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“What do you mean, you won’t sleep with me?!”
Mu Qing’s face is red all the way up to his ears, and it’s only the sheer shock of the situation that prevents him from stuttering over his words. Regardless, Pei Ming closes his eyes and shakes his head, as serious as Mu Qing has ever seen him.
“Xuan Zhen, I may be a lover of many, but I make a point never to step between couples.”
“What couple?!!?”
Mu Qing feels ready to kill Pei Ming and then himself. The situation he’s stuck in is bad enough; he would never have imagined that Pei Ming of all people would refuse to help. It’s the only reason that he even managed to work up the willpower to ask for this—though he supposes that the fact that he had to ask at all should have been a warning sign already. Pei Ming is not usually lecherous toward the unwilling, but Mu Qing doesn’t get the impression that he would pass up on an opportunity like this normally.
‘Like this’ being, of course: Mu Qing, in the throes of a pollen, lovingly foisted directly into his face by a plant that is clearly some offshoot species of the Land of the Tender. It was not quite as evolved as the true Land of the Tender demons—no seductive figures attempting to trap and seduce him, thankfully—but the physiological effects…
It’s been more or less terrorizing the locals in this region of the North for the past several months, though no heavenly official had been sent to look into the issue until a wealthy local lord’s son had been affected and subsequently found in bed with several people. The resulting prayers had been—uncomfortable, in a way, as the lord and lady seemed more concerned with their son’s choice of partners than the fact that he’d been poisoned, but the effort that the rich couple put into directing heaven’s attention toward the issue demanded recompense.
Mu Qing would normally never have even thought twice about it, given the situation is exactly up Ming Guang’s alley, but apparently the lack of evolved finesse of these particular plants also resulted in the deaths of multiple people—some due to the consequences of their actions… under the influence, so to say, but more than once due to an abject refusal to engage in the act that would relieve their symptoms. A pair of siblings, trapped alone together with no other options and unable to commit such a heinous crime against each other, was found dead. They had, according to the lord and lady’s medical investigator, boiled alive from the inside.
So. A serious situation, despite the disgusting premise. Ming Guang is a powerful heavenly official, but heaven deemed to send along some help. And who better—or perhaps this is simply Ling Wen’s sense of humor—than the chaste Xuan Zhen, so immune to the charms of anybody enticed by his cold-burning beauty that surely he would not be affected even by such a creature?
Yeah, to take a leaf out of Feng Xin’s dictionary: fuck that.
Mu Qing’s skin is hot. The pit of his stomach is burning, and sweat is starting to bead up on the back of his neck. He feels like steam should be puffing out of his mouth with each breath, even though that’s impossible. It feels awful. He wants something that he can’t even articulate properly, and—if this is anything like what sex is really like, then he hates it. He doesn’t understand why anybody would want to feel like this.
He doesn’t understand why Pei Ming won’t help him. He thought things were different in heaven now. He thought…
But for all that Feng Xin mocks him for being overly suspicious, Mu Qing’s heart has always been too easily tempted to yearning. Of course things are actually like this.
“I’m talking about Nan Yang, Xuan Zhen,” Pei Ming explains slowly, frowning with concern as he watches Mu Qing. He’s supporting most of Mu Qing’s weight over his side, Mu Qing’s arm draped over his shoulder, and the scant few places where slivers of bare skin press against each other feel like they’re—
Mu Qing doesn’t even know. It feels like a balm, except somehow it leaves him burning hotter than ever. He wants it. He hates it. Everything hurts.
“You mean…” He blinks, processing slowly. His head is getting… fuzzy, just a little bit, now that the flare of anger has faded. Then he realizes what Pei Ming must be talking about, and the spike of anxiety brings him back to the present. “Like, because of the Ju Yang thing?”
Pei Ming makes some sort of appalled noise in his throat, which sounds very strange until Mu Qing realizes that his head has drooped down and his ear is pressed against the side of Pei Ming’s neck.
“No,” Pei Ming says. “Because you’re in love, Xuan Zhen!”
When Pei Ming bangs open the door to Nan Yang Palace with a glaring, disheveled General Xuan Zhen half-slung over his shoulder, all of Feng Xin’s middle officials do what any reasonable person would do: remember all of the serious business they have to take care of immediately and elsewhere, and scatter.
Feng Xin, possessing half the brains of a middle official on a good day, comes to greet them. Perhaps Mu Qing’s thoughts about Feng Xin are uncharitable. All he has to say about that is that they are not as uncharitable as the thoughts he’s been having about Pei Ming.
“Nan Yang!” Pei Ming veritably booms into the empty palace. Good acoustics here, now that it’s empty. All the better for Mu Qing to commit bloody murder.
“... Ming Guang,” Feng Xin greets, looking disconcerted. Perhaps he has some survival instinct left. “And Mu Qing? What are you doing here? Are you two okay? He looks sick.”
“That he is,” Pei Ming agrees, and finally lets Mu Qing tip off of his shoulder—possibly in revenge for when Mu Qing bit him.
(It was petty and embarrassing and if Pei Ming ever tells anybody it happened, Mu Qing will deny it to his last breath. But Pei Ming absolutely deserved it.)
Mu Qing is about as close to limp as he’s been, and he slides right onto the floor—or he would have, if Feng Xin didn’t immediately step forward to catch him under his arms, hoisting him up as best as he can with the angle. Mu Qing’s nose ends up pressed into his collarbone, warm and heady. He’s wearing soft robes—formal but not overly stiff, no armor at all in the comfort of his own palace.
“Pei Ming?!” Feng Xin asks, confused and alarmed.
“I leave him to you!” Pei Ming says, clapping his hands together as if to dust them off. He winces with the motion, probably because he’s still bleeding. From the mission, not from Mu Qing’s teeth. He bit him hard, but not that hard. “Take good care of him, Nan Yang, he’s been poisoned by some variant of the Land of the Tender and he’ll die by morning if you don’t—well, you know how it is.”
“What the fuck!” Feng Xin shouts, aborting a panicked flail. Mu Qing starts to slip, and Feng Xin tenses again, holding him up. The flex of Feng Xin’s muscle against Mu Qing forces him to swallow a small sound.. “Wait—why do I have to do it?! Isn’t fucking people your thing?!”
Mu Qing snorts despite himself, rolling his eyes even though nobody can see it from his position. “See?” he says. “I told you. Even Feng Xin says he doesn’t want to do it.”
Feng Xin rounds on him. “Who the hell said I didn’t wanna do it, huh?!”
“So you’ll do it!” Pei Ming says brightly. “Splendid! Good luck, use more lubrication than you think you’ll need, I’ll check on you two tomorrow. Now, I need to go report to Ling Wen. Goodbye!”
Before Mu Qing can demand that he keeps this particular part of the mission out of his report, the door to the palace slams and the click of the lock echoes menacingly in the empty silence of the palace.
“I didn’t say that I’d do it,” Feng Xin whispers.
“Fine,” Mu Qing mutters dully into his neck. He wants to lick it so badly that his teeth itch. “I’ll just die, then.”
“... I don’t think I have that much lubricant?”
“Bury me out back.”
“Mu Qing! Be serious!”
Mu Qing heaves out a sigh so heavy that he feels like he loses weight with it, and lets himself sink. Bereft of even the little bit of assistance holding up his weight that Mu Qing had been offering before, Feng Xin also starts tipping over. He starts to lower himself along with Mu Qing before visibly changing his mind and, with a single heave, slinging Mu Qing fully over his shoulder.
Mu Qing yelps, the air driven out of his lungs as Feng Xin’s shoulder drives into his gut, but Feng Xin is already walking down a corridor that Mu Qing knows leads to his rooms.
“Feng Xin?”
“What?”
“What are you—?”
Feng Xin winces. “Well, I’m not going to let you die, obviously!”
“... Obviously,” Mu Qing murmurs, letting his head droop and pressing his forehead into Feng Xin’s back. When he next breathes in, his inhale is ragged. He’s heating up again and he wants to claw his own skin off until he’s nothing but a flayed skeleton. Maybe that way people can finally see the truth of him.
“Why did Old Pei even bring you to me? He knows the whole—eugh—he knows the rumors are just rumors, doesn’t he? Wouldn’t he be a better choice?”
Mu Qing stays silent, utterly unwilling to answer. What is he supposed to say that wouldn’t come out as pathetic? General Ming Guang thinks I’m in love with you, even though you hate me just enough that this is a hardship for you to worm your way out of, but not enough that you would refuse to martyr yourself with the experience if you have to?
Despite the rough start, when Feng Xin puts Mu Qing down on his bed, he’s fairly gentle about it. As soon as Feng Xin steps away, Mu Qing starts tearing the metal portions of his armor off. He’s too hot, even though his body is shivering—and Feng Xin touching him was holding it at bay, so now that he’s let go, it’s all ten times worse. His breath comes in deep puffs, hot against his skin, and the heat of arousal is so tangled up in the heat of his anger at the injustice of this situation that Mu Qing can hardly tell them apart. He’s so angry—at himself, at the world, at everyone else.
Feng Xin is just staring several feet to Mu Qing’s left, arms crossed uncomfortably. “How come you’re so eager? Won’t this ruin your cultivation base? You’ll have to do it all over again.”
Mu Qing snarls at nothing, wrestling the final piece of armor off and just about throwing it off the bed. “I knew you didn’t like me, but you don’t have to be that obvious about wanting me dead. It’s my cultivation or my life, idiot! I already know I’m going to be worthless after this, so you don’t have to remind me. You should be happy that you’ll probably take the whole south after this.” He’s about to strip his outer robe off, too, and then pauses. “Just—whatever. You don’t have to help, but I’m not going to just lay down and die. If you won’t do it, then I’ll go find someone else. Pei Ming won’t say no if Ling Wen is there to make him.”
Feng Xin’s expression is stricken. “Mu Qing, I said it’s fine. You don’t have to go, I’ll do it—and I won’t let you lose the southwest, either. It’s just sex, okay? No big deal.”
With his outer robe half-off, there’s enough loose fabric burrow into. Mu Qing drops his forehead to his knees and covers his head with his robe. Oh, he’s gotten even warmer. Perhaps his anger was cold, because all he feels now is frustrated and uncharacteristically morose.
“I don’t want it to be just sex, though,” he says quietly.
“What?”
He flings the robe off his head, glaring at Feng Xin. “I said, this isn’t how I imagined my first time, you—!”
“You imagined a first time??”
“Well!” Mu Qing flusters, suddenly regretting throwing the robe away. “Xie Lian did it somehow, didn’t he? So I thought—maybe someday, I could. If I wanted. Not that I—it just wasn’t like this! You don’t even like me!” Heat is spilling out of him everywhere, prickling at the corners of his eyes. He feels hysterical and hates being so out of control. Why is he saying any of this? It won’t stop pouring out of him. “You hate me! You’d rather let me die except you’re too good of a person to just let it happen! I don’t want my first time to be with someone that hates me—!”
He cuts himself off with a hiccup when heavy hands clasp down on his shoulders, and, oh. Feng Xin is right in front of him.
“Calm down,” Feng Xin says, looking into his eyes. He doesn’t look too calm himself, but he’s holding it together more admirably than Mu Qing is. “Mu Qing, we are friends. I don’t hate you.”
“What?” Mu Qing croaks. He’s honestly not crying, but he’s not… totally together. Something about the pollen—it’s not just elevating his physical sensations, but his emotions, too. So much for being cold and distant.
“Weren’t you the one who said you always wanted to be friends?” Feng Xin asks, squeezing his shoulders. It’s weird—the last time a woman got hysterical in Feng Xin’s vicinity, he fled the scene, but he’s weirdly comforting to Mu Qing.
“You’re always making fun of me about it,” Mu Qing mumbles, trying not to press into Feng Xin’s hands. They’re big and warm and now that he’s down a few layers, he can actually feel the heat through his clothing. He wants to arch into Feng Xin’s hands like a cat, except for the part where such an action would be so humiliating that he’d have to throw himself out the window. They’re on the first floor, actually, so first he would have to find a higher window, and then throw himself out of that.
“Because friends tease each other!” Feng Xin proclaims, excited to prove his point.
It’s ridiculous, which is enough to amuse Mu Qing.
“Do friends also—f-fuck?” he asks.
Feng Xin snorts, sitting down on the bed beside him and starting to unwind his sash. “You can’t even say it, huh?”
“Not everyone swears as much as you do.”
“You swore perfectly well earlier, you just can’t talk about sex like a normal person!”
Mu Qing should shoot back some kind of quip, continue the back-and-forth (friends tease each other), but at that comment he just feels subdued. He pulls his knees closer, defensive and unwilling to unfold, and winds his fingers into Feng Xin’s blankets so he doesn’t do something like reach out to clutch Feng Xin for relief from this weird whatever-it-is. Everything is high and low, hot and cold, it’s like the flower pollen is playing a ball game with his emotions.
“Obviously,” he mutters, looking down. “I wasn’t ever supposed to do it, was I?”
Feng Xin pauses, then reaches out to take Mu Qing’s hands. Mu Qing startles, looking up to meet his eyes.
“Hey,” Feng Xin says. “You said you thought about your first time, right?”
Mu Qing’s eyes narrow.
“I’m not making fun of you!” Feng Xin pauses. “... This time. Seriously, though—how did you imagine it? How would you want it to be?”
Mu Qing flushes, looking down at where Feng Xin holds his hands. Mu Qing’s hands are always a little too cold unless he’s mid-battle with his saber. Feng Xin’s hands are warm in comparison, and don’t have the same odd pallor that sometimes afflicts Mu Qing. His fingers twitch in Feng Xin’s grip, but he manages to hold his hands in return.
“This situation is shit,” Feng Xin says, “and I get that. But we can make it as non-shitty as possible, okay?”
“You’ve probably done it tons of depraved ways, or something,” Mu Qing mutters. “How am I supposed to tell you when I barely know what to imagine?”
“I—you’re seriously over-estimating how much sex I’ve had!” Feng Xin exclaims. “Do you actually buy into the Ju Yang stuff?!”
Mu Qing glances over at Feng Xin’s lap pointedly. “I don’t know, do I?”
Feng Xin drops Mu Qing’s hands, flustered. “Fine, I’ll show you! I’m perfectly normal down there!”
And, oh—Feng Xin is still muttering disgruntled nothings, but Mu Qing can feel his eyes going wide, wide, wide as he reveals more and more naked skin.
Feng Xin is beautiful. Of course, most heavenly officials are. The ascension process isn’t exactly unbiased, even if nobody will admit it—but Mu Qing definitely is, and if he’s occasionally admired Feng Xin with his clothes on, then that doesn’t even hold a candle to what he thinks of Feng Xin with his clothes off.
He swallows, clutching at his own remaining robe, and feels the heat roiling through his body shift to a much more concentrated point, pooling in the pit of his stomach and between his legs.
“There!” Feng Xin declares, standing before Mu Qing with his hands on his lips. “Now what do you say?!”
“Uh,” Mu Qing chokes out, red up to his ears. He rubs his palms over his cheeks, an uncomfortable mixture of aroused and terrified.
Feng Xin isn’t wrong—he’s perfectly normal-sized, Mu Qing is pretty sure. It’s not like he has a catalogue to compare to, but there’s not exactly a grotesque monster swinging between Feng Xin’s thighs. It’s… sort of big, but mostly in a way that makes his mouth water a little bit when he gets past how intimidating it is that the thing might be going inside him. That’s a thing people do, right? Use their mouths? Mu Qing kind of wants to lick Feng Xin everywhere.
“What do I—?” Mu Qing starts, then bites his lip, looking up at Feng Xin.
Feng Xin looks back down at Mu Qing, deflating slightly as he takes in the way Mu Qing is huddled on the bed. “Right, um. Sorry. Jian Lan took the lead when I was with her, so… but I’ve had enough prayers sent that I know how this goes at least in theory.”
“Your last time was with Jian Lan?” Mu Qing asks, incredulous. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel so alone.
Feng Xin clambers back onto the bed, and Mu Qing scoots back to make room—and Feng Xin keeps going forward, crowding Mu Qing back until his back thumps against the headboard.
“No,” Feng Xin admits. “But it was the last time with someone I—y’know. Cared about? And you won’t be able to make fun of me for it, because your last time was never. Come on, get your clothes off.”
Mu Qing fumbles with the ties on his robes, unwilling to think too much about what cared about is supposed to mean (friends, they’re friends now—), and Feng Xin scoots in on his knees until he’s between Mu Qing’s legs to help him out. It’s somehow more like that, with Feng Xing’s fingers brushing over his. At one point, Feng Xin’s fingertips skim over his bare belly, and he outright whimpers—before clapping a hand over his mouth, mortified.
Feng Xin blinks at him slowly, visibly thinking over and discarding several responses before he finally settles on one. “Right. Um. Land of the Tender.”
“Yeah,” Mu Qing chokes out.
“Okay,” Feng Xin says, and reaches out more deliberately—almost reverently—to press his palm fully against Mu Qing’s naked side, smoothing it up until he’s cupping Mu Qing’s small breast with his palm.
Mu Qing melts down to the bed, shuddering, and Feng Xin follows to hover over him. He feels—vaguely loomed-over, and doesn’t know if he likes it. Typically, he’d rather be the one looming over Feng Xin, even if he’d only managed that for the solid year-and-a-half of their teenage-hood when Mu Qing his his growth spurt first and was slightly taller before he started taking his medicine and they both evened out to an infuriatingly identical height.
But he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and every time he considers trying to reach out, it’s like he’s been barely keeping his head above water in a vast ocean of humiliation, and a wave rises to slip over his head. He considers actually touching Feng Xin, and suddenly he can’t breathe.
He’s not like this. Mu Qing isn’t that kind of person. He’s chaste, and even if he sometimes thinks about it, it’s always in abstract, undefined ways. He doesn’t even really know what there is to think about—just vague, ill-shaped ideas he’s overheard from others. Sure, he admires Feng Xin sometimes. But he’s not—he’s not a pervert about it. He’s plenty disrespectful when people deserve it, but never like that.
“Fuck,” Feng Xin breathes, staring down at Mu Qing.
“What?!” Mu Qing demands.
Feng Xin shakes his head, a few strands of hair unraveling from his bun and trailing over his jaw. “Nothing, it’s just—I mean, I’ve never seen you with your clothes off like this, and I’ve only slept with mortal people before. It’s—I’m having some realizations? About muscles?”
Before Mu Qing can reply—possibly to prevent Mu Qing from replying—Feng Xin leans down to press his mouth to the same places his hand touched. He leaves a chaste kiss on Mu Qing’s skin, one for each rib, then a final one over Mu Qing’s nipple that quickly turns hot and wet, making Mu Qing cry out loudly in surprise. His back arches without his input, and his hips twitch upward, knees squeezing around Feng Xin’s waist.
“Wait!” he says. “Wait, wait—wait—”
Feng Xin pops up immediately, eyes wide. “What, what is it?”
Mu Qing nearly chokes up at that, shivering against the bed. It felt good. It felt so good. His mind echoes with pervert, pervert, pervert. “It’s just—aren’t you supposed to kiss me first?”
Feng Xin stares blankly for a moment, and then his whole face goes soft. It’s such a—stupid expression, Mu Qing thinks, blinking rapidly. It’s probably how he looked at Jian Lan when they were in love, not how he should be looking at Mu Qing. What a sap. What an idiot. He’s saving Mu Qing’s life because they’re friends, he shouldn’t be—trying so hard. Mu Qing doesn’t have to like this. Hell, thanks to the pollen, Mu Qing would probably like it no matter what Feng Xin did.
And yet, when Feng Xin leans in to kiss Mu Qing, it’s Mu Qing that’s trembling in his arms. He sighs into their kiss, shaky and aroused, and lets Feng Xin take the lead entirely. There’s a thing inside of him, a yawning, grasping emptiness that demands that he reach out and take, take, take—but he doesn’t know what to take, is too frightened of uncertainty—rejection—to reach out, and Feng Xin is so gentle that he draws another lingering whimper out of Mu Qing’s throat even as he calms the monster clawing up the inside of his chest.
Feng Xin’s lips are soft. Mu Qing doesn’t know what he expected, but somehow it wasn’t how soft another person’s lips are. They move against Mu Qing’s gently, Feng Xin tipping his head slightly to the side so that they don’t bump noses. Mu Qing finds himself closing his eyes, unable to focus his vision with Feng Xin’s face so close, and that makes him even more aware of the slow, slick glide of Feng Xin’s lips against his. He wants—this. More. Forever. The thought that Feng Xin might ever stop—might take this away from him—makes distress clench in his chest.
He raises his hands and wraps one around Feng Xin’s shoulders, the other clutching at his upper arm. Feng Xin’s biceps are flexed like this, holding him up over Mu Qing, and the sensation makes Mu Qing gasp—an opportunity that Feng Xin takes to slip his tongue against Mu Qing’s lower lip. Maybe he gets what Feng Xin was saying about muscles.
Mu Qing wriggles in place, tugging plaintively on Feng Xin, not quite asking for—he doesn’t know what. But maybe Feng Xin does, because he lets his lips part from Mu Qing’s with a small, wet sound and then leans right back down to kiss Mu Qing’s throat.
“Ah—ah! What are you doing?” Mu Qing asks. His throat is—sensitive! It’s never been sensitive like this before. He wears a high collar and a choker there every day and it never bothers him. But Feng Xin’s mouth—it’s almost like a tickle, except hot and soft and it’s making something inside Mu Qing restless, heat writhing in the pit of his stomach. He feels like he’s going to melt into a puddle and drip off the bed, and his fingertips grasp restlessly at Feng Xin’s skin. His body has never been this needy, this sexual. He’s turned into something wanton, laid out underneath Feng Xin and shivering with arousal.
“Kissing you,” Feng Xin answers plainly between kisses. And so he does: he kisses his way down, spending some extra time at the soft, vulnerable spot where Mu Qing’s collarbones dip together, and makes his way back to Mu Qing’s chest. This time, when he puts his lips around the brown nub of Mu Qing’s nipple, he sucks.
It’s gentle—everything Feng Xin has been doing is gentle, like he’s afraid that Mu Qing is going to critique his performance later—but still overwhelming. Somehow, the ‘too much’ feeling is good—Feng Xin pulls back until Mu Qing’s nipple pops out of his mouth, then presses back down to trace his tongue around it, teasing the area until Mu Qing is making embarrassing noises and arching his chest back up. Like an animal in heat. So much for not shaming himself.
Feng Xin accommodates: he kisses Mu Qing one last time there, this time with the barest, horrifyingly titillating threat of teeth, and sits back up, looking smug as all hell as he presses the back of his hand to his mouth.
“Well?” Feng Xin asks, grinning as he lowers his hand. “How’s my kissing?”
Mu Qing is biting his lip so hard that he’s risking drawing blood, clutching at Feng Xin’s hips and breathing hard. The space between his legs is aching now—it has been this whole time, courtesy of the Land of the Tender, but Feng Xin stoked a fire that is sending waves of throbbing heat through him, and the sight of Feng Xin between his thighs, naked, cock already mostly hard—
He makes a garbled sound, covering his eyes with one arm.
“Well, you’re squeezing hard enough,” Feng Xin says, snickering. He wraps his hands around Mu Qing’s thighs, prying him off just enough that he can shuffle down, and allowing Mu Qing the space to close his legs if he wants to.
He does not want to, right up until Feng Xin is far enough away, and Mu Qing realizes he can just—squeeze his thighs together, like that, and—it’s not relief, not exactly, but it’s something that sends a jolt through him—
“Hey,” Feng Xin complains, forcing his knees apart.
“Mrgh,” Mu Qing complains right back.
“Just—be patient for two seconds, god.”
Mu Qing flinches, stilling himself. Patience. He has patience. He has 800 years of patience. He’s not some kind of—he’s not—he’s not a—
Mu Qing still has his lower half clothed, but Feng Xin makes quick work of it. Pants discarded and underclothes gone the same way, Feng Xin bites his lip as he stares down at Mu Qing: hair long since undone, lips bitten red, neck and chest glistening—and legs spread wide, hitched up high on Feng Xin’s hips.
“God,” Feng Xin says. “You look so…”
Mu Qing wriggles again. “Just get it over with,” he demands. “It—Feng Xin, seriously, it hurts!”
“Okay, okay!” Feng Xin says. “No stopping to smell the roses, got it—fucking demon flowers, damn it…”
“What do I…” Mu Qing pauses, swallowing. “What do I do?”
“Whatever you want,” Feng Xin says. “Don’t worry about it. Right now is about keeping you alive. Be a pillow princess or whatever. We can go over reciprocation in sex next time, okay?”
Mu Qing isn’t sure that Feng Xin is even aware of what he said, but he shuts up, next time echoing endlessly in his own mind. Next time. Feng Xin’s most natural assumption is that there will be a next time.
(The thought makes some of that ridiculous distress from earlier settle down. If there’s a next time—but there won’t be, because Mu Qing isn’t that kind of person and Feng Xin is just doing this so that he doesn’t boil alive from the inside.)
Still, the rest of what he said won’t do. Mu Qing tenses his stomach, hooking one leg between Feng Xin’s—and rolls both of them over, seating himself firmly on top of Feng Xin’s legs.
Feng Xin yelps loudly as he goes, and loses his hair tie as he flumps onto the bed. Mu Qing takes just a moment to feel smug before freezing up, not sure what he is planning on doing now that he’s here. He doesn’t know how to please Feng Xin.
“What the fuck!” Feng Xin shouts.
“Shut up!” Mu Qing shoots back. “I’m the one dying, shouldn’t I get to choose how to do this?”
Feng Xin doesn’t have an argument against that, just making some kind of garbled noise into his own palms—which turns into another yelp, and then a soft gasp, as Mu Qing finally reaches out and grasps his cock.
(Gently. He’s picked up the hint Feng Xin was putting down, okay?)
It’s—soft. Not exactly silky or velvety, but something between, if those textures could both be slippery. Feng Xin’s cock is heavy in his hand, and warm, and when he tugs his hand up and down slowly, the loose skin that it had been covered in before seems to have tightened up around it. Oh, and—it’s definitely bigger now.
Feng Xin breathes hard, gasping as Mu Qing moves his hand up and down. It’s the only motion he knows that’s supposed to apply to this, but it seems to be working. He finds himself shuffling up, bringing himself higher and closer to Feng Xin until the knuckles of the hand he’s using to stroke him are bumping up against the insides of his own thighs. Feng Xin’s dick is big, and wet, and he’s pretty sure he at least knows how this part works, so maybe he can just—just—
The tip of Feng Xin’s cock brushes against Mu Qing, making them both gasp. It’s—good. It’s fantastic. Mu Qing has never touched himself there, but there’s a spot at the apex that feels amazing, and Mu Qing flinches away from it.
But the heat flares inside of him, and there’s a pink haze over everything as Mu Qing finds himself bracing one arm against the bed and rubbing up against Feng Xin, biting his lip and stroking Feng Xin as his own hips work in tandem. It’s like his body is being puppeted by some demonic force, except he knows it’s just—him, depraved, taking advantage of Feng Xin’s body. It’s the first thing he’s found that seems to be getting at where he feels the most hot. He wants to cry out that this isn’t him. He never wants it to stop.
“Stop,” Feng Xin gasps, and Mu Qing lets go like he’s been burned. Feng Xin’s cock taps against him one last time, forcing a longing whimper out of his throat, but he’s frozen—totally still on top of Feng Xin, terrified that he’s done something wrong. More wrong.
Feng Xin is breathing hard himself, scooting up from under Mu Qing. “It’s not—don’t look like that, everything is fine. I just. It’s been a while, right? It would be really embarrassing if I shot off before we got you taken care of, okay?”
Shot off. As in—climaxed. Mu Qing stares down at Feng Xin’s cock. It’s a lot darker now, filled up with blood and leaking more clear fluid from the tip. Some of the skin has drawn back, the shiny pink head peeking out of it. Mu Qing knows what cum looks like—the guys in the barracks in Xianle joked about it often enough during the war, away from their sweethearts and bawdy for it. He imagines it, Feng Xin’s cock covered in white—Feng Xin’s cock filling him with white, until it’s leaking out all over Mu Qing’s thighs.
He can feel himself clench, and squeezes his legs together again.
“We should,” Feng Xin pants, “get you taken care of first, okay?”
Mu Qing doesn’t know enough to argue. All he does know is that if Feng Xin doesn’t ‘take care of’ him, then he might actually burn up alive. The thought of relief makes him desperate—not just for peace with his body, but to wrestle back control over his mind.
“Okay,” he says quietly, and lets Feng Xin press him back down to the mattress. Feng Xin wriggles himself lower on the mattress, pressing his fingers against Mu Qing’s inner thighs until Mu Qing spreads them, covering his face with his hands as he does so.
“Have you ever done this before? To yourself?” Feng Xin asks, hands still semi-respectfully on Mu Qing’s legs. Mu Qing wants to snap back obviously not, but he just shakes his head instead, still hiding his face.
“Okay,” Feng Xin says. “That’s alright. I’m going to go slowly, okay? That whole—I don’t know what you’ve heard, about bleeding during your first time, but that doesn’t always have to happen, so I’m gonna try to—well. We’ll see, I guess?”
With that confidence-inducing little speech, he finally slides his hand lower.
Mu Qing gasps into his hands, one hand falling back to tangle in the blankets and the other finding its way between his teeth as he screws his eyes shut and tries not to make any more noises. It feels—strange. Good. Amazing.
Feng Xin rubs as the sensitive skin between Mu Qing’s legs, fingers slick with something that Mu Qing doesn’t want to think about. There’s a couple of spots he pays particular attention to—one at the apex, that sensitive bundle of nerves that Mu Qing had found, and then one lower, where Feng Xin circles his fingers before slipping one inside. That makes Mu Qing let out a strangled sort of sound.
It feels strange. As if—things aren’t supposed to go inside of him, that’s his body. But Feng Xin’s finger sinks in slowly, without resistance. It doesn’t even hurt. It doesn’t feel like too much inside, just a strange, warm pressure, but around the entrance—Mu Qing is sensitive, and Feng Xin’s finger rubbing back and forth makes him twitch and gasp. When Feng Xin’s thumb joins the motions, circling over the sensitive nub at the apex, Mu Qing’s legs twitch and he has to consciously stop himself from arching his back.
When Feng Xin adds a second finger, things change a little. It still—feels good, but the motion almost burns, and Mu Qing’s thighs tense. He bites down on his hand, trying to breathe.
“Shit,” Feng Xin says, slowing a bit. “You got tight, Mu Qing, try to relax. How does it feel?”
“F-Fine,” Mu Qing says, counting his breaths. It’s—fine. It’s a lot. Pain and pleasure mix together, one impossible without the other, like two wires crossed in his brain. It’s a little torturous, but he’s been through worse.
Feng Xin must still pick up on something, because he doesn’t add another finger. He reaches over somewhere with his other hand, instead, and soon there’s a soothing, slick coolness pouring over Mu Qing’s heated skin. He gasps at the feeling, but it makes the burning lessen.
“What’s…?” Mu Qing starts, eyes fluttering open to look down.
Feng Xin is holding a bottle of something, tossing it away on the covers once he’s done with it. “It’s lubricant,” he says.
“Isn’t that,” Mu Qing starts, then changes his mind. “I’m not—I mean, we’re… I thought that was for a different kind of sex.”
Feng Xin shakes his head, rubbing his clean hand up Mu Qing’s flank. It’s—pathetically reassuring. “It’s for all kinds of sex. Well, maybe not oral. But just because you can get wet doesn’t mean you don’t need to use it, okay?”
“Okay,” Mu Qing says, voice small. Getting wet. He—he doesn’t like hearing that about himself. Maybe it’s a good thing that Feng Xin needed to get lubricant. It means Mu Qing is still—decent, at least in some way.
It’s the flowers, he tells himself. It’s just the flowers, this has never been a problem before.
The next time Feng Xin’s fingers move, it still hurts, but it’s better. Mu Qing isn’t clenched down as tight, and the pain goes from burning to just pressure, blending in irrevocably with the heat and the desire that are swirling through Mu Qing. It’s all a nauseating, delicious ball of pleasure that builds and builds, until Mu Qing can’t hold his voice back any more, voice gasping out through the fingers he’s pressed over his mouth with every slick motion of Feng Xin’s hand.
“S-Stop,” he says, “please stop.”
Feng Xin stills immediately, though he draws his fingers away more slowly, leaning up. “What’s wrong?”
Mu Qing shakes his head, unwilling to look at Feng Xin. “It’s too much. You don’t need to do that. Just—just get it over with, okay?”
Feng Xin winces, looking down. “Sorry. I’m not trying to draw it out. I was just trying to make you come first. It can be easier like that—makes you more relaxed, I think? Are you okay? Is the pollen getting worse?”
To his surprise, Mu Qing realizes—no. Whatever effects the pollen have had on him, they’ve peaked, or else Feng Xin’s touch is holding them at bay. He’s still hot, still desirous, but as he scoots back and sits up against the headboard, he realizes that he’s not in pain. Well—he’s a little sore between his legs. But it’s not from the Land of the Tender.
He shakes his head again. “I’m okay. But—shouldn’t you just put it in? I don’t mind if it hurts a little. And I’m pretty sure I can’t come?”
Feng Xin blinks at him. “What are you talking about?”
Mu Qing frowns. “Look, I get that you’ve known me as a guy for our whole lives, but—I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t have a penis. Taking medicine doesn’t change that.”
“Wow, yeah,” Feng Xin says, scrubbing his hand clean on the bedding, “now that you mention it, I did think something was missing! Seriously, Mu Qing: What the actual fuck?”
Familiar irritation washes away the lingering embarrassment, and Mu Qing flings a hand into the air. “What is not making sense to you?! No penis, no ejaculation. That’s how it works!”
“That is not how orgasms work! Jian Lan didn’t have a penis and she definitely came!”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “She probably faked it. That’s what they all do.”
“They?” Feng Xin’s voice is dangerous.
“Women,” Mu Qing says, resisting the urge to slap Feng Xin over the head. He would, but his life is still in Feng Xin’s hands and he can’t risk him storming off. “They’re all socially trained to pander to your male ego, Ju Yang, of course they fake it.”
“You—” Feng Xin’s voice is trembling, and he sits back on his heels, drawing his hands down his face. “How are you so…”
Mu Qing crosses his arms, pulling his legs up as well. Without Feng Xin touching him, his breath is starting to heat up again, uncomfortably hot in his lungs and washing prickling sensitivity through his body wherever he touches anything. The sheets, the headboard—Feng Xin’s knee brushes against his foot, and it makes him shudder.
Feng Xin stares at Mu Qing over his hands. “You should hang out with Pei Ming more. You might learn a few things.”
The face Mu Qing makes at that must be horrified, because Feng Xin snorts at him and finally drops his hands. “Seriously,” he says. “That has to be the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard. Where did you learn about sex, a pub? The military barracks? Guoshi?”
Mu Qing’s face is aflame, and he glares at the bedding. “Fuck off, you don’t know anything.”
“Well, I obviously know better than you! Eight hundred years old, Mu Qing, and you think orgasms are a myth.”
“They’re not a myth, they’re just biologically—”
“They’re not,” Feng Xin interrupts, leaning in to physically slap a hand over Mu Qing’s mouth. “Mu Qing, shut up, whatever you’re about to say—they’re literally not. Whoever told you that was an idiot or just lying to you to make sex seem like something to avoid. I promise you are physically capable of coming.”
“Whatever,” Mu Qing mutters when Feng Xin finally lets him speak. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Just—do me already, will you?”
“Sure,” Feng Xin says. “But I’m definitely gonna make you come.”
Eventually, Feng Xin does manage to ‘do Mu Qing,’ as he put it. The penetration feels—intense, and painful in a way that Mu Qing can’t hide. Feng Xin looks like he regrets everything—or maybe just his promises to make the experience painless—and they end up locked together, Feng Xin anxiously petting Mu Qing’s hair as Mu Qing locks his ankles behind Feng Xin’s back and clutches at his shoulders.
Feng Xin barely looks like he’s even able to enjoy himself—he hisses at how tight Mu Qing is, and looks generally miserable as Mu Qing whimpers into the hollow of his throat, hiding under Feng Xin’s chin.
“You’re okay,” Feng Xin whispers over and over. “You’re okay, I’ve got you… you’re gonna be fine…”
More than anything, it’s the fear that Feng Xin will stop that gets Mu Qing to pull himself together. He doesn’t know much, but he does know that Feng Xin isn’t the type of man to like an unwilling partner, and if Feng Xin can’t keep it up—well, then Mu Qing really might not be okay.
He takes deep breaths, letting himself just clutch Feng Xin for the comfort of a warm body. Feng Xin’s clumsy petting at his hair actually helps somewhat, the repetitive motion soothing. Most of all, the longer Mu Qing stays still, the more the cursed pollen starts prickling up his spine again, until the sharp pain of penetration eases to the same tolerable burning as before. The fade of agonizing sensation makes room for Mu Qing’s body to remember how to want, and before long he finds himself panting against Feng Xin’s throat, rocking their hips together.
“Ah,” Feng Xin gasps into his hair. “Mu Qing, hold on—”
But Mu Qing can’t. He wants to—wants more, wants Feng Xin to fuck him properly even though he knows it will hurt, but he can’t get his legs to unlock, can’t get his arms to stop clutching where he’s wrapped them around Feng Xin’s shoulders. His whole body is tense with anticipation—fearful, desirous, all of it awash with sensation that his brain can hardly process.
It still helps, though. Feng Xin manages to wriggle a hand underneath Mu Qing, pressing up against his lower back until the angle of Mu Qing’s desperate rocking changes and he bites down on a cry, realizing that Feng Xin is forcing him to grind that bundle of sensitivity above his hole up against Feng Xin.
That relaxes him. Something inside of him just gives, still clenching down but not trying to force Feng Xin out, and the shallow rocking turns into a slick slide, the girth of Feng Xin’s cock rubbing past the sensitive tissue around Mu Qing’s entrance over and over and over. The longer they go the more wet Mu Qing gets, the easier it is for agonizing pleasure to spark past the hurt. That overwhelming feeling from before builds again, but bigger this time: it suffuses Mu Qing’s entire pelvis, tingling over where his thighs chafe against Feng Xin’s skin, sparking brightly where the apex of his—his parts rub slippery over Feng Xin’s pelvic bone.
It relaxes Feng Xin, too. Mu Qing doesn’t realize it until Feng Xin relaxes, but his fist had been clenched in the bedding by Mu Qing’s head, tense and stiff as he tried to hold himself in whatever way would hurt Mu Qing the least. When Mu Qing releases his tense posture and hums with genuine pleasure, a sigh wooshes out of Feng Xin, tangible in its relief—and evident in its pleasure as it turns into a steadily panting breath, Feng Xin’s eyes lidding as he takes his enjoyment in Mu Qing’s body.
It’s nice to see. Mu Qing feels more nice than he feels awful, and the way Feng Xin’s face changes in pleasure is a sight to behold. His eyebrows come together, tilting up desperately as his hips twitch forward, desperately holding back even as he bites at his lip through the effort. Maybe Mu Qing isn’t really Feng Xin’s lover, but it warms him inside to know that his body can make Feng Xin look like that. He’s sweating, too—flushing down his neck and too his chest, breathing harder as his stomach flexes and tenses as he rocks into Mu Qing.
When Feng Xin finally comes, it knocks an insensate whimper out of Mu Qing. He can feel it—the kick and pulse of Feng Xin’s cock, which might not be as large as myth makes it out to be but feels massive inside of Mu Qing, the build of warmth that must be Feng Xin’s cum. More than anything else, the rush of pleasure as Feng Xin’s spiritual energy floods through Mu Qing’s spiritual veins, washing away the effects of the pollen like rain after a drought.
Except—except the effects aren’t totally gone. Or else they are, but—Mu Qing still feels hot, still feels that intractable pleasure. It still hurts a little where they’re connected, but now when his whole body burns it’s not painful, it just feels good. Mu Qing moans, scrambling at Feng Xin’s shoulders as Feng Xin continues to thrust into him—he’s not the only one making noise, and Feng Xin’s voice cracks over a gasp when Mu Qing arches his back to meet him.
Eventually, Feng Xin calms down. Mu Qing can’t figure out how to, though: he feels better—much better—physically, but he also feels like he’s going out of his mind. It gets worse when Feng Xin moves back, finally unhooking Mu Qing’s ankles and sliding out of him. The pain inside of him vanishes entirely, leaving only the fading ebbs of pleasure and the shaky desperation that sets Mu Qing’s fingers trembling.
He’s—cured, he’s pretty sure. There’s no more risk of death. The rest is just—him. His insides are aching and the place between his legs is hot, and when Mu Qing props himself up to look down, he realizes that Feng Xin’s cum is trickling out of him, smearing onto his thighs. It looks—better than he’d imagined earlier. It looks obscene. His skin is shiny with his own slick, and he’s never seen himself so blushing and swollen, lower lips puffy and flushed. The sticky trails of white stand out indecently against his abused and reddened skin.
“It—it’s fixed now,” Mu Qing croaks, looking back up at Feng Xin. Feng Xin is staring at him like something out of a dream, eyes wide and shiny, still panting. He looks halfway feral, even with his cock slowly softening between his thighs. It’s shiny, too—shiny with Mu Qing. The thought makes Mu Qing shiver, some part of him clenching involuntarily, and he makes a noise as more cum dribbles out of him.
He presses a palm between his legs, rocking against it helplessly. He can’t—he just can’t hold it back anymore. Maybe he’s not sick anymore, but he must be depraved, because as the heel of his hand grinds against that sensitive bundle of nerves, his head tips back, mouth lolling open into a relieved moan. His fingers dip lower, getting dirty with sticky cum, and he—he doesn’t know what to do with it, except to press them against himself, trying to stop it from leaking out.
God, he just wants Feng Xin to leave already so that Mu Qing can be pathetic and desperate on his own. Except this is Feng Xin’s palace, so—Mu Qing draws his palm away from himself regretfully, reaching over to start crawling off the bed.
Feng Xin pounces on him. “Whoa, there,” he says, pinning Mu Qing’s wrists beside his head. Mu Qing could flip him easily, he thinks, but Feng Xin’s cock is still half-hard and he rubs it up between Mu Qing’s thighs until Mu Qing’s eyes are threatening to roll back in his head. “Where are you going?”
“I—I—ah, ah—I said it’s fixed,” Mu Qing manages, panting. “Aren’t you—done?”
“Didn’t I make a promise?” Feng Xin asks, slipping his thigh between Mu Qing’s. It’s a less forgiving surface to grind down on and Mu Qing writhes, pinned like a butterfly. “I haven’t made you come yet.”
“I told you, that’s not—”
Except then that thing that’s been building inside of Mu Qing peaks, and his voice cracks, cutting him off—his hips stutter upward, and Feng Xin backs away, angling himself so that Mu Qing doesn’t have anything to rub against.
“Not what?” Feng Xin asks, smug.
Mu Qing is in no mood for his shit. “Why did you stop?!”
Feng Xin releases his wrists, sliding away from Mu Qing’s suddenly-violent hands until he’s in the same position he first fingered Mu Qing from, face impossibly closer to the apex of Mu Qing’s thighs. Is—is he—?
“Gotta make it good,” Feng Xin says, and puts his mouth on Mu Qing.
Mu Qing locks a shriek behind his teeth, shooting up and curling around Feng Xin’s head like a pillbug. Feng Xin reaches up and shoves him back down, then uses that same arm as a bar across Mu Qing’s hips, stopping him from thrusting up and dislodging them. His other hand goes between Mu Qing’s legs, pressing in again—just two fingers, a pressure as delicious as it is maddening because it hurts less like this but there’s also less for Mu Qing to desperately clench down on.
But worst of all is his mouth.
“There,” Mu Qing cries out, winding a hand into Feng Xin’s hair. If Feng Xin moves, he’s going to rip his hair out, Mu Qing thinks, and he will deserve it. “There, there, that spot, Feng Xin!”
Feng Xin hums where he’s pressing his lips to the sensitive nub he’s been abusing this whole time, and it vibrates between Mu Qing’s thighs in a way that makes him choke on his own breath. “Your clit?” Feng Xin asks, smiling. Mu Qing can feel the movement of his lips.
“Th-that—”
Feng Xin doesn’t let Mu Qing finish speaking, taking his clit into his mouth and sucking—gentle but merciless, as mean as he’d been to Mu Qing’s nipples except for the way he must be ten times as sensitive there, and worse when the undulating motion is matched to Feng Xin’s fingers inside, rubbing upwards and squeezing the sensitive flesh between Feng Xin’s hand and mouth together.
Mu Qing—climaxes. There’s no better word for it. It feels like a peak, a culmination, the persistent, desperate throbbing of his body reaching a fever pitch and falling off the summit. It’s an agonizing, drawn-out experience that rips control from him entirely, leaving him shuddering in Feng Xin’s hold as spiritual energy leeches out of him, water suddenly held only by a sieve instead of a well.
Feng Xin doesn’t let it go. He pours his own spiritual energy into Mu Qing, sending Mu Qing whimpering again as heat floods his spiritual veins—it chases away the cool refreshment of what washed away the effects of the pollen, but it bolsters him, too. When Feng Xin is done, Mu Qing doesn’t—he doesn’t—
“You didn’t let me lose it,” Mu Qing says, realizing.
Feng Xin looks offended, a ridiculous expression for a man with his face between his legs and wiping the cum on his fingers off onto Mu Qing’s thigh. “Of course not! Why would I do that?”
“Well—your own power, it’s less now…”
“As if I’d be able to cover the entire south on my own,” Feng Xin says dismissively. “Even if I have less now, at least there’s still two of us. Our palaces will be able to handle it while you recultivate the rest.”
Suddenly, Mu Qing thinks he really might cry. He won’t, of course—but the threat of it is so there, and without the Land of the Tender to excuse it.
He curls up, still naked, and reaches out to take Feng Xin’s hand. Unable to meet his eyes, he stares at the bed—it’s damp in places, which sends a thrill of humiliation through him until he averts his eyes.
“Thank you,” Mu Qing says quietly.
Feng Xin squeezes his hand back. “We’re friends, Mu Qing. Friends help each other out.”
“Yeah,” Mu Qing says quietly. “I’m starting to get that. I just…”
“Hm?” Feng Xin is starting to shuffle back, fingers trailing out of Mu Qing’s, and reaches for a clean corner of bedding to start cleaning himself up as he makes a face.
“Do you really want to be friends?” Mu Qing asks.
Feng Xin glances back at him, frowning. “Are you seriously still doubting my intentions? What the hell does it take to get through to you, huh?”
“No, that’s not—nevermind.” Mu Qing wraps his arms around his knees, shutting up.
“Well, now you have to tell me.”
“Pei Ming wouldn’t help me,” Mu Qing blurts. “I asked him first. I thought—if anyone would jump on the chance…”
Feng Xin snorts, then looks contemplative. “Yeah, honestly, that’s what I would have figured. Of all the times to grow a conscience—what, does he have a new sweetheart he can’t cheat on right now? If it’s life or death, I’m sure she’d understand.”
Mu Qing shakes his head, tracing a finger over the blanket. “He said he doesn’t get between couples.”
There’s a long moment of silence. Then, quiet and choked: “O-Oh.”
Mu Qing looks up. Feng Xin has gone pale, hands clenched in the blanket he’s still holding. His knuckles are slowly turning white, so tightly he’s holding on.
He looks horrified. “I’m sorry,” Feng Xin says. “Mu Qing, I’m so sorry.”
Mu Qing frowns. “What?”
Feng Xin shakes his head, taking a step back. “I never meant to…”
“Never meant t-to what?! Stop freaking me out!”
“I didn’t tell Pei Ming we were a couple!” Feng Xin says, which is not what Mu Qing expected him to start with. “But—we drink together, sometimes, because he’s really not a bad guy, and he’s pretty funny sometimes—but I got drunk once, and I told him that I—but I didn’t mean for anything like this! I would never have wanted you to have to do this with me if you preferred someone else!”
Mu Qing’s heart is beating rapidly in his chest, thumping so heavily that he can feel it in his fingertips. “I thought he only said that because of me,” Mu Qing says, hoarse.
“Because of…”
Mu Qing nods, meeting Feng Xin’s eyes. For the first time all evening, he doesn’t feel ashamed to do it.
“... Oh,” Feng Xin says.
“Yeah.”
“...”
“Well, say something!”
“I just really like you!” Feng Xin blurts out, and promptly flushes up to his ears. “Augh, that was awful. You know what I mean!”
“No,” Mu Qing decides to say, smirking. “I don’t think I do.”
Feng Xin narrows his eyes at him and throws the blanket to the side, stalking forward. “Oh, yeah?”
What ensues is a much less destructive type of wrestling than they normally engage in. Wrestling naked in bed: to Mu Qing’s understanding, this should probably be sexy, but he’s too busy trying to strangle Feng Xin with his own blanket to think much about that. By the time they’re done, Feng Xin has managed to free himself and is digging his knee into Mu Qing’s back, panting and victorious.
“Hah!” Feng Xin declares. “Now you say it!”
“Say what?!” Mu Qing says, trying to claw his way to freedom. Feng Xin just digs his knee in harder. “Ow, ow, ow, fuck, fine—I like you, I like you!”
Feng Xin laughs and relents, letting Mu Qing up.
“Ow,” Mu Qing emphasizes. “You didn’t have to injure me for that.”
“Didn’t I? Would you have said it otherwise, or just stuttered it out over another volcano a few hundred years from now?”
Mu Qing glares. “Isn’t this coercion?”
“If you prefer bribery,” Feng Xin says, “I can offer you a hot bath?”
That stymies Mu Qing. He’s sticky and sweaty, and still smeared with unmentionable fluids.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”
Feng Xin smiles, genuine. “You like me.”
“Shut up, you’re so immature—”
“You like me!”
“Well, you like me, too!”
Feng Xin grins. “I do!” He leans in, kissing Mu Qing on the cheek. Mu Qing freezes, feeling his face go warm.
He ducks his head, brushing his hair behind an ear. Feng Xin grabs his hand.
“C’mon,” Feng Xin says. “Let’s go.”
“Okay,” Mu Qing says quietly. They go.