Chapter Text
Luo Binghe stares below where he's perched on his sword, wide-eyed at the thick, red juice dripping from his Shizun’s rapidly whitening face.
“Out of all the places I could have fallen into on our way back…” Binghe hears with his enhanced cultivation from the field his Shizun had fallen into, his hand settling closer to the hilt of his sword as he hurries to approach, feet digging into the damp earth as he gets close enough to jump off the bladed point.
“Shizun!” He yells out, “Don't worry, I'm coming! Are you hurt? That fall from your sword—”
His master waves a hand at the direction of his voice, as if Without A Cure acting up in the middle of their sword travel over a 300-foot drop was no issue. Binghe’s hands clench at the cavalier gesture as he continues running closer, eyes flickering over the unfamiliar, bulbous red fruits hiding knee-deep below thick, green leaves.
“Don't approach!” Shizun yells as they lock eyes, his shapely eyebrows pulling upward as Binghe prepares to take a step into the forest’s clearing. His master's robe is covered in the red juice of the plants, not just his face, and the worry on Shen Qingqiu’s serious expression is the only thing that stops Binghe from rushing to double-check if the blood-like stains are just from the unusual plants or his injuries.
“It's the Red-Rooted Cavernous Fruitlily,” His Shizun expertly explains when Binghe stays still, both of them frowning at the plant. “They are normally seen as an aphrodisiac, but thankfully the effects come from their pollen, not the fruit.” His Shizun straightens up, seemingly ignoring the stains and twigs in his hair as Luo Binghe stares at his master, lips tugging with amusement as the sense of danger passes. Even like this, disheveled and dirtied, his Shizun looks prim as he delicately steps forward, seemingly cautious about where his foot should be placed.
Luo Binghe frowns, peering deeper into the underbush as his master slowly, gently meanders forward. “Are you sure this plant is safe, Shizun?”
His Shizun hums in affirmation, the noise undercut by his intensely focused expression. “No need to doubt this master, Binghe,” He scolds, no heat in his voice, “This master is simply making sure he doesn't step on the roots, which hold—”
A crack rips through the air, and a bright plume of red smoke jerks up from the bush, instantly coating his Shizun in a thick, simmering layer that attaches to the sticky juice of its red fruit.
An awkward silence settles.
“Shizun—”
“Binghe. Not a word.”
Luo Binghe worries his lip, expression intentionally trembling as he prepares to do the impossible and encourage his master to rely on medical treatment. “Shizun, this disciple can quickly travel to Mu Qingfang and bring him here, or Shizun can travel beside this humble disciple as—”
“No.”
His Shizun’s voice cuts deep, shoulders tensed. They slowly relax, and Shen Qingqiu turns his face to him, expression a mask of calm Binghe knows too well to believe. “No, that's not necessary. Fortunately, these plants are the non-lethal variety, and their symptoms will dissipate with time. The bamboo house is just up the mountain, and your Shizun is not so weak as to be unable to use his perfectly good legs! No need to trouble Mu-shidi over such a simple… thing…” A hitch in his Shizun’s breathing picks up, noticeable in the silence of a quiet afternoon. He puts a foot forward, subtly wobbling over another root, and Binghe instinctively moves forward to catch his arm and center him—
Shen Qingqiu immediately pulls back. “Stop, Binghe,” he sternly says, “Do not touch me. Such a thing causes worsening symptoms, so you are forbidden from helping this master, understood?” Luo Binghe demurely bows his head, obedient.
“Yes, Shizun.”
Shen Qingqiu nervously fidgets his robes; not in a way seen by most, but obvious to Luo Binghe. “Good. We need to leave, now. Night is when the effects are most active, so we have limited time.” With that, he turns in the general direction of their home, single-mindedly marching forward through the plants, seemingly smashing through the leaves with no small amount of resentment.
Luo Binghe smiles at his stubborn Shizun’s back and follows, as he always does.
The trek upwards is torturous.
Not just for his master, faced flushed and breath uncharacteristically panting, but for Binghe, who jerks his hand back after each clumsy stumble that Shen Qingqiu has, calloused fingers itching to touch and sooth the increasing frustration on his master's face.
And the back of his mind whispers to him, tantalizing tendrils of excitement creeping along his spine as he thinks about the potential effects of the pollen, of what his Shizun might soon — or already — be experiencing.
He licks his lips when he's sure Shen Qingqiu isn't looking, mouth suddenly dry.
“Binghe,” His master commands in front of him, breathing laboured and voice imperceptibly shaky. Luo Binghe straightens up, suddenly hungry for his words. “I… I need a break. Head up the mountain and bring me my talisman paper and qi-infused ink. This master is slowing you down—”
“This disciple is honored to walk by his Shizun,” He hurriedly answers.
Shen Qingqiu sighs, as if he gave a wrong answer. Luo Binghe’s teeth bite down on the inside of his cheek for his transgression, pushing past the tang of copper in his mouth. “I'm glad you're getting your exercise in, Binghe, but you must bring me these items,” He stares off into the distance— no, the sky, green eyes peering at the lowered position of the sun like a calculating bird of prey. “It's close to sunset,” Shen Qingqiu simply says.
Binghe nods, easily pushing past the instinctive tantrum that threatens to rise when he can't be by his Shizun’s side. “I'll be back as quickly as I can, Shizun,” He promises, unholstering his sword and jumping on it as he zooms past, ignoring the fallen leaves blooming past his frame and the pair of eyes following his ascent. Only within a minute, he reached his goal of the main house… and Ming Fan.
He scowls, putting his sword away, ignoring the urge to hold it in front of him like a threat — Ming Fan would be sure to squeal to Shizun about it.
“Leave,” He growls out, and Ming Fan’s eyes widen and narrow as he stalks away from the entrance of the bamboo house, not quite scared enough of Binghe’s command.
“I need to see—”
“My Shizun,” He cuts off, ignoring the twitch of an eyebrow, “Needs privacy. He's not to be bothered for the next few days, especially not for unimportant matters,” He pointedly comments, peering down his nose at the former head disciple.
Ming Fan bristles, opening his mouth, and Luo Binghe readies himself for a fight, arms clenching and stance widening for—
“Binghe!” He hears a faint yell from down the path he just took. They both freeze. “Is Ming Fan with you? If you two are going to chat,” His Shizun’s voice lazily drifts, amusement in his tone, “Could you do it while attending to the task I asked of you?” There, an undercurrent of desperation in his deep voice.
Binghe’s lips thin, a slightly embarrassed flush rising to his cheeks, and Ming Fan looks away, stomping towards the edge of the cliff. Luo Binghe valiantly does not push him off as Ming Fan bends over the perch.
“Shizun!” Ming Fan yells down, “Are you okay? This disciple has a question on the logistics of—”
“Binghe can take care of it, thanking Ming Fan for this trouble.”
A small smirk splits Luo Binghe’s face as he sees Ming Fan’s expression sour, black eyes glaring into his own as he sees the expression on Luo Binghe’s face. He stomps away, eyes blazing under Luo Binghe’s smug gaze, but he doesn't push back, rolling over under Shizun’s dismissal like a dog.
His mind turns back to the initial task once he makes sure that Ming Fan’s figure disappears down the road, limbs sprinting inside the familiar abode to bundle in his arms with ten different types of talisman paper and three different types of qi-infused inkwells he grinded last week. Binghe sprints down, no hand empty enough to pull out his sword and hover down to Shizun. Instead, he clutches his cargo securely to his chest, racing down familiar pathways through the forest until he spots white and green robes peaking from the bush.
His Shizun has sat down on a nearby rock, gaze contemplative as a fan brushes against his parted lips, chest slightly rising a little too heavily. Luo Binghe falters, slowing at the picturesque sight, but his master's superior cultivation catches the sound of dried leaves under his boot, lips smiling past the partial block of his fan as he spots Luo Binghe.
The flush on Luo Binghe’s face deepens, and he jogs closer, gently presenting the supplies. “Shizun, apologies for the interruption, your disciple has returned.”
Shen Qingqiu’s pleased smile deepens, then quickly becomes replaced with a focused frown, fingers carefully taking one of each material. “Honestly, Binghe, you didn't need to provide almost every type of paper,” He mumbles, but the upwards lilt to his voice affirms that Luo Binghe made the right choice. His Shizun starts multitasking, quickly setting what he needs down and pale fingers brushing along his painting utensil with practiced ease, dipping it in ink. It takes no more than a few moments under Luo Binghe’s curious observation that his master appears satisfied with the design, holding a portion of his robe out to ungracefully wipe off several beads of sweat before critically examining his results.
Luo Binghe stares at the gesture, suddenly realizing he's never seen his Shizun physically sweat before.
Another drop follows along the curve of his Shizun’s temple, then the sharp angle of his jaw.
Luo Binghe’s mouth waters.
“The first one is done,” His master suddenly says, holding out the intricate talisman to the wind. Luo Binghe isn't advanced enough in this subject area to recognize the strokes, but he hurriedly collects the rest of the laid materials, mesmerized by the subtle frown still pulling on his Shizun’s face. “I still need to make twelve more of these. Hopefully, the ink should have dried for most of them by the time we arrive.”
As before, Luo Binghe waits for his master to stand, eyes roving over the unsteady legs as his Shizun drapes multiple talismans over his shoulders and arms to dry. The back of the talismans are designed to stick, so his Shizun’s awkward gait does not blow them off course, but Binghe notes that the imbalance in his Shizun’s body is worse than when they first started the trip.
“Shizun!” He suddenly, desperately calls out, words blurting out of his throat as Shen Qingqiu pauses his resumed ascent towards the bamboo house. Binghe runs in front, kneeling down in the dirt as he gazes up at that beautiful, flushed face, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, “This disciple has done you a grave dishonor, being unable to protect you from the Red-Rooted Cavernous Fruitlily. This one takes full blame for his grievous mistake, and begs his Shizun to allow him to take responsibility once they both reach their home!”
He's panting faster than Shizun now, having said it all in one breath, without thought or even a shred of his usual caution. His Shizun is still peering at him like an interesting creature, as if his words did not hold enough unfilial lasciviousness and greed that could get him permissibly strung up, beaten half to death, then flung off his home.
His Shizun lightly scoffs, and Luo Binghe’s heart, for just a moment, wishes his master was cruel enough again to do such things instead.
“Binghe is too harsh on himself — it was only this master’s lack of caution to blame. Come,” He says, brushing past Binghe, as if he doesn't exist, “This will all be done with once we…” A heavy breath follows as Shizun climbs the steep earth, arms reaching into the air for balance. His words drift off as they turn into mutterings Luo Binghe can't hear with his limited cultivation.
Heart raw and face flushed, Luo Binghe eventually stops staring and follows his Shizun, gripping the ink materials close to his chest.
Even this shorter period of travel runs slow, and Luo Binghe spots his master worriedly gazing at the red streaks of pre-sunset, obviously pushing himself to walk farther at each careful glance at the sky until his lack of balance seemed almost easy for Shizun to navigate, steps maintaining a steady rhythm.
In fact, Shen Qingqiu had maintained such an air of dignity during his undignified walk that it takes Binghe by surprise when he catches a slightly louder, “Oh, thank fuck,” when his Shizun steps over the edge to their Bamboo House’s property. Luo Binghe allows himself to get close enough to Shizun, now that they're on even ground, to glance up at his master.
Shizun’s thick, raven hair sticks to the sweat on his face, green eyes unseeing and unfocused as his shaking legs push forward, awkward gait now far more obvious on flat terrain. His wet mouth is parted, panting, and Binghe can see each individual eyelash flutter on Shen Qingqiu’s cheek as a pink tongue dashes over his lips, unconcealed by any barrier or fan.
Luo Binghe immediately looks forward, every muscle in his body tensing as he stares at the entrance to the Bamboo House. Its yawning darkness as Shizun’s sweat-slicked hands open it becomes far more intimidating than anything Luo Binghe has had to kill as he realizes he'll have to spend the night in the same building as… as…
His Shizen throws off his shoes carelessly, letting them scatter as he speed-walks in, clearly unaware of Binghe’s looming crisis, as he always seems to be.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe begs, pulling the words out like rotten teeth, “I'll provide a quick dinner, and then I believe it would be best if I slept in the woodshed tonight.”
His Shizun’s face pops up from behind the door of his bedroom, flushed face frowning at Binghe, who stands there at the entrance, trembling hands clutching inks and paper.
“Binghe,” His Shizun responds, a slight impatience in his step — but it's not really directed at Binghe, more tightly wound within himself as his gaze flitters along the trimming of his door, for some reason, “Do not worry about sleeping elsewhere, this master has it handled. Now, prepare some food for us.”
Luo Binghe curls into himself, miserably nods, and turns to the kitchen.
Once Shizun is occupied and the materials are set in their proper place, his thoughts loom as his hands automatically make a simple soup of cured pork and bok choy, setting the tea and noodles to the side.
Shizun, his mind whispers.
Shizun, his body yells.
Luo Binghe’s teeth grit together, and he cuts the bok choy with too much force, gorging such a deep cut into the counter that he immediately knows a simple sanding won't fix it. A sudden, howling anger hurls through him at the mistake, and he picks up the knife, pulling his arm back to throw it deeper into the wood—!
He snaps back, letting the knife clatter. A familiar wetness gathers in his eyes as he ignores the sound, mind thrumming and howling.
If he can't— if he can't get even something this simple right— then Shizun… he’ll stop being nice to Luo Binghe again, he'll—
A sob slips past his lips, clenched desperately around his mouth.
“Binghe?”
Luo Binghe twirls around in surprise, seeing his Shizun standing by the kitchen’s entrance, a worried expression on his now-clean face, new robes floating on him like a personalized temptation of everything he cannot have.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe gasps, turning away to face the counter, shakily moving to pick up the knife, "This one is sorry, this disciple was just finishing the last stages of dinner—”
A hand touches his shoulder.
This time, the silence comes from Luo Binghe.
“I thought— I thought you couldn't touch me,” He whispers, waiting for an explanation.
A contemplative pause. “A slight gesture over the clothes is perfectly acceptable, as long as no skin contact occurs.”
Before Binghe can protest on the risk, he feels and smells his master around him, arms circling him with such tenderness it brings fresh tears into Binghe’s eyes, not stopping his slightly mildly-exaggerated sniffs from reaching Shizun’s ears.
It's warm, and comforting, and Shizun. Luo Binghe closes his eyes, and leans into the feeling of home.
Several moments pass like this, calmer than what Luo Binghe has felt in a long while, before his Shizun gently pushes him away.
He makes a last-ditch effort to wipe the sides of his eyes. “Apologies, Shizun.”
“Apologies are only needed for wrongs,” His Shizun states, drifting back, “Binghe, this master promises that everything will be all right, okay? So don't worry.”
At that naive, beautiful statement, Shizun smiles at him, his lovely face just as kind as it was in that carriage, all those years back.
Luo Binghe gives a crooked, genuine smile back, shy and dimpled.
His Shizun coughs, turning away. He gestures to the food, “Now, if that is finished, pick a tray up and follow me.”
Luo Binghe blinks and follows Shizun's instructions, awkwardly following his master down the darkening hallway before stopping at Shizun’s bedroom.
Not Shizun’s bedroom; specifically, he stops at the bedroom door.
It's covered in the talismans. Head to toe, Shizun has aligned them to perfectly fit over the outline of his door, the intricately painted paper merging together past the floor and ceiling.
“These talismans are bound to my qi — they'll only let me leave the encircled room when the Fruitlily’s effects have worn off,” His Shizun answers at his unspoken question, “And don't worry, I've made some silencing talismans, as well,” His Shizen suddenly states, pointedly not looking at him as he busies himself with a corner of perfectly smoothed paper.
Luo Binghe’s breath kicks up, all focus forgotten as the words register.
He watches his Shizun take in a breath, eyes fluttering as a frown pulls between his delicate eyebrows when he turns toward the light of the main room’s window, gaze worriedly peeking at the beginnings of stars peering out from the last silvers of an orange sun.
“Binghe, no matter what I say or do, you must not undo this seal, understand? Especially at night,” His Shizun demands as he turns to stare, brows furrowed and eyes lidded with an intensity that makes Binghe’s mouth slightly part. He nods, not trusting his voice.
Shen Qingqiu keeps his eyes on him for a moment, and Binghe lets him, unwilling to move his gaze away.
“If…” Binghe dares to begin, voice low and slow, wetting his lips as the silence stretches. “If Shizun… wishes for assistance…”
Like a spooked bird, he watches the words settle within Shen Qingqiu’s mind, eyes widening with understanding and cheeks deepening their flush. His master turns, spinning towards the handle of the door with his tray of food in the other hand, and before Binghe can blink, his Shizun has gone into the room and activated the talismans.
“I don't need help from any of my shidis!” A muffled voice rings from the door. “Especially not Liu-shidi!”
Just the name burns Luo Binghe with anger, and he forces that furnace closed, reminding himself that he is here, and Liu Qingge is not. “No, Shizun, I wasn't even going to mention Liu-shishu. I meant—”
“This master is tired, and requires rest,” His beautiful, stubborn, easily embarrassed master answers, cutting off his words. “Please just leave water and food by the servant’s window during breakfast, thank you. This master will activate the silencing talismans during nightfall,” Shizun primly finishes, voice solid with the knowledge that Binghe will do as he says.
Luo Binghe’s eyes trail down the wooden panelling to a small, rectangular outline near the bottom of the door — an openable “window” for servants and masters to transfer food and drink during times of illness or meditative seclusion.
Luo Binghe lets his hand gently trace the locking mechanism of the servant's window, breath catching at the tantalizing realization of what will be occurring in that room, of his Shizun’s flushed face and neck and—
“Whatever Shizun wishes,” He mutters.
Luo Binghe does not sleep.
How could he, when his master is suffering due to his negligence, Without A Cure turning a terrible situation into something far more inconvenient for them both. The guilt gnaws at him, eating his bones in the darkness, and he can't keep staying in his room like this, not when his master is suffering.
Luo Binghe will simply take a quick patrol around the house to be sure of any danger. That will clear his head.
He throws the winter blankets off his body, mentally pushing past the cold discomfort as his bare feet touch the chilled floors. Opening his bedroom door greets him with an exposed, circular window in the main room, the talisman next to it forming a protection against the weather, allowing Binghe to view the gentle fall of fresh snow with mild trepidation. He'll have to delegate more chores around the peak, then, with Shizun indisposed and potential blizzards setting in.
The reminder moves him forward, into the illuminated darkness, and then a noise hits his ears.
Luo Binghe freezes.
It's not a noise he's heard before. It's stretched out in a low pitch, a cross between a moan and a sob, then something deep and grating accompanies it, like nails on wood.
Luo Binghe’s mind races as he turns the corner, his steps loud and frantic before looking over to reveal exactly what he had thought he heard —- once-delicate nails scraping along the floor, a pale arm flexing underneath high-quality silk as it juts out from the servant's window of his master's door, only big enough to show the ending of his Shizun’s shoulder.
Oh. He forgot to latch the servant's window lock.
He numbly remembers his Shizun speaking of silencing talismans, but the open servant window poised an issue, as the silencing wards were bound to the door’s structure and not Shen Qingqiu’s qi — when the servant's window opened, it rendered the talismans useless.
As if hearing his thoughts, the sobs turn louder, becoming clearer and carrying further in his shocked silence.
“Please, Binghe,” A broken, beautiful voice keens from the door. “Please, Binghe, please just hold my hand,” The pale hand flexes, curling upwards in a desperate, grabbing motion, “Just hold my hand, please. I promise, just hold my hand. Binghe, that's all I need…”
Luo Binghe’s breath stutters as he stares at the long, spasming fingers clawing at the end of the hall, deep grooves already visible on the wood. The hand tries to get near the more intricate, non-silencing talismans, fingers curled into claws, but jerk back as they get too close, repelled by the qi-backlash.
“Shizun…?” He breathes out, daring to put a foot forward.
A low sob follows his noise, and Luo Binghe hurries close, frows furrowed and heart hurting and dick mortifyingly interested at the distress in his master’s voice. He almost leans down to touch the faultless arm before remembering Shen Qingqiu’s words, curling it into a fist.
“Please, Binghe, I need you,” A gasp and a movement follow his Shizun’s words, but Luo Binghe can't quite tell what exactly his Shizun is doing right now, but oh, he wants to know so bad.
Just for a second, he sees how the servant window could be used if he crouched down on his knees, legs splayed underneath him, pulling his robes aside to reveal skin as Shizun’s breath hits—
He takes a shuddering breath in. Then out, fists clenching.
We are not animals, His Shizun’s voice rings in his head. Our actions are ours to control. Remember this, Binghe, he had said after a particularly somber mission, his master pulling out a shaking woman from their suspect’s cellar.
“I am not an animal,” He whispers to the pale hand clutching at the floor boards, whimpers heard far too clearly among the silence of the night.
He's not an animal. He doesn't feel the clenching need in his chest, filtering out through his pumping blood. He doesn't feel the ache in his teeth, the need to bite down on pale, delicate flesh as moans rain from above as he drifts lower, nails harshly digging into soft skin as deep as he dares. He's never been hunched over at night, in his room, calloused fingers shoved down his throat as his eyes roll up with thoughts of silky black hair tumbling down his inner thighs.
Luo Binghe shivers. He is not an animal.
And yet.
His shaking hand covers Shizun’s limb, but Luo Binghe does not bend down more than that, unwilling to see if a flushed face and bright green eyes will meet his gaze through the window, past the partially-exposed shoulder. Luo Binghe knows his limits.
He tightens his touch on the sweaty flesh, more sure of himself at his imposed limitation. This, he can handle. Anything else will not occur.
“Binghe,” A breathy moan answers, “Oh, Binghe. Thank you, I'm sorry, thank you,” His Shiuzen babbles, slowly and methodically demolishing Luo Binghe’s hard-built resolve like an overwhelming hammer. His hands clench just as hard around Luo Binghe’s, limb shaking and desperate as wood-stained nails bite into Binghe’s flesh, eliciting a sharp gasp of surprise as heat deepens in his lower gut.
Luo Binghe grits his teeth and forces a steady breath, touch intentionally softening as his master’s harsh grip refuses to relent. He can hear Shen Qingqiu moving, fidgeting and moving behind the door in a way that would likely be amusing if not for the potential view of disheveled robes, his flushed skin, the insistent way Binghe can tell he's rubbing himself on the floor like a dog in heat, panting and softly moaning in a tantalizing rhythm that Binghe is all too familiar with, but seemingly so incredibly new now.
He bites his lip and forces himself to remain unmoving, staring at the window’s view of falling snow, keeping a consistent hold on Shen Qingqiu’s fidgeting hand. A few painful minutes pass as Luo Binghe endures breathless gasps, inconsolable mutterings, and the piercing shock of nails occasionally clenching along his wrist.
And then, it stops. The stillness is sudden, so sudden Luo Binghe can't stop a loud shuddering breath of his own as he realizes why his master must have stopped, and fuck, maybe if he just shifted the hand a little higher, surely Shizun would let him—
“Shizun? Are you awake?” He hoarsely questions. Nothing answers, the hand slack in his grip. A soft sigh is the only thing that greets his burning ears, and he sighs in tandem, purposefully relaxing his body as much as he can.
Before returning to his room, he gently, softly, dares to kiss the top of his Shizun’s glistening fingertips.
It's his second mistake. Something deep and unmovable overcomes him as his lips finally, finally touch his Shizun’s warm skin, his nose flaring as the scent of something musky and vaguely familiar drifts from the digits. His mouth opens without his knowledge, tongue already lapping at his master's fingers, dragging along the sensitive ridges and bumps as he shoves them into his mouth by the knuckle point, moaning as his cock suddenly rethickens and hurts.
A whimper comes out of him at the feel and taste of his Shizun, but no sound answers, and so he moans louder, emboldened at the lack of punishment as he drags the limp hand in and out of his mouth, fingers eagerly coated in his saliva as the soft feeling of his master’s skin swims around his sensitive tongue. His unused hand, resting on his thigh, twitches up and accidentally brushes against his cock, pulling a startled whimper around the fingers occupying his mouth. Desperate, Luo Binghe keeps the limp hand stuffed in his mouth, his other hand furiously caging around the base of his dick; wet, disgusting sounds fill the silence of Shizun’s home as he pulls harsh and fast over his flushed tip, trying to be as quiet as he is able as the burning feeling in his gut spreads, muscles aching and tensing as he jerks himself off harder, slurping and sucking on his masters hand until he can't breath and his body spasms until he barely registers the thick, sudden mess of cum covering him, his robes, the floor, and Shizun’s pale, unmoving arm.
With a shuddering gasp of overstimulation, Luo Binghe delicately pulls the foreign hand out of his mouth, a humiliated blush bringing company to the haze of arousal slowly pulling away from his mind. His Shizun’s hand is red, teeth indents visible along the skin where he gnawed on the soft pads, nails shiny and reflective with spit.
He wants more.
Luo Binghe tamps down his gluttony, pushing himself up on shaking legs as he cleans up his cum with the dirtied outer robe. When he gets to his stained Shizen’s skin, he licks it clean, eyes lidding at the earthy taste, purposefully taking in every last drop.
“Sleep well, Shizun,” He mutters into the darkness, drifting towards the kitchen on shaking legs, certainly not running from the tempting sight or his guilty, blush-inducing thoughts.
It's almost time for breakfast, after all.
Luo Binghe is staring at the congee.
For some reason, he can't stop staring at it. It's the most interesting dish of his entire life, apparently, because all he can do is stare at it and think back to the early pre-dawn, of fingers scratching on wood, a hunger deep below his stomach—
Hands clench the hot bowl, uncaring of the pain burning past his skin. His steps take him to Shizun’s door, a heaviness settling in his body, legs slightly aching from how long he's been moving, unwilling to keep his body still when there are winter chores to be done; after all, a still body leads to an active mind. An overactive mind, in his particular case.
“Binghe,” A gasping breath shudders as he nears, his steps intentionally loud. “You came back.”
That surprised, painful sentence beckons Luo Binghe closer, and he kneels, placing the congee near the unlocked servant window. “Of course I came back, Shizun,” He quickly soothes, “This disciple—” He takes in a breath, “This disciple will understand if Shizun does not wish for him to come back. I directly disobeyed Shizun’s command—”
“Binghe,” A rushed voice answers from the other side of the door, “I gave you a command, and then I gave you another— of course my disciple would simply follow the most recent one that was given. I thought— well,” Shizun tries to clear his throat, maintaining a very thin layer of control over his tone as he continues, “This master would not hold it against his disciple for feeling displeased at this master's behavior, yesterday night. If Binghe wishes for someone else to take this task—”
“No.”
The urgent command instinctively rips out of his throat. A silence settles.
“No, I don't want anyone else to care for Shizun. This is this disciple’s duty, and he is willing to spend the remainder of his days paying back the life-debt Shizun took for him. After all, if it wasn't for Without A Cure…” He can't help but push, a desperate neediness that he hates bubbling up past his mouth before he can stomp it down.
“This master is glad for your company,” His Shizun softly mutters back, and something in Luo Binghe’s chest unfurls, secure and blooming. He beams as he unlatches the servant window even if Shizun can't see it, pushing the tray through and receiving the old one back. The bowl has been licked clean, and a shudder goes up Binghe’s back, along with his self-revulsion. He can clearly see that long, pink tongue digging into the dish, messy and wet as it drags along the white jade for more broth.
“How do you feel, Shizun?” Binghe asks, careful to keep his voice measured, hands curled over the bowl to stop them from circling the pressing need of his cock.
“I feel,” A now-familiar drop in octave, a slurring of words, dragged out in a hoarse whisper, “I feel empty, Binghe. Something… something is wrong.”
Without permission, Luo Binghe’s tongue circles his dry lips. “It's the curse, Shizun, remember? It'll fade.”
A shift occurs past that damning door, and Luo Binghe wants to break it down more than ever, wants rip the talismans to shreds and stuff them down his throat so they can't be reused, so he can finally see what his Shizun is doing in there, what his fingers are doing, how far that flush redness would travel.
All he does is listen to his master’s noises, Shen Qingqiu’s breaths coming in deep and unsure, so unlike his usual poised and scholarly manner. “Binghe, something is wrong. The symptoms are not improving — it's getting worse,” Shen Qingqiu grits out. “I think… I think we held hands, so the effects increased. You need to get Mu-shidi. He'll know what to do.”
Liu Qingge’s face flashes like an unwelcome omen in his head, pulling an instinctive sneer on his face. Luo Binghe does not need Mu Qingfang’s help, not with those terrible dual cultivation suggestions, not someone else's careless hands circling Shen Qingqiu’s waist or pulling out those whoreish moans. No, Luo Binghe can handle this. Luo Binghe knows how to take care of his Shizun better than anyone else.
“I'll get Mu-shishu, Shizun, just hold on for a little bit longer,” He lies through the door, receiving a shaky sigh for his efforts. “Can… Can Shizun tell his disciple what symptoms he is experiencing, so that Mu-shishu may understand the situation?”
“What are you talking about?” Shen Qingqiu suddenly snaps, and Binghe jerks back, feeling instinctive guilt at that scolding tone of voice. “Mu-shidi is an expert in his field, and will know the symptoms of the Red-Rooted Cavernous Fruitlily! Is this master not humiliated enough that he has to describe such things to his disciple? Binghe, I'd smack you for such a thing if this door was open,” He hisses, swiping like an frustrated cat, and Luo Binghe can't help how his breathing picks up at the commanding tone and his voice goes:
“I wish you would.”
Silence. Like a floodgate, Binghe pummels forward, throwing everything he built — his control, his reputation, his position — out with his words.
“Shizun, I wish you would punish me more. Make me sit at your feet,” His voice rasps, moving closer to the barrier separating him and his master, “Force me to stay still as you use me. I want your arms pushing me down, slapping my face when I can't help but scream your name. Shizun, Shizun,” He mumbles, saliva almost dripping from his mouth at the thought of soft, open skin under his teeth, his worst nightmare and most beloved treasure wiggling under his heated body. “Shizun,” he keens, pressing his hips flush to the door, cock jumping at the much-needed friction as he mindlessly humps the door, thoughts and years-long, well-crafted plans at winning Shizun’s affection floating by him like the wind. “Shizun,” He manages to breathe out, “You make me feel like I'm just an animal. Like I'm something born to fuck you. If this door was open, I would,” He moans against the seam of the door, imaging it so clearly, “I wouldn't let you feel empty, anymore, Shizun. If this door was open, I'd fill you up and would never let you feel empty ever again, Shizun. Please,” He whispers in a reversal of their roles from last night, more emotions than he wanted known slipping into the words, “Please allow me in.”
More silence.
“Binghe, listen to me very carefully,” His Shizun says; even still, Binghe does not stop rutting against the door, knowing that when he's kicked off the peak, at least he can end it on a high note, “You must have been exposed to the plant last night, it's— the pollen fell on your skin, and you inhaled it, so I need you to get Mu-shidi as fast as possible before night falls, or we'll both—”
Luo Binghe’s chuckles stop his concerned Shizun’s voice. How wonderful are his Shizun’s gutting words! How insultingly sweet is his rejection! “Don't worry, ha— Shizun, I understand. I won't humiliate Shizun— oh, fuck — much longer. I— ah, ah, Shizun, oh, I— I didn't- I didn't—” The mind-numbing pleasure hits Luo Binghe like a boulder, as rash and quick as an avalanche that pours down from his skull to his feet. He chases it, humping the door as his robes stick to his skin, unwilling to end the too-quick sensation. Whimpers pull out the other side as he steps back, and he can see the shadow of Shizun’s body through the light filtering from under the door, like in a mirror image of his own visage.
“Shizun,” He asks, voice thick with surprise and unsatisfied want. “Are you rubbing yourself against the door, as well?”
The shadow freezes, only silence providing company to Luo Binghe’s many, many thoughts.
“I— Binghe,” A low voice begins, “You need to see Mu-shidi, or at least talk to one of your shimei’s. Do you hear me? As your Shizun, I—”
“I don't want anyone else here.”
The words are sharp and snarled, sharper than he has ever been to his lovely Shizun, and he ducks his head down, quickly, softly adding, “I only need Shizun.”
A sudden gasp, then silence. Binghe absently traces his wet spot of cum on the door as he waits for more noises, but they don't arrive, staying torturously silent.
“Binghe,” Says a deep, shuddering voice, “You need to leave the hallway. Now.”
His hand stops. A calmness, so unlike when Shizun held him only yesterday, falls on him like acid.
Luo Binghe stands in his soiled robes, neglecting to look at the door.
“Sleep well then, Shizun.”
Luo Binghe makes sure to lock the servant's window before he leaves, this time.
Luo Binghe still can't sleep. He can't even take a nap in the woodshed, mind reeling as he walks around the peak, not taking notice of lingering snow settling along his hair.
He has quietly heated relaxation teas, ran laps around the peak until exhaustion, only relied on mild intimidation to coerce other disciples into doing their mandated chores, bathed in the bone-chilling waterfall, meditated, has done damn near every fucking trick he knows to stop himself from thinking of what is happening a only few feet away from his bedroom, muscles and bones aching for rest but mind buzzing beyond sanity. He knows that he's not affected by the plant, not the way Shizun is, but that doesn't stop him from wildly wondering if he had, somehow, been infected, and he's just been left to suffer here out of his own iron, foolish will.
And now, as night falls, he needs to make Shizun dinner. More than the physical and mental pain of holding himself back, his heart clutches at the thought of abandoning Shizun to hunger and thirst, even if Shizun forced him to leave the peak itself.
He is a good disciple, he tells himself. He'll be good.
“Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu immediately whispers — begs at the sound of the servant's window partially unlocking, “I need you. I feel so empty. Please, Binghe, please, please.”
He takes in a shuddering breath, the bright moon and glittering snow casting Binghe’s shadow over the floorboards as hands clench the tray of steaming food, teeth gritting with enough force he hears it reverberate throughout his skull.
Luo Binghe is a good disciple.
“Bingheee,” A high-pitched combination of a whine and a sob pulls out from Shen Qingqiu’s voice, so unlike anything Luo Binghe has heard that his face flushes, heart quickening and cock immediately filling with need. “I— it's so much worse tonight, I thought it would get better, I—” Now that is definitely a sob in Shen Qingqiu’s voice. His tears are probably trailing down his red-cheeked face right now, eyes shining and lips opening with needy moans as he writhes.
Luo Binghe needs to see him.
But his feet stay where they are, hot tray forgotten in his frozen hands and a harsh winter wind beckoning him back, away from temptation. Only his quickening breath suggests any change.
If he moves closer, he'll break.
Luo Binghe, he affirms to himself, limbs slightly trembling, is a good disciple.
“Binghe, my Binghe,” A louder, whorish moan drips out as other, slicker sounds come from beyond the unyielding wood, “Oh please, Binghe, I need you, please, I'm so empty, I know you're there!” His Shizun whimpers and cries, one hand scrambling where the latch is supposed to be. It doesn’t matter — the latch still needs to be fully pushed down on Luo Binghe’s end. “Binghe, do you hear me?” A plea rings out. Binghe cannot let himself answer, only an instinctive whimper quietly passing over his lips.
A groan of frustration follows his soft sound, and the thump of Shizun’s body against the door startles Luo Binghe where he's crouched, tipping the tray slightly to the side where the food drips down, ruining the floorboards.
Luo Binghe just stares at the mess, unable to compute.
He'll— he'll need to serve the food to Shizun before he spills the rest of it.
Numbly, limbs shaking, he crouches lower and places the tray where the servant window is. Shizun’s body follows his noises, hot pants for air filtering through the wood as Luo Binghe’s finger trembles over the latch, fully flipping it open.
Immediately, Shizun’s hand pushes forward, lunging for Luo Binghe in a way that instinctively makes him scramble backwards.
“Shizun, this disciple has prepared food for you,” he methodically explains, still sprawled back from the wandering arm, “It's— it's to the left.”
Shizun’s arm, seemingly at random, finds and then pushes away the tray, causing it to skate further from the opening. Now, with the small door window open, Luo Binghe can hear the moans more frequently, the wet sounds of something Binghe cannot name pulsating through the air in rhythm to Shizun’s moving, restless arm.
That's not Shizun’s dominant hand, Binghe suddenly realizes, chest tightening and vision narrowing. He's using it for something else.
His lips wetten themselves as he moves closer, pulling out a rag to wipe off the careless spill of food off the floor, angling away from the door.
A whimper, closer than he expected, makes him turn around.
Oh, he fought it. Luo Binghe knew nothing good would come from him staring at that door, at where Shizun was moaning like a common whore for him, his dark eyes level with the servant's window, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care anymore. After all, when Shizun’s illness wanes and his head clears, Luo Binghe will already be thrown off the peak for his earlier indiscretions.
Shizun had pulled back his arm, fully exposing a pair of teary green eyes to greet him, rooting him in place with their desperation. Even partially smashed against the floor, Shizun’s face comes together in a desperate pout, his flushed lips and red cheeks framing his face like an erotic painting, begging to be kissed. Raven hair spills out, unkempt, moving past the door’s opening, and Luo Binghe’s hands itch with the urge to run through those strands, smoothing them out and holding them tight.
“Binghe,” Shizun gasps, eyes glittering and lips parting, almost savoring the words, “Come here.”
Luo Binghe doesn't remember taking off the talisman; he only remembers the feeling of tearing something before breaking the handle of the door, and more quickly than he can react, a strong hand has wrapped around his ankle, forcefully pulling him down until a loud smack reverberates through his skull, punching out his breath.
Something warm is frantically getting on top of him, arms gently encircling his head even as Shizun’s hip keeps pushing up against his dick and something hard grinds against his thigh. Luo Binghe mindlessly ruts against that soft, warm embrace, an answering gasp reminding him to find the source — he flips their positions with a sudden surge of strength, peppering kisses on his way up through sweat-soaked cloth and then salty skin, his tongue greeted by a moan that lights his every nerve up like fire.
“Shizun, Shizun,” He nonsensically mutters, pressing against those soft, troublesome lips again and again, biting and sucking without pattern or thought.
“I'm empty, Binghe,” His Shizun mumbles in between his kisses, each word spoken only for Binghe’s ear, “There's— there's something wrong,” Another gasp as Binghe presses his clothed hips forward, but then he stills, mind catching up to the statement.
“Wrong?” Binghe asks.
The glazed look in his master's lidded eyes doesn't dissipate; it grows deeper, singularly focusing on Binghe as his hips instinctively chase back the friction. “Down…” He starts to say, but then forcefully shuts his jaw, flushed cheeks spreading to cover his face, even as he keeps moving.
“Down…” Binghe repeats, sitting up, gaze drifting past the open robes and pale chest. A slick tent in white sleep pants greets him, the flush of arousal visible through the thin silk. “This disciple understands,” He purrs, immediately wrapping a hand around the length from under the fabric, forcing a startled moan from his master’s slick mouth. “Of course I'll take care of you, let your Binghe—”
But his Shizun’s hand grabs his wrist, pulling down.
“No…” A whimper from above, his Shizun’s face turned away, “It's… it's down… please…”
Luo Binghe’s fingers suddenly curl around something soft, and wet. His Shizun’s shuddering sigh of relief and retreating hand pushes him to explore more, pressing around the interesting texture until it suddenly parts under his fingers, a gush of wetness helping him forward into a…hole. A hole that Luo Binghe did not expect.
“Oh,” Luo Binghe breathes out. “Shizun, did you know that the plant would do this?”
“I— I've only heard of it affecting people who already have— had—” His Shizun’s face remains so, so red, and Luo Binghe can't help but twist his fingers at the sight, pulling out a surprised moan that shows a wet tongue and fluttering, dark eyelashes. Luo Binghe does it again, so raptured by the sight he repeats it with more fingers, and again his Shizun keeps moaning, all because of him, and—
Luo Binghe scrambles away before he cums, ripping off his belt like it is his mortal enemy, uncaring of the expensive embroidery and punishing fabric. He shrugs it all off, as bare as he was born, drinking in the wide-eyed look on his Shizun’s disheveled face.
He wishes he could say something suave and confident, such as “Does this disciple look pleasing to Shizun?”, but all he can think of is if he can't fuck his Shizun right then and there, he'll drop down and die.
“Shizun,” He rasps out, “Take off your robes.”
Shen Qingqiu stares at him for half a beat, then a second, and then he's scrambling for the fabric of his pants; Binghe helps him, ignoring the sounds of potential tears. Shizun busies himself with the myriad of robes on his shoulders as Binghe takes care of the problem — the layers have all been opened, but still covering him, as if he didn't even have the patience to fully undress. Or… was his Shizun shy?
Luo Binghe doesn't have space to think more on it as he greedily parts those long, soft thighs, mouth instinctively salivating at the familiar scent he had smelled on that very first night, on Shizun’s fingers. He already has his face between his Shizun’s legs as the thought hits, mouth fully covering the glimpse of a wet hole underneath his Shizun’s hard cock. It's so warm, and the taste is irresistible on his tastebuds, heady and tangy and—
“Binghe!” A high plea greets him, and he digs his tongue in, letting it part under soft flesh, but even still his Shizun squirms, suddenly pulling his hair back, fingers gripping near the top of his scalp so they make eye contact.
Luo Binghe, his face wet, hips pressed to a solid thigh, eyes rolled back to the ceiling, cums.
The noise from Binghe’s mouth surprises him just as much as it does to Shizun, who flinches, accidentally pulling his hair harder, eliciting another deep, heavy moan from Luo Binghe’s mouth, hips stuttering from the sudden overstimulation.
“I… Please—”
At the sound of his Shizun’s voice, Binghe jerks out of his dazed state, fingers creeping back to circle his Shizun’s hole. Binghe inserts three fingers, just as he had last time, and is rewarded with a long, drawn out moan. He curls then, trying new positions and tempos until his Shizun responds beautifully to one of them as they both pant, eliciting shaking legs and an arched back, his furrowed brows almost appearing pained. The sight tempts a fourth finger to questingly tease around Shizun’s entrance, and with some gathered slick, it slides in.
His Shizun doesn't even seem to notice, eyelids shut and mouth agape with whoreish, rhythmic sounds that come out with every movement of Binghe’s hand. Captivated by the sight, Luo Binghe watches the way his master's face gathers tears in the corners of his eyes, seemingly unaware of their trail down his cheeks.
“I'm—”
Binghe leans in closer, brushing his lips against Shizun’s ear, drinking in the shiver it brings. His cock rehardened the moment his fingers pressed back in, and now presses against a bare thigh, precum slicking the way as he moans, “Yes, Shizun?”
Softly, barely above a breath, Shen Qingqiu answers, “I still feel empty.”
Luo Binghe’s breath quickens, pulling out his hand from Shizun’s pussy despite the whimper of protest, giving Shen Qingqiu a deep kiss of apology as he settles in between Shizun’s legs, holding his cock steady with one slick hand while the other parts a soft, muscled leg. Arms almost trembling with need, the fat tip of his cock barely touches the outside of the wet hole before he has to bite the inside of his cheek, praying for the ability to last for more than a minute.
Binghe moves torturously slow, pushing one hand down on Shizun’s leg when his master tries to pull him in deeper, limbs too shaky and uncoordinated for much resistance. Even with his enthusiasm, Luo Binghe sees the way his expression wavers when the head of Binghe’s dick settles in that warm, tight heat; so Binghe digs deep into his resolve and goes slow, gently pumping in and out by only fractions, waiting for the glide to become easier before settling further in. Inch by inch, moan by moan, Luo Binghe pants and gasps directly into his Shizun’s mouth, hips flushed against the other’s.
“Did I do good, Shizun?” He desperately asks, somehow trying to grind in deeper as nails drag on his back, only a choked gasp answering him. “Does Shizun still feel empty? Did this disciple please you?”
No answer, just a low moan greeting him under a curtain of sweat-slicked, disheveled hair. He thrusts in harder and deeper at the silence, pointedly ignoring the surprised yelp as he repeats, “Does this feel good, Shizun? Did your Binghe do good? Shizun, you didn't answer me,” He whines, keeping the harsh tempo, his Shizun’s body moving under him in rhythm, legs curling around his lower back.
“Yes!” Shen Qingqiu suddenly blurts out, eyes wide and teary as Luo Binghe brushes away his long hair, forcing their gaze to meet in time for a deep thrust. “Yes, Binghe, you're doing so good, I feel so good,” He babbles out, and Binghe’s mouth parts at the praise, dark eyes sharpening as he starts to gnaw and suck on his Shizun’s neck and shoulder, pushing down his own low moans so he can hear his lover's voice.
Shen Qingqiu’s whimpering ah, ah, ah only spurs him on more, his cock fucking in and out of Shizun’s pussy in shorter thrusts, adjusting his master's hips for a quicker tempo that results in the wet loudness of fluids meeting skin. The new position allows access to the red, overworked cock trapped between their chests, and Luo Binghe wastes no time in grasping it, thumbing the wet tip.
“Fuck!” His Shizun rings out, and Binghe feels him clench around him, and so he does it again, dragging the tip up and down his closed fist, just as he did to his own dick when he daydreamed about Shizun fucking him. Luo Binghe spurs on, desperate to hear more of those noises as he senses the familiar tension in his lower half start to build. He keeps kissing his Shizun, biting his neck thoughtlessly as the thrusts turn into nothing but blind ruts against a hot, welcoming hole, and he gasps, his fist tightening over Shizun’s cock as he cums deep into that clenching warmth, only belatedly releasing the tense grip of his hand when he feels warmth trickle down to his wrist.
They both pant into each other, neither having the strength to speak. Luo Binghe can't bear to disconnect them, so he shifts, attempting not to put down his full weight on Shizun’s chest as he settles, fully relaxing. “Shizun, I—”
A gentle pat on his head cuts him off. “Binghe. No talking,” A hoarse voice answers.
Lup Binghe hums in acknowledgement, nuzzling his face into the crook of Shizun’s cooling neck. He shifts again after a few slow moments, nudging his dick invitingly back into the warm, wet heat.
Shen Qingqiu sighs, breath tickling Binghe’s neck.
“The plant’s effects should be completely gone from our bodies in a few hours, after… after that,” Shizen whispers, and Luo Binghe freezes, suddenly understanding where this conversation is heading. “Luo Binghe is under no obligation to be here anymore. You may leave when you wish.”
Luo Binghe pulls away from his Shizun’s neck, turning to stare into his master’s distant eyes. From his jaw to his upper side of his torso, spots of red and purple marks wink back, indents of teeth joining them in a display of aesthetic attractiveness so perverse he stupidly pushes his hips in a deep thrust, drawing a whimper from them both.
“Is this disciple unskilled?” Luo Binghe pushes, growling into his master's ear. “Does Shizun still feel empty?” He punctuates his statement by slowly pulling out, only leaving the slit of his cock surrounded by wet heat.
A whimper follows the movement, Shizun’s hips trying to follow him down. “Don't— don't call me Shizun like this…” He weakly answers, not answering the question.
“I've asked Shizun many questions tonight, and Shizun has answered all of them except with his words,” Luo Binghe frustratingly says, staring into lidded green eyes that evade his gaze, only the rise of his chest and red, parted lips showing any affectation. “So I'll ask again—”
He thrusts back in, balls touching the crease of his Shizun’s thigh, relishing the yell of surprise and pleasure like a rare delicacy in his mouth as he pulls Shizun’s legs over his shoulders, angling down deeper into the mess of Shen Qingqiu’s pussy.
“Is this disciple pleasing to Shizun?” He forces his mouth to say, mine already hazy with arousal as he keeps thrusting, pulling Shen Qingqiu closer with desperate hands on his hips, pulling and pushing Shizun in and out of his cock like a toy. Tears begin to gather as his master doesn't reply, and he hides his expression in the crook of a sweet-smellling neck as he keeps fucking into his teacher, snarling with frustration.
“Binghe—” Another sharp gasp, a trembling on the lips, but Luo Binghe does not relent, chasing his own orgasm with abandonment. “Binghe! You're—” A bitten-off moan at his adjusted angle, and then, “This master is, is very— oh fuck, is very grateful for Binghe, and—” A shaking of the limbs, and Shizun is pulling Binghe closer to his over-bitten mouth, opening it next to his ear in a secretive whisper, “Binghe is doing so well for this master, I feel so full, you're so big, Binghe is so good, I'm— Binghe, I— I lo—”
Binghe truly ruts into his Shizun like an animal, cutting him off, not aware of anything except warm hands circling his neck, cradling him as gently as words simultaneously soothe his mind and snap his hips forward, chasing the sounds it elicits like a thirstful man seeing a lake in the desert.
He brings his fingers forward, tapping them against Shen Qingqiu’s mouth. “Lick it,” He breathlessly commands, and his Shizun easily does so, pushing his wet tongue over Luo Binghe’s hand, coating everything exactly as Binghe had done on the first night of the curse. Luo Binghe lets his fingers explore his Shizun’s mouth, rubbing on the soft, pliant texture before pulling them out, his hand trailing back down to the prize of his Shizun’s cock. Any plan for patience and exploration goes out of Luo Binghe’s mind as the soft flesh twitches under his hand, spurting precum as he makes a tight fist around it, pushing his hips as much as he can into his Shizun, who opens for him as soft as butter.
“Oh, oh,” His Shizun softly moans, more quietly than when Luo Binghe last did this, but no less wanton. The wet squelches sound off like gunpowder in Shizun’s quiet bedroom, lulling Binghe into an instinctive rhythm of pulling on Shizun’s cock as he pounds against the hole that was made for him, clenching tight then loose over his dripping dick as he keeps pushing in.
“Binghe, wait, it's too much—” His Shizun pleads with a despairing tone, and Luo Binghe goes faster, feeling the jerk of his Shizun’s muscles under him like a timed instrument until the moans crescendo, his beautiful Shizun tipping over the edge in white, hot spurts against his hand, dark eyes boring into his master’s raw, open expression of lust. He only draws his hand away after a sharp whimper signals oversensitivity, putting the free hand to use by gripping Shizun’s sweat-slicked shoulder and leveraging closer so he can go deeper. Warm breaths, licks, and nips follow around whatever Luo Binghe can reach as he slams them together, watching with unfocused eyes as bruises bloom over formerly unmarked skin. His Shizun’s eyes are similarly lidded, body relaxing even more under his unfilial administrations, cheeks still flushed and softening cock red at the tip.
“Shizun,” He pleads, desperately staring into his master's eyes, almost at the edge, but not quite.
“You're doing very well, Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu whispers, petting his cheek and running his hands through Luo Binghe’s scalp, appearing far more composed than anytime Binghe has felt a hint of need for his master, “You can let go. This master will allow it,” His Shizun says.
Luo Binghe moans louder, hips stuttering then going back into rhythm as he grasps at Shen Qingqiu, selfishly chasing more visible marks of his claim on Shizun’s skin as he jackrabbits, the lewd squelches only spurring him on further, faster, gut tightening and contracting as he leans forward, finally, deeply biting into that delicious neck through a muffled yell, emptying everything he has into Shizun’s body in uncoordinated thrusts.
His master simply holds him, kind fingers threading through thick, curly hair. Luo Binghe finally, reluctantly pulls out after a few minutes of catching his breath, letting out a small gasp followed by Shizun’s own as he feels even more liquid drip down his thighs, past his softening cock. Luo Binghe pulls his master to the side and down, not wanting to crush his airflow, curling a leg around the other's thigh as he cuddles closer.
They spend a few wonderful, relaxing moments like this — Luo Binghe’s face in his master's softly scented hair, and Shen Qingqiu’s even breath on his disciple's sternum.
“It's surprising,” Shen Qingqiu sleepily mumbles, head burrowing into Luo Binghe’s exposed chest, long lashes resting on his pink cheeks. He's almost fallen asleep, breath softening into a familiar, barely-there rise of his lungs.
“What is, Shizun?” He softly asks, hand curling around strands of black. He also feels the tendrils of sleep start to beckon him, especially after so long without, but he refuses it, wanting to view his Shizun succumbing first.
“Hm,” Shizun's voice sleepily answers, “For some reason I thought that the Fruitlily didn't affect Heavenly… Demons…”
Luo Binghe carefully doesn't tighten his arms around his Shizun, but Shen Qingqiu tenses like a rock.
The silence, thick and cloying, settles, pulling Luo Binghe back from sleepy bliss. He jerks up, staring at his Shizun.
“You knew,” He breathes out. “You knew what I was.”
His Shizun’s face is pale, so unlike the red flush he had moments before. Binghe’s throat is pounding in his chest, hands turning into greedy claws as he grips his Shizun’s robes. “You knew, and you still…” He trails off, overcome with the urge to bite down at his master's silence, the whites of his lover's eyes and the trembling in his limbs clear against the moonlight.
Binghe attacks Shizun with his teeth, desperately pinning the older man with his overzealous weight as he bites and kisses and licks all over Shizun’s face and neck and lower body, ravenous in a way neither he nor Shen Qingqiu were expecting, if his gasps were any indication.
“Binghe!” Shizun yells, as if this is what finally, truly scandalizes him, “Binghe, I'm not a chew toy! Down! Binghe!”
Binghe merely bites his pointed finger, grinning.
“I just— I just worry you'll hold this… situation against me. I'm not gay either, so don't worry about—”
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe desperately interrupts, not all interested in whatever words are coming out of his master's mouth.
Shen Qingqiu flushes as Luo Binghe continues meeting his gaze, lips parting for a soft, “Yes, Binghe?”
“I want to suck your dick,” He rushingly pushes out, hand eagerly trying to find his goal under the layered clothes, “I've wanted to,” He begins, kissing down that perfect chest, teeth gnawing on every inch of skin his mouth can reach. A latch over one of Shen Qingqiu’s pink nipples follows with a gasp, and he feverishly continues, mouth moving without his permission, “I've wanted to do this for years, for my Shizun to open for me, for Shizun to let me kiss him, for Shizun to then turn me around and bend me over his desk as he wished,” He punctates his comments by marking down Shizun’s bare ribs, bites digging into sensitive flesh. His master instinctively jerks, but does not move away, hands curling around the thick hair of Luo Binghe’s scalp as he travels down.
“Don't say such terrible things,” Shen Qingqiu shakily scolds, blush high and bright on his cheeks. Binghe gives him another playful nip, drinking in the hiss of displeasure. But his master's eyes remain lidded, and his cock drags against Luo Binghe’s chest, harder than when Binghe began his focused attention. This time, Binghe holds his patience, exploring Shizun’s body with methodological purpose, ignoring Shen Qingqiu’s indignant commands to go faster as he laughs against warm skin.