Bouquet of Jing

by TrashyTime, Yangmal

Summary:

When he meets Luo Binghe and learns that the boy's early life has been eerily similar to his own, Shen Jiu changes his plans for the boy's future. He will mentor and raise LBH in the way he wishes he himself had been raised.
He will ensure that his Ying-er and Bing-er never suffer as he did. That means teaching Bing-er everything. Including how to grow and share jing essence... together. Thankfully Shen Jiu is an ex-cauldron, well equipped to be the perfect practice partner for the young man so full of yang energy.

Notes:

IMPORTANT: (skip to TL;DR if you are a trash dweller immune to the age related tags on the fic)

A running theme of this work is Shen Jiu passing on his own trauma in a way he honestly believes is for the best, and that his actions are far kinder than what was done to him. It is highly unlikely this fic will ever directly go over WHY having sex with a minor under his care is awful. In this fic, Shen Jiu will not be a mustache twirling bad guy or an unrepentant pedophile. However a lot of this fic's focus will be on how his good intentions pave the road to hell. It is about intergenerational trauma and systemic abuse.

There will be a lot of social norms that include underage being seen as the norm (In some historical practices 14 year old virgin girls were considered the "ideal" partners, for instance. Large importance was placed on them being pre-menstrual.) This entire fic is based off of tilting the world just a hair (jing being common and how that shapes Shen Jiu, and Binghe's mother being injured and taken in by the master that injured her), and having all the parts realign in truly interesting- if also horrifying ways.

There will be smut, there will be graphic sex. And it will be between a minor in the care of the adult abusing him. However at no time will said child or adult, or in fact, anyone, find this to be abuse. There are severe power imbalances that can never fully be rectified due to the grooming that happens. The fact that Binghe will do most of the penetrating that happens later, is not going to lessen this fact.
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TL;DR version: “As fish do not know they breathe water, these characters do not know they breathe trash”
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Please, make sure you self care accordingly.

XXX

In this chapter there will be themes of child abandonment, from a child's perspective. Binghe's mother was injured on her way to buy the jade, however to his child mind what matters is she said she would be back, and didn't come back.

There is also canon appropriate whipping and beating of a starving street child.

Chapter 1: Changes in Binghe's life plant seeds unseen before.

Luo Binghe has not had an easy life; he is not sure if he is quite yet eleven, but the money has long run out. The woman he once called Mother had given him all her money, her house, her business washing clothes by the river. Long before she was hit by a carriage, she had taken him in and taught him all the secrets of her wash powder. How to remove stains. How to fold the clothes. She taught him how to make meals and how to judge food. The four years he was with her, she also taught him to avoid the slavers. When she leaves his life, she gives him all her savings. She tells him to keep picking up the wash as if she were home. To wait, and if she can not return to him before the money runs out, to go to Cang Qiong.

He works. He tells anyone that asks that his mother is sick. His hands bleed where they crack from the lye, worked without rest for far more hours to equal the work his much larger mother did. He waits. He waits three years, til the money is completely exhausted and the incoming work is no more, til his back aches and his stomach doesn’t hurt for how the hollowness has encompassed it. He has sold everything in the hut, when finally he realizes she never meant to return. He feels foolish, crying alone by the fire pit on the reeds he himself had gathered late one night after his work was done. The bed to replace the one he sold.

It is with a numbness in his mind that he leaves at the first light. Trading the house for bags of rice and enough coin to make it to Cang Qiong. He learns on arrival that the test for new disciples is more than a month away, and the bags of rice will only last a month. Hunger dogs him as he wanders the streets; he doesn’t intend to steal, but his appearance and the way he eyes the sticks of tanghulu lead to the stall keeper whipping him with a truly scary crop a day before the test. It lays his shoulder and back open as he stands dazed at the unprovoked attack. Hunger and shock leave him falling to the street, more blows raining on him til he manages to escape. He hasn’t thread to mend the tears in his shirt, so he uses his own hairs braided and stitches the tears as neatly as possible after cleaning his clothes of the blood.

The morning of the test, he wakes, hunger beginning to numb to the hollowness again as he shakily climbs the steps. When he stands before the patch of dirt and begins to dig his ditch, even as blood soaks the back of his shirt, stinging with sweat, he doesn’t let himself cry. He needs them to see he can handle this. He can do this. He must do this. He’s alone, and no one else will help him unless he proves himself worthy.

Alone in the hut, he had lots of time to think on why the woman that took him in left him. On why she decided not to be his mother after all. As he worked so hard, he realized he hadn’t worked hard enough before she left. Hadn’t shown her he could carry his own. He is determined to fix that this time.

When he is called out of the ditch, he looks up and sees the beautiful form of the immortal that has claimed him as a disciple. Grace and beauty, like a crane made human. Dainty jade-like fingers clutch a painted silken fan worth more than all the money Binghe has ever seen in his entire life combined. Meanwhile mud and dirt mingled with blood drips down Binghe’s arms to cake his hands where he clutches the spade he was given.

Binghe feels dirty, wretched and small, as he is led up too many stairs to make ceremonial tea. At least he gets time to wash his hands and feet so as not to sully the kitchen more than he must. The sneer on the face of his shixiong holds much disgust; the older boy had introduced himself as Ming Fan and bragged how he was close to Shizun. Binghe should never refer to him without saying shixiong- as the youngest, all his martial brothers will be Shixiong, and he Ming Fan-shixiong. Binghe swallows it all down. He can do this. He can bow and learn these new honorifics. The ceremony should be simple. He has made tea before, though the long unbroken leaves are very unfamiliar to him.

He forsakes the sandals he had made from reeds, leaving them behind as there is no way to get them clean enough. His knees will leave a mark on the floor where he kneels, he just knows it. His stomach pangs with hunger at the smell of the tea as he pours it, but he swallows it back, bowing.

Instead of picking up the cup of tea that Binghe has poured, his Shizun looks at him with fine sparkling jade eyes over the edge of his fan. His voice is like music, like the fine wine he once had from a discarded gourd that had floated down the river while he was washing, the writing smeared but the crisp burning flavor inside sweet and sharp as it rested in his nose long after the liquid was gone.

“What makes you want to become a disciple? What drives you? How did you come to be filled with the drive that brought you here? Be honest to this Lord.”

Binghe swallows hard, his hands clenching on dusty and oft-mended and altered clothes, ill-fitting even with all his hard work to make them last as long as possible. His throat clicks as he cannot hold that gaze for long, a strange burning afflicting his eyes, which he shoves deep inside himself, afraid that if he starts crying, much like his last night in the hut, he won’t be able to stop.

“I was thrown out as a newborn. I was fished from the icy river by fishermen. I spent four years surviving on charity, begging. Then a kind old washer woman took me in. Taught me her trade for almost four years. She left, telling me to keep working till she returned. The money long ran out and the work ran dry as larger washer groups edged me out. I could not wait for her any longer. I want to be strong enough, to be useful enough, to never be a burden again. I want to someday be worthy of returning for.”

Binghe has to swallow hard as his voice cracks, his teeth squeaking where his jaw flexes tight as soon as the words are done. He feels sick though nothing is in his system to rise up, and his nose burns between itching eyes. He keeps his gaze on his dusty knees. The trickling of wetness, stinging and sticky down his back, is the only movement he feels as time passes for what feels like forever.

Binghe’s feet and legs become numb, the pins and needles becoming agony as he sits, still and quiet as he can. Then there is a faint sound, the tea. He risks a look up to watch his Shizun drink his tea. The elegant immortal drains it more like a shot of liquor, making even such a crass motion somehow elegant before slowly settling it back down on the divan.

Their eyes meet, Binghe’s own wide open with the shock he feels and Shizun’s somehow seeming tired and aching. That voice is a bit thicker as it comes out now. “Come, I will personally mentor you. First, I will bathe you and teach you how you will be expected to serve me in the baths. Then I will mend your back.”

Binghe is shocked, then delighted to hear he will be personally mentored by Shizun. He had never thought it could be possible. He struggles to stand, the promised agony of his legs nothing to the euphoria of this chance he is being given. His smile is wide, and Shizun scoffs, before snapping, “Don’t leave leftovers on the plates after tea. Always eat them.”

He nods, voice shocked as he all but shouts, “Yes Shizun!” gratefully taking up the sweet dried fruits and nuts and cakes to bolt down with all the speed honed by living on the streets before hurrying to catch up with Shizun where he waits at the edge of the room. He can have all the leftovers? All these sweet rich foods? He nearly feels faint, so giddy is he right now.

This time, Luo Binghe will work hard and prove he is worth keeping around. “Thank you Shizun!” he chirps after swallowing the last few bites. His stomach aches with how stretched and full it feels. He tingles and even the sore split skin on his back and shoulders dims in comparison to how butterflies seem to dance in his chest. He watches the grace Shizun walks with, trying desperately to copy it as he is led back to the washroom.

Chapter 2: A mirror, treated kindly.

Summary:

In which Shen Jiu thinks Binghe is a runaway slave, and decides that being kind to his younger self means taking Binghe into his personal mentorship in a similar way to how his own Shizun helped him as a disciple.

Notes:

Hoo boy the specific warnings for this chapter are. Can I just tag Shen Jiu's life is awful as per alluded parts in canon? If you want you can skip tags, over-tagging to help folks manage self care needs.

No? Damn. Okay here goes:

Child prostitution discussed, Child sexual abuse discussed, nonsexual cuddling, Slavery, realities of slavery and the lack of care present for enslaved sex workers in the period, diseases mentioned but not named by name or in depth, graphic descriptions of starvation and unhealthy food habits, Human Cauldron and related abuse is referenced multiple times, fears of child endangerment and kidnapping- specifically NYY taking drugged food and SJ trying to process how close he came to losing her, physical abuse discussed, virginity alluded to multiple times, SJ manages to fixate on how LBH is safe because he is small and powerless in comparison to SJ, Size differences, creepy comments about high toned voices (youth) and SJ dressing LBH in NYY's old clothes. Body service training, and inappropriate touching begins this chapter. It will never stop from here on out.

I may have missed one but I think this is pretty exhaustive. Let me know if I missed one?

Shen Jiu has struggled with his heart demons for more than half his life. Dajie at the Warm Red Pavilion has more than once gently advised him to be kinder to his inner child. The last time he had been so frustrated with Ying-er for her endless optimism and lack of awareness of the constant danger she was in outside their peak, his Dajie pressed new words into his heart despite his resistance. He could no more fight those worn and cracked hands where they cupped his cheek, so different from the hands of the girl that had been the oldest of the slaves, than he could cut off his own hands. As a matron, she now had a hard-won wisdom he sorely lacked. Even though he was now a powerful peak lord, when he was before her he still felt very much like the desperate child he'd been all those years ago.

In her arms, even with as old as they had become, and as mortal as they remained, he felt safe. The only time he managed that feeling was when he rests in her room. In her arms. So when she pressed his face in her soft leathery palms, he could do naught but listen. “You have to look at why you react to these children. If some part of you reacts to something you see reflecting yourself? You stop and you remember my first rule. You be kind to your younger self. You sit and ask yourself what you would want done for you, if you were that naïve or innocent. You do what you wish someone had done for you.” Her voice allowed no arguments or rebuttals. Her tone was unwavering even as her eyes had trouble tracking.

For all he had bought her freedom, had bought her out of serving in the rooms, he had been too late to truly save her. Not that she had ever thought to hope he would. He spent nearly as much as he paid for her freedom in medicines to halt and try to reverse the ravages of the hard uses she had been put under in the time they were separated. Her shaking eyes, that struggled to focus, somehow made his own tears possible. No one could see the traitorous wetness, even if they both knew of the tears' presence. He felt them fill and overflow as he absorbed and internalized her motherly directive. She was the closest thing he had to such a figure. A mortal, battered, ex-slave brothel matron, and an ex-cauldron peak lord with heart demons so plentiful it was a matter of when, not if, he would fatally qi deviate. What a pair.

“She’s too soft. If I explain, as I would have wanted, she’ll be afraid of every man,” he manages to say, not mentioning how he knows the painful trouble of that very fear. He doesn’t sit with his thoughts for long before she is tsking and clicking her tongue.

“Then explain not just the danger but all the ways she can minimize it. You were already under that miserable Qiu dog by her age. Most of my girls, their first time was not long after yours. Give her all the tools you honed. Give her what most worked for you. Listen to her and guide her. Sheltering her from all pain will only set her up for bigger pain. We both know this world abhors complete innocence.” Her words hurt, all the more for being true.

Ying-er is, for all he wishes otherwise, every bit as rich in Yin energy as he is. As a cultivator, and as a woman, the dangers of yin plucking are manyfold for her. Not just in the moment of being raped, but every moment she is around others. If she remains unaware, stays so foolish, someday he won’t be there to stop the drugged tea or sweet, as he was this time. And then, she will fear men not for the potential harm they might intend but for the remembered pain and agony and humiliation ground into her soul and skin in equal parts. He knows that there are mutual ways of nurturing jing. He knows them from his own Shizun. He knows that she may someday have a yang partner that works to foster and share the pure jing fountain possible with her.

He also knows this is a foolish hope. In his life he has known far and away more men that see jing as something to be stolen, to be robbed and won after a bloody battle. Every adult man he has ever interacted with in such a setting, even when he was not the one being plucked, took without sparing anything for the fountain of yin being ravaged. Even the righteous lords, even those that should be better, are not. His Shizun was a rare exception. A one-off that barely proves the rule.

What he wishes, so deep in his heart, is that he wouldn’t have to explain how nigh-hopeless it is for Ying-er. How she will have to always be weary and wary. She’s begged time and again for a new Shidi. If she hadn’t just blindly accepted a gift from a “kindly stranger,” he might be up on the peak today, talking with her about that want. Instead, she is on the peak copying lines, and he is here, trembling in mortal arms for fear and upset at how close he came to losing her yesterday.

Deep inside, he wishes that instead of having to be the one to break her innocence and trust in the men of the world, he could find a man that would be safe for her.

“I know, jiejie, I will. After the disciple selection tomorrow.” He feels aged, as if he was not the immortal he has become. As if all the marks and scars of his youth still weigh down his body.

She hums, fingers gently combing his hair, her breath rustling the fine hairs along his temple. “That’s my good didi. You rest. I will keep watch.”

Shen Jiu does, and in the morning, despite how he still feels so raw and scraped out, he tugs on the ceremonial raiment and dons Shen Qingqiu like the armor and burden the title is. The name is for a young master; the persona he dons is supposed to be the same. It chafes today even as the robes, worth more than the entire building he stands in, do not.

The disciple candidates are many, from those barely past toddling at their mother’s hips to those starting to bloom into men, far too old to be selected yet still trying. Shen Qingqiu scrunches his nose behind his fan as he watches them trek past. Most of them are from the upper classes among peasants, many a merchant’s son. A few young masters huff and puff and drip with sweat, hands too soft and unused to a spade to even know how to use it.

There is one boy, he overflows with yang energy quite literally bleeding from his body along his back. He doesn’t complain, though his cheeks look carved tight to his skull. His hands look half to skeletal where they grip the spade, digging in despite how his back hitches at the strain. Blood begins to bloom along that back, the red highlighting the neat black stitching that has been done to mend the rents covering the fresh wounds.

Shen Jiu, fresh and raw as he is under the mantle of Shen Qingqiu, tenses his shoulders in phantom remembered pain. The whipping looks so achingly familiar he can barely hold still. He moves a bit closer, eyeing the stitching. The boy’s own hairs. Sacrificed and woven to make thread, to hide what he can of the shame. Shen Jiu rattles in the cage of Shen Qingqiu, like knowing like to the very core of his bones. And that intense yang energy bleeding off the little rat of a boy.

At the very least he couldn’t have suffered being a cauldron, some quiet inner voice sounds off, even as he speaks up to select the boy. He leaves the task of walking the boy up to Ming Fan.

For his part, he sits, thinking on an idea he should not entertain. He wished, all night, to find a man that could nurture jing with Ying-er. And today, this boy, looking perhaps a year her junior, appears. His mirror. Probably an escaped slave. No matter how newly enslaved, or how long enslaved, it leaves a mark. And that Yang energy - it had poured off the boy like water bubbling up from a spring.

He could be perfect for Ying-er. And if he is raised right, he would never want to raise a hand against her. He could become Qiu Jianluo, if it means this boy clings to Ying-er as tightly as he himself clung to Qiu Haitang. It sours his stomach, yet if he must do this for her, in order to spare her… he would. He cannot face hurting her. It can’t make up for what happened with Tang-er, but he can still do at least this for Ying-er.

He has braced himself for what he has to do, yet still his gut clenches, telling him that something isn’t quite right. He stews on it, chewing on it as he sits with his thoughts. He reflects on how very similar this child seems to him. His mind sounds like that soft feminine lilt as it repeats to be kind to his younger self.

He is silent as the boy comes in. There is grace in the motions of this child pouring the tea. Hard-practiced, even if a bit clumsy for all his age and wounds. Shen Jiu struggles with himself, asking not the ritual questions but the ones burning in his soul.

The fan nearly cracks in his grip as the boy mentions wanting to be worthy of returning for. He has to bite his tongue and lips to not make a sound as those words rattle in his head. As they boil in his heart and tear at him. He wants to throw his fan at this foolish boy and scream how he can never be worthy. Instead, he clings to those words of his Jiejie. The only words that make sense in the chaotic battle that his mind has become. Be kind to his younger self. Do what he would have wanted.

He would have wanted to be mentored. He would have wanted to have learned to read, to create jing, to act the part of a high born one must pass as in order to succeed in this world… without the torture or pain or horrors. This boy is a mirror of him. The same age he was, if a hair younger, than when he was dragged into the nightmare that was the Qiu estate.

He doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t say anything but that he will mentor the boy. For an ex-slave, that is more than enough. He knows how often he was beaten for taking scraps, even when starving. He makes that an order, to make it clear that it is not only okay but encouraged.

With time, they can work on the boy making plates of food for them both. Create the hard won sense of comfort about eating his fill one morsel of food at a time. Work on the manners and rules that govern status in this world. For now, it would be too much for the boy. Small steps. It is what he would have wanted, before the Qiu household. This boy, who had an old woman instead of a Qi-ge, but was abandoned far earlier.

He leads the boy to the baths, showing him with basic explanations how to draw the water. How to prime the talismans and heat it. How to prepare the soaps. He then sets to undoing the boy’s clothes and explains that the first few times the boy must do this for him, he will help him learn the right way. The boy flushes but is appropriately grateful. His high, sweet voice sounds nothing like Qiu Jianluo’s, for all that the boy shares part of a name with him.

The ribs beneath his hands are pronounced, his fingers could almost slot between them, where the skin clings tight as a drum. He says nothing, rinsing off the boy with water and rags, dumping warmed water over his head. The boy’s wonder, with eyes so wide at the sheer amount of warm water, at the time being taken to warm it at all for him, makes his stomach clench.

He makes it a rule that the care the boy shows his Shizun must always be also used on himself. It’s spur-of-the-moment, and it makes him want to say something cutting to hide the emotions that follow it. Instead he sets to carefully cleaning the boy’s hair.

It takes hours to clean him and then to carefully heal all the cuts. The boy shivers, remaining naked to Shen Jiu’s fully-clothed body. Yet there is not the shyness that he expects from the boy. Those wide starry black eyes look up with trust. Never once does the boy question why he is not yet handed clothes.

Shen Qingqiu leads the boy, his disciple, the future partner he is training for Ying-er, to the bedroom. There is still no question, and for a breath, Shen Jiu wants to shake this child, like he wanted so briefly to shake Ying-er the day before yesterday. He pauses, taking a deep breath before leading the boy to where the clothes of Ying-er are kept in a chest, the girl almost his child as much as his disciple. She came a year after Ming Fan. So tiny was she. There are clothes from when she was 4 and up within the chest. The most recent - the last she outgrew, in fact - are at the top. The cut is feminine, but the material is soft, of much higher quality than the standard disciples’ clothes.

“I will have new clothes made for you. For now, you will wear these during the day, and these during the night.” He holds up the soft sleeping robes, helping the boy into them. The high-toned thanks are almost soothing, for all Shen Qingqiu is still trying to build up momentum for what is to come.

Ying-er would crawl into his bed as a child, begging to sleep beside him. He hadn’t the heart to stop her till she became a full disciple at eight. It has been such a long time since someone has slept beside him, outside the safety of the Warm Red Pavilion.

Shen Jiu knows that if he doesn’t bring the boy to bed tonight - when he is dressed in Ying-er’s clothes, that still smell of Ying-er - he may never get himself to do so. “You will help me dress and undress, as part of your morning duties. For now I will help you, until you can do it on your own. Learn how each article is worn, for someday you will need to mirror it on yourself.”

Then begins the process of undressing, his chest wanting to lock tight, his palms heating as if to begin sweating. He circulates his cold yin qi, wrestling with it, dangerously close to a deviation. Yet somehow he manages to disrobe, taking just enough time to let the boy hopefully absorb how to undo each layer, and where and how to place it in the room.

He then moves to the sleep robes, gathering and laying them out. “I just dressed you, but this time I will dress myself. This is simple enough that I expect you to learn it by the next time we get ready for bed.” He proceeds to dress, the subdued and serious ‘Yes, Shizun.’ still soothing something inside him.

He has all the power here. He is not in any danger. This child, as starved and bony as he is, is powerless. The yang energy boiling off of the boy is not a threat. This is not a bad thing. They will not begin to practice making jing together tonight. There is nothing that should be spiking his heart rate.

Yet spiked it is. He motions the boy over before pressing the boy to sit how he wants him to. It takes nearly as long as the healing had to tame the mane the boy sports. He takes time in showing him how to care for his hair, the oils to use. It is strangely soothing. When he swaps places with the boy, he notices the boy is beginning to nod off, despite himself. It is so endearingly helpless that some hard part of Shen Jiu, scarred and scared, melts. “Enough. To do a quick twist- we can do the hair like this. Tomorrow we will go over my nightly care routine.”

There is less tension in his chest as he shoos the boy towards the bed. It is the work of mere moments to arrange them so the boy is held back to chest, cradled within his arms. The boy stays still in his arms, his yang energy bleeding into the yin surrounding him, passively soaking up and exchanging hot yang for it. The stiffness and the wonder that seemed to fill the boy’s face slowly slips off into sleep.

For a long time, Shen Jiu holds the boy, so small in his arms. He just visually traces the face that is upturned towards him. He is achingly sure that this boy will be a beauty once he is well-fed and grown into himself. His arms tighten a little. What happened to him will never happen to Binghe. This boy will be like Ying-er. Protected and sheltered as much as Shen Qingqiu, with all his power, can manage. They will be happy. He will see to it.

He failed Qiu Haitang. He himself was failed. But he will ensure that this boy grows up to be the perfect man for Ying-er. Healthy and robust and wise, without all the scars that weigh their nasty old Shizun down.

He doesn’t mean to, but with that vow, he falls asleep. He dreams of high-pitched laughter, and a couple in red bowing to him. It’s the happiest dream he can remember.

Notes:

I posted early because work was trash and I love you all. The comments give me so much energy to tackle the harder parts.

Chapter 3 is- Binghe having zero sense of stranger danger as it relates to Shizun. Also somehow hand feeding and qi sharing and mentoring scenes I did not expect to write till they were written. So look forward to that.

Chapter 3: Binghe's touch starvation is fed

Summary:

Binghe nearly cries at all the nice things Shizun gives him. His Shizun is the best and most beautiful person in the whole world. Between carefully washing his body and tending to his wounds, and giving him such pretty robes, Binghe would already say he loves the man that has taken him in.

Yet when it is time for bed, Binghe's heart swells even more. He gets to sleep being hugged and cuddled close.

Notes:

Warnings:
Depictions of deep touch starvation, Mentions of child labor and exhaustion to the point of passing out while working on the part of a child under 10, child abuse, abandonment feelings not explicitly stated but touched on, Binghe's own view on actions taken by his mother that have been twisted by being alone for so long. More build up to body service, and being eager to prove himself 'useful' and 'good' to the adult with complete power over him. I am sure there are others. If you see one I missed, please tell me.

Binghe barely knows what to do with himself. He could thank this man a dozen dozens of times a day and still find new things to thank him for. Shizun is so kind and patient; he explains every step, taking his time in doing so; even going over the things that are probably supposed to be common knowledge. Binghe soaks up new words, watching how Shizun moves and manipulates everything in the washroom. Those long, delicate fingers are deceptive - for all their beauty, they are strong; the tall man uses mere fingertips in lifting what Binghe will probably have to use his whole body weight to shift.

Binghe could listen forever to that honey-and-whiskey voice, so beautiful and silky, better than birdsong in lifting his spirits. He desperately wants to show how good and hardworking he can be for this beautiful and regal man. It is hard to focus on the tasks, with how part of Binghe just wants to lose himself in watching the beautiful flight of the cranes that make up his Shizun’s fingers. But the soaps are comfortingly familiar; the mixture is different, far less harsh, but he is used to working with ash and oil and other ingredients. The delicate mix being explained measure by measure is touching and nostalgic. Binghe had forgotten what it was like to learn from someone who actually wanted to teach him.

Shizun moves to him, carefully starting to remove Binghe’s dusty and ratty clothes with all the care one might remove silks. The emotions that clog his throat and lungs are so large that suddenly he fears he might choke. Binghe remembers the woman he once called mother scrunching her nose with disgust as she dunked him in stinging soap. The harsh scrubbing as she cut his hair short had been painful, the water in the tub blackening just as her face kept darkening. He keeps stealing glances at his new teacher, however Shizun never looks at all upset; he is cool as river stones, speaking calmly as he works the sticky fabric from Binghe’s back without making it hurt too badly.

“This will be one of your tasks. You will learn to strip me, and to serve and bathe me. I will show you how I want it done the first few times I bathe with you. You will observe, and I will order and talk you through it so you will not make mistakes.”

Binghe flushes, chewing his lip again, his eyes misty and trying to spill all the tears he feels burning his nose. He sniffs them back, managing to look up into those cool spring growth colored eyes where they calmly watch him. “Thank you, Shizun. I am blessed to be in your care.” He feels he is blessed. This time he won’t make the same mistakes. He will learn. He will exceed any expectations and show Shizun he can be the best disciple. Binghe will never let Shizun regret taking him as a personal student. He will never fail his Shizun as he failed his mother.

Binghe flushes some more, ashamed of his chest. How can he show he’s worth keeping when he’s so scrawny? He watches Shizun’s elegant fingers pinch off bits of premade soap, lathering them on soft washrags. No part of Binghe goes uncleaned: the gentle scrubbing of the washcloth is followed by the firm press of Shizun's incredible fingers, each seemingly as long as one of Binghe's ribs. He forgets to feel shame as the warm rag is followed by those cool fingers, over and over again - as every inch of his skin is carefully cleaned, the bucket of water exchanged for a fresh one.

The warmth of the water is shocking. Warm water was always a luxury, only used for the wash and when one was sick. Now, bucket after bucket of heated water is being used on him.

He doesn’t say anything about the waste of it all, yet, after dumping a large bucket of warm water over Binghe to wash away the suds, that cool and steady voice speaks up.

“The care you learn in tending to me must be mirrored in how you handle yourself. This will apply to every service you do for me. Warm water and gentleness - these will be part of every thorough cleaning. I expect to see you treat your own body with the same care that you give mine.”

Binghe thought he couldn’t love the immortal caring for him any more than he already does. His Shizun is the best person he has ever known in his life. He loses a little of the battle with the itchiness of his eyes, and his mentor, his Shizun, is kind enough to wash his hair so he can use the soap as an excuse for his teary eyes.

The process of washing his hair, working from the ends to the roots, takes quite a while. By the time Shizun is finished, all his hair has been worked through with oils and creams, and rinsed a dozen times with water that smells like rice and flowers. That has to be so wasteful. He stops himself, and instead makes notes. He reaches up to feel the tips of his hair. It slips and slides, without feeling oily. This must be the way Shizun's hair would feel to the touch.

He shivers a little. The water had been warm, yet the air is chilly on Binghe’s naked skin. Shizun, for his part, begins channeling what must be spiritual energy into the base of the largest cut on Binghe's back. It feels like buzzing, like ants crawling under Binghe's skin, and then he can't shiver anymore - he feels hot all over, but especially by the wound. He has to clench his fists tighter as it slowly burns more and more. His teeth dig into his lip as Shizun traces each wound, till it is over and he is sweaty from relief. His back is whole, not stinging in the slightest as he is rinsed off one final time with warm water.

After they are done, Shizun dries Binghe off with equal care. The new skin on his back tingles without making him hurt. It’s so incredible that he has to stare up at the beautiful immortal blessing him with such care. Binghe had almost lost belief in the stories of pure goodness, or that such a beautiful person could exist. Yet the man leading him back into his private room is so selfless as to share his own home. Binghe must strive to learn and serve his Shizun with all he has.

Binghe watches as his mentor pauses at the door. He seems to be steeling himself. Perhaps to tell Binghe to leave for the dorms, or maybe to sleep by the fire. He used to do that, back before the washerwoman left, back before he became too big a burden. When she was flushed or overly tired, she would have him sleep at the hearth instead of beside her. And he got used to doing it after he sold the bed. Binghe tries not to mind; maybe someday he can earn a place beside the larger man.

But such an order never comes. Instead, they move over to a chest set next to the head of the bed. It is large and well cared for. When it creaks open, the scent of cedar fills the air. Inside it are fancy and well-maintained clothes. Delicate blooms are embroidered around the neck and wrists, the thread the same color as the fabric. He can only see them because they are placed before him in such a way that the dying light of day outside gleams off the silken fabric just right,making the stitching obvious. It is neat and steady; refined, like the well-practiced stitches Binghe mastered in his wash work. Less ornate than the fancy embroidery he has seen on nobles' clothes, yet sturdier for all its subtlety. It is far fancier than anything he has ever been gifted with a chance to touch, let alone wear.

Shizun promises to have new clothes made, yet Binghe deeply desires to keep these clothes. He wants these subtle yet beautiful stitches, which he thinks might be from Shizun’s own hand. He craves so desperately to earn the love he can all but feel pressed into the silken cloth. The sleep robes are beautiful, pure snow white and delicate. His voice wobbles on his thank you, and he feels unsure till his fingers find the delicate flowers stitched into the sleeves. He runs his thumbs along the stitching as Shizun ties off the robes. It is so soothing to trace the pattern along that hem with the pads of his thumb and index finger.

Shizun repeats once more that he must watch and mirror what Shizun is demonstrating. Binghe watches intently, eyes taking in each clasp and tie as it is loosened and undone. Shizun is taking each layer of his own ornate robes off, the process time consuming and somehow beautiful. Each cloth folded or hung in a specific way, it seems. Each accessory and pin has its own place in the room. Binghe memorizes them all. He will impress Shizun when he is allowed to do this for him.

Shizun speaks of Binghe being able to help Shizun into his sleep robes tomorrow. He can show how good a student he is so soon? Binghe’s head feels like it might explode. He has to force himself to pay extra close attention, mind focusing on the sleep robe as he answers “Yes, Shizun.”

The muscles Binghe was sure Shizun had in the bath are confirmed now. The bigger man is completely naked before changing to sleep robes. His chest is so much deeper than Binghe’s. His arms have muscles that flex like jade under flawless skin. His nipples are brilliant red berries that look as ripe as any found in a summer forest. The flesh of his cock is so much longer than his own, and his thighs are thick and strong tree trunks where Binghe’s are more like tinder sticks than even branches. The line of his knees and calves are soft curved brush strokes, while Binghe feels awkward suddenly about how his own knees look like balls with twigs on either end. How can Shizun see him and not see weakness?

He is awed all over again. He has cried so much today, he refuses to do it again, despite the way his eyes itch as he is brought over to sit in front of a polished bronze mirror. In front of the mirror, Shizun begins explaining hairbrush strokes, and how to use different oils to release curls and tangles. He guides Binghe through every step of the process, with slow fingers working his hair and scalp. That wine-sweet voice bubbles over Binghe’s ears, leaving him tired despite how he struggles to stay focused.

The tears from emotion are gone. However in their place is the sort of exhaustion that he remembers will knock him to his knees without warning, even into the wash bucket once, long ago. It’s the sort of tired he knows to dread. He startles and straightens himself as tall as he can stand, pinching the meat of his hand between thumb and forefinger. He fails slowly in keeping his eyes open, body listing to the side as his eyelids droop down. He keeps correcting the slumping and straightening up again, desperately blinking his eyes as wide as he can. Yet his eyes blink closed more and more often, and at one point he weaves far enough to stumble in a stagger two steps to the left. He looks up, terrified Shizun will scold him - or worse, be disgusted with him.

Instead, there is a tender, almost soft look on that beautiful face. Binghe struggles to stay awake, flushing and feeling embarrassed, yet also wanting to get more of that tender look. He must have done something right. He wishes he could figure out what it was. Was it - was it being sleepy itself? No. That can’t be right. He tries hard to stop a yawn, eyes watering as he blinks them hard in the struggle to stay awake.

He frowns at missing the twist completely. Oh no, and he can’t just ask Shizun to show him again. He wants so desperately to see it so he can try to figure out how it was done. But he doesn’t get the chance. Those large, firm hands guide him into the bed. He is pushed and pulled just so, the steady muscles of Shizun embracing him all over. From that broad chest to those strong thighs, Binghe is cupped like a treasure; his entire body nestled so small and safe in Shizun’s arms.

As a child, even when he was allowed in bed, he was “too bony” or “wiggled too much” to be held like this. Binghe freezes, somehow sure that if he moves- Shizun will realize he’s far bonier now than he was then. Surely it has to be uncomfortable. And yet, Shizun doesn’t let him go. Instead, that soft energy, that tickles and buzzes and fills his entire being with tingles, slowly envelops him. It is like Shizun is a living blanket. As his hands press to Binghe’s chest and lower belly, he breathes in time with Shizun. In the low moonlight of the window, Shizun’s face is barely visible. Yet no matter how long he tilts his head up, watching, Shizun never shows anything but that serene, soft, giving beauty of earlier.

Binghe falls asleep, held in the strongest arms, gazing upon the most beautiful being in all the world. He dreams of Shizun petting his hair, his fingers carding through it just like earlier. He dreams of being hugged to sleep. He dreams of being forever by Shizun’s side.

It’s such a wonderful dream.

Notes:

Me, a fool: I will just wrap Binghe's POV up in a chapter. Two max.
Me, Now sitting on 3 chapters of Binghe gushing about Shizun and the peak: Binghe, I am begging you. Go the heck to sleep.
My SJ muse: I have a lot of feelings about-
Me, frazzled: THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ONLY 12 CHAPTERS.

Hope you all enjoy the domestic softness. It's being surprisingly pure for the moment, what with Binghe soaking it all up as if it is nothing but good things.

Comments are lifeblood. Probably try to do weekly updates on Mondays or Tuesdays depending.

Chapter 4: In which Binghe is not shamed for his ignorance

Summary:

The number of things Binghe doesn't know far outnumber the things he knows.
Shizun makes that easy to swallow, always explaining more than Binghe can find the face to ask. Binghe swears the taste lingering on Shizun's chopsticks is the raw taste of love, filling him with warmth in every bite.

Notes:

Not many warnings this chapter.

In this chapter, casual touching that remains nonsexual for now of Binghe's body, hand feeding, Ming Fan shaming Binghe for his ignorance and accusing him of being a pervert for wearing girl's clothes, Ming Fan gets hit a few times by SQQ's fan.

I would like to add a reminder that next chapter begins the SEXUAL touches to a minor section of the fic. Binghe is all for it, and the next chapter continues from his side of things (Trust me, SJ's side of things- it's been painful to write and dig into), but please be aware that all this fluff is wrapping around lots of Shen Jiu's trauma and the process of making that into true intergenerational trauma.

Shen Jiu remains stubbornly trying to fix things, with zero self awareness of just what it is that he is really doing. But for Binghe, right now and next chapter, he feels he is living his best life.

Binghe wakes to the feeling of strong, cool fingers resting low down on his belly. The back of a pinky finger brushes across the top of his cock, resting there, slightly lax. His bladder feels a bit full under the pressure of Shizun's hand, and he has to clench his thighs together to keep from squirming. However even this motion is enough to make the fingers stir and his Shizun shift in a quick jerk. Shizun clutches him tighter for half a second; there is something protective in the motion, as if Shizun was trying to guard him from the world while half asleep.

Binghe is touched by that. His own fingers are rough and cracked, where they gently grip the silky smooth steel that makes up Shizun’s fingers, spread across his ribs. He beams up at Shizun, head tilting back as he greets brightly, “Good morning, Shizun!”

Shizun, for his part, seems to pull a few hasty faces before lifting the hand that was on his belly up to pinch his cheek. Shizun does it softer than the washerwomen would, when Binghe was working beside them.“Quiet voices, when in the bedroom. When we wake, it is a time for gathering energy. If you have already done that, you will go make food or retrieve food from the communal kitchens.”

Shizun says it so simply, teaching him this with the same patience as earlier. When Binghe says “Yes Shizun,'' in a quieter voice, Shizun tsks as he releases Binghe’s cheek.

There is a moment of silence between them, with Binghe rubbing his own cheek in embarrassment at his first mistake. Shizun sighs, shifting to swing into a sitting pose. He uses the same momentum to lift Binghe like a doll, settling Binghe on the crossed legs of his lap.

“Here, sit like this. Press your feet here and here.” He moves Binghe’s legs and feet, until they mirror his own pose, Binghe still in his lap like a little child. Binghe’s cheeks flush, however, he feels treasured and privileged more than he feels embarrassed at the action. Shizun is personally teaching him. And not making him feel stupid for having to ask. Even if he already knows something- he will be grateful for Shizun showing him too much instead of not enough.

Binghe moves to straighten his spine and shift his arms as he saw other cultivators do in the distance once, while doing the wash. Shizun narrows his eyes then shifts his arms. “You aren’t injured. You’re forming your core, foolish boy. Press both hands to your belly here — this is your lower dantian. I will press your upper dantian; move your hands like this.” Shizun guides Binghe’s hands to focus on his lower belly, over his bladder, making him remember he has to go. He desperately wants to not have to get up and move away for even a moment to relieve it, though. When his hands are pressed there, however, Shizun makes a face. Shizun grabs his wrist and takes his pulse.

Binghe squirms a little, despite himself. Shizun huffs and then lifts Binghe off of him. “Go, clean up afterwards in the bathing room. Hands both washed with the bar of soap. Then return here.”

Binghe nods, half bowing as he scampers to where he had made note of a very fancy outhouse on the walk up to Shizun’s house.

He only knew about outhouses not connected to pig pens from the trip here. The wagon he had ridden on stopped at inns, and each had a free-standing outhouse. None of them was half as fancy as this one. There are three seashells he doesn’t know the use of, so he tries his best. There is a fountain he can wash his hands in beside the doorway. He rinses his hands there and makes a note to do it again more thoroughly when he gets back to the house.

By the time he is returning to Shizun’s house, the sky is lightening, and Ming Fan is coming back down the path from the house. Binghe tries to remember the proper way of greeting, and makes sure to bow correctly as he speaks. “Good morning, Ming Fan-shixiong.”

Ming Fan, for his part, stops in the middle of the path. He stares at Binghe long enough that Binghe becomes self-conscious that he might have done something wrong. His bare toes work on the cool stones, worrying at the edge of one as he swallows back the nervous words that want to spill out. Had he bowed wrong?

“What sort of pervert are you? It’s one thing to be running around in just night clothes like some sick person, but in girl’s robes no less?” Binghe startles at that loud outburst and looks up to see the face of the taller boy twisted up with what looks to be pure anger. “How dare you sully the pure night clothes of our only martial sister! Shizun himself made those for her; he will skin you when he sees you have stolen them!” The boy is shouting, his fists raised to rain blows down on Binghe, and all Binghe can do is raise his own arms to cover his head.

“I didn’t steal-” is all he manages to shout back, braced as he is for a blow, but it never comes. Instead there is a thunk and the howl of the older boy. Binghe raises his head tentatively, the intricate braids Shizun had put in his hair the night before bobbing over his shoulders as Binghe looks from Shizun to where Ming Fan is rubbing his wrists with teary eyes.

Shizun’s face is covered with a spread open silk fan, but his voice is cold as winter frost as he speaks. Binghe shivers, but Ming Fan seems to quake. “You are not a junior Peak Lord, Ming Fan. I expect better of my theoretical Head Disciple. Before jumping to conclusions or trying to put actions into my hands, perhaps think to bring someone to me if they have overstepped so far as to steal, or are violating morals.”

Binghe cowers a little, lip wobbling as he watches them both. Will he be thrown out? He didn’t know that these robes were not for wearing outside. It seems that sleep robes are special. He never owned more than the one pair of robes, nor had he ever seen them used before. How was he supposed to know that? Binghe’s chest feels tight as his eyes itch.

Ming Fan, for his part, clenches his teeth and eyes Binghe’s hair and the robes once more, looking between Binghe and Shizun with a wronged expression. “But he’s wearing Ning Ying Ying’s robes! And he obviously slept with her, his hair is done up with her style and hair ribbons! Shouldn’t he be punished?” The bigger boy demands, voice rising.

Binghe, for his part, snaps back at that, “I didn’t! Shizun kindly helped this one learn how to tend to hair last night! And he let me wear these incredible clothes! Nothing was stolen! I didn’t know they were inside-only robes!”

Shizun’s eyes narrow and Binghe shrinks in place, making himself as small as he can. He didn’t mean to be bad. He feels himself trembling, fisting his hands behind his thighs to hide how they are shaking. But Shizun doesn’t snap at him, for all those eyes had looked so upset. Instead, Ming Fan yelps again. Binghe watches through raised lashes as Ming Fan rubs the back of his head. Unlike Binghe’s braided hair, the boy’s hair is loose and shows where it is ruffling from the rubbing.

“You are overstepping yourself, I expect you to run a hundred laps around the base of the mountain, and then you will copy the entirety of the sect rules, as well as every cultivation guide you have used in your time here. Binghe is my personal disciple, under my direct mentorship in the tradition of this peak. He will wear robes suiting his role for this peak. You will never again bring up anything directly to him. Any issues, you will bring to me. If I find otherwise, from you or any other disciple, the punishments you receive will be ten times what he receives. Do you understand?” Shizun’s voice doesn’t raise once as he speaks, yet the almost hissing tone of the words raises the hairs along Binghe’s arms.

Binghe’s guts clench as he watches Ming Fan nearly bawl. His face looks as if Shizun had just beaten him to within inches of his life, so devastated and pained it is. What will Shizun do to him? He’s not the head disciple. He clings to the fact that Shizun said Binghe was still his personal disciple. Still the uncertainty gnaws at him.

Ming Fan is dismissed and Shizun watches Binghe in silence for a long moment. Binghe’s toes flex once more on the stones of the path, his head bowed low. He would get down on his knees, except he is suddenly very aware of the pure white robes he is wearing.

Instead of scolding him, Shizun asks, his tone soft, “Did you not recognize the chamber pot in the washroom?”

Binghe dares to look up at that, shaking his head, his own voice meek with confusion. “No, Shizun. I- don’t know what that is.” He admits it with his face flushing with shame. The things Binghe doesn’t know could fill the whole mountain to overflowing, it seems.

Shizun sighs and turns from Binghe. “Come. I will help you perform a talisman to prevent the further build up of wastes in your body. Only when you are ill or qi deviating will you need to use a chamber pot as long as you diligently keep up on these talismans daily. Once you reach inedia, you will not need to do even that. I assume you have already figured out that sleeping robes are private, only to ever be worn in the sleeping chambers. They are the same as being naked in public, as far as you need to know.”

Binghe’s eyes itch again, this time with gratitude. Not only is Shizun not punishing him for not knowing, he is explaining things again. Trusting him to observe some rules, yet also ensuring he knows why they exist as well.

Binghe’s legs are so much shorter than Shizun’s he has to take two steps for every step the immortal takes, yet he is able to keep up as they return to Shizun’s house without a problem. These small proofs of Shizun’s meticulous care leave Binghe nearly breathless with how warm it makes him feel.

“Thank you, Shizun. And thank you for the robes. I love them so very much,” he adds, and Shizun hesitates for a half a step. He doesn’t look back at Binghe, but his focus on his disciple is palpable all the same.

“Ming Fan was correct. They are a girl’s style. They have a feminine cut to them. Are you sure you truly love them so?” His voice is mild; Binghe can’t read what Shizun wants the answer to be. It makes Binghe nervous. He doesn’t want to over-reach. He doesn’t want to ask too much when he is being given so very much.

It is the memory of how Shizun stopped Ming Fan and claimed him again, despite how embarrassing his going out in sleeping robes was, that makes him speak up his real feelings anyways. “I love them, Shizun. I can tell that the embroidery is soft and obviously made with tenderness and care. I don’t care about boys' clothes over girls’ clothes. All that matters to me is that I am not an embarrassment to you. That I can make you happy to have me as your disciple, and someday earn my spot beside you. If I could, I would only wear clothes like these, if it isn’t too much to ask.”

Shizun is quiet as they get to the house, his steps even and slow enough that Binghe easily keeps up the entire way. Binghe’s nerves grow as once again he is unsure if Shizun will finally become fed up with his over-reaching as he did with Ming Fan.

Shizun stops by the door, motioning for Binghe to step onto the stone beside him. Binghe does, and is shocked when Shizun not only uses a warm wet cloth to wash his feet, but inspects them for any cuts or wounds. No words are exchanged as those large long-fingered hands do the sort of work that Binghe should do for Shizun instead.

Binghe breaks the silence to say meekly, “Thank you, Shizun. Is that how I should wash your feet when you return home?”

The words seem to shake Shizun out of some inner musing. The beautiful man snorts, an inelegant sound that is quite shocking to hear. Binghe can feel how wide his eyes have become as he stares at Shizun’s face.

There is a trace of a smile to Shizun's lips as he looks at Binghe’s face and his gaze skims across to Binghe’s hair and robes. “Yes. If I return from a journey, you will remove my shoes and do the same for me. You, however, will not leave the house without shoes again. Come with me. I will be teaching you more in depth about caring for your own hands and feet, along with those talismans.”

Binghe nods, and over the next while they go over special talismans to aid Binghe in not needing to use the chamberpot or outhouse as often. Binghe marvels at the beautiful carved and green-glazed lion pot being something to use in ways similar to an in-house outhouse. The opulence of it is nearly as mind-boggling as everything else about Shizun’s house.

There are also pungent medicinal lotions, oily and healing, that he is given. Shizun massages Binghe's hands, and scrubs his feet with a rough porous stone. It must be magical because afterwards his heels and the bottoms of his feet feel less hard and stiff and a little more like the skin of his legs. He will be following this careful tending to himself every other day till he is told otherwise. And if Shizun goes on a trip, he will get to do it for Shizun on his return.

Binghe is delighted with that new task. He can do so many things for Shizun. He still hasn’t heard Shizun’s thoughts about his robes, but at least Shizun doesn’t seem to be upset.

Binghe startles as his own stomach makes a loud gurgling, just as Shizun is watching Binghe apply another layer of the oily lotion to his hands to show he has learned the proper way of doing it on himself. The flush of heat to his cheeks is hot up to his ears, and his gaze dips down to his oily hands, horrified. Even if he’s given a bowl of rice, how will he eat? His feet are covered in a loosely-wrapped gauze. But if his hands are wrapped, they will be unusable.

Shizun, for his part, already seems to have the answer. “Keep still and don’t move except as I move you.” The firm words are all the warning Binghe has before he is being scooped up. Shizun carries him in the cradle of his arm. It feels almost like Binghe is a young master. He feels tender and safe as he is carried over to the dining table. There are bowls and plates set up under what must be warming talismans.

Binghe’s eyes blink wide, as Shizun maneuvers Binghe’s body to sit across his lap. A folded pad of gauze is settled in Binghe’s lap and Shizun firmly orders him, “Keep your hands on the pad, palms up.”

Binghe does, his mouth watering at the scents that come from the plates as they are uncovered. His growing hunger is matched only by his confusion. This lasts only as long as it takes Shizun to maneuver a bite of crisp cool green muskmelon to Binghe’s lips on his chopsticks. Binghe meets Shizun’s eyes, his mind flying. He opens for the bite, and Shizun’s hand pets the back of his head as he takes it and chews it. “Good boy. This is something you will not need to do for me. This is something only I will do for you, when I think it necessary. Pay attention to how I grasp the food and how I move it. I will show you the proper manners more in depth later.”

With that, Binghe is fed slowly, one bite at a time. With every bite, Binghe watches the food. He watches the elegant cranes of Shizun’s hands as they fly down and back, and the onyx black lacquer on the chopsticks as each item is brought to his lips. He feels Shizun’s free hand pet his hair, the words of praise and the lessons on how to bite or eat certain foods trading off as they work their way through the meal. A bite for Shizun every fourth or fifth bite lifted up.

Binghe swears the chopsticks taste even sweeter as they are lifted to his lips the next bite after Shizun’s.

Binghe thinks it might be the taste of love.

Notes:

Comments help the author crawl through the shards of glass that is SJ's brain. Please, share thoughts or feelings. I love seeing them all.

PS: I am 100% Airplane-broing it on how to cultivate qi. The chamber pots and outhouses however were a near full day research rabbit hole. More 100% made up qi cultivation next chapter. And if anyone spots the 90s cult classic reference somewhere in this chapter, you get my heart. ;)

Chapter 5: Dual Cultivating: Vulnerable Faces

Summary:

Binghe finishes his first full day as Shizun's mentee. Everything about Shizun makes Binghe want to repay him. He wants to care for him as he is cared for.

Binghe pushes to give comfort, and to make this easier on his Shizun, as the compassionate child he is.

(The sexual stuff begins in full- and we get to see the outsider view on how torn up SJ is about everything that is happening.)

Notes:

Author's additional tags and specific warnings:
TLDR;
SJ's A+ mentoring, Underage sex, Dubcon, Under-Negotiated Sex, Handjobs, Come Eating, Dead Dove, Praise kink, Service kink, Childhood Trauma, Human Cauldron references without explicit details, Airplane-broing fantasy made up sex Magic.

Long form:

In this chapter we get a bit more (completely made up) Jing lessons, that includes handjobs and come eating. We will have references and hints as to LBH's washerwoman mother perhaps having escaped/survived being a human cauldron. We have LBH starting to grow his praise and service kinks. We have LBH making choices actively in pursuing sex towards the end.

Extra note:
While this story features fantasy sex magic, I want to point out that the idea of abusers somehow needing to be defended and protected themselves is not uncommon in groomed victims. It is part of what can create extra barriers to acknowledging the harm done by these abusers.

What is happening here, with LBH wanting to protect his abuser, does actually happen. While SJ is himself suffering, the author is not condoning anything in this fic, or excusing the grooming and abuse being perpetuated here. This is a deadest dove trash fire fic. There is fluffy and sweet smelling things in it, but they are very much rotten moldy fruit. I want to follow this thread down- and have 3 ending ficlets planned, each picking up different outcomes briefly. Because this is not the story I set out to write, but I have come to love it all the same, and feel it deserves multiple endings.

At any time, please remember to tap out for your own safety and mental health.

Shizun peppers praise in with petting over his braided hair throughout the whole meal. It is hard to say if Binghe loves the praise, the petting, or the food more. Shizun pauses in feeding him after they are finished with the first few bowls. Binghe’s stomach aches, it feels almost painful with how full it is, under the tight skin of his belly.

Shizun’s fingertips feel so cool and strong where they massage over the tightness there. He makes a soft soothing sound, like one would for a young fussy child. He doesn’t apologize for over-feeding Binghe, but it is impossible to be mad for being fed such good food. Shizun pets slowly over the bulge of his belly, the cool tingly feeling of his power sinking into Binghe.

“Here, feel and follow what I am doing inside you. Keep your hands still there on the pad, it will be a good lesson in control. Close your eyes and focus all your thoughts on feeling what I am doing.” Shizun’s voice seems to come from all around him as Binghe closes his eyes and focuses as he was told to do.

“Breathe in slowly, through the nose, feel the air come into the furnace of your lungs. Feel the way your chest expands. Breathe out as slowly as you can, good.” Shizun gently traces his fingers along Binghe’s ribs, tracing along where twinges come. The cool feel of Shizun’s energy mingling with and soothing Binghe’s muscles before they can begin to ache soon becomes Binghe’s entire world. “Keep focusing on my energy. Follow it with your own. Focus on it. Learn how it is moving.”

Shizun keeps guiding his breathing, pressing his palm to Binghe’s belly and chest in turns. Each time the feel of Binghe’s robes parting settles a little wider on his body. “Good, such a good boy. You are doing so well, Binghe.” Shizun’s hands are so steady, even as Binghe’s chest feels hot like he has a kettle building steam in his chest. His breaths seem to be pulling more warmth in than his slow exhales can release.

In Binghe’s chest and belly, he can feel what seems to be streams of energy: slow and sluggish at first, then the streams circulate a little faster. His belly begins to settle more. Binghe swears his own energy is mixing with Shizun’s. Almost like it is eating a meal - just like Shizun fed his mouth, this new energy is feeding something inside him. His body tingles, like when the lash marks and wounds on his back were healed. But as the energy traces out to the edges of his ribs, and down to the tips of his fingers and toes, it somehow seems to be taking more than just aches away.

Binghe has never been a stranger to starvation. His feet have never known proper shoes made just for him. They were too poor before the washerwoman left. And after she left, he had tried to save every bit he could. The ointment burns on the rough pads of his feet, feeling hot as that combined energy being guided through him interacts with it.

Shizun keeps gently petting his belly, praising him softly, voice enveloping him as he keeps circulating and guiding Binghe through what must be cultivation. “Good, Binghe, keep following my energy. That is your qi following mine. Keep it flowing as I showed you.” Shizun’s cool fingers trace from the top of Binghe’s head, down Binghe’s naked chest and belly, low to a spot just over his cock as he teaches Binghe each of his meridians and the dantians with a steady voice that does nothing to quell the fire boiling within Binghe. He traces from the top of his head again and again, front and back the energy flows, between shoulder-blades and below belly button and on and on.

When prompted, the 10th time it is explained, Binghe repeats the name of each meridian as Shizun presses energy into each one. Binghe’s voice quivers, he’s feeling so full of heat he might be breathing fire. His face flushes as Shizun’s hand rests at the lowest point of Binghe’s lower dantian. “Good, keep gathering the energy here, Binghe. Gather it and slowly push and pull most of it into this area, right here. This will become your core. You are as gifted with qi as I was.”

Binghe’s insides flex and tighten, clenching and releasing as Shizun’s palms press to either side of the base of his hips. Those long fingers bracket Binghe’s cock, which traitorously stirs due to the circulation has been happening just above it. Binghe feels such embarrassment, yet focuses all his attention on directing his energy to where Shizun has directed. He has to focus on what Shizun said. He has to work hard and prove he’s worth all this care. It takes what feels like hours to gather his energy into the pool Shizun has mapped out. Those fingers, the thumbs and index fingers, trace a shape on his skin which matches the spiritual shape inside of his body.

Binghe can feel how their energy mingles, flowing and growing there. It is incredible. He feels sweat beginning to bead on his skin, every breath becoming closer to a pant as he seems to be roasting from within. His tongue feels dry and he swallows nothing from what should be a moist mouth.

Binghe’s head is tilted back and there is a murmur in his ear. “Stay focused on that energy, and keep those eyes closed and your body still.” Shizun’s voice is so soothing, even as it strokes something hot within him. “What you are feeling is jing. It is the combination of yin and yang energies, it is achieved through dual cultivation between a yin aligned cultivator and a yang aligned cultivator. The more extreme the yin and yang, the more jing they can create together.” Shizun keeps talking, even as Binghe shivers in his lap.

“Dual cultivation is usually achieved through penetrative sex. However, the method I am teaching you can be used as well. It is much harder, and nowhere near as effective. However, it is safer to do so with a child, or a person seriously injured.” Binghe’s tongue is sticking in his mouth, the feel of it is miserable, he desperately wants to drink some water.

Shizun’s voice is close to his face, where it is still turned up, the cool air ghosting over Binghe’s sweaty face. “More jing is made, the more contact is made through mucous membranes and the pleasure organs of the body. Kisses can also create small amounts of it, and can share that energy. This is best reserved only for those you are closest with, as they can take more than you want to give if you are not careful. It can even be dangerous for you, but is especially dangerous for those with any type of yin constitution. The more yin your partner has, the more danger they are exposing themselves to in cultivating with you. Even a simple kiss can lead to too much being taken, so follow exactly the amount of energy I feed into it.”

Shizun’s lips, as they settle on Binghe’s, are as refreshing as a gulp of cool clean ice melt. The tongue that traces his own imparts that desperately sought-for wetness. The much larger muscle traces his teeth, and slicks over his tongue, the only place he can breathe is through his nose, his mouth too occupied. Binghe’s own hands curl, not quite fisting as his chest hitches.

Shizun tsks, nipping Binghe’s lower lip in reprimand. “Stay focused on circulating the energy, silly boy. Feel it flow with mine. Follow my energy with your own. You need to practice this with small amounts, every day. Trading gently is a rare skill for those with Yang. Practicing this will bring you balance, and keep you from hurting your partners.” Shizun’s scolding is so gentle, he doesn’t pull away or hit Binghe.

Binghe, for his part, can feel his cock flexing and twitching between Shizun’s fingers. His heart is hammering and his energy is bubbling over the basin Shizun had guided him to make. He tilts up, voice cracking as he manages words. “Yes, Shizun. Please, more kisses?” He doesn’t mean to beg but the words slip past his lips as if poured straight from his heart.

Binghe can feel the slight shake of Shizun’s head. The cool silken strands of Shizun’s hair along his sweaty cheeks and those lips pressing so close to his. “What a fountain of Yang you are, Binghe. You are being so very good for me. Such a good boy. Keep focusing on that energy, trace it up to your mouth to follow mine.” The words are as much felt as heard. Binghe can taste them as they brush over his eyelashes and lips.

Then the kiss is back. And Binghe’s yang energy, and that pulsing energy that is the jing energy Shizun described, follows Shizun’s energy slowly from his newly formed core up to his mouth. Between their tongues the jing energy seems to take Shizun’s yin energy and Binghe’s yang, and give them both streams of the other’s energy back in twice the amount fed into it.

Binghe’s hands flex again, as they kiss till he feels faint and fluttery. His chest is heaving when they part, his limbs all tingling down to the very tips. All his channels and meridians seem full to bursting and Shizun’s cock presses hot and large against Binghe’s back. It feels even larger than Binghe’s own, and when the kiss breaks, Binghe can’t help the moan that escapes him. He is shivering, slick all over his body with sweat. He feels as if he is vibrating, too close to overfull in every way.

Shizun drops soft, wet kisses over Binghe’s face, peppering over the hot flush of his cheeks and up over his closed lashes. “Such a good boy. You are doing so well. You shared so wonderfully, Binghe.”

His hands move, Shizun’s cool silken palm sliding into Binghe’s pants to grasp Binghe’s cock. “This is your pillar. You have so much Yang energy, it’s already so big as a result. When you share jing, excess is built up in your gems and pillar.” Shizun’s other hand moves down to cup Binghe’s balls. His gems. Binghe can feel how the front of his neck stretches from how far back he has thrown his head due to the pleasure Shizun’s hands are bringing him. When he takes deep breaths, his chest feels like it can move easier despite how much more air he seems to need.

Shizun’s lips trace his neck, while his hand slowly tightens on Binghe’s pillar, tugging and sliding up it. “Most cultivators with yin energy are women. Some will not want to share their blossoms with you, so they may use their hand like this- or perhaps their mouth. You will practice learning how to lick and please a blossom later, so you can reciprocate. For now, just enjoy this, Binghe. You did so well.”

Binghe shudders, his tongue tracing his lips as he keeps circulating that qi and jing in his system as Shizun told him to. But the feeling of Shizun pulling and gripping the skin over his pillar has Binghe’s lower lip wobbling and a punched out moan springing free of his throat.

Binghe’s first orgasm is a shock. He’s never achieved one before. He knows of them, from hearing the adults talk. He knows what they are supposed to be. But his own hand feels nothing like Shizun’s. It’s so smooth and slick and tight as it pulls and works him. The coolness is comforting on the hot burning length. Binghe’s eyes fly open against his will as the rising sensation of pleasure bursts apart inside him like a firework in the sky.

Binghe’s dazed eyes stare up into the intensely focusing face of his Shizun, the larger man looking nothing like the immortal he is. There is a hesitancy to him. An almost young look, as if he is scared and powering through this. As if he wants to be anywhere but here. His Shizun flinches, as the powerful spurt of Binghe’s seed splashes over his hand.

Binghe’s insides freeze for a moment, and he hastily closes his eyes. Binghe can’t help but remember Shizun saying how even just a kiss could be used to pull too much energy. The comment about how dangerous it was even for Binghe. How much more dangerous still it is for those of yin constitutions and bodies. And Shizun is by no means weak in yin.

Binghe’s heart chills while he swears he won’t let Shizun suffer. The washerwoman warned him many times of slavers; had warned him that if he found himself feeling cool to the touch, to never go near any male cultivators. She had rubbed the scars ringing her wrist as she said it, her eyes pained and distant. Shizun was immortal. Was a peak lord.

But if Shizun had such incredibly strong yin energy, and had such a pained look on his face… what about before Shizun was a Shizun? Binghe firms his resolve. He keeps his eyes closed, listening to Shizun as the man seems frozen between actions. So Binghe speaks up instead, “Please, Shizun, I know you said I could practice with blossoms later. May I lick and clean up the seed now? Isn’t it a waste to let it be lost, if it is so full of jing energy?”

Binghe licks his lips, tilting his head up, leaving his mouth open, eager and gentle, with his hands still slicked by oily lotion, palm up and helpless in his lap. If Shizun was like the washerwoman, then he should be as small and gentle and helpless before him as possible. Like when she would wake up from nightmares, and any large shadows or sudden movements would have her curling up and hiding in the corner of the bed. She liked just petting his hair to calm down. Perhaps Shizun would like something tactile like that.

Shizun, for his part, finally starts moving again. He pauses, then brings those wet fingers up from around Binghe’s pillar. The salty, musky taste of Binghe’s seed is a new flavor. It isn’t too bitter. Not compared to some things he has eaten. He slowly licks and sucks, chasing every trace with his eyes still closed. By the end of the second finger, Shizun is moving his hand to better offer up every trace of the seed that had splashed over it.

Binghe’s little tongue seeks them all out, and when it is done, Shizun’s other hand pets his hair, a silence in the air between them, only broken by Shizun’s voice speaking up. “That was the last of it. Did you like it, Bing-er?” Without his vision, Binghe can’t tell what Shizun’s face looks like. The voice doesn’t give him enough.

So Binghe is honest. “I like being useful for Shizun. I want to be worthy of returning for, of staying as your only directly-mentored disciple. Please, let me earn my place? Can I please lick and help you with your excess jing, if it would please Shizun to have me do so?” He makes sure to phrase it as a favor to him. He wants to show Shizun he likes this, and that Binghe’s happy to share pleasure too. To do it this way, if it is easier for Shizun.

There is a shudder under his back and legs, his immortal mentor trembling as if he is the disciple. It stirs something inside Binghe. He holds his breath, face tilted up towards Shizun’s as he awaits the answer.

Shizun pets his hair gently, and then gives a slow, shaking sigh. “You may ask me that again in the morning. If you still want to do so, I will teach you how.” The first two cool fingers of Shizun’s right hand move to trace Binghe’s face with a slow trailing drag of the fingertips. As he drags them under Binghe’s chin, he tilts Binghe’s jaw up to give a slow kiss. When he pulls back he softly commands, “Open your eyes now, Bing-er.”

Binghe looks up, and the fleeting glimpse he had of Shizun’s vulnerable side is gone. The proud and steady immortal is in its place. He blushes a little, smiling tentatively and a bit unsurely up at Shizun.

That seems to be enough for Shizun, who clicks his tongue and allows a faint smile to tug on his lips. “Whatever will I do with such a greedy disciple? Ah, don’t answer that. You were very good. Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. I will show you the nightly routine again, and care for us both again tonight. Tomorrow we will practice your duties together.”

Shizun gently gathers him in his arms, as if Binghe is somehow more precious than before. Binghe watches Shizun intently as once more a bath is drawn. When he is washed off, Binghe notices his own body is less gaunt. His ribs stick out less. His skin seems less tight and thin. The energy he can feel brimming in his dantian, and rushing through his meridians and channels, seems to be helping his body recover faster from its previous injuries of all kinds, including starvation.

Binghe’s heart flutters. Shizun has done so much for him. Has even opened himself to such risk in dual cultivating with Binghe. He holds his hands up as Shizun gently rewraps them. He holds still as Shizun massages oily lotion into his skin, from neck to toes, paying special attention to his rough knees and elbows. He talks about moisturizing and about how Binghe will do this for them both every three days, and for himself daily till the rough spots have gone away. Instead of having Binghe begin his tasks, his hands are wrapped in gauze just like his feet, given more time to mend the cracked and harsh skin there.

Binghe translates the worry and care for him in the words and actions, he feels more sure than ever that Shizun is the best person in the whole world. His mind nearly floats, an aching tiredness slowly settling on him despite all the energy buzzing under his skin. When he makes a confused half-garbled question to that effect, Shizun’s laugh is like nothing Binghe’s ever heard before.

It’s a ghost, barely there, but it makes Binghe’s eyes widen and his attention go from foggy and fuzzy to sharp.

“Silly Bing-er. You have eaten so much, both in mortal food and energy. In a mere half day, you have healed what a mortal body should in weeks or months. Of course you are tired. Even if you had a golden core already, this would be a trying level of rapid healing.” His voice sounds fond, instead of scolding however.

Binghe thinks asking silly questions is not a bad thing, if it leads to such a result. They both get ready for bed, and this time he manages to stay awake long enough to watch how Shizun likes his hair cared for.

They settle into bed once more, Binghe in the well cared for sleeping robes, Shizun in equally white silken robes. The hand resting on his lower and middle dantians spreads. Shizun’s middle finger rubs at the edge of one of Binghe’s nipples and the other hand rests so his fingertips press gently against the top of Binghe’s cock.

If Binghe could, he would turn and give Shizun another kiss. Instead, he focuses on circulating his energy and calming his breathing. He lets Shizun guide his energy into circulating and slowly rolling around in his inner sea of a lower dantian.

Someday soon, he will form a golden core. And he will work hard to become someone Shizun can rely on in every way. Someone that can keep Shizun safe. Someone that can protect Shizun, as Shizun works so hard to protect him.

Binghe’s mind drifts off, dreaming of welcoming Shizun into his arms, of hiding Shizun’s face against his chest as the washerwoman sometimes would when he had nightmares. He wants to comb Shizun’s hair and scare away the things that made him feel scared. He wants to help Shizun feel as good as Binghe has, however Shizun will let him.

Binghe dreams of being as important to Shizun as Shizun is to him. He dreams of being the source of everything comforting and good, as the other man is for him.

Notes:

Next chapter will be a bit delayed, I may post it Wednesday- or may just pause a week on uploads. Dealing with home repairs and family stuff.

Comments give me life and padding to keep digging into the mountains of trashy trauma that are piled in SJ's brain.

Chapter 6: Sweet Dreams Rotted Through

Chapter by TrashyTime

Summary:

In which Shen Jiu brainwashes himself more than Binghe, and the rapid freefall into horribly dead dove begins.

Shen Jiu grasps the right formula and then not only gets the wrong answer, he just decides to eat the brown paper bag the dead dove is in.

Also known as Ch 4 but from Shen Jiu's perspective.

Notes:

TW: Graphic flashbacks to child abuse and undealt with trauma including a few references to inhumane and unsanitary slave keeping/punishing practices. Shen Jiu projects MUCH worse onto Binghe than Binghe actually suffered- but the fact that Shen Jiu had suffered it is still evident in his thoughts and dreams.
Body horror in a nightmare, including depictions of loss of bodily control and the merging of flesh. Graphic descriptions of bloody wounds, and sexual abuse of a minor by multiple adult men.
Specific extra triggers for fears of becoming the abusers, and then some self gaslighting.
Ends with Shen Jiu deluding himself that his desire to raise Binghe with feminine mannerisms and clothing, is for NYY not himself.

Repeating- AN: This is chapter 4 but through SJ’s eyes.

The dream of a wedding, of joy in his child having such a safe and happy life, can’t last. He sees Qiu Jianluo among the many indistinct faces that make up the dream realm. The color bleeds, and as it does so, he can hear Tang-er’s high toned voice childishly calling out to her a-Luo to leave xiao-Jiu alone.

He knows it is a dream. Yet his mental body can not move. His voice can not speak up, as he shrinks and the monster that is the face of far too many of his heart demons slides his hands down his suddenly naked shoulders. That voice, deep and purring, self satisfied and trying to always project as older than it was, whispers across his ear. “I always told you. You’re every bit the beast I am. Admit it. You wanted to hurt that defenseless weak little slave, just like I do.”

Jiu’s skin crawls with revulsion, he wants to scream it isn’t true. He doesn’t want to hurt him. He only thought about it for Ying-er’s sake! But the words won’t come and he can’t even tremble. The hands, so much larger than his own, slides down his arms to rest on his hand. The hands are soft compared to his tattered and scarred skin, larger in every way. Then that flawless skin melts and merges into his own hand, like two wax candles left too long before a fire being pressed into a new shape. He swears he can feel as well as see how the tanned skin of a-Luo soaks into his own, smoothing away all the scars and roughness. Making Jiu’s hands a young Master’s.

Then, he is being pulled up, a puppet yanked and dragged towards the large furnace room in the Qiu manor. Jiu isn’t a peak lord right now. He’s just a terrified child, wanting to scream as he is dragged to that dark and too hot room. The chains clank and scared whimpering comes from within the dark shadows where he knows the bed is.

A-Luo’s voice whispers in his ear, larger face and body pressing along his shoulder and back like a mantle. Like a second skin as horrors slide from lips to ears like blades into unprotected flesh. “You know how much more powerful plucking makes those reaping their little furnaces. What’s stopping you? He’s nothing but a slave. You deserve this. Don’t you? It will feel so good.” Jiu shudders, trying with all his might not to step closer. Not to see what is in the bed. Not to see- The light is horribly red. It makes the bruises and welts on Bing-er’s skin look almost like jewelry. The blood glistening at the end of a purple mark is just as fascinating and horrifying as when Jiu himself was forced to watch it’s original in a mirror as two men shared him in this same room, the blood pearling there having smeared on porcelain skin like paint on a slate. All the prettiest of marks from his own memory, now pressed onto this child instead of the one in the mirror.

“You know he’s not able to say no. You know what happens to slaves that say no. There are only those that are plucked, and those that pluck. Which are you?” Jianluo purrs the question, hands slipping up and out of Jiu’s to grab his wrists and guide Jiu into wrapping around the trembling form of the even smaller child before him.

“If you won’t pluck him- then perhaps you are the one that wants to be plucked, after all?” There is laughter, and he can feel Jianluo behind him, reaching for him as Binger in his arms shifts and pulls away as much as the chains allow.

Shen Jiu’s lungs inflate, it feels like he has been drowning as he takes in air past tightened passages in his chest. His arms clutch Bing-er closer. No. He can’t let Jianluo get him. He can’t hurt him that way. Not if he wants to look Ying-er in the eye.

He can’t shake the image of those teary eyes. Of how hopeless and shattered Binghe had looked, of all his own childhood wounds pressed weeping into that skin. It is grounding to feel how rough Bing-er’s hands are. To feel them press jagged and raw skin to his own young master soft silken skin. Shen Jiu shudders, revulsion in his soul, as he remembers Jianluo’s own hands melting to merge with his own.

That small rough palm smooths over the backs of his hand where it presses to far too pronounced ribs. The boy isn’t in chains, the only wounds on his body are the wounds of starvation. Spiritual food and jing will help fix much of that. Shen Jiu is well lost in those thoughts when the child speaks with all the enthusiasm and cheer of Ying-er. His voice just as loud and his smile so bright it succeeds in pushing away more of that dream.

Oh, but his children both are a menace. They’re such a matched set. For all Bing-er is a boy, and has endless unbalanced yang to match Ying-er’s yin, they could be twins in spirit. He wants to cry, suddenly, at the thought of anyone ever plucking this boy as he was. Of anyone making him feel shamed and dirty and broken. He fiercely wants to deny it could ever happen, and yet he can’t. He has had Bing-er in his life less than a single day, yet he could not send the boy away.

For all it is dangerous to live in a yin body- a body so full of yang will attract many monsters that feed on such energy. He pinches the too thin cheek, and his attempt to scold is half hearted at best. He knows from Ying-er, that no amount of scolding will really change such enthusiasm. He hopes that at least Bing-er can harness that enthusiasm for more useful things than Ying-er.

Shen Qingqiu can not be rattled, or show weakness. That dream- he needs this meditation to put it out of his mind, as much as he needs to teach the boy. The soft subdued voice from those too small lips makes something inside him twist sharply with a pain he can’t place. His own skin crawls as he releases that cheek that stays blanched for too long, the need to meditate becoming something closer to urgent, however, he also has a duty to Bing-er.

As a slave, or even as just an orphan with no family, the boy won’t know how to read yet. There is no manual he can learn from. And until his cultivation settles, others could easily corrupt his channels, so leaving him to his own devices for even a morning is out. With a sigh, Jiu lifts the too light boy into his lap as he sits up.

He begins teaching the boy the positioning, only to have the boy move to the Huan Hua recovery meditation position on his own. The sneer in Jiu’s heart transfers to his voice, as he firmly nips that in the bud. He shifts the boy, planning to hurry him along by assisting his flow the first time. He can press the boy’s forehead and sternum, and hopefully encourage more of the scars from his starvation into undoing themselves.

When he presses the boy’s hands to his lower dantian there is a swelling there that should not be there. He can’t help but fear, all at once, that this child had in fact been more like him than he feared. It couldn’t be but the nightmare flashed before his eyes all the same. He snatched up the boy’s wrist, energy feeling desperately for signs of scarring and damage to the dantian. Only a few heartbeats later, he wants to smack himself with his fan.

He huffs at himself, feeling a headache press between his eyes. He had forgotten this boy would not have the talisman of shells taught to him yet. He still was accumulating waste instead of purifying it away. What sort of Mentor was he to forget that? The boy squirms, seeming embarrassed as he had been about having his cheek pinched earlier.

He wants to scold the boy that there is nothing to be embarrassed about. Instead he sends the boy to go take care of it in the bathing chambers. He remembers with a shudder when Ying-er was too young to use the shells and firmly tells the boy to clean up, specifying to wash his hands with soap.

He knows soap is a luxury, especially for children like he was. He shakes that off and quickly sends a messenger construct to the kitchens, adding many more specialty foods to the order for breakfast. Once that is done he sets to clearing his own mind of heart demons. He meditates, time slipping from his grasp as it is wont to do in this state, keyed only to rise from it when the child returns to the room or someone enters the house.

It is Ming Fan entering that brings him out of where he was working hard on shoving every hint of his own childhood and past into the very deep holes he has dug in his mind to fester and ferment and rot as they deserve.

Shen Qingqiu finishes dressing, checking the wards on the food with a frown, once he waves Ming Fan out. The chamber pot in the bathroom is untouched- so where? He feels utterly foolish once more. Of course a boy like he was before Qiu manor would not know a chamber pot as fancy as his.

He remembers with humiliation being locked in rooms with just a bucket till the stench felt like it would crawl from the bucket to his own body if they kept him trapped in that dark room one more shichen, or finding bushes to do it behind. With a sinking pit in his stomach Shen Qingqiu remembers Binghe is still in just Ying-er’s hand me down sleep robes.

He swiftly proceeds down the path, and is nearly too late for all his rushing. Ming Fan has both hands raised- a cultivator’s strength prepared to be hammered down on that stick thin frame. Yet, part of Shen Qingqiu notes with interest, even when he is bracing to be beaten, the boy sticks to his own principles. Defends himself with words even when he can’t with fists. It is good. It shows that whatever his life before, he still can say no.

The force of the blows onto his fan are enough to have potentially crippled the frail boy that was their target. Shen Qingqiu’s heart goes colder at that. Already the little young masters are stepping up to abuse the one without any benefactors. His head disciple howls, making teary eyes as if his own blows were not what hurt him. That instead of brittle starvation weakened bones they hit ironwood fan boning- is its own reprimand. But as he knows little masters tend to be as thick as the mud they fling on others, he uses his words to back it up.

Shen Qingqiu keeps his tone cold to keep from showing just how angry he is right now. Nothing he scolds gives away any of his own feelings, and he does not mention that he has noted the use of Ming Fan’s full strength against what may as well be a civilian.

Bing-er, for his part, seems to curl into himself a hair. Those expressive eyes mist with unshed tears, once more rattling the sensitive core of Jiu under his armor of Qingqiu. Shen Qingqiu has to tense his toes to avoid gritting his teeth at this. All he can see in this moment is himself, knowing that killing a Master’s horse may well kill him as well, unable to do anything but wait for his fate despite doing what he thought best.

For Ming Fan’s part, the boy demanding that Bing-er be punished, directly pushing back against Shen Qingqiu’s authority after being reminded of his place not a moment prior has the fan creaking in Shen Qingqiu’s grip. The only thing that saves Ming fan from much worse than a mere smack, is Bing-er speaking up so sharply. It is almost amusing how the smaller boy feels he must defend his Shizun. He praises the clothes, and praises his shizun’s generosity while pointing out his side emphatically. Even as he owns his own ignorance he seems to glow with that yang energy that suffuses him.

It’s enough to make Shen Qingqiu want to scream. Because whatever target was on this child has now increased exponentially. Talent breeds envy and hate. It tempts those wishing to take it for themselves. This boy is not ruined like he was. And if he has any say, he never will be. Shen Qingqiu notes the way those fists curl into balls behind the smaller boy’s thighs. Inside that calm exterior, Shen Jiu is howling for his own injustices in a similar situation, time and time again.

Ming Fan is the third son of a wealthy merchant, part of a clan that spans the entire human realm. Shen Qingqiu restrains himself to just one sharp crack of his fan across the back of the fool’s head. He issues a punishment as calmly as he can, firmly marking Bing-er as off limits to this fool and all the other young masters on the peak. However, in this moment, it is not just Ming Fan he sees, but Liu Qingge, and every other rich powerful bully in Shen Jiu’s life.

There is only cold dismissal as Ming Fan’s face crumples, only the barest shred of long earned dignity keeping the boy from bawling like the spoiled brat he is. For Bing-er’s part, there is a moment to take in the quaking form before him. With the bright white of the girl’s cut robes, the skeletal arms and those painful cheekbones look even more sickly. He is never more reminded that this boy, for all he has yang in equal part to what he himself once had yin, had not the temporary blessing of Qi-ge.

This boy had no one, the same as him now. And as he watches, the boy’s bare toes cling onto the edge of a worn cobblestone. His fidgeting all kept mostly hidden but there all the same. It makes Shen Jiu want justice for all the boys like them in the world, suddenly.

Despite how he knows the answer, he asks about Binghe’s ignorance. The meek voice soothes the upset in his own heart. The flush on Bing-er’s cheeks could be cute if his face was rounded with health.

Shen Qingqiu sighs once more, knowing he can at least fix a little of that. He leads the boy to the house, slowing his pace to one comfortable to the small boy. He explains a bit about robes, and the shells talisman. He can not wait till the boy achieves inedia and this mess will only ever come up again if the boy ever qi deviates.

The boy thanks him for the robes, speaking of his love for them. Shen Qingqiu’s mind pauses briefly on that. Did the boy not catch they are girl’s robes? He explains that Ming Fan hadn’t lied, and asks again if they really are so loved despite that.

The answer leaves Shen Jiu stunned inside, and has the strategist that is such a large part of being Shen Qingqiu worrying at the new options it opens to them both. It is pleasing to hear that the boy doesn’t want to be an embarrassment. That the boy wants to earn his place as a mentored student speaks well to him as well. But the description of the clothes, focusing on the softness and care? Those details strike him.

Girl’s robes are much softer. They use smoother fabrics and tighter weaves. Much more expensive than male disciple robes. Cold is dangerous for menstruation, and in general yin constitutions need more protection from cold. While the boy is so strongly Yang- having him in feminine silks, in such cuts… As the boy recovers and grows he will be more and more muscular. He will grow large, his yang so unbalanced he most likely will bloom into a precocious puberty the second his body has the nutrients and energy to do so.

Is it such a bad idea to allow this request? It can be waived off, and if Binghe tells others he chose it, and his logic of wanting soft things… perhaps. Perhaps this can be a boon. The boy will be raised with softness. It will blunt the overt reminders that he is so saturated with yang. Smooth his skin like a young lord, but then, why stop there. Even with all that yang energy, with his own yin and jing, perhaps the boy can cultivate softer skin still. Stay pliant in ways that will be comforting even as he grows to the full potential of his yang promised height- they could keep him soft enough to not be threatening to Ying-er. To not be a scary man, too brutish and rough for delicate petals.

The girl so did so love cuddling, before she grew too old for it to be appropriate. His heart clenched then grew warm at the image of her wrapped in Bing-er’s arms. Both wearing flowing silken robes and face powder. Both with their hair in ribbons, their faces round and laughing as they snuggled together like two kittens on a cold morning. Bing-er’s strong shoulders are blunted by the silken dress he wears, and his motions and appearance as gracefully feminine as hers.

He decided. It was for Ying-er, after all.

Notes:

No beta this week- so see something say something.
Yall get the uncorrected MessTM.

On the plus side, It's Posted. On the down side- you have to wait till next week to see how much worse this wild ride down into Shen Jiu's brainpan gets. Hint, it gets R E A L L Y bad.
For me as author- the worst part is he has convinced himself he is being so GOOD, and doing the best possible for Binghe. But that may not be true for everyone.

Stay safe all!

Chapter 7: In which The Past Consumes The Present

Chapter by TrashyTime

Summary:

In which Shen Jiu stumbles face first past the point of no return. It only becomes more and more dead dove from here, folks.

We finally see sex from Shizun's side. It's a messy messy ride down.

Notes:

Still no beta.
In this chapter we get front row seats for Shen Jiu's remembered childhood abuses. We get to watch him using any and all excuses to continue his behavior. Unreliable narrator becomes more and more apparent.

Please self care as needed. This chapter very much goes a bit triggery in multiple spots. Part of that is how Shen Jiu quite literally doesn't really hear Binghe's words. He almost sees him as a reflection and part of himself. That... only gets worse as we go.

Specific tags for realizing past abusers were not actually hurting SJ for anything but the pleasure of hurting him. Gaslighting. Narcissism. Dehumanization. Talk of further grooming and plans to keep changing Binghe. More discussion of sexwork.
More focus on size and power differences, as well as more forced femme leanings. Size kink expressed a few times. More after effects of starvation and handwaving magic jing powers ala Airplaine.

I am surely missing some. Shout any you see missing.

At the door to his home, Shen Qingqiu halts the boy he now plans to raise as a girl in every way that matters. Part of that will be instilling habits more common in tea houses. He pulls a hot wet cloth from a qiankun pouch, one set up for cleaning abrasions originally. There is a faintly astringent smell to it, comforting as he kneels to tend Bing-er’s feet in much the same way he had to check Ying-er’s feet whenever she would decide shoes didn’t feel as good as mud between her toes.

There is a sort of fondness to the action, if coming from a different place. Bing-er’s feet show signs of long wearing reed sandals that were ineptly woven. The thick cheap weave had obviously been lumpy and had worn heavy calluses in places. Bing-er has a working child’s feet. The kind of rough grit that comes from a life without any protection but what he scraped together for himself. Yet with all that self reliance, the boy seems to be eagerly throwing himself to his new mentor’s mercy. So pliantly letting hands far bigger than his feet move and manipulate his toes and heels this way and that.

Shen Qingqiu is busy turning the relaxed leg at the ankle so he can look over the entirety of the small foot now that he has cleaned it, when Bing-er speaks up for the first time since he has begun this task. The boy so meekly thanks him, tentatively and hopefully asking if this is also something he can do for his mentor. It leaves Shen Jiu snorting, too amused at himself and the situation to stay distanced from it.

He had just begun to think the child was getting too used to being spoiled. How could he forget this boy is too much like what he once was so long ago? His gaze drags over the boy’s wide eyes, so beautiful even in such a ragged and ill fed face. His tamed hair up in its silken ribbons, the woven loops combined with his young age leave little to mark him out as a boy at all. It is the work of minutes to tell the boy he can return this favor when Shen Qingqiu is returning from night hunts or the like.

He leads the boy back to the bathing chamber. The boy seems just as wide eyed at the chamber pot as he had imagined he would be. He then begins carefully tending the boy’s hands and feet once they have handled the talismans and explanations thereof. A pumice stone and soakings, combined with moisturizers take the rough near hoof of a slave boy into one closer to fitting a young blossom trained for decorating a bed. Once more he is struck by how light the boy is. How frail and tiny his foot is resting on his large palm. His hand so easily can cover the entirety of that sole, the knobby ankle so delicately pronounced from hunger. It takes so little gauze to wrap the thick creams onto the boy’s feet and ankles.

His boy would be devastating if well fed. He needs to ensure his little Bing-er works fast and hard on softening himself. As Bing-ers body recovers, his boy needs to embrace that feminine side more. It is as he is watching the boy repeat the moisturizing steps under his sharp gaze that the boy’s stomach reminds them both of the boy’s lack of meals for the day.

It is time for Shen Qingqiu to help the boy learn that following and serving, has rewards. The fine art of being a good flower, like the very most pampered hothouse blossom in a lord’s harem. The boy moves himself to keep his hands from brushing against either set of robes, and Shen Jiu wants to smile. Such a good boy, he has in his arms. Like the best parts of himself and Ying-er combined.

Shen Jiu marvels at how right the boy feels in his hold. He orders his boy still- and still he stays. The foods on the tray are all designed to help the boy recover. Jing will do the rest, once his body is filled with these foods to build from. He works through bites of each dish, explaining that he will feed Bing-er like this, not the other way. It isn’t long before he is showing the boy how to eat a few of the more delicate dishes.

Shen Jiu alternates praise with information. Shen Qingqiu, ever the strategist, pairs tactile praise with the boy staying still and open on his lap. His eyes are drawn to how the small lips part for red berries, and unbidden comes the fleeting thought of how the boy would look sucking his cock.

He shoves the thought away, that is, not what he will do to Bing-er. Of course he won’t. With that resolve he sets to guiding Binghe’s body in taking as much of the dense spiritual food as possible. Thousand year hawthorns, hundred year pink plums, blessed maiden ice melon. Soup dumplings with recovery herbs packed into them.

The boy’s stomach is rounded, stretched tight as a drum under those pronounced ribs. It looks painful and yet the boy doesn’t complain. It bodes well for the boy’s training in the future. Ying-er could never have sat so quiet or still, not a day in her life. His boy is so very good for him.

The flow of energy is easier than he feared it may be. The lesson begins almost as simply. The boy is a sponge, eagerly soaking up orders and praise with equal enthusiasm. The process of easing the ache, of walking the boy through unfurling his abundant energy into his body the correct way is as simple as breathing. The energy in the food is so abundant that even before they begin creating jing, the boy’s body is starting to visibly recover.

His ribs are slowly filling out like smears of clay building up a sculpture. The roughness of his skin slowly shifting towards smoothness. The smoother it becomes, the more his boy’s body fills out, the more his body becomes appealing. The skin invites touches now. For all Bing-er is a child, the more his energy unlocks, and the more his body pulls from the small fortune in rare herbs and mythical fruits he was fed just a bit before, the more obvious Bing-er’s innate beauty becomes.

Bing-er truly would not be out of place in the fanciest of tea houses. Those lips that part so eagerly are looking plumper by the bite, the soft swell of slowly growing muscles along his back appealing as they slide under less leathery skin. It isn’t as hard as he imagined it might be to stroke that body. He traces the meridians, and takes the time to explain and name them each. But in his mind, he is marveling more at how with only the food and this guided meditation, his boy is already this strong.

He lets his fingers ghost just above the boy’s growing cock. He cups the dantian, and if he has to hide a flinch, well. The boy is so small, his cock however is rapidly becoming something very much not. There is a part of Shen Jiu that wants to smack that growth down, to somehow change Bing-er into a maiden instead. It is only how the boy stays so utterly obedient, so small compared to him, that the stirring and growing cock is able to be ignored.

They have to meditate together, pooling energy and pushing the boy’s body to shape a true dantian sea. His boy’s body flexes inside like a receptive partner, chrysanthemum instinctively preparing to be penetrated as a result of the jing, even as his cock jerks. There is something intimate about sharing energy like this. Something appealing even as it is frightening.

There is an urge that takes him, without his permission, to push the boy down. As the boy begins to sweat and pant, Shen Jiu can’t help but remember his dream. Can’t help but be drawn to the yang power all but pouring out of his boy. If he plucked him, if he thrust into him savagely, he could easily double his own power. Would it be so bad, to recover himself within this boy? To pull all that yang into himself? They are creating jing so easily, with just this much. How much stronger would it be if he took it by force? He can feel the jing hardening him, a sympathetic reaction that urges him to fuck and take the defenceless boy in his lap.

Shen Jiu wants to scream at himself, at the dream filth that Jianluo has pressed into his soul. He shoves that revolting idea down and instead begins to teach his boy about dual cultivation. About the jing they are creating so incredibly effortlessly. His boy shivers, yet stays so open, head tilting back to show that golden throat to him.

Shen Jiu could not tell you what words he was saying. All his mind can focus on is the fight between the part of himself that wants to kiss this boy breathless, and the part that wants to go crawling away. Wants to throw the boy from his lap and scream for him to leave. Or to hurt him, just to prove he was never as foolishly trusting as his idiotic boy is.

Shen Jiu’s heart hurts, hammering as it is in his chest. He talks about kisses, and then, then he is kissing that berry red mouth. That hot tongue is like a brand as he suckles it, then moves it aside to map the boy’s mouth like some perverse part of him wants to map that untried chrysanthemum.

He knows, to his bones, that the dream was right. Part of him wants to push Bing-er down and hurt him. Part of him wants to take from him. Part of him wants to thrust into him, to never be weak again. To punish this boy for being so defenseless.

He has never wanted to understand the men that used him as a furnace. He has never wanted to know the appeal. Now he can’t unsee it, can’t unfeel it. The boy’s hands move, his chest hitching. It’s enough to pull Shen Jiu away from nearly deviating. It feels almost like he’s been kicked in the chest, he’s breathless as he scolds the boy.

But through it all, his boy notices none of it. Notices nothing of the conflict he is stirring within his mentor. Within his master, some voice inside hisses, and it sounds like himself and it sounds like Jianluo. The kiss this time is less a mapping and more a devouring. If he can just push these thoughts aside. There is so much jing. Why would he need to pluck the boy? Why would he ever think to hurt him that way? There’s so much energy.

Shen Jiu wants to tear away and scream. To go back to the past and kick those men. If there is this much energy with Binghe- was there this much with him? Did they only hurt him because they could? Because it felt good to hurt him? He feels nauseous, remembering Jianluo getting hard even when he wasn’t the one plucking him in that dark room. There was nothing about the jing in that.

It gives him the will to more gently break away from Bing-er. To quench his own rampant beastly nature. He may be hard. He may be overflowing with jing- but he doesn’t need to become a monster. He won’t hurt Bing-er. He won’t take him against his will. He will never be Jianluo or all those other men taking what was never offered. Bing-er will never be forced to do anything he doesn’t want to do. Not ever in bed.

Shen Jiu is hiding shudders, shivers as the kiss breaks once more. He slowly peppers kisses over that fuller face, now so beautiful as to be haunting. The face of a boy that will become a heavenly beauty in just a few more years. The kisses are wet and if maybe there are a few tears in with the sweat on his own face, that is nothing anyone will ever know. His good boy has his eyes closed.

It is hard to slowly fish the boy from his pants. He talks about gems and pillars, while in his own mind there is a screaming of how obscene the size of said pillar is. The boy is filling out with the jing and food. His body looks less starved and more just thin. And with it, puberty seems to be hitting early and rapidly. The cock in his hand, as he moves to grip it, is almost of a size with his own.

Some horrified part of him can’t help but imagine that when Binghe is fully grown, his cock will be as large in comparison to him, as the cocks that took his own first time were to his pre-puberty self. Shen Jiu tries to bury that thought, hiding his face in the boy’s neck. Taking in the smell of the oils he had used on the boy. He is talking about blossoms and using one’s mouth or hand. But all he can keep thinking about suddenly is how frightening the sheer size of the girth in his hand is.

Some part of him can’t stop thinking about the dream. It’s so foolish- so dumb. Yet even as he praises the boy he can’t help but remember working those adult men’s cocks in the furnace room. Can’t help experiencing it again. His skin is sweaty, and the men are jeering at him. It is before Jianluo let others pluck his chrysanthemum or plunder his mouth. Back when only his hands or armpits were open to the servants to use. Pluck- or be plucked. And Shen Jiu won’t pluck this boy. Won’t hurt him that way. He can’t.

He flinches, his own eyes spilling hot tears as his hand jerks from the hot hard spurts of yang and jing filled come spring over his hand and wrist. He stares at it with revulsion, feeling sick to his stomach. He had actually thought of pushing down the boy. He had the monstrous thought of doing to his Bing-er what was done to him. To hurt his boy so deeply by taking from him so brutishly.

He closes his own eyes, wanting to sob, to curl up and just make this all stop- to rip at all the beastly awful parts of himself. To crack himself into pieces and leave those rotten bits behind. He feels like he is trapped on a blade’s edge. There is jing all around him. There is gentle flowing yang buffering and warming him. The boy is in his lap, eyes still closed, palms still up so defenseless and gentle and-

The boy is speaking. Is offering to lick up the seed. How- why? Shen Jiu shudders, and part of him wants to shake the boy again. The boy isn’t ready. Men’s cocks are awful, terrifying things. Shen Jiu just promised himself he wouldn’t and yet here is the boy laying himself out like a feast. A lamb walking itself into the oven to be cooked.

The boy’s lips, so red and full from where the boy had been nibbling at them. Bruised from kisses and teeth both, glistening like tanghulu where they frame a pink little tongue. His mouth stays open- seeming to beg for his cock to fill it. If Bing-er were a whore in a tea house, he would do this on his knees, and be paid extra for it indeed. Open and soft and so utterly defenseless. Those lashes like black silken fans on thin yet rosy cheeks.

Shen Jiu finds himself curious if the boy will hate the musty nasty bitter taste as much as Shen Jiu had. He almost wants the boy to scrunch his nose and cry as he had. He lifts his hand, ready to praise the boy for trying but scold him for making such a face. Instead the boy looks interested. Eager even as the little triangle of a tongue tip flicks out and laps up the globs of come. There is no revulsion. There is no sounds of disgust or gagging.

If anything the boy leans his mouth up further, eager tongue chasing every drop in a slow motion that is stimulating and grounding at the same time. As Bing-er suckles his fingers, all Shen Jiu can think of is teaching the boy to suck his cock that way, instead of his fingers. The feel of those lips pulling and sucking, the teeth well hidden away.

The want Shen Jiu feels is like a fist twisting in his gut. He wants to grab those loops of hair and ribbon. He wants to feel that tongue on himself. He wants the pleasureful worship being laved on his hand to be laved onto his own cock.

He begins gently petting the boy’s hair instead of grabbing it. He asks if Bing-er liked it. He hopes so, because Shen Jiu is not sure he can hold off if the boy doesn’t after all. When the boy replies he wants to be useful, wants to be worthy? Shen Jiu almost shoves the boy down. A hurt cracking part of him wants to beat the boy for being so foolish. But the boy keeps talking, asking to earn his place. Offering, Shen Jiu realizes with true shock- to lick Shen Jiu’s own cock. Those sinful lips, begging to be taken. To have his mouth plundered and plucked. To take that too small throat as his own was taken.

The boy wants it- is asking for it, nearly begging and demanding for it. Shen Jiu’s shudder this time is a violent, near full body affair. His entire body is coiled, ready to spring on this little sex demon of a boy. A perfect little yang fountain. A perfect match to his own cauldron.

It takes everything in Shen Jiu’s body to keep gently petting the boy. To take a deep breath and slowly let it back out in a sigh. The boy’s face is sinfully perfect where it is tilted up towards him. Shen Jiu tries so hard to make words make sense. To make words that convey he is not against that idea. But to give the boy space. He swears he WILL manage to stop himself if his boy changes his mind. He must. He won’t be those monsters from his own slavery.

Shen Jiu tilts the boy’s face up, tracing the fuller curves, still a long way from glowing round cheeks that are the ideal. But so utterly hauntingly beautiful all the same. The kiss he gives now is a promise. He won’t be those men. He will be exactly the master they both deserved. Not cruel. Fostering this wonderful little jing spring, nurturing and encouraging his hunger for sex. Of course the boy, without pain or shame, is as greedy for this as for food.

It will only ever feel good for his boy. He pulls back, his own mask in place once more as he watches the boy’s bashful smile. So shy even when the boy was just begging to learn how to suck his cock. Shen Jiu can’t help but smile as he clucks his tongue at his foolish beautiful boy.

He wants to kiss him again, to tuck him into bed just as they are. Instead he carries his precious spring to the baths, hands tracing the smoothing skin. With daily moisturizing the boy will be as soft as a spring blossom, as smooth and perfect as the finest jade. There is the fleeting desire to press his teeth to the skin, to mark it. Instead he focuses on teaching Bing-er.

His boy is so perfectly pliant as his master rubs the oils and lotions into his body to reshape him from a rough slave boy into a cossetted little flower, so perfect to adorn his bed. Shen Jiu is distracted from his own musings by the boy’s sleepy eyes and more sleepy garbled questioning sound. It is so adorable, that Shen Jiu wants to kiss the boy breathless and never let him go.

It is impossible not to tease such a pretty and perfect little boy. His foolish little Bing-er being so confused by how tired he is due to the healing he is doing still. It is just as foolish and silly as Ying-er always was. His boy is so perfect for his girl. A matched pair of sweet fools. He wants to kiss that confused yet smiling face.

The boy, as they settle into bed, seems even more perfectly matched into his embrace. The new padding to his chest and hips is just enough to leave his hands resting comfortably. A sensitive little nub of nipple is traced by one finger, while the top of the boy’s outsized and frankly too large cock is rubbed by the other. He keeps circulating the boy’s energy, drinking in the overflowing yang, and feeding back his own cooling yin.

Shen Jiu wonders, as he slowly drifts off to sleep, if perhaps Ying-er will want her shizun to stay on with them, after he has passed the mountain and it's peak lord position to them. Maybe, perhaps he could sit with the boy, after he has married Ying-er, and share energy through hands as father in law and son in law.

He ignores the tiny voice inside him saying something about keeping the boy. That will never happen. He is doing this all for Ying-er. For Ying-er and Bing-er.

Notes:

Work is being brutal. May delay a week, BUT it means I will probably post 2 chapters the next week if I delay a week. With no beta it is just me going over it. And that makes it harder.

Comments water my crops and feed my soul.

Notes:

If I miss a tag at the start of a chapter, please let me know. I am trying to overtag/warn instead of undertag, however I may miss something.

 

If you want to feed the author, I live off of comments.

 

This fic would not be half as easily read as it is now without the amazing support of my two betas Yangmal and @SpaceWestie(on discord!). They were both champs at the trash mound, taking my dyslexic trash and making smoother shinier trash. To give an idea, chapter 1 and 2 had over 100 edits. They deserve a big shout out. *hugs them both*

If you want more information on human cauldrons: https://immortalmountain.wordpress.com/2017/06/07/dual-cultivation-human-cauldrons/

Or the wiki for Jing: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taoist_sexual_practices#Qi_(lifeforce)_and_jing_(essence)
Happy research!