#everyone heartily consents in this but it's a little uhhhhhh

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

[Xiyao one-shot - NSFW - tw: blood / tw:body horror (to be on the safe side)]

[Masterpost]

--

He is hungry.

His body is broken and battered, stabbed clean through, and all Meng Yao can think of is how much he yearns to fill it. The gaps in himself, the holes, the spaces, the emptiness. His hunger is a deep-rooted tearing thing, ripping him to shreds from the inside out. He’s a husk, an empty hull waiting to be filled. 

He is hungry.

His lover is a banquet. ‘Lover’ is perhaps too gentle of a word, but it begins to convey some sense of the desperate need for him. His feast, his fountain, his sacrificial offering. He’s meat and drink, Meng Yao bites into his chest until the wet tang of iron blooms hot and thick on his tongue. He dips between his legs and takes him into his mouth, swallows and sucks and wrings him dry at every opportunity - and they are numerous. Meng Yao sinks down onto him and lets him fill him, cock in his body, fingers in his mouth, he lets Lan Xichen pin him down and fuck him until he passes out and it’s not enough, not enough.

He would never bite the hands that feed him, that stuff him full enough to make him believe for a moment that he’s no longer starving. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t inflict pains. He bites and he scratches and he plants himself in the bloody furrows until flowering moans reward his violent care, until pleasure bursts sun-warmed and sweet between them, berries ripe for the picking. He stains his mouth red with them, his fingers purple with the bruises he paints so delicately on his devotee’s body. 

If Meng Yao is being clawed to a slow torturous death from within, then it stands to reason that his other half will be ripped to shreds from without. He keeps his nails sharp and his teeth bared to tear into his flesh and drink sweetly of the vintage he offers - sweat, spend, blood, saliva when their mouths meet for crushing kisses. All of it is his to consume. He puts his mouth to the feast of Lan Xichen’s body and eats until the hunger pangs are satiated, drinks until he feels dizzy with it. 

No wine, no ale, no sweet fall of rain will slake. He can only accept the sharp bitterness of come in his throat. Can only yearn for the drips of thick blood onto his tongue.

Lan Xichen can heal himself. Meng Yao can bite his lip until sweet hot blood drips thick and syrupy into his waiting mouth. It will be healed by morning. The swelling will disappear, the injury forgotten. For now Meng Yao can press his lips to the wound and suck, demand more, beg in broken pleas for Lan Xichen to fill him again.

Months after their last meal together he finds himself still so hungry.

In the golden cage of his new rooms he ties his lover to the bed with the luxury of red silk ropes, strips him bare with the delicate drag of a knife through his finery. He doesn’t ruin it - such garments surely cost enough to feed him (the mundane sort of food he eats to survive) for a month, perhaps more. But he cuts the ties, severs them until they’re nothing more than misplaced scraps, useless strings that no longer keep him from what he craves.

He drags the tip of his knife along the hard cock in his lover’s trousers, root to tip, and watches his eyes go dark, nothing but black as his lips part around a moan. Jin Guangyao takes it greedily into his mouth, honeyed candy melting into the slick heat of his tongue as he holds the knife poised just so over his feast’s belly, ready to be carved into, consumed. His appetite has been whetted now and it grows harder and harder to keep it at bay. 

He doesn’t even so much as nick the skin with something so impersonal as a knife, but its presence is thrilling, a possibility, a maybe. But when he climbs on top of his prize he digs his hands in and takes what he wants by the greedy fistful. 

Over and over he eats, he sinks down onto hand or cock or face and lets his lover press pieces of himself inside him. The dexterous spread of his fingers, the thick blunt stretch of his cock, the plush tongue that fills his mouth just as eagerly in other circumstances. He grinds down onto whatever he’s given and tries to force it deeper, always deeper, it’s never enough he’s still hollow under his ribs, he’s nothing inside the shell of his skin. 

Lan Xichen has so much to give as he’s clawed away piece by piece. The meat of his thigh, his ass, the unending supply of spend from his cock, the sweat in the crooks of his thighs and under his arms, the searing glide of his tongue, sharp pain of his teeth. Jin Guangyao could eat and eat and eat forever and his lover will replenish himself for him, heal and return for more, offer himself up for the taking at every possible opportunity.

It’s not enough. 

He needs him more. Always more, more, more. He scratches into his chest as if to claw out his beating heart and take a bite, he licks the blood away, watches more of it bead up for his tongue again. So generous with his body, his lover is, and patient. He doesn’t even jump when sharp teeth break the delicate skin of his neck, his wrist, his thigh, he only moans and begs to be consumed, to fill him again and again.

Smears of crimson and soft lavender follow his ravenous mouth, blood and bruises sucked to the surface of milk-pale skin. The insides of his lover’s thighs are tender and sweet against his tongue and he takes and takes and takes until he’s fed as soon as his lips wrap around the red, wet head of his cock. He sucks him down anyway, the restraints around his lover’s wrists and ankles stilling his thrashing as he’s pushed past the point of pleasure into the exquisite pain of overstimulation - and Jin Guangyao still takes more. The silken soft weight of him in his throat, on his tongue, between his teeth makes him feel slightly less empty. 

His hands press into the flesh of his hips, crack through to bone, to sinew, to hot sticky strings of blood that drip from his fingertips whenever he lifts them as he swallows around him again and again and again, devouring, craving, demanding everything that his devotee can give to him.

“A-Yao,” his swollen bloodied lips turn the moan pained, exhilarated. “A-Yao please.”

Pleas for relief are useless, they both know this. Jin Guangyao will take until he’s satisfied, Lan Xichen will provide. But then, the word he wants to hear - “More, A-Yao, more.” 

His feast is so good to him. Never once asking to stop. To be shown mercy. It’s always more, more, please, let me fill you, A-Yao. The hands that feed him are generous indeed, and so Jin Guangyao reaches up, flicks the knife through the ropes around one wrist to slice it free, and then there are fingers scratching his back, trying to hitch him higher. He knows what Lan Xichen wants and he’s willing to humor him now so he goes, wrapping his starving mouth around a nipple instead so that he can arch into the lithe fingers that find their home stuffed in his entrance. 

He’ll never be full. The world has left him a hollow shell of greedy desire, perpetually famished, parched, but there are moments when his lover’s gifts are numerous enough to pretend.

He gentles his mouth until he’s suckling and kissing, he lets the fire retreat low in his belly to leave his mind clear. He spreads his legs to let Lan Xichen slide a third finger inside of him, a fourth, and he moans sweetly for him as if in apology for the growling and snapping of his hollowed out anguish.

“Mmmm there you are,” Lan Xichen hums through his kiss-bitten lips pressed into his hair. “A-Yao, my A-Yao,” he purrs as he prods his fingers deeper, stretches him wide around them until it burns as hot as the greed in his veins. “You’ve ripped me apart again, my heart.”

Jin Guangyao retreats to sit up - grind further onto those fingers - and survey the damage.

Bloodied scratches down his chest. Bruises in the shape of his mouth everywhere they could conceivably be littered. Impressions of his teeth everywhere his muscles curve - biceps, shoulders, chest, hips. Half-moon punctures in his hips weeping crimson pearls. Sweat shining on his skin, breath heaving in his chest.

Raw adoration in his eyes.

“Am I enough for you?” Lan Xichen asks with a vicious twist of his wrist to slam harder inside him, to jerk his body hard and fast. “Am I enough yet, A-Yao?”

“No,” he gasps, as he always does. “I need you again. Just once more, A-Huan, one more.”

It’s always one more. One more bite, one more scratch, one more lick, one more fuck, one more day, week, month, year. One more lifetime to try to satiate themselves.

One more eternity.

“Good,” Lan Xichen purrs - and then he jerks his still-bound wrist hard enough to snap the rope and he’s pinning Jin Guangyao down to attempt to fill him up for good once more.

Always once more.