Chapter Text
This— this was Yun Zhixian’s “guarantee” to get Liu Qingge’s attention.
Not a divine blessing. Not a secret talisman.
A cursed celestial plant, whose only purpose was to simulate the most scandalous of entrapments until a rescuer arrived.
Luo Binghe’s pupils shrank in horror.
If Liu Qingge found him like this— half-naked, bound in writhing silver tendrils, gagged and flushed beyond redemption—
He would never, ever recover.
His face burned crimson.
“MmmMM—!” Binghe screamed into the gag, shaking his head violently, as though denial could stop the plant from gleefully dragging its vines lower.
Luo Binghe realised too late that his body was betraying him.
No matter how much he twisted or forced his qi into his limbs, the tendrils had their own merciless tempo.
The slick secretion clung to his skin like oil, cool at first, then warming as it seeped into every place it touched. Each vine moved slowly, torturously, circling, testing, teasing. His muscles clenched in instinctive rejection, yet his pulse raced in helpless anticipation.
The more he fought, the more deliberate the caresses became— sliding along his waist, coiling around his thighs, dipping into crevices with obscene patience. It wasn’t pain, not exactly— rather, it was unbearable in how precise, how lingering, how inevitably intimate the intrusion felt.
And Binghe’s natural body, treacherous as ever, reacted. Heat coursed through him, trembling built in his legs, and a shameful shiver wracked his spine even as he shook his head violently against the gag.
“Not like this,” his mind screamed.
But the rhythm didn’t stop. The vines knew. They mapped every sensitive spot like a battlefield, pressing deeper, pulling slower, making him arch against his will.
It was mortifying. The once Heavenly Demon Lord, reduced to quaking in ropes of greenery— his own body condemning him with flushed skin and short, strangled breaths.
And above it all, the muffled thought rang in his skull:
If Liu Qingge walked in now, I would never live it down. Never.
Luo Binghe's struggles intensified as another tendril pushed further into his mouth, the silken texture brushing against his tongue. He could feel the coolness of the vine mixed with his saliva, creating a slick and slippery sensation that made it hard to resist.
The vine began to move in and out, mimicking a rhythmic pattern that sent shivers down his spine.
"Mmh!" Binghe moaned into the gag, his hips bucking involuntarily as the tendril continued its teasing assault on his throat. His struggles only served to tighten the vines around his wrists and ankles, holding him captive while the plant explored his body with unrelenting consistency.
As the tendril withdrew slightly, allowing Binghe to catch his breath, he heard the familiar sound of metal cutting through flesh. Or rather, vegetation.
Shuangyin's voice cut through the air, sharp as her blade, "Cursed thing won't let go." Binghe couldn't help but let out a muffled laugh, the vibrations sending ripples through the vines that held him.
In the darkness imposed by the vines, Binghe's other senses heightened. Every rustle of fabric, every movement against his skin, every exclamation from Shuangyin's lips became amplified. He could smell the faint scent of jasmine incense mingling with the sweet aroma of the slick.
Suddenly, a new sensation pierced through the fog of arousal and confusion. Down there. Something cool and slippery pressed insistently against his entrance, probing gently before pushing in with a firm, relentless motion.
Binghe gasped into the gag, his back arching as the tendril slid inside him, filling him completely alongside the thinner one that was already stroking that inner nerve bundle.
Binghe's unbridled groaning grew louder, the tendrils' relentless rhythm leaving him torn between pleasure and discomfort. His insides felt stretched to their limit, filled almost painfully full by the invasive vines. He could feel every sinew, every ridge of the tendrils as they moved within him, rubbing against each other and driving him wild.
The dual sensations sent waves of pleasure-pain crashing through Binghe, his body tensing and releasing in a frantic dance of desire. He reeled with every twitch, every slide of the vines within him, their movements coordinated to heighten his stimulation. His toes curled, and his fingers dug into the sheets as he writhed against the bonds, unable to escape the relentless assault on his senses.
This cannot be happening. He tensed himself, calling upon his demonic strength to get free but—
Binghe's eyes widened behind the blindfold of vines as his body was abruptly lifted off the bed, dangling in mid-air. More tendrils snaked around him, tearing away what little clothing remained. The cold air of the room kissed his bare skin, contrasting sharply with the warmth emanating from the plant. Despite the chill, Binghe's body flared with arousal, his member throbbing and aching unbearably.
Face burning with humiliation, he hung suspended, fully exposed to Shuangyin's gaze.
He could only imagine what she saw— the Crown Prince of the Southern Demons, bared and spread, impaled by two thick tendrils that moved in and out of his body with obscene ease. Mortification warred with arousal as he listened to the sound of Shuangyin's frantic call for him to be patient, she’d continue cutting the vines but her efforts only make them more persistent.
Then a realisation hit Binghe like a bolt of lightning. The plant's secretions, slick and cool against his skin, were doing more than just lubricating his passage— they were infiltrating his senses, clouding his mind with pleasure and desire. Each stroke of the evil tendrils sent waves of ecstasy crashing through him, making it harder to focus on anything but the thrill coursing through his body.
Binghe gasped as one of the tendrils suddenly unwrapped itself from his thigh and moved upwards, leaving a trail of cool moisture in its wake. It circled his shaft, gripping tightly enough to elicit a low groan from him.
Then tendril began to caress, matching the rhythm of those buried deep within him. Binghe's hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction, more contact.
His thoughts swirled in chaos as he struggled to maintain control. He wanted to fight back, to push the vines away, but his traitorous body craved more. The things seemed to sense his weakening resolve, moving faster, pressing harder, drawing whimpers and gasps from him.
Binghe's heart pounded wildly as he succumbed to the overwhelming sensations, his mind lost in a haze of twisted ecstasy.
Under the press of the vines, Binghe's eyes flew wide open in panic as the tendril that had been teasing his throat suddenly surged forward, forcing its way past his vocal cords and into his windpipe.
He choked, convulsing violently as the vine stole his breath. The world around him darkened evermore, his head swimming as his body desperately fought for air.
His struggles only served to drive the vine deeper, until he felt it press against the back of his throat, blocking any chance of escape. Panic surged through him, his body thrashing wildly as he tried to dislodge the invasive plant. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
He felt the vine pulse within him, its movements deliberate and insistent. It slid deeper into his airway, each bit an excruciating invasion that stole his breath and clouded his mind with terror. His vision flickered, darkness threatening to claim him as his lungs screamed for air. Just when he thought he might pass out, the vine retreated slightly, allowing a thin trickle to enter his starving body.
Binghe gasped as the tendril finally relented, sliding out of his throat and allowing him to breathe again. But there was no respite; instead, a rush of cool fluid poured into his mouth, flooding his taste buds with the plant's essence. He coughed and spluttered, choking on the liquid, only to have more forced down his throat.
Binghe's eyes blinked rapidly as the vines around his head unexpectedly loosened and fell away, revealing Shuangyin standing nearby. She looked desperate, her hands clutching a dagger stained with dark green sap. Her usually composed expression was marred by worry lines and flushed cheeks.
"Hold on," she panted, "I'm trying to free you." Her words barely registered as the invasive length within him intensified their assault.
Binghe's gaze flicked to Shuangyin, her words barely penetrating the haze of pleasure and desperation that clouded his mind. "Old... Shi?" he managed to rasp out, his voice hoarse.
Shuangyin nodded, her grip tightening on the dagger as she frantically sawed at the vines binding his wrist. "He'll come back with help. With the War God. Please hold on, Your Highness. Please."
She worked harder, upsetting the writhing masses. Binghe watched in horror as Shuangyin was abruptly thrown backward, her body crashing into the wall with a sickening thud. The vines lashed out at her, wrapping around her limbs and pinning her to the surface. Her cries of protest were muffled as another tendril slammed against her mouth, silencing her off.
Mobei will sever my head from my neck if she’s harmed.
Binghe's instincts kicked in, his demonic qi flaring bright red as he roared at the plant, "Leave her alone!" The vines hesitated briefly, recoiling slightly from the surge of power. But then, they tightened their grip on Shuangyin, lifting her higher until she dangled precariously above the ground, her feet kicking helplessly in midair. Binghe struggled against his own bonds, renewed fury giving him strength.
Binghe's defiance seemed to anger the cursed plant, and the tendrils responded by tightening their grip on him. They shifted their positions, causing his back to arch painfully as they pulled him taut.
The vines around his wrists and ankles squeezed even harder, biting into his flesh until he could feel the blood pounding in his veins.
Binghe let out a guttural scream as the ones in him drove deeper still, stretching his insides mercilessly. It felt like they were trying to reach his very core, pushing past barriers that should not be crossed. Simultaneously, something wrapped around his throbbing arousal and began to suck, creating an intense sensation that bordered on painful.
Binghe's body convulsed as the things worked him over, driving him towards a precipice. If he falls— he wasn't sure his dignity could survive. He grit his teeth, fighting back against the wave of pleasure that threatened to consume him. His eyes watered, and his muscles strained as he battled against the invading plants.
Through the haze of sensation, he saw Shuangyin struggle weakly against her bonds, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. There were tendrils around her throat.
The helplessness he felt unable to free himself to help her was crippling.
The suction on Binghe's hardness intensified, drawing a desperate cry from him as his hips jerked involuntarily. The vines inside him pulsed, sending waves crashing through his body.
He couldn't take much more; he was being driven to the brink of insanity. Just when he thought he would shatter into a million pieces, there was sudden movement near the door.
A deep rumble echoed from behind the closed doors,
"This isn’t opening?!"
Then the doors burst open with a forceful kick. Liu Qingge strode into the room, his presence commanding and imposing. Behind him followed Shi. The steward saw Shuangyin and rushed towards her.
As soon as Binghe caught proper sight of Liu Qingge, his body immediately reacted, every muscle tensing knowing the immortal could see right through him.
Binghe's face burned with humiliation as Liu Qingge's sharp gaze swept over him, taking in every exposed part of his bound form. He tried to hide his arousal, but the vines' relentless manipulation made it impossible. A strangled moan escaped his lips as he was brought closer to the edge of release.
Liu Qingge's eyes narrowed dangerously as they landed on Shuangyin, suspended helplessly by the vines.
"Lord Liu!" Shi exclaimed, his voice laced with urgency as he rushed into the room. His eyes widened in alarm upon seeing Binghe's predicament and Shuangyin's captured state. "Do something!"
Liu Qingge's expression darkened, his jaw clenching tightly. "Stay calm," he ordered, his voice steady despite the chaos unfolding before him. His gaze remained fixed on the vines that ensnared Binghe and Shuangyin.
The vines responded to Liu Qingge's presence, pulsing hard and fast as if driven by some unseen force. They writhed and twisted around Binghe's body, squeezing tighter while simultaneously increasing the suction on his length.
Another low moan escaped Binghe's lips, his hips jerking upward as his pleasure built. His eyes met Liu Qingge's, pleading silently for help even as his body betrayed him.
Liu Qingge stepped closer, his boots clicking sharply on the stone floor. The sound seemed to startle the vines, which paused briefly in their torment of Binghe.
Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Liu Qingge approached the writhing mass of vegetation, his eyes assessing for a weakness. His qi pressure alone seemed to cause the plant to hesitate, as if uncertain how to react to this formidable figure.
Binghe's breath hitched as Liu Qingge drew nearer, the intensity of his gaze unyielding. The vines trembled, their pulsations becoming erratic under the weight of the immortal's stare. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as the two of them locked gazes, a silent battle of wills playing out between them.
Binghe's eyes widened in surprise as Liu Qingge reached out, his fingers gently brushing against Binghe's cheek.
"Let go," Liu Qingge murmured softly, his thumb tracing the line of Binghe's jaw. "I've encountered this cursed plant before. Trust me."
Binghe stared into Liu Qingge's eyes, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. The command to let go resonated through him, and he took a deep breath, trying to regulate his body and tolerate the sensations overwhelming him.
As if sensing his compliance, the vines pulsed harder, driving him closer to the edge of his unraveling. Perhaps no longer able to resist, Liu Qingge leaned in, pressing his lips firmly against Binghe's.
Binghe gasped into the contact, surprised by the unexpected kiss. His eyes fluttered shut as he melted into it, feeling Liu Qingge's warm breath mingling with his own. The press sent a jolt of thunder coursing through him, making him ache all the more.
When Liu Qingge finally pulled away, Binghe opened his eyes to find the immortal gazing down at him heatedly.
"Forgive me, Binghe," Liu Qingge whispered, his forehead resting against Binghe's. "But there's no other way. ‘Release’ and you'll be freed." With that, Liu Qingge pressed a hand against the vine that snaked around Binghe's throat, his fingers digging, gripping the writhing thing.
Oddly, the vine shuddered at the touch, its grip loosening slightly.
Binghe whimpered, his body tensing and trembled in anticipation, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Humiliation and shame warred with desire and longing, leaving him vulnerable and exposed.
“You— free her now,” Liu Qingge told Shi.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the demon carefully pulling Shuangyin free from her loosening bindings, guiding her urgently out of the room. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing Binghe and Liu Qingge alone.
Carefully, Liu Qingge's hand slid down from Binghe's throat, trailing fire across his collarbone and chest. To Binghe’s consternation, rough fingers circled one nipple, then the other, watching them pebble beneath his touch.
Binghe gasped, unable to stop himself from leaning into the contact, his traitorous body craving more. Liu Qingge obliged, pinching and rolling the sensitive nubs between his fingers, eliciting soft moans from Binghe.
"You're in so much trouble, Binghe," Liu Qingge growled, his voice a low rumble of disapproval mixed with heat. He pinched harder, twisting until Binghe cried out, his back arching even more.
"Look at you, so exposed, so vulnerable. What am I going to do with you, hn?" Before Binghe could respond, Liu Qingge captured his mouth again, tongue exploring him deeply and thoroughly.
"Mercy, Shifu... please," Binghe begged once they broke apart, his voice hoarse with need. "I can't take it anymore. Help me..."
His pleas fell on deaf ears as Liu Qingge continued to torment mercilessly. His body was slick with the cursed plant’s secretion, quaking with each breath he took.
As Liu Qingge continued to assault his senses, Binghe felt a wave of something wash over him, unlike anything he'd ever experienced. His body burned with an insatiable hunger, every nerve ending alight with pleasure. The unnatural arousal coursed through his veins, making him feel dizzy and delirious. He was trapped in a vortex of sensation, unable to think clearly or control his responses.
He was flip flopping, his inner conflict raged as he struggled to reconcile his desire with his pride. His body screamed for completion, yet his mind rebelled against the idea of succumbing so completely to the humiliation. "I won't break like this," he gasped, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.
In response, Liu Qingge chuckled low, his eyes gleaming with something dark, primal.
That— that struck Binghe as something very, very wrong. So uncharacteristic of his Shifu. Despite the tide of excruciating pleasure that kept washing over him, Binghe fought even harder for control. His mind rebelled against the idea of succumbing so easily to these torment.
"No..." he groaned, his voice barely audible. "I will— ah— never."
His verbal defiance was halted as soon as darkness enveloped Binghe once more. The terrible flora slithered up his body, obscuring his vision. They tightened around his limbs, constricting and releasing rhythmically, mimicking the pulsing of his own heartbeat. The suction on his weeping length intensified, drawing forth a desperate cry from his lips. The plant seemed to feed on his torment, its movements growing wild and frenzied.
As if knowing exactly how to torture further, the vines inside him began to move with renewed vigour, pulsing and writhing in a way that will eventually push Binghe past his breaking point. His body convulsed violently as waves of ecstasy crashed over him, stealing his breath and his sanity.
When he finally came undone, he was screaming out Liu Qingge's name, surging forward, his seed spilling forth.
Despite Binghe's high gradually subsiding, the vines continued their relentless assault, sucking greedily at his spent organ. The ministrations was too much to bear, and he squirmed helplessly against the restraints binding him. "Stop," he panted. "Please, Shifu— make it stop."
The vines, having taken what they wanted, miraculously released their hold on Binghe. He slumped back onto the cold stone floor, gasping for breath, his body covered in a sheen of perspiration. His limbs felt heavy and weak, his mind hazy from the intense pleasure he'd been forced to endure. He lay there panting before Liu Qingge’s feet, trying to gather his thoughts amidst the fog of exhaustion and arousal that clouded his brain.
"Binghe—"
Binghe shuddered softly as Liu Qingge squatted down beside him, reaching out to stroke his hair gently. "You're such a mess," Liu Qingge murmured, his voice filled with tenderness despite the words. "So filthy, but so beautiful." He ran his fingertips through the damp strands, carding them back from Binghe's flushed face.
Around them, the silver vines slowly retreated, slipping back into the cracks and crevices of the room as if they had never been there. Binghe was too exhausted to care about where they went; his focus was entirely on Liu Qingge, whose gentle touch grounded him in reality.
“Did you like it— being violated like that in front of me?”
He choked on air.
“You are gaping wide open down there—“
Binghe blushed furiously at Liu Qingge's filthy words, his body still oversensitive and raw from the plant's ministrations. He tried to squeeze his thighs together, but Liu Qingge placed a firm hand on his knee, preventing the movement.
"Don't hide from me, Binghe," Liu Qingge chastised darkly. "Let me see all of you." With that, he gripped Binghe's hips and flipped him onto his stomach, causing Binghe to yelp in surprise.
He felt Liu Qingge’s hand caressing his bottom, followed by fingers digging past his quivering rim. The peak lord let out a fascinated hum. “Look at this— so open, so wet.”
‘Curses, is this truly Liu Qingge?’ Binghe thought as he whimpered pathetically, feeling Liu Qingge test how loose he had gotten down there. He almost lost his mind again when at least three long digits prodded that spot in him— that bundle of nerves which can make him see stars.
There was rustling of fabric, a telltale sound of a belt being taken off and thrown aside.
“Now, brace yourself.” A command.
He almost howled at the sudden intrusion alongside the fingers, the stretch and burn overwhelming his senses. He bit his own arm to stifle his cries. He felt the head of Liu Qingge's hardness nudge against that spot within, sending shockwaves coursing through him. Despite his sensitivity from his recent unraveling, he couldn't help but push back against the invasion, eager for more.
Binghe moaned loudly as Liu Qingge began to thrust into him with forceful strokes, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the chamber. He met each punishing snap of the hips, taking every bit offered. Liu Qingge's hands dug into his waist, holding him steady as he pounded into him relentlessly. Binghe’s neglected member, pressed against the floor, was filling up. He desperately sought friction.
"Take it, Binghe," Liu Qingge grunted, his voice low and husky with desire. "Show me how much you want it." Binghe could only moan in response, his body aching but at the same time alight with pleasure as Liu Qingge maintained that unforgiving rhythm.
The perfection of a man leaned down, pressing his chest against Binghe's back, his breath hot on Binghe's ear. "You feel so good wrapped around me," he whispered, his hips continuing to thrust relentlessly.
Binghe begged for mercy, hips shaking. Too much!
With that being said, Liu Qingge slowed his pace briefly, giving Binghe a chance to catch his breath. Then, with a firm grip on Binghe's bottom, he pulled out slightly before driving back in, arranging Binghe onto his hands and knees. He leaned over Binghe's back, his chest pressed against Binghe's shoulder blades, and nipped at his earlobe.
"Show me how sorry you are for playing with that thing," he whispered, his voice husky with desire.
Binghe gasped at the tone, but complied eagerly, shifting his weight onto one arm while reaching back with the other to spread himself wider. He presented himself shamelessly, offering everything to Liu Qingge. "Like this, Shifu?" he asked, glancing back over his shoulder with a wicked smile.
Clearly, Liu Qingge wasn't impressed with the show of submission. He grabbed Binghe's wrists and pinned them behind his back, forcing him to arch further and exposing even more of his willing body. He ground against Binghe roughly, ensuring that every part of his length slid along Binghe's tender walls. "You call this presenting yourself? This isn't enough."
All of a sudden Liu Qingge pulled himself partially out.
With a dark laugh, Liu Qingge grabbed Binghe's half-hard organ which was dangling obscenely and tugged it back, impossibly bending it towards Binghe’s own entrance. Luo Binghe squirmed, not understanding whatever was about to happen— he stilled when Liu Qingge rubbed the head against the rim before pushing it inside.
The peak lord impaled him using his own thing?! That can be done?! Binghe cried out in shock and mind numbing pleasure, feeling the tight heat envelop him completely, Liu Qingge’s arousal throbbed alongside his as it was being sheathed fully inside. Words cannot describe what he was feeling.
“Shifu— no! Please, please don’t!”
“Why not? You saw heaven when those fat sprouts filled you. How many was it— two, three?” Liu Qingge growled and pulled out and shoved himself back in again.
“Nngh— Shifu, please— too much!”
"This monster you have here—“ he said, maintaining his grip to make sure Bunghe stays in, “can be used like this," Liu Qingge growled, beginning to rail him in earnest, "this— is what I call presenting yourself."
Liu Qingge began to rock back and forth, his body moving with a sinuous grace that belied the ferocity of his thrusts. Binghe could feel every ridge and vein of his own cock lewdly rubbing against his inner walls, against Liu Qingge’s— the sensation nearly unbearable in its intensity. He whimpered and bucked his hips, trying desperately to escape the excruciating pleasure, but Liu Qingge held him fast, using his body as his personal plaything.
Binghe's mind raced as he struggled to process the sheer depravity of their current situation. Liu Qingge continued to fuck himself on Binghe's cock, his movements slow and calculated, teasing them both mercilessly. Binghe could feel the plant slicked heat of his own body enveloping him, the tight clench of muscles milking his shaft with every roll of Liu Qingge's hips.
Binghe reached back blindly, his fingers brushing against Liu Qingge's hand. He grasped it tightly, holding on for dear life as the waves of ecstasy threatened to consume him.
"Shifu, no more— forgive me!" he gasped, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I love you, but please I can’t—."
Liu Qingge squeezed his hand reassuringly, his eyes locked onto Binghe's as he continued with the onslaught. Binghe’s desperate cries were ignored.
Binghe was blinking the tears from his eyes when suddenly there was a voice from behind them, tutting as if scolding a child, then calling out, “Qingge— oh, Qingge.”
Binghe froze. He knew that voice— too well. His head whipped toward Liu Qingge, who was smirking down at him with infuriating calm. As Liu Qingge held his gaze, Binghe felt his own expression shift uncontrollably— shock, horror, and disbelief flashing in quick succession.
“What is it?” Liu Qingge asked the person, or was he asking him? Perhaps both— mock concern curling at the edges of his voice.
Before Binghe could say something, another voice cut clean through the air, achingly familiar. “Qingge— don’t be so mean to our Binghe, the damn plant wasn’t his fault.”
Binghe gasped. His blood iced.
Liu Qingge paused mid-thrust, turned his head toward the speaker with all the gravity of someone checking the weather. “Shixiong—” His tone was flat, as though he’d expected the supposedly dead peak lord to drop in uninvited all along.
Binghe’s jaw fell open. His eyes darted wildly between them as Shen Qingqiu stepped fully into view, a knowing smile curling at his lips as he took in the depravity of the scene.
“Oh no, poor boy—” Shen Qingqiu crooned, his voice sweet as poisoned honey. “Qingge, you closeted freak, how can you be so cruel?”
The words struck Binghe like lightning— cruel? Freak? With Shibo’s serene disappointment shining directly at him?! His face went molten. His lungs seized. His vision swam—
He’s alive?!
And then—
He woke up.
Luo Binghe jerked upright in his own bed, drenched in sweat, boots still on, body twisted in the world’s most undignified sleeping angle. No vines. No Liu Qingge. No Shizun calling him a freak. Just his empty chamber, quiet and still.
He flopped back onto the mattress with a long, shaky groan, dragging a hand over his face. Why… why must my mind torment me so…
It had only been a dream—an utterly humiliating, karmically cursed nightmare.
Binghe sat up, groggy and pale, the cursed celestial seed still in his left hand. His lips curled in disgust. This stupid thing—
He hurled it across the room.
It ricocheted off the wall like it had a grudge, flew back, and smacked him squarely on the nose.
“Ow!” Binghe yelped, clutching his face.
From the door, Shi emerged— looking inconveniently youthful now— snorted into his sleeve. Shuangyin followed him in, muttering that it was divine punishment for Binghe’s dramatics.
Before Binghe could retort, the door slid open.
Liu Qingge stepped in, radiating his usual severe presence. His eyes swept the room once, locked onto Shi— and his hand went straight for Cheng Luan.
“Who is this stranger?” Liu Qingge demanded, voice cutting through the air.
Shi blinked, frozen. Shuangyin raised both hands, as if to declare her innocence. Binghe, nose still throbbing, waved his arms frantically.
“Wait—wait! Shifu, put the sword down, it’s only Old Shi!” Binghe squeaked.
“That is not that old prune.” Liu Qingge’s gaze narrowed dangerously.
“It’s him!” Binghe jabbed a finger at Shi. “Yun Zhixian de-aged him yesterday. Divine meddling, not my fault!”
Shi muttered under his breath, “Not my choice either.”
Liu Qingge’s storm-grey eyes darted between Binghe’s flushed, dishevelled state, the mysterious handsome demon he doesn’t recognise, and the cursed seed rolling mockingly on the floor.
The War God looked one breath away from assuming the worst.
The room went utterly still.
Liu Qingge’s nostrils flared slightly, his gaze narrowing as he took a measured breath— like a hunter tracking prey. His eyes cut to Binghe, storm-grey darkening.
“…Musky,” he said flatly. “Heavy. Lingering. Distinctly male.”
Binghe blinked. Then mortification seized him. No. No, no, no— don’t do this out loud.
Liu Qingge tilted his head, as though reciting a field report.
“A strong emission, recent. Not foreign— your scent, Luo Binghe. Undeniable.”
“Shifu!!” Binghe yelped, face flaming.
“You reek of it,” Liu Qingge continued mercilessly, voice as calm as if he were pointing out tracks in snow. “The tang of exhaustion. The afterscent of release. Foolish disciple, you soiled yourself.”
Binghe nearly strangled himself with his own sleeve in shame. “I— I DID NOT—!!”
Shi, youthful and handsome now, choked on air, shoulders shaking. Shuangyin politely covered her mouth, her eyes gleaming like a glacier about to split.
“I— it was a dream! A nightmare!” Binghe sputtered, waving his arms. “There was this cursed seed! Tentacles! Nothing to do with— with him!” He jabbed a frantic finger at Shi. “Not my lover! Not one else but you!”
Liu Qingge’s brows furrowed dangerously. “…Tentacles?”
Shuangyin, ever helpful, added in a smooth voice: “Oho. Must be one like in Junshang yellow books. They must have pried his jaw open. He drooled. Cock milking. Multiple penetrations—”
“SHUANGYIN!!” Binghe practically shrieked, covering his lap with a blanket.
Shi wiped his eyes, wheezing. “I’ll… I’ll fetch a bath.”
Binghe buried his face in his hands, praying for death.
Liu Qingge exhaled heavily, the sound halfway between a sigh and a growl. “…Hopeless.”
Binghe peeked between his fingers, still scarlet from head to toe. His voice was low, grumbly, but carried just enough bite to make Shuangyin’s brush still and Shi choke again.
“You will wilt and die if I tell you what your dream-self did to me, Shifu.”
The words slipped out before his brain caught them.
There was a silence so sharp it hurt.
Liu Qingge’s storm-grey eyes turned to steel. His jaw set, the faintest twitch in his cheek betraying the tectonic fury beneath. “…What.”
Binghe’s blood ran cold.
Why. Why did I say that. Why am I like this.
“Nothing! It was nothing! Just a joke!” Binghe yelped, waving his arms in frantic denial. “Forget I said anything, Shifu, please! I value my life—”
Liu Qingge stood there, tall as a mountain, expression unreadable but radiating judgement. His lips parted— only two words escaped, cutting like execution bells:
“Hopeless disciple.”
Binghe crumpled into himself with a groan. “I regret everything.”
Sniffing the air, Shuangyin calmly murmured, “You don’t.”
Shi cackled openly.
Omake 1: The Sketches
It started innocently enough. Binghe had just finished a training drill when Liu Qingge entered the room, his expression thunderous.
“Shifu?” Binghe asked, cautious.
Without a word, Liu Qingge slapped a bundle of papers onto the table. They unfurled— ink lines, delicate brushstrokes, flourishes of icy mastery.
Binghe froze. His soul left his body.
Shuangyin’s sketches.
There he was— bound, arched, gagged with vines. The details were too exact: his jaw pried open, drool streaking down, the curve of his waist, the sweat beading his chest. The pages documented angles Binghe didn’t even remember suffering through— oh no, was it really a dream?
Liu Qingge’s storm-grey eyes drilled into him. “Explain.”
Binghe flailed. “It— it’s artistic exaggeration! It never happened! It was just— Shuangyin has an overactive imagination!”
“Overactive imagination?” Liu Qingge flipped another page, his brows twitching. “This shading— this detail etchings. It is too accurate. Down to the crease of your brow.”
Binghe covered his face with both hands, muffling a scream. Shizun, Shibo— take me now, bury me six feet under.
Liu Qingge leaned in, voice low, dangerous. “Was it a dream… or reality?”
Binghe peeked through his fingers, desperate. “It was a nightmare! Shifu, I swear! The cursed seed sprouted, and— and I— I would never—plants aren’t even my type!”
From outside the room, Shuangyin’s serene voice floated in, utterly unhelpful: “That’s not what your body said, young highness.”
Liu Qingge’s expression was unreadable, but the twitch at his jaw spoke volumes. Binghe’s life flashed before his eyes.
And in that moment, Luo Binghe knew: his suffering was far from over.
Omake 2: Private Humiliation Extension
Liu Qingge sat back, Cheng Luan sharpening forgotten at his side, his storm-grey eyes pinning Binghe like a spear. “What exactly did my dream-self do to you,” he asked in that flat, merciless tone of his, “that you shrink back two millimetres further every time I so much as touch your hair?”
Binghe wanted to evaporate. His ears went hot, his palms clammy. He looked anywhere but at the War God, even craning his neck at the wooden beams of the ceiling as though divine salvation might be carved there.
“Nothing too big,” he mumbled. Then, traitorously, the corner of his lips curled and his voice dipped into a half-purr. “But it was hot.”
Liu Qingge’s brows twitched— the faintest crack in that stone-carved face.
Binghe should have stopped there. He knew he should. But his tongue, curse it, had a death wish. “Hot enough I woke up swearing you’d never forgive me if I told you what I dreamt. But if you insist, Shifu, I could—”
The air shifted. In one blink Liu Qingge was looming, hand braced against the wall beside Binghe’s head, so close the faint musk of iron and sandalwood clung to his robes.
“Don’t,” Liu Qingge warned, voice roughened.
Binghe swallowed, throat dry, heart skittering between terror and thrill. He plastered on his best sulky pout, playing the scolded lover. “See? I knew you’d wilt and die if I told you.”
Liu Qingge’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he ground out, “You are insufferable.”
Binghe, internally: Regret everything. Regret everything.
And yet, treacherously, his pulse sang with delight.
Omake 3: Mobei-jun the Therapist (but meaner)
Binghe sprawled dramatically across an overstuffed chaise in his quarters, one arm thrown over his forehead like a heroine in a trashy romance novel. His voice was a fevered whisper, but he relayed every cursed detail anyway— the silken tendrils, the gagging vines, the slick that wouldn’t stop, the way it all warped into his Shifu becoming some dark sex-god tormentor.
Mobei-jun listened. Silent. Glacier-faced.
Finally, the ice demon stood, the weight of the north itself in his posture. He walked to Binghe’s side, blue eyes boring down at him.
“Lie down properly,” he commanded, voice carrying the gravitas of a sect master preparing to lecture.
Binghe obeyed, folding himself onto the chaise with a nervous little squirm, waiting for advice, absolution— something.
Mobei placed a hand on Binghe’s shoulder with the solemnity of a xianxia sage about to impart heavenly wisdom. Then, in that same steady tone, he declared:
“That wasn’t your Shifu.”
Binghe blinked, hope sparking. “It— it wasn’t?”
“No.” Mobei leaned in closer, as though delivering a profound cultivation truth. “That was you. Every last vine, every gag, every depraved twist of it— was your own mind.”
He straightened, arms folded, voice flat as tundra ice.
“You are one sick bastard.”
Binghe’s soul left his body. His hands clawed at the cushions in horror. “WHAT—?!”
Unmoved, Mobei continued, tone even colder, as though issuing a death sentence:
“Seek a physician. Or an exorcist. Or both.”
Binghe buried his face into a cushion and let out the world’s loudest groan.
Binghe flailed upright, hair mussed and cheeks blazing. “I am NOT sick! That dream was a cursed seed’s fault, not me!”
Mobei didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. He just stared down at Binghe as though he were dissecting a frog pinned to a board.
“That cursed seed,” he said flatly, “was your imagination made flesh.”
Binghe’s mouth worked soundlessly, horror dawning like the world’s slowest eclipse.
Mobei crouched, level with Binghe’s wide, trembling eyes. His voice dropped to an arctic whisper, a pronouncement carved in stone:
“Luo Binghe… you have a r*bleep*pe-kink.”
The words hit harder than Cheng Luan to the chest.
Binghe fell back on the chaise like he’d been struck by heavenly tribulation lightning. “No… no, I— I do not—!”
“Yes.” Mobei stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “You do.”
Binghe buried his face into both hands, a muffled, broken wail escaping him. “I regret telling you anything!”
“Good,” Mobei said, already walking away, tone colder than northern glaciers. “Keep regretting. It suits you.”
Binghe’s scream of despair echoed through the fortress.
Omake 4: The Unqualified Psychiatrist
Binghe clutched his head, wailing, “Why did I ever confide in you?!”
Mobei didn’t soften. He folded his arms, eyes glacial, and delivered another brutal verdict:
“Your dbleepck is so monstrous you could self-fbleeeeeepck. Diagnosis complete.”
Binghe let out a strangled screech, half-offended, half-horrified. “WHAT KIND OF MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL ARE YOU?!”
From the doorway, Shuangyin’s calm, level voice cut in. “He is not a medical professional at all, Your Highness. But he is… a very good listener with razor sharp tongue.”
Binghe whipped his head around. “SHUANGYIN?! How long have you—”
She stepped forward serenely, hands folded, gaze cool as ever. “I am proud of my Xiao Han-er,” she said with a soft smile, “for listening so patiently to all of your woes. A trusty confidant is rare.”
“Confidant?!” Binghe choked, sputtering. “He diagnosed me with— with—” He flailed, unable to repeat the words.
Shuangyin simply nodded once, approving. “It is true. His listening skills are improving. I raised him well.”
Mobei smirked faintly, silent but smug.
Binghe buried his face in a pillow, muffling his scream of despair.
Omake 5: The Awkward Interruption
Binghe was still howling into a pillow when the door slid open.
Liu Qingge’s shadow cut across the floor. He paused, grey eyes narrowing, clearly having caught the last explosive phrase.
“…Self-f*bleep*ck,” he repeated flatly.
Binghe froze, pillow clutched like a shield. “Sh-Shifu— it’s not— no, don’t go there—!”
Liu Qingge’s expression didn’t change, though his voice carried the same unshakable seriousness he used when interrogating battlefield scouts.
“How does that even work?”
Silence. Binghe wanted the floor to eat him whole.
Mobei, utterly unbothered, crossed his arms and replied with clinical calm.
“It requires—” he began, and then his words dissolved into a censored blur of bleeping noises and pixelated metaphors. “—insertion angle— bleeeep— but most importantly a monster co*bleep*k— spinal flexibility — bleeeeeeeeeeeep — until eventual— BLAAARP.”
Binghe shrieked, throwing the pillow at Mobei. “STOP HELPING!”
Liu Qingge’s brows knit faintly. He looked at Binghe, then at Mobei, then back again.
“…You are all insane,” he concluded, turning stiffly on his heel and leaving the room.
Shuangyin, from the corner, calmly dipped her brush in ink. “I should document this properly.”
Binghe wailed into his hands.
Omake 6: The War God Demands Clarification
It was hours later, the fortress quiet. Luo Binghe had finally managed to retreat to his now clean quarters, only just beginning to convince himself that the earlier humiliation could be buried and forgotten.
The door creaked open.
“Shifu?” Binghe looked up, startled.
Liu Qingge stepped in, sliding the door shut behind him. His expression was as impassive as always, but his posture carried that tense sharpness Binghe knew too well— the kind that meant he’d been thinking about something far too long.
“Earlier,” Liu Qingge said evenly, “Mobei mentioned… a possibility.”
Binghe paled. His mouth went dry. “Shifu, please—”
Grey eyes fixed on him, unblinking. “Was he exaggerating?” A pause, deliberate. “Is it even possible?”
Binghe nearly toppled backwards. His thoughts ran screaming in circles. Of course Liu Qingge wouldn’t let it go. Of course he’d approach it like a battlefield report.
“…Y-you want me to demonstrate?” Binghe blurted before he could stop himself.
Liu Qingge’s expression darkened instantly, a vein twitching at his temple. “No.” His voice was firm enough to cut steel. “Explain. Clearly. Without… Mobei’s… embellishments.”
Binghe buried his face in his hands, groaning. “Shifu, if I tell you, you’ll wilt and die on the spot.”
“Try me.”
Binghe peeked at him through his fingers, cheeks blazing. “…It involves a lot of stretching and—”
He made some demonstrative hand gestures.
“Enough,” Liu Qingge snapped, jaw tight. His ears were turning red despite himself. “You really are insufferable.”
Binghe hid his grin behind his sleeve. For once, it felt like he had the upper hand.
Omake 9: The Demonstration(?)
Luo Binghe shifted on the chaise, his expression an impossible mix of embarrassment and defiance. His cheeks were flushed crimson, but his eyes glittered with that reckless, determined shine Liu Qingge knew too well from the battlefield.
“You don’t believe me,” Binghe said, lips curving into a wicked smile. “So let me show you, Shifu.”
Before Liu Qingge could react, Binghe’s hands went to his sash.
“Stop.” The War God’s voice cracked like thunder— sharp, commanding.
Binghe froze halfway, smirk curling wider. “Why? Afraid?”
Liu Qingge’s grey eyes narrowed dangerously. “This is not the time, Binghe. Put your damned clothes back in order.”
But Binghe only leaned back, stretching languidly, deliberately provocative. “Shifu, I’ve mastered impossible sword forms, I’ve survived the Abyss, and I’ve carried entire armies on my back… Surely I can handle—”
Liu Qingge lunged.
In a blur of motion, Binghe found himself pinned face-down against the chaise, wrists caught in one iron grip, the other hand clamping firmly over his mouth.
“You will not finish that sentence.” Liu Qingge’s voice was ice, but his ears were scarlet.
Binghe muffled a laugh beneath the hand gagging him, shoulders shaking. The position, the weight, the heat— it was deliciously unfair.
“You’re laughing?” Liu Qingge growled.
Binghe wriggled, deliberately pressing back against him, words muffled into his palm. “Mmf— shifu—”
Liu Qingge dragged him upright with alarming ease and dropped him back on the cushions like an unruly cat. His glare was fierce, but his composure frayed.
“Insufferable imp,” he muttered, voice low and hoarse.
Binghe grinned, stretching like a triumphant fox. “So you do believe me now?”
Liu Qingge pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath about regretting every life choice that had led him to this point.
Omake 8: Liu Qingge’s Letter of Complaint
To the so-called “author” of this mess,
What the hell is wrong with you?
Weren’t you the one who swore up and down that you’re a prude? You said you can’t even write kissing paragraphs without needing tea breaks— and yet here you are churning out whole chapters of filth that make even demon manuals blush.
What happened? Were you possessed halfway through the draft? Did Mingyan’s alter ego, “Liu Su Mian Hua,” hijack your brain with sugar-dusted perversion and start dictating from the clouds? Because I refuse to believe a supposedly sane author-whatever-you-are could produce this kind of depravity sober.
Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve put me— me, the War God— into the sort of compromising positions that belong in cheap yellow scrolls hawked in night markets. My reputation! My disciples! My dignity! Gone, shredded like cabbage in some back-alley noodle shop.
And as if that wasn’t enough, you let Binghe narrate every humiliating detail with those syrupy, romance-trash monologues. I can still hear him simpering: “So this is what it means to be yours…” Yours?? He’s my disciple! You’re the one shoving this cursed script into his mouth like spoiled dumplings!
Get your shit together.
Stop writing like you’re on a one-way pilgrimage to the brothels of Luohe. If you must indulge this ridiculous pairing, at least keep the descriptions to something less likely to get me hexed by Heaven for public obscenity.
If I catch you penning one more chrysanthemum metaphor, I swear— I’ll break the fourth wall myself, march over there, and slice your inkstone in half with Cheng Luan.
Signed with mounting regret,
Liu Qingge
Peak Lord of Bai Zhan, unwilling victim of your trashy chapters
Omake 9: Reply from Alex (the filthy alter ego)
Dearest Liu Qingge,
You’re right about one thing: I am possessed. Possessed by the unholy power of reader comments. One loyal reader in particular wrote sometime ago, let me rephrase because it was in Spanish, “Binghe needs to be handled roughly and dirtily by a person with greater authority. Manhandled into place.”
Now tell me, Qingge— who else fits that bill if not you?
Think about it. You’ve got the discipline, the scars, the aura of a man who wrestles mountains before breakfast. Authority drips off you like condensation from a chilled wine jug. You were practically engineered to drag Binghe kicking and screaming into filth. The people want it, I deliver it. That’s called customer service.
And don’t try that “my reputation, my disciples, my honour” spiel on me again. You’re already in too deep. The moment you pressed Binghe to a wall and kissed him like a duel— yeah, that was me, Alex, whispering in the background, “Make it dirtier. Make it hurt.”
You call it yellow-scroll trash. I call it destiny. The chrysanthemum metaphors? Art. The censored filth that makes the heavens gag? Literature. Do you think Tianlang-jun hoards erotic scrolls because he doesn’t respect craft?
So, Liu Qingge, stop complaining. Know that the quiet ones are the real freaks. Accept your fanfic OOC role. The stoic War God turned reluctant top in Binghe’s nightmare-romance-saga. You’re welcome.
Yours truly,
Alex
(Self-proclaimed not-pervert, romance saboteur, closeted bringer of authority kink)