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The crowd's cheers echo through the arena, thunderous in their ferocity.
Jing Yuan stands above the ruckus, on the balcony that overlooks the sea of people below. It’s a warm day, the sun’s rays shining gentle down on the victors whose fists reach up towards the sky, intertwined.
Pride brims within his chest, feeling the weight of Yanqing’s gaze in the distance. Golden eyes mirror his own, filled with a youthfulness Jing Yuan has long since buried in the past, reflecting the same hope that’s clenched between his teeth. Lips ticking up into a smile, Jing Yuan nods his head to show his approval.
He knows just how hard his lieutenant has worked for this, aware of how much it must have secretly pained him to give up his role as champion in the face of duty. It had been a testament to Yanqing’s growth that he’d still done so without a moment’s hesitation.
Jing Yuan’s plan to stage the false Wardance to divert Hoolay’s attack had of course been for the sake of the people’s safety, but Yanqing being allowed to reach the goal he’s charged towards for so long is another welcome consequence.
Leaving the boy to bask in the glory of his win along with his newfound friend, Jing Yuan turns to retreat from his viewing spot. The cheering fades with the click of the heavy doors falling shut behind him, each touch of his boot against the floor loud in the mostly empty corridor.
The two soldiers standing at attention fall into step behind him, their matched rhythm near mechanic as they escort him toward his starskiff.
In the relative silence, Jing Yuan lets his thoughts wander.
Even though the recent crisis in the Luofu has been averted, the threat of the abominations still looms in the near distance. The entirety of the Xianzhou fleet hangs in a spiderweb of balance, suspended over the dark abyss of a monster’s gaping jaw, its fangs poised to snap shut. Impending doom is a feeling Jing Yuan finds hard to ignore, no matter how well he’s gotten acquainted with it in his years serving as the Divine Foresight.
Not to mention that even though General Feixiao’s assessment of him ended on amicable terms, the punishment for his past deeds is far from being water under the bridge.
All of it is enough to dredge up the near constant headache he’s been suffering from the past few weeks. Lingsha warned him the herbal tea he’d asked her for would only worsen the side effects of neglecting his sleep, but Jing Yuan deemed it a small price to pay in exchange for the much needed energy.
She’d sought him out to express her concern once more after Hoolay’s capture, words softened now that the misunderstanding regarding her previous master was cleared up. Brows drawn together with worry, she’d strictly instructed Jing Yuan to get plenty of rest and to stop ingesting the tea for the time being to let his body recover. Jing Yuan had assured her he’d follow her words.
However, the General of the Luofu is never not duty bound to his work, and the advised ‘rest days’ were pushed to the side as Jing Yuan dealt with important affairs. Naturally, there was no way he could stay cooped up during the celebrations of a festival as important as the Wardance, so he was once again forced to renege on the advised sleep.
Jing Yuan has long known of his body’s deterioration.
Time catches up to everyone in the end, even those with a lifespan enhanced by the touch of divinity. Jing Yuan is no exception, though he is a rare case amongst the generations of Xianzhou’s Generals, many of whom had barely made it past the century mark.
There are times where Jing Yuan has thought about whether it wouldn’t have been easier if his fate had been the same. To die in honour on the battlefield, his name emblazoned in glory; one amongst many who gave their lives for the Luofu. He wonders what it would’ve been like to be spared the grief of watching the ages go by achingly slow, carrying with him the scars of loves and lives lost.
Still, he doesn’t dare linger on those thoughts for too long; those close to him always look at him with poorly concealed worry when he does, as if they could read between the lines of the tranquil smile he’d thought perfected.
In any case, Jing Yuan is aware he’s brought peace to many throughout his reign. If the price to pay for that is the pain of a gradually declining body and a mind fragmented by time, then he would pay it a thousand times over.
Anchored within his own thoughts, Jing Yuan nearly startles at the realisation that they've arrived at the starskiff’s dock, coming to an abrupt halt. The guards move forward to pull open the door for him, but Jing Yuan pauses.
The hair on the back of his nape prickles under the sensation of being watched.
Distracted though he had been, he’d still noticed the presence following them from the moment they’d begun to walk through the halls of the Skysplitter. Well, following him.
Jing Yuan is well aware the other party has no interest in the Cloud Knights at his side, nor is their plan to stage an ambush. Though their behaviour might indicate as much to anyone else, and surely others subjected to this stealthy stalking have been made their prey; Jing Yuan knows otherwise.
There is no malicious intent in the gaze that sticks to his back, causing heat to curl in his gut instead.
His head tilts to the side without turning to look, the corner of his mouth twitching in the ghost of a smile.
“General Jing Yuan,” one of the guards cuts in, confusion colouring his tone as Jing Yuan stands before the ship without boarding. “Is something the matter?”
Privately amused, Jing Yuan waves a dismissive hand.
“No. It’s nothing,” he replies, and steps into the Starskiff.
As soon as Jing Yuan steps over the threshold into his private quarters, he glimpses the shadow that’s followed him from the Wardance arena leaning by the open window. Tall and lean, the curve of his signature hat tipped down to obscure his face, his silhouette stands out against the light.
Lowering his head to hide his amusement, Jing Yuan busies himself with removing his boots. He unclasps his cape from his shoulders next, draping the fabric over an arm before placing it on the nearby dresser.
Darkened eyes follow his movements, locking onto him with the same precision of shooting a bullseye.
Though the gaze is weighted, Jing Yuan feels not an ounce of threat. His steps are calm, silent as the featherlight pad of feline paws on the mahogany floor.
It’s when he stops in front of the large vanity mirror facing his bed that the other presence finally stirs, gait heavy in contrast to Jing Yuan’s own as he strides over. There’s no trace of shame to be found in the way the famed Galaxy Ranger immediately attaches to his back, as if it were the only place he could ever want to be; pressed to the warmth of Jing Yuan’s body.
A pair of sturdy hands, made of metal and synthetic fibers, settle on Jing Yuan’s waist over his belt’s thick leather. Right where burn marks shaped like handprints once marred his skin, faded thanks to resilience afforded by the Abundance’s blessing.
Greedy, Jing Yuan can’t help but inhale a quiet breath. It would be a lie to say he hadn’t sorely missed the heedy mix of malt and gunpowder, the distinct scent of heated circuitry.
“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon. . .” Jing Yuan greets, breaking their implicit stalemate as he succumbs to the need to hear the pleasant rumble of that low voice.
Impossibly sharp teeth graze his earlobe, the threat of their bite gentled into a sensual caress. He leans into the touch on instinct, letting more of his weight rest against the stalwart frame behind him, and is rewarded with a kiss the back of his ear. “Mm. Well, I couldn’t miss out on the chance to take part in the famous Luminary Wardance.”
His heart can’t help but flutter at the way Boothill draws his words, his tone so foreign to the one he’s used to from the people around him.
Jing Yuan tips his head back onto Boothill’s shoulder, ignoring the slight strain in his neck in favour of enjoying the kisses the ranger lavishes him with. “I heard you caused quite the stir. . . messing with the poor Luka boy like that.”
The sound of Boothill’s chuckle verberates through his chest, layered on top of the constant quiet whirring of the fans hidden somewhere beneath his hardware. “The kid needed the push. I’m sure you understand that better than most. . .”
Jing Yuan offers a noncommittal hum in response. He’s always had a penchant for being softer than most when it comes to educating youngsters — Yanqing being the prime example — but it’s true he’d seen through Boothill’s intentions after hearing of his victory against Belobog’s young hero.
“But I ain’t here to talk about that,” Boothill continues, tongue darting out to wet the mole usually covered by Jing Yuan’s hair as he sucks a faint red mark onto unblemished skin. His head tilts further to nuzzle under the curve of Jing Yuan’s jaw.
“Missed ya, dollface.”
A thrill races up Jing Yuan’s spine at the pet name he’d grown unbearably fond of during their first escapade months ago, concealed within one of the many rooms of the Reverie Hotel. That familiar spark of being desired, wanted, making itself known in the arousal that pools in his gut.
He doesn’t even notice Boothill has undone enough of the straps holding his uniform together that he can tug one sleeve down his shoulder until kisses trail down the newly exposed muscles. He hears Boothill click his tongue, the sound a tad disapproving.
“You’re far too tense, darlin’. . .” he mutters, lifting a hand to knead at the stiff line of Jing Yuan’s shoulder as if to prove his point. “Let me help you relax, hm?”
Needless to say, Jing Yuan has no objections.
When Boothill’s fingers card through his hair, careful not to get any strand caught in the metallic ridges, his lashes flutter. He’s always loved it when people play with his hair, though he’d buried his longing for such a touch shortly after the sedition, when the person who once indulged him in his whims betrayed his trust.
In the years since, he’d almost forgotten how it felt. The pleasant tingle of blunt nails — or in this case, synthetic fingertips — that scratch over his scalp. Boothill seems to notice his blissful expression, taking a moment longer than intended to brush through silvery waves before undoing the ribbon that holds them together.
Like this, his hair is free to cascade down the sides of his face and past his shoulders, its true length revealed. Jing Yuan watches in the reflection as Boothill removes his hat, placing the treasured item atop Jing Yuan’s head.
“This is how I remember you,” he says, voice a whisper against the shell of Jing Yuan’s ears as the red targets that make up his pupils meet Jing Yuan’s gaze in the mirror. “Flushed and pantin’ like you were in heat.”
Jing Yuan swallows, the front of his pants starting to feel uncomfortably tight. Boothill’s lips curl back in a grin that reveals razor-like teeth. Under Jing Yuan’s undivided attention, his hands glide down over the General’s semi-clothed chest, fingers hooking into the space between Jing Yuan’s waist and his belt before he works on opening the buckle.
The leather hits the floor with a muted thump, Jing Yuan’s breath steadily picking up as Boothill busies himself with taking off the rest of his uniform.
Boothill’s movements are slow, almost reverent in the way he kisses every new stretch of skin revealed before him, the warmth of his palms lingering over the scars nestled deep into flesh as he lowers down onto his knees. Soon enough, Jing Yuan is stepping out of his pants, standing completely bare except for the hat on his head.
He’d be ashamed of how hard he is already if not for the way Boothill reaches around him to tease his fingers along the shaft, head pillowed on the side of Jing Yuan’s thigh.
“You’re gorgeous as ever, dollface.”
Boothill starts kneading his ass, digging into the pliant muscle with just the right amount of strength. Goosebumps rise on his skin as Boothill trails kisses from the back of his thighs up towards his entrance, teasing him with the graze of pointed teeth.
“Ah—”
A gasp escapes him at the first press of a hot tongue, a shock of pleasure sparking up his spine that has him bending at the waist. His elbows brace on the wooden surface of the vanity, close enough that his exhales threaten to fog up the mirror. He groans, low in his throat, as Boothill uses his thumbs to spread him apart and works himself in deeper. It’s a sensation he hasn’t felt in so many years he can’t even remember, both foreign and familiar in the way it causes his insides to twist and tighten.
Forced to brace against the table, his eyes flicker towards the reflection of the open window on the adjacent wall.
Only a few steps away, it reveals a tree that stretches into a sky devoid of clouds. Facing out towards the paths that wind through the gardens, there’s a good chance one of the many attendants or Cloud Knight guards might walk past right outside.
Even if the angle doesn’t allow for a clear enough view, the sounds carried onto the evening breeze would surely suffice for any passerby to imagine the scene happening inside. Perhaps it would even prompt them to climb the tall branches of the tree, just to catch a glimpse, to satisfy the inevitable pull of simple human curiosity.
And what a sight they would see; the Luofu’s General, the Divine Foresight, bent over and defiled by one of the IPC’s most wanted.
The thought alone is enough to have Jing Yuan let out a quiet chuckle, though it quickly tapers off into a moan as the downright sinful curl of Boothill’s tongue brushes his prostate. Eyelids heavy with bliss, Jing Yuan looks at himself in the mirror once more, face flushed and slowly unravelling.
He knows he could ask Boothill to stop so he could close the window, prevent even the slightest chance that anyone should overhear, kill any wisp of curiosity before it can take shape. It would be the wisest, safest choice.
But Jing Yuan finds he doesn’t want to.
Though it’s terribly unbefitting of his position, the chance of getting caught thrills him more than he cares to admit. That lick of danger, the threat of scandal, makes him feel reckless in a way he hasn’t felt since he was a younger, far wilder version of himself. A version that’s been lost to time, to change, to a steady burning sun that has almost bleached it from the world.
So that it now exists only as an afterimage, fading but still there. Clinging stubbornly to the spaces between Jing Yuan’s ribcage.
He thinks of a different time, of another Wardance hundreds of years past. Of disappearing into the Luofu’s many alleyways with the former Belobog’s hero hot on his trail. Pressed up against harsh stone, teeth clashing in desperate kisses and hands itching to slide under clothes, constantly on the lookout for prying eyes.
For a moment, Jing Yuan is allowed to return to that feeling. To the youth that’s slipped from his grasp centuries ago. He wouldn’t trade it for the world.
“Oh.”
Jing Yuan shivers as a finger prods at his entrance, aided along by the copious amounts of spit Boothill has lathered onto him, dribbling down between his thighs and onto the floor beneath him. His back drops into a more pronounced arch, hips rocking into the sensation of their own accord.
“Aeons, you’re tight. . .” Boothill groans, letting up for a moment so he can grab a handful of Jing Yuan’s ass. Jing Yuan watches in the reflection as he pauses to admire the slight recoil when he pulls away, smirk curving up the corner of his mouth as their gazes meet. “Nobody here to stretch you out properly, huh?”
Unable to answer beyond a small huff, Boothill lets out a rumbling chuckle at his expense before burying himself deep once more, quickly adding a second finger so he can start to scissor Jing Yuan open.
Considering Boothill’s breathing mechanisms are more for show than anything else, built in to mimic something more human, he has no need to worry about his oxygen levels as he devotes himself to eating Jing Yuan out better than anyone ever has. In recent memory, at least, which for Jing Yuan spans a decent few centuries.
Heat coils and spreads in Jing Yuan’s gut, hiking one of his legs up to rest on the table and moaning loudly at the change in angle. Boothill grunts in response, adding a third digit as his lips kiss and suck at Jing Yuan’s rim.
Sweat drips down the curve of his nose to splatter on the wooden table, each inhale gone ragged, broken by a series of mewls he can hardly keep down. Boothill’s free hand is warm where it grips his rear, thumb wedged under the subtle curve, steadily rising in temperature. Jing Yuan wonders whether he’ll overheat this time again; whether he’ll be left with another mark to carry for the next few weeks before that too, fades once again.
He hopes he does.
Aeons, he’s so close now. Boothill’s fingers keep curling against his prostate, back spasming with each shock to his system. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, bobbing with each movement and an almost angry shade of red at the tip.
Jing Yuan is about to reach down to finally relieve the pressure that’s been building in his abdomen when he’s abruptly left entirely empty.
He downright whines at the loss, the noise so petulant his own ears burn at the sound of himself. Boothill is quick to soothe him, placing kisses on his shoulder which prove tender enough that Jing Yuan’s heart quivers.
“Shh, dollface,” he mutters, the metallic components of his arms digging into Jing Yuan’s waist as they lock around him. “I’ve got ya.”
Before Jing Yuan can even think to speak, Boothill lifts him up and tosses him onto the bed. In one fell swoop, Jing Yuan finds himself landing on the soft mattress beneath him, the rim of Boothill’s hat pushed down to obscure his vision. He takes it off, setting it down with a touch of reverence so it stays out of harm’s way.
Built as he is, with an impressive height that nears two meters and muscles honed to a point he can wield his massive guandao with less effort than it takes the usual team of four men to carry it, there are few who could simply throw him around as they pleased. Of course, Boothill has the body of a Cyborg to aid him, but the point still stands.
Jing Yuan feels himself grow hotter still, dick twitching as it leaks onto his abdomen.
A smirk tints Boothill’s lips at the sight, never breaking eye contact as he unbuckles his belt to let his pants drop to his ankles. His cocksure attitude is nothing less than attractive, to be sure, but Jing Yuan knows he is not without power here.
He twists to reach for his nightstand, rummaging around in the top drawer for a moment to retrieve the vial of lube and tosses it towards the foot of the bed, spreading his legs invitingly.
“Darlin’. . .” Boothill breathes out, followed by a sound trapped somewhere between a groan and a chuckle. “You’re dangerous.”
“Surely I’m no match for a Galaxy Ranger. . .” Jing Yuan teases, voice carrying a hint of gravel from disuse.
The mattress dips as Boothill crawls towards him, grabbing the discarded bottle as he does. His long hair frames his face as he hovers above Jing Yuan, the layers of black and white overlapping until they blend together. For a moment, Jing Yuan’s gaze stalls on the twin moles under his left eye which serve to soften his sharp features.
“Now, don’t go sellin’ yerself short, dollface. . . I’m sure you could give me a run for my money.”
The grin Boothill wears is boyish, eagerness written in the way his unnatural pupils contract and widen similar to a camera’s shutter. It should look uncanny, perhaps, but Jing Yuan finds himself drawn to the sight, Boothill’s blatant desire serving as fuel to the flames licking at his insides.
When Boothill leans in to capture his lips with his own, Jing Yuan welcomes him.
Their kiss is less a battle then it is a capitulation, Jing Yuan surrendering himself with ease to the way Boothill’s tongue pries him open, curling behind the upper row of his teeth. He lets out little choked-off moans whenever razor sharp canines graze the delicate curve of his bottom lip, the threat of drawing blood making his mind spin.
Jing Yuan’s hands trail over the ridges of Boothill’s mechanic chest as if he were made of flesh and bone, blunt nails scratching the metal plates that make up his shoulders. Boothill doesn’t shudder at the action, but he does press closer, rewards Jing Yuan by squeezing his waist, thumbs digging into the jut of his hip bones.
Before Jing Yuan has the chance to grow lightheaded from the kiss, Boothill pulls away. He leans back on his haunches, his chest still except for the faint buzz of the circuits beneath, a stark contrast to the way Jing Yuan’s rises and falls with every breath.
There’s a quick tap to Jing Yuan’s inner thigh. “Turn onto yer stomach for me.”
Jing Yuan follows the order with no protest, letting out a quiet groan as his throbbing cock ruts against the silken sheets below. A hand on his lower back stills him, digits pressing firmly into the tense muscles there, causing Jing Yuan to sigh heavily in response, arms folded to rest his head there.
“That’s good, just like that,” Boothill rumbles, grabbing a handful of Jing Yuan’s ass and watching the fat settle back into place just as he had before. “You should see yerself like this, dollface, what a sight. . .”
Heat creeps up the back of Jing Yuan’s neck, settling as a rosy blush across the bridge of his nose as he turns to look at Boothill over his shoulder. His lips part on a gasp at the sudden cold liquid that drips down between his cheeks, though he’s quickly distracted by the weight that settles over his back, Boothill’s face reappearing in his line of vision.
There’s not many who can make Jing Yuan feel small, but Boothill manages, the ranger’s broad frame caging Jing Yuan in with ease.
It’s a heady feeling; intoxicating almost. So much so he barely notices the fingers rubbing lube against the ring of muscle in favour of panting against Boothill’s mouth.
“Missed you too. . .” Jing Yuan whispers, the words quiet enough that they betray the burden of the confession, more vulnerability than he usually allows himself to reveal.
They gentle the curve of Boothill’s smile, and he brings Jing Yuan into a kiss just as the tip of his cock pushes past his rim. The older keens at the dual sensation, hand spasming as he grabs at the sheets, soothed only when Boothill’s own holds it down.
Jing Yuan is forced to break the kiss as his breath quivers, eyes glazing over at the way Boothill’s length stretches him out. His insides throb, clenching down around the intrusion despite the pinprick of pain, hips twitching by the time Boothill bottoms out.
“Mm.” The hair at his nape is brushed aside so Boothill’s lips can settle, mouthing at the sensitive skin. “So tight still, baby. . . let’s loosen you up properly, hm?”
And that’s all the warning Jing Yuan gets before a strong arm loops around his chest and Boothill starts hammering into him.
“Ah!”
Jing Yuan nearly chokes at the sudden onslaught, every thrust sending sparks up his spine. Boothill is solid against him, the weight of his artificial body leading Jing Yuan to sink into the mattress below, locking him into place so all Jing Yuan can do is lie there and take it.
“That’s it,” Boothill grunts, bullying his cock into Jing Yuan’s heat over and over. “Good. Just like that. . .”
The words make Jing Yuan keen, slurred against the hollow beneath his jaw, where his rabbiting pulse jumps under the brush of Boothill’s lips. His own dick is pinned underneath them both, making a mess of his abdomen and the sheets.
He can feel his mind start to empty out the longer the pleasure mounts, the thoughts plaguing him for the past months taking a backseat to the lascivious sounds echoing through the room.
Jing Yuan lets himself get lost in it, allows the static buzzing in his head to grow louder until it grows all-encompassing, until all he can feel is bliss.
The stars have started to dot the firmament outside the window by the time Jing Yuan’s senses return to him.
He grunts, turning to the side to be met with Boothill’s countenance instead of the late evening sky. Half-lidded golden eyes watch as the ranger’s lips curl back to reveal unnaturally sharp teeth in a lazy, self-satisfied grin. “Ya passed out on me again, darlin’.”
There’s a soreness that’s settled in his body, thrumming outwards from his lower back up in weak pulses. It’s different from the usual aches that cling to his age-worn joints, however, a change Jing yuan welcomes no matter how temporary it may be.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t burn ya this time,” Boothill adds, at which Jing Yuan can’t help but feel a hint of disappointment.
He masks it under a yawn and slowly pushes himself up to sit, aided along by a steady hand that helps him lean against the headboard.
Head thumping against the padded surface, Jing Yuan’s gaze settles on the man spread out beside him on the bed. Boothill looks just a little out of place; the metallic gleam of his torso and arms a stark contrast to the silken sheets and the many pillows, indents and scratches betraying the many years of battle he’s endured.
Jing Yuan wonders if perhaps he, too, is an ill-fitting piece amongst all this softness.
A pinch to his hip pulls Jing Yuan from his quiet musings, meeting the ranger’s narrowed stare, lashes long enough they nearly obscure his eyes. “What’s goin’ on in that noggin o’ yours?”
Lips curving up faintly, Jing Yuan shakes his head.
“Nothing,” he breathes out, hand reaching for the other man. Boothill regards him with a curious look when he’s gently dragged closer until he rests on Jing Yuan’s lap, brows twitching together as if being in such a position is foreign to him.
The expression makes him resemble a disgruntled cat in Jing Yuan’s mind, unused to affection and yet not quite willing to part with it. He stifles his laughter behind his smile, instead letting his hands card through Boothill’s hair. The black and white strands seem endlessly long as they fan over Jing Yuan’s thighs, smooth enough that they slip between the spaces of Jing Yuan’s fingers like water.
After a few minutes pass like this, the hint of tension in Boothill’s frame loosens, allowing himself to tilt into the touch.
“You’re travelling with the Express now, is that right?” Jing Yuan asks, his voice a note quieter to not interrupt the peaceful air that’s settled in the room.
The reply comes a few beats too late, Boothill’s senses slowed by the pleasant tingle on his scalp, half-submerged in a feeling so incredibly human he’d nearly forgotten it in his many years being anything but. When the words register, Boothill clears his throat to speak.
“You could say I’m taggin’ along for the time bein’, yeah,” he replies. Then, eyes flickering up to gauge Jing Yuan’s reaction, he adds, “Did yer boyfriend tell you?”
Jing Yuan looks genuinely confused at first, movement’s stilling just long enough that Boothill nearly lets out a sound too close to a whine. The furrow between his brows smooths out as realisation dawns on him, expression caught somewhere between profound tenderness and an aching longing.
“Oh, you mean Dan Heng,” he chuckles, but the cadence is off-kilter enough that it comes out bittersweet. “He’s not my. . . we’re not together.”
Boothill hums low in his throat, head tipping a little to press into Jing Yuan’s palm when the older starts scratching his scalp. “Maybe not, but you sure are somethin’, you and he. Imagine my surprise when the first time I put a gun to his head, he pulls out a Jade Abacus belonging to the Luofu’s General.”
Jing Yuan stills again.
“. . . He did that?”
“Sure did.” Cheek pillowed on Jing Yuan’s thigh, Boothill lets out a scoff as he recalls the memory. “I also had to convince him not to waste a once-in-a-lifetime rescue call and let me gather the Galaxy Rangers instead. Wasn’t easy though. . . The kid’s pretty stubborn.”
Something warm blooms in Jing Yuan’s chest then, unfurling slowly like the petals of a flower long sealed tight into its bud. It threatens to suffocate him for a moment, pushing against his ribs like it longs to break them. The thought that even now, after so many years have passed, Dan Heng still looks to him as a saviour.
That, despite the stains on their shared history, Jing Yuan remains as that fist glimmer of golden sun in the darkness of a damp, cold cell.
He feels a little unworthy of such a sentiment, but it tugs at his heart all the same. Perhaps he should find Dan Heng later and talk to him, before he leaves for the Astral Express’ next destination.
Resuming his ministrations on Boothill’s hair, Jing Yuan breathes out a long sigh to soothe the tightness in his chest. His chin tips down to watch as Boothill’s lashes flutter, his blood-red pupils shrunken under the dim glow in the room.
“Stay for a while longer. . .”
His words come out in a murmur, a quiet plea hidden beneath the request. Boothill’s eyes flit open to catch his gaze before he shifts to press his face to Jing Yuan’s lower stomach, nose brushing the fine trail of hairs there.
“Mm. Okay, doll.”
Time bleeds into an amorphous entity as they laze around on Jing Yuan’s bed, its passing told only in the way the remaining sunlight has been replaced by the moon and stars.
Boothill stirrs first.
His head lifts to glance at the door, heightened Cyborgian senses picking up on the steady rhythm of footsteps before Jing Yuan can. Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he twists to slide off the bed with a stealth that belies his heavy, clunky body.
The knock comes a few seconds later.
“General?” A feminine voice Jing Yuan recognizes as one of his attendants calls out, muffled through the wood. “The warrior from Belobog, Luka, is here to meet with you, as per your request.”
Jing Yuan clears his throat, dislodging the gravel there. “Ah, yes. Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the click of heels fades into the distance, Jing Yuan’s gaze remains on the man currently picking his clothes off the floor to redress. He doesn’t move to get up just yet, fingers tracing over the indents of teeth and nails that litter different parts of his skin.
Their gazes meet and Boothill’s mouth curves into a smirk, the shape of him jagged again, no longer smoothed out by the intimacy of a moment shared. He adjusts his hat on top of his head, cocking his chin to the side.
“Have fun dealing with the kid.”
“Mm.” Jing Yuan lets out a noncommittal hum, wishing he could linger here for a while longer. In this liminal space where he’s not yet slipped back into the role of General. Reluctant, he shuffles forward to the edge of the mattress. “Will I see you again?”
The ranger chuckles, though the sound lacks any hint of mockery. Buckling his belt with one final click, he walks to him and cups Jing Yuan’s face in his hands.
Cradled by the faint warmth in Boothill’s palms, Jing Yuan is coaxed to look up at him as their lips brush together in a parting kiss.
Chaste, but tinged with a hint of promise.
“Darlin’. . . you really think I could stay away?”