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It starts as a meeting between them and their Shizuns. 

Shen Jiu sits in silent fury, grass stained and bruised, and leaning as far away from Liu Qingge as he can possibly get without breaking the rules of propriety. His Shizun glares at him from behind her fan, ice blue eyes narrowed in a way he knows will have him regretting this later. Now, though, he can't bring himself to care. 

Liu Qingge, detestably beside him, sits with his back perfectly straight, staring holes into the wall past his Shizun's head. He looks as roughed up as Shen Jiu does, at least, apart from a purpling bruise across his cheek, and red rimmed eyes from when Shen Jiu threw dirt at his face. It makes him look like he was crying. It makes this a little better, at least. 

Until his Shizun speaks. 

"Are you satisfied?" 

Her voice is ice cold. Shen Jiu holds himself still out of sheer willpower. 

Li Yinzhi. Peak Lord of Qing Jing Peak, an intimidating woman who expected nothing less than the perfection she herself had achieved, and who had, for some reason, tolerated Shen Jiu's animosity with his fellow Bai Zhan head disciple. Until now, it seems. 

Rolling in the dirt like an animal, she'd said before this, in a private meeting with between just herself and Shen Jiu. Is this how I trained you? Is this how the head disciple of Qing Jing conducts himself? 

It was humiliating enough to hear it once. To sit in front of her now, with Liu Qingge rigid beside him, was almost too much. 

He's better than this. He's better, and yet something in Liu Qingge just brings out the worst in Shen Jiu. Makes him want to shed the layers he tries so hard to cover himself in--as if they'll hide the filth of him--

"It will not happen again, Shizun," he says, and the cold of his voice nearly matches his Shizun's. 

"That is what you said last time," Li Yinzhi hums, snapping her fan closed. Shen Jiu doesn't flinch, but it's a close thing. "Does this Shen think I am a fool?" 

"No, Shizun--"

"Then this master is going to need something better than that." The steady, almost gentle way she speaks does nothing to hide the frigidty of her tone, nor the undercurrent of her words. Fix this, or there will be consequences.

"Perhaps we can find another solution," says the other person in the room, and Shen Jiu has to work to not let himself stiffen. 

Wu Yinfen, Peak Lord of Bai Zhan Peak, Shizun to the bane of Shen Jiu's existence. A mountain of a man, he takes up half the side of the table he and Li Yinzhi sit on, and his voice reverberates through Shen Jiu's body like a soundwave. He's covered head to toe in scars, and Liu Qingge looks up to him the way a child looks up to their hero. It's an effort not to roll his eyes when Liu Qingge perks up, but Shen Jiu knows open derision will only infuriate his own Shizun more, so he withholds the urge. Barely. 

"What does Yinfen-shidi have in mind?" Li Yinzhi asks. 

"This may offend the delicate sensibilities of your peak," Wu Yinfen begins, and Shen Jiu pretends he doesn't hear the wood of his Shizun's fan creak with the force of her grip, "But we've found on Bai Zhan that issues of these types are solved quickly and without fuss through a particular method." 

Shen Jiu's brows furrow despite himself. He lifts his teacup to his lips, ensuring his grip does not waver, and asks, "Would Wu-shibo enlighten this disciple?" 

"Dual cultivation." 

Shen Jiu spits his tea over the table, choking on what had made it into his throat, as the room devolves into chaos. Liu Qingge immediately starts shouting, his face a mask of horror and bright red cheeks--that at least is funny--and Wu Yinfen was warding off his own student, looking harassed. Shen Jiu's Shizun is reared back wiping at her robes, shouting at him, waving her fan-- "Head Disciple Shen, that is enough! Who taught you to behave like this, ah?! Who taught you to be so shameless! What disrespect!" 

"I'm shameless?!" he shouts back, because fuck propriety, fuck the rules, he is not dual cultivating with--with-- "Who just suggested I--we--" 

"The Peak Lord of Bai Zhan, and your shishu," Li Yinzhi hisses, eyes flashing dangerously. "Find your decorum, Disciple Shen." 

Burning with fury, Shen Jiu composes himself--the best he can, anyway, because what the fuck--and sits back down. Beside him, Liu Qingge has also retaken his seat and absolutely refuses to look Shen Jiu's way. Fine, Shen Jiu thinks, seething. Better for me.

"While this suggestion may offend some on this peak," Li Yinzhi begins, eyes flashing at Shen Jiu, "it does not offend this master. In fact, it is something that we have discussed at length and have decided may be beneficial to you both." 

"How?!" Liu Qingge demands, and Shen Jiu wants to hit him. Apparently being boxed around the ears by his giant Shizun was not enough to silence him. 

"Watch your tone, boy," Wu Yinfen warns, before explaining, "An excess of yang energy in one party and yin in another may be the cause of all this. Bai Zhan disciples typically face a higher amount of yang energy anyway, especially in those chosen for head disciple." 

Liu Qingge puffs his chest out at that. Actually puffs his chest out. Like he's proud. What a meathead, Shen Jiu thinks, rolling his eyes before he can stop himself. 

Liu Qingge turns to him then, hissing, "I'm not a meathead, you're just weak." 

Shen Jiu sneers back, "Having an imbalance of energy does not make one weak, you imbecile. The same way you studying for hours does not make you any more literate--"

"Disciple Shen--"

"Both of you shut up," Wu Yinfen booms. It's the first time he's raised his voice above a normal speaking tone, and it echoes through the house like a war drum. They shut up. 

"Balancing these energies, while fostering good relations between our two peaks, will help ensure the stability of the sect before these master's generation ascends. And," Li Yinzhi adds warningly, "This master is tired of hearing reports from the junior disciples that their shixiong is wasting his time picking fights with another peak's head disciple, and losing. At least this way you'll be gaining something by the end." 

If Shen Jiu possessed any less self-control he might have leapt across the table and strangled his own Shizun. His face flames, and he knows by the expression on Li Yinzhi's face that she knows she's won. 

"Don't look so smug, boy," Wu Yinfen warns, looking at Liu Qingge. "How do you think it appears to the other sects when they hear you're beating the Qing Jing head disciple into the dirt every other week? Not every fight is a victory, even if you're the one coming out on top." 

Chagrined slightly, Liu Qingge bows his head and mutters, "Yes, Shizun." 

Li Yinzhi snaps her fan closed. "The next time you find yourselves preparing for a fight, do consider this approach instead," she says, and her tone makes it clear it's not a suggestion at all. 

Wu Yinfen sips his tea with a pleased grunt, and Liu Qingge and Shen Jiu very studiously do not look at each other. 

The first time it happens it’s all Liu Qingge’s fault. Shen Jiu will defend this accusation steadfastly, even as he’s shoved up against the wall. 

He pants harshly into Liu Qingge’s ear as the Bai Zhan head disciple yanks his robes open. His hands slide in to grasp Shen Jiu’s hips roughly, hot and calloused. Shen Jiu hisses and pretends he hates it, pretends it doesn’t make him hard when Liu Qingge kisses him again, open mouthed and messy and angry. 

“Don’t just shove them aside, you animal,” Shen Jiu snaps, once his tongue is free. 

“Stop complaining,” Liu Qingge bites back, nipping Shen Jiu’s lip. He presses him harder against the shed wall, wedging his knee between Shen Jiu’s to grind up against where he’s aching. Liu Qingge takes his mouth again, shoving his tongue deep and rolling his hips until Shen Jiu’s gasping and writhing between him and the wall. 

Shen Jiu yanks at the ties to Liu Qingge’s pants in revenge, uncaring for once that they’re not on soft sheets or even a threadbare inn mattress. He’s hot, feels like he’s going to itch right out of his skin, if he doesn’t get Liu Qingge’s cock inside him now . 

Liu Qingge lets his mouth go long enough to snap, “No patience,” as if he’s not working a hand behind to push two fingers into Shen Jiu’s hole, still loose from earlier. 

Shen Jiu knows they shouldn’t. Twice today already, once after fighting over the last mantou at breakfast, and again upon returning from a mission together. A chance for them to work together, for once, their shizuns had said. More accurately, a chance for Liu Qingge to bend Shen Jiu over a fallen tree and fuck his brains out. 

It’s not like he stops him now, though. Instead he bucks his hips, trying to fuck himself down onto Liu Qingge’s stupidly long fingers. They’re long and thick enough to reach his prostate, even at this angle, which means Liu Qingge is just teasing him, that brute —

Shen Jiu yanks at Liu Qingge’s ponytail and wrenches his head back. He hates this man so much—hates how pretty he always is, how annoyingly forthright and honorable, even when fucking someone like Shen Jiu, someone broken and used. He always insists on preparing him to avoid hurting him, always insists on using something , whether it be his fingers or his tongue. 

Shen Jiu can’t stand it. He wants to punch Liu Qingge’s perfect face, wants to bite at the beauty mark under his eye until his flawless skin blooms red under Shen Jiu’s teeth. 

He hisses when Liu Qingge finally replaces his fingers with his cock, sliding all the way in with one stroke. “Still so loose,” he pants, pressed close and hot. 

“Shut up,” Shen Jiu snarls. Liu Qingge only huffs and hitches his pale legs around his hips and begins to move. 

He sets a harsh pace from the beginning, not bothering to warm up to it. Shen Jiu doesn’t want him to warm up to it. At least this Liu Qingge can do right, sometimes. He never fucks Shen Jiu gently, once that irritating preparation is done with. It’s always fast and hard with him, always a race to see who can scratch deepest, bruise hardest. Shen Jiu is winning, but Liu Qingge insists it’s a draw. 

He claws his nails down a sculpted back just to drive his point home and revels in the growl he gets. Liu Qingge doesn’t respond beyond fucking him even harsher, soft lips at odds with the way they suck roughly at Shen Jiu’s neck. 

It’s quiet, if one ignores the sound of skin slapping and their grunts and moans. Shen Jiu couldn’t keep his mouth shut if he tried, and he certainly has before—it’s no use, not with the way Liu Qingge’s cock pushes out every moan and whine he tries to hide. He’ll die before he admits it, but Liu Qingge fucks him too well to try to pretend otherwise. 

And secretly, Shen Jiu knows Liu Qingge likes to hear it—likes to hear how wanton Shen Jiu can be. It makes him feel so accomplished , so good at being a brainless mutt, only good for fucking and fighting. As unfair as it is to be talented at both, at least Shen Jiu can use one of them to his advantage, and so he does. 

He moans loudly on the next thrust, so deep he can feel it in his throat, and purposefully clenches on Liu Qingge’s cock. The result is immediate; Liu Qingge swears and thrusts harder, hands sliding down to grip Shen Jiu’s ass so he can pull him onto his cock. 

They’re fucking like animals now; Shen Jiu knows how much Liu Qingge likes it when he’s loud, even if the brute will never admit it. He moves into Liu Qingge’s wild thrusts and uses his grip on his ponytail to pull his face closer, only to gasp and whine directly into Liu Qingge’s ear. 

“Shut up,” Liu Qingge gasps. He means it to sound harsh, but it’s too desperate to manage it. He’s close. Another push will do it.

“Why,” Shen Jiu gasps between thrusts. “I– ah –I thought you liked it— ngh , ah fuck—when I make noise?” 

He punctuates it with a bite to Liu Qingge’s ear and he’s rewarded with a hard thrust. He’s becoming erratic now, his pace stuttering. 

“I like it better when your mouth is full,” he says, and pulls back enough to grin. Shen Jiu snarls, as if he didn’t take Liu Qingge’s cock down his throat just that morning. He wants it again, and hates how hard he is just thinking about it. 

“Maybe I'll put you on your knees when I’m done with you here,” Liu Qingge pants, grip turning bruising. “Maybe— agh —maybe that’ll finally shut you up.” 

Or maybe it’ll just leave them wanting more, Shen Jiu thinks. It always does. 

What he says, though, is, “I’d like to see you try,” breathless and bitchy, the way he knows Liu Qingge likes him best. 

It makes Liu Qingge huff a laugh before he keeps pounding into him, and like this it’s not long before he comes, hot and deep inside Shen Jiu. He follows soon after, spilling messily between their stomachs. 

Liu Qingge pulls out with an obscene noise and Shen Jiu braces himself against the shed wall as he stands on shaky legs. The air is quiet apart from the rustle of clothing and their panting breath. 

They clean up quietly and go their separate ways, and they don’t talk about it. 

The next time it happens it’s during a private spar. Shen Jiu can barely sit the next few days, but it doesn’t stop him from swinging Xiu Ya with every bit of his strength, not that it matters. Liu Qingge just swats his sword away with Cheng Luan, deflecting the sword glare to slice deep into the ground, and kicks Shen Jiu’s knee. 

Shen Jiu lands on his back on the ground with a furious snarl. He’s panting already, sweating through his layers, and his hair sticks to his face. He hates that he’s always reduced to this—reduced back down to what he really is, a rat in the mud, the fine robes and lofty persona washed away. He hates that it’s only Liu Qingge who can accomplish it. 

His only consolation is that at least Liu Qingge is similarly mussed; his robes are matted with dirty footprints where Shen Jiu kicked him, and the side of his face is bruised from where Shen Jiu mashed it into the ground. 

“I win,” Liu Qingge says triumphantly. Preemptively, Shen Jiu thinks. Pompous idiot; he lets Liu Qingge get closer and rises to his knees, hands scruffing in the dirt. When Liu Qingge extends a hand, Shen Jiu allows himself to feel the callouses before throwing a handful of dirt into Liu Qingge’s face. 

The shout of shock and anger makes him smirk as he sweeps Liu Qingge’s legs out from under him, and there’s an impromptu wrestling match as Shen Jiu climbs on top. 

He bats Liu Qingge’s hands away and speaks over the outraged snarling. Leaning forward, he breathes, “The great Liu-shidi has once again bested this lowly one. Doesn’t he want to claim his reward?” 

That gets his attention; Shen Jiu smirks as Liu Qingge’s eyes grow wide and he stares up at him. Shen Jiu had been hard for most of the fight, for which he blames the fluid way Liu Qingge moves, the muscles he knows are beneath those pristine white and blue robes, the intensity on that peerlessly beautiful face. Shen Jiu still wants to punch it, and he could, but now he’d much rather feel that equally–peerless cock buried to its hilt in him. He can already feel it growing hard where he not-so-subtly grinds against it. 

But this time, he’ll take it his way. 

It doesn’t take Liu Qingge long to get with the program, at least. He strips his upper robes down while Shen Jiu yanks his pants down, and then his own. They’re breathing hard and Shen Jiu can’t tell if it’s from the exertion of the fight or what’s to come, but he knows he doesn’t want to wait. 

Liu Qingge lurches upright to kiss him, all teeth and tongue, and Shen Jiu lets him. He even lets him grind their cocks together while Shen Jiu fingers himself open. Liu Qingge snarls when Shen Jiu sticks his fingers in his mouth and orders him to suck, but he does, glaring all the while, and Shen Jiu smirks down at him. He returns to fingering himself, adding the number until the stretch borders on a burn, and Liu Qingge sucks on his tongue to distract him. It feels good, but Shen Jiu wants more. He shoves Liu Qingge back down and raises up on his knees to position Liu Qingge’s cock over his hole. 

He’s knocked off-balance though when Liu Qingge attempts to flip them over. Shen Jiu stops him with a hand to his chest, pushing him back to the ground with a thud, and Liu Qingge glares at him. 

“You can’t be trusted to fuck me right, so I’ll do it myself,” he says, and knows Liu Qingge understands by the way his eyes narrow. 

“You weren’t complaining,” he shoots back, still pressing against Shen Jiu’s hand. It’s not enough to truly push back though, and Shen Jiu smirks. 

“You fuck like an animal,” he says, and starts lowering himself onto Liu Qingge’s cock. “Can you reason with an animal?” 

“Fuck— ah, slow down—”

“You can’t,” Shen Jiu breathes, taking more inch by inch. “So this time you’ll watch, and learn how to do it right.” 

Liu Qingge’s breath leaves him in a shaky exhale as Shen Jiu fully seats himself. He doesn’t waste too much time working up to it, instead rising up halfway and dropping back down. Each time it punches a gasp from the man below him, whose hands grip his hips tightly, and Shen Jiu allows a smile at each punched-out noise. 

He moves fast and hard, the way they always do, but this time it’s him controlling the pace, and he likes it better than he’d thought. He likes being able to control it, likes the feeling of arching his back and moving his hips. Being able to decide how much to take, and how fast, and how hard. Most of all, he likes seeing the way Liu Qingge’s face goes red, how his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth falls open in pleasure. 

At one point Liu Qingge tries to rise up and kiss him, but Shen Jiu leans back, creating an arch in his back that makes Liu Qingge moan gutturally. “Ah, ah,” he gasps, dropping down harshly. “Good boys sit still and take it.” 

That gets him another throaty moan, and Shen Jiu slows down just to be cruel, grinding forward so Liu Qingge’s cock drags over that spot inside him. His head drops and he bites his lip to keep from moaning too loud, but it feels—

“So good,” he groans, and feels Liu Qingge’s hands tighten on his waist. 

“You— ah, yes —you too,” Liu Qingge says, and Shen Jiu pretends it doesn’t make him preen just a little bit. 

It’s kind of a blur after that; Shen Jiu increases his pace until he’s gasping with every movement and his thighs burn, and only then does he allow Liu Qingge to take hold of him and pull him down onto his cock until he comes with a cry, his vision whiting out. He doesn’t even realize Liu Qingge keeps fucking into him until he spills inside, or that he cleans them both up with those white robes of his. Distantly, Shen Jiu thinks they’ll stain. 

“Stupid brute,” he mumbles. 

“Shut up,” is all he gets in response. In his post-orgasm haze, Shen Jiu thinks it sounds fond. 

Something is wrong. 

Shen Jiu isn’t sure what happened, but something has changed between him and Liu Qingge, ever since he rode him into the dirt. 

They’ve fucked since then, multiple times. Part of Shen Jiu thinks that may be the problem. Sex between them has always been a way to expel their hatred for one another in a (mostly) non-violent way. But now, whenever they collide, it’s . . . different. Still explosive, still wracked with insults and too-hard bites, but there are moments in which it’s . . . softer, almost. Moments where Liu Qingge licks over where his teeth have sunken into, as if to soothe the wound. Moments where he feels those calloused hands rubbing over his back and sides instead of gripping his hips, where they hold his hair back while Shen Jiu uses his mouth, instead of yanking and pulling on it. 

He still does that, to be sure, but it’s these strange, almost random moments of softness that are throwing Shen Jiu off. He doesn’t dare to call them tenderness. Tenderness isn’t something they share with each other. Sometimes the only thing tender between them is Shen Jiu’s ass after Liu Qingge has finished with him. 

Either way, it makes Shen Jiu apprehensive. He’s never dealt with a Liu Qingge who’s soft, or who whispers praise in his ear when Shen Jiu does something he likes with his tongue. He doesn’t know where he’s come from, but worse is that he can’t decide if he wants him to stay. Does he prefer the Liu Qingge he’s always known, who can always be counted upon to have a snide remark at the ready? Who’s more than willing to grind Shen Jiu’s face into the dirt and remind him—and everyone else—how undeserving Shen Jiu is to even be here, on this peak, as a head disciple? 

Or does he want this new Liu Qingge—the same in so many ways, but who now retrieves Shen Jiu’s fans when he loses them, who helps him up after a gritty spar, who holds him close after fucking him? 

Shen Jiu doesn’t know. He’s not sure if he knows how to choose. Doesn’t know if he can. 

That’s one of the worst things about him, he knows: some might see this as a gift, but all he knows how to see are the pitfalls and the traps. 

It could be a prank, Shen Jiu muses one morning, early enough that he knows he’s the only one awake. He steps outside the woodshed and heads towards the bamboo grove—or he tries, but there is now a monster corpse on his doorstep. 

Shen Jiu stares at it a little too long. A Three-Tailed Water Snake, by the three tails laying tangled together. The long, sinuous body is bloodied and mottled with slashes; if he concentrates, Shen Jiu can gather a hint of residual qi, likely left over from the spiritual blade that dealt the blows. 

… 

He steps over the corpse and makes his way to the bamboo grove, and pretends he doesn’t recognize the qi signature. 

Meditation brings no clarity, however, and neither do the following two weeks, to his great displeasure. The monsters keep appearing, rarer and rarer each time, and each time Shen Jiu ignores them, and the qi signature they radiate. It sours his mood even worse than usual; just the other day he snapped at that spineless coward Shang Qinghua for saying “um” one too many times during his budget report, and had even gotten into an argument with Liu Qingge twice in as many minutes. It was nasty, even by his standards. 

His and Liu Qingge’s verbal sparring had been a touch more vicious of late as a result. 

Shen Jiu can’t help it. He doesn’t know what has changed and how to navigate it. It’s unfamiliar, and anything unfamilair puts him at a disadvantage. This late in the game, he can’t afford any slip-ups. The time for the head disciples to take up their Peak Lord positions is almost upon them, and stretched thin by his studies and preparations as he is, Shen Jiu simply does not have time or patience for whatever game Liu Qingge is playing. 

Liu Qingge . . . for he’s the one leaving the monster corpses on Shen Jiu’s door, gods only know why. They’re all incredibly rare, and all have medicinal properties, yes, and Shen Jiu has absolutely been secretly collecting the parts needed, but the question is why. Why is Liu Qingge killing rare monsters and leaving them on Shen Jiu’s door? Is that why he’s been off-peak so often? They’ve still fucked here and there, but most of their time now is spent either preparing for the ceremony or taking care of other matters. And why can Shen Jiu not think of anything else?! 

It infuriates him, to have this man he’s hated for years, taking up so much of his concentration. He should be thinking of everything except Liu Qingge, and yet he finds himself staring out the window of his room in the woodshed, wondering which beast Liu Qingge is off fighting now. If he’s adding more scars to add to his already-impressive collection, or if he’s back at Bai Zhan. Shen Jiu has worked too hard to lose any ground now, and yet it feels like it’s slipping out of his fingers like sand. All because of Liu Qingge. 

Worse, though, are the . . . the thoughts he’s been having. 

He’d been composing a new guqin piece the other day and thought absentmindedly that he might like to play it for Liu Qingge when it’s finished. His Shizun had walked into the music room and asked in amusement, “To what may I extend my gratitude towards to have you smiling like that?” and Shen Jiu had realized with a start that he had, indeed, been smiling. At the wall. Like an idiot.  

He’d coughed and immediately fixed his face, but the damage was done. His Shizun had listened to his snapped out response, nothing, and simply smiled knowingly before leaving, and Shen Jiu had returned to composing in a huff and flurry of robes. He’d just managed to regain his concentration when he heard a familiar voice outside. Asking for him. 

Shen Jiu’s fingers had frozen over his guqin strings, and his Shizun’s voice was colored with amusement when he answered that he did not know where Shen Jiu was. The relief that doused him was short-lived when he heard a muffled comment, and then a deep baritone laugh. 

It’s a laugh he’s heard not many times, and certainly never directed at himself, but he would still recognize it anywhere. He could picture it in his mind, could see where storm gray eyes would crinkle at the corners and lips he’s tasted would spread in a bright smile. Shen Jiu had sat there, hands poised over his guqin strings, and stared at the wall unseeing for uncounted minutes, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Liu Qingge had left shortly after, and Shen Jiu’s concentration had been thoroughly annihilated. 

If it was just that, though, Shen Jiu might have been fine. It’s not, and he’s not. 

It’s everything: the way Liu Qingge commands the room’s attention whenever he walks in, a beacon of power and authority even without his Peak Lord title yet given. Shen Jiu has found himself staring more times than he’ll ever be willing to admit. It’s the way Liu Qingge will say something completely mundane and Shen Jiu will have to cover his face with his fan to hide his smile. It’s the way his voice sends shivers down Shen Jiu’s spine and lingers in his mind even hours later, when it’s dark and Shen Jiu has only his own hand for company. It’s the way he hates how cold his bed is after he finishes, cold even though he lays flushed and panting, the ghost of a name on his lips. 

It’s the way he knows, intimately, where each of the moles on Liu Qingge’s body are, and can point them out even when walking at a distance from the Bai Zhan training grounds. It’s the way Shen Jiu even goes to the training grounds anyway —is it an excuse to look at Liu Qingge, to glide past with his fan covering his face in a well-used taunt between them, and know Liu Qingge is looking? 

And it’s the way Liu Qingge fucks him now—because they haven’t stopped, Shen Jiu can’t bring himself to even though he knows he should, because at some point it’s crossed beyond the point of fucking instead of fighting, of expelling excess energy, and wasn’t that just a flimsy excuse to start with? Because Liu Qingge doesn’t fuck him like he hates him now. He fucks him like he’s—like he’s worth something. He holds tight and thrusts deep but he holds Shen Jiu close , and he kisses him, and he whispers things in Shen Jiu’s ear that Shen Jiu had always thought he would hate. 

So tight for me. 

You feel so perfect.

Look at me. Look at me.  

It’s when he wants to see Shen Jiu that Shen Jiu most wants to run away, because he can’t. If he looks at Liu Qingge when they’re close like that, when his defenses are down and he’s gasping and clutching at Liu Qingge, then Liu Qingge will see him, and he won’t want him anymore. He’ll see the truth of Shen Jiu laid bare, and who would want someone so broken as him? Like a shattered vase that’s been put back together only for the effort to be abandoned halfway through—his peerless facade fades and he’s stripped of all that makes him so lofty and untouchable, and all that’s left of him is what his past has made him into. 

All under the calloused, warm hands of Liu Qingge. 

Worst of all, Shen Jiu doesn’t hate it. 

He wants to. When Liu Qingge kisses down his neck and sucks bruises into the skin where he knows no one will see them, like now, while Shen Jiu writhes under him, Shen Jiu wants so badly to hate him, but he can’t bring himself to. He keeps hanging onto this ridiculous hope that he’ll “accidentally” look into Liu Qingge’s eyes and the truth of him will be there for the Bai Zhan head disciple to see, and Liu Qingge will stay. 

He knows he won’t, even as Liu Qingge bites down hard and Shen Jiu gasps, back arching. He’s already buried himself inside; this isn’t their first round, and Liu Qingge hadn’t bothered pulling out before flipping them around and grinding forward in slow, deep thrusts while he kissed and licked and marked Shen Jiu like he’s his. 

And Shen Jiu doesn’t hate it. He doesn’t , and that only makes everything hurt more. 

It hurts because he enjoys it, he likes it, he loves—

Shen Jiu cries out before Liu Qingge even gets a hand on him, and it’s swallowed by the tight seal of Liu Qingge’s mouth as he finishes between them, completely untouched. He digs his fingers into a mussed ponytail and tugs as Liu Qingge’s tongue slides against his. The pace picks up again until Liu Qingge is rutting into him like a beast, half-growls offered in the liminal space between their mouths, and Shen Jiu takes them greedily, hoards them deep inside with the words he keeps close to his heart, shriveled and blackened like coal. 

I love him.

I love him

And then Liu Qingge does something terrible. 

He kisses Shen Jiu. 

It’s not as if it’s the first time; they’ve kissed plenty of times, mostly in the middle of fucking each other senseless, but still. It’s by no means a strange thing. 

What makes this one different, what makes it terrible , is that it comes after they fuck. 

There are some unspoken rules to . . . whatever it is they have between them. They don’t talk about it. They don’t tell anyone else about it. They don’t interact outside of their couplings. And they don’t show affection, because there isn’t any to be shown. At least, that’s how it had started. 

But now, Shen Jiu has these cursed feelings in his chest. Now, Liu Qingge holds him close after they’ve fucked, when Shen Jiu is panting and wrecked and those damned feelings are pushing through the cracks in his chest. Now, Liu Qingge is helping him off the ground, or off the walls, or his own bed most recently, and holding his robes open for Shen Jiu to slide into, no matter how much he snips that he can dress himself. Now, Liu Qingge is tying his sash closed, a mirror to how he’d yanked it open hours before, and using it to pull Shen Jiu in for a kiss. 

And it’s not biting or angry, the way they’d started out. It’s not a way to shut Shen Jiu up. It’s a soft press of lips while a hand cups his cheek. Even his tongue is gentle where it slides against Shen Jiu’s, slow and deep and entirely unnecessary. Shen Jiu is loath to make it stop. 

He hates how much he loves it, how much he wants to keep it and hoard it inside. He hates the feeling of warmth it creates, that spreads through his entire body and wraps around the words he buries deep. He’ll never say them, just like he’ll never admit how he craves another kiss like this one, but it doesn’t matter, because Liu Qingge keeps kissing him. 

In the alleys between buildings. On the way back from missions. Between meetings about the Peak Lord ascension ceremony, less than two weeks away. He finds every opportunity to kiss Shen Jiu, and Shen Jiu lets him, because he’s too fucking weak to say no. He complains, he hisses not here!! as if it’s a real objection. It’s not, and Liu Qingge knows it. He smirks and kisses Shen Jiu again because he knows it’ll make Shen Jiu smack him with his fan but not break away, and it’s infuriating that he can read Shen Jiu so well. It’s terrifying to be so seen.  

Sometimes it’s not gentle. Sometimes, when they’ve been apart a few days, it’s Liu Qingge dragging Shen Jiu into the closest dark alcove they can find and pressing him between the wall and the hard lines of his own body, and kissing the breath from Shen Jiu’s lungs. Soft lips and demanding tongue, hands digging into Shen Jiu’s long, ink-black hair till it’s a mess. It’s Liu Qingge breaking away only to breathe, “I missed you,” before reclaiming Shen Jiu’s mouth so fully that all Shen Jiu can manage is a muffled moan. 

And he never stops him. 

Every time it happens, Shen Jiu feels himself falling further and further, and he never stops him. 

The Peak Lord ceremony is over; they have their new names, officially, and Shen Qingqiu doesn’t quite know how to feel about his. His Shizun has always had a keen eye and a somewhat dry sense of humor, but he’s not sure which is at play here. Perhaps it’s both, perhaps it’s neither. 

His attention is summarily stolen at a round of applause; he doesn’t need to, but he turns his head to see Liu Qingge being congratulated by their martial siblings. 

Shen Qingqiu feels his heart squeeze. The new robes Liu Qingge bears fit him well; gone are the simple disciple robes, replaced by the pure white and blue of the Bai Zhan Peak Lord, fitted close enough to not get in the way during a fight, but still loose enough to allow freedom of movement. Brand new silver vambraces hug his forearms, and Cheng Luan hangs from a new belt. The sword thrums with energy that Shen Qingqiu can feel even at a distance, as if proud of its master. 

Liu Qingge is smiling. Shen Qingqiu stares at it for longer than he should. It doesn’t feel long enough. Perhaps maybe it never will. He turns away before he can let himself memorize the shape of it. 

He knows it’s too late. 

The former Qing Jing peak lord had already moved his things from the bamboo house, which meant it was easy for Shen Qingqiu to move his few belongings inside. He stands in the familiar room, with the last of the daylight illuminating the flecks of dust in the air, and struggles to parse through the mass of feelings in his chest. 

Excitement. Relief. Fear, always. A sense of accomplishment, of vindication. Lingering frustration. 

Yue Qingyuan had tried to talk to him after the ceremony, but Shen Qingqiu hadn’t allowed him. He didn’t want to talk to him, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stem the flow of vitriol he might spew if given the opportunity. Even he can admit that it’s been an emotional day—an emotional few weeks, for himself personally. 

He’s in love with Liu Qingge. 

It’s been long enough that he can think the words without feeling like something is crumbling within his chest. Long enough that he’s stopped trying to pretend it’s anything other than love: desire, infatuation, delusion—all considered, somewhat hysterically, all decimated whenever he saw that smile. 

They hadn’t had a chance to meet since the last time, almost a week prior. Since Liu Qingge had pulled his pants back up, given Shen Qingqiu a quick kiss, and said, “I have to go meet with my shizun. Will you be here when I return?” 

Shen Qingqiu had lain on Liu Qingge’s bed and watched the red lines he’d left on that toned back disappear under white robes, and answered, “If time allows,” and hoped the wreckage in his voice would be attributed to the way he’d been screaming Liu Qingge’s name just before, instead of what it really was. 

When Liu Qingge had returned, Shen Qingqiu was gone. 

Now he stands in the house that had been his shizun’s, the house he’d spent the last decade fighting tooth and nail to secure for himself, wondering if power was supposed to feel like this. 

Surrounded by it, yet feeling so alone it aches. Cold to the touch. 

He’s angry, he realizes. He’s always angry, except for those moments when Liu Qingge made him feel something else—something equally as sharp and blazing hot—but this is a different anger. It’s born of broken expectations and ravaged promises, of dreams shattered by realities. He’d wanted this position because it meant it would bring him closer to Yue Qi—Yue Qingyuan, now. He wanted it because it meant he would finally, finally mean he was something in the eyes of this hateful world: an orphan, a stray dog, risen up to sit with the nobles who’d spit on him if they’d seen him at his lowest. 

Yue Qi had done it; why couldn’t Shen Qingqiu? And so he’d begun his own rise, through the mud and blood and pain, until he stood on the same level as the one who had abandoned him when he needed him most, and he’d sworn he wouldn’t need anyone anymore. He’d worked through the disdain of his martial siblings, and the derision and the accusations, creating a lofty image of himself that even he had begun to believe, until, of course, the world threw at him the worst possible hurdle. 

Liu Qingge. 

A paragon of honor, a pillar of the best qualities one could hope for in a cultivator. Strength, honesty, chivalry, unwavering loyalty. And he had taken one look at Shen Qingqiu and hated him. 

Shen Qingqiu had seen it as a challenge when he should have braced for the warning it so clearly was. A warning of the disaster Liu Qingge would become for him, the headache and the infuriation and the insults. And he should have expected that such a person would only bring out of Shen Qingqiu what everyone in this godsforsaken sect already suspected of him. 

A whore, who so easily spreads his legs. What a mismatch they are, too; the very image of virtue and the man who visits brothels in the night—who was dragged out of one by his hair and bedraggled dignity by the very same man who fucked him himself not even half a year later, and didn’t stop. 

Without even realizing it, Liu Qingge has torn down every last wall of crumbling protection Shen Qingqiu had built around himself; ripped apart every flimsy veil of detachment, loftiness, peerlessness and faux nobility like gossamer strands of spidersilk, instead of the iron bars they were meant to be. They were, to everyone except him. 

Why did it have to be him? Shen Qingqiu wants to scream. He wants to rage at the heavens, at his Shizun who is no longer his Shizun, at Yue Qingyuan—at Yue Qi. Why did it have to be this one who dismantled him so thoroughly, ripping through his defenses until he was laid bare once more—the poor orphan Shen Jiu, clinging to what does not belong to him. 

Worse still, why did Shen Qingqiu have to fall in love with him? 

It was one thing when they hated each other. When they fought like cats and dogs in the streets he’d grown up on, at least that was something familiar. That was comfortable. Then they’d started fucking, and Shen Qingqiu had tried to tell himself that this was fine, too. This was just a way to release tension, to feel something other than anger. But Liu Qingge took that away too, and what was Shen Qingqiu left with? 

The jagged edges of his own heart, bloodied at the edges by attempts to put it back together until he inevitably gave up. There is no fixing this, he knows now. No going back to how it used to be. Not unless he wants to destroy what’s left of his heart, and break Liu Qingge’s in the process. And he doesn’t want to do that. Gods damn him, but he doesn’t, and he can’t tell if he’s weak for it, or if it means he’s gained an edge of strength. 

After all, it’s always been so easy to be cruel. To fall back on vindictiveness and spite, to hurl insults and accusations rather than face those thrown at himself. And who would choose to, when one could just continue to be what they’ve always been? 

He doesn’t know what the answer is now. He came to Cang Qiong Sect for power, for Yue Qi. He lost one and gained the other, and in the process has completely lost track of what it was all for. He swore he wouldn’t need anyone, but now he stands alone in his house and wishes he were somewhere else. He wishes he had something, someone, to celebrate with, or mourn with—he isn’t sure which is more suitable. He wishes—

Loud knocking disrupts his thoughts, and despite himself, Shen Qingqiu jumps. He looks towards the door, as if that will somehow divine who’s behind it, but in the next moment it doesn’t matter. 

“Shen Jiu!” 

Only one person would have the audacity to still call him by his old name after today. Shen Qingqiu sighs; how is it that he was moments away from wishing for this very person, and yet now that he’s here, all Shen Qingqiu wants is to flee? 

Liu Qingge doesn’t give him the chance. The door bangs open and Liu Qingge storms in, his face a thundercloud. His eyes catch on Shen Qingqiu standing in the middle of the room and it clears somewhat as he strides over, long legs eating up the small space. In no time, he’s nearly chest-to-chest with Shen Qingqiu, and Shen Qingqiu feels breathless with the closeness. 

Rough hands cup his face to tilt it up, and he doesn’t stop them. He doesn’t stop the murmured, “Why’d you run off so soon?”, or the kiss that follows. Soft. Gentle, even the barely-there nip of sharp teeth. 

He doesn’t stop it from deepening, either. Liu Qingge’s hands shift from his face down to his waist, sliding over his hips to grip his ass and squeezing. Shen Qingqiu’s heart pounds in his chest as his tongue slides against Liu Qingge’s, but he can’t make his arms raise to wrap around his neck, or clutch at his robes. He feels breakable, like he’s made of glass. Like one wrong move will shatter him apart, only he doesn’t know the steps to this dance, and so the only safe option is to not move at all. 

Liu Qingge begins to undo the ties to his robes, and suddenly Shen Qingqiu can’t abide it any longer. He raises his hands to push at Liu Qingge’s chest, weakly at first, then with more strength. It feels like his bones are grating against one another. 

“Stop. Stop, stop, ” he gasps, breaking from the kiss. 

Liu Qingge immediately does, stepping away, but not far. Too close, not far enough, Shen Qingqiu thinks nonsensically. “What, what’s wrong?” 

He’s still close enough to kiss. Shen Qingqiu’s lips feel bruised. He can’t speak for the numbness of it. 

“Shen Jiu?” Fingers tip his chin up so he’s looking at Liu Qingge’s face instead of his chest, blankly staring at the pulse point pounding in his neck. He wanted to sink his teeth into it, but now looking into dark eyes, all he feels is the desire to cry. 

“What’s wrong?” Liu Qingge asks again. 

Everything. Nothing. Shen Qingqiu doesn’t know. It feels like too much to speak, but his head is filled with noise. 

“Shen Jiu. What do you need?” 

He needs—he needs space. Air. He needs to be fucked within an inch of his life, he needs to be kissed like he’s worth something, he needs to rip out the overgrown vines around his heart and hope the whole thing comes out at once, he needs—

“Shen Jiu, please.” Liu Qingge sounds desperate now, and Shen Qingqiu shakes his head rapidly. He can’t do this. 

“That’s not my name.” 

He can’t hear it anymore. He came to this sect to lose that name, to leave it behind. To leave that person behind. Now it’s become something tangible between them, and he can’t hear it from Liu Qingge’s mouth anymore. It’ll kill him, it will break him, or he’ll break Liu Qingge—

“Shen—” 

“It’s not my name, don’t call me that, don’t!” he shouts, breaking away fully. He knows he sounds hysterical, he sounds ridiculous—a peak lord, newly minted, he’ll be the shame of the peak, as if he wasn’t already—

“Qingqiu, Qingqiu.” 

The noise quiets down some, in his head. A streak of blue through the red of his mania. Shen Qingqiu pants for breath, only vaguely aware of how ragged he sounds. He can barely see, can scarcely feel his qi flowing wildly through his meridians. Rough hands come back to him, circling gently around his wrists, and only then does he realize he’d clamped his hands over his ears. Like a child refusing to hear a truth they don’t like. 

Humiliated tears burn in Shen Qingqiu’s eyes. Isn’t that just what he is? Still the broken boy from the streets, stubbornly refusing to accept his name. To accept what he is, what he always has been. He lets himself be pulled upright from his bent over position. 

“It’s okay,” Liu Qingge murmurs, pulling him close. He’s slow, achingly slow, as he wraps his arms around Shen Qingqiu, ensconcing him in warmth. “It’s all right, I promise. It’s all right, Qingqiu.”

I promise.  

It’s unbearable. He’s had promises made to him before, each one a lie in its own form. He barely survived Yue Qi’s promises; he knows he won’t make it through Liu Qingge’s. 

“Why are you doing this?” he mumbles.

“Doing what?” His voice is a low rumble, this close. 

This. Anything. Making promises, holding Shen Qingqiu, making him think there’s something there even when he knows there can’t be. 

Why are you acting like you care for me? He thinks. 

“Why are you pretending?” is what he says. 

Falling back on old habits; assuming and accusing—and like they’d never stopped, Liu Qingge follows. He pulls away, just enough to frown down at Shen Qingqiu, and Shen Qingqiu hates that he feels cold from it. Isn’t this what he wanted? For Liu Qingge to pull away? He doesn’t know anymore. 

“What do you mean?” 

Shen Qingqiu scoffs, because it’s so much easier to be mean than to be honest. “You know perfectly well what I mean, Liu Qingge. Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Liu Qingge draws back further, confusion marring his brow. “What are you talking about? I’m not pretending.” 

Anger, then. It floods Shen Qingqiu, gives him the strength to push roughly at Liu Qingge’s chest until he stumbles back a few paces, more out of shock than any real force. “You are! You—we both know you do not care for me! Do not pretend you’ve suddenly grown some—some sort of attachment to me!” 

Liu Qingge is staring at him like he’s lost his mind, which only inflames Shen Qingqiu more, and so he tacks on, “Holding me and—and seeking me out all this time, k-kissing me—it’s obscene! What’s wrong with you?! Have you forgotten all the years of animosity between us so easily?” 

He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore, but it doesn’t matter: Liu Qingge’s face clouds over like a thunderstorm about to break. “Is that what you think? That I’ve suddenly forgotten ? Well I haven’t! I haven’t forgotten the way you always used to slink off in the night to the brothels—”

Shen Qingqiu clenches his fan so hard he hears the wood creak. “You fucking— ” 

“Or the way you were so haughty and full of yourself! I certainly haven’t forgotten the way you tried to kill me on our last night hunt!” 

“You don’t know anything— ” 

“So what, was I the replacement? After I dragged you out of that brothel, did you decide to use me instead?” Liu Qingge hisses, face red with fury. “Was I the convenient excuse for the great Shen Jiu to not have to leave the peak anymore when he debases himself? Why bother, when he can just use a brainless Bai Zhan brute to satisfy his needs!” 

“Get out!” Shen Qingqiu shouts, giving in and smacking Liu Qingge with his fan. He’s incandescent with rage, he’s burning with it—or maybe it’s just the searing pain lashing through his heart, the burn in his eyes. “Get the fuck out of my house!” 

How stupid he’s been, how correct—it was never anything deeper, never anything like what Shen Qingqiu has felt these last weeks. How could it be? Liu Qingge saw the truth of him, and his worst fears were realized. Liu Qingge knows what he is, and he is still disgusted. It shouldn’t have hurt so much. He should have expected this. 

“No!” Liu Qingge shouts back. “No, because you’re wrong! You don’t know anything! All you do is assume and assume and you never bother to fucking ask! Why are you so sure you know everything?!” 

“Because people are all the same!” Shen Qingqiu finds himself screaming. “All of you, you’re all the fucking same! You make promises and break them, you’re all two-faced—”

“Not all of us! Not me !” 

His voice breaks on the last word, but Liu Qingge is far from finished. “When was I two-faced? When I told you I wanted you?” 

Shen Qingqiu freezes. “That’s not—” 

“Did you want me to forget, Shen Qingqiu?” Liu Qingge keeps going, nearly feral. His eyes narrow, and he leans further into Shen Qingqiu’s space. “Did you want me to just somehow not remember all those years of hating each other? Well too bad! I still remember, and I still fucking want you!” 

Shen Qingqiu had opened his mouth, but it snaps shut at this. The bamboo house is suddenly, starkly quiet but for the sound of their harsh breaths, and then—

Liu Qingge advances a step. Another. Another, until he’s stepping into Shen Qingqiu’s space, so close he can feel the heat radiating from his chest. “Did you want me to forget the way you looked the first time I saw you? Bloodied and dirty, so full of anger? We were both so young then, but you looked like you’d seen things none of us could imagine.”

Shen Qingqiu can’t breathe. He feels like he’s suffocating, but he doesn’t hate it. He should hate it. 

Liu Qingge steps forward again, and this jars Shen Qingqiu into movement. He steps back, body jittery, like the proximity has made him forget how to move. “Did you want me to forget how you looked when we sparred the first time?” Liu Qingge murmurs. “All spread out under me, like a feast just for me. Glaring like you wanted to kill me. You were beautiful.” 

“Liu Qingge—” he tries to say, but it comes out strangled. Another step forward, another stumble back. 

“Or what about the first time I saw you kill a man,” Liu Qingge breathes, and here Shen Qingqiu’s breath stutters. He stares up at Liu Qingge, shocked into momentary silence. Liu Qingge takes advantage of it, his smile on just this side of a smirk. 

“It was the same night hunt I thought you tried to kill me. We set out to catch that Double-Horned Blue Panther, and when I got back from paying the inn, you had disappeared. I found you in the woods, pulling Xiu Ya from a man at your feet.” 

Shen Qingqiu remembers now. Of course he does. He’d heard a woman screaming from the woods bordering the inn, and followed the sounds to see—well, it didn’t bear repeating. He’d ripped the man away and stabbed Xiu Ya to its hilt in the monster’s chest, after he’d beaten him half to death. Then Liu Qingge had shown up, followed swiftly by the real monster. 

“He was—” 

“I know what he was,” Liu Qingge murmurs. His hand raises to stroke Shen Qingqiu’s cheek, and he allows it. He shouldn’t, but he does. Craves the warmth of Liu Qingge’s fingertips, the way a moth craves the warmth of an open flame. “I don’t blame you for it.” 

“No, only for trying to kill you.” 

The fingers disappear, and Shen Qingqiu feels something in him shrivel—the moth burned up by the flame. “You didn’t try to kill me. I was wrong.” 

Shen Qingqiu’s head snaps up. “Do not lie to me, Liu Qingge–” he begins hotly, but Liu Qingge, this bastard, only gently shushes him. Like a fool, Shen Qingqiu listens. 

“I made a mistake. Later, I was thinking about it—” 

“A novel feat for you, I’m sure—” 

“—and realized how stupid of an assumption that was. I’d just seen you kill a man for rape; I was supposed to just assume you meant to kill me right after? For what? The crime of witnessing you dispense justice? For seeing you as you are?” 

Shen Qingqiu is speechless. He hadn’t expected this, and now he was thrown off—left only to wait for whatever else was to come out of his shidi’s mouth. 

Liu Qingge drags his fingertips over Shen Qingqiu’s jaw. “I see you as you are, Shen Qingqiu,” he murmurs. “Is it so strange for me to want you still?” 

Something—some broken thing in him—compels him to speak. He’s afraid—so afraid that if he doesn’t get it out now, then he never will, and he’ll never have another chance. 

“You don’t know my past,” he manages, and it sounds choked and pathetic even to him. 

But Liu Qingge only shakes his head. “I don’t care about your past.” 

“Liu Qingge–” 

“It doesn’t matter to me—”

“I was a slave —” 

“Shen Qingqiu.” Hands grip his upper arms, and Shen Qingqiu falls silent, staring up into deep gray eyes. “I do not care who you used to be or what you used to do. Your past made you who you are and I love that person.” 

How easily he says that, Shen Qingqiu marvels. How simply, like there’s nothing that could be more true, more right, than those words. I love that person.  

“. . . Say it again.” 

Liu Qingge smiles. Shen Qingqiu glares up at him, but he knows it’s ineffectual. He does it anyway, even though he wants to cry, to smile, even though his chest feels like it’s breaking open in the best way, spilling the golden light of the afternoon into the liminal space between them. 

Liu Qingge leans his head down so there’s only inches between their faces. “I love you.” 

Shen Qingqiu blinks and barely registers the hot tears slipping down his face, nor the calloused thumbs brushing them away, gentle in a way he hadn’t known he could ever feel. Hadn’t thought he deserved. 

“Again,” he whispers. 

Liu Qingge does it again. Whispers it in every featherlight kiss he presses to Shen Qingqiu’s face, breathes it into his skin to seep through to the damaged, broken soul quivering inside. Damaged, but healing. Shen Qingqiu shakes with the feeling of it, the force of those words on him. He trembles with the way he can feel something in him coming back together, held into place with those three simple, tiny words. 

When Liu Qingge kisses him, he isn’t afraid to meet it. He meets the press of his lips with lighter shoulders, and finds that it doesn’t take so much from him to wrap his arms around broad shoulders and press close. 

When those calloused hands slide to grip his hips, Shen Qingqiu only presses closer, kisses harder. He opens his mouth to an eager tongue and lets his moan fall between them freely. He feels a need building inside him, a burning that goes beyond arousal, searing into something foreign and demanding and hot . It makes him pull at the ties of his robes, loosening them enough to slide off a shoulder, and this is where Liu Qingge breaks from him. 

He’s panting lightly, cheeks red and eyes glazed. “You like it when I kiss you like this?” he murmurs, voice rough. 

Shen Qingqiu drags his nose over Liu Qingge’s jaw, a silent request for more. His hands haven’t stopped working at his robes, and another layer slides off to pool on the floor. “Yes.” 

He’s rewarded with another kiss, and this one neither of them bother working up to sliding their tongues together. It’s hot and wet from the beginning, and it only serves to stoke the wanting in Shen Qingqiu more. 

Liu Qingge grips him tight enough to bruise, hands blazing through to his skin. He’s down to his inner robes now, and these Liu Qingge shoves off him. His hold on Shen Qingqiu’s hip allows him to pull them together until they’re pressed skin-to-skin everywhere, and he breaks the kiss again to level Shen Qingqiu with a heated stare, dark with desire. 

“You like it when I hold you like you’re mine?” he rasps, and Shen Qingqiu shivers. 

“ Yes,” he breathes, dragging Liu Qingge’s mouth down to his. It’s biting and rough, and he needs more, needs to feel the drag of Liu Qingge’s teeth on his neck, his chest and thighs, and his nails dig deeper when he feels the scrape of them over his lip. 

“You like it when I mark you up,” Liu Qingge growls, and this time Shen Qingqiu allows some frustration to show. 

“Liu Qingge!” he hisses, but the man only huffs a laugh, and suddenly his hands slide down under Shen Qingqiu’s thighs to lift him up. 

Shen Qingqiu’s legs automatically wrap around his slender waist, and he moans at the way it makes his cock press against a hard, flat abdomen.

Liu Qingge deposits him on the bed without removing his mouth from Shen Qingqiu’s neck; he keeps it there even as he spreads slender legs and arranges himself between them, wet, hot pressure sucking bruises into pale skin. Shen Qingqiu pants, feeling like he’s about to peel out of his skin as rough hands wander all over his body: sliding over his chest, kneading and squeezing, before dragging down to his stomach and shoving open his robes. 

“Ah!” Shen Qingqiu arches when a calloused thumb brushes over his nipple, bared to the warm afternoon air. Liu Qingge makes a considering noise against his neck, and suddenly he bites down at the same time that his fingers pinch his nipple. 

“ Ah, ” Shen Qingqiu moans, hands going to broad, muscled shoulders. “Qingge, mm —” 

Liu Qingge moans against his throat, where he’s busy mouthing over Shen Qingqiu’s pulse point. Shen Qingqiu writhes when he sucks on it, whining when one hand holds his hips down, preventing him from arching up and seeking friction. Liu Qingge cruelly tilts his hips away, denying him even a scrap of relief for his cock, and forces him to feel every bit of attention he pays to his neck. 

Liu Qingge licks up his neck to bite at his jawline, his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, only to draw Shen Qingqiu’s tongue out and suck on it. It’s hot and wet and it should be filthy, but it’s not, and Shen Qingqiu can’t help the moan he makes deep in his throat, or the way he claws at Liu Qingge’s robes. 

“Mm-mm,” Liu Qingge says, and this close it’s a low rumble that sends shivers rippling through Shen Qingqiu. “You first.” 

He doesn’t explain or wait for Shen Qingqiu to ask before he rolls them over, hauling Shen Qingqiu up until he’s sitting on his chest. His hands clamp over Shen Qingqiu’s thighs, pulling them apart so he’s sitting spread obscenely open, cock bouncing dangerously close to Liu Qingge’s face. He’s not sure when he lost his pants, but he doesn’t think it matters when Liu Qingge looks at him like this : like he’s a feast, and Liu Qingge is about to eat like an emperor. 

But he doesn’t go for Shen Qingqiu’s cock; instead, he hauls Shen Qingqiu up even further, and Shen Qingqiu gasps as he realizes. 

“Liu Qingge, wait, ah ah, oh— ” 

Shen Qingqiu bites his lip to keep his sounds locked away, but it’s so hard. Liu Qingge’s tongue is so hot where it presses up against his hole, laving in broad strokes, and when it circles his rim he has to bite down harder. 

It circles one more time before pressing in, and Shen Qingqiu instinctively grinds down with a sinful moan, bracing both hands on the wall, back arching. He moves his hips in little grinds with Liu Qingge’s hands gripping his thighs like iron brands. 

They—they’ve never done this. Never put their faces, either one of them, their mouths—the most they’ve done is sucking each other off, but this—this is—

Liu Qingge presses his tongue deeper, and Shen Qingqiu whimpers.  

He feels stretched in a way that’s not unlike when Liu Qingge uses his cock, but this wet heat is—it’s intoxicating, it’s unfamiliar but it feels so good , and he can’t stop his hips from moving in little aborted thrusts, can’t stop his voice from gasping and moaning Liu Qingge’s name—and that’s without the utterly obscene noises from below him: the squelching, grunts of exertion, the wet sucking when Liu Qingge seals his lips around Shen Qingqiu’s hole and sucks hard while he tongue fucks him into oblivion. 

Shen Qingqiu comes like that; back arched, pressed against the wall for support, and Liu Qingge just—he just keeps going, except now, he’s pushing two fingers into his hole. Shen Qingqiu digs a hand into Liu Qingge’s ponytail and grinds down hard into his mouth, chasing the overstimulation like a starved man chases his next meal. It makes him shiver and whimper in a way his own fingers could never do, and soon he’s built up a pace that has his face scrunched in pleasure as he rides his shidi’s face. It makes Liu Qingge suck harder, finger him rougher, and at one point he curls his fingers, and Shen Qingqiu comes a second time with a long, drawn out moan. 

It shoots as high as as his throat, some droplets even splashing up to his cheek. He shakily lifts himself off of Liu Qingge’s mouth so the man can breathe, but his shidi barely spares a moment to sit upright before hauling Shen Qingqiu close again and kissing him so hard their teeth clack together. 

It’s messy—it’s so messy, and a little painful, and their faces are slick with sweat and come. It should be disgusting, he should be recoiling when Liu Qingge pulls away to lick the come from his cheek, but Shen Qingqiu only clutches Liu Qingge close again and bullies his tongue into his shidi’s mouth. 

He feels like he’s burning up, like he can’t possibly get any hotter but he’ll explode if he doesn’t, like he’ll rattle apart at the seams. What’s wrong with him? It’s never felt like this before—this all consuming need driving him. He wants to crawl inside Liu Qingge, wants to devour and consume him as much as he wants to tear open his chest and pull Liu Qingge into the tangled mess within. This can’t be normal—there must be something wrong with him, some broken, feral thing that’s making him this way, but it feels so good, Liu Qingge feels so perfect on him, in him—

Shen Qingqiu slides off the bed to his knees and takes Liu Qingge’s pants along with him, ripping them off as his knees hit the floorboards. Liu Qingge had toed his boots off somewhere when he’d been tongue fucking Shen Qingqiu into a stupor, so his pants slide unrestricted to the floor. His cock is hard, flushed dark red at the tip, and Shen Qingqiu doesn’t hesitate to take it into his mouth, looking up at Liu Qingge as he does it. 

That gets him a guttural groan, and he flushes with heat at the sound of it. He’s making Qingge feel good, he’s the one drawing these sounds out of him, he’s the only one allowed to see Qingge like this, no one else, no one no one no one—

“Qingqiu, Qingqiu,” Liu Qingge is panting, chest heaving. His hands are weaved into Shen Qingqiu’s hair, pulling at it until it’s a tangled mess, and Shen Qingqiu only sucks him harder for it, tongue laving at the vein on his underside as he takes him deeper the way he likes. 

Liu Qingge is big enough that fitting him down his throat would take some work, but they’ve never done that, either. Shen Qingqiu had always refused him the pleasure, and even at his angriest, Liu Qingge had never fucked himself quite that deep into Shen Qingqiu’s mouth. 

Shen Qingqiu wants to feel the stretch. He wants to taste this man as deep as he can go and make him feel the way he’ll swallow around his length, wants to feel the press of him against the back of his throat and choke—

—except he doesn’t, and he feels the exact moment Liu Qingge realizes he doesn’t have a gag reflex. Shen Qingqiu smirks around his mouthful, sucking hard as Liu Qingge curses breathily and looks down. “You—Qingqiu, you— oh, oh fuck . . .” 

Shen Qingqiu begins working him over in earnest, his cheeks burning at the obscene sounds escaping his mouth, but instead of shying away he chases after them, some insane part of him wanting to be more obscene, more filthy. It takes a bit, but finally he’s able to work the length of Liu Qingge down his throat, and he looks up as he swallows, green eyes meeting those darkened by lust and love. 

“Fuck,” Liu Qingge says, strangled. 

The strands of Shen Qingqiu’s hair that hung around his face, damp with sweat, are gathered up in shaking fingers and held with the rest of his hair in a grip that slowly goes from gentle to just barely too-tight, and Shen Qingqiu moans at the pull of it on his scalp. The cool air is a balm against his sweat-dampened skin, brushing over his neck, and he bobs his head faster, pulling up to work at Liu Qingge’s cock with his mouth before taking him down into his throat again. 

Liu Qingge is cursing in an-almost nonstop stream above him, his grip in Shen Qingqiu’s hair tightening until Shen Qingqiu whines around his cock, and he just barely catches Liu Qingge’s smirk. That’s all the warning he gets before a hand works around to the back of his head, and Liu Qingge fucks forward roughly, burying his cock deep in Shen Qingqiu’s throat. 

It’s a shock, but Shen Qingqiu adjusts quickly. He moans, because he knows it will make Liu Qingge shiver, and it does, and he feels so powerful to know how much he can still affect this man. To know the power he holds over him. 

Liu Qingge thrusts again, and again and again and again, and soon enough he’s fucking Shen Qingqiu’s throat so roughly that there’s no hope of muffling the sounds leaving him even if he’d wanted to. And he doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t. 

He wants the whole sect to know—wants to have Liu Qingge stumble out of this bamboo house on the day of their naming ceremony and show everyone on this peak who the Bai Zhan War God belongs to. Whose ass he buries his face in and whose mouth he fucks and whom he loves— Me!! , Shen Qingqiu wants to shout, pathetically, vengefully, rightfully. Liu Qingge is mine and I am his. Wholly, entirely, purely. 

He comes a third time, surprisingly—he hadn’t considered the strength behind those feelings until he’d thought them, and they’d driven him to finish completely untouched as tears leaked from his eyes—

—and then there are hands pulling him up and wiping the tears away, and Shen Qingqiu realizes he must have missed the last few moments. Liu Qingge is half-hard, but the evidence of his climax is spread over his length, and belatedly he feels it thick in his mouth. He swallows on reflex, and hears Liu Qingge suck in an affected breath. 

“You still with me?” he manages to ask, and Shen Qingqiu can only nod. Always, he wants to say. Forever.  

His throat feels tender; he wonders if Liu Qingge fucked him hard enough to take his voice away, but when he tries to speak, it comes out. Hoarse and raspy, but it’s there. He feels a rush of satisfaction. 

“We’re not done,” he says, and Liu Qingge gives a little laugh. 

“Of course not,” he purrs. “What does shixiong have in mind?” 

Shen Qingqiu rises to his feet, arousal curling anew despite his tiredness, and Liu Qingge reclines on the bed, beautiful lines of his body fully on display, meeting the heat in his eyes—always meeting him, sword strike for sword strike, insult for insult, heartbeat for heartbeat. Not always in sync, often clashing, but always coming back together. The way they were meant to. 

Shen Qingqiu leans over the bed, pressing a knee against where Liu Qingge is growing hard once more. “Allow this master to show you.”