Chapter Text
✧⊱ ━⋅~⭑♦⦕⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅⦖♦⭑~⋅━⊰✧
It has been seventeen weeks since Mu Qing first touched Feng Xin's dick. Feng Xin is not keeping track, but he is not not keeping track. It is not a conscious effort. It's instinctual. Feng Xin does not usually pay much attention to these details; that is Mu Qing's specialty, and apparently, kissing Mu Qing has infected him with this. Like a disease. Some little internal clock calmly ticks away at Feng Xin's resolve, the number growing ever-larger, the time passing without any consideration for Feng Xin's feelings about it.
And Feng Xin has a lot of feelings about it, among other things.
Avoiding Mu Qing clearly did not work, and avoiding his repressed feelings for Mu Qing is… also not working. At every touch of Mu Qing's hand, the taste of his lips —
—the way he grasps at the lifeline that is Feng Xin's robes and hair and flesh—
He drags Feng Xin further beneath the depths. The light of the surface dims with every meter he plunges towards the seafloor.
But there's nothing to talk about. Nothing truly changes between them. An outlet for energy is only that: just an outlet.
So, Feng Xin tries to keep his feelings tucked away out of sight. He thinks he's successful, mostly. Whenever he recognizes himself slipping beneath the surface, beckoned and lured by the cool touch of Mu Qing's skin soothing the fire within his own, he heaves himself back up to the surface, gasps a breath of the air he finds there, and tries to tread water as long as he can.
He knows he is slipping, though. Burying his cock deep into Mu Qing's throat attached weights to his ankles. Making his way back to the surface grows more difficult every time, and he's been getting distracted.
During conversations, meetings, training—
Anything and everything Feng Xin should be doing throughout the days and nights settles warmly beside the coals while Mu Qing bathes in the heat of his attention. Feng Xin has never had issues focusing before. This is new. He does not know what to do about this.
Feng Xin's mind drifts, sentimental and yearning. Mu Qing was so soft when he slept, too exhausted to do anything more than shuffle lightly as Feng Xin peeled away layers of armor and robes. It took several attempts to slip away while Mu Qing dozed, before Feng Xin said something —did something— he would regret. Mu Qing's voice, hoarse and deep with exhaustion and adoring abuse, relaxed and foreign to Feng Xin's ears.
The sleep-addled murmur of Feng Xin's name sings a siren's call too much for his heart to handle.
If Feng Xin wasn't so conscious of Mu Qing's cultivation, he would have drawn away every last fiber of fabric and tumbled with him from dawn to dusk. Then, once more from dusk until dawn. Maybe for an entire week, or even a month. Or until the end of time. Through the cover of the thin robes, Feng Xin's eyes followed the lithe lines of an elegant feline figure, a slim and delicate grace so unexpected with such strength of a martial god. Hidden beneath the pale skin that flushes so freely and marks so vividly, beneath the refined air of his mannerisms and scholarly wit, is a strength even to Feng Xin's own.
If Feng Xin wasn't so conscious of Mu Qing's cultivation, he fears what little of his self-restraint would be left. In the days afterward, Feng Xin couldn't detect a difference in Mu Qing's cultivation when they sparred and fought, but he wasn't that familiar with the limitations exactly. It's not his cultivation path, so he treads lightly and deems only to follow Mu Qing's guidance, even if his heart yearns for more.
If Feng Xin wasn't so conscious of Mu Qing's cultivation…
Of course, Mu Qing does not make it easy. Mu Qing never makes anything easy. Overcomplicating shit is his lifeblood, his very essence and core. To make Mu Qing simple would be to remove the Mu Qing from Mu Qing.
Which might not be a bad idea for Feng Xin's sanity, actually.
Feng Xin rubs his eyes with the leather of his gloves, pressing hard enough until the red light from the sun collapses into a black static. Blearily, he retrieves an arrow from his quiver and docks it.
Mu Qing hasn't stopped obsessing about Feng Xin's dick, especially in his most powerful form, which he does not take to fight Mu Qing. He doesn't need it. He can take Mu Qing without it. Whatever form Mu Qing's worshippers have crafted for him, he can use, but Feng Xin does not need his.
He draws his arm back and aims his arrow at the distant target.
It would only make things worse, anyway. Using the form gifted to him by his worshippers, he means. Of course.
Feng Xin releases the arrow in his grasp and misses the target completely. He frowns as if the downturn of his lips would pluck his arrow from the grasses and shoot it through the target for him.
"Maybe your aim would be better if you shot it with your dick."
Mu Qing leans against a tree, an ethereal pain in Feng Xin's ass cast in a radiant golden light only the heavens could offer. Feng Xin won't meet his gaze completely, knowing what he will find there. He scowls, stretches the leather of his gloves with a flex of his hands, and docks another arrow. The next one hits the center perfectly, and so does the next. And the next. And the next; until Feng Xin's hand draws out of his quiver empty, every movement watched sharply by the cat stalking him in the bushes.
Spite is a mighty motivator.
"Are you done?"
Feng Xin bites the inside of his cheek. "What do you want?"
"Spar with me. I had a new saber made. Work on something useful for once."
Mu Qing's mouth says one thing, but his eye speaks another. Feng Xin has grown increasingly familiar with it in recent weeks since they became more than just f-f-friends. Yet also somehow not exactly friends. It’s hard to explain. He scans Mu Qing's person pointedly.
"I don't see it on you."
"I didn't bring it. Come with me."
Mu Qing turns to walk away, and Feng Xin follows him. Like an idiot, but not really. He knew what truly lay in store here; his heart is simply too weak to have those kinds of self-preservation instincts anymore. At least, not around Mu Qing.
To be fair, Mu Qing had a new saber, and they did indeed use it— for fighting, even. At first. For a short period of time, within an empty room designed for this purpose, Mu Qing swung his new saber with strength and grace against Feng Xin's sword. But just as Mu Qing's saber is long and sharpened to a deadly precision, so is Mu Qing's tongue.
"If that's how you wield your sword," Mu Qing meets Feng Xin's swing with confidence, pushing back his advance. "It's clear Ju Yang is all in size and nothing in technique. But even the size isn't all it's rumored to be."
"It was more than enough for you!" Feng Xin grits his teeth, digs his heels into the flooring, and pushes off with a swing of the blade, narrowly missing Mu Qing's hair. They clash once, twice, and retreat. Clash again. Adrenaline carries Feng Xin through each advance and retreat. His heart pounds in his chest, the leather grip of his gloves tight on the hilt.
Feng Xin was so engrossed in the dance of combat that he neglected to notice that Mu Qing hadn't responded. Though his attacks are fierce, his expression dark and eyes sharp, his entire face down to the lapels of his robes glows a startling shade of red. Feng Xin tries so hard not to laugh but still snorts into his fist.
His guard drops for only a moment, engrossed in the flush of Mu Qing's vivid embarrassment, but it's long enough for Mu Qing to hit the sword free from his grasp, clattering to the floor.
"Mu—"
"Do-Don't." Mu Qing sheaths his saber in a smooth, practiced motion, and Feng Xin catches his fist with a grunt. He leans in close, his fist still caught within Feng Xin's grasp, the strain causing their joined hands to tremble. "If you can't keep ahold of your sword, I won't use mine either."
"Fine." Feng Xin resists the temptation to kiss him. He's so close, but Feng Xin is always careful not to instigate, not with this. "Isn't the point to practice your new saber?"
Mu Qing smiles, light dancing in his eyes that goes straight to Feng Xin's already eternally-interested dick. "No, it's not."
Feng Xin's brows furrow, but he focuses on Mu Qing's body, the movements Feng Xin has known for centuries, the flow of his energy, his style of combat. He knew that wasn't what this was about but didn't expect Mu Qing to actually admit to it.
Somehow they manage to create more property damage unarmed than with blades in hand, splintered wood and bamboo left in their wake. Mu Qing's elaborately decorated palace lay in shambles. After everything that's happened between them, the best outlet is always their hands. Flesh on flesh. Some things never change.
Mu Qing lands a hit into his jaw, a bruise flowering like the bud of a blooming tea at the floor of the teapot. Feng Xin stretches out his jaw and spits a bit of loose blood onto the flooring. It splats into what remains of the bamboo mat and bleeds into the weave, never to come out. Mu Qing's expression curls up in disgust. Nothing in this room or even those adjacent is salvageable anyway, Feng Xin thinks, and Mu Qing can easily get them replaced.
"What the fuck, Feng Xin? That's disgusting."
Feng Xin pants, wipes away a smear of blood from his lips with the back of his glove, the leather cool against his overheated skin. "You punched me in the jaw. What did you expect? I'm not going to swallow it."
It's far from the first bit of blood on the floor here. Mu Qing's split lip made sure of that twenty minutes ago. Feng Xin doesn't see how this is any different.
"Why not?"
Feng Xin blinks. "Uh?"
"Forget it. I forgot your worshippers put all their power into your dick and none of it into your head."
"I never use that form to fight you." A headache sits on the horizon, taunting him, or maybe it's just Mu Qing's bullshit again. "You can do whatever you want, but I don't need it."
A pause.
"I don't… You don't? I don't use... You've never…?"
Feng Xin stares at him. Mu Qing coughs into his sleeve and stares at the floor. Slowly, it clicks into place.
"Why would I take that form to fight you? That's too much trouble."
Mu Qing scoffs. "Well, I don't have one. My statues are all tasteful and accurate to me, so there isn't…."
Feng Xin leans against what remains of a wall and thumps his head back. Something on the other side of the wall crashes to the floor, but he ignores it. Not his palace, not his problem. Mu Qing should have thought of that when he lured Feng Xin here.
It makes sense that Mu Qing wouldn't have an alternative form; he's always so particular about his statues and how he's worshipped, but it still feels… weird. To Feng Xin, at least.
"Show me."
Feng Xin's eyes snap open just in time for Mu Qing to grab his bruised jaw hard enough to ache.
"Wha— Mph—"
Lips capture his, and a tongue coaxes his eyes shut once more. Feng Xin sighs into the kiss, the very thing he expected from Mu Qing's invitation. Finally. In a way, it feels as though this is what they had been fighting for. He could have done without the bruises, but he’s grown long-accustomed to Mu Qing’s overcomplicated way of going about shit. Feng Xin tilts deeper into Mu Qing’s warmth, leather gloves sliding over soft fabric to grasp his waist belt and hold him close.
In what Feng Xin would consider a form of equality, he slots his thigh between Mu Qing’s and hauls him up to rub against his hip, relishing in the subdued gasp. Mu Qing bites his lip in retaliation, teasing the flesh between his teeth as he draws back, a hand wandering from its place at Feng Xin’s jaw to shed away what lies between them.
Robes fall away, revealing the flushed skin beneath, and Feng Xin leaves open-mouthed kisses down his neck, biting softly and slowly into the muscle. Mu Qing always blushes and marks so vividly; the marks from their last triste have yet to fade. Mu Qing could use his cultivation to fade the marks as quickly as Feng Xin places them, but he doesn’t, and Feng Xin refuses to think any deeper about it. He presses kisses against each lovingly broken capillary, tongue darting to taste the salt of Mu Qing’s skin, the faintest hint of jasmine-scented incense and perfumes.
Feng Xin brands a dark mark into his skin beside the one from last week, always careful to leave it lower than the edge of his robes. Mu Qing’s hips thrust up his thigh, the length of his cock hard against Feng Xin’s hip. Still clothed. He drags his teeth away with an exhale to pull away the last layer of fabric, and Mu Qing shivers.
Then, with a heave of effort, Feng Xin lifts Mu Qing by the hips and all but drops him onto the discarded robes, swallowing away every curse and protest. He realizes immediately he’s never actually seen Mu Qing completely bare and smoothes his hands from shoulder to hip, from hips down to thighs, settling snuggly between them and grinding against Mu Qing.
What Feng Xin can’t see with his eyes he maps out with his hands, every curve and dip of muscle, the raise of goose-pimpled flesh that brings him to smile against Mu Qing’s lips.
“Your gloves—” Mu Qing gasps, pulls away to breathe. “—are so cold.”
“You were supposed to take them off.” Feng Xin huffs a laugh, giddy no matter Mu Qing’s complaints, and sits back on his heels to remove them. Mu Qing’s hand stops him. He squints.
“Leave them on.”
“But you just— Make up your mind, Mu Qing, fuck.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes, and Feng Xin’s heart rolls away with them.
“Show me…” says Mu Qing, barely above a whisper.
Feng Xin knows what he’s asking for.
“Show you what?” He replies.
In lieu of answering —likely because Mu Qing’s thin face won’t allow it, Feng Xin assumes— Mu Qing grabs his dick directly. Forget Feng Xin’s gloves; Mu Qing’s hands are freezing.
“Ah! Fucking shit, Mu Qing! You can’t just— whatever. Fine! Fine, I guess.” Feng Xin wraps his hands around Mu Qing’s on his dick, trying to warm them up before his dick shrivels up from the icicles that are Mu Qing’s delicate fingers. It doesn’t work through his gloves. His balls are trying to retract into his body as he speaks. At least he can say he tried. “...Are you sure?”
Feng Xin recalls how rough Mu Qing’s throat had been before. Maybe just his thighs would be better. He smoothes his hands up and down Mu Qing’s inner thighs reverently, contemplating. He doesn’t know everything about Mu Qing’s cultivation path, but he does figure that fucking would break his vows. How it didn’t before, he doesn’t know, but—
“Please... Feng Xin.”
Feng Xin’s brain breaks. Just a little bit. There wasn’t a lot left to break after it’s been chipped away in recent weeks, but Mu Qing never pleads.
He also won’t look at Feng Xin anymore, which, yeah. Okay. That’s Mu Qing. Having his hand on Feng Xin’s cock is fine, but saying please is too much. It’s endearing, in a frustrating sort of way. Feng Xin hates to love it so much.
His heart has always been weak. He curls around Mu Qing, burying his face into the spread of his hair, thrusts lazily into his hand, and shifts his form with a sigh.
It’s not dissimilar from the rest of him. His face doesn’t change; his voice, his hair, nothing appears any different except for the swell of his cock in Mu Qing’s hand. As it does, Mu Qing’s single-handed grip becomes two, and Feng Xin suspires contentedly at the slide of his palms along the shaft. With every lazy thrust, the foreskin rolls back, and Mu Qing’s saber-calloused hands massage the sensitive, bare head of his cock, shivers clambering up Feng Xin’s spine and hair prickling.
Feng Xin loses himself for a moment, nuzzling into the warmth of Mu Qing’s skin, leaving breathy kisses along his ear, nipping at the lobe, and finding his way to petal-soft lips. He could kiss Mu Qing forever.
But, Mu Qing turns his head away too soon, his cheeks dusted pink, and refuses to meet Feng Xin’s eye.
Well, it’s more that his attention is drawn somewhere else.
Feng Xin isn’t self-conscious; he’s not! But how is he supposed to react when Mu Qing stares at his dick as if written alongside the shaft were the exact time and date of his death?! Feng Xin sure as fuck doesn’t know.
He coughs a little awkwardly. Scratches the back of his neck. Mu Qing either ignores him or does not notice. He thumbs the slit of Feng Xin’s cock in some sort of dazed reverence, and Feng Xin… lets him? He doesn’t really know what to do otherwise. But Feng Xin is a man of action; he always has been, so he busies himself in removing the guan from Mu Qing’s hair, combing his fingers through the smooth strands, indulging in the softness of Mu Qing.
“In my sleeve….”
Feng Xin looks at the tattered array of robes beneath them. There are definitely some sleeves there. “What?”
“I—” Mu Qing suddenly twists his torso around and digs through the fabric, and Feng Xin sits back on his heels, puzzled. His eye catches on the flushed tip of Mu Qing’s cock between his legs, long and slender to match his saber. Weirdly pretty in a way that Feng Xin didn’t think cocks should be. A bead of precum sits at the tip, and Feng Xin licks his lips absentmindedly. Distracted. His eyes follow the curve of that cock up to his hips, the lines of lithe muscle, and faintly wonders if Mu Qing might be ticklish. He seems like he would be. Feng Xin wonders what expression he would make laughing unrestrained and… bullied.
Before he gets a chance to test that theory and find out, Mu Qing hands him a vial of oil that Feng Xin knows the exact purpose of.
His heart skips, stops, races through his chest all at once.
“But, your cultivation? Mu Qing?”
Mu Qing grabs his wrist firmly, pulls him down into his arms, and bites Feng Xin’s bottom lip just hard enough to sting. Feng Xin hisses through the pain, the cool texture of the vial fidgeting in his grasp. His cock throbs, and he adjusts just enough to meet it with the smooth skin of Mu Qing’s, the thick mass of his cock hiding Mu Qing’s beneath it. He relishes in the friction between them, the weight of Feng Xin pinning Mu Qing’s cock up against his stomach, that bead of precum smearing between them with each slide of skin on skin.
“Don’t worry about it,” Mu Qing assures hurriedly. Feng Xin’s dick isn’t going anywhere, so Feng Xin isn’t sure why he seems to be in such a rush. And he is going to worry about it. “It’s not a concern.”
Feng Xin hesitates still, but he chooses to trust in Mu Qing. Trust Mu Qing to know his limits, to know what’s best for himself and his cultivation. Feng Xin ignores his own breath caught in his chest.
The pop of the cork on the vial rings deafeningly loud in the empty remains of the palace, and it still isn’t as loud as Feng Xin’s heart in his ears.
One arm flexed to keep him propped above Mu Qing, his lips chase Mu Qing’s for every taste of affection he can glean from his flesh, and Feng Xin’s other hand slowly descends between Mu Qing’s legs, gloved fingers slick with oil. At the first tentative touch of Feng Xin’s hand at Mu Qing’s hole, Mu Qing gasps like it burns his flesh.
“Are you—”
“Shut up.”
Feng Xin’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly. Then, he says with infallible suavity, “Okay.”
He tries again. This time, Mu Qing does not gasp or recoil, more prepared for the gentle touch of Feng Xin’s fingers, but his muscles twitch and stiffen. Feng Xin coaxes him to relax, massaging in smooth motions, distracting Mu Qing with nips of his teeth, the slide of his tongue, and press of heated lips down his clavicle and to his chest. At the pinch of teeth on his nipple, Mu Qing’s hands fly from Feng Xin-honestly-can’t-remember-where to clutch at his hair. Mu Qing’s hips buck forward in aborted, instinctual thrusts, seeking any friction they can find, and Feng Xin hums against his chest, the vibration of sound teasing.
“Ah!” Mu Qing’s fingers pull Feng Xin’s hair as he massages his chest with his tongue, the sweat of their sparring a salt on his skin bleeding onto Feng Xin’s tongue.
Sufficiently distracted, Feng Xin thinks at least, he slips a gloved finger to coat oil deeper, curl towards the cord of sensitive heat he knows lay buried there. He pumps his finger into Mu Qing slowly, dragging and curling up towards the base of Mu Qing’s cock until he finds the place most sensitive, until Mu Qing shivers and gasps with an audible, throaty hiccup of a cry.
Satisfied, Feng Xin retracts that finger, returns with two, presses knuckle deep into that spot again, just enough to tease. Retreats. Mu Qing groans with a throaty swear and kicks his back weakly, and Feng Xin chuckles. With three fingers, Feng Xin massages the slick rim of Mu Qing's ass, dipping in slightly, applying more pressure and oil with each stroke of leather fingertips until he breaches the surface, easing into the depths of Mu Qing's heat.
Finally, Feng Xin fucks him in earnest. He thrusts and curls his fingers suddenly, hitting at a rapid pace, and Mu Qing cries out in shock and pleasure alike, his voice ringing through the empty room. Feng Xin has never heard him sound like this, his cock throbbing neglected between this thighs, watching every tremble , every twitch of Mu Qing’s cock, the bounce of his hips and balls with every thrust of Feng Xin’s hand.
Feng Xin's forearm flexes, the leather of his gloves slick with lubricant and the texture dragging and tearing at Mu Qing's remaining strands of his cognizance, wet thrusts of sound obscene and jarring. With every piston of Feng Xin's fingers, Mu Qing's hips follow the push and pull, seemingly desperate to flee and desperate to cling all at once.
“Fe— ah! Xin… Xin… Ah,” Mu Qing keens, writhing and whimpering at every flex of Feng Xin’s fingers, hands grasping wildly at any part of Feng Xin they could reach, his arms, his shoulders, the stray strands of hair that had fallen loose. His arms drop, fingers twisting into the robes beneath with white-knuckled force, and his back arches from the floor in the most beautiful curve of lithe muscle.
Thick white fluid pulses and pushes from the tip of Mu Qing’s cock onto his stomach, dipping down the side to stain the robes beneath. Impulsively, Feng Xin licks from base to tip, tasting the bitter salt of Mu Qing, the musk of his sweat and release heady, addicting. Feng Xin can’t find the mindfulness to think, to do anything more than adore and indulge in every taste, every flex and caress of Mu Qing’s flesh, his pale thighs trembling on either side of Feng Xin.
When he pulls his fingers away, entranced at the rise and fall of Mu Qing's chest, Feng Xin aligns his dick with the slightest pause. He should wait. Feng Xin knows he should give Mu Qing a chance to recover, but his cock sits so heavy, near violet at the tip with how it aches, and he groans deep in his chest, nudging against the rim of muscle just enough to tease himself with the promise of pleasure.
Barely more than a whisper, more to himself than to Mu Qing, he says, “Mu Qing, can I? Can you…? I want….”
He kisses Mu Qing deeply, open-mouthed and wet with need. Mu Qing’s tongue explores his lips tentatively, as though unsure of the territory Feng Xin knows they’ve canvassed before. Mu Qing meets his gaze; finally, finally, he looks at Feng Xin, and Feng Xin begins the slow, gradual breach into Mu Qing.
With wandering hands and affectionate nips of teeth, Feng Xin tries to coax him to relax, tries to distract him from the slow stretch of his ass wider and wider still as he presses deeper. Mu Qing mumbles unintelligible, half-abandoned syllables, eyebrows furrowed deep and eyes shut. Feng Xin stops, rests, slides in with another small thrust of his hips. Mu Qing is so fucking tight, which Feng Xin expected, knowing it must be Mu Qing’s first time, but he pistons in and out slightly, working himself in, resisting the temptation to fuck into that tight heat regardless of Mu Qing’s quivering.
They should have started without this form, but Mu Qing asked, he begged, and Feng Xin can’t seem to say no to him anymore. Who the fuck can say no when Mu Qing says please? Not Feng Xin, that’s for sure.
“Mu Qing,” He murmurs the name against his lips, luring him to meet his gaze. His eyes blink away the blurry fit of tears at their crest, but they seem so dazed and unfocused. “Mu Qing, hey.” He wipes away at his cheek and jaw, kissing his forehead, his nose, his lips. All that he could reach. “Are you with me?”
Mu Qing seems confused by this question at first, brows furrowed and eyes wide, until a flush bleeds into his cheeks, and he turns away. Feng Xin chases him, just as he always has. Always will.
“Shut up, I’m fine,” replies Mu Qing weakly. It lacks his usual bite, breathy and soft. “Don’t stop.”
Feng Xin hums deep in his chest and mumbles, “Okay. Okay.”
“I can take it.”
Feng Xin’s eyebrow twitches. He isn’t sure if Mu Qing says this to convince Feng Xin or himself. Doesn’t matter. He grasps Mu Qing’s slender hips with both hands and gives one last slow, long thrust, assuring mindlessly, “ I know, I know. I know you can.”
Fully seated, Feng Xin groans, flattening his palm and spanning his fingers along Mu Qing's stomach to feel the press of his cock on the other side, and he kisses Mu Qing reverently. Gradually, the tight ring of muscle adjusts and relaxes around Feng Xin’s girth, the stifling stranglehold on his cock lessening just enough for him to rock in shallow thrusts.
He buries his hands in the silken strands of Mu Qing’s hair, chest to chest with the man he’s spent so many nights fantasizing about. Slowly, Feng Xin draws his hips back until only the fat head of his cock is still hugged tight, kisses a flushed pink earlobe with the slightest pull of his teeth, and buries himself to the hilt in one swift movement.
Mu Qing gasps, hands digging into the bare, sweat-slicked muscle of Feng Xin’s back, nails sharp pinpricks into his skin that ground Feng Xin to this realm as he draws back. Every thrust, Feng Xin seeks to drive impossibly deeper, slow but thorough, carving the shape of his cock into every part he can reach. Uncontrollably, his pace drives faster, the slap of flesh ringing in Feng Xin’s ears, a rhythm steady and stable as a metronome, the very clock that Mu Qing infected into his mind breaking to follow every strike of his hips.
Heat coils in Feng Xin’s gut, his balls drawing tight, and he slows his race to the finish, not ready, not willing to let go of Mu Qing’s intimacy, not allowing this to end so quickly. His hands wander and caress every centimeter of bare skin he can reach, lingering on the tender flesh of Mu Qing’s thighs, fingers digging into the skin of his ass to spread wider for Feng Xin.
“Shit, Ah— fucking fuck.” Feng Xin meets Mu Qing’s lips in a messy, uncoordinated kiss. He mumbles the syllables of Mu Qing’s name into each breath as a mantra, searing centuries of repressed desire into his flesh, carving his lust into Mu Qing’s bones with the heat of his tongue. “Mu Qing, I… I—You…. Ah, ah—”
I love you, he wants to say, but his voice won’t cooperate. Frustrated, he buries his nose behind Mu Qing’s ear, biting and sucking a brand so dark into his skin that it rivals Mu Qing’s hair, very purposefully above where the collars of his robes would draw close. Mu Qing whimpers at the sharp pain, his hips meeting Feng Xin’s, trying desperately to press his leaking cock for friction up against Feng Xin’s stomach.
Mercifully, Feng Xin dips to meet the underside of Mu Qing’s cock with a wave of movement, transfixed as Mu Qing’s jaw drops and his head falls back in stuttered cries.
Mu Qing’s legs spread wide around his hips, heels locked behind Feng Xin’s back and every thrust those legs follow, unwilling to let him part, holding him to pulse deep at the crest of every plunge. He feels so fucking good, his hips undulating with Feng Xin’s, a mirror of his own movement. Mu Qing turns away from the ravenous adoration of Feng Xin’s lips, his eyes hazy and cheekbones flushed, lips swollen. Feng Xin can’t look away, can’t blink and miss even a moment of this rapture, of Mu Qing’s hair coiled wetly at his temple, the sweat the dives from his jaw into the robes below, the near-silent panting chant of Feng Xin, A-Xin, A-Xin.
The pleasure coaxes Feng Xin’s heart to open, to reveal the most vulnerable of his love for Mu Qing, a temptation raw as each call of Feng Xin’s name from Mu Qing’s desperate gasps for breath. He wraps his arms around Mu Qing, wedging his arms between his back and the robes draped on the floor beneath them, driving his cock in deep, harsh thrusts, burying his love as far into Mu Qing as he can reach.
He mumbles. Any sounds or words that come from his lips are lost into the fabric, into Mu Qing’s hair and skin and drowned out by the slap of skin, the siren’s call of Mu Qing’s voice in staccato, the groaning swear of fuck as Mu Qing’s nails dig streaks of red into Feng Xin’s back. There he buries his love, mumbled into the fabric, broken syllables of his cowardice and honesty that he bruises into Mu Qing’s flesh.
But it’s not enough. Every taste of Mu Qing still leaves him frantic, seeking to pull Mu Qing’s flaying threads free and expose the soft man hidden beneath.
Feng Xin suddenly pants, "Wait," and pulls his cock out completely, roughly shoving Mu Qing to his stomach, ignoring his protests of aching muscles and dazed confusion. He bunches some of the robes beneath him to cushion Mu Qing's hips and drives his cock back in with a fierce thrust.
Mu Qing says something, but Feng Xin only catches a single word of it—
“...beast—”
A moan reverberates deep in his chest, rumbling against Mu Qing’s back, shivers following in its wake until Feng Xin adjusts his position a little higher and strikes Mu Qing’s prostate like the rolling beat of a war drum. If Mu Qing wants to call him a beast, Feng Xin will fuck him like one—
He fucks with desperate, uncontrolled pistons of his hips, heated breath at Mu Qing's back, archer's gloves still slick with lube and sweat painting black bruises into pale skin with the strength of his grip. Teeth bare into the meat of his shoulder. The fabric of the robes beneath them rips with the ferocity of Feng Xin's thrusts, his knees sliding back across the floor bit by bit.
Mu Qing’s hands slide until his chest hits the floor, and Feng Xin wraps a single arm around his waist to hold him fastened onto his cock, the gloved hand still slick with the slightest residue of oil and sweat holding the juncture of Mu Qing’s jaw and neck. Mu Qing’s adam’s apple bobs and swallows against his palm, his throat raw and vibrating against Feng Xin’s hand as he cries out at every sharp thrust against his prostate.
Feng Xin fucks him into the floor, the grip of his hips and jaw the only tethers holding Mu Qing from falling completely. Each thrust drives Mu Qing’s sensitive cock into the bunched fabric, the friction too much and too little all at once, on the precipice of overstimulated ache and seizing pleasure. Tears run solemn tracks down Mu Qing’s cheeks, decorating Feng Xin’s leather glove and the bare skin of his wrist, some even falling to soak into the floor below in scattered drops of reflected light.
Belatedly, Feng Xin realizes his grip on Mu Qing’s neck has grown firm, and he releases him in a panic. “Shit, I’m sorry, Mu Qing, I didn’t— Are you—?!”
Mu Qing heaves for breath, and a hand weakly guides Feng Xin’s hand back to its position at his neck, the slide of leather audible against his skin.
“Feng Xin…” His voice purrs rough, deep with the strain of arousal.
Feng Xin swallows. He understands, rubbing soothing yet firm circles into Mu Qing’s pulse, following the undulation of his hips grinding against the plush flesh of Mu Qing’s ass. As soon as he flexes his fingers against Mu Qing’s pulse, Mu Qing groans breathily, louder than any sound he’s made before, his hips pushing back to meet Feng Xin’s sharp thrusts and the rim of his hole clenching needily around Feng Xin’s length.
Mu Qing’s legs spread impossibly further apart, curving his back with his ass propped up high for Feng Xin’s indulgence, and Feng Xin swears a string of filth, driving his hips harder, faster, deeper—
“Fucking fuck, Mu Qing-ah. You take it so— You feel so fucking good, shit.” Mu Qing’s eyelashes flutter, heavily laden with tears, and he swallows against Feng Xin’s palm, wavering unsteadily as his vision wanes and his body floats on a precipice locked between the unrelenting floor and Feng Xin’s punctuating thrusts. Feng Xin licks the rim of his ear and bites sharply, grinding his hips as deep as he can. “I… You can take it; look at you. You’re taking me so beautifully; always so beautiful, Mu Qing—” He swallows, then corrects quietly, breathily into Mu Qing’s ear, “My Qing’er.”
He retreats, pressing kisses from Mu Qing’s jaw to his shoulder, dragging his tongue down the line of his back, heated breath followed by the chill of the air, the flex of his muscles trembling with each pound of flesh on flesh. Feng Xin throbs heavenly, desperate breaths between Mu Qing’s shoulder blades, laps up a trail of sweat that drips down his back, feeling the whole-body shiver that radiates through Mu Qing and milks Feng Xin’s cock for all that he has to give.
As if indecisive, Feng Xin draws out once more, his hands caressing from Mu Qing’s chest along his sides and down his hips, kneading the flesh of his ass reverently. He waits only a moment, giving Mu Qing time to recover before guiding him onto his back. Mu Qing stares at him exhaustedly.
“Who was it that said I needed to make up my mind before….” Even rolling his eyes seems too tiring.
“Fuck, Mu Qing, just—” He kisses him deeply —manic— his weight pressing Mu Qing into the floor with feverish urgency. “—just trust me.”
He sits back on his heels, muscled thighs a seat for Mu Qing. With a grunt, Feng Xin lifts Mu Qing into his lap, the length of his cock sinking slowly back into that wet heat, the depth worse than before, stifling. Mu Qing struggles to breathe as Feng Xin bottoms out, grinding his hips up as if determined to snuff out Mu Qing's ability to breathe entirely.
Feng Xin can’t get enough, can’t bury deep enough, each strike of his cock seeming to reach for his lungs, for his heart—
Mu Qing loops tired arms around Feng Xin’s neck, hides the trembling of his eyelashes into Feng Xin’s shoulders, rides the massive cock in rhythm with Feng Xin’s fervor until he paints the skin between them white, and Feng Xin kisses him through every pulse of it, until each flex of his cock pumps dry.
“I can’t, I can’t—” Mu Qing writhes, overstimulated, exhausted at the stamina of Ju Yang, of more than he asked for and more than he craved. The mess between them smears with every jostle of movement; Feng Xin’s thrusts grow impossibly faster, harsher, racing to catch up.
“Almost.” Feng Xin guides Mu Qing’s jaw to meet his lips, to taste Mu Qing once more, finding the finish line there. He releases deep into Mu Qing’s hole, groaning and gnawing at Mu Qing’s lips, grinding to pulse the last of his load as deep as he can reach.
Gently, Feng Xin caresses from the curve of Mu Qing’s hips to his shoulders, soothing away the ache with massaging fingertips and soft waves of qi. He lays Mu Qing down carefully, still joined at the hip where his cock settles and softens in the wet heat, Mu Qing's ass soft and plush on Feng Xin's lap.
Almost obsessively —definitely unthinkingly— Feng Xin rubs his fingertips from the base of Mu Qing's balls up to the tip of his cock, —so soft, so smooth, semen-slicked velvety skin with the smallest birthmark— until Mu Qing exhaustedly slaps it away.
Right. Oversensitive.
With a snap, Feng Xin tosses the soiled gloves out of sight, touching every part of Mu Qing he can reach, wiping away the final tear left at his eyelashes, and noting how Mu Qing’s sides twitch when he ghosts his fingertips across the skin. Sensitive, ticklish, but Feng Xin has more important things calling for his attention.
Feng Xin leaves Mu Qing's hole wet, sloppy, and stretched out from that massive cock. He draws his spent dick out slowly, transfixed by the way that empty hole flexes down on nothing, how Mu Qing absolutely cannot look at him as it does, and he slips what come spills from Mu Qing's ass back in with the pad of his thumb.
What cum sticks to his thumb he smears along the inside of Mu Qing's abused thighs, the white glistening and catching the light against the flushed pink hue of his skin, the dark bruises blooming into white speckled galaxies.
Mu Qing allows it, or maybe he’s simply too tired to do anything about it. Maybe he likes it, in a perverse way, just like Feng Xin does.
And Feng Xin can’t stop smiling. He doesn’t want to.
Mu Qing can question him about it if he wants; it won’t stop Feng Xin from doing it. He wraps around Mu Qing in a tight embrace, ignores his half-assed complaints, and kisses his cheek. Kisses it again. And again. And again and again and again—
“Stop! Stop stop! What are you? A dog? Do I need to get you a muzzle?”
Feng Xin obediently stops and gazes into those eyes until they finally look at him back. Mu Qing’s lips part as though about to speak, and then he turns away. Feng Xin chases him with affection.
“You’re too much.”
Feng Xin kisses his cheek once more because he can. Brightly, he replies, “You should have thought of that before you said please, Mu Qing.”
✧⊱ ━⋅~⭑♦⦕⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅⦖♦⭑~⋅━⊰✧
A week later, Feng Xin laces his fingers through Mu Qing’s, the cool of his hands soothing the heat of his own. Unthinkingly, affectionately, he leans to press a kiss to Mu Qing’s mouth, exhaling softly as he draws away. He whispers a reverent love you against the petal-soft touch of his lips. As always, Mu Qing looks away. Flustered. Feng Xin thought it was that he offended him at first; he assumed the worst but —
Flustered.
Mu Qing is flustered.
So, Feng Xin pursues him until Mu Qing says it back.
Those three words fill Feng Xin’s heart with more joy than even his ears that hear them first. He leaves another kiss, eyes soft, melting into the rare affections Mu Qing offers him in return, and he straightens up to immediately meet eyes with Xie Lian.
Feng Xin jumps out of his skin. Away from Mu Qing. Back ramrod straight. Somehow still holding Mu Qing’s hand. He drops said hand like it burned him, jaw slack, looking from Mu Qing to Xie Lian and back to Mu Qing, his voice caught in his throat. A child caught with its paws deep in the dessert bowl. A dog caught with his hands in — Wait, that’s wrong, it’s—
“Um! It’s alright, I knew! I….” Taizi Dianxia’s calming smile is usually mellow and soothing for Feng Xin, but not this time. His hands tremble, and he resists the urge to fidget. It doesn’t work. He fidgets anyway.
“......”
Mu Qing sighs, but the tips of his ears and cheeks are flushed pink. He won’t look at Feng Xin, and he won’t look at Xie Lian either. He looks anywhere that doesn’t have a face. “...He saw.”
“WHAT?!” Feng Xin’s mind races, thinking of all the times they’ve done things in places they should not have—
Which one did he see? WHAT did he see exactly?!
He doesn’t have to ask; Mu Qing knows him too well.
“In the cavern… nine weeks ago.”
Nine weeks…
NINE WEEKS?!
“WHAT THE FUCK?! NINE FUCKING WEEKS, MU QING?!”
He fists the collars of Mu Qing’s robes, but Xie Lian is swift to step between them, plucking his wrist away from the fabric with a pained smile and weak assurances.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, Feng Xin. You didn’t know….”
Yes, that’s right. Feng Xin didn’t know. It seems there’s a lot of things that Feng Xin doesn’t know —or didn’t know, or maybe will never know— when it comes to Mu Qing.
And in this case also Xie Lian, but that’s not the point; the point is—
He’s ready to learn.