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Shen Qingqiu lifted a hand to shade his eyes, gazing out from the porch. The summer sun spilled like molten gold through the dense stocks of bamboo, scattering into a restless tide of light and shadow that danced across the courtyard.
He drew in a slow breath of the crisp air, the faint scent of grass and warm earth mingling with the sweetness lingering on his tongue. Without looking away from the scene, he plucked another slice of watermelon from the plate at his side and bit into it. Honey-sweet juice burst over his lips, dribbling down the sharp line of his chin. Some slipped beneath his loose collar, others ready to fall into his lap—
—or they would have, if his lap weren’t already occupied.
A man far too large to be lazing there so casually had his head pillowed on Shen Qingqiu’s thighs, eyes closed in quiet indulgence. The droplets of melon juice never reached the fabric of his robes—Luo Binghe’s tongue flicked out across his lips, catching them as they slipped down, leaving damp streaks along his cheeks.
“…Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu muttered, voice somewhere between exasperation and fond amusement. “Wouldn’t you prefer a slice?”
“Mn?” Luo Binghe cracked his eyes open at the question, the languid smile he wore betraying his answer before he even spoke. “No need, Shizun. This is plenty.”
Shen Qingqiu huffed and rolled his eyes, but the faint curve of his mouth gave him away. He set his fan aside, fingers slipping into Luo Binghe’s hair, and began to idly smooth the damp strands from his forehead.
A pleased rumble vibrated from Luo Binghe’s chest at the touch. He pressed forward like a spoiled puppy, nuzzling insistently into Shen Qingqiu’s palm, sweat passing between where their skin touched.
Shen Qingqiu let out a long-suffering huff. For all that Luo Binghe had grown into a broad-shouldered, imposing man, there was still a streak of boyish charm clinging stubbornly to him—an echo of that eager little disciple from years past. Shen Qingqiu reached down and patted his cheek, the gesture halfway between scolding and affection.
“After all these years,” he clicked his tongue, giving the soft flesh of Binghe’s cheek a sharp pinch, “you still insist on playing the baby?”
Luo Binghe made no defense—only let out a small, wounded whimper, as if his heart had been crushed by that tiny act of cruelty. He scrunched his face and pushed his lips into a pout so exaggerated it almost seemed rehearsed.
For a man of his size and stature, the sight was ridiculous. Ridiculous…and unbearably endearing.
With a helpless shake of his head, Shen Qingqiu rubbed at the spot he had pinched, smoothing his thumb over the faint pink mark. “You’re shameless,” he muttered, though the words came softened by his touch.
“But Shizun,” Binghe said, voice lowered into a plaintive murmur as his eyes turned up, bright with mischief and the faintest hint of genuine yearning, “don’t you like me better when I act this way? Aren’t I cuter like this?”
The sheer gall of him—calling himself cute with that guileless pout, like some oversized child waiting to be coaxed. Shen Qingqiu’s lips curved despite himself. He slid his hand beneath Binghe’s chin, fingertips brushing the line of his jaw before tilting it upward.
He allowed himself a moment to look at him. Those big eyes, that puppyish eagerness, so absurdly out of place on the face of a man who could terrify armies. Shen Qingqiu gave a theatrical sigh, the corners of his mouth betraying the warmth he tried to conceal.
“I suppose,” he said, voice deliberately thoughtful as he stroked beneath Binghe’s chin, “you are cuter.”
The effect was immediate. Luo Binghe’s sulky expression melted away, replaced by a blinding grin that made him look ten years younger. Before Shen Qingqiu could so much as sigh, Binghe twisted up and latched himself around his waist, arms winding tight like iron bands.
The strength behind the embrace was alarming. Shen Qingqiu knew all too well how a single careless squeeze from Binghe could snap bones, and yet here he was clinging with all the fervor of a spoiled child demanding attention. Binghe buried his face into Shen Qingqiu’s stomach, rubbing his nose insistently against him as if to mark his territory.
Shen Qingqiu stifled a laugh at the utterly ridiculous sight. Reaching for his fan, he gave Binghe’s head a light tap before setting it down again to comb his fingers through that wild, thick mane of curls.
“Look at you,” he sighed, though his hand never ceased its soothing motion, “not a single soul would believe this clingy creature is the great, terrifying Demon Lord.”
Binghe only hummed, muffled against his robes, clearly unbothered. Shen Qingqiu could feel the faint vibration of words against the fabric, too soft and shy for him to catch. Curious despite himself, he leaned down, his own hair slipping forward to curtain their faces.
“Hm? Binghe, what was that? Speak up.”
For a long moment, silence. Then, slowly, Binghe tilted his head just enough to peek out from behind his mess of curls. One dark eye glistened up at him, wide and pleading, his face flushed the deepest shade of red. His lips trembled before he finally whispered:
“…Can you call me ‘baby’ again?”
Shen Qingqiu froze.
His mouth fell open, utterly at a loss. Of all the horrors he had endured—the blood mites, the fighting, the endless deaths—somehow this was worse. A grown man, taller than the doorframe and more powerful than the heavens, begging to be called “baby.”
Why, Shen Qingqiu thought grimly, did this send more chills down his spine than Binghe’s very first ambush years ago?
After a moment of staring at the ridiculous pout beneath him, Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat and averted his gaze. Fine. If Binghe insisted on acting like a baby, then he would be treated like one.
“…You’re such a baby.”
Luo Binghe’s lips curled immediately into a smile, hidden beneath the tumble of dark curls. He shifted closer, strong arms tightening as he pushed himself up until his face hovered directly in front of Shen Qingqiu’s. Their noses brushed together, feather-light, a clumsy little nudge like a child demanding to be noticed.
“What am I?” he asked softly, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Shen Qingqiu could feel the heat crawling up his own neck. He tried to keep his expression stern, but the words slipped out anyway. “…You’re a baby.”
Binghe’s grin only widened at the confession, so bright and boyish that Shen Qingqiu almost blurted out the first thing that crossed his mind: Moe. He’s so ridiculously moe.
Meanwhile, Luo Binghe’s weight shifted, slow and inevitable. He pressed forward until Shen Qingqiu found his back meeting the warm wood of the porch. The descent was so gentle, so drawn-out, that Shen Qingqiu hardly realized what had happened until his hair had spilled loose around him, strands curling into messy shapes across the floor.
Binghe leaned over him, casting his shadow like an eager child hovering over a prize, and whispered, “Who’s baby am I?”
Shen Qingqiu’s mouth went dry. His pulse raced, though his voice betrayed nothing but reluctant surrender.
“…Mine.”
Something flickered in Binghe’s eyes—something far removed from the boyish pout of a moment ago—but Shen Qingqiu was too slow to catch it before warm lips crashed clumsily against his own.
Over the years, Binghe had certainly improved at intimacy, but improvement did not mean refinement. After all, who could claim mastery in something they only began learning well into adulthood? Certainly not this overgrown child of his.
The kiss began almost tentative, soft and searching—but within seconds it had devolved into a sloppy, eager mess. Binghe kissed like he couldn’t get enough, like he was starving, his mouth pressed wide as he slathered kisses from Shen Qingqiu’s chin all the way up to his nose. His tongue flicked carelessly, leaving wet trails, and his muffled moans spilled out in every breathless pause.
He was no different from an oversized puppy trying to cover its master in kisses.
Shen Qingqiu groaned into his mouth, half from exasperation and half from lack of air, before seizing a fistful of Binghe’s thick curls and tugging him closer. “Honestly…” he muttered between breaths, “…what am I going to do with you?”
Binghe answered with a delighted noise, practically vibrating with joy as he pressed down harder. Now, his entire, unbearably heavy weight, was sprawled atop him, pressing every inch of their bodies together.
Their legs tangled helplessly, only adding to the suffocating heat of the summer air trapped between them. Binghe whimpered against his mouth, nuzzling like a spoiled pet desperate for attention, his lips chasing Shen Qingqiu’s even when the older man tried to pull back for breath.
“…Ngh.” The sound was pitiful, a whine dragged straight from Luo Binghe’s throat as his hips gave a shallow, experimental thrust against Shen Qingqiu’s thigh.
That tiny motion seemed to snap something loose. Within moments, Binghe was rutting shamelessly, his movements quick and needy, grinding himself down as though he couldn’t stop even if he tried. His head dropped, cheek pressed flat against Shen Qingqiu’s chest, and his arms wound tightly beneath him, clinging like an anchor.
Shen Qingqiu squirmed beneath the weight, trying to pry himself free. “Binghe—wait—” He slid his hands to push at those broad shoulders, wriggling in a vain attempt to slip away. “Can’t we take this inside? What if someone sees us?”
But Binghe wasn’t listening. His eyes stayed shut, mouth parted in bliss, the occasional shaky moan slipping out between panting breaths. He kept thrusting relentlessly, like an oversized puppy who had found something warm and soft to cling to.
“Shizun… Shizun… I like you,” he gasped, voice muffled against his chest, clinging tighter with every word.
Shen Qingqiu’s heart gave a painful throb at the sheer sight of it—too cute, far too much for an ex-virgin of twenty-plus years unprepared for this kind of shameless devotion. He let out a long sigh, finally surrendering. Dropping his head back against the porch, he slid his hands up to cradle the younger man’s head, fingers stroking gently as if to soothe a spoiled child.
“…Fine. Just—be quick,” he muttered, though the indulgence in his tone betrayed him.
At that, Binghe cracked open his eyes and shifted to press fluttering kisses down the length of Shen Qingqiu’s throat. His collar, already loosened, was tugged further askew, and Luo Binghe’s mouth trailed greedily to the newly exposed skin. Shen Qingqiu jolted when those lips brushed lower before a wet tongue lapped lazily across one nipple.
His breath hitched; he slapped a fist over his own mouth, desperate to stifle any sound.
“Shizun…” Luo Binghe moaned, words slurred as his tongue circled and teased. “Shizun, am I a good boy?”
The question was so earnest, so utterly shameless, that Shen Qingqiu’s jaw clenched tight. He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away as if that could save him.
“I—I don’t—”
But before he could finish, Luo Binghe closed his lips around the peaked skin and sucked, hard.
“—Ah!”
Luo Binghe’s thrusts had slowed, his focus narrowing down to the swollen bud beneath his lips. He suckled greedily, almost possessive, before pulling back just long enough to mumble between gasps.
“Aren’t I?” His mouth descended again, sucking harder until Shen Qingqiu jolted. “I’m your only baby. I should be good…”
Sharp teeth grazed the tender skin, and Shen Qingqiu threw his head back with a moan, the sound torn from his throat before he could stop it. Heat burned through him; his robes strained tight, a hard tent pressing in humiliating betrayal of his composure. With a trembling fist, he smacked Binghe’s head weakly.
“St–stop talking—ah!”
But Binghe only purred in response, moving one hand to squeeze Shen Qingqiu’s chest, gathering what little softness there was as if molding it into something plump and yielding.
“Shizun…” he murmured, voice thick with need, “…I’ve wanted this for so long.” His fingers kneaded possessively, his mouth sealing over Shen Qingqiu’s nipple again. He sucked hard, then pulled away with a loud, wet pop, eyes glazed. “Back when we first lived together, I dreamed of you cradling me, rubbing my head, keeping me close.”
Shen Qingqiu, half-dazed, barely registered the words through the fog of sensation—until he noticed Binghe hadn’t moved. Blinking, he glanced down.
Binghe’s cheeks were puffed out, his lips stretched tight around his chest, his mouth still stubbornly latched. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his flushed cheeks as his tongue flicked desperately beneath the sealed lips.
“…Binghe?” Shen Qingqiu’s brows furrowed. He cupped the man’s damp face between both hands, gently prying him back. “What’s wrong?”
Binghe whimpered, brows scrunched, tears dripping freely onto Shen Qingqiu’s skin as though he were the victim, as though he hadn’t been the one pinning and devouring his own teacher moments ago. His forehead pressed into Shen Qingqiu’s chest, hot and damp, his arms locking tighter around him like a child afraid of being abandoned.
Why does the assailant always end up crying mid-fuck as if he’s the one being attacked?!
With a sigh, he pulled Binghe’s face up and kissed him quickly before gathering him close, shifting to sit upright and cradle him against his chest. His voice softened without meaning to.
“…I’m sorry. I should’ve noticed your feelings sooner, Binghe—no. I’m sorry, baby.”
The word slipped out naturally, like it had been waiting years on his tongue. Binghe shuddered, another tear sliding down as he rubbed his forehead insistently against Shen Qingqiu’s chest, his body curled like an overgrown child seeking comfort.
Of course Shen Qingqiu had known. Maybe he hadn’t been able to acknowledge it then—but if he had, perhaps things wouldn’t have spiraled into so much needless misunderstanding.
He bent his head, brushing a kiss against the glowing demon mark at Binghe’s brow.
“…Let this teacher make it up to you.”
Shen Qingqiu pressed soft kisses across Binghe’s damp forehead, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. His hand trailed slowly downward: from his neck, across his chest, over the trembling plane of his stomach.
He hesitated only a heartbeat before pressing lower, until his palm rested firmly against the straining heat beneath Binghe’s dark robes.
No time to debate morality now. His husband was crying—better to quiet him, better to take care of him directly. That was what he’d always done, wasn’t it?
With a steadying breath, Shen Qingqiu rubbed him through the fabric. Binghe gasped, a helpless, broken sound, his hips twitching at the touch. At first the motions were light, testing, but soon Shen Qingqiu quickened, pressing more firmly, stroking with a rhythm meant to reassure.
“Ah—Shizun,” Binghe panted, tilting his face into the hand cradling his head, “am I…good?”
“Yes,” Shen Qingqiu murmured, his voice low and even, as though calming a child, “Binghe is very good.”
His palm slid more purposefully now, flat against the swollen length, feeling each twitch and pulse beneath the silk. Binghe’s face softened again, eyes slipping shut, mouth falling open in wordless bliss.
Shen Qingqiu adjusted his grip, angling his strokes higher, brushing the sensitive head until Binghe’s whimpers melted into moans. His robes were tugged by desperate hands as Binghe clung, tears still threatening at the corners of his eyes.
“Nnnha—Shizun, I love you,” he choked, clutching tighter, as if afraid that without words or touch, he might be left behind.
Shen Qingqiu bent to kiss his damp lashes, stroking faster. “…I know, baby. I know.”
Shen Qingqiu tilted Binghe’s chin up with one hand, steadying him, as his strokes grew firmer, faster. His husband squirmed under his touch, tears streaking his flushed face.
“Shhh,” Shen Qingqiu soothed, pressing their foreheads together. “Don’t cry, Binghe. Shizun will take care of you.”
His words only made Binghe tremble harder, soft whimpers spilling from parted lips. Shen Qingqiu’s hand worked with patient precision, dragging along the thick length, thumb brushing the swollen head with each upward sweep. The warmth and pulse beneath his palm made his chest ache strangely—half pride, half pity.
“Such a good boy,” Shen Qingqiu whispered against his temple, feeling the desperate clutch on his robes. “Always so eager to please.”
Binghe bucked helplessly, gasping, “Shizun—I can’t—ahh, I can’t hold it—”
“Then don’t.” Shen Qingqiu’s voice was calm, commanding. “Let go for me. Let Shizun see.”
A strangled cry tore from Binghe as his body arched, every muscle locking tight before spilling hotly into Shen Qingqiu’s hand. His face contorted with relief and shame, tears slipping free even as his lips formed his master’s name.
Shen Qingqiu stroked him gently through the aftershocks, milking every twitch until Binghe finally sagged, exhausted, against his chest. He pressed a kiss to the damp crown of his head, rubbing slow circles into his back.
“There now,” Shen Qingqiu murmured, his tone low, almost indulgent. “All better. Was that so hard? My poor, foolish child.”
Binghe gave a shaky laugh against his chest, still clinging desperately, as though he might dissolve if he let go.
“Shizun,” Binghe murmured, averting his gaze and hanging his head low.
“Hm? What is it?”
After a moment, Luo Binghe lifted his head once more, looking directly into Shen Qingqius eyes. The innocence that once sparkled in his eyes completely dissipated, turning into something Shen Qingqiu knew all too well from their usual nightly routine.
“I’m not finished.”