Chapter Text
The first thing Binghe feels is warmth.
Warmth that does not come from sunlight or the weight of blankets or even from a flare-up. Instead, it’s wet, sinful, mouth-wrapped-around-his-cock heat that sends a full-body shiver skittering through him before he’s even fully awake.
Binghe blinks up at the ceiling, groggy and confused for half a second, until Shen Jiu sucks down harder and drags the tip of his tongue along the underside of Binghe’s cock with the kind of precision that could make a man see god.
“Jiu-er—” Binghe gasps, hips jerking before he can stop them. His voice cracks embarrassingly. “What— mmngh— what are you doing?”
He pushes himself up on his elbows just as Shen Jiu pulls off with a pop , wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are already pink and swollen. “Waking you up. Clearly.”
Binghe groans, dropping his head back against the pillow. “You really have no respect for sacred mornings, do you?”
“I respect them very much,” Shen Jiu says, settling comfortably between his husband’s legs. “That’s why I’m starting mine the proper way.”
Then he’s swallowing him again, slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring something rare. There’s a maddening patience to his rhythm, and his mouth is molten heat, slick and smooth, working him over with devastating control. Every motion is measured, a steady cadence that makes Binghe’s breath catch in his throat, makes his fingers clench uselessly at the sheets.
Shen Jiu takes him in shallow at first, lips taut around the head, tongue tracing lazy circles with surgical precision. Each retreat is followed by a flick, a cruel little swirl that makes Binghe twitch, a tease that speaks of someone who knows exactly how to ruin him and fully intends to.
Then, he takes him in deeper. The suction tightens. Shen Jiu hums low in his throat, and the vibration shoots through Binghe’s spine, sharp and electric, tipping him further out of control.
Binghe groans, hand curling white-knuckled in the bedding. His hips jerk once, helplessly, and that’s when he reaches for Shen Jiu. His fingers find the back of his head, threading into his soft, silken hair and holding.
“Jiu-er,” he chokes out, undone and helpless.
Still, Shen Jiu doesn’t stop. He lets Binghe guide him, lets himself be used like this with his mouth full, lips stretched slick around the head of his cock, breath slow and measured. Binghe’s fingers stay tight in his hair, trembling slightly as he rocks forward with shallow, needy thrusts, his cock slipping in and out, wet and obscene.
Every movement makes him feel the drag of Shen Jiu’s tongue, the tight suction of his mouth, the way his throat flutters when Binghe pushes just a little deeper. He’s so fucking warm and wet and open and devastatingly still, like he’s not even working for it, like he wants Binghe to fall apart on his tongue.
Binghe’s hips jerk forward again, slightly faster this time. A soft, wet sound echoes between them, vulgar and sticky. Shen Jiu hums again, and the vibration punches a curse from Binghe’s mouth.
“Fuck— Jiu-er, don’t do that,” he rasps, already wrecked. “You’ll make me—”
But Shen Jiu just presses closer, takes him deeper again, lips wet and stretched, spit slick on his chin. Binghe feels it, the edge bearing down fast and brutal, pleasure tightening low in his gut.
It’s not fair, how fucking good Shen Jiu is at this. How smug he looks with Binghe’s cock stuffed in his mouth and tears clinging to his lashes like dew.
Binghe’s control frays. Every nerve in his body sings with it, desire curling tight and mean in his belly. Yet Shen Jiu stays composed, always in command, hands resting lightly on Binghe’s thighs like a man bracing a wild thing.
Binghe is going to break.
His breath stutters out of him in short, broken gasps, chest rising and falling like he’s run ten miles uphill. The heat coiling in his gut is unbearable, sharp and white-hot, his entire body taut with the tension of a climax just out of reach.
“Jiu-er,” he pants, voice wrecked, hand still braced on his head “, don’t stop—”
Shen Jiu doesn’t stop. Not exactly. He just slows, drawing back to mouth at the tip lazily, tongue flicking in soft, maddening passes that make Binghe buck helplessly beneath him.
“Darling,” Binghe rasps, barely managing the word, “you’re going to be late for the meeting with the other Peak Lords, so help me and finish me off quickly.”
Shen Jiu lifts his head at last, lips slick, a strand of saliva catching on his lower lip before he wipes it away with infuriating calm. His hand keeps stroking him, long and languid, like he’s petting a particularly spoiled animal.
“Let the other Peak Lords be mad,” he says, voice mild. “They’ll understand.”
Binghe cracks one eye open, eyes glassy and dark.
“Understand what, exactly?” he breathes.
“That I have a very attractive husband,” Shen Jiu replies smoothly, utterly unfazed, “and he requires attention.”
Binghe laughs, flushed and helpless, the sound rough and catching. It breaks off into a moan as Shen Jiu mouths at the tip again. “Gods, Jiu-er—”
But just as the pressure mounts, just as he feels himself go light-headed with it, Shen Jiu’s mouth leaves him entirely.
The cool air is a shock. Binghe whines— actually whines — and jerks his hips up as if he can chase the heat back.
“No,” he gasps, eyes flying open. “Jiu-er.”
Shen Jiu only smirks, entirely unrepentant.
“Hm. That seemed like a lot of buildup,” he says, flicking his thumb across the head in a slow, teasing pass. “Should I really have hurried?”
Binghe looks at him, betrayed beyond words.
“Cruel,” he mumbles hoarsely. “You’re cruel.”
“And yet you love me,” Shen Jiu replies, with the serene detachment of someone who knows he is absolutely right.
Binghe huffs in frustration, but he is still deeply turned on.
Shen Jiu, perhaps taking pity on him, shifts up onto his knees, straddling Binghe’s thighs as he wipes his mouth again with the back of his hand, still infuriatingly composed. He’s wearing only a delicate robe that slips from one shoulder, baring the elegant curve of his neck and the scattered constellation of bite marks from the night before. His cock is already hard, flushed and leaking, pressed against the pale plane of his stomach.
Binghe reaches out, fingers trailing along the inside of Shen Jiu’s thigh.
“I hope you’re planning to sit on it now,” he murmurs, voice still rough around the edges. “After all that, it’s only fair.”
“Demanding,” Shen Jiu deadpans, but his breath hitches when Binghe brushes his knuckles a little higher, a little closer. He narrows his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m indulgent.”
He shifts forward in one smooth motion, reaching back between them to line Binghe up. The head of Binghe’s cock nudges against him slick, hot, and throbbing with need. Shen Jiu exhales slowly, hips tilting as he rolls them back once, letting the pressure tease at his entrance. He’s still tender from the night before, already stretched just enough that the ache is more memory than pain. There’s only heat now, only hunger. Binghe groans, head dropping back against the pillow, hands tightening on Shen Jiu’s thighs like he’s holding himself together by force.
“Jiu-er,” he rasps, voice cracked and pleading.
Shen Jiu hums, low and unhurried, and then sinks down with a long, fluid motion, taking Binghe inch by inch, every slow slide a deliberate torment. He doesn’t stop until he’s seated fully on Binghe’s cock, his thighs trembling faintly around his hips, fingers curling against Binghe’s chest to brace himself.
Binghe chokes on a sound that’s something between a moan and a profanity.
“You’re going to kill me,” he breathes, hands sliding up to grasp Shen Jiu’s hips, fingers gripping the soft flesh of his buttocks.
Shen Jiu leans in, his hair falling around them like a curtain, and his hand still braced on Binghe’s chest as he begins to move, slow and deliberate.
“Is that right?” he murmurs, lips ghosting over Binghe’s jaw. “Might as well make it worthwhile, then.”
Shen Jiu lifts his head, lips red, eyes half-lidded, and lashes clumped together with sleep. His hair’s a mess with long strands tumbling over his shoulders and sticking slightly where sweat has begun to pearl at his temples. And yet, somehow, it only makes him look more composed. Regal, even. Like a painting come undone just enough to be real.
Binghe’s breath stutters in his throat.
The sunlight cuts through the window, spilling gold across the bed, catching in Shen Jiu’s hair like silver thread woven through black silk. His skin glows in it, flushed pink across the cheekbones, pale everywhere else, marred only by the darkening marks Binghe put there last night with single-minded devotion.
The robe has slipped almost entirely from his shoulders now, held together only by a single silk ribbon at his waist. It’s sky blue, embroidered with little cranes mid-flight, loose and barely a knot, as if taunting Binghe.
Binghe has a sudden, blasphemous urge to lean up and pull it free with his teeth.
Shen Jiu keeps rocking down on his cock, pretty as ever, smirking at the face Binghe makes even as he himself unravels bit by bit.
Beautiful. He is beautiful.
Binghe could write hymns about this man. He could write actual scriptures filled with divine verses about the way Shen Jiu’s body moves as he grinds down slow and deep, the subtle flex of muscle in his thighs, the way he rolls his hips like he knows Binghe’s seconds from breaking.
And he’s not even trying. Shen Jiu looks vaguely distracted, as if his mind is somewhere else entirely. Like riding Binghe into ruin is just part of the morning routine. A chore he doesn’t mind doing before tea.
Binghe can’t stand it.
“You’re unreal,” he breathes, voice roughened by sleep and want. His fingers slide along Shen Jiu’s waist, caressing the soft skin there. “How do you exist like this? At this hour? Don’t you have shame?”
Shen Jiu tilts his head, unimpressed. “You’re the one who gets hard from just looking at me.”
Binghe groans dramatically. “Can you blame me? Look at you. You can bring men to ruin with a single glance.”
Shen Jiu huffs, rolling his hips, eliciting an obscene sound from Binghe.
Binghe pants, eyes blown wide and fingers still gripping Shen Jiu tightly. “My husband is unfairly beautiful.”
A slow arch of one brow. “You say that like you didn’t fuck me silly last night.”
“You were very pliant,” Binghe says fondly, hand sliding down to cradle the underside of Shen Jiu’s thigh, thumbing the sensitive skin there. “My favourite version of you, really.”
“Pervert,” Shen Jiu mutters, but he lifts and sinks a little harder this time, just to hear Binghe gasp.
“Yet, you married me,” Binghe says through gritted teeth.
“Clearly, I have poor judgment.”
“Tragic,” Binghe pants, biting back another moan as Shen Jiu clenches around him. “We’ll just have to make the most of your bad decision.”
“Hmm.” Shen Jiu leans forward slightly, bracing both hands on Binghe’s chest. “And here I thought you’d want to conserve energy for taking lessons in my place today.”
Binghe whines.
“That’s low,” he says. “Bringing up work when you’re this deep on my cock.”
Shen Jiu smiles, sharp and knowing. “I can go lower.”
And just like that, Binghe’s restraint snaps like a bowstring under strain.
Enough.
His hands slide down, gripping Shen Jiu’s thighs with sudden force, fingers digging in like anchors. His body coils, tight with urgency, as something sharper overtakes the daze in his gaze.
“Come here,” he rasps, and then he moves.
In one fluid motion, he sits up and drags Shen Jiu flush against him, locking his arms around him like iron. Shen Jiu gasps, startled, his eyes going wide just a second before Binghe crushes their mouths together, all hunger and heat and intention.
It’s hot and open-mouthed, clumsy with urgency. Their teeth knock, their lips bruise. Binghe licks deep, drinking him down like he’ll never get another taste. Shen Jiu moans into it, legs tightening around Binghe’s hips instinctively, grounding himself on the one place he’s been stretched open. Still full and filled.
Now straddling Binghe’s lap, Shen Jiu begins to move again, but this time it’s not with the deliberate, teasing rhythm from before, but with a new, more desperate kind of surrender. He rides him deeper, faster, the stretch inside him hitting angles that make his breath catch, his thighs tremble.
Binghe groans into his mouth, hips rolling up to meet him with each grind. He’s flushed to the ears, and sweat clings to his temples. His eyes burn, heavy-lidded, fevered. All he can feel is Shen Jiu. His heat, the tight clench around him, and the way his skin shivers when Binghe’s hands drag up his back.
Binghe pulls his mouth away only to press open-mouthed kisses along Shen Jiu’s jaw, then down the column of his throat, warm and adoring. He licks along the edge of his collarbone, teeth catching gently, then not so gently. He sucks marks into skin he’s kissed a thousand times before, and would gladly do so a thousand times again.
Each bruise blooms under his tongue like a promise.
Shen Jiu doesn’t protest, doesn’t push him away. He simply arches into his touch, offering more to work with. The way his body folds into Binghe’s grip is devastating.
“You’ll leave bruises,” he pants, fingers digging into Binghe’s shoulders for balance, voice slipping into something hoarse and frayed, still tilting his neck back to let his husband bite and kiss.
“I’ll kiss them better later,” Binghe breathes against his throat, voice reverent. He mouths a fresh mark into the soft skin beneath his ear. “You look best like this anyway. Ruined. Messy. Mine .”
Shen Jiu makes a frustrated noise in his throat, half a curse, half a moan, and drops his head against Binghe’s shoulder. “Shameless.”
Binghe laughs, kissing his neck, the sound buzzing against his skin.
“Darling,” Binghe murmurs, his voice sticky with affection and lust, “if there ever comes a day when I don’t want to fuck you just chop my dick off. It’d have clearly stopped working.”
Shen Jiu lets out a laugh. A sharp, breathless thing that hitches at the edges.
“Noted,” he says. “I’ll keep Xiu Ya on hand.”
Binghe bites his shoulder, not hard but possessive.
“I’m serious,” he says, kissing the mark after. “You’ve ruined me.”
Shen Jiu lifts his head, green eyes burning. “You were already ruined.”
“Then I guess you just made it permanent.”
And with that, Binghe shifts and grips Shen Jiu’s hips and thrusts up hard. Shen Jiu chokes on a moan, eyes fluttering shut, his spine arching as Binghe fucks into him, deep and sure.
The rhythm turns relentless.
Their bodies meet again and again, the sound of skin against skin echoing soft and low beneath the murmur of breathless gasps. Binghe moves with intent now. Every thrust is deep and deliberate, flooding Shen Jiu’s body with sensation that coils tight behind his ribs and blooms across his skin.
Shen Jiu clings to him, fingers tangled in Binghe’s hair, lips parted in something between a curse and a moan. Each movement knocks the breath from his lungs, and each shift stokes the heat, curling low in his belly.
The bedsheets twist around them. Binghe presses kisses wherever he can reach— along Shen Jiu’s jaw, his throat, the hollow of his collarbone— his voice a wreck of sweetness and filth. Praise and longing spill into Shen Jiu’s ear like secrets too heavy to hold.
And through it all, he doesn’t stop touching him like he’s sacred. Doesn’t stop kissing him like he’s something rare.
Shen Jiu tips his head back, flushed and panting, undone in a way he’d only ever allow with Binghe. His legs tighten around Binghe’s waist, as if trying to keep him there. As if that is all that has ever mattered.
“Binghe,” he breathes, “don’t you dare stop.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
He pulls back just enough to look into Shen Jiu’s face, flushed and half-undone, lips parted around soft, trembling breaths. For a second, he just drinks it in. Then he moves.
With a low groan, he shifts forward and tips Shen Jiu back onto the bed, slow but unrelenting. Shen Jiu lets himself be lowered, hair fanning out beneath him like ink spilt across the pillow. His robes fall open fully now, baring the pale line of his chest, the flushed column of his throat, the bruises Binghe has already left like a signature across his skin.
Before Shen Jiu can reach for him, Binghe grabs both his wrists in one hand and presses them down into the mattress, pinning them above his head.
“Binghe—” Shen Jiu starts, but the name comes out on a breathless moan when Binghe sinks into him again, hard and deep.
His free hand braces on Shen Jiu’s hip, fingers digging in. He sets a pace that’s nothing like before. It’s less teasing, more claiming. The bed rocks beneath them with every thrust. Shen Jiu’s back arches, his fingers twitching where Binghe holds them, unable to do anything but feel.
“Stay there,” Binghe rasps, voice thick, mouth brushing Shen Jiu’s cheek. “I want to see you like this.”
Shen Jiu opens his mouth, possibly to bite out some retort, but he only manages a loud moan. His thighs tighten around Binghe’s waist, the flush climbing higher on his neck. His voice cracks around a groan as Binghe thrusts harder, deeper, hips rolling fast and precise.
The sounds are obscene now, slick, wet and gasping. The bed creaks beneath them. The headboard thumps lightly in rhythm. Shen Jiu’s moans are muffled only when Binghe leans down to kiss him again, hungry and messy and open-mouthed, teeth grazing, tongues clashing.
Binghe doesn’t stop or ease up once. He keeps him there, pinned, splayed and taken. Hair fanned out like a halo. Eyes wet, half-lidded. Lips red, kiss-bruised.
“You should see yourself,” Binghe whispers, breaking their kiss only to pant against his skin. “Spread out like this. You’re…” His voice falters, then breaks into a groan. “Fuck, Jiu-er. You’re perfect.”
And Shen Jiu, ruined and breathless beneath him, doesn’t argue.
His breaths come in sharp, broken gasps now, thighs trembling around Binghe’s waist. Every time Binghe thrusts in, deep and angled just right, Shen Jiu chokes on a moan and clenches down tight around him. His eyes have fallen shut, and his hands tremble where they’ve been pinned.
“Binghe—” he pants, his tears hanging on his lashes and wrists still trapped above his head. “I’m— fuck— I’m going to—”
“Let go,” Binghe whispers, voice wrecked. “Come for me, Jiu-er.”
Shen Jiu does. He shudders hard beneath him, back arching off the mattress as his release hits. His mouth drops open in a cry, pleasure rippling through him in waves. His cum spills across his stomach in long, hot pulses, streaking his skin with mess.
Binghe nearly loses it right then. He groans, low and guttural, fucking Shen Jiu through it, trying to draw it out, to memorise every twitch, every sound, every flicker of ecstasy that crosses his face.
Then Shen Jiu slurs, voice thick and ruined, “Come on me.”
Binghe’s vision whites out for a second.
“What—?”
“Come on me,” Shen Jiu says again, deliberately this time, words slow and slurred, still drunk on his orgasm. “I want you to make a mess.”
Binghe groans, loud and involuntary, like the sound is ripped from his chest. His hips stutter once, twice and then he’s pulling out, barely holding himself together. He pumps his cock a couple of times with his hand before he spills across Shen Jiu’s stomach and chest in thick, hot spurts.
His breath catches, vision swimming as he watches it land— white on pale skin, on the curve of Shen Jiu’s ribs, across the smear of his earlier release. Shen Jiu doesn’t flinch. He lies there with his wrists still pinned, flushed and utterly debauched, watching Binghe with that burning, heavy-lidded gaze.
“Fuck,” Binghe breathes, dizzy, finally letting go of Shen Jiu’s wrists. “You’re evil.”
“And you’re easy,” Shen Jiu mutters, but his voice is hoarse, satisfied. He wraps his arms around Binghe’s back, pulling him in.
Binghe leans down to kiss him again. It is slow this time and deeply reverent. His hands cup his face gently, thumb stroking over his cheekbones.
Shen Jiu exhales, sinking into the pillows, legs still spread open, flushed and boneless, skin slick and streaked with come. Binghe draws back from the kiss but stays above him, breathing hard, his eyes devouring every inch like he might never get to see this again, even though he knows he will.
Again and again. For the rest of his life.
To the rest of the cultivation world, he’s Shen Qingqiu, the cold, elegant, untouchable and fearsome Peak Lord of Qing Jing who never smiles and never falters. To their friends, he’s Shen Jiu, who is sarcastic and snide, and always one remark away from rolling his eyes so hard that it might cause structural damage. They all probably think he’s immaculate, controlled, and composed.
But here in their bed, under Binghe’s hands and mouth, flushed and pliant and sighing like he was made for this, he’s none of those things.
He’s just Jiu-er.
His Jiu-er.
The man Binghe can ruin with his touch and worship with the same mouth that moaned filth into his skin. The one he can press open, fuck senseless, and then kiss tenderly until he’s trembling from pleasure or laughter or both.
Only Binghe gets to see him like this, undone and utterly adored.
He leans down and kisses Shen Jiu’s temple, reverent and unbearably soft, then traces his lips down to the curve of his ear.
“I hope you know,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, “the rest of the world doesn’t deserve to see you like this.”
Shen Jiu hums faintly, too spent to quip back, but one eye cracks open. “They wouldn’t survive it.”
Binghe chuckles, his hand skimming along Shen Jiu’s thigh, pausing to squeeze the muscle like he can’t quite believe this is real. “ I barely survive it.”
Shen Jiu exhales again, less a laugh than an indulgent sigh, and lets Binghe hold him, lets himself be kissed and touched and praised even now.
Because in the hush after it all, beneath the heat and the high and the marks and the mess, he’s still just Jiu-er and Binghe, only Binghe , gets to know the difference.
“Come on,” Binghe murmurs, already gathering him close. “Let’s get you clean.”
Shen Jiu huffs, a little breathless still, too boneless to do more than blink up at him. “I can walk, you brute.”
“Sure you can, Jiu-er,” Binghe replies, arms curling beneath his back and knees as he lifts him effortlessly. “But I’m committed to the bit.”
“You always are,” Shen Jiu mutters, but his arms still loop around Binghe’s neck without protest.
He rests his head against Binghe’s shoulder, cheek brushing bare skin that’s still warm from sex. His legs dangle limply, and though he might grumble, his body leans into him without hesitation.
Binghe walks them toward the bathing room, unhurried. One hand supports Shen Jiu’s back, the other tight against the backs of his thighs. He doesn’t jostle or show off; he just carries him like something sacred, something earned.
The bedroom door swings shut behind them with a soft click.
Left behind is the tangle of sheets, the lingering scent of incense and sweat and sex in the air, thick as smoke, stubborn in the summer heat. Sunlight pools across the mattress in long, lazy lines, catching on the faint bruises along their pillows, the smears of their come on the sheets.
The bamboo house holds its breath.
Outside, a bird calls once, then falls silent. Inside, there is only the echo of fading heat, the hush of devotion left unspoken, and the soft footfalls of a man carrying his husband to the bath like he might never put him down again.