Work Text:
You were perfect. I want to put a collar on you.
So it’s not that Jiang Cheng’s been thinking about what Meng Yao had said constantly, but he does think about it often enough that it features sort of-- not-occasionally in his guilty jerk-off fantasies when Meng Yao’s away on business trips. Sometimes he thinks about it in the shower, where no one can see him loop his own hand around his throat to feel what it’s like to have something touching him there, not choking but-- holding. You know.
Normal stuff. Normal things that people do.
It’s not that he’s trying to hide it. It’s just that he doesn’t say anything about it, because when he’s the one doing the requesting, he feels like an inconvenience, which, yes, okay, he acknowledges that he should probably go to adult therapy someday.
He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t think he has God, please, I am fucking desperate for you to put a collar on me tattooed across his forehead, so he thinks he’s well within his rights to be a little surprised when Meng Yao sits across from him and says, casually, “So about the collar thing.”
By a little surprised, Jiang Cheng means that he chokes on his frozen yogurt. Because they’re in public. Jin Ling is mashing every flavor of frozen yogurt into one bowl under Lan Zhan’s careful eye, Wei Ying is also mashing every flavor of frozen yogurt into one bowl, entirely unsupervised, and Meng Yao is- here. Across from him.
Asking about the collar thing.
Jiang Cheng wheezes a thin noise around his spoon and says mngh? Meng Yao blinks at him with his big, pretty eyes with his long, dark eyelashes.
“You seemed to like the idea,” He says, pushing around a couple of little pastel mochi. “When I mentioned it.”
“You’ve been thinking about it for eight months?” Jiang Cheng says, not because he thinks that Meng Yao should be embarrassed but because he has also been thinking about it for eight months. Meng Yao looks a little put out, though, like he’s being made fun of, which- okay, yes, perhaps Jiang Cheng is not the most effective communicator in the world, he can. Also acknowledge that. He doesn’t know how to reassure Meng Yao that thinking about collaring your live-in long-term boyfriend is totally normal and fine except by saying, “Me, too. I’ve also- you know. Been thinking. About it.”
Obviously, that’s when Wei Ying throws himself into the seat next to Jiang Cheng and slings an arm around his shoulders, jostling them both and nearly getting frozen yogurt on his own shirt. “Thought about what? Jiang Cheng, if I’m not the first person to learn about your wedding, I’m gonna be fucking pissed. No babies around so I’m allowed to say ‘fuck’.”
Jiang Cheng freezes in mortification at the same time that Jin Ling chirps, “I’m not a baby.” Which means that he definitely heard Wei Ying say ‘fuck’.
“I”m going to kill you,” Meng Yao tells Wei Ying very seriously. “No one will find your corpse.”
“Kill,” Jin Ling says seriously, and Lan Zhan hums in agreement.
“First degree murder,” He tells Jin Ling with the aura of someone giving a real life-lesson. “Planned.”
“Hm!” Jin Ling says, as if he’s actually going to retain that, which he hopefully will not, and jams his spoon of mystery yogurt into his mouth. They’re doing the monthly kid-stays-with-the-other-uncles hand-off, which is the only reason that this much frozen yogurt is permissible by law. Jiang Cheng would fucking never. Jin Ling is either going to bounce off the walls until 3AM or throw up later, and there will be absolutely no in between.
“No jury would convict,” Wei Ying says cheerfully, like he’s not arguing in favor of his own murder. “Anyway, are you talking about proposing? Let me be your flower girl.”
“No,” Jiang Cheng grits out. “And no.” He doesn’t add that Wei Ying can’t be the flower girl because he’s obviously going to be the best man. Wei Ying doesn’t need a bigger head.
Wei Ying sulks around his next spoonful of frozen yogurt. “I’d make you my flower girl,” He says after a moment.
“Which you could have done,” Meng Yao cuts in, a little snide, “If you hadn’t eloped.” He’s heard this song and dance more than once from Jiang Cheng, which is the only reason he’s really qualified to give Wei Ying a hard time about it. Wei Ying gasps dramatically.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t post-plan my bomb-ass party,” He says, and Lan Zhan winces minutely when Jin Ling immediately says ass!!! with ear-splitting enthusiasm.
“Donkey,” Lan Zhan says solemnly and entirely straight-faced. Sometimes, Jiang Cheng likes his brother-in-law more than he likes his brother.
“Hm,” Jin Ling agrees very seriously, and ignores the adults at the table when it devolves into fighting, like it almost always does. The topic of collars doesn’t come up again, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t stop thinking about it, even when Lan Zhan is forced to define criminal culpability .
--
Meng Yao puts his head on Jiang Cheng’s chest, stabbing him with his very pointy chin, and looks up at him through his eyelashes. He’s wearing his I want something and you should guess what it is face, which is both terrifying and sexy. Jiang Cheng is not in a position to guess what it is. He is creatively subsumed by the idea of collars, and collaring, and being on his knees instead of on the sofa with half a glass of wine in one hand and the other on the small of Meng Yao’s back.
When Jiang Cheng doesn’t rise to the bait, Meng Yao digs his sharp little chin into his sternum, hard enough to make him wheeze. “Augh,” Jiang Cheng says, and puts his wine down on the coffee table before he spills it. “Ow, tell me what you want before I bleed to death.”
Meng Yao turns his head to the side so he’s jabbing Jiang Cheng with his sharp-ass cheekbone instead, which is only a slightly less deadly weapon, and pointedly watches someone decorate cupcakes on screen.
Jiang Cheng tries to think of what he did to offend Meng Yao, then is forced, by baby therapy, to backtrack and re-evaluate why he thinks, specifically, that Meng Yao is offended.
“Please?” He tries, and then, when Meng Yao continues not responding, “I really don’t know, A-Yao, and I don’t want to guess wrong.” Jiang Cheng is better at baby therapy than Meng Yao.
Meng Yao sighs and says, with rare straightforward honesty, “I’m trying to think of the words.”
“Oh. Sorry to interrupt.”
“No need. - Do you ever have something,” Meng Yao says, still looking at the television, “That you want so badly that you’re almost scared of having it because if it gets taken away you might just fall apart?”
Jiang Cheng thinks, immediately, of Jin Ling, and then of his relationship with Meng Yao. “Yes,” He says, too-honest. “Yes. Is it- we don’t have to talk about it.”
“I want to talk about it,” Meng Yao says, sounding almost mad. He sits up abruptly, palm flat on Jiang Cheng’s chest. “I bought a collar for you before we were even fucking.”
Jiang Cheng blinks at him. He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting. “Oh?” He sounds a touch strangled, even to himself, which means that he probably sounds like he’s asphyxiating.
Meng Yao doesn’t meet his eyes. “It meant something to me. And obviously, I haven’t given it to you, because- I.” He inhales. This is the least composed Jiang Cheng has ever seen him. It’s sort of doing something for him. “I want it to mean something to you, too. I don’t want it to be your collar. I want you to wear my collar. Do you-” His voice sort of trails off into nothing.
“Oh,” Jiang Cheng says stupidly. It’s apparently all he knows how to say anymore.
“Oh,” Meng Yao agrees grimly. He sounds like he’s getting ready for a funeral.
Jiang Cheng takes a minute to process, swiping his thumb across the base of Meng Yao’s spine. He examines each of the emotions he’s experiencing like they’re pebbles, taking them out and turning them over one at a time. Embarrassed, a little, because Meng Yao looks embarrassed. Turned-on, because Meng Yao is on top of him and he’s usually a little turned on by that. Wanted, in a way that twists up inside him dangerously. Desirable.
“What, uh,” Jiang Cheng ducks his head to nose at Meng Yao’s jawline. “What kind of collar. Did you get.”
Meng Yao makes a noise in his chest that Jiang Cheng can feel. “Don’t make fun of me,” He says, twining his fingers into Jiang Cheng’s hair. “Don’t.”
“M’not,” Jiang Cheng says, desperate to make Meng Yao understand exactly how much he isn’t, how much he wants without the ability to verbalize it. “I’m not. Please.”
“You’ll get mad,” Meng Yao says desperately, and pulls Jiang Cheng’s hair when he pinches his ribs. They’re not supposed to assume each other’s feelings. “It’s embarrassing.”
“I want it,” Jiang Cheng lets Meng Yao up when he squirms away, even though it means Meng Yao climbing out of his lap and getting off the couch completely. “I- I’m really, please-” He looks at Meng Yao’s retreating shoulder blades helplessly.
Meng Yao looks over his shoulder. “Are you coming, or are you just going to sit there?” He asks, tone going high the way it does when he teases, and Jiang Cheng blinks at him for a long, stupid moment before scrambling off the couch.
They share a bedroom, which means that they share space, which means that when Meng Yao takes a collar (!!!!!!!!) out of his bedside table’s drawer (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), Jiang Cheng is forced to rapidly come to terms with the fact that he’s been sleeping next to a collar intended for him for almost a year.
He stares at it in Meng Yao’s hands. It’s black with gold hardware, not too thick or heavy or intimidating, even in Meng Yao’s relatively small hands, and. Wow. He-
“Please,” Jiang Cheng says desperately, and Meng Yao’s fingers clench on the collar. “A-Yao, please, I-”
“On your knees,” Meng Yao says, sounding almost as broken-open as Jiang Cheng feels. “On your knees for me.”
Jiang Cheng goes to his knees right where he is, sitting on his heels and staring up at Meng Yao with so much open adoration it should be embarrassing. It’s not- Meng Yao looks at him with a wild sort of want that makes its home under Jiang Cheng’s ribs, fills him with the reassurance of mutually assured destruction.
“Crawl,” Meng Yao says, and points at the floor between his bare feet. He’s wearing Jiang Cheng’s too-long sweatpants tied tight around his hips, just pajamas, but he might as well be wearing a three-piece suit for how confident he is, how fucked Jiang Cheng is over him.
Crawling is embarrassing. The hardwood hurts his knees and his palms and the unfamiliar shame of it prickles down his spine. He’s not good at it, clumsy and inelegant, and it’s embarrassing not just because he’s bad at it but because he is so, so fucking hard. He doesn’t know if it’s the collar or the embarrassment or just Meng Yao, Meng Yao, Meng Yao, but God, he’s hard.
The weight of Meng Yao’s eyes on him keeps it from being bad, but he’s still trembling when he finds himself at Meng Yao’s feet, unsteady when he kneels back to sitting.
“You liked that,” Meng Yao says, and maybe it would sound biting from someone else but it almost sounds wondering, like Meng Yao can’t quite believe his luck, and Jiang Cheng jerks a single embarrassed nod. Meng Yao- stretches a foot out and presses it in between Jiang Cheng’s legs. Touches him like that. Like he’s not worth- not worth a hand.
Jiang Cheng sucks in a shuddering breath, shoulders hunching with the desperate need to not come in his pants right that second. “Meng Yao,” He says, voice too high, and tips his face up. “Meng Yao.”
“Fuck,” Meng Yao sounds almost startled, one of his cool hands going to cup Jiang Cheng’s jaw. He puts his thumb to Jiang Cheng’s bottom lip, dragging wetness down in a shining line down his chin.
Jiang Cheng makes a thin, helpless noise, tipping his chin up further, and Meng Yao takes the hint to loop the collar around his throat. It buckles in the back and Meng Yao does it so smoothly that he must have practiced, must have held it in his hands and done up the clasp over and over and over just to feel how it worked.
Jiang Cheng wants to come. He curls his fingers into his thighs and tries to think about anything other than the weight of the collar around his throat, the weight of it sitting just so. The idea of Meng Yao wanting him so much he would be willing to subvert it into something physical, something permanent. He fails to stop thinking about any of those things and his hips hitch up into nothing, desperate for touch.
“Open your mouth,” Meng Yao says, and Jiang Cheng opens it so fast his jaw clicks. Meng Yao shoves the sweatpants down just far enough to put his dick into Jiang Cheng’s mouth, and he’s already wet at the tip and fuck, the physical evidence that he wants is sort of taking Jiang Cheng apart. He pushes in too fast and makes Jiang Cheng choke, fists a hand in Jiang Cheng’s hair hard enough to make his eyes water.
The collar is a presence that Jiang Cheng can’t forget, wrapped around his throat when Meng Yao presses deep-deep-deep, restraining when Jiang Cheng spasms around his gag reflex. It feels like Meng Yao’s holding him from inside and outside and everywhere and Jiang Cheng can’t take his eyes off him.
Meng Yao is pretty when he fucks Jiang Cheng’s face, pretty when he pulls Jiang Cheng’s hair, pretty when he comes down Jiang Cheng’s throat with a snarl and a thrust that makes Jiang Cheng gag so hard his eyes start to water.
Jiang Cheng whimpers when Meng Yao pulls out, high and stupid, like the dog the collar’s meant to be for, and Meng Yao pats his face soft and patronizing.
“Be good,” He says, and Jiang Cheng’s entire brain slips into a mindless burble of please god yes anything.
“I need-” Jiang Cheng starts, and then swallows down the words when Meng Yao taps him on the cheek again, hard enough to sting.
“I know what you need,” He says, and hesitates for the barest moment, swallows before he says, “Since you’re mine. You’ll take what I want.”
“Yeah,” Jiang Cheng sighs, and tips forward just enough to push his forehead into Meng Yao’s sharp hip bone. “Yours.”
Meng Yao’s fingers curl into the hair at the nape of Jiang Cheng’s neck tenderly and then slide down to the leather of the collar, where the buckle is skin-warm. Jiang Cheng has the space for a breath before Meng Yao is hauling him up by the collar and urging him over to the bed, uncaring when Jiang Cheng trips and sprawls into it.
He climbs over Jiang Cheng and presses kisses into his mouth, hooking his fingers into the warm leather and tugging every time Jiang Cheng tries to chase him.
“Please,” Jiang Cheng mumbles pathetically, arching his hips up. “Please.”
“You’ll take what I give you,” Meng Yao says, but helps him get out of his shirt and pants all the same. He wraps a light hand around Jiang Cheng’s cock and it is such a fucking relief that Jiang Cheng whines for it, even though it’s not firm enough to be any good.
“A-Yao,” Jiang Cheng doesn’t know what to do with his hands, doesn’t know what to do with his mouth. Meng Yao presses him into the bed with another kiss and his hand moves so, so slow.
“Keep your hands above your head,” Meng Yao says, and laughs softly when Jiang Cheng drags them up, “And don’t come.”
Jiang Cheng makes a tiny whimpering noise and curls his fingers into his palms. They’ve played this game a million times but never while Jiang Cheng’s wearing Meng Yao’s collar, when he’s keyed up with the simple idea of belonging, and it feels fucking impossible. He’s already leaking into his belly-button.
“Don’t come,” Meng Yao says again, reminding him, and starts jerking Jiang Cheng off in earnest, rolling his palm over the head of Jiang Cheng’s cock the way that feels so good it almost loops around to bad. Jiang Cheng can’t get enough air, breathing in big panting gulps that make the collar pull tight around his throat and ah, that’s harder, that’s-
“I’m gonna-” Jiang Cheng warns, high and thin, and Meng Yao snatches his hands off just in time for Jiang Cheng to arch and almost almost come. Not quite.
Meng Yao pets over Jiang Cheng’s shivering belly while he waits for him to cool down again, strokes his fingertips over the skin of Jiang Cheng’s throat where the collar slashes dark across it. “You look so good,” He says, thumbing over the gold hardware. “So fucking pretty.”
Jiang Cheng muffles a sob into his own shoulder and Meng Yao hushes him, hooking two fingers into the collar to keep him anchored when he leans away.
He comes back with lube and presses a finger into Jiang Cheng, agonizingly slow, and Jiang Cheng shivers with helpless want. He can feel how tight he is but he can’t relax into it; they don’t do it this way a lot, and usually Meng Yao makes him come once before they even start because otherwise Jiang Cheng is too tense, and he gets in his own head about it because he hates being bad at-
Meng Yao slaps him on the hip, sharp and stinging, and Jiang Cheng takes a deep, startled breath. The collar hugs around his throat and he blinks wetness from his eyes.
“Good boy,” Meng Yao says, and even though Jiang Cheng has done exactly nothing to deserve it he shudders out a long breath and goes boneless against the mattress. “Just like that. Watch me.”
Jiang Cheng watches as Meng Yao smiles, holds him open on one finger while his body tries to protest. It aches in a way that makes him shift into it, and when Meng Yao angles up into his prostate Jiang Cheng yelps.
Meng Yao is slow and thorough and Jiang Cheng feels like he’s being turned inside out, it’s so good. He hiccups a warning and Meng Yao stops rubbing his prostate but doesn’t take his finger out, just lets Jiang Cheng’s body spasm around them while he tries to calm himself down again. He bends over to kiss Jiang Cheng’s belly, the center of his chest, the soft underside of his jaw where the collar is pressing a mark.
“Another,” Meng Yao says, and Jiang Cheng doesn’t really have time to wonder at it before Meng Yao is sliding another finger in and spreading them apart. It aches low in his back, stings a little where Meng Yao’s prying him open, and oh, God, it hasn’t even been a minute but Jiang Cheng has to babble another warning, arching his hips away from Meng Yao’s fingers to keep himself from coming all over his belly.
He’s already made a mess of himself, so wet that it’s rolling down his sides, but he hasn’t come and Meng Yao presses a kiss to his mouth as a reward. The collar digs in under Jiang Cheng’s chin when he tips his face to the side so he can smear his tears into his bicep and it’s so good he could die from it.
“One more,” Meng Yao says, and Jiang Cheng shakes his head helplessly. Meng Yao slides his fingers out and lines his cock up instead, bumping up against Jiang Cheng’s barely-loosened hole soft and proprietary.
He has to push in so, so slow. Jiang Cheng is still too tight, and this doesn’t come easily to him but he wants it so bad he can taste it in the back of his throat. It hurts like a claim, like a brand, like a collar pulling tight around his throat, and Jiang Cheng shudders helplessly and curls his fingers into the sheets to keep himself from reaching for Meng Yao.
“Wait,” Meng Yao says, and Jiang Cheng’s crying in earnest by the time he’s seated fully inside, because it hurts and he wants to come and he wants to kiss Meng Yao’s fingers, his wrists, his boots. “Wait for me, that’s it, one more, shh, just one more.”
He starts to fuck Jiang Cheng in long, patient strokes that drag against every part of him, his thumbs pressing bruises into his hips when he angles Jiang Cheng up for more, deeper. Jiang Cheng doesn’t even have to warn him that he’s about to come because he goes so tight around Meng Yao that he can just tell, and he stops, and Jiang Cheng is going to lose his mind, he’s going to die, he wants, he wants.
“Please,” Jiang Cheng sobs, “Please, please, gege-”
Meng Yao bites out a moan and drags Jiang Cheng’s hips up to fuck him properly, like he’s trying to put him through the mattress, and Jiang Cheng’s dripping, he’s so close. Meng Yao waits until Jiang Cheng’s stuttering for air, more crying than breathing, before he drags his nails down Jiang Cheng’s sides and says, “Come for me, A-Cheng.”
Jiang Cheng twists under Meng Yao’s hands and does what he’s told, jerking into an orgasm so intense he whites out completely. Meng Yao fucks him through it and Jiang Cheng sobs with the feeling of too-much, every shove up against his prostate drawing him up higher and higher until it feels like the only thing holding him together is the collar around his throat and the hands around his hips.
Meng Yao pitches forward to kiss Jiang Cheng through it and bites his lip when he comes, rhythm stuttering as he spills inside Jiang Cheng. It’s wet and messy and claiming- Jiang Cheng has never felt so owned in his entire life. He takes a hitching breath against Meng Yao’s mouth and Meng Yao bites him, lovingly unkind.
It aches when Meng Yao pulls out and Jiang Cheng has to keep himself from squirming at the sensation of come sliding out of him, not achy but strange and intimate. Meng Yao bends over him, supported on one arm, and presses reverent kisses to the corner of Jiang Cheng’s eyes, his mouth, the bridge of his nose.
“Good?” Jiang Cheng asks, voice a rasp around the unfamiliar pressure of the collar and getting his throat fucked. Meng Yao smiles hard enough that he flashes his dimples and sets a hand over the collar, thumb sliding against the little red mark it’s left behind.
“Perfect,” Meng Yao says, and leans to kiss him again. “Perfect.”