s mouth. “I’m kneeling for you, General,” he says, and yanks Feng Xin’s pants down entirely over his shaking thighs. “Try to enjoy it.”
He replaces his hand with his mouth before he can think better of it. Feng Xin’s not as well endowed as the common folk might think, but his cock still feels thicker and heavier against the flat of Mu Qing’s tongue. He sinks down as much as he can on the first go, though his throat is tight against the heat of it, refusing to relax.
“Hah,” Feng Xin says again, his knee jerking up.
Mu Qing eases off. “Don’t move,” he says.
Feng Xin makes a choked sound at the back of his throat. “Mu Qing,” he mutters, voice weak.
Mu Qing tightens his grip, bracing Feng Xin back against the wall and shoves his own knees between his legs. “I said,” he says, wrapping his hand rough and dry around the base of his still twitching cock, “don’t fucking move.”
He swallows Feng Xin’s cock all the way to his hand this time, relishes in the muffled groan from above. Trapped in his grip, Feng Xin really can’t do much moving, but the smooth muscle at his stomach still clenches as Mu Qing hollows his cheeks and sucks, spit-slick wet. Mu Qing watches the blooming flush on Feng Xin’s skin, curls his tongue tight against his shaft and listens for the catch in his breathing.
Feng Xin, normally loud and brash and completely oblivious to the magnitude of his presence, tries to be quiet under Mu Qing’s hands. The noises he manages to drag out of him with every lick are small, panting, barely there, and when Mu Qing flicks his eyes up, Feng Xin has an arm thrown over his face.
His face is tilted up, like he can’t even bear to look down at Mu Qing, the evidence of his own animal arousal. The position bares his throat, where other reddened marks are blooming, evidence of a different sort of violence. Mu Qing can smell the sweat slicked over his dark skin, mixing with the heavy musk of his pre-cum. He bobs down the length of him again and hears another cut off moan, choked off by the fabric of Feng Xin’s sleeve.
Determined, Mu Qing drags his hand away from the base of his cock and goes lower, takes him by the goddamn balls and it’s all he has in him not to twist.
“Motherfucker,” Feng Xin half yelps.
He’s definitely looking down now.
Fuelled by the satisfaction of that, and of hearing Feng Xin’s voice, hoarse and roughened and the furthest thing from dignified, Mu Qing slides nearly all the way down and sucks hard. The thrill of holding Feng Xin at his most vulnerable makes his head buzz, a frenic energy tensing his own muscles. But he forces his touch to be gentle as he trails fingers along the sensitive skin of Feng Xin’s balls.
“M-Mu Qing,” Feng Xin says. His hands are clenched against the wall, knuckles blanch white.
Mu Qing pulls off, licks his lips and leaves a smear of saliva behind. “What?” he asks, low, his own voice coarser. He can still taste Feng Xin at the back of his throat. “Don’t like that?” he asks as he spits into the palm of his other hand and starts to idly pump at Feng Xin’s still straining erection.
Feng Xin’s lips are pressed together tightly.
“Or, maybe,” Mu Qing says, “you like it a little too much?”
He starts to massage at Feng Xin’s balls even as he tightens the grip on his cock with his other hand. The spit doesn’t do much to soften how roughly he pulls, and Feng Xin finally slams his head against the wall and cries out. The sound pierces right into Mu Qing’s gut, the victory like sweet wine, a shot of liquid ecstasy that burns like fire as he swallows it down.
“Shameless,” Mu Qing says, continuing his brutal pace. “Who would’ve thought that the great Ju Yang only wanted someone to hold him at mercy?” He runs a thumb along the leaking slit of Feng Xin’s cock, grinning at the loose moan that he drags out of Feng Xin’s mouth. “If I’d known how much you liked being put in your place, maybe we could’ve worked something out a long time ago.”
“No,” Feng Xin hisses through his teeth. “No, that’s not—I don’t—”
“Oh?” Mu Qing halts, and Feng Xin’s hips buck forward. “What was that?”
“Fuck you,” Feng Xin manages to get out, something dark laced in his voice.
He sounds disgusted. With himself. With Mu Qing.
Something inside Mu Qing withers, snaps. “Did I get it wrong?” he starts, just as low and venomous. He thumbs at the flushed head of Feng Xin’s cock, smears the mess of pre-cum and his own saliva down the shaft. “Do you want to fuck me, General?”
Feng Xin’s eyes widen, and a wild laugh loosens out of Mu Qing’s chest. He grabs Feng Xin’s dick again, violent. “Thinking about it? Would you want to pin me down? Do it rough like I am right now? Would you return the favour? Make me beg for everything like you always do? Do you want to make me cry, Feng Xin? Look down on me like you always have?” His own breaths are coming as pants, now, a heat growing deep in his veins, spreading like a poison he can’t quite contain.
“Shut up,” Feng Xin says, eyes shut tight again.
“Why?” Mu Qing snarls. “Don’t like hearing the truth? Look at you. You’re a fucking mess.” As in response, Feng Xin’s dick twitches, heavy and flush against his stomach.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Feng Xin shouts.
“No,” Mu Qing yells, just as fervent. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite! When are you going to admit it to yourself? You’re trash, you’re not above anything, you’re just a coward who wouldn’t even have the guts to touch me if I laid myself out and begged you for it, you—”
The sudden violent yank at his scalp shocks him enough into silence.
Feng Xin tangles his fingers in, rips Mu Qing’s hair clean out of its ponytail. Mu Qing blinks, the pain like a slap of water, clean across his face.
“I told you to shut your filthy mouth,” Feng Xin says, twisting his grip, and that hurts enough that Mu Qing has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle his own groan. Then, before he’s gathered his scattered thoughts enough to return with a barb, Feng Xin’s hand is on his jaw, forcing his mouth open. “I liked it more when you were actually sucking my cock,” Feng Xin says, hooking a thumb into Mu Qing’s cheek.
The anger is like lightning, trapping him in its hot snare. Mu Qing struggles, but he and Feng Xin have always been matched in strength, and Feng Xin’s grip holds firm as he drags Mu Qing’s mouth open again and slams in nearly to the hilt.
Mu Qing chokes. Feng Xin holds him there until he’s breathless, spots dancing in front of his eyes, before he starts to fuck Mu Qing’s mouth in earnest.
Feng Xin is not a man of many words. He communicates with his body, the sleek form of him, every muscle taut and precise. He’s not precise, now. He’s everything Mu Qing had accused him of. Brutal, only intent on chasing his own pleasure. His cock presses up against the soft palate of Mu Qing’s mouth, gags him with its fullness. Mu Qing wants to clench his jaw, but Feng Xin’s thumb is in the way, wrenching his teeth apart. Mu Qing’s nostrils flare, the stench of sweat and spit and salt making him dizzy. He’s so angry it hurts like a wound. The rock of Feng Xin’s hips, his toned stomach bumping up against Mu Qing’s nose every time, all of it reckless, wrecking, threatening to break him apart.
He falls back on his heels, closes his eyes.
Feng Xin doesn’t slow. He pulls hard on Mu Qing’s hair, and a startled cry dislodges from Mu Qing’s throat. It’s as mortifying as hearing Feng Xin was satisfying. Mu Qing reaches out, scrabbles at the edge of Feng Xin’s tunic, but Feng Xin only pulls harder.
The hand that Feng Xin has on his jaw spreads him open. Fingers splayed, spanning against the bob of Mu Qing’s throat. Mu Qing reaches up and grabs onto Feng Xin’s wrist—the only part of his arm that is any sort of delicate at all, and twists.
Feng Xin curses, pulls out, and Mu Qing rears back as they both start to tip over. He grabs onto Feng Xin’s ankle, pitching them sideways onto the floor. They both fall with a thump, Mu Qing landing awkwardly over Feng Xin’s legs—still trapped in his half pulled pants.
“Is that what you wanted!” Feng Xin is shouting. “That’s right! I think you’re worthless! Insult me all you want, think I’m a brute, hate me, it’s not like I fucking care, you—mmph.”
Mu Qing’s teeth bite into Feng Xin’s lip as he smashes their mouths together. One hand braced on Feng Xin’s shoulder. The salt of Feng Xin’s pre-cum soured in his mouth. Feng Xin makes a noise, and then his hand comes up, slips into the fallen strands of Mu Qing’s hair again.
Not violent enough. The pressure could almost be called pleasant. Mu Qing presses Feng Xin’s shoulder harder into the ground, and he’s too tired to care anymore. Feng Xin’s blood is vivid on his tongue. He finds Feng Xin’s cock again, somehow, grinds the heel of his palm into it.
Feng Xin goes boneless as soon as Mu Qing so much as touches him, his mouth falling slack and panting underneath Mu Qing’s insistent lips. He mumbles between kisses, tries to form words, but all that comes out are the vague shapes of curses, god, fuck, damn, shit, fuck, fuck, oh, god, and Mu Qing can’t tell if they’re directed at him or just the heavens above anymore.
For some reason, that bothers him.
So he kisses Feng Xin harder to shut him up and tightens his grip one last time to finally stroke him to completion.
When Feng Xin comes, he’s still pinned underneath the bulk of Mu Qing’s weight. His hand is still tangled in Mu Qing’s hair.
They both breathe too harshly. Mu Qing’s lips ache. He feels the hot flush of them with every heartbeat, feels the messy wet of Feng Xin’s come seeping into the fabric of his own pants, and then his own erection still tenting under that, tighter than he wants, the proof of his own body reacting to any of this shameful.
Feng Xin is staring up at him, his eyes blown open wide.
Mu Qing wants to take his fist to all that softness, the part of his lips, wire anger back into the thrust of his jaw with a punch.
Instead, his arms shake, and it’s all he has to keep himself from collapsing on top of Feng Xin entirely.
When they shift, Mu Qing can feel the ache of his hardness pressing up against Feng Xin’s thigh. Feng Xin has to feel it, too, and for some reason, despite the evidence of everything they’d done, been doing, it’s this that makes him want to drown himself in shame. Feng Xin’s eyes are still dark, his brows touched just gently together. He purses his lips, tongue sticking out as if in concentration as he ever so carefully reaches up and puts his hands on Mu Qing’s hips.
Instantly, Mu Qing stiffens. “Stop,” he says, trying for command, landing solidly in the middle of plea.
Feng Xin shakes his head mutely. Not breaking eye contact, he grinds up with his leg, pushes Mu Qing down as he does it.
The heated friction on top of everything is too much. But it’s the dig of Feng Xin’s fingers into his skin, his muscles drawn back like the tautness of Feng Xin’s bow, his fingers splayed careful and flat over his thighs that’s too much. Mu Qing turns his face into Feng Xin’s shoulder and refuses to look him in the eyes as he quietly falls apart, strands of Feng Xin’s hair caught in his mouth.
As soon as it’s over, Feng Xin shoves him off with a merciless ease.
Mu Qing sprawls out, shoulder blades hitting the wall with a force that’s probably going to bruise. He slumps back, pushing his spilled hair away from his face, trying to gather it back into some semblance of form.
By the time he looks up, Feng Xin is dressed again. His own hair tied back in a simple ponytail instead of the high knot. His eyes are blackened and angry, elegant eyebrows drawn over his sharp face, all that red dotting over his bronzed skin, the corner of his lips, trailing down his neck and into his collar.
“Don’t fucking look at me,” Feng Xin spits.
Mu Qing can’t help it. He has to laugh.
Feng Xin’s nostrils flare, like that’s the worst possible thing Mu Qing could have done. His hands fist, clench hard at his sides. The sight of it is so familiar that Mu Qing has to bite back more hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest. “Then stay out of my way,” he says instead, startled by the hoarseness of his own voice, scratching up and down his throat.
He swallows. It hurts.
Feng Xin whirls around without another glance, and with clothes back in place and his back to Mu Qing, still sitting in the hallway, the messy tail of his hair snapping behind him as he goes is the last trace of General Nan Yang, undone.