Nil was already on his knees when Chen Yu's back hit the couch, the shopping bags forgotten in a messy scatter across the living-room floor.
The door had barely clicked shut before Nil's hands were on him— pulling, guiding, stripping with a quiet urgency that left no room for protest. Now Chen Yu's cock rested heavy and flushed against Nil's tongue, and the only sound in the apartment was the wet, deliberate slide of Nil's mouth.
It was slow. Almost cruelly so.
Nil's lips sealed around the head first, tongue tracing the ridge with a lazy pressure that made Chen Yu's thighs tremble. He could feel every ridge of the frenulum, the way Nil's tongue flattened and then curled, the faint scrape of teeth that never quite hurt but kept him sharp.
Spit gathered and slipped down the shaft, Nil's hand followed it, stroking in the same unhurried rhythm, thumb pressing into the thick vein that pulsed under the skin.
Chen Yu's fingers dug into the back of the couch until the fabric creaked. His head fell back, throat working around a low, broken sound.
"Aah… Nil— " The moan slipped out soft at first, almost reluctant, then deeper when Nil hummed around him.
The vibration traveled straight up Chen Yu's spine and pulled another sound from his chest, longer, wetter. "Fuck… just like that— "
Nil only hummed again, the vibration traveling straight up Chen Yu's spine. One of Nil's hands left the base of his cock and slid lower, palm warm against the curve of Chen Yu's ass. Two fingers teased along the cleft, slick with spit.
Chen Yu's breath hitched when the first fingertip pressed inside— slow, circling, stretching just enough to make his hips twitch. A sharp, open-mouthed moan tore free.
"Nngh — haa… d-deeper— " His voice cracked on the word. Nil took him deeper at the same moment, throat opening around the head, dual sensation— hot, tight suction and that careful, insistent pressure inside him— pulled a raw, continuous moan from Chen Yu's chest. It rose and fell with every slow bob of Nil's head, half-swallowed, half-desperate. "Nil… feels so good… don't stop— "
He could feel everything. The way Nil's tongue flattened against the underside on every upward drag. The soft, wet sound of lips sealing and releasing.
The heat of Nil's breath when he pulled off just far enough to lick a slow stripe from root to tip, eyes half-lidded and dark.
Chen Yu's free hand found Nil's hair, grounding himself as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter at the base of his spine. Another moan spilled out, low and shaky. "Haa wait— Nil… I'm close—"
Nil's finger crooked. Chen Yu's whole body jerked. The second finger joined the first, scissoring gently, and Nil swallowed him down again, throat working in a steady, relentless rhythm. Chen Yu's hips stuttered. A broken, high moan ripped out of him as he came, spilling across Nil's tongue in thick pulses.
"Nil— fuck— hahhh— " The sound stretched long and helpless, body shaking while Nil stayed with him through it, swallowing every drop, throat fluttering around the sensitive head until Chen Yu was trembling and oversensitive, little aftershocks of sound still catching in his throat.
Only then did Nil rise.
He kissed Chen Yu open-mouthed, sharing the bitter-salt taste of him. Chen Yu's hand came up between them, pushing lightly at Nil's chest, still breathing hard.
"Nasty," he muttered, but his voice was rough and wrecked, and the flush on his cheeks hadn't faded.
Nil laughed and pulled him in anyway, arms wrapping around Chen Yu's waist. He pressed his face into the curve of Chen Yu's neck, breathing him in.
"Work has been hell," he murmured against his skin. "Yichen and the Starlight Festival… I barely got out of the office.
Chen Yu's hands settled at Nil's back, rubbing slow circles through the fabric of his shirt. "I know. I don't blame you."
Nil pressed a softer kiss to the hinge of his jaw. "Thank you for understanding."
Chen Yu leaned back enough to look at him. "Have you eaten?"
"Not yet."
"I'll make something."
Chen Yu stepped out of the circle of Nil's arms and headed for the kitchen. Nil followed, still half-hard, shirt rumpled, the taste of Chen Yu lingering on his tongue.
The fridge light spilled across the counters as Chen Yu opened it, reaching for eggs, leftover rice, the small container of pickled vegetables they always kept on the top shelf.
"The guys were… loud today," Chen Yu said, setting everything on the counter. "Usual chaos. But—"
He paused to crack an egg into a bowl.
"Yichen still can't take his eyes off Mo Fei. None of us really understand what's going on between them. It's like he can't get his head clear."
Nil leaned against the counter, watching the line of Chen Yu's back, the easy way his hands moved. "As his manager, I should probably be against it." He considered that. "But Yichen never listens to me anyway."
Chen Yu smiled at that. The soft sizzle of oil in the pan filled the quiet kitchen.
Nil pushed off the counter and came up behind him, arms sliding around Chen Yu's waist, chest pressed to his back. He rested his chin on Chen Yu's shoulder, breath warm against his ear.
"Food can wait," he said, low. His hands slipped under the hem of Chen Yu's shirt, palms flat against bare skin
Chen Yu's hand paused over the spatula.
Nil's voice dropped near his ear. "I've got a better meal right in front of me."
Chen Yu slowly turned his head. "…You said you were hungry."
"I am."
The spatula lowered. Dinner, apparently, was going to be late.
Nil's mouth found the side of his neck, open and slow, and Chen Yu tilted his head just enough to give him more room, a soft, pleased sound already catching in his throat.
💜~~~~~~
The makeup room smelled of setting spray and the faint, clean tang of alcohol wipes. Soft LED lights ringed the mirror, casting a cool white glow over Zhang Yichen's face as the artist finished the last careful stroke of concealer along his jaw.
Outside the door, the low murmur of the crew drifted in— someone calling for a lighting check, the distant clatter of equipment carts rolling across the concrete floor of the soundstage.
Su Feiyu stepped inside without knocking. The door clicked shut behind her, muting the noise.
She leaned one shoulder against the frame for a moment, watching the artist work in silence. The fine brush moved in small, precise arcs.
Zhang Yichen's eyes were closed, lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks under the bright lights. He looked calm. Composed. The same way he always did when the cameras were about to roll.
She waited until the artist set the brush down and reached for the powder. Then she lifted a hand and gave a small, polite wave.
"I'll take it from here."
The artist glanced at Yichen for confirmation. He opened his eyes, met Feiyu's gaze in the mirror, and gave a slight nod. The woman gathered her tools quickly, murmured a soft "excuse me," and slipped out, closing the door with a quiet click.
Yichen turned in the chair. The black costume jacket sat open at the collar, revealing the sharp line of his throat. He offered her a warm, easy smile. "Feiyu. Didn't expect to see you before call."
She stepped closer, heels soft against the polished floor. The air between them carried the faint scent of his cologne— something clean and woody, her gaze flicked over the costume, then she reached out without asking, fingers brushing the lapel to straighten a small fold that had settled wrong.
"The next scene's going to be heavy," she said, voice low. Her fingertips lingered a second longer than necessary before falling away. "I'm… a little jittery about it. All that controlled emotion. It's the kind of role that can swallow you if you're not careful."
Yichen's smile softened. He leaned back slightly in the chair, studying her face under the bright lights. "You're a strong actress. You've carried heavier material than this and made it look effortless. You'll be fine." His tone was steady, genuine. "Just breathe through it. The camera already loves you."
She let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. For a moment the tension in her shoulders eased. "You always make things sound simple."
"Usually because they are."
Feiyu gave him a look.
Yichen's mouth twitched. Then he braced his hands against the chair and stood. "I should head to the set. They're waiting."
Her hand moved before he could step away. Fingers closed lightly around his wrist.
Yichen stopped, turned back to face her fully. The lights caught the clean line of his profile, the quiet patience in his eyes.
"Yichen." Her voice dropped. "If you're not too busy… would you join me for lunch tomorrow? Just the two of us. Somewhere quiet."
His gaze lowered. Landed on her hand still wrapped around his wrist. The contact was light, but deliberate.
In the brief silence that followed, his thoughts settled with practiced clarity.
Su Feiyu was a talented actress. They had shared screens on several projects, stood side by side at premieres, brand events and more press appearances than he cared to remember.
The cameras loved them together. Fans loved them even more. But that was where it ended.
Publicity.
Coordinated appearances.
Smiles held long enough for photographs. They had never shared a private meal that had not been arranged by a publicist. Never stepped outside the comfortable boundaries of work.
He respected her. He enjoyed working with her.
Nothing more.
Yichen gently closed his free hand around hers and removed it from his wrist. "I'm quite occupied these next few days," he said. "Maybe next time."
He offered her one last small smile— the kind that left no room for argument— then stepped past her and opened the door. The hallway light spilled in. He didn't look back as he walked away, the soft sound of his footsteps fading into the larger noise of the set.
The door swung shut.
Su Feiyu stood alone in the sudden quiet.
The bright mirror lights still hummed. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air, thin and already fading. Her smile vanished the moment he was gone. Something cold settled behind her eyes.
She let out a short, harsh breath through her teeth.
What the hell was wrong with him? Couldn't he take a hint?
Fans had paired them endlessly over the years. Perfect match. Couple made in heaven. Every tired phrase the internet could invent.
At first, she had ignored it. Publicity was publicity. But somewhere along the way, things had changed.
She had started noticing how well they looked standing beside each other on red carpets. How naturally their names appeared together. How cameras always seemed to linger whenever they shared a frame.
And yet lately, Yichen seemed to spend less and less time around her. Even at the last industry gala, he had arrived with that model instead of maintaining the sort of coordinated appearance everyone had grown accustomed to.
Mo Fei.
Feiyu's fingers tightened against the edge of the make-up counter.
What exactly was going on?
The room suddenly felt too bright. She released the counter, turned sharply and walked out, her heels striking hard against the floor. Behind her, the empty chair remained beneath the lights.
And the faint trace of Yichen's cologne was already disappearing.